An open letter to the BC boys that moved in downstairs

Dear BC Boys,

We need to talk. About the bass coming out of your subwoofer. Now I love bass. I always have. But there is a time and a place for booming bass lines. When you foolishly decide that the time and place is ALWAYS and IN THE SAME HOUSE WHERE I LIVE, you violate the order of things, and ruin the bass line experience for the rest of us. So here are some things you need to know:

1. The songs you're listening to are terrible. All I hear is repetitive, unimaginative garbage. Get some taste. Expand your musical horizons. And for the love of GOD, if you're going to listen to a song on repeat while salivating over how wonderful the bass sounds, PONY BY GINUWINE IS THE ONLY ACCEPTABLE CHOICE.

2. It's currently 12:15 p.m. on a Saturday. Outside it is snowing. Our street, despite being the craziest BC party street in this area, is silent. All the other BC juniors are still sleeping off their hangovers. No one else will be awake until at least 2 p.m. to begin the process of rehydration and scrubbing Sharpie genitalia off their faces. WHAT ARE YOU DOING shaking our house with bass at this hour? Gatorade will rehydrate you. Nail polish remover will rub the Sharpie off your face. You would know these things if you'd spent the night partying like a normal undergrad instead of sitting alone in the living room being proud of the bass coming out of your subwoofer. And while you're at it, buy some blinds or curtains so the whole neighborhood can't see you all the time. It's weird that you wave at me every time I walk inside from parking my car.

3. You're scaring the crap out of my kitten. The wood floors vibrate through her little white paws, and she looks at me like the world is ending and will I please save her. Despite being a cat, not a lot scares my kitten. She's the kind to walk up to a brand new person, snatch an ice cube out of his drink, and proceed to play hockey with it for 10 minutes. DON'T SCARE HER.

4. Do not play anything by Florida Georgia Line. That's strictly girl music, and it's weird when you try to appropriate it into your world.

5. Some of us have jobs. Some of us have class. But all of us have things that we need to do on a semiregular basis that start at specific times, which means we have to go to bed at certain times in order to be conscious. I'm not asking for you to go to bed at 10 pm because my roommate does. I'm just asking you to turn to bass down so she can put on headphones at 10 pm and not still be kept awake BY THE FACT THAT HER BED IS SHAKING FROM YOUR BASS.

6. We've knocked on the door and asked you to turn down the bass, and you've been quite receptive to this (when you can hear us knocking, which is rarely, given the bass). But I think you're missing the point. Your bass should never be up that high. Your stereo should never be up that loudly. It's unnecessary. My roommate has a super nice subwoofer, and when she blasts music, it sounds LOUD and INCREDIBLE, and I can feel the floors vibrating... IN HER ROOM. On the second floor of this house. When I go upstairs to my room on the third floor, I can't hear it or feel it. If I can hear and feel your music from 2 floors away, you have it on so loud that YOU can't even really hear it because the bass is rattling all your dishes and the melody is reduced to a whine at a frequency only some animals can hear. That is completely unnecessary. Who are you trying to impress, playing music so loudly that you yourself can't enjoy it? You're missing the point. We shouldn't have to ask you to turn it down. You should be checking with us before turning it up for the occasional party, because COLLEGE. We went to it. We get it.

7. You're probably going deaf by this point. Get it checked out.

8. You now have the bass on in the house, as well as in your jeep, which is parked in the driveway. Now my ears are melting at the double assault of this unintentional mash-up of epic douche proportions. CUT. THE. SHIT. And watch Pitch Perfect, so you know how to do a mash-up correctly.

I hope this helps educate you on the acceptable way to enjoy bass. You just put on a Guns'n'Roses song, so perhaps all hope is not lost.

XOXO- Your upstairs neighbor

Stress Hangover / I want my life back.

The class I just taught was a disaster. I'm sitting here at my desk, counting the minutes until I can leave for the day and escape to the sweet oblivion of my bed. 39 minutes until crisp sheets, PJ pants, lemon seltzer and Ice-T's sarcastic quips about the latest murder-rapist to terrorize the streets of New York City. 38 minutes until fuzzy socks, cool air, the evening stretched lazily in front of me in that special way that only Thursday evenings before Friday holidays can (Sidenote: Thursday evening is more glorious when there's no work Friday. Fact). 38 minutes until I start my usual weekend dance of trying to shove the stress of the work week out of my head for long enough to enjoy the 2 days off. 37 minutes until I can shut my eyes and try to sleep and probably fail because there's too much in my mind but somehow trying unsuccessfully to sleep beats purposely being awake.

When I started student teaching and grad school, my mom stopped incessantly yelling about my terrible sleep schedule. At first I didn't know how to respond. No one yelled at me to get up at a reasonable hour on Saturday. No one cared if I slept until 4, which I routinely did. No one screamed at me when I was going to be late for teaching. Instead, I woke up to hot coffee being poured into my mouth and a warm "Morning honey!" When I finally confronted her, she said, "Honey, you're working extremely hard. I can't imagine taking on that courseload while teaching all day. If you need to sleep 20 hours a night, by all means do it. In high school, you were just lazy. Now, you deserve those 20 hours." 

I took this to heart and I'm glad I did. It's so easy to feel guilty for the time it takes to recover from teaching, especially in a tough school system with many troubled students. Even the greatest teachers -- you know, the annoying ones who seem to have perfect systems in place for discipline and instruction that promote student accountability, consistency, inquiry, and growth -- come home and sit on the couch for awhile to decompress. Trust me. I've asked them. I'm not saying I'm thrilled about it. I would love to be able to leave work and DO things for the several hours until I go to sleep. I would love to teach summer school if I weren't so destroyed from the school year. I would love to have real hobbies that require regular time commitments and friends I see more than once every other month when I don't bail because I'm too tired or upset. I would love it. But I've come to terms with it. I no longer apologize for my SVU binges, or clicking DECLINE on 99% of the weeknight facebook event invitations that come my way. I'm not happy about it, but I spend enough time feeling guilty about the fact that I could have done this or that better at my job. I'm not going to feel guilty for how I recover from that job. 

But this year has not been typical. Nothing about it has made sense. And somewhere in the last few months I began to wonder if things are getting worse. Somewhere in the last few months I began to think maybe I should replace "well-adjusted" with "in denial" when describing how I deal with all this stress. 

Did I always take things so personally? Did I always get this destroyed? It's hard to remember. This year has been terrible, worse than other years by far, but my reactions have been astronomically more severe. My first year was pretty bad. I taught 7 different classes at one point (non-teachers: I mean I had to prepare 7 different lessons each day). My second year (or was it the third?) I had those 8th graders in the morning that gave me HELL, and then there was the year I had to plan different lessons for each 7th grade class because they were each dysfunctional in completely different ways. Last year was awful, the worst I thought I'd ever deal with, until this year happened. I was upset frequently. I slept a lot. But I wasn't this unhappy this often for this long. Lately it seems like every little thing sets me off, and the panic and anger and pain that set in last for longer.

I used to go weeks without going out on the weekends. I used to sleep 20 hours a day. But somehow I remember it being a choice I made, which implies that I could have made a different one. Last weekend, for the first time in 2 months, I went out on Saturday night. I karaoked with my friends and for awhile, it was actually fun. I didn't drink, because I can't control my emotions sober let alone drunk, but I love being with my friends so I still enjoyed myself. Sort of. Mostly. For awhile. I thought if I looked the part, dressed the part and acted the part, it would be enough. As it turns out, pretending to be okay isn't the same thing as being okay, so I ran out of Hong Kong in Faneuil Hall crying.

There you have it. There's no set of circumstances that could allow me to go out and for ONE NIGHT not fall apart. I can't be normal. It's not an option for me anymore. I'm at home alone every weekend night watching TV and reading because I HAVE NO OTHER CHOICE, unless I want to make crying while sober in crowded bars a habit. 

Remember when you realized you couldn't drink like you used to? It happens to all of us at different times. I was about 25. Losing 30 pounds and being 3 years out of college combined was what did it for me. Suddenly, I could count the times I HADN'T gotten wasted, instead of the times I had. Suddenly, I was hungover until 7 o'clock at night. I started losing Saturdays and Sundays. Eventually I realized why: My tolerance had gone down. My body chemistry had changed. My outlook was the only thing that hadn't shifted. 

That's how work feels. The stress from one tough class leaks into another. The stress from one terrible day is still there the next morning. I run and sleep and box and watch SVU and I still can't get away from it. The stress is like a hangover that never ends. You can reevaluate the way your body handles alcohol, and change your habits accordingly. You can drink more water, drink less beer, get more sleep, and be hungover less frequently. But what can you do if your job is what's making you sick? What do you do if your life is one neverending migraine headache,  your mornings are spent bent over the toilet, you've been sick with one thing or another since October, and your doctors tell you the stress is causing your body's systems to malfunction? What do you do when you panic the second things seem calm because it's so unfamiliar that you're unprepared? What do you do when your body rejects the place you have chosen to do the job you love more than anyone has any right to love a given job? What do you tell the ER doctors when you're throwing up blood for no reason? What do you do when what's wrong with you doesn't show up on blood tests, and there's no medicine to make you better?


I don't want this anymore. 

I HATE BEING A GROWN-UP.

I hate taxes, bills, and the way I have to tip-toe around life for fear my financial situation will collapse even further.

I hate stretch marks, freckles, and the fact that I can no longer have 5 drinks, 2 slices of pizza, and half a bag of Sour Patch Kids with minimal consequences.

I hate being hit on by obnoxious 22 year-old guys, yet somehow, they are magnetically drawn to me. Like mosquitos.

I hate the way the dust never seems to go away completely because by the time I'm finished cleaning one part of the room, new dust has appeared in the part I cleaned five minutes ago.

I hate loans, APR, carbohydrates, and that the only consistent thing I can count on my body to do is become less efficient with age.

I hate that when things make me so angry I could punch through a window, I can't do anything about them because I'm a grown-up, and it's not okay to punish people who double park, cut you off in traffic, cut in at the last second on the Leverett Connector when you've been waiting in the long line of cars for 20 minutes, and are generally incompetent useless fools as you see fit.

I hate being a grown-up.

3 lessons learned from running the Boston Marathon

1. 
How to eat and run. 
Before marathon training, eating while running was a skill I had only attempted once, at running camp. If I'm honest, it was "eating lunch, then running 10 minutes later," but who's counting. When you're running a marathon, you have to eat. Unless you're a sub-3 marathoner, you're burning over 1000 calories an hour and no amount of Gu, Powergel, and Gatorade can replenish those lost calories quickly enough. No matter how sensitive your stomach is, you must learn to eat and run. You also must learn to eat and run and not puke or choke, because puking leads to dehydration and choking leads to respiratory distress, and neither of these are conducive to successful marathon running.

I started small. On our training runs, I'd take an orange slice off the table every couple of miles and start there. This led me to a discovery: At age 19, I had never eaten a straight up orange. Those things are complicated. I've since learned how, but still... What a weird fucking fruit. It's all stringy and gushy and texturally unpredictable.

Then I moved onto carbs. Pretzels worked well, I realized, unless you broke the golden rule and forgot to chug water immediately after eating said pretzel. This led to me almost choking to death in Framingham, in February of 2004, dressed in red from head to toe on a Valentine's Day-themed 16-miler. Oops. Lesson learned.

I'm happy to report that this skill continues to be useful in my life. I haven't run a marathon since, but I'm still a distance runner, and it's not uncommon for me to go on a 14-miler with several waffles strapped to my arms. It also means I can eat something in the middle of boxing class and not upchuck. I can also all-out sprint down Comm Ave looking for a cab 36 seconds after stuffing my face.



2. 
Peeing your pants is badass. 
I realize this goes against everything we've been taught since being potty trained, but when you're a marathon runner, you're badass, and badasses don't wait in line for the bathroom. It doesn't matter how slowly you're going, if you're waiting in line to use a porta potty, you're STOPPED. Zero miles per hour. And I wouldn't know, but I'd expect the following dialogue to be running through your head: "So.. I've put 6 months into training for this race and I'm waiting in line for 5 minutes in the middle of it to pee... While the clock is still running..."

It makes no sense to STOP to pee. Not to mention the fact that you're already covered in so much dirt and sweat and blood and pus (throughout the course of a marathon, you get blisters, they pop, and you get more), is pee really going to make you that much grosser? The answer is no. Suck it up.

On the 8th day, God created fancy fabric that wicks away moisture, so fucking buy some. Go all out and by dri-fit underwear if you want to. I didn't bother. I just went with bike shorts. But whatever floats your boat.

One time I met Uta Pippig and she complained to me about everyone asking her constantly about her messy marathon. She got her period, didn't stop, got the runs, peed, and kept going. I mean really, if I could run a marathon that fast, I wouldn't care what was on my skin while I did it. RESPECT.

Related sidenote: Peeing your pants is actually quite difficult. Your entire torso is clenched together, and you can't really stop and sit down, so you have to kind of un-clench part of your torso while still clenching enough ab muscles to keep yourself running. I actually had to stop and walk to make this happen the first time I peed.



3. 
Weight training is key. 
I was a naive child at 19. I thought I could just run and that would be enough to stay thin and fit and strong. As is evidenced from the pictures taken during that time period, clearly that was not the case. Take it from me: You might make it through a 21-mile training run with no arm strength. You might think you're fine, because running is legs. You would be wrong. When you hit mile 21.5, your arms start to burn. The pain slowly extends into your delts, lats, and pecs, to the point when you feel each pump in excruciating, slow-motion detail, and it hurts so badly you picture the muscle fibers ripping as you move. Then they get heavy, and it hurts to lift them. By this point you're in Brookline, so it's not too hilly, but you still need to pump your arms to move your legs in sync and it hurts so much you start tearing up. No one notices because by this point you're covered in 27 layers of sweat. You try briefly to run with your arms floating by your sides, but they don't float, they drop heavily and the impact shoots through your shoulders and you instantly regret that decision.


Do not make the same mistake I did. Make your arms strong too. Just trust me.

What the fuck is up with cilantro?

What is up with cilantro? Can we just take a minute to discuss how thoroughly obnoxious cilantro is? It stays fresh for roughly 2.4452 seconds before devolving into a pea-green mushtastic situation that leaks all over the rest of the vegetables in the crisper and renders them unusable. What the hell, cilantro? I wouldn't have as big a problem with it if cilantro were more consistent, but no. Cilantro has an agenda. If I buy cilantro on Monday, and intend to use it on Wednesday, the cilantro mushifies by Tuesday. If I buy it on Monday and intend to use it on Tuesday, it mushifies by Tuesday morning. If I buy it on Monday and intend to use it on Friday (why I'd ever do this I don't know, but hey, stupider things have happened), IT STAYS FRESH UNTIL THURSDAY NIGHT and then... nuclear mushsplosion. What's your problem, cilantro? Do you have it out for me? What did I ever do to you? My brother has a vendetta against you, but I've always stood up for you. This is how you repay me? If I didn't love guacamole so much I'd dump your mushy ass so fast...

GIRLY COMMENTARY: New England Patriots @ Seattle Seahawks

I think when you watch football there should be a choice between regular commentary and girly commentary. -Tianna

Danny Woodhead is fun-sized.

Leah: Have you ever been a slutty football player for Halloween?
Tianna: I guess you could just ear no pants... Or tight short-shorts.
Leah: That would be only funny if you wore a helmet. I once went as a slutty hockey player to a theme party at UMass.

Bledsoe is a really cool last name. I wouldn't mind having that be my last name.

Leah: Seattle uniforms are not aesthetically pleasing.
Tianna: Really? I like the neon green.
Leah: NOT THE ARROWS.

Their shoes look like my racing flats.

I think if Wilfork sat on me I'd die. But possibly enjoy it.

Leah: Ass watch 2012... what's the nicest ass on both teams?
Stephen: They all look the same.
Tianna: No they don't!

Tianna: I don't think Tom Brady has the nicest ass on the team. Not by a long shot.
Ian: Belichik doesn't.
Stephen: He doesn't run enough.
Ian: He throws too much.
Stephen: Not too much, sinc that's like his only good quality.
Leah: I have no idea what any of this means.

Leah: Can that be a theme party we'd do?
Tianna: Slutty sports?
Ian: Does that mean I get to wear a jockstrap on the outside of my pants?
Tianna: WEIRD.
Leah: Yes.
Tianna: I'll be a ref and blow that whistle.
Tiana and Leah: CAN YOU BLOW MY WHISTLE BABY WHISTLE BABY...

The Patriots' head coach has ahd that same face since 1990.
That's unfortunate.
He's also a genius.
Genius or not, he's going to need some plastic surgery to fix that scowl.
And jowl.

I don't understand football commercials. Hot black man running. Meatballs. What?
That's RG3.

Tianna: He's balding on top.
Ian: Starting to
Tianna: Look at that. I can see it.
Ian: That's what happens when you have a supermodel for a wife.
Tianna: She's preggers.
Ian: Is she?
Tianna: She's gonna have that baby any day now We think it's a girl.
Ian: Good move!!!

Tianna: Remember when he had really long hair?
Ian: Remember when he was with Bridget Moynahan?
Leah: Remember when I hated her in real life because in fictional Sex and the City life she stole Mr. Big from Carrie?
Tianna: I never liked her that much.
Leah: I finally don't hate her because she's so good on Blue Bloods. She finally escaped my typecast hatred.
Ian: See, the only reason I would have to watch that show would be Tom Selleck. Which is, I know, the reason you watch that show.
Leah: OMG I want his mustache on my body.

Tianna: I think Tom Brady is too skinny. I like a big dude.
Leah: Me too.
Ian: I have no comment.

Tianna: I love the man love that goes on after the game.
Leah: You should move here and join our gym. That's the kind of love that goes on in boxing class except it's girls and we're WAY MORE INSANE.

Tianna: Gronkowski might have the best ass on the team.
Ian: He also has four brothers.
Tianna: Oh really?
Leah: Excellent.
Ian: And they save all their money rather than spend it.
Tianna: Good to know.
Ian: And you have to deal with the fact that they're all from Buffalo.
Tianna: Whatever. Not my concern.

Things I Wonder

What is the difference between frosting and icing?

What is the difference between a sarong and a sari?

Why does sleeping too much make you more tired?

Why does the camera add ten pounds?

Why does the job I love not pay as much as my friends' jobs they hate?

What does one do when one slouchy boot slouches more than the other?

Why does 80% of the population wear skinny jeans when they only look good on 20% of the population?

Why does white bread still exist? It's terrifying.

Why did Jaqen on Game of Thrones have to magically change his face to a less hot face?

Why do I love boots so dearly?

Why does rain seem to chill me to the bone, literally?

Why do my nails grow really fast but my hair does not? I'm tired of waiting. I need long hair by May for Conor/Masha's wedding. COME ON NOW.

Who raised the BC undergrad boys who used to inhabit my house? Really, who? You're disgusting, boys, and I'm going to sell your Comcast equipment illegally, TAKE THAT disgusting humans.

Why do I read so compulsively? The way addicts feel about drugs is the way I feel about reading.

Why aren't there more hours in the day?

Why can't I fix my students' lives? I really want to. This ties into the previous one... Why aren't there more hours in the day?

Why isn't there a way for me to freeze time so I can get more work done, but not age accordingly?

How am I going to turn myself into Joan Holloway for a Mad Men theme party? I really want to be her. I love her character. She is so many kinds of wonderful. But I have no hips, no waist, and no boobs. Not that I mind. I love my body. I work my ass off to make it one I'm proud of. But logistically speaking, I'm not sure there's enough padding in the world to make me into something that can do Joan justice. I wish I could go as Don Draper, but I don't want to wear a dude wig. Pantsless Don Draper? Maybe? Sans wig? I don't know.

Things I hate dealing with

"How do I fit all the stuff I need in the shower?" 

There's just no good answer to this, and it's so tedious to try. No shower-holding-stuff-thingy is really a solution. They all either take up too much space, are ergonomically despicable, cause a mildewy water nightmare, or fall down. Leaving stuff in a cabinet is also not an option, because as a woman, you never know when you'll need that special exfoliaty cinnamony goodness body scrub that's too expensive to use every day but 100% necessary once in a while. You can't really know until you're in the shower, and then you just get a feeling and you're soaping your body with the loofa, an undeniable, "Ohh, it's time." By then it's too late. You have to do the "Jump out of the shower, hop across the bathroom, try not to murder yourself or make a huge mess in the process of grabbing it out of the cabinet" dance, which rarely ends well. No matter how low-key you are in the shower, there are still more items required than space in there. Fail.


"OMG I'm blocked in!" 

This sucks too. We have a lovely driveway with two garage spots and about 4 behind them, give or take, and it's such a pain in the ass. I thought we were in the clear when our downstairs neighbors told me they didn't own any cars, but no, that would've been too easy. They may not have cars, but their rich friends do, and of course their rich friends cars are registered in the states their rich parents live in, so they don't have Massachusetts plates, and they don't have resident parking stickers. Plus, one of them just got a brand new BMW from dad yesterday, of course without Massachusetts plates. I might not have a BMW, but I do have a Rav-4 that I love to fucking death because I bought it myself (well, it will be mine in August 2014), and a job that's so stressful that I really can't emotionally handle waking up early enough to yell at people to move their cars or shovel snow off mine. I want the garage spot, and I want no one behind me. She's the sweetest thing in the world and I don't judge her for having parents that bought her a brand new BMW at age 20 (I do, however, judge her parents... What are you thinking people? How is she going to learn how to work for anything if you give it all to her? What message are you sending?).

I have a plan, and I'll implement it, and she'll get on board whether she likes it or not, but I resent even having to deal with it. It would be better if somehow, this was not an issue. As for the random BC boy who parks in the driveway to sleep over at our downstairs neighbors' house... Well, a) You drive a Jeep, so already I judge you less than BMW girl, and b) You've been good about getting your ass out of the door within 30 seconds of me banging on it at 6:30 a.m. In the event that this changes, I'll have your overprivileged ass towed.

"OMG my hot pants smell SO BAD." 

I own obscenely priced British exercise pants that claim to combat cellulite. They do get rid of water weight, which obviously comes back, but what works for real is the fact that they raise the surface temperature of your skin so much. My legs look better, legit. Say what you want, but it's true. The issue, however, is the smell. It's a heinous, oceany smell that never quite goes away, regardless of how many times you wash them in the CSC lockerroom and then almost murder yourself by putting them in the swimsuit dryer because they are far too big. You can try to keep the smell to a minimum, and trust me, it helps, but not enough. During boxing Wednesday, I was complaining mentally about this God-awful odor when I realized it was coming from me.. More specifically, my hot pants. I don't intend to stop wearing them. I don't intend to apologize for the Eau de Sweaty Ocean Grime that follows me through the gym. But I do intend to complain constantly, and this is my first step.


"Leah, once you stop looking for a guy you'll find one." 

My dear friends that say this are wonderful people, and I love you all dearly, but please shut the fuck up. This is the most unhelpful thing to hear when you're single. I'm not saying I need to be married, stat. I'm not saying I need a man to complete me or some shit. I'm awesome as I am. But I'd like someone awesome in my life, and when you say this to me, it makes me want to scream.

Emma said it best.. that logic is flawed in every single situation, so why would it apply here? Once you stop looking for a job, you'll find one? Once you stop looking for the perfect pair of grey suede slouchy boots, you'll find them? You wouldn't tell someone to stop trying as a way to make something happen. If you want to lose weight, you KEEP TRYING. If you want to be happy, you KEEP TRYING. If you want to find something to watch on TV, you KEEP CHANNEL SURFING. Duh.

You might argue that when you stop looking for something you lost, you find it (like car keys), but really, you don't stop looking. You just take a break. It's not like you decide "Okay, I give up, I'll just never drive my car again, I'm good, YAY MBTA!" You say, "Okay, I'm going to stop looking for now, and hopefully they'll turn up." But "hopefully they'll turn up" means "I'm still looking, just not as hard, and I still want the same result." So your argument is invalid.

Also, I think I speak for all people in my situation when I say that I know what you actually mean. You actually mean, "You're scaring off dudes by appearing too eager, like you're trying too hard, and no one wants someone who gives off that vibe." That's totally true... when you're 17. We've moved past that. When you're 17, you don't realize that you look desperate. It takes less than a year to make that realization. We're not morons.

So you might ask me, "What should we say instead?" Here's what we want:

1. Actual explanations. If I've been spending all my time at shitty bars and wondering why wonderful men don't appear, tell me that I'm not going to find my one true love at The Kells (RIP).

2. Setups. Whore me out to the men in your life who are single and cool. I don't care how ridiculously setups fail, try. At the very least, it makes a good story. Plus, then you're being proactive. Plus, my parents met on a blind date, and they are disgustingly in love God knows how many years later.

3. Create social situations that are conducive to me meeting men. Throw parties. Invite lots of nice people you know out to a bar. Up the chances. It's hard to meet people. Seriously.

4. Wingman/woman. If you're not sure how this works, talk to my friend Jen. She is the world's best wingwoman.

5. Liquor. Buy me drinks, fool. Your boyfriend/fiance/husband is probably buying most of yours, so take the money you save and BUY SOME FOR MY BROKE ASS. I thank you in advance.

6. Be honest. I'd rather hear, "That sucks, I'm sorry," than "Stop looking and you'll find him!" any day.


"Can I help you? What are you here for today? What are you looking for? What's your name? How are you? Can I help you look for something specific? How can I help? What are you looking for? Hello? Can you hear me? How are you? How are you doing today? Can I help you find something?" 

I hate overzealous salespeople. If I'm in a store, I want to be left alone. If I have questions, I'll ask you. If I want to know how I look in something, I'll ask you. If I need a second opinion, or someone to tell me it's not really that slutty, I'LL ASK YOU, so get off my ass. I promise you, bugging me is not going to help your conversions.


"I'm dressed as me!" 

You might not take Halloween or theme parties seriously, but I do. If you didn't want to come to my party in costume, why did you bother coming at all? There are plenty of other social opportunities for you to choose from. So why'd you come?

Halloween is the worst, because  you can go to a store and spend money on a costume that is 100% pre-made. You don't have to be artistic. You don't have to do any hard work. You can let someone else do it for you and reap the drunk benefits. YOU HAVE NO EXCUSE.

Exception: If you're too tired, or feeling uncreative, and you show up at my party and say, "Leah, I am your blank canvas. Do what you want with me." I am okay with it. As long as you're okay with whatever I turn you into. Hehehe... Evil laugh.

20 Reasons Why I Ignored You

Inspired by this post on Thought Catalog... I'm not saying I agree with everything on that list (I don't). But it did make me think about why I don't call men back, or stop calling them back, or break things off entirely... My list encompasses a bit more. I present to you:

20 Reasons Why I Ignored You, Dude. 

(all have happened at least once)

1. You just wanted me for sex (which is flattering, but no thanks). 
2. I wasn't attracted to you. 
3. You were sending mixed messages and I was tired of trying to decode them. 
4. You are the kind of person who doesn't know how to work hard for anything. 
5. You talked shit to me about my vegetarianism. I don't care if you're not one, but let's just agree to disagree. If we can't eat the same entrees, we can at least meet halfway at the dessert portion of the meal. Or not, since you spent the entire dinner complaining about my entree choice. 
6. No fizz factor. Fizz factor = You know that feeling you get when you drink too much over-carbonated soda? That's the way I feel when I'm attracted to someone, except it's kind of an all-over feeling. If I never once thought about kissing you... Sorry dude. 
7. You're a lot smaller than me. I know it's ridiculous, but I'm a former fat girl. I have a complex. I can't be the bigger one in the relationship. It's not about height. It's about being petite. I'm sorry... I can't deal with it. 
8. I was working out. You might say, "Really? How long do you work out for? No way it was that long." Yes way. Sometimes I work out for most of the day. Deal with it. 
9. I had an awful day and I was sleeping it off like a bad night at the Hong Kong in Faneuil. Yes, I just compared recovering from a day teaching to recovering from a hangover. Deal with it. 
10. You insulted my profession, alluded to insulting my profession, or condescendingly remarked about my profession. 
11. You told me I was a terrible excuse for a human being because I hated The Catcher in the Rye.
12. I went incommunicado because my internet and 3g broke. 
13. You told me I should be jealous that you have a big boy job in the real world. 
14. You were mean to my little brother. 
15. You couldn't maintain eye contact with my father. He is deceptively scary, but really? 
16. You were anti-Semitic. 
17. You insulted my (mostly) healthy lifestyle. I am a couch potato very often, but I love being active. I value my health. And you kept making comments about how much time I was wasting while running. It was rude. 
18. You were a compulsive liar. 
19. You neglected to mention that your ex died TWO WEEKS AGO. 
20. You asked me to explain my highest level of math education and proceeded to judge me for not taking AB Calc in high school. 

Word Vomit: 10/1 Edition

So people keep telling me to post more random shit word vomit blogs. I'm not sure why, but I'll do it. After all, I've never had an issue rambling.


1.
I finally fixed my car. According to the mechanic, it is not a good idea to drive around on your spare tire for a week before getting it fixed. Well, now I know. Also, note to self: If a mechanic asks you why you bought a Rav-4, and you tell him a long, drawn-out story, he will laugh at you.


Long, drawn-out story: 

I was fourteen years old the first time I fell in love. It was a red Jeep Wrangler with no doors. All I wanted was to own a car like that. I spent most of freshman and sophomore year scouring the classifieds trying to buy one used, while attempting to learn how to drive a stick in what spare time I had left. 

This might have worked out if I hadn't blown all my money on clothes and screwed up in school so much that my mother refused to let me get my license until I was 6 months away from college. It ended up working out for the better, because as I later realized, I hate driving. When I got out of grad school, I inherited the minivan, and I'd still be driving that today if crazy lady hadn't slammed into it at the corner of Parsons and Faneuil Street in Brighton. 

When it came time to buy my first real car, I knew one thing: It needed to have a spare tire on the back. I suppose I could've bought a Wrangler, but the Toyota dealer offered me such a good trade-in for my demolished minivan that I couldn't turn it down. Plus, I was sort of emotional. It was right after I watched a season of House in one week, and I kept equating "sold for parts" with "harvesting for organs" and yeah... You could say I'm a bit high strung. So I got a Rav-4. Which I adore. Despite the fact that it's not a Wrangler. Someday. 

Though I will say this: The one downside to having a spare tire on the back of your car is that when you drive around with the spare, you have to put the dead tire in the trunk because the lug nuts don't match, which means you're driving around with what looks like a big, gaping dent in your car. It's ugly. 

2.
I am sick and tired of explaining tampons to middle school boys. From now on I'm going to walk around with some Tampax instructions in my back pocket.

3.
When did it become okay to announce to your teacher that you needed to change your pad? I'm not at all shy about that stuff, but you better believe I never told that to a teacher.

4.
There is an odd squeaky sound that sound like it's coming from my wall. I blame Boston College.

5.
The dreams have started again. Grey, slouchy, suede boots with a simple, distressed buckle. Sleek, black riding boots. Maroon with a stacked heel. I don't know how much longer I'll be able to hold out. I want to buy boots so badly. I see them everywhere. I'm like a dude who stares at boobs, except I stare at boots. If I can just hold out until Black Friday and go to the outlets like last year... I need help. Rehab. Twelve steps.

Until I get a shoe rack, this is how I'll store my boots... And that's not even all of them. Like I said, I have a problem. 

6.
Lately I've been giving a lot of thought to remediation. In my experience, if a student fails seventh grade math, for example, it's usually not because he doesn't understand seventh grade math. It's because there are fourth grade math concepts he doesn't understand.


I know how easy it is to fall behind. I never failed, but I memorized formulas for the test and promptly forgot them later because I didn't know the reasoning behind the formulas. The older I got, the harder it became, because instead of a bank of mathematical reasoning, I had a bank of formulas I couldn't explain. The older I got, the more formulas I tried to keep straight, and the fewer I could remember with any kind of consistency. Even if you go for extra help, it's overwhelming, because you're afraid to ask questions because you know that everyone else mastered that concept two years ago and you've just been faking it. God knows I know how difficult it is to be the teacher in that situation. I can't tell you how many times I've started teaching sixth-grade level sentence structure to seventh graders only to find out they don't know what verbs are.

What I'm wondering is, what do we do? Here's what happens now: Student fails seventh grade math, most likely because he doesn't understand fourth and fifth and sixth grade math. He goes to summer school, where he is given seventh grade math, which he still doesn't understand, and no matter how fantastic the teachers are, there's only so much you can do with a seventh grader who doesn't know how to divide. In a perfect world, each kid would have individualized interventions based on specific learning needs, but that's a tall order. Do they make assessments that evaluate multiple levels (grade and complexity) of mathematical concepts? When would we give them? Who has the time to design that instruction? Who has the money to implement it with the student-teacher ratio it would require? I don't know. Certainly no districts I know.

Here's what happens: You get a group of students who fail subjects, go to summer school, don't fill in enough of the gaps, and get promoted to the next grade. If you could fail everything and still pass, wouldn't you? If you know you can get away with that, you do it, unless you have tons of intrinsic motivation. If you knew you could fail everything, get suspended on multiple occasions, and still pass to the next grade, why wouldn't you do that?

I know it's pointless to hold kids back. I've seen it happen many times, and I've never seen it work. Passing them up doesn't work. Holding them back doesn't work. So basically we're damned if we do or damned if we don't.

I don't know.

7.
My computer is a magnet.

8. 

I am so excited for Halloween it is ridiculous. I'm trying to figure out what amalgam of Khaleesi gear I'm going to wear. 

I'm thinking this will be my basic costume: 

But I want to add in the element of "I just walked out of a fire unscathed having mystically birthed three dragons, thus I am covered in soot." Any ideas? I don't want to make my entire apartment and all the guests a mess by rubbing off on them. I also can't go naked, like she is in this scene, because of societal constraints, which is why I'm combining the two costumes. 

9.
I'm still looking for a Khal Drogo.

MCAS is a sinking ship of fail.

I hate MCAS. 