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!
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
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?
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?
Thursday, March 15, 2012
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.
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.
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