Salsaing it Up at the Airport

No, I did not barf up a lung at the airport. I wish I had. This "Salsa" was wayyyyyyy worse.

While "pulling a salsa" or "salsaing it up" normally refers to consuming too much alcohol and making an idiot of yourself in the worst possible way (i.e. at a charity golf tournament to raise funds for breast cancer or at your MBA school's pub crawl), it can also be used to refer to just being a huge dumbass.

Let's say for example, you had a trip planned to... Vegas (yup that works, everyone loves Vegas). But, this wasn't your typical run of the mill lets go to Vegas and wake up with glitter all over our faces and whatever else Katy Perry sings about. No, this Vegas trip you were meeting a friend from... jeez whats the furthest you can get from east coast? Ok, sure California. Again, you were not going for the sole purpose of getting shabammered--there was also a race. Hell the Las Vegas Rock'N'Roll Half Marathon is today... lets just say it was that race.

The plan was to fly out Friday night after work, stay for the weekend, run your 13.1 miles and fly back. Easy peazy, right? Not if you have the salsa gene. No, things are never easy with the salsa gene. But, you know this. You know you are prone to F things up. So you take precautions. You finish packing 4 days before you have to leave. FOUR! WOOOOO! Totally gonna rock this traveling thing!

You check into your flight 24 hours in advance. BAM! Piece of cake! You leave work 1.5 hours early to give yourself PLENTY of time to get to the airport. (FACT or FICTION: You may or may not have brushed your shoulders off... you feel like a traveling P-I-M-P. Yup, you are so cool. FACT.) Who wants to get charged ATM fees in Vegas? No one. You stop at a Wells Fargo ATM. Swoop! Check that off the list! Damn you really are on a roll.

But then things start to go wrong. You get back into your car after taking cash out and set your wallet on top of your purse. You turn your car back on and resume driving, but this trip you aren't sticking with the routine. There will be no park and ride this time. Why? The mustache you are dating offered to take you. How could you turn down the mustache? That's right, you couldn't.

You get to the mustache's house, transfer luggage from your car to his and get on the road. He asks you if you have everything. PSHAW. Obviously! He drops you off at the super secret lower level check in at the airport, you're gonna get checked in SO FAST you don't even know. You walk inside the automatic sliding doors, pull your boarding pass out of your back pocket and check the departures screen to see where the heck you are going. A24. Got it! You fish through your purse to get your ID out and ready.

I repeat: You fish through your purse to get your ID out and ready.

PAUSE.

FISH. PURSE. ID. READY.

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF!!!!!!

You pick up your phone. "Mustache!!!!! I don't have my wallet!"

No, my wallet wasn't in his car. It was in my car. Parked at his house 30 minutes away. My plane was boarding in 30 minutes. FML. I walk to the Delta gate agent. I explain the situation: I am an idiot. I forgot my wallet. He checks to see if I can get on the next flight in 3 hours. Oversold. I call Delta to see about getting on the first flight out the next day. $630 (yes, that is with the credit from the flight I will be missing).

PAUSE.

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF.

Face palm face palm face palm. Deep breaths.

I pick up my phone. "Boobs? Are you at the airport yet? I pulled a salsa."

                                                               *****

I didn't make it to Vegas. My friend had to take the bus back to Santa Barbara and now I have no hope of ever being salsa caliente... unless I donate an organ, or something of comparable value.

But, really the worst part was my "Salsaness" ruined the weekend not just for me, but for Boobs. The crazy part of it all? Well CRAZIEST. Boobs told me she was only going to hate me for a week and that she still loves me.

I'm not sure how I'll ever convince her to travel with me again.

Over and out. Jildo

If Grocery Stores Could Kill: Kroger

I'm not sure if the holidays are becoming scarier than normal or if I am just becoming a pussy. (Mom, I apologize in advance if you read this. I am 100% sure you don't like that word.)

But back to the holidays. I am literally shaking in my boots. Why? People are CRAZY this time of year. CRAZY with a captial C, R, A, Z, Y. Yep, damn straight all the letters are capitalized. It's an epidemic.

So in my day to day life I don't really need to go to any retail stores (And yes, I make an effort to dodge that holiday bullet). My life is pretty much composed of driving to work, driving to school or driving to the gym. I usually try and roll grocery store trips in with the gym, but if the weather is good (which it has been) I skip the gym and run outside. Do you know what this means? It means I have to make a special trip to the grocery store. In my case its the Kroger at the Edgewood Shopping District.

Immediately after Halloween is when I noticed the change. Lines and lines of cars in the parking lot. Hmmm thats strange. I thought it was just a weird coincidence... everyone ran out of toilet paper at the exact same second! Wooo! Shake it dry!

Ha. Too graphic?

But, everyone didn't run out of toilet paper at the same time. No... They started taking CRAZY pills at the same time! True story. Nov. 1 I walk into the grocery store to stock up on the essentials (sweet potato patties, watermelon, more watermelon (I channel my inner black person on a daily basis), pineapple, bananas, blackberries, apples, corn tortillas, shredded mexican cheese and fruit on the bottom yogurt). WOOOOOO!

What do I see when I look in other people's shopping carts? Normal things?! NOOOOO! Every freaking person was fussing over which naked turkey they were going to take home. For God's sake people it's NOVEMBER 1ST!!!!

And the insanity didn't stop there. No, it just got worse. Unfortunately, since I seem to have a short term memory span I would conveniently forget about this mayhem and madness with each subsequent visit (about every 7-10 days).

Then... dun dun dun...

NOVEMBER 14 I became that person. That person that you and everyone else hates. I stole someones parking spot. Yes, me. Apparently if you are not me, but another driver in the grocery store parking lot the first available space is always yours. Yes, even if you don't put your blinker on to indicate that you are waiting for a space... Doesn't everyone do that?! Isn't that a rule?! Am I supposed to telepathically know that this space is yours even though you turned on to the lane after me and even though I had my blinker on before to indicate I was waiting?

Apparently this means nothing in Atlanta. I learned this, because after parking I was blocked in by the car I "stole" the spot from and yelled at. I vowed at that moment that I would stock up for the entire winter season so I could go into grocery store hibernation.

One problem. Toilet paper. Yesterday afternoon I ran out of toilet paper and I had already eaten a lot of watermelon. F******!!!!

I took a moment. I did some deep breathing. Yes, I would even say I found my zen. I reassured myself that I could, no WOULD do better. No more "stealing" people's parking spots at the grocery store.

I pulled into the Kroger parking lot. DEEEEEEEPPPPP BREATHSSSSS. I can do this! I pass the first lane and then the second (everyone wants to park close, I'll go to the back of the parking lot). I pull down the last lane. There is an empty spot and no cars around. SCORE!!!! I whip my car into the spot. But, I should know better. Luck NEH-EVER finds me. As I pull the keys out of the ignition and open the door, I see it. ANOTHER F****ING car is parked behind me!

Ok, really?! REALLY? I swear Kroger is full of driving Ninja's that are just trying to give me a heart attack.

And no, I am not ashamed to admit that I ran alllll the way into the store.

xoxo. Jildo

P.S. If you want to say prayers that I don't run out of anymore shit before Jan. 2 that would be great.

When the Shit Storm Won't Stop

So this week it happened again. The shit. And what do you do when life gives you shit? Make "shitade?" I don't think so.

I drive a 2005 Jeep Wrangler. I LOVE my car. If I could date my car, I would. Just kidding... kind of. But, seriously just kidding...

Monday I could tell something was wrong with my car, it didn't feel right when I was driving. You know what I'm talking about... when you drive the same car for 7 years you can tell when something is off. Only problem was I didn't know what was off. I figured it out pretty quickly Tuesday morning.

FAST FORWARD.

Tuesday morning 7am.

Me: "DAD!!!! Pick up your phone!!!! It's 7am I know you are awake!!!!

GAHHHHH. No answer. I try 4 more times then call my mom, who picks up immediately.

(Yes, she scores parent points. OBV.- especially since she's on central time and it's earlier)

Me: "Mom something is wrong with my car. I'm in 6th and its running like it's in 3rd!!!!"

5 minutes later my car is barely coasting to a stop on the side of the highway in the middle of nowhere. Ok the middle of between my apartment and work. BFE. FUCK MY LIFE!!!! (Oh, I forgot no cursing....). F MY LIFE!!!!!

2 hours later the tow truck finally came. 5 hours later the mechanic finally called. YUP. It's your clutch. We have to order a new one from Ohio... it will be here Friday. We'll have your car back to you in 6 days. Oh, and it's only $990.49. No worries!

COUGH! Yes, the shit storm will not stop. Thank you Car Gods.

Naturally as soon as I got to school that night I went to the bar before class to get a beer to take the edge off. Then during break went down to have a red headed slut. It was a rough day Tuesday. Then my seat mate in accounting judged me for taking a shot to wake up and my professor called me out in front of the class and called me a liar.

HA. Oh awesomeness is just abounding this week. Just abounding.

xoxo. Jildo or SALSA (as now everyone is becoming to know me. GAH.)

Black Bean Salsa

Before I begin my apologies to everyone last night (except the guy I gave the finger- that still stands). Special thanks to Jimmy (for getting my ass a cab), Kroge (for literally getting my ass in the cab), Jaynia and Dani (for not calling me an ambulance, for not hating me, for being really, really awesome friends... the list pretty much goes on and on for you two).

***

Ok, here goes.

I did it again. I salsa'd. Only this time it wasn't at a charity golf tournament, it was the GaTech MBA pub crawl. I know, worst possible situation EVER.

When I was in high school my best friend and I liked to play "Let's Ruin Our Lives." I'm not even joking, we'd do stupid stuff, knowing the outcome would not be good. We wanted to see how bad we could "F" things up and then recover. We were bored, obviously.

Now here I am 27 and I'm still doing the same thing. Except now I wouldn't say its a conscious decision. Yesterday somehow/somewhere between my first beer and my last beer, I had tooo many. The next thing I know I'm on the floor of the bathroom, donating black bean salsa (which I'm still confused about, because all I ate yesterday was cereal and mac and cheese- yes, I know I'm such a little kid) to the toilet.

FACE PALM. Wait, no... FACE BATHROOM FLOOR. 10 minute rule? GAHHHHHHHHH. So gross.

