soooo tiredddddd

IF I make it through this year i am going to throw myself a partyyy

I found the meaning of life! It involves running and sex. I'll bet no one is surprised.

Over February vacation, I found the meaning of life. It began with pilates. 

I fucking love pilates. There's no other way to express it. I love it. The way people love their husbands and babies? That's how I feel about pilates. Two weeks ago, a skeezy guy hit on me at a bar and I told him I was engaged to a pilates reformer machine. He stared at me for 30 seconds, then laughed hysterically, then told me he wished all rejections were that creative. I LOVE PILATES. 

The other day, I was running 11 miles, and well.. Okay, I should clarify. I left my house with the intention of running 7 miles. I hadn't run in almost 2 months, because I was still in the honeymoon phase of my relationship with pilates... you know the one, where you forget all your other friends and only hang out with your new love.  I left my house, ran to Comm, turned onto the carriage lane and TOOK OFF. I mean, almost full 5k race pace. I ran. Cars drove across Harvard. I sprinted through traffic. People yelled FUCK YOU out car windows and honked. I waited to slow down into my usual distance pace but it didn't happen. 

By the time I hit Packard's Corner, I realized that I was running way more than 7 miles, so I ran into the gym and chugged a liter of water. I kept running, stomach sloshing, heart racing, stupid-looking "I just got laid" grin across my face (sidenote: I had NOT just gotten laid). 

You know how after a heavy night of drinking at a couple of different bars, someone says something and you think, "Wait, what? We went where? I just remember we ended up at Grendel's Den." That's how this next part goes. I know I ran over the BU Bridge and up Memorial, but it's blurry. I remember bits and pieces in flashes. Girl wearing same spandex as me / overweight Tom Brady lookalike smoking weed under bridge / MIT / little arcs of light from street lamps on the river. I kept waiting to slow down, but it didn't happen, and then I was hauling ass across the Longfellow into Beacon Hill and HOLY SHIT I FELT AWESOME. At around four miles, I looked down at my watch and realized I was running 7:45 pace. Conor, Hil, and the few other people who know my running history will understand why I was terrified. I was always a distance runner, but I was never that great. I ran the first 4 of 11 miles at almost my high school 5k race pace. I STILL HAD 7 MILES TO GO. 

I had forgotten what runner's high felt like. Nothing compares. Granted, I've never done any hard drugs, but I once had 5 different forms of weed and a shitload of absinthe in my system at once and became completely convinced that I could freeze time, still nothing compares to the feeling of runner's high. It was like fucking flying. It was like sex, on those occasions when you can just keep going and going and going and then take a 5 minute break to eat ice cream and then keep going again. The coolest part of runner's high is that it enables you to defy the laws of physics. When you're really high, and I mean floating over pavement so fast and in the zone you can't read street signs, elevation doesn't matter. You run up a hill, down a hill, on flat ground, over little hills, and it all feels the same: like you're flying. It's supernatural. 

If you're a runner, you know what comes next. You know that, despite spending 12 hours a week at the gym for the two months prior, my legs were not ready for all that impact at once. You know that I broke golden law of running by disregarding the 10% rule (only increase mileage by 10% each week), and you know that what was coming to me. What goes up must come down, and I crashed. 

First the knees turned to jelly. Triceps went next, and suddenly I couldn't propel myself nearly as fast. What felt like flying five minutes prior now felt like doing jumping jacks with lead weights glued to my hands and feet. By the time I got to the Storrow side of the BU bridge, I was incapable of coherent thoughts. Every footfall sent shocks through me. I felt the impact in every bone, every time. 

This was not the first time I have run 11 miles out of nowhere, so I was accustomed to this to a certain degree. However, this was the first time I ran 11 miles out of nowhere and ran the first four at 5k race pace. That added a new dimension to the pain. 

There is a tiny hill as you approach the Harvard footbridge on the esplanade that kills me every time. It's like the tiny hill right before you hit Kenmore Square in the Boston Marathon. It's so insignificant you wouldn't notice it in 4-inch stilettos, but after running Heartbreak Hill, it feels like someone's smashing your quads with a hammer. This tiny Harvard footbridge lead-up hill was terrifying. If you've experienced it, you're laughing at me, but wincing on the inside, because you know how ridiculous it is yet how right I am. It can't be more than 20 feet long, and the rise is probably 5 feet total. But it ended me. I reached the top, wobbled, and debated asking a stranger to carry me to Cambridge street and call a cab for me. 

At this point, something amazing happened. I started this rant talking about pilates, and this is why: in this moment, PILATES SAVED MY INEXISTENT ASS. The only comparison I can think of is when you slide over ice and you feel the antilock brakes kick in, you literally feel them grind, shift, and lock into place. I felt the pilates kick in. My shoulders dropped down and back. My ribs laced together and locked into place with a clank I imagined because by this point, in my mind, I was picturing myself as Bumblebee in Transformers. It was incredible. My legs couldn't lift themselves, but my abs could lift them. My core shifted into gear. It was like before, all my muscles were working independently of each other, and then they were working together. It wasn't runner's high. It was pilates high. 

YES. I WENT THERE. 

Sidenote: Michelle, I understand if you need to take a break to wipe the tears of pride from your eyes. 

The rest of the run was about 9:30 pace. I got home, drank a gallon of water, and proceeded to chug chocolate sauce straight from the bottle. I am in no way ashamed of this. 

The moral of the story: I found the meaning of life: Running, pilates, dessert, and sex. 

February Vacation Reflections

Prepare for some deep thoughts.

1. Every runner is a nerd. Every runner with a heart rate monitor is a nerd on steroids. This has got me thinking... How many calories does sex burn? Would it be appropriate to wear my heart rate monitor while having sex? I think for most people it would be, but then again, anyone sleeping with me is clearly okay with a whole lot of weird awesomeness...

2. Sparkles rock.

3. After 7 weeks without beer or distance running, I invited both back into my life. I didn't miss beer, or drinking, but OH MY SWEET GOD I've missed you, running shoes! Is there a Kayano fan club I can join? What marathon should I train for next? I saw a 90 dollar pair of subzero spandex in a store window today and I swear to God, I got turned on. If I never drink again, then I can spend all my drinking money on SPANDEX. 

4. Soon, there is going to be an Ikea in Somerville. On the weekend it opens, I vote we spend the first part of the day at Ikea, and the second part of the day doing a Somerville Irish pub crawl. We end at the Burren, where 40 year-old people will get inappropriately drunk and grab us as we scream along to the band onstage. Good plan? Yes. 

