I’ve posted about them before but this one again was too good (and true) to pass up:

whatshouldwecallme: When I call someone and they don’t answer

If it’s my friend: 

If it’s my mom: 

Love always,

Your helicopter child

Much to my father’s chagrin, I’m not particularly domestic. Cooking is definitely not my strong suit and cleaning has never been my favorite however there’s one household chore that in which I truly excel in—in doing poorly, that is.

I know my strengths, and ladies and gentlemen, ironing is not one of them.

I am clumsy and have an unfortunate history with the iron (burns & accidentally glueing a pashmina to the carpet in my room in Switzerland—who knew you were supposed to iron on an ironing board?!) but this might be the worst one yet. I was using an ironing board, just one of those little ones that should probably go on a table and I just sit on the floor and iron. Unfortunately on Saturday my leg got tangled in the cord and the result was two burns on my calf. Not really sure how I got two of them, but I did:

Sorry for the creepy picture.

Fortunately, (and yes, there’s a fortunately about burning your leg!) I saw this article  about 35 ways to use household items where I read about putting mustard on a burn to relieve the pain. And, it worked! And then I realized I had been walking about Chicago with yellow mustard on my calf a few hours later, but I’m still grateful for the pain relief! As for ironing, I’m not sure what to do, as I’m clearly no good at it, but I can’t stand wrinkly clothes and I can’t seem to keep my clothes wrinkle free post-wash, pre-wear. 

I think it’s time to invest in a steamer.

I’ve spent the last bunch of years dashing-to class, to practice, to catch planes, trains, and buses. I’ve learned to quicken my gait so I can be on time (less dashing=less sweating) and now I’m just a fast walker. I find myself passing people on the streets en route to work, not because I’m late, just because they’re moving too slow. It’s called city walking people.

This past (amazing) weekend in Charleston (I took pictures! Maybe one day I’ll even remember to post them!) Kristina, Phil, and I were walking down the street soon after our arrival in search of lunch and an adult libation. It’s a good thing sidewalks aren’t wide enough for three across or I’d probably be lost in Charleston, city walking around. With Kristina and Phil in front of me I

moved

at

a

snail’s

pace.

Finally, I said something. Kristina kindly explained that in Charleston, oftentimes if you walk and certainly if you’re city walking, you’re going to perspire, so people move at a slower clip. It makes sense, and I really and truly tried to slow my roll—I mean, I had nowhere to be but with my friends.  

Come Monday morning though, when I was leaving Midway (and going straight to the office) you can bet I was city walking the heck out of people. 

You can take the girl out of the city, but you can’t take the city walk out of the girl. 

**Also, as I was leaving lunch today, I turned to walk back to the office. I heard, “Yo, Jill! Jill!” I turned and a teammate said, “Where were you running to so fast?” Please, I was just city strolling. 

Sometimes it’s scary how much the interwebs know about me:

Not that I’m going to grow beets, but I do care about beets.

Is that weird?

This might seem silly, given the previous title of my blog, but I don’t want to overpack when I travel.

I really don’t.

I try to pack only what I need, but, it turns out, I need quite a lot when I travel.

I’ve been working on it (I think this will be one of those lifelong issues) and I figured I’d test out traveling reallllly light for this weekend at home.

I have some clothes at home and I don’t think I’ll be doing a whole lot besides following my parents around the house hanging out with my family and some friends, so I’m just bringing a large Longchamp. Go me. Except (and there’s always an except), I need to do a bit of laundry. It’s not much, but these are a necessity (if you know what I mean). I know it’s ridiculous to be bringing some dirty laundry home, but I’m doing it anyway. It’s just a few things and they’re sequestered in my bad within another bag (I’m a bag lady, leave me alone). 

Now I’m not a nervous flier. I love airports and planes and flights. But now I’m worried that the plane will crash and then there will be an article in the paper about it with the  headline reading, “25 Year Old Dies in Plane Crash; Survived by her Bag of Underwear.”

Maybe I don’t need to bring my laundry home…

There are lots of different kinds of parenting styles, perhaps most prevalent amongst American parents is “the helicopter.” Helicopter parents hover right above and around their children at all times—they know their child’s friends, their child’s friend’s parents, they know all the business about their children at all times. 

My parents weren’t like that.

More like the opposite of that. 

I’m not saying they neglected me, or didn’t come to my sporting events or things like that, it’s just, my parents had interests outside of their children (hard to believe with kids like us, isn’t it?). 

Was Jack a ninja-bat-cow that year or just a ninja? Clearly I favored the more classic costumes over my brother and our neighborhood bffs.

Just shootin’ the breeze in Thailand this past summer.

I, on the other hand, am mildly obsessed with my parents love to be around my parents.  Obviously this love didn’t get me to stay in Minnesota (no public transportation, few Denison friends) but I do try to stay in constant contact with my parents. Even when I lived abroad I’d call the house, no answer, so I’d leave a message. Then I’d call my mom’s cell, no answer, so I’d leave a message. Then I’d call my dad’s cell, no answer, so I’d leave a message. And, just to round everything out, I’d call my dad’s office-usually I didn’t leave a message-I didn’t want to seem like a stalker. (I’m not saying they never answered or didn’t want to talk to me, I just called them a lot!)

When I was unemployed I could talk to my mom during the daytime, however now that I’m an employed human, I’m restricted to post-work calls (or sometimes during the lunch hour). I usually get out of work around 5:45 and call my mom while I’m walking to my L stop. My dad usually gets home between 5:45 and 6 so he blatantly interferes on my phone time and asks if I need to talk to my mother ever day. (The answer is yes.)

And, you know what he had the audacity to call me the other day?

A helicopter child. 