My friends got me outside at the waitress' request and I immediately snuggled up on the concrete. Ahhhh, bedtime! You might be intoxicated if... concrete is comfortable. Here's your sign! But, obviously by that time recovery is out of the question... as well as water. Stop offering me!

So I know I was the wasted one and really have no right to say anything... but I think we have all been there. Lying on the floor and someone keeps telling us we should move. Ok, fine, I get it. But, when I'm laying on the floor in my own puke and some stranger comes up to me and starts telling me what to do... ahem. Excuse me?! Now I'm gonna get feisty. I definitely shot some guy the bird multiple times.

No. I don't feel bad about that... especially after learning that he called my friends "bad friends" for not calling me an ambulance. An ambulance?! Really? Holy shit (my mom does say shit)... thank goodness they didn't! I'm drunk, I'm not lying in the middle of the road with a severed limb. NOTE TO WORLD: No one is calling me an ambulance but me, because I'm the one that's gonna pay for it!!!!

Sigh. This. This whole situation is probably why my parents threatened to pull me out of undergrad my first semester. Some people just never learn. And, yes, by some people I mean me.

Sorry :/.

xoxo. Jildo

No More Cursing, Fudge!

Lol. We'll see how this works. After my last blog, my grandfather's wife texted me: "I agree with your mom, if I didn't know you and just read your blog I would think you are a completely different person."

My response, but you do know me! Haha. I guess that doesn't fly.

Anyways, what am I talking about? I'm going generic. I'm tired of talking about money, aside from paying my monthly installments to Emory's ER I am so over it.

I talked to my Ex's mother last weekend. GASP. No, its really not that abnormal... or maybe it is? When you date someone for 5 years their family becomes your family, so when you break up, you break up with them and keep their family. At least I did. Ok, maybe a little weird.

Weirder? I think they like me better now.

So I'm talking to the ex's mom and I mention my idea that I am too selfish to have kids... not so much a relationship, but possibly kids. When we broke up they told me that it was for the best, because I like change and he didn't... that I always want an adventure. And it is completely true, once I'm comfortable I want to move on.

I started to think that this quality makes me weird. Sure, I want to find love and have a family, but what if I'm too *darn* selfish? What if achieving my goals, which trust me are never ending, means I can't have a real relationship? It happened to Madonna! Guy Ritchie broke up with her because it was more important to her to work out than hang out with him (at least that's what I heard on the radio- so it has to be 100% true).

But seriously. The older we get, statistically speaking (I am all about this now) I would think it is less likely for us to find a compadre. Why? Because we are comfortable with ourselves. I sure as heck am. I'm happy! I have my own place, I like my job, I feel fulfilled, I'm proud of myself, I'm not lonely. Which means we are less likely to settle. Which is great! No one should settle- but how is it possible that all of these married people did not settle? I just want to know.

While having drinks after class tonight the single question came up. "So what's your excuse?" Well I'm *darn* picky thank you. And I brought up the fact that there are a buhjillian people in the world and I'm just looking for one person... it could take awhile!!! But the general consensus seemed to be that there are probably thousands of people in Atlanta alone that I could "get along with and be happy with."

I'm sorry. Did I say I was looking for someone to "get along with"? When you experience it you know it-- and unless I have fireworks and am laughing my *** off everyday and think you are the bees knees this is not happening. Right?! Do I just have a skewed perception of reality?

How many times in your life have you hit it off with someone? How many times has someone accepted you 100% for who you are? And how many times have you respected that person equally as much as they do you? And then there's attraction? Personality? Morals? Beliefs? Drive?

How many times have you know without a doubt that you would give your life for someone else's? Because they were just that awesome. I mean it doesn't happen that often.

Sure a lot of people are great... but great doesn't mean anything.

Time to Give Jildo the Axe?

The older I get the more I value transparency. I am who I am, not changing... nope, nope, nope. Can you see me? :D

The problem? My transparency is hurting people (cough, Mom). I love my mom. But, I know every time she reads my blog or at least every time I curse she about has a coronary. I can expect without fail after publishing a new post to get a call from my mom.

"Honey, do you have time to talk?"

Translation: "Honey, do you have time for a short lecture?"

I think I disappoint my mom a lot when I write the way I do, she takes it personally... she thinks she failed as a mother. Which is OBVIOUSLY absurd, because she is AMAZING. Nevertheless, I wonder if I should scale it back? Be less cray cray and more tres responsible (if thats possible- I might go cray cray trying)-- of course then I would have nothing to write about, because my life would be tres boring.

GAHHHHH. Between a rock and a hard place.

Is it time to kill "Jildo"? Or should I dress her in gingham and pearls (UGH BARF) and be the lady my mom wants me to be?

It's easy to not care what people think when they aren't your parents.

I'd ask for your suggestions, but honestly, right now I don't think I can take it. I already feel like I broke my mom's heart and its breaking mine.

-Jill

Drunk Post

It's been a while since I did a did a drunk post... I think since last Thanksgiving. So I figured, why not? Lets DO IT UP.

Step 1: Drunk.

Well I had three "Peach Porch" beers that claim to be 9.4% alcohol. Not sure if I believe that. I mean come on'-- I had three and I can still type?!

LIESSSSS.

Anyways... this is when we're honest, so let's be honest.

Life is good. Hung out at the bar tonight after class with people that are married or soon to be married in three weeks. Its funny if you just sit back and let them talk they assume that they know it all, that they've been in longer relationships than you, that they have figured it out.

Then you say... yea, I moved here after ending a five year relationship and they get a little glassy eyed... five years. Huh... we're getting married in three weeks and we haven't even been together that long.

I'm not saying they are wrong. No, actually I'm pretty sure they've got it right.

What makes me sad is, when I go to bed at night I think "well I've had the love of my life, I've experienced that. So fuck, the rest from here is just... life."

Pretty fucking depressing.

xoxo.

Jildo

The Back Nine Continues!

WAHPAH!!!! 26 is soooo OVER. And, with that said I thought I would take a moment to reflect on my first year of the back nine... most memorable moments, if you will.

10. First time I projectile vomited while driving on the highway (and did not crash! wooo! that's talent)
9. First time I chaffed my ass, to subsequently be followed by a cell phone shaped chaffe on my upper ass (I enjoy disclosing wayyyyy too much personal information over the internet. OBVIOUSLY).
8. First tire blowout EVER (I really should send a fruit basket to the cop that helped me out on that one).
7. First time I got booted (wrongly, I might add) and cussed out the "bootman" at 1am. Definitely not my finest hour.
6. First time I drank too much beer, fell into a fire hydrant and had to go to the ER and get stitches.
5. First time I left my wrislet with my credit cards, drivers license, room key and cell phone in a cab in Vegas.
4. First time I got a speeding ticket, followed by my second one a week later.
3. First time I "lost" my car keys in my running pants and paid $200 to get my car rekeyed.
2. First time I paid $150 for a skunk outfit that didn't come with the headdress or boots with the fur... and then returned it.
1. First (and hopefully) last time I get a call on my birthday that one of the dearest people to me had a heart attack (You cannot do that to me again gpa!)

Here's to another year playing the back nine... may all my mistakes be new!

Can't wait to share another year with everyone in my life.

xoxo.

Jildo

P.S. Thanks for the birthday wishes!

Duck, Duck, Donor?

I'm sure we all have opinions that we have kept to ourselves... statements that we said we agreed with, because disagreeing would mean we were weird. Or maybe not, I could be the only weird one in the room, but that's ok.

The reason I'm bringing this up is my grad school tuition. Most of it I have covered with the money that was supposed to be for a future wedding, but I'm still going to come up about 10K short. I'm putting money aside from my salary, but I'd like to save money as well--have something to fall back on in the case of an emergency. (You never know when the fire hydrants could launch another attack. wink... hehe :D)

So... I've started considering the idea of being an egg donor. I'm being completely serious. I don't know if I will actually do it, I'll have to research it very thoroughly. But, if it is safe, why not? I understand that this is a big deal. I've told both of my parents and my sister and after listening to me they seem supportive. That's not to say there isn't some concern, but I think my heart is in the right place.

Yes, of course the money is a huge motivator. But, I dunno, to be able to help someone who can't have a baby... I think its a very honorable thing. I know not everyone thinks this way, but I don't see how helping others could be a bad thing (as long as they are capable and loving people).

One of my freshman roommates from college was recently a surrogate for a family member and I am completely awed by her selflessness. I honestly couldn't and wouldn't want to do that... but she did and it's amazing.

I think everyone is blessed with a giving heart and we all have something different to give. Sometimes because we are human we judge other people and call their gifts politically incorrect-- they make us feel uncomfortable. But since when has love been politically incorrect?

xoxo Jildo.

Projectile Vomiting on 75/85N

This post is for all those people that have ever wondered if you can projectile vomit while driving and not get in an accident. And, the answer is YES.

So I have this friend and her name is...

PAUSE.

Um... Lillian, yep, that's right her name is Lillian. So this morning my friend Lillian went for an 18 mile run (sucks BALLSSSSSSS). Ok, she said it wasn't that bad and everything was pretty normal... at least during the run. She had her pre-run Larabar, her mid run 6, 9, 12 mile chomp breaks and of course LOTS AND LOTS of water and Gatorade.

REWIND.

Let's go back to pre-18 miles. At 6:50am the Atlanta Marathon Club met at the Bike Shop off Floyd Rd in Mabelton, GA right alongside the Silver Comet Trail. We all climbed out of our cars, performed pre-run rituals and caught up with each other. Emilie, Kerrie and I were all sick last week, so there was a quick check to see how everyone was doing.

When I asked Emilie how she was feeling (since she had been sick most recently)... she said much better. She then proceeded to tell me that apparently not only had she come down with a throat (?) and ear infection, but apparently she had water toxicity.

I'll give you a moment to process that.

Ok. Yea. Water toxicity, the condition of having consumed TOO MUCH water. I never knew such a thing was possible... neither did Lillian till later this morning.

FAST FORWARD TO MILE 18.

DONNNNNNNEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. Actually the best moment wasn't finishing the 18 miles, it was having Mike tell me at mile 16.1 that we had less than 2 miles to go.

WOOOOOO HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. I really can't explain that feeling, except to say it was pure BLISS. Nom nom nom nom nom. Really fucking fantastic.