5. Dirty Disney Part 2 is happening the first weekend in April. Get ready. I may go as Lumier, the candlestick from Beauty and the Beast. I have a metallic gold bikini, and I'm going to go from there. I did not purchase the bikini for this party... I already owned it, obviously. The bottom was a captain's gift for cross-country senior year of HS. I'm pretty sure Hilary spearheaded that effort. I mean, you tell me Hil, was it your idea? I can't imagine anyone else calling J. Crew and requesting to have "Capt. Leah" embroidered on the crotch of a gold bikini bottom. 

6. I am a terrible human being who never visits people ever. It's awful. It began in college, because I stayed in Massachusetts the whole time. For 4 years, everyone visited me, especially because for the last 3, I had an apartment in downtown Boston, which is extremely handy when you're back from college and you need to get away from your parents. Then, I moved to... Brookline. Then... Boston (Brighton). Essentially, the last 12 years have consisted of everyone I love coming straight to me, and me never reciprocating. Well GET READY PEOPLE. I'm coming. Starting with you, Hilary. And if you have to study, I'll just go on a 15-mile run around Albany. I've never been to New York, aside from New York City. Gotta start somewhere. 

7. I have been known to buy shirts and wear them as dresses. It's part of the package when the package (me) has no torso. For once, I bought a dress, not a shirt, and 7 people asked me if I was wearing a shirt as a dress. After careful thought and consideration, I've decided to stop buying dresses at all, and wear only shirts-as-dresses from now on. I hope my father does not read this blog. Shit. Now that I typed that, he will. Bring on the witty one-liners about my clothing being too revealing. Sigh. Nostalgia. 

8. How I Met Your Mother is awesome.

9. The Hong Kong is awesome. I am speaking about the one in Faneuil specifically, but this applies to the one in Harvard Square as well, although not as much. If you've been there, I'm sure you've at some point made a comment like, "It's fun, but...." I know I have. But at the end of the night, when you're with good people, in a fun place full of scorpion bowls and people selling meat on a stick, you realize how amazing this place truly is. I haven't been there since my fake birthday in July after being motorboated by about 12 drag queens, and you know what? HONG KONG ROCKS. End of story. No buts.

10. In related news, Bell in Hand is going on my list of bars I only go to on nights before major Christian holidays. 

Quote Art Inspired by Pinterest

This is by no means monumental, as I have known how to do this for ages. In fact, I've probably been able to do this since the era of the illegally-obtained copy of Adobe Photoshop 7.0 borrowed from Rose and loaded on my Dell (THROWBACK).

However, I was inspired by this post on Pinterest. I figured, why not see if I still love Photoshop? The answer is Yes. I do.

Me? Behave? (Stolen from my Students)

7 Reasons to Check Out Michelle's Pilates Blog

Spandex or Not

1. Pilates is amazing. 
2. The more you know, the better you are, the harder it gets, the stronger you get. 
3. Pilates both prevents and treats imbalances. 
4. Pilates made me a better runner... in a big way. 
5. If you're a dude, pilates will make your obliques tasty, which will make me want to tear my clothes off and have my way with you. 
6. Michelle is amazing in every way. 
7. JEWS RULE. 

PS: SCROLL down the right side and vote for her next blog topic. Do it. 

wise words

Word Vomit 1/29

ONE: Saw the biggest boobs ever at the gym. Like, HUGE. She was prancing around. I was uncomfortable.

TWO: I joined a 45 day fitness challenge. Essentially, next week I meet with a trainer, get my shit measured, make a schedule, and make my ass stick to that schedule. There are prizes... which sucks, because I won't win them, because there's no way I'll win the most body fat lost, or most inches, because I'm already pretty small... But I guess that's a good problem to have. I'm just looking for a team, you know? A group of people working towards a common goal. I miss having a team.

THREE: I am obsessed with the Vampire Diaries. I don't care what you say. I LOVE IT. OMG no they can't kill that person. NO. This person is one of my favorite characters, one of the characters that had the most significant, interesting character development... NOOO!

FOUR: Every year I get so much better at teaching. Every year I am overwhelmed by all that I didn't do right at the beginning of the year, and how much shit I'm going through daily as a result of it.

FIVE: Out of curiosity/boredom/purposeful procrastination, I weighed myself ten times from 3:30 p.m. and now (9 p.m.). My weight changes a LOT each time.


SIX: 

Miss, I'm going to call you Miss G, because you're such a G. I love you. You're so chill. Even when you give me detentions, you're chill. 

SEVEN: I overheard a colleague today say, "You know, it's not cold at all, it's just normal January weather. We're just not used to it. We're spoiled. It's too bad we had all those warm days." I realize that all of he factual statements in this dialogue are grue, but I take issue with the last sentence. On December 3rd, I ran in a tank top and shorts. I wouldn't trade that for anything. Plus, who the F cares enough to psychoanalyze? IT'S COLD. IT SUCKS. WE COMPLAIN. This is not rocket science.

EIGHT:  

I hope I have the energy to go to yoga tomorrow. I adored it last time. 90 minutes of a super flexible middle-aged man pressing my legs into positions I never thought they could achieve. Seriously. That is not sarcasm. I loved it. 

NINE: 
It is now three days later. I did not go to yoga. I could go in an hour, but I just got out of bed for the first time today (at 3 p.m.), and I'm not sure I'm emotionally prepared to leave the house in 30 minutes. 

TEN: I need to write a blog about the Burren. It is always an experience. 

ELEVEN: 
I'm sick and tired of people bitching at me when I say I like a TV show, musician, activity, or anything else that they don't like. What's your problem? Why do you have to be such a hater? I don't bitch about your likes and dislikes unless you go on the offensive. For instance, if you say, "I love the Yankees!" I say, "GO SOX" and that's the end of it. If you say, "I love the Yankees, SOX SUCK, so do you, grow a pair and get some goddamned common sense when it comes to baseball," then I'm going to yell at you because you're a dick. 

To be fair, I am 100% weirdo. If you've met my mother, you understand completely. Not only did I inherit most of her eccentric obsessions, I also inherited her confidence. I'm not saying I run around screaming that I speak fluent sci-fi geek, but when it comes up in conversation, I wear my crown with pride. There are no "closet obsessions" or "guilty pleasures" in my life. Everything is out in the open. I have on occasion been referred to as Leah "TMI" [not putting my last name so my students stay ignorant of this blog]. Whether you like it or it makes you want to punch me in the fact, it's not changing. Though I do wonder: If you want to punch me in the face, why are you reading this blog? Oh. It's because you're avoiding productivity like I am. I can respect that. Carry on. 

I don't yell at you when you go on and on about Harry Potter. If you ask me, I respectfully explain my position, highlighting all the reasons why I dislike the series. However, I will also tell you all the reasons I think the series is good (most of which revolve around my students, and how reluctant readers  often find a literary love in the books). 

I don't judge you for watching Jersey Shore. Dancer Stef is one of my best friends, and she is OBSESSED. I mean, she probably owns all of their memoirs. She even has a calendar. Though truthfully, that makes perfect sense to me. Abs are abs, regardless of the face attached. yes, you can quote me on that. When it comes to Jersey Shore, I won't explain my opinions in great detail because... are you ready for this... I don't know that much about it, so rather than spew ignorance syphoned from partially or fully-illiterate gossip websites, I just say, "Not my thing." I will tell you three things: ONE-- I tried to watch the first episode, but I couldn't make it to the part where Snookie gets punched. It was too boring. TWO-- I appreciate Jersey Shore as a sociological, cultural, historical reference point. Yes, I am my father's daughter. THREE-- I have trouble watching reality TV in general. I struggle with the structure.

So make your opinion known in a calm way, and move on. Really. 

TWELVE: 
I found a doctorate program I'd love to get into. I'm going to make it happen. Any GRE advice? I haven't taken any standardized tests since the MTELs, which are not exactly on the same level, from what I can gather. Anyone have textbooks they want to donate / let me borrow for an extended period of time?

Thirteen:
I hate that facebook groups related posts together and says, "18 of your friends posted about _____." In no way do I need to know how many people are posting about Tom Brady, or Kim K, or Christmas. I have even LESS of a need to know the exact number of people.

FOURTEEN:
Walked into work at 6:57 today. WIN. Let's make it a habit. 

2012: No Bullshit / GTFO of my life

2012: The year of No Bullshit. It's been a long time coming. I guess I've just realized that I have so little time and energy that I can't afford any bullshit.

I've changed a lot. Being a teacher makes you value your free time more than ever before. Especially teaching in my district, with 7 classes and almost no prep time. There is no "leaving my work at work" for me. Instead, there are 3-4 hours of work at home in addition to the actual teaching.

I don't take shit from anyone. I used to be nice. I used to be the kind of person who calmly explained that I wasn't interested to the guy with his hands on me at the bar. I used to be the kind of person who made appropriate small talk if the person next to me on the train started a conversation. I used to be the kind of person who did all those things and more, because I was calm, nice, mellow, and understanding.

No more. On many days, I am treated terribly by adolescents and adults alike. I love my job, I do, but when your days are like mine, you have no patience for bullshit.

This is a quote from a dear friend:

2012 all unnecessary people will no longer be allowed to participate in my life. So if you find yourself not hearing from me or I stop responding then most likely I have identified you as as one of these people and your services are no longer required.

So here's the deal:

1. If I call/text/email/whatever on a couple of occasions, in an attempt to hang out with you, and you don't respond, you won't be hearing from me anymore.
2. If you are upset with me for some reason, and choose to be passive aggressive and ignore me rather than explaining how you feel, we're done. If you don't have the maturity to be honest and open, I want nothing to do with you.
3. If you stop being the kind of person I want in my life, you won't be a part of it. You're someone else's problem now.

Your number will be deleted from my phone, and you will be deleted from my life. I won't make a big deal out of it. In fact, I won't say anything about it at all, because guess what? You've wasted too much of my time already.

Good riddance. I'm cleaning house.

One more thing: If you are reading this, and you are worried, don't be. If I am seriously worried about our friendship, I will tell you. The people I am referring to above... I'm talking about a repeated, blatant, careless lack of respect. You do not fall into this category.

Word Vomit part 3

Random Thoughts in No Particular Order

IDEA: Why don't we forget this "Make resolutions once a year" bullshit? Two days ago, my grandma called me to wish me a shana tova. This means Happy New Year in Hebrew, and is typically what we say on Rosh Hashanah, which is in Tishrei, typically September on our calendar. That got me thinking... Does it really matter when we make goals, as long as we make them? And more importantly, does it really matter when we make goals, as long as we actually try to accomplish them?

GOAL: I'm taking my life back. No more working 20+ hours a week outside of school. None of it. I need a life.

GOAL: I just watched the trailer for the Vow, and now I must watch every movie Channing Tatum has ever been in. I don't care if you judge me. I will be the first person to admit that Nicholas Sparks is a mediocre writer. But let's face it: Mediocre novels often turn into wonderful movies starring Channing Tatum, Ryan Gosling, etc.

PREMONITION: ME, CUT. I don't mean "oh, a slight shadow of a line down her abs" or "Nice legs" or "Looks great when Dancer Stephanie spends 10 minutes posing me in a bikini and adjusting the lighting" I mean CUT. I want to be strong. I want to be able to run Heartbreak and be only minimally sore. I want to use more than the "girly" weight in body pump class. I'm going to do it. You know why? First, Dad bought me a pilates reformer package for Hanukkah (HELL YES). Second, Michelle has a fantastic blog about working out, so even when I'm lazy I can learn. Third, I'm making this decision on January 2nd, as opposed to my usual panicked decision time which is... When do I usually panic? Oh! Right after the carbohydrate festival that is Passover! We were doing shots on a Kibbutz when I asked the Israelis how they stay so fit and you know what their response was? "We never eat Matzah Ball soup or latkes. Shit's fucking toxic." Anyway, get ready. I am proud of my body right now, and I already prance around looking like a complete harlot as a result of this pride. When I LOVE my body... It's going to be bikini-time 24/7 this summer.

SIDENOTE: Has anyone else noticed that once you lose a significant amount of weight, sometimes you DON'T want to wear so little? My whole life I've loved my legs and hated the rest of myself, so I became very good at dressing accordingly. Now, though... I'm just happy with myself, so I... cover up? The other da I went to a bar in jeans and a long-sleeved sweater. This became a problem when the night turned into a 2-hour dance party. This problem was exacerbated by the music choice: exclusively songs I loved in middle school and high school. Read: I know all the dance moves by heart.

GOAL: I want to do things on the weekend. I mean real things. Not just occasionally going out to bars or running. I mean GOING PLACES. Maybe I'll climb mountains. Or start volunteering with Hadassah. Does anyone know anything about Hadassah? Apparently my great-grandma all but created it, yet I have no clue what it is other than the fact that they spam me with emails constantly.

PUTA: a poem (revised)

You look the same

in your fifth grade

ID picture

but different

I look at you now

as you slump

against the back of the

green, metal chair

and wonder

where'd that 

wild-haired

bright-eyed 

ten-year-old

go?

You didn't have bangs back then

maybe the fringe hiding your right eye

is what makes you evil

maybe the hair gel seeping into your brain

is what makes you ask,

"are you on your period?

is that why

you gave me detention?"

the little girl in the picture

the one without the eyeliner

would never have said the word "pad"

out loud

without trying to

smash chin

into chest

bright red

mortified

wanting to disappear.

so where is that

sweet

little girl?

her frizzy black hair

now flattened and gelled

her wide eyes

now ringed with liner

covered in shadow

her mouth now spewing

spanish words i

shouldn't know

the definitions of

but i do

unfortunately

you know what? 

i might be a

PUTA

but i'm still the

PUTA

who tries to wipe the slate

clean after every nasty comment

you can't resist yelling

i'm still the

PUTA

that wants to read your words

even if yesterday they were

swears screamed at top volume

i'm the 

PUTA

who can sit down next to you 

twenty minutes after being called a 

PUTA 

swallow my anger

and read your poem

with an open mind

I'm the PUTA who gives a shit

not every PUTA can do that

Wrote this in Spring 2010 originally. Bonus points if you can remember the student who routinely called me a puta. 

Snookie's Beautiful Prose

Lauren Conrad, 25-year-old former MTV reality television star, is going to write for Forbes and it pisses me off.

She already has 4 books under her belt. Better yet: One is "loosely-based" on her life, about a protagonist who moves to LA and stars in a reality television show focusing on her personal life. It's on the NYT Best Seller List.

Good God where do I begin? I'm going to take a brief break to let my brain be overwhelmed by all the wrong before I even try to tackle it.

*wakes up five hours later, noticeably stupider as a result of this thought process*

I could start with our peculiar fascination with celebrity writing, and our willingness to read any experiences (real, fictional, fictionalized, or otherwise) they take the time to regurgitate, with the help of countless ghost writers and developmental editors revising beyond all recognition. Sometimes, it makes sense. When the story is fascinating enough, we want to know it, and it doesn't particularly matter if Marilyn Monroe herself crafted each bit of prose. My roommate articulated it perfectly when she handed me a copy of Tina Fey's Bossypants: "For what it is, it's done well."

Sometimes, it's done fantastically well: One of my students spent the last 3 weeks of school reading The Heroin Diaries by Motley Crue's Nikki Sixx, and much of what he showed me blew me away: It's an intricately-crafted multigenre journey through the artist's descent into heroin-driven music-infused madness. It is heartbreaking, beautiful, twisted and genius, and the best part is that there's no separation between the story, the star that wrote it, and the book my student held in his hands. I'm sure Sixx had help. But it's clear throughout that the events in his life influenced the way he told the story much more than any editor.

We love fame. It's a fact. Reality TV and the internet have only made it worse. Now, in addition to watching our favorite stars banter wittily on late-night talk shows, we can watch them get gas, order coffee, get the mail, and stumble out of night-clubs half-cocked on tequila. Plus we can comment! Leann Rhimes is too skinny! No she's not! Yes! No! Yes! No! OH MY GOD, STOP EVERYTHING. Wanting to read our favorite stars' memoirs is a natural next step (even though some, like comic book franchises, live on for decades, reinvented so many times we lose our ability to distinguish fact from fiction, evidence from interpretation).

I get it, I really do. Famous people are intriguing. If they're famous, clearly, they are in some way interesting, because why else would people know who they are? Built-in interest. Built-in audience.

Here's my question: Where does it end? Who's in charge of quality control? Someone has to stand up and say, "Okay, guy who pretended his child was missing in a hot-air balloon for the sole purpose of getting national media attention, as manipulative and deceitful as you are, being a douchebag doesn't automatically guarantee you a publishing deal."

NOTE: As of now, balloon-man has not been offered any such publishing deal. I am merely predicting that it will happen in the future.

Regular people can't just "try on" being famous actors. It doesn't work that way. In fact, many people spend their whole lives trying to be successful actors and never make it.

Why should famous people be able to "try on" being successful authors? We're perpetuating a system in which, once you're famous, you can do anything you want and still succeed (I say succeed in the loosest sense of the word, because while I'm not sure one could describe Snookie's memoir as a success artistically, it probably succeeded financially).

It's also making it more difficult for everyone else in the process, non-famous writers who don't have purposely-leaked sex tapes to boost their notoriety. Hundreds of thousands of books get rejected every year. Jay Asher's Thirteen Reasons Why was rejected from a dozen publishers before becoming a runaway hit that's just now, four years later, being released in paperback for the first time. His book is more important than a fictionalized memoir of a privileged southern California teen.

I'm not saying Lauren Conrad's life was smooth sailing. We all have our battles, money doesn't solve problems, and everyone's life is twisted in some way. Lauren Conrad is no exception. In fact, if done well, her memoir could be fantastic. She is actually quite interesting. She uses her reality TV fame to get opportunities in the fashion world she wouldn't ordinarily have, but because of that, she can't be taken seriously as a designer. No matter what does, people care more about her love life. Here's someone who's trying to matter, using all the tools at her disposal, but she can't rise above the fame that got her there. She's forced to play into the bullshit to stay relevant, which destroys her credibility, because there's a book in Border's that's "loosely-based on her real-life struggles as a reality television star." That is messed up. That is interesting.

That is NOT what she writes about.

Imagine all the time publishing houses would have if they weren't focusing so much on bullshit celebrity memoirs. People go to Jay Asher's book signings and say, "I thought I was the only one who felt that way. I didn't go through with it, because I read your book, and it changed me." Imagine if publishers had more time and energy to spend finding manuscripts that evoke those kinds of reactions, rather than copyediting chapters where Jersey Shore star Snookie describes a friend going topless by writing, "She set her girls loose." A part of me wishes Snookie sat at her laptop agonizing over the diction and syntax decisions in that sentence, crafting and recrafting until her language was precise and powerful, her message resonant:

Sample Thought Process for Snookie: Girls, breasts, boobs? Set lose, freed, unleashed? Is unleashed too strong a word? Does it imply that they were chained? Ooh, maybe they were chained, but by the reestrictive bra that barely contained all their narrative power! Yes! NABOKOV WOULD BE SO PROUD OF ME RIGHT NOW. 

Let's be honest: That didn't happen. So why is her memoir on the front shelf at Barnes&Nobles? I can guarantee at least 20 of my students could write memoirs that would blow you away, knock you down, kick you in the gut and make you laugh until you cried.

OH MY GOD.
OH MY GOD.
OH MY GOD.


The past three lines are an epiphany I had while writing this. I will explore that more later. 

For now, Snookie, I have some advice for you. Go on doing what you do best: drinking, tweeting, brawling, whining, and making us all feel less guilty about the massive amounts of time we spent inebriated  in college because hey... at least we weren't THAT BAD.

Leave the publishing to the rest of us.

Word Vomit Part 2

All the lovely utterances that I refrained from compulsively posting on facebook...

1. Today was one of those "nod, smile, and pretend I didn't see you pulling your pant legs up, comparing leg hair, and ranking yourselves on a scale of 1 to manly" days. 
2. I swear to God if you look me in the eye one more time and whine "but I wasn't talking" I am going to set up hidden cameras. 
3. Got to work before the sun came up today. Depressing. Boo arriving before 7 a.m. 
4. I'm so tired and dehydrated that I just had half a glass of wine and I feel noticeably drunk. I'm not talking, "OOOEEE bit buzzed." I'm talking "OH SHIT THERE'S 7 BOOKS I WANT TO READ... [fall asleep on couch]. 
5. I should go to pilates. 
6. I could totally get married soon. Or at least be in a long-term relationship. Think about it. You can have all the sex you want. All the time. Good deal. 
7. What is the big deal with Drake? I just heard him for the first time, and he seems to have mastered a kind of monotonous whine... I think he was better on Degrassi. 
8. This week is so long it's surreal. 
9. I was never this rude as a middle schooler. Wait. Yes, I was. To my mother. Who grounded my ass for the remainder of middle school and most of high school, and later, when she still didn't approve of my choices, cut my sorry ass off financially. Dear Mom, Thanks for being a parent. I wish my students' parents were more like you. 
10. Thanks Mom for your understanding with regards to my engagement. Hilariously enough, she has been fielding panicked phone calls from my relatives all week, but she never once took it so seriously that she felt the need to ask me. It just casually came up in conversation. 
11. Sometimes I worry that this job is burning me out very, very fast. 
12. Am I going on the 7th grade field trip tomorrow? No one seems to know. I've heard mixed reports. I told my 8th graders there was a 50% chance I might not be there in class, and they responded by yelling loudly. Why is it that my highest writers, hardest workers, most generally badass human beings I teach respond the worst to substitute teachers? Perhaps because they've had me for two years, they are that much more used to me. Their answer, when asked, because of course I asked them, was something along the lines of, "You have a very specific way of doing things. After two years, we can't deal with anyone else. You just look at us in a certain way and we know you heard us whispering about our love lives and we better cut the shit. You narrow your eyes one millimeter and we know that you expect a lot from us, and if we don't do it... baaaaaaaaaad things, bad things... OMG sorry for saying shit... OMG I SAID IT AGAIN HAHAHA OOPS!" 
13. Overheard Recently: 
1. Student: If you don't be quiet right now I will TAZE YOU TO DEATH. DO NOT INTERRUPT MY READING. 
2. Me: Surprisingly, when I tell my friends what you guys say, they don't believe me. 
3. Student: Why? That seems pretty reasonable to me. 
14. So cold. 

Word Vomit Part 1

Lately, I've been posting completely unnecessary bullshit on facebook. I think in my eyes, facebook status updates were always a place to display random thoughts, rants and observations. But I've been overdoing it. I looked back at my past few status updates and realized, guess what? I'm posting stupid shit.

I apologize. However, because I am a very social writer, I am incapable of keeping these pointless uttering to myself. This is my solution: periodic blog entries consisting of compiled thoughts and other nonsense that would otherwise have been shared on facebook.

Actually, I blame all the writing instruction guides I use to teach. All this talk of a writer's notebook as a collection of pieces of life has made me take it far too seriously.

Want to know my random-ass thoughts? Keep reading. Don't care? Not sure why you clicked on this link in the first place. Close the window and go to www.tfln.com .

Word Vomit Part 1: 12/19/11

1. I'm sure I had all these wonderful, interesting thoughts today but now I can't remember them. 
2. Why can't Yankee Candles be cheaper? Damn ripoff. 
3. Why do fight scenes turn me on? I wish I had a hot, jacked boyfriend who would train me as a fighter. #charmed
4. My best girlfriend is engaged to her girlfriend. How exactly does this work? More important than semantics (bridesmaid, groomsmen, etc), what do I wear? Yay, redefining gender roles! 
5. Kim Kardashian should not be famous. Barbara Walters is right. She doesn't DO anything. You know what, Kim? You should pay off my loans. I have two grad school loans with Sallie Mae, one undergrad loan with Nelnet, and my car loan is with Chase. K, thanks. 
6. Isn't it funny how certain literary devices / narrative techniques never get old? Example: SWITCHING BODIES! No matter what, it's always awesome, even when it's actually slightly silly and contrived. 
1. Dialogue Proof: "If we don't fix this soon, I'm going to perm your hair." Get it? Like, you switch bodies with me, I tell you to fix it or else I'll perm YOUR hair, which is currently on MY body because you switched bodies with me. SO GOOD. 
7. I wish liquor grew on the trees out back. That way, I could sell it to all the BU students and use it to help pay rent. 
8. You know what's really annoying? When people don't like you, so they get all snappy whenever you speak. I mean, I get it. My personality is not going to appeal to everyone. I truly don't give a shit. I'm not doing that annoying "trying even harder to make you like me and thus making things more uncomfortable and making you dislike me more" thing. I'm just going about my business. Chill the fuck out. 
9. Why am I so full of foul language? 
10. Dear Bronco, Either break the speed limit by 20 mph like the rest of us, or pull over so we can pass. Don't go 10 miles below the limit and honk/give the finger/scream wildly when we all follow the laws of traffic. 
11. Edit: Laws of Boston traffic. 
12. OMG JIN IS ON CHARMED. WORLDS COLLIDE. 
13. Related comment: Lost is awesome. If you don't like it, oh well. We don't need you. Your loss. I will not be one of those obnoxious Harry Potter fans that gets all huffy at people who don't agree. You heard it here first: If you hate lost, despise lost, or don't care at all about Lost, I respect your opinion. 
14. 
    

BOOTS: A LOVE STORY

I have many materialistic loves. This post is about boots. 


Part 1: Baby Cowboy Boots
It's tough to say when my love affair with boots started. My first boots were cowboy boots. Mama bought them for me to wear to Jordan's brother's Bar Mitzvah. They were adorable -- miniature distressed brown leather. I even remember the dress I wore: denim, with sparkly appliques. I danced until my feet fell off, and then some more. I just remember thinking, "These boots are amazing. I must keep dancing." I was 9. Even then I could sense that with great boots came great responsibility. 


Part 2: Black knee-high boots-- Why don't you buy them both? 
The next thing I remember probably happened my freshman year of college. I was at the Burlington Mall with my mother, and I couldn't decide between a pair of chunky black boots, or stiletto black boots. My mother said the magic words: Why don't you buy them both? I'm pretty sure those words were followed with "Then you can return a pair later once you have a few days to think about it" but I have no recollection of this. When it comes to boots, I hear what I want to hear.  


Part 3: Point of No Return
My love was solidified by two events that happened in spring 2006. 


1. While living abroad, I flew to Stockholm, and realized the full potential of snow boots (ugg-style, but not real uggs obviously). 
2. Right after I moved back to the states, my mom took me to a shoe sale at Building 19. I was an expert at the whole "show up hours early, get a number, wait in line, rush the door" thing in the context of U2 concerts with Conor, but doing all this in the name of beautiful shoes was new to me. That day, I welcomed two new men into my life: Franco Sarto (black cowboy boots), Salvatore Ferragamo (sparkly gold and pink pumps). 


That shoe sale was amazing because it taught me how to really work for what you love. It might not be easy to find incredible boots in your price range, but it doesn't mean it's impossible. It just means you have to go to strange lengths to acquire them. I'm sure rich people don't have to stand in line for boots, but they probably don't have cool stories to tell about those lines, so... I win. Sidenote: A woman tried to pickpocket my number out of my back pocket when she thought I wasn't looking. This marked the first (but not last) time I almost got into a fist fight over footwear. 


Part 4: If I hadn't bought those boots, my life would not be the same. 
Have you ever experienced this? You see something, and you spend about 15 minutes debating whether or not to buy it. You end up buying it, and several months later, you remember how hesitant you were, and you think, "Oh my GOD if I hadn't bought those boots my life would SUCK I can't believe I hesitated at all!"


That's how I feel about my black suede slouchy boots. It was my second year of teaching. By that point, Mr. Sarto was a regular presence in my wardrobe. I still wear those boots at least once a week. $75 well-spent. 


Part 5: Refusing to settle for anything less than butterflies. 
I have nothing against the boots from Target. In fact, many of them are quite beautiful. I own about 4 pairs of flats from Target, and I'm pretty sure my F-uggs are from Target as well. But when it comes to me and boots, it took me over a year to admit that Target boots will never give me butterflies. 


God knows I was tempted. I wanted cowboy boots so badly it was almost painful. I saw them everywhere in every style in every color. I tried them on several times. But my mother's words rang in my head: Spend your calories on quality, not quantity. I of course took this past the obvious food meaning and applied it to boots: Better to have 4 pairs of incredible, expensive boots than 8 pairs of cheap ok boots. 


Several times I came close to purchasing boots that weren't "THE ONES." I would try to remember that Sex and the City quote about refusing to settle for anything less than butterflies, but then other Sex and the City quotes would crowd my head, like "I'm searching for Mr. Right Now" and my heart became confused. 


Last December, my family and I were eating at a Jew place in Cleveland when I had this feeling that something incredible was about to happen. If you swing that way, you're welcome to insert the whole imprinting/true love description from the Twilight books, because it was fairly similar. I was drawn to the TJ Maxx next door. I turned to my family and said, "I'll be back," and then bolted out the door. It's difficult to describe other than to say that I knew something amazing was waiting for me. I just knew. 


I sprinted through the aisles, probably knocking down old ladies and children and not noticing. When I saw them, my legs turned to goo I was so happy. Born brown cowboy boots, knee-high, stacked heel, one embellishment (a buckle, simple, not too flashy). I just knew in that moment that it was meant to be. I tried them on and squealed like a lunatic. I then proceeded to jump up and down and twirl around like a drunk ballerina. 


At this point, two things happened. 
1. My mother walked into the store and said, "OOh, let me see!" 
2. My father walked into the store, took one look at me, said, "I'll be in the car," turned around and left. 


Part 6: Long-term potential / Cole Haan = love
A few weeks ago, my internal boot alarm began to go off. I'm not sure how to describe it other than to say it's probably identical to whatever tells birds to migrate south for the winter. It's a survival instinct. Maybe I have a sixth sense. I don't know. What I do know is that suddenly, I was stopping random people in the street and asking them where their boots were from. Suddenly, I was spending my lunch surfing Zappos.com. 


Around this time, my best friend Ali invited me to go to Black Friday with her. I've been trying to go to Black Friday for my entire life, but I've never been able to get up in time. I've also never been to Wrentham (in 16 years of living in Boston... I know... Shameful). Luckily, Wrentham Outlets solved that problem for me: MIDNIGHT MADNESS! I'm not sure who thought opening a massive outlet mall at midnight was a good idea, but THAT PERSON DESERVES A PRIZE. Can't wake up to go shopping early? NEVER GO TO BED. PULL AN ALL-NIGHTER INSTEAD. Sometimes, I'm so amazed by how thoughtful businesses are. Not only did I get to stay up until sunrise shopping, I had a built-in reason to NOT stuff myself on Thanksgiving. If I was in a food coma, I wouldn't win in the likely event that I had to fight a bitch over a pair of Cole Haan boots. 


No, I have no idea where the Cole Haan boots idea came from. As soon as I looked up the directory and saw that a store was there, I just knew. I should mention that at some point along this bootlove journey, my mother introduced me to the wonder that is Cole Haan. I still have the first pair of pumps she bought me, and I still wear them, despite the fact that they are worn into the ground. 


First I should explain my reaction to driving into the Wrentham Outlets. The first words out of my mouth were "OMG ALI YOU HAVE TO DRIVE I'M TOO EXCITED I'M GONNA CRASH." I giggled crazily and started bouncing around in the driver's seat. I hate this phrase, but truly, excitement bubbled up inside me. The moment I saw the big blue signs I was struck with the wonder of the place. I am the 99% but on this night, because of this wondrous place and its wondrous sales, I GET TO BUY THE 1%'S COLE HAAN BOOTS! OCCUPY WRENTHAM OUTLETS PEOPLE! 


I frowned at the Coach line (500 people probably) and at the Uggs line (even longer) and thought, "I KNOW SOMETHING YOU DON'T KNOW!" Cole Haan beats both Coach and Uggs. It's not even a contest. It's like playing rock/paper/scissors and BOOM there's a grenade. Cole Haan always wins. 


Then I saw them, surrounded by warmth and light. It was a completely different experience from the Born cowboy boots. Those were lust. These were love. I saw myself years down the road wearing these boots. I saw long-term potential. I saw a future with these boots. I had to have them. 


They are beautiful. I don't know where to begin to describe them. It's probably useless because this is so long and rambly that I'm the only one who will read it, but I'll try. 


Perfect honey brown. 
Waterproof to military standards. 
Tweed on the inside (in case you want to fold them down). 
Nike air in the soles (did you know that Nike bought Cole Haan? I didn't..). 
AAAAAAA;DLFKJAF;DLALS;AFJSA


There aren't words. 


I can't even finish this blog I have to go stare at them bye

Everything I did today to avoid being productive

The following is a list, in no particular order, of everything I did today to avoid being productive.

1. Ran 1.5 miles. Got bored. Ran home. 
2. Changed my outfit 4 times before walking the quarter mile to the ATM. 
3. Got quarters for laundry. Did not do laundry. 
4. Made fajitas. 
5. Reorganized my wallet. 
6. Texted and called people. 
7. Read Perez Hilton three times. 
8. Watched two episodes of House. 
9. Googled 6 diseases that I learned about while watching House. 
10. Commented on nearly everything Jenn posted on facebook. 
11. Wondered: Jenn or Jen? I don't know, now that facebook has synced with my phone, because your full name shows up now. 
12. Ignored a phone call from a guy I met last night with beautiful eyes. 
13. Wondered if I'd end up dating him and then he'd get mad at me after reading this. 
14. Spent 5 minutes debating whether or not to call him back. Decided not to call him back. 
15. Thought about packing a lunch. Continued sitting on couch. 
16. Daydreamed about black leather riding boots with silver buckles. 
17. Watched Revenge. 
18. Pondered what theme to have for our NYE party. 
19. Tried to rebuild my iTunes library. Failed. 
20. Stretched my quads for 5 minutes. 
21. Listened to Love and Peace or Else 3 times. 
22. FINALLY FIGURED OUT what the fuss over Enrique Iglesias is all about. 
23. Went to the ATM. Took pictures of glittery pavement. 
24. Swore up and down that I'll go running tomorrow and to Pilates on Tuesday. 
25. Wondered if Katniss, Gale and Peeta would be popular baby names starting in April. 
26. Was extremely offended by the product placement at the AMAs. Really JLo? A Gucci/Fiat car? 
27. Watched all the Lonely Island videos. Died laughing. 
28. Got REALLY F-ING MAD for ten minutes. Then got over it. 
29. Got really f-ing mad for 30 seconds after typing that. Then got over it. 
30. Questioned JLo's outfit choice at the AMAs. 
31. Wanted to go clubbing. 
32. Decided to expand my social circle. 
33. Read random blogs. 
34. Thought about men's shoulders. 
35. Realized how awesome Kelly Clarkson is. 
36. Thought about carbs. Thought better of it. 
37. Vacuumed and swiffered the whole house. 
38. Thought about what Nick Carter would seriously think if he read my letter. 
39. Thought about cleaning my menorah. Decided I was too lazy. 
40. Decided to write a blog about all the things I did today instead of being productive. 

READ THIS BEFORE DATING ME

I realize I may not have been entirely fair. Communication is the foundation of any good relationship, romantic or otherwise, so in honor of that, I'm taking this moment to communicate the one universal truth you need to know before you date me:

DON'T tell me my job is easy.

I get it, really, I do. People that aren't teachers don't understand what it's like. In fact, I'm pretty sure many people that are teachers don't understand what it's like teaching at an inner city middle school. I'm not here to preach. I already talk way too much about my job, as do all my teacher friends, and it's something I'm working on. I will not deliver an impassioned speech. There will be no lectures, soliloquies, or angry rambling rants. Let's leave that to the experts (like Samuel L. Jackson's character in Pulp Fiction). I have nothing to prove to you. I love my job so much it continues to shock me when I think about it. I am thrilled with what I do. I'm also good at it. I don't expect everyone to understand. That's fine. All I ask is this: Don't be an asshole about it.

I'm sorry. I shouldn't say "asshole." I'm always cautioning my students against using profanity because it's vague, ineffective description, so allow me to elaborate.

Don't be an ignorant, condescending twit about it.

I will be the first one to admit when I know nothing about your job. I will ask you tons of questions, both to understand the bigger picture and what the minute-by-minute day-by-day is like. I will never make any assumptions. I will ask you first.

Just so you know, this was sparked by a recent event in my life. It occurred on a date, which is revolutionary in itself because guess what? I'm dating! I know, it's exciting. After a long (3-year) hiatus, I have decided it's time.

Scene: First Date. Restaurant in Boston area. 


Guy: So what do you do? 
Leah: I'm a middle school writing teacher. 
Guy: Oh my God, that must be the easiest job ever! You're done by 3, and you get summers off. 
Leah: Well, it's actu---
Guy: I WISH MY JOB WAS EASY LIKE TEACHING! 
Leah: Well, actu--- 
Guy: YOU'RE SO LUCKY. 
Leah: Could you lis--
Guy: I mean, whoa. 
Leah: I'm going to go wash my hands before our food comes. 
*Walks out the front door of the restaurant*

Clearly, the ETB (easy-teaching-bomb) was not the only issue with this man's personality. I'm still working on my screening process.

The message I want the world to take away from this blog (because let's be honest-- the entire world does, in fact, read this blog) is this: I have no desire to start bitching about how difficult my job is. I'm over that. If you get to know me, you'll see how hard my job is without me saying a damn thing. Just don't call my job easy. A teacher once said to me "If you know what you don't know, then you know something. If you don't know what you don't know, then you don't know a thing."

Eligible bachelors of the world, I implore you: Know what you don't know.

PS: If you're still having trouble understanding, please watch this slam poetry performance.

Dear Nick Carter

I'm 26, and I still love you.

It began in seventh grade, which was a rough year for all involved. In my particular case, it was a pudgy, glasses and frizzy-haired nightmare. I was young, stupid, and ignorant to the ways of anti-frizz serum and eyeliner.

I did some pretty epic things that year.

• For a history project, I created a fictional Revolutionary War journal. I spent hours mixing the right combination of coffee and soy sauce to dye the paper the precise shade of aged light brown. I set off the smoke alarm three times burning the edges. Unfortunately, I spent almost no time on the actual journal entries, so my grade was not great. Thanks Mr. Circo.
• I became a Bat Mitzvah and had a super sweet party. 
• I saw the voice of the Little Mermaid sing at the New England Aquarium. She was dressed like a total slut, but she did have red hair. 
• I bought my first article of clothing with my own money: a long-sleeved Abercrombie shirt with "Abercrombie and Fitch" in bold face sans serif font on the sleeve. 
• I fell in love with Angel on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. 

Despite all those accomplishments, one thing defined my seventh grade year: I discovered the Backstreet Boys, and fell in love with you.

It was more than slightly excessive. To this day, I still know all of your middle names. I made scrapbook after scrapbook collecting all the awkward photos I found in Bop, BB and Tigerbeat magazines. I spent all my money on said magazines, and wallpapered my room with pinups. Sidenote: Last year, my mom redid my childhood bedroom and screamed at me for all the holes in the walls from thumbtacks. I knew every song by heart. I had every album. I even made my father drive me to an obscure Newbury Comics location so I could buy all the imported international albums. When you released "I Need You Tonight," I told everyone I know that it was originally, "I see Heaven in your Eyes." I rambled to anyone who would listen about how in the original recording of "Quit Playin' Games" Brian sang both verses. I made my father take me to the Kiss Concert for 3 years so I could see you. I mounted several smear campaigns against *N Sync. You played a concert at the Civic Center in Providence the night before I began high school, and my mother gave me permission because I literally would not stop until she did. If you knew my mother, you would understand how stubborn she is, and how much effort this took on my part.

Years passed. You guys aged. Your albums were still great. I was still known as "That girl who is obsessed with the Backstreet Boys." Slowly, people began to join me. Once people knew about me, they felt safe admitting their love for your music. The moment I fell for my first boyfriend was the moment he admitted that he knew all the words to "I Want it That Way" and was not ashamed. He later admitted to knowing all the words to several songs on *N Sync's "No Strings Attached" album. That didn't end well. I whipped him back into shape, don't worry.

More years passed. I no longer knew the words to every song on your albums, but I knew most of them. Eventually I turned 21, and found that every time a Backstreet Boys song was played in a bar, everyone sang at the top of their lungs. Most artists have one song that achieves that kind of beer-fueled glory. Kelly Clarkson's "Since You've Been Gone" Kanye and Jamie Foxx's "Golddigger." Journey. Sweet Home Alabama. Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy. But not you. Every song of yours inspired random groups of people to do tequila shots together in the name of nostalgia. And did you know that "Larger Than Life" was a sick Amsterdam club song? Yeah.

I became a middle school writing teacher. Since I teach writing, I tell stories about my past, and as a result, all of my students (past and present) know about my obsession with you. In fact, two years ago, my 8th grade class became just as obsessed, boys and girls alike. I ended up giving away my remaining posters as prizes for a writing contest. I kept one poster though. It's so old school I love it. It's an early one, from when you had that wicked long hair... you were probably 15. I keep it over my desk at home, as a reminder of what middle school was like for me. When I want to scream at my students, quit my job, and move to the wilderness in true Thoreau style, I look at you and climb down off my panic attack ledge.

The beautiful thing about good music is that it never dies. No matter what happens to the band that created it, the songs live on and continue to make new memories. Luckily, sometime in the last couple of years you decided to go on tour with the New Kids. We've all made plenty of decisions, good and bad, but I think I speak for everyone when I say that going back on tour was the best decision you ever made. I went to your Fenway concert and OH MY GOD. I was thirteen again, screaming at the top of my lungs in the rain. I love the New Kids, too, but you all stole the show. I came into school the following Monday with no voice left, and my students totally understood.

Last night, I had an epiphany. My friend Amanda and I were driving home from a crazy night out when we had a sudden urge to listen to your music. She only had one song, Larger Than Life, so we elected to listen to it on repeat. We drove, windows down, bass turned up, screaming at the top of our lungs and then it hit me: I still love you.


Here I am, 26-years-old, still rocking out to the Backstreet Boys. This was no temporary phase. This was no middle school obsession, filed away in a box labeled, "Funny Things I Tell My Students/When I Was Your Age." The love is still there. The only person in my entire life who understood the depth of my love, the only person who never wrote it off as a fleeting obsession, was my friend Pat. He wrote in my 7th grade yearbook, "I hope Nick Carter gives you a call."


So guess what, Nick Carter? It's time for you to take Pat's advice and give me a call. I'm 26. You're 31. It's definitely time for you to fall in love with me. When I was 12, the age difference was a bit severe, but now it's totally fine. I'm pretty awesome, if I may say so myself. I can provide references if you'd like specific anecdotes supporting this. I'm attractive -- Friend me on facebook if you want to see what I look like/inappropriate status updates detailing my hatred of pants. I don't want to post my number or email on this blog entry, because it's the internet, and that's shady, but you're rich, famous and well-connected. If you don't want to go the Facebook route, I'm sure you'll find a way to get in touch with me. I live in Boston. Come fall in love with me.


Love, Leah

PS: If you go the facebook route, friend the me that's posing with dessert. The other one is my teacher account.

2011-2012 Year Goals

Goal #1: 
Revisit these goals monthly, rather than just making the grand gesture of posting them on a blog no one reads and forgetting about them.

Goal #2:
Stay the same weight, or lose weight, or gain weight in order to become sheer f-ing muscle. I'm only okay with gaining weight if the result is me being 100% cut. I mean, as muscular as I can be without looking gross and manly Madonna arms.

Although I have to be honest: I'm a lifelong athlete,  and a lifelong worshiper of blood and pain, what I consider "normal" physically is different from other people. Consider my trajectory so far:

Ballet. I was the only 9-year-old on point. The nurse thought I was starving myself and knowingly mutilating my feet. She was right on both counts.

Running. Blood. Sweat. Tears. Pee. Blisters. Blood. Mud. Scrape. Burn. Ouch. Stress fracture. Stress fracture. Chafing. Repeat.

Boxing. You know how we all loathe getting the "bad jump" on a trampoline, where the timing's all off and it feels like your bones are being shoved together in that big machine that crunches cars at the scrap yard? Boxing is like that ALL the time. But oh is it glorious.

The main idea of the aforementioned digression is this: When I say I want to look as thin as I can and still not look scary, that means to most of you, I will indeed look scary, because I have a skewed perception of normal.

Goal #3: 
Have a social life. Go out once a week AT NIGHT (oh man... did you see how I went there? bet ya didn't think I'd go there but OOOH I went there, booyeah, yeah, I said booyeah). I will not let myself be eaten alive by schoolwork. I will plan smarter, and not for 12 hours at a time, unless it's by choice and far in advance. I will also go out twice a weekend, once during the day and once at night. The definition of "going out" is as follows: All activities that involve a reasonable chance of me meeting people. And while admittedly, I could go out for a run and meet someone, running doesn't count because it's just me and my ipod.

Goal #4:


TO BE CONTINUED

The Baby Corn Experiment

All this talk of data at our professional development workshop today inspired me to tap into my inner scientist.


Objective: Dip baby corn in every sauce in my fridge on this day in time. Record results in 100% subjective, 0% quantifiable terms.

Awesome.

Results: 

Baby corn and...

peanut butter: unnecessary

soy sauce: excellent. salty. perfect blend of predictable and surprise. like paul rudd.

mustard: requires further analysis in combination with others (such as a tomato tortilla, cilantro, onions). potential as part of an award-winning ensemble cast (such as the cast of true blood, or the Mediterranean veggie wrap at Panera)

jelly: why don't I just eat the jelly with my fingers? I'll use my scientific reasoning skills to not even try that.I already know I won't like the combination, so I'll just avoid it. (like, ______ + kim kardashian = always sucks, so I run the other way and cover my ears whenever I hear her name)

bbq sauce: heavenly.subtle. multidimensional. Leonardo Dicaprio.

savory bbq sauce: weird, but not in a good way. like that guy who always plays axe murderers

italian dressing: quirky. like zooey deschanel.

ketchup: lazy. overly pensive. like zach braff's character in every movie he's ever been in ever.

mayo: awkward. like, jonah hill superbad awkward.


IN RELATED NEWS, when I googled "Steve Buscemi creepy" to find a horrifically creepy picture  of him to post above, I realized something. There's an entire subculture around photoshopping his eyes onto other people's faces. The most popular ones are Justin Bieber and Kim Kardashian.

There's a patch:

And my personal favorite:

Be sure to check out http://chickswithstevebuscemeyes.tumblr.com