So to show him, tomorrow I’m going back to Minnesota for the weekend to see my parents. (AND as luck would have it, one of my BFFs from high school—not the one whose friends I steal and who writes funnier blog posts than me—who is also going to be there from Denver for the weekend!)

How’s that for being a helicopter child?

(Pretty good, I’d say.)

You know those mornings where it seems like every little detail can trip you up? Where everything seems to be going wrong and it just brings you down?

Let’s look at the facts from this morning:

-I went to bed late but I woke up before my alarm (I hate that). 

-I had about 45 minutes before my alarm was set to go off so I took a glimpse of myself in the mirror—yikes. I definitely needed to shower before work (and we all know I really hate that).

-Post shower I had to dry my hair (woof) and straighten it (double woof). Today was not a good hair day for me.

-I didn’t know what to wear to work so I walked out my door a little later than usual-which usually means I have to wait for at least two trains to go by before I can squeeze on.

-I had to eat my breakfast whilst walking to the door—I didn’t have a chance to read the news and/or Facebook stalk. (Usually I do peruse the news first! Go me!)

-And, whilst I was walking up the stairs to the train I pulled out my iPod in order to put my transit card back in my little pouch (they live together there) and as I was grabbing the headphones the iPod fell through my hands and so perfectly through the cracks of the stairs. Shoot. I had to go have the gentlemen working at the station open a gate for me so I could go underneath the stairs and retrieve my little pink iPod. 

This morning could have been one of those mornings, those mornings that go from bad to worse, but it just wasn’t. Bad hair day? Eh, I’ll just wear it back. At least my hair is clean! And walking outside with my breakfast in hand I realized what a lovely morning it was. And, honestly, how funny is it that that little pod could fall so perfectly? And how nice of the fellows working to help me retrieve it! Plus, it still works!

AND one last thing, a near-empty train arrived right as I walked up the stairs (take two).

Sometimes, things just work out.

This picture has nothing to do with the above post, but it just makes me happy. In Pamukkale, Turkey September 2010. 

This may come as a shock to some of you no one, but I’m not really “up on the latest trends.” I usually find out what’s kewl (that’s still how people spell “cool,” right?) from my trendier friends or via Facebook. 

But, the other day I discovered a gem on my own. Sure, a lot of people have discovered it previously (so much so that there’s now a book out!) but it was new to me.

It’s another blog called “Paris vs New York, a tally of two cities.” It encompasses some of the things I love most in life:

• French
• France
• Paris, in particular
• Comparisons/judgements (what? Ellen’s on my side with this one, I know it!)
• Clever drawings
• Word play (“a tally of two cities?!” Even though I haven’t read A Tale of Two Cities-sorry dad-I still love it)

From Here

And Here

And Here

The pictures seem so simple yet they do sort of sum up a lot of things.

Très intéressant!

In Switzerland I was fortunate enough to make some really excellent, superb friends. I met one friend through a friend of a friend (now the third friend is the second friend’s boyfriend—anyone still with me?) and it just so happened that this kid was me, in boy form.

Didn’t mean to get that kind of champagne toast!

Phil is a few years older but no less awesome than I am. We would constantly find ourselves out late-night somewhere (having declared the night to be a “Phil/Jill Night”) maybe with a lacrosse stick if I had just come from practice, machting a party by the lake, jumping off too high of things into the Zurisee, strategizing on how to “ice” people, one thing was for certain: a kebab needed to come into play at some point in the evening. Our group of friends, and especially Phil and I, always seemed to have a blast. 

Best. Picture. Ever. Zurifest, 2010. We actually didn’t plan these moves, but clearly we had the same thought process (as we were dancing on an outdoor stage in Zurich). 

I am SO very excited because in a few short weeks our friend group will be reunited in Charleston (hey warm weather—also, hi Claire!) and I can hardly wait. In the meantime, I’ll have to settle for a Phil/Jill kinda weekend. Phil is coming to Chicago (to be a date for a wedding on Saturday) this weekend and I am so very excited to see where the weekend takes us.

One can only hope that we get to eat kebabs at some point. 

First, watch this video (mom) to see where the title comes from. That little girl is crazy.

I can be described as a bit of a pushover bleeding heart. When I lived in Turkey I got a little desensitized to poverty but by the time I was traveling in SE Asia I was back to my wimpy ways. I just feel bad. I would try to tell Michaela, “These people have so little, why should I haggle with them on price?” And she would remind me time and time again that that wasn’t the point, I was supposed to haggle. The only times I could truly stand up for myself was when I knew I was getting taken for a ride (like when the tuk-tuks in Bangkok were literally taking my brother and I for a ride).

Unfortunately there seem to be a lot of homeless folks in Chicago. And unfortunately, a lot of them like to situate themselves between where I work and the places I sometimes go for lunch. And unfortunately, I seem to have “sucker” written somewhere on my person because I always seem to draw these people to me. Listen buddies, I was unemployed for a few months, I don’t have a lot of spare change these days.

Except for one guy.

(Of course.)

There’s a guy that sits outside my L stop on the way to work nearly every morning. He has a plastic change cup and a sign around his neck, but he’s not really soliciting money. Every morning he’s there in his red sweatshirt and says, “Good morning,” to every. single. person. that walks by. And the craziest thing of all? He means it. He smiles, and tells me to have a good day, and I believe him. It’s genuine. And it makes me smile and happy, and it does make my day a little brighter. His seemingly good mood is infectious, and I really do appreciate what he does for me, so once a week I take out a single or two and put it in his cup.

He’s never asked for change and I respect that, so he can have my change. 

Yeah, I’m definitely a sucker, but at least I don’t have to haggle.