Anyways, we all finish the run, hobble back to our cars and start the drive home--33 minutes for me--errr, Lillian. So Lillian is driving home and about 15 minutes into the drive she starts to feel a little queasy. Huh, that's strange... Deep breathssssss. Five minutes pass, the fucking deep breathing is not working!

Then she feels it. Uh Oh. Only two exits away from getting off the freeway. KEEP IT TOGETHER, LILLIAN. KEEP IT TOGETHER!!!! Oh God. I can't keep it together... I mean Lillian. Reality has sunk in, she is not going to make it home. She pulls over into the far right lane and looks for a spot to pull over. FUCKING DOWNTOWN ATLANTA!!!! ARGHHHHH there's no where to fucking pull over!!!

EXIT ONLY looms ahead. She moves one lane to the left. And then it happens. Oh God. KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE ROAD.

What happened next I can only describe as sheer... well... you know, projectile vomiting. I can only imagine what other drivers passing her must have thought:

"Why is that woman projectile vomiting a gallon of water?"

"Did that woman just drown and projectile vomit herself back to life?"

and, of course:

"DAMNNNNNNNNN"

After she flushed her system of the excess water she felt down right dandy. Except for the fact that she had a gallon of regurgitated water in her lap and soaking through her pants. AWESOME.

I know that this story is, well, ridiculously, ridiculously, TMI. But I'd like to think I'm just doing my civil duty. After all, maybe it could save YOU from water toxicity.

MMM HMMMM.

xoxo Jildo

P.S. Yes, I know, I know this has nothing to do with money... but a valuable lesson none the less.

Last 6 Minutes of Dexter

Note to self: Do not EVER get sick again if you can't keep yourself entertained.

I don't pay for internet or cable. My neighbors are generous and don't secure their network. What's the point of paying for cable, when I have FREE internet? You can find anything online that would air on TV... and on your time. WINNING.

One problem. I couldn't find anything I wanted to watch on Hulu this weekend when my body decided to wage war and hold me prisoner (I don't understand how you can sleep 9 hours, wake up and 10 minutes later be deathly sleepy all over again. But that's what happened to me for the last 48 hours).

In between bouts of sleep I tried to keep myself preoccupied. I found Dexter on tvshow7 and cucirca and decided to give it a try. I'd watched one episode three years ago with my sister and at the time was completely rebuffed... but when you're looking at lying in bed for two days straight sometimes you need a little of that.

I started in on Season One. Obviously. I'm not really sure how far I got yesterday, between chugging water every ten minutes and then falling asleep for spurts of thirty minutes... It was a slow process. I completely and 100% take the blame for that one. But not today.

Do you know that for the past two hours, yes, two! I have been trying to watch the last 6 minutes of episode 11 of season one?! The most frustrating part is that of course its these last 6 minutes where I am SURE that Detective Morgan is going to find out that her boyfriend is the ice truck killer!!!! GAHHHHHHHH. I have become very invested in the last 24 hours.

So why can't I  just watch the last 6 minutes?! I'll tell you why! Because the links are janky!!! Yes. JANKY. I swear I feel like I'm watching a football game. I push play. It plays for 10 seconds. Circle of DEATTHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. FOR-EV-ERRRRRRRR (insert Sandlot Kid saying "FOR-EV-ERRRRRRRRRRRRR" here). It plays for another 10 seconds... and then guess what?!

CIRCLE OF DEATH.

At this point I just want to buy the whole freaking episode on itunes, but I don't because I keep hanging onto the hope that I can get it to stream for 6666666666666666666 minutes. I should just buy it.

Of course then I have to wait another hour for it to download. Am I being dramatic? Of course. I suppose this is what I get for stealing my kind neighbors internet. HMPH.

I guess I could read... but how do you really follow Fifty Shades of Grey?

No se.

Jildo

Because I Wanna Be a Rockstar...

So as I was lying in bed tonight, I realized what it is.

I got back from Vegas yesterday. At 4:30am on Sunday night/Monday morning my friends and I walked into the Venetian. As soon as we hit the casino carpet the heels were off. And, yes, we went straight for the 24 hour pizza place... they had HUGE NY style slices. Pizza for breakfast.

NOM.
NOM.
NOM.

Then up to our rooms we went. We fell into our fluffy beds and set our alarms for 6am. At 6am I could have chosen to wash my face, brush my hair or even put on some semblance of adult attire. But that's not really my thing.

I threw on my black leggings, a white spaghetti strap and a grey cut off t-shirt with hippie fringe and an indian style design. My half wavy chlorine saturated hair went up in a messy ponytail, the black eyeshadow and the random specks of glitter that managed to stay on through the pool party the night before were definitely staying (and yes, I did have make up remover pads). I threw on my diesel sunglasses with orange trim and pushed my bags over my shoulder.

Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.

This is why I go to Vegas. Maybe its why you go to Vegas, too. Because in Vegas I can be a fucking rock star, even if it is the most ridiculous thing you've ever heard. (Frankly, I doubt it is.)

Sure I could walk around Atlanta everyday looking like I'm fucked up. But that would not be cool. And it wouldn't be cool where you live either (unless you live in Vegas)... because lets be honest it's not cool to be fucked up all the time. It's only ok if it's every now and then.

The funny thing? I think I got tipsy once during the trip. Once in THREE days. Not because I have a high tolerance, I don't (I like to be economical, so I don't drink much anymore)... but, because I really didn't drink that much. But damn is it still fun to dance all night and look like a rockstar. That's what Vegas does to you... and me. It makes us rock stars, no matter who we are. (Ok, I take that back. It does not make you a rock star if you are a creepy mccreeperston. So, yea that rules out most guys that go to Vegas. Sorry, better luck next time... don't be a CREEPER!)

All in all it was a successful trip, good food, great friends, awesome, awesome dance parties. We just wanna dance *wink*.

Oh, yeah and I didn't blow my tuition money. So that's always a plus, too.

Cheers to the freakin' weekend in Vegas... see you in December viva.

xoxo. Jildo

P.S. Despite successfully looking like a rock star with my rad ass shades, giving the semblance of fucked up (over what really looked like fucked up), I ran into an old boss and and co-worker at the ATL airport and had to take them off. Yeaaaaaaaaaa. Haha. So, that was interesting. But hey...who really fucking cares?

PEACE OUT. A-TOWN DOWN.

Running My Ass Off--No, Literally

It's not what you think. I'm not running my ass off in a good way-- I'm running my ass off in the way that if I keep doing what I'm doing I literally WILL NOT have an ass in a month.

PAUSE.

I'm still not sure you understand. You see its not a matter of calories consumed vs. calories burned. It's a matter of fucking chafing. When I used to run in California this NUH-HEVERRRRR happened. And I mean never. I'd run my half marathons, pass those vaseline stations and be like "Huh?"

Yea. Definitely not the case anymore. I didn't realize it was a problem until marathon training began and started ramping up the mileage again... and then it happened. Four weeks ago I went out for a 10 mile run with the Atlanta Marathon Club- aside from the obvious sucky parts (hot, hilly, humid- it was 107 fucking degrees that day) I thought the run went just fine. Then I went home and got in the shower. OH MY GODDDDDDDDDD!!!

If you have chafed any part of your body before and then let water run over your skin you know what I am talking about. Excruciating pain. And, yes, I really do mean excruciating (it might even rival waxing). FUCKKKKKKKKKK!

It was bad.

Of course that didn't stop me from running, because we have a training plan. Duh. Besides it has never happened to me before so I thought maybe it was a fluke. Until the 8 mile run when it happened again and the 6 miler and the next 10 miler. What the hell?!

Ok. I am not an idiot. I know you can use bodyglide or vaseline, but I couldn't quite wrap my head around it. You want me to put vaseline where?! Runners typically chafe their nipples (guys) or their underarms... I am chafing my ASS!! Yes, literally my ass. Not my thighs, my ASS. Cheeks if you will. I know someone else out there knows what I'm talking about.

Ok. Or not. I am pretty fucking weird.

So today I really started contemplating my options. Why now? Well today I took chafing to a whole new level. It was a 12 mile run, not too hot, but humid as hell (thanks Atlanta I wouldn't expect any less) and I was sweating ha- lot. Let me paint you a picture.

Pre run, black running crapris. Six miles in, white running capris. Yes, I was sweating so much my black running pants turned white from all the salt. Super attractive I know.

Long story short not only did I chafe my ass, but today I two-footedly managed to chafe my lower and mid back as well. It's not a pretty picture, I can promise you that. I basically look like I've been whipped.

Therefore, I have come to the following conclusion: I need a lifetime supply of vaseline. Which should totally fit into the budget since it costs like $2. Now I just need to find someone to apply it...

:D. I meant that in a totally non creepy, but totally joking way. Kinda. I can see now that this is one con to being single... I have no one to coerce into applying vaseline petroleum jelly to my ass and back at 6am before I go running.

DAMNIT. Guess I better work on my flexibility.

Adios. Jildo

Credit Report Peep Show

So here's an update on the school financial situation. Now that I am considering using the "matrimoney" for a down payment on a loft there's the issue of paying for school.

Of course I could just accept the loans offered by the federal government with the ungodly interest rates, but I'm not too keen on that option. I started exploring the option of borrowing from private lenders. I found about ten that had wayyyy better interest rates than what dear old uncle sam wants to give me and then called my dad to consult.

Me: "Should I just apply to all of them?"

Dad: "No, just pick two or three. Every time someone has to check your credit it lowers your credit."

Me: "What the fuck?!"

Ok-- apparently, its only when people are checking your credit, because you are requesting a loan. I guess the fact that you are requesting a loan indicates that you expect to be in debt. AWESOME.

Believe me at first I was thoroughly pissed before clarifying this, because every time you rent they run a credit report on you. Glad to have that straightened out.

I decide to apply through three private lenders. I complete the first application and am declined on the spot.

WHAT THE FUCKKKKKKKKK?!

(It was really a "What the fuck" kind of day- not my favorite)

I told my dad.

Dad: "When was the last time you checked your credit."

Me: "Um, never. But, I figured it was HA-MAZING, because I don't have any debt and I pay off my credit card in full every month. I mean WHAT THE FUCK?! How could they decline me?!"

(NOTE: I would just like to take a moment to thank my dad for listening to all this... I interrupted his date night with my step mom. Whoops!)

I did the only thing I could do from there. I went to Equifax, paid the $16 bucks and checked my credit. My score was 698. Which falls in the "Good" category.

Of course I was pissed again. I really do not like falling short of HA-MAZING- plus, how could my credit NOT be PERFECT?! (which is an 850)

I scrolled down to the details. Apparently I am being penalized for not having different types of credit- it looks better if you have mortgage payments in addition to just paying off your credit card. Way to promote home ownership. I scowl.

What else? They say I have debt? Hmmm... let's take a look at this. Ok- there's my visa and yup, there's a balance. But, it's not due for another three weeks!!!! ARGHHHHH. This really is the most frustrating thing EVERRRRRRR. I scroll down further. American Express $10K balance.

WHAT THE FUCK!!!

I don't own an American Express. Ahem. I pick up my phone and text my dad.

Me: "Ahem. Your credit card is on MY credit report!"

Dad: "You should probably contest that."

Me: "Yea since it says that I've charged 113% over my credit limit!!!!"

WHY IS CREDIT SO DAMN FRUSTRATING. I really don't know.

Sigh. So I submitted a debt dispute to Equifax... we'll see if that helps anything.

xoxo Jildo.

Matrimoney

I really should go to bed right now. I have to get up at 6am and go run 11 miles before it hits 107 degrees. UGH.

107 in Vegas is HOT (and I mean that in a completely sexy way). 107 degrees in Atlanta just blows...

But, I can't sleep, because I've gotten myself all riled up. Why? Ummm... lets see. It all started about three years ago.

In my first year out of college, I was working for a marketing firm in Pasadena. My boyfriend at the time lived in Santa Barbara. So, every other weekend I made the two hour drive up the coast to see him. It was the perfect time to catch up with the rents.

It was on one of those drives up to SB that I had the marriage convo with my dad--I guess thats normal when you are in a serious relationship. Anyways, it was that night that my dad told me for the first time EVER that I had wedding money. Jaw to floor. I was extremely excited, and I think I just immediately wanted to get married thinking about the huge party I would get to throw. LOL. (Shaking my head at myself right now).

But now, here I am three years later. No boyfriend, no wedding with camels, just me and a studio apartment in a 107 year old building (jeez what is it with 107?!).

I hadn't really thought about the money since I became single... because it doesn't really seem real. It's out there in outer space somewhere. Then two weeks ago I got my financial aid award letter.

They agreed to give me in-state tuition. DAMN STRAIGHT. But, no subsidized loans. MOTHERFUCKERS. So here I am... with tuition for my first year around $25K with loans to cover it with an interest rate of around 7%. YUCK.

Light bulb.

MATRIMONEY!!!

I texted my dad that Thursday night: Subsidized loans did not come through. Let's talk about wedding $$$.

Friday night is pizza and a movie with the rent/step-rent. So there I was. Laundry in the wash, a glass of vino in my hand and a nervous feeling in my chest.

"So... I was thinking about using my wedding money for grad school."

"Uh huh."

Blah, blah, blah.

Blah, blah, blah.

"I just always thought you would use it for your wedding."

"I don't know if or when that will happen."

"Or a house."

GULP. (a house?!)

It should not have scared me that much, I mean I am almost 27. A girl has to grow up sometime.  But I didn't want to do it on pizza and a movie night.

NO HOUSE!

"What about a condo?"

FAST FORWARD TO TONIGHT.

I get home from work, throw myself on my bed in my studio apartment and gaze around. Out of boredom (and the fact that I realize I've spent $40K on rent over the past 4 YEARS... WTF?!?!?!) I start searching condos and lofts for sale in the area.

Then I kind of find one that I like... one I kind of like A LOT. FUCK.

Could I use the matrimoney for a loft? (a loft is way less scary than a house, townhouse or condo- they are tres young).

I dunno... I think I might be in love.

xxx Jildo

The ER Bill From HELLLLLLL

About three weeks ago I called Emory University Hospital inquiring about my ER bill from when I fell into the fire hydrant and had to get stitches. Being the responsible person that I am it irked me that it had been almost a month since I'd received service and yet, no bill.

Now I wish I hadn't called. When I checked into the ER April 28, I was not thinking straight (really who would be after they threw their entire body weight, head first into a very solid fire hydrant?)- so when they asked for my address, I gave it to them.

For any normal person, this would be perfectly fine. But my mailing address is undeliverable. I'm not really sure why. It might have to do with the fact that the building I live in is over 100 years old and the mailboxes out front do not correspond to the correct apartments. Either way my address is undeliverable- do not try and reach me by mail, you NEVER will. (It's kinda nice- No bills! Woo hoo!- haha just kidding I do online bill pay and notification).

I could say I did this all on purpose to reduce my carbon footprint, but that would be a bold faced lie. Anyways, so I gave them this black hole of an address when I checked into the ER, instead of my dad's address where I can actually receive mail.

On this three week later phone call with Emory billing, I give them the correct address and pray that it wasn't my address error that kept the bill from coming, but maybe just that I didn't owe anything?!

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

FUCK MY LIFE. Yes, that's right. This bill warrants so much more than the usual: FML. It def-definitely warrants the WHOLE DAMN THING.

Wait for it... wait for it....

$1317.12

FUCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK.

No, really. FUCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK.

How can 10 minutes of a Dr. stitching up the back of my ear cost $1,317.12?! WHAT THE FUCK?!?! (again WTF just does NOT cut it).

Then I remember. They did an X-Ray.  FACE PALM.... AND REPEAT.

The thing that really busts my balls (or would if I had them) is that I went into the ER with a head injury. Did they X-Ray my head? Of course not, that would just make too much sense. Nope, apparently it was completely logical for them to do an X-Ray of my chest. And me in my I-just-slammed-my-head-into-a-fire-hydrant state did not think to question it. IDIOT!

Sigh. So now here I am with a $1,317.12 ER bill. LOVELY.

You know I was actually thinking about buying myself a flat screen tv the other day. HA.

Medical bills suck balls- especially when you are uninsured.

Oh, did I mention that the accident happened April 28 and my insurance coverage kicked in April 30? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

FUCK MY LIFE.

Over and Out- Jildo

Vegas: The New Offer Letter Hook

As you know, if you've been reading my blog, I started a new job about a month ago. Now of course the rudimentary reasons for me taking this new job were and are the same as for anyone else-- more money, better hours, better work/life balance, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah.

But then for me, what really got me... what really made me realize that this job was made for me... wasn't the fine print in the offer letter. What got me was the email that the offer letter was attached to and 6 perfect words "we're going to vegas... you included."

UMMMM HELLLOOOOOO. Do you have ANY idea how much I LOOOOVVEEEE Vegas?! To quote Buzz Lightyear: "To Infinity and Beyond!" It's so true. So to tell me not only that I'll make more money, work Monday through Friday, etc., but you tell me we're... I'm... going to Vegas within a month of starting and it's ALL going on the company card?!

Yes, my eyes may have rolled back in my head for a minute. But, really who's wouldn't? Let's not kid ourselves folks. Of course, I will have to work while I'm there... but what would I be doing during the day anyways? Ok, ok, I may not get as much time to spend on my Indian tan, but that's cool. I can get my tan on in Hotlanta any day (if I can stand the humidity).

Anyways, suffice to say I am super stoked, because technically I get to go on vacation for FREEEEEEE! Woooo! We leave this Sunday... which means next week Vegas is my bitch. You heard me Vegas. B-I-T-C-H.

xoxo Jildo

P.S. I apologize if this post was a little craz-ass or slightly offensive. Sometimes when I get super excited I can't contain myself.

BREATHE. BREATHE. CONTAIN....

ALEKJALKRJHAPRJARKHGksjgaljwreyiouw!!!! Nope can't do it. Too excited. EXCITEDDDDDDDDDDD!

P.P.S. I think all employers should start to lure prospective employees with working vacations. I would do it. It's way rad.

The Giving Mom

Remember the childhood classic, "The Giving Tree", by Shel Silverstein? It's about a boy and a tree. The boy grows up swinging on its branches and the boy loves the tree and the tree loves the boy. But when the boy gets older he stops swinging from the trees branches, and instead comes back and asks more and more of the tree. He sells her apples to make money, cuts off her branches to build himself a home and finally cuts down her trunk to build a boat. Although the tree is sad, because the boy stays away longer and longer, she never hesitates to give him everything he needs- even if it means compromising her own well being. My mom is the giving tree.

My mother is not perfect, in fact she will be the first person to tell you she isn't perfect. But, my mother is without a doubt the most selfless person I know. When I moved to Georgia back in December I got a job almost immediately. I went to work for the Omni Hotel in downtown Atlanta as a Front Desk Agent. While I truly loved the job, I quickly realized that there was no way I could continue working there if I wanted to support myself (which I very much wanted since I am 26 years old). By April any savings that I had managed to accumulate were gone, my credit card bill kept growing and I knew if I didn't do something quickly I would have to pull money out of my 401k to pay my bills.

I talked to my mother about it a few times, not asking for money, I just wanted someone to vent to. Someone that would listen and understand. At this point I had started applying to jobs like a mad woman- over the course of 3 weeks I probably applied to between 60-75 jobs. Fear will do that to you. And within three weeks I had found a new job. I started to breathe a little easier, I knew soon I would be able to save money again. Nevertheless, I had my current credit card bill looming over my head at the time. I shrugged it off, no, I wouldn't be able to pay the entire amount off, but I would make enough in the next month to pay it off in full. I mentioned this to my mother in passing- again not asking anything of her- more just mentioning it as a sigh of relief "ahhh I got a new job and now I can almost pay off my credit card."

As soon as I told my mom I wouldn't be able to pay off the entire bill, she asked me how much I needed. No. Mom. You don't owe me anything. She argued with me until I told her how much I would need-- $400. And she said "ok, I'll put it in your bank account tomorrow." Now, my mother has never had the highest paying jobs, she knows how to save her money, but she has never been rolling in the dough-- so, I never want to ask anything of her. But whether it be money, love, emotional support my mom always gives everything she has to my sister and I. My mom is the best mom in the world. My mom is the Giving Tree.

I love you mom.

xoxo. Jildo

The Ear Diaries

So it's been almost a month since I fell ear first into that lame-o fire hydrant. I went to a walk-in clinic last Friday to get the stitches out.

Now conveniently as of two days after my accident I had insurance coverage through my employer. Had I received my insurance card in the mail by the time I needed to get my stitches out? Of course not! That would obviously be WAYYYYY to easy.

Consequently I drove around Atlanta for 2 hours after work May 11 trying to find a clinic that took uninsured individuals AND took out stitches. (Apparently taking out stitches is a big deal). I end up going to Concentra where the flat rate to be seen is $115.

I pay the $115 dollars, because after consulting a friend who is a nurse, I was advised that I could not just leave the stitches in. It takes all of five minutes for the nurse to pull the stitches out and all of three minutes for me to feel like I was going to vomit in my mouth.

Once the stitches were out in came the doctor. He asked me if I had heard about Amiee Copeland. Yes- I said (I'm sure all of us have heard about her story by now- it's a really sucky story and I wish nothing like that ever happened). He then proceeded to tell me that I needed to keep my ear medicated and covered for the next three days. Talk about instilling fear in the hearts of men--- ok in the heart of Jill. I kept that ear covered for a full FIVE days, because I like my ear and I don't want to lose it or any other part of my body.

I'm still waiting for my ER bill. Since moving into my new apartment I've discovered that my address is a black hole for mail. Sure I have a mailbox- but the US Postal Service can't quite seem to connect my mail with the box. So I'm pretty sure that ER bill is floating around in mail heaven :/... I don't really want it anyways.

Sigh. That is all for now.

xoxo. Jildo

Oh, I have a new job, too! But, I'll save that story for another day :D

Jill vs. the Fire Hydrant

There comes a time in every poor person's life when they are trying to decide if they should decline the medical coverage provided through their employer. After all, the cheapest option still means that a whopping $62 dollars will be deducted from every single paycheck. That's almost $125 a month that you--I-- I am paying every month. For what? I mean how often do we have to go to the doctor?!

Friday night when I picked up my benefits package my mind was made up. Monday morning I was marching right into HR and declining all benefits. That was before the fire hydrant incident. DUN DUN DUN. Yes, you heard me right- I can now say that I have had a run in with a fire hydrant. And, yes, the fire hydrant won.

Who knows how these things happen. I didn't wake up Saturday morning and say to myself "Looks like a great day to fall head first into a fire hydrant." Really surprising, I know! Lol. But, that is exactly what happened.

It was 8:50pm on Saturday night. My friends and I had been hanging out at the Inman Park festival for the last few hours- drinking beer, listening to music, walking around, laughing- when we decided to call it a night (most of us had to work at 6:30am on Sunday). So, we all piled into Jenn's car and Desarae dropped me off as close to my apartment as she could- without bull dozing through the road blocks set up by the festival. I got out of the car and started the walk home- about two blocks.

But I didn't make it two blocks. I made it about one, tripped on a piece of sidewalk that was sticking up, flailed my arms, my feet flew up, flip flops went flying off and down I went, head first into an unsuspecting fire hydrant. CRUNCH. AHAHHHHHHHHH. FUCKKKKKKKKKK.  GAHHHHHH.

I held my hand to my ear. That fucking hurt really bad! I tried to pull myself up quickly- my first thought being that I didn't want a cop to see me, think I was way to intoxicated for diving head first into a fire hydrant and haul my ass of to jail. So, I sat up, found my flip flops and started to walk home like nothing had happened (which I'm actually fairly good at since I've been clumsy most of my life and I'm used to pretending that I didn't just make a complete fool of myself).

It went well for about 2 seconds. That was when I started to feel a warm sensation on my chest. This is what I saw when I looked down:

I really wanted to freak out, but what good would that do when I had no idea what the heck was going on. Right? Right. My plan? Just get home. Get home clean the blood off and figure out where the heck I was bleeding.

I didn't make it home. A group of people around my age saw me, blood dripping all over the place, and asked if it was real. They then asked if I had AIDS. Nice, lol. Way to be safe! I answered yes and no, and they started to clean me up, while holding up their fingers and asking me to tell them how many I saw. Three, duh! (who knows if three was right).

Shortly after they found me some firemen came over, checked my heart rate, asked where it hurt-- My ear!!! And then asked how it happened. "Er, I fell into a fire hydrant. Am I ok? Do I need stitches?"

No. You're fine, go to bed.

FAST FORWARD 2 HOURS.

Text to Jenn: It's still bleeding.

Jenn to Me: Do you want us to come over.

Text to Jenn: No, its probably ok.

Jenn to Me: We're coming over.

Text to Jenn: Ok. Thanks.

20 minutes later Jenn and Desarae were at my door with a first aid kit, a bottle of peroxide and a wash cloth.

Desarae asked me if I could clean my ear off. I pulled the blood matted hair away from my head and tried to dab the blood off my skin. I couldn't stand the pain, so I asked if she could do it.

Des: Uh, sure. Let me take a look at it.

(Peers behind my ear)

Des: Oh, man. Uh, Jenn come take a look at this.

(Jenn looks behind my ear)

Des: Hey, why don't you get dressed, we'll take you to the hospital.

Me: Do you think I need to go?

Des: Yea, I mean, just to make sure.

15 minutes later they drop me off at the ER. "Call me when you're done." Ok, I say and walk into the hospital.

It's weird walking into the ER at 11:30 at night, because you know everyone there must be FUCKED UP! I walk to the front window. The nurse points to a solitary computer against the wall and asks me to sign in.

I sit down. Name, it asks me: Jillian. Birth date: 9/11/85. Reason for visit:

Reason for visit. It just stares at me. Taunting me. Is there a good way to write "I fell into a fire hydrant and now I'm bleeding a lot" without looking like a dumbass? I decide there isn't.

Reason for visit: I fell into a fire hydrant and now I'm bleeding a lot.

They call me back pretty quickly after that. Check my vitals. Apparently I have a fever, who knows why- I mean aside from the blood gushing out of my head I feel perfectly fine! So they order a chest xray- FML- xrays are soooo fing expensive. FINE. You want to xray my chest, be my guest.

Then they ask me to pee in a cup. I can't get the lid off. Am I supposed to be able to get the lid off?! I peek my head out the door and sheepishly ask the elderly, frail nurse for help. She pops the lid off with one twist. I smile weakly and take the cup back. Jeez what's wrong with me?

After about another hour of waiting they finally take me to my own room with a bed. The doctor comes in, tells me he doesn't really want to be there, that I need stitches and do I want him to do it? I say sure why not? He then proceeds to tell me it was his ten year college reunion that night and it was a bummer, because he couldn't drink. I gave him a two thumbs up and said "THANK YOU!!!"

Then in came the nurse with the Percocet. Yum. I pop those puppies and everything starts to be really awesome, in a completely mellow way.

Doctor: I'm going to stick four huge needles behind your ear.

Me: Cool.

Doctor: The lidocaine will numb you so you won't feel anything.

Me: Cool.

Doctor: Then i'll stitch you up.

Me:...

Well, you get the picture.

And that was that. Half way through the doctor said: "damn this looks really good for not being done by a plastic surgeon, whoops I spoke to soon..."

But, hey, I can't see it so I'm all good. I just hope my ear lays back down, because right now I look like I have one Dopey ear.

Today was Monday. I took my insurance forms to HR. I accepted, because apparently when you are me, everyday objects like fire hydrants are a possible threat.

Over and Out, Jildo.

The Plan

The plan is that there is no plan. Errrrr. Yea.

Practically from the time you are a baby to the time you graduate college everyone is asking you what you want to be. What do you want to do?

Can we just start that whole thing over? No, wait. Can we just erase everyone's memory and completely DELETE the "What do you want to be when you grow up" question. Seriously. I think it does more harm than help.

I think instead we should encourage children to focus on 3-5 possible careers/jobs they would enjoy... or maybe just tell them that it doesn't matter if they love their job as long as they are financially stable (because let's be for real we don't need a bunch of broke bloggers running our country- because wait for it, wait for it. They won't.)

That's right I am now four years out of college with experience in both marketing and hospitality, and to be completely honest, continuing a career in either does not sound appealing right now. And, this may sound utterly ridiculous, but I am considering just bulldozing my life and starting over. Why not? Let's just throw the fucking plan out and see what happens!

Do we really have to figure out what we want to do for the rest of our lives by the time we are 22? Do we have to do ONE thing for the rest of our lives?!

Now I know, I know. You may think that I'm just being compulsive, that I'm just upset that I get paid $10.50/hr plus customer bitching- can't forget that- its priceless :). Lol. But, I can't help but think that I am way too smart for this. I don't think that is conceited to say- all of my friends are very smart as well. It's just... looking back on the decisions I've made (Communication/Writing Degrees)... cough. Yea. I can't help but kick myself in the ass and say WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!

I should have known Communication was a bad idea freshman year when my roommates asked me my major. When I told them their response was "Oh, so you aren't good at math or science?" 

Ok. I'm not good at science. I ABHORRRRRR science. But I like math. I'm good at math. Why the FUCK did I study communication? Everyone fucking communicates. Sigh.

So now I'm paying for my mistake. No literally, I'm paying for an MBA from Georgia Tech (that's right they let me enroll despite having had to defer a year! YAY!) so that I can crunch lots of numbers and stop communicating with everyone. Expensive, but totally worth it... don't you think? Lol. Yea, I know I tend to be a bit extreme, but hey that's just who I am.

BOO YAH.

Here's to premeditated, self-inflicted, analytical pain.... the weird part? Thinking about it kind of turns me on. Love it when you study so long you start to hallucinate and get a rush from knowing that you have so much fucking more to do. Sigh. I miss school.

xoxo Jildo

P.S. Fuck. I guess there is a plan. 

When You Make Less Than a Carney...

My grandfather's wife texted me today and said that I should get rid of my personal trainer to save money. I said no dice, I signed a year contract- I locked myself into that SHIT! (I'm very dedicated to my health- ahem- so I can party). Anyways... my response? I think I should try to make more than $10.50 an hour.

COUGH!!!! Yes! I know its AWFUL. I made more money at a part time college job than I make now. The worst part? My grandfather's wife's response. "10.50?! Damn, your grandfather made more than that working a part time job at the merry-go-round."

FML. But... it's times like these that I just have to laugh at myself and thank the dear lord that guys give me $20 tips at work for "liking my eyes." Creepy? HELLSSSSSS YESS. But $20 bucks is $20 bucks. So thank you! :D

So if there are any of you out there like me... who know you are worth WAYYYYYY more than you are getting paid. Just know you are not alone.  And hey, if you want moral support... I will listen to you bitch all day... because sometimes we need to bitch.

xoxo Jildo

Pooreciation

How about I just wrote a whole amazing paragraph about pooreciation and what it means to me and I accidentally deleted it. Well. FUCK. I'm sure you get the idea- pretty simple really. I'm pooreciating being poor, because my lack of money has motivated me to proactively work toward changing my poorassness (now easier that I have a computer again. HOORAY!!!!).

I have a confession. It's not just the suckiness of being poor that makes me want to be rich-although that does help, A LOT- No. It's the fact that it's not just me anymore. I have my apartment to think about. Seriously. My apartment is awesome. She deserves so much more than a lone, albeit AMAZING mattress on her beautiful hardwood floors. She should have a bedframe! Art on the walls, a desk whose keyboard drawer actually opens/closes, a dresser, a kitchen table, a couch. Maybe even a 60" flatscreen TV. GASP! I want things!

Ok. Ok. I know I may sound a teensy weensy bit RIDICULOUS, but I mean honestly does it really matter what is motivating me to make more money? Nahhhhhh. I just want it. Lots of it. And, by lots I mean just enough so that when I go to the grocery store (after I've outfitted my apartment with amazing things) and I see that 3oz package of blueberries for $5.99, I say FUCK IT I've got the money. I will then go crazy and buy all the blueberries they have and hand them out to my neighbors like its candy on HALLOWEEN. True they make think I'm creepy, but you KNOW they would eat those blueberries. BLUEBERRIES ARE AWESOME.

Hi my name is Jillian and I'm a poor person with a blueberry problem. Sigh. Yea... But seriously, just you wait. In no time I will be lounging on my sink-into-me-and-never-get-up-couch with a bowl full of blueberries watching NBATV on my 60" flatscreen TV. It's gonna happen.

(I heard setting personal goals is a good thing.)

xoxo Jildo

I See White People

Over the last couple of weeks my roommates and I have been casually looking for a new place to live come summer. Because I wasn't sure where they would be moving (needing to accomodate Mitchell their pitbull), I started searching out homes and one bedroom apartments.

After moving to Atlanta I immediately fell in love with the areas known as Little Five Points, Old Fourth Ward and Inman Park. They have the small town charm, mixed with a hipster/eclectic edge- plus tons of cool restaurants, bars, beautiful parks (and only 2 miles from DT). The homes date back to the early 1900's, many flaunting victorian architecture. Orgasmic imagery! (what can I say I love old buildings).

Suffice to say with everything these neighborhoods have going for them its very rare to ever find housing there. So when I was perusing Craigslist yesterday and saw an ad for a studio apartment in Inman Park 1/2 a mile from Little Five Points that actually looked cute and is in my budget (somewhat-- err-- i'll make it work) I almost peed my pants.

At 11:45am this morning I made the drive across town to meet the landlord and see the place. I really had no intention of walking away with a new apartment. Whoops! Ok, so maybe I had an inkling that I would love it and it would become my home. Fine it was more than an inkling and yes, as soon as I saw it I had to have it. Sure the building was built in 1905 and looks old, but I love it. I love the brick walls on the outside of the building, the hardwood floors in the bedroom and the iconic black and white lineolium in the kitchen. Sure the bedroom is painted baby blue, but theres a chalkboard painted on the back of my front door. I mean RAD!!!!

There you have it, one quick look and I'm the proud new renter of my very own apartment! It's only half of my take home pay, haha, yikes. But, in my defense I've seen more cop cars and csi vans by my current apartment over the last three days than I'd like to count.

Sometimes where you live is life or death. Which is why I'm moving. I choose life.

Xoxo. Jildo

P.S. I almost forgot. No, I'm not racist, but yes, I do stereotype (sorry, makes life easier). In reference to the title- when I first drove up to the apartment I saw lots of white people running and riding bikes- that actually may have sold me before I even saw the place. Hmmmm. Well either way, I can now say senara to wife beaters and pants that are falling off of peoples asses because they think it looks cool. Or something.

P.P.S.The apartment did come with a free desk. So. Yea. Cool... No. I am really excited, thats not fake enthusiasm. Ahem. Let me try that again.

PAUSE.

FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. Willy! Swoop!

One Giant Leap for Jildo

And by leap, I mean squat. Yes, I did it again. I signed up for a personal trainer. Here's the thing... I swear I didn't mean to. It was Monday morning, I was minding my own business running at a nice relaxing 6.0 pace on the treadmill when this friendly, big, black trainer asks if I want to do a quick 5 minute bootcamp with him. Obviously I am unable to turn down a good work out, so I say yes.

Three sets of squats, lunges, jump ups and bicycles on my back and I feel slightly nauseus. (side note: I've never puked from working out and I'm sure as hell not going to let my first time be after a 5 minute work out. What am I? A pussy? Don't answer that)

Post feelings of wanting to upchuck my breakfast, I sit down with "G". Ok, so his real name is Gilbert, but he was the one calling himself "G"- black men can apparently do this. I asked what I thought was a very viable question: are you also an "OG"?

G: No.

I shrug my shoulders... Say, oh and think to myself this is completely lame because if you're gonna be a gangsta you should at least be an original gangsta... I mean, right?

"G" then pulls out a large scary paper that will establish my fitness goals. Question 1: how much do you weigh? Question 2: what is your ideal weight? And on it goes. I dutifully complete the entire form and hand it back to "G". He grimaces when he gets to the last question: how motivated are you about achieving your goals on a scale of one to ten (ten being very motivated). -- I had very confidently and very pleased with myself circled the six. I would have gone for the 5- but i figured in true Jillian form that I would give him something to work with.

G looks at me. Why isn't this a ten, his voice echoes in my ear and I'm reminded of a recruiter that once asked me why I had a 3.3 gpa in college and not a 4.0 (ummm because I had a life?- no that was not the answer I really gave, but come on!- Surprise, surprise I didn't get that job lol). Anyways, so there it is that inevitable question hanging in the air. And then I just say what I was thinking. I say the truth: I'm happy with the way I look.

Now, it takes a very good trainer to recover from a blow like that. So, he does the only thing he can do. He pulls out the... Dun dun dun- body fat percent calculating contraption. I groan- yes, both figuratively and literally. Even when I was doing interval training and running 30 miles a week I had 20% body fat. I did not want to think about what it was now that I had said "fuck salads" and actually started eating what I wanted.

It was 27- gahhhhhhhhhh! Apparently this is very poor for someone my age and I am going to die- well, someday. My heart sinks. I stare down at my thighs and give an obligatory its been nice knowing you pat to my ass. The fun food and booze run is over (go ahead mom breathe a sigh of relief).

I look "G" square in the face. Ok, let's do it.

And that is the story of how I decided to sign away $160 of my hard earned dollars a month.

Mannnnnnnnnnnnnn.

Xoxo J.

Fuck the American Dream

You know exactly what I'm talking about. It's the house, the white pickett fence, the two kids and the dog. Yup. Fuck it.

Don't hate me yet- wait till the end of the post. When I was five I repeatedly told my mom that I wanted 20 million babies. Ridiculous, right? Obviously because since then Ive realized you either endure a c-section where you smell your own flesh burning or you rip from your vagina to your asshole giving "natural birth". Tell me, how is that natural? Its not like a ziploc bag down there. Yea, exactly.

So, that brings me to my statement: fuck the american dream. If you know me fairly well you know I left SB for lotsssss of reasons. One pretense being that I couldn't buy a house there, couldn't have a family, blah, blah, blah.

Then I moved to Georgia and slowly I started to realise maybe I don't want a family. A house. Two kids. A dog. It's not about money- i mean that would be silly- I just... Well I'm selfish. I don't want to go through childbirth, I don't want to blow up like a balloon, I don't want to dress like a mom.

A couple days ago one of my guy friends told me: "you're getting older. You need to get married soon." I wanted to punch him in the face. What is it with getting married? Just leave me the fuck alone. Ok, now yes, I admit I'm sure I have some issues with marriage due to my parents failed marriage, but I have even bigger issues with people telling me I need to get married.

So, maybe no kids, no fence, no dog.

Cheers, Jildo

P.S. This is really random and probably completely stupid and I HOPE other people feel like this... After I saw 'A River Runs Through It', I thought of Tristan, thats me, I'll never find anyone that can handle me.

That said, I've always said by 30 I wanna have a family or be successful. I pray to God I'm successful.

P.P.S. Because el blog should relate back to money... It costs like $15K to have a kid. And thats just child birth. Forget about the stress of secret thong buying when your little girl grows up, college, puke on your whole carpet from the party the kids threw without your permission (okay that actually kinda makes me want them haha). But, yea. The American Dream? Isn't there a dollar menu version?

Holy Cheese Grits!!!

When you work second shift in hospitality its very easy to lose your social life. For the past two weeks my roomie Jennifer and I have been working all 2:30-11pm shifts. Which means 1. We're going out on the late night tip or 2. Im snuggling up with my ipad and a handful of twizzlers (because for the life of me now that Im back on the east coast I can't find red vines anywhere) before setting my sleep cycle app on my iphone and rolling over. More often than not its twizzlers and reruns of how i met your mother- cuz that shit never gets old. But tonight, tonight we decided was a night to get out... And relax.

Thats right ladies and gents, we made a date with the shisha. The long necked dragon. The mellowmer. The emperors new groove! Wait, no that was my groove to the southern hip hop they were blasting in the background. Rewind. First we had to find a place. Jennifer and I are both pretty new to the ATL, so we decided to ask Google a queston: shisha atlanta?

I found a place called Hookah Kingdom somewhere in midtown that was open till 1am, it seemed like a fantabulous idea. Yep, simply fantabulous. Until I missed our exit and then after a few loop-de-doos we found ourselves asking my GPS questions like: oh god, where are we going? Uh, where is this place? And lastly, WTF?!?!?!

It wasn't an awful area, there just wasn't really anything else around- ok, I lied there was a bbq place a block away with a fat screaming pig statue outside.

Yeaaaaaaa.

We pulled into the parking lot of Hookah Kingdom. There were two other cars there. Uhhhhh. What do you want to do? Should we check it out? Should we go in? We decided to go in. Let me paint you a picture, aside from blue club lights streaming out from this empty hookah lounge the street was completely black. Jenn pulled on the door but it didnt budge. Closed. About halfway to my car the door opened and a guy poked his head out.

Rome: What's up?

Jenn: you closed?

Rome: yea. We're open friday, saturday, sunday.

Jenn: oh, ok.

Rome: You girls wanna smoke?

(Reminder: shisha)

We look at each other, shrug and head into the empty hookah lounge. For the next 3 hours we're passing the pipe, throwing back grape vodka shots and wiggling to dope beats. Ok. I was the only one wiggling, because I was the only white person. And, yes, I said dope beats. Dope. What upppppppp.

By the time 2:30am rolled around we decided it was time to go to bed. By the time we were a minute down the road we decided it was time to grub. Waffle hizouse! We wanted to see Des, our other room mate who was working- it was her last day. After waiting about ten minutes so we could sit in her section the games begun. or should I say the fucking ass crackery. Aka tom foolery or just all around ignorance. The four other workers would not stop harassing Des... Telling her to shut up, f you, etc. I was fucking pissed. Then came the cheese grits.

I may have spent the last seven years in California, but don't EVER fuck with my cheese grits. The cook at Waffle House obviously did not get the memo. Desarae had to ask the cook where my grits were. He handed them to her... Sans cheese.

PAUSE. Uh, cest cheese?

Yes. Cest cheese. The cook threw a cold slice of cheese on my grits, handed it to me and said it would melt. I told him that was just plain wrong and that it wouldn't melt. He yelled back at me that it would (approximately 6 inches from my face). I said no it won't again, crossing my fingers that it wouldn't because I was just pissed at the way he had treated my friend and wanted to punch him in the face. I didn't punch him in the face, but we did get a free meal out of it. No, it wasn't on the w house. Apparently the two nice gentleman sitting behind Jennifer and I over heard the entire argument and said they wanted to take care of our bill. Score!

1. Free food

2. Oh yea, and Rome didn't charge us for the hookah

3. ... Or the grape vodka (thank god, i mean, it was grape. Insert fizzle face *here*)

Hmmm. Two girls. One night. Smoked. Drank. Ate. FREE!!! This is how we do.

Budget baby. Xoxo, Jildo

P.S. I still want my grits.

For the Love of the Game

There are two types of people in this world. The type that enjoy what they do for a living and those that do not. Usually the ones that do not like what they are doing at least make a lot of money. If you like what you are doing it really is a toss up. Are you dating your job? Have you fallen in love with your job? Is your job in love with you too? No! Its a job!

When I moved to Georgia I took an $18,000 pay cut. Yowza! In the beginning I told myself, "ehhh, the cost of living is way less... it'll be fineeeeee." Insert coughing attack *here*. Its not fine. Why? Because I like having enough money so that after I pay rent I can actually afford groceries and gas and maybe the occasional night out on the town.

No... I am not throwing away my hard earned cash on my apartment. It's actually quite a steal. Or did I mean to say lots of people steal from there? Yes, I live in the ghetto. I literally live on the other side of the tracks. Dead serious. The railroad tracks are right in front of my apartment building. Starting at around 8pm every night until about 4 o'clock in the morning, every hour on the hour I am waken by very loud train whistles, horns, wheels clanking on the tracks. I try and tell myself its romantic. I've even gotten to the point of trying to convince myself that its like a lullaby that rocks me to sleep. Yea. I know that's just fucking ridiculous. 

So there's the noise issue. And then like I said its not the safest place. After my step mother helped me move in she bought me mace. My room mates then asserted that we should go the firearm store and get a .44. Still not joking, and yes, we really did go. When I moved in my roommates let me know that I would be fine as long as I did not make eye contact with any of our neighbors. I figured, hey, they've been living here for months and they are still alive. WINNING!

I know, I know. I have such a skewed perspective, but this is how you have to think when you are living in poverty. I can find the silver lining in anything. True story.

But, why am I and most of the people I work with struggling to get by? We're all super awesome. We all graduated college. What the FUCKKKKKKK. The classic line at work is overworked and underpaid. And, its true. So why do we all stay? Because we are in love with our jobs.

I guess the next most viable question is: is love enough?

(For people that are in love for the first time you will most inevitably say yes. WRONG!!! Trust me... love is not always enough and yes, you will love again. Stronger than before!-- tribute to Lara Fabian and slightly corny, as always)

Over and Out, Jildo

P.S. Thank GODDDD for tax refunds. Seriously, thank you God.

I Really Need to Stop Drinking

Ok, first let me just say that the declining number of blog posts is not because I have given up on saving money and am drowning my sorrows in booze. Who does that? Booze is awesome and should only be drunk to perpetuate awesomeness. No, the reason Im not blogging more is because I still haven't taken my mac to get fixed. This means the only time I have access to a computer is when I go home- which yes, is usually about once a week. If you do the math this computes to 4 blogs a month- but then you have to factor in tv. I dont have a tv at my apartment either, which means I have to cram a weeks worth of How I Met Your Mother into 1-2 days. No small feat.

Sigh, I feel so much better now that I got that off my chest- I didnt want you to think I was cheating on you with another blog. I could never do that. I love you my broke ass blog. Anyways, heres the spending update: booze. Yea, that pretty much sums it up. I really am not an alcoholic and normally only drink once a week. But damn this last week felt like a staycation with all the booze Ive consumed.

It started last thursday with the hawks game- ok those beers were actually free- but we'll just say for arguements sake that they were the gateway beers. Then there was the bottle of wine friday- old friend from High School was in town that I probably hadn't seen in 5 years. We each had our own bottle-- which really is nothing when you consider 5 years of catching up.

Two days later one of my best friends from college came to town. Wineeeee. Beerrrrr. Vinegar popcorn.... Cough, hack. What do you mean you don't sell it without the vinegar?! Stupid hipsters and their vinegar popcorn. Yea, I'll take another beer to wash down the vinegar. Bleahhhhhh.

If you live in Atlanta maybe you've heard of The Porter Beer Bar and their strangely ass flavored vinegar popcorn. Forget the popcorn... Just flip through their 29 page beer menu, close your eyes and point. Fun game. What next? How about our receipt from the beer bar gives us a free growler at Chevron. Say what?!!!!! Yes, Chevron now offers beer on tap! God bless America land of the free... Flowing beer... Sigh.

We had to get our free growler... Obviously. Then for some reason, maybe because GA has a law against open containers we went to another bar- where we couldnt drink our growler, but instead had to buy their beer. At the time spending more money on more booze so we could sit at a bar seemed like a better idea than sitting in our car and passing the growler back and forth. I mean, we are civilized after all.

And, now that ive come completely full circle- its been a week since the basketball game- can i give it a rest? Apparently not. My cousin Travis is in town on business and we're getting beers after I get off work. I really should keep a running tally of how much money Ive spent on booze in the last seven days... But Im scared. :(

Here's to no more boozing! After tonight! Until St. Patricks Day! Unless something really awesome comes up in the mean time. Gah!

Xoxo Jildo

P.S. Just in case you're still doubting my blog love you should know I used my iphone to write this post. If thats not love, i dont know what is... Incidentally my hands are cramping up and I cant read anything I wrote... Soooo tinnnnny. Tinnnnnnnnnny.

$35 Jilsicle

Going once! Going twice! SOLD! One Jilsicle for thirty-five dollars!

You may be asking yourself "what is a Jilsicle" and yes, you are correct, it is exactly what you think it is. It's a frozen Jillian. BRRRRRR.

Now that I'm getting all settled into my new life, I decided it was time to get settled into my old routines. Yes, running (because I never want to run another half marathon without training. I want to puke just thinking about it- like I did that night six times because my body hated me for not preparing it for running 13.1 miles in the brutally crisp, unforgiving, Vegas winter air. INSERT BARFING NOISE HERE. And, hey, maybe again just for good measure. HURLLLLLL)-- Ok. You get the picture.

When I first moved to Georgia I joined a gym close to my Dad and Stepmom's house. Beautiful gym, super shiny- I wanted to live there its so HA-MAZING. But obviously, when I moved 50 minutes away it just wasn't working out (and obviously neither was I). So, I did what any person in my situation would do. I ended it. Which budget wise was probably for the best, because it was $70/month (but REALLY... so BEAUTIFUL. Sigh. Yes, I miss it.)

Anyways, so there I was... No beautiful, shiny gym. With the recent purchase of my HA-MAZING bed, I really had no money to sign up for a new gym. This is the moment I had the bright idea to start running outside again, because it really is SOOOOOO much better than running on a treadmill. SO.

The prospect of running outside was great, but then came the question of where to run. I can't just run out my front door like I used to do in Santa Barbara- people might actually kill me here if I did that. Or maybe just try to sell me illicit drugs, but either way, not the best situation. I started googling "best places to run in Atlanta" and "trails Atlanta." Let me tell you there is about one legit option in the city- Piedmont Park. I went, I ran, I was happy. But then I wanted to run again... and for me one of the biggest reasons I like running is because its like exploring. I can just start running and not know where I'm going and see new things and places. Not so easy to do in a metropolis- I guess I could start carrying a gun, but then I'd be running lopsided and people might start calling me Lopsided Jill and it just sounds weird. So, no gun and no Piedmont Park (at least not so soon- I'd have to give it at LEAST 3 days before I ran there again. OBVIOUSLY).

Last Sunday after work I decided to explore the option of running downtown. I knew it was going to be a bit chilly, but I'm used to getting hot about ten minutes into the run so I decided to forego a long sleeve shirt, jacket, hat or gloves. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Such a fucking BAD BAD BAD idea. Now you would think with my hands burning in pain from the cold after ten minutes that I would give up and go home. But what good is a ten minute run? Right? So pointless. I stuck it out for 35 minutes (which is about the shortest amount of time I can run and still feel like I did anything). My lungs hurt and if I knew what it felt like to be electrocuted, I would say that's what my hands felt like. But I've never been electrocuted, so I really can't say for sure. On the way to my car I passed a guy on the street. He told me I was insane and that there was a reason that gyms existed. BUT THE SKY IS SOOOOO BLUEEEEEEE. Sigh I love being outside, even if the cold does rape me sometimes.

Monday I didn't have to work until 2:30pm, so I figured I would try my luck again. This time I drove up to Stone Mountain. It took me thirty minutes to get there, but I told myself that nature was worth it. When I pulled to the gate I realized I was going to have to pay to park-- I guess its a State Park-- or something. $10!!! $10 to park my car for maybe an hour?! WTF!!! Right below the daily rate, they had an annual rate: $35 (which yes, I know is the months worth of gym membership that I shirked off due to my mattress purchase. But you just can't put a price on nature!). I decided to go with the annual rate. I told myself the odds were in my favor that I would come back and run here at least 3 more times in the next 12 months-- and if not well then I'm just a LAZ-ASS. PURCHASE! :D

My Stone Mountain running experience was going to be so much better than my experience running downtown. I came prepared! Yes! Running capris, long sleeve dri-fit running shirt, running jacket and dri-fit running gloves. It was SOOOOOO on. SO. I opened my door. It was cold, but I wasn't running yet, so that didn't really mean much. Ten minutes passed, I started running up Stone Mountain. Then I started hiking up Stone Mountain, because it was actually a STONE and I am a clumsy, clumsy girl and I like my face. The higher I hiked the colder it got and I started to get electro hands again. Fortunately, since I wasn't running I didn't really need my hands to help with forward motion, so I just started doing the Molly Shannon (you know the hands under the armpits, but just to keep them warm, not to smell them).

Again as I said before, I don't like abandoning a work out without getting the work out. I kept climbing. I passed several hikers covered head to toe. They were serious man. I'm not even joking- covered head to toe, hats, ski masks, hiking polls. You name it, they had it. I had my black and pink Nike Frees and hands under my armpits. I should have seen the mountain men and said "Here's your sign"! But I didn't. I should have seen the pools of very hard and very frozen water and said "Here's your sign"! But I didn't. Instead I hiked my very numb and self-loathing body HALLLL the way to the top of Stone Mountain. It was beautiful at the top. You could see for miles around, couldn't feel a damn thing, but you could see.

I took I moment to soak it all in. Then I turned around and ran the FUCK down, jumped in my car and sat on my hands for about ten solid minutes. Why is it that the warmest areas of your body are also the ones that smell the least wonderful? (I mean aside from mine, because my armpits and butt always smell like roses. Obviously. Oh, and girls don't poop either. Yup).

Lesson of this story. If you are a state park you can buy yourself a Jilsicle for $35.

YUP.

Over and out. Jildo

Two Birds, One Mattress

Remember that old saying, "Kill two birds with one stone"? Well, I killed a broke girl and a UPS man with one mattress.

I used to be sooo young and resilient. When I was younger my family would go camping. My dad would bring the one inch sleeping pads and say we'd have to make due with that. I couldn't complain, I felt like I was sleeping on air! I even smiled ear to ear in my sleep :D.  But these days, well, Danny Glover got it right. I'm getting too old for this shit!

So, after two days sleeping on the floor at the new apartment I was not my happy self. Robin, my step mom, reminded me that I could borrow their air mattress until I could afford to get a new mattress. I thanked her and took the air mattress. But I couldn't get my old bed out of my mind.

I LOVED my old bed. A dog may be mans best friend, but a bed is a girls best friend. Or at least mine... does that mean I'm lazy? Eh. Anyways, like I was saying my last bed was HA-MAZING. Queen size, 12 inch memory foam with a 2 inch pillow top. DREAMS!!! Yes... "DREAMS". You could sit on that thing and fall asleep and wake up and look like you'd drank 8 cups of water, exfoliated, run 10 miles and won a nobel prize. Obviously, I was a teeensy bit worried about replacing it (its been discontinued!!!!)

Now, I realize this may seem silly to you. But, I am all about time management (time is money right?). Therefore, when I can I shop online. I don't have to waste money on gas or pull out my back trying to load and unload a 100+ pound mattress in and out of my jeep. Comprende? Yea. For reals. So, there's no going to the mattress store and taking 9 million naps on all the sample beds. And come'on people-- don't you know how many people do that?! Uh... gross!!!

So, I did the only thing I could think of. I would just have to buy a bigger, better bed. A "triple B" if you will. Now, I'm no idiot (well- not when it comes to beds. Skunk outfits, yes. Beds, no. I don't fuck around with my sleep.) I spent about 5 hours perusing beds on Overstock.com. This is where I bought my last bed, so I figured why mess with success. After five hours I found the PERFECT, nay the MOST PERFECTTEST (i make up words) bed in all the land.

14" of pure 150lb sleep inducing memory foam magic. King size. Pillow top, PUH-LEASEEEEE. I stared at my cart. Should I do it? One whole paycheck devoted to keeping Jildo from turning into... hmmm... what would you call it? Dane Cook would call it the "dragon". We'll just go with a not so nice version of Jildo. So, really I spent one whole pay check for you. I'm keeping the inner bitch from you. You can thank me later.

Purchase! Click! They tell me my mattress will ship in 4-10 business days. It's a Friday (friday, friday, getting down on friday-- just for you Jes). I tick off on my fingers how long I'm going to have to wait. After all, I have to mentally prepare to fight the war that is me vs. the floor. By the next day it has already shipped-- this battle is obviously in my favor. Wednesday the mattress arrives. Well. The UPS man arrives at my door first.

Now I want you to picture this. I ordered a King size memory foam mattress. If you know HE-NETHING about memory foam you know it weighs about a ga-jillian pounds. The UPS man that arrived at my door was probably about 5'5", 160 pounds. Yeh. I'm such a jerk. I answered the door.

Ten seconds pass as the UPS man and I stare at each other. Eventually he manages to say "You're here?"

At this point I'm not really sure why he's out of breath. He does not have my mattress with him. But those are the facts, and I tell it like it is.

Me: Si, senor!

I smile. :D. Lots of teeth to encourage him. :D. I don't think it helps.

He sighs and heads back down the two flights of stairs (GOD, YES, I AM A JERK) to grab my 150+lb mattress. I thought about offering to help him, but it was cold, plus, I paid for delivery. I mean, right? (Again, like I said. I'm a jerk).

About 15 minutes later he resurfaces with what looks like a body bag for Sasquatch. I mean it was huge... even I was shocked. Of course I made him bring it all the way into the apartment and back into my bedroom. Lots of smiles! :D And then thank him for bringing it up. HE HATES ME. :D Thanks!

HATES ME.

In conclusion, I'm pretty sure my spending has now reached epic proportions. Not only did I kill my pocket book (ONE WHOLE PAYCHECK!!! JESUS WOMAN!!!), but I nearly killed the UPS man. Would that be manslaughter? Manslaughter by mattress? I'm pretty sure Overstock would be liable and not me. I mean right?

But still, yes, deadly spending.

xoxo, Jildo

83% of Crimes are Committed By People Who Are Bored

FACT: I just made up that statistic.
FACT: I ripped off my random percent from Barney Stinson- fictional character and my hero
REALLY TRUE FACT: Nothing good happens when you are bored (I grew up in a small town. I know this.)

Today started off like any normal day at work. But, instead of 500 check outs we had 86 and instead of 600 check ins we had 65. So after about the first hour of going through reports, crossing our i's and dotting our invisible t's (i just realized i might be mentally dyslexic. hmm. weird) there wasn't a whole lot going on. Did I mention that we have two hotel tours? Yep. North and South. The South Tower is the main tower and the North... well, let's just call the North Tower BFE. (Does that age me? I'm a cougar, OK?!)

Haha, but seriously. So Gray and I set up in the North Tower for 8 hours of hospitality bliss. Like I said. 7am-8am--- breeze. Next 7 hours, a little trickier. We managed to fill thirty minutes taking an idiot test online- yah, I know. Gray made it to "brilliant" status. After I was booted back to the beginning about 8 times for answering incorrectly (hey, clicking the lightest blue square was hard!) I said FUCK THIS and accepted my idiot label. I'm not sure how I made it to 12:30, but I did and off to lunch I went.

When I got back to the desk after lunch, Chris was there. I explained to him that I wanted to gouge my eyes out because I was sooooo bored. And, that dear friends is when everything went downhill.

Chris: "Oh! Man! You should totally check out this website. I wasted like an hour and a half on it the other day just perusing." (He moves to my terminal and types in the link: thisiswhyimbroke.com-- I'm not effing kidding-- and yes, you can bet your bottom dollar (hehehe) I was intrigued).

Now, what do you think is greater than my love of spending money on essential things like coffee? Yes, that's right...spending money on things that are awesome... and this website... well this website is the KING OF AWESOME. I'm not even joking. I want to spend $10,000 right now. Ok- not really- but yah, cool stuff.

Exhibit A:
Glow in the Dark Toilet Paper!!!! AHHHHHH!!!! I know! Are you freaking out right now?! Because I totally am! Whoever invited glow in the dark toilet paper is a genius! GENIUS! I mean come'on, how much does it suck when you have to get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom? You have to turn the light on or you risk stubbing your big toe. But once you turn the light on you know there's a chance that you are not going back to that sweet, sweet peaceful and/or sexy dream. Am I right? Of course I'm right. Which is why Glow in the Dark Toilet Paper is the BEST IDEA EVERRRRRR.

Word.

That's not all either. I also found a really cool shark sleeping bag for only $300-- you sleep between its Jaws. Obviously. And then there was the minime bobble head. Yes, custom bobble heads. You can put your huge head on your little body, again. True story. Or how about the Coffee Table Aquarium or Plastic Walk on Water Bubble? I feel like I'm having a heart attack and falling in love all at the same time..... I can't breathe, too many coool things. GASP.

Wait... there's even Caffeinated Soap?! Just kill me now! I will never feel more whole than at this moment. (Insert angels singing HERE).

xoxo. Jildo

P.S. Currently holding strong. I have not purchased anything yet... however, please find my wish list at www.thisiswhyimbroke.com. My half birthday is March 11. Thanks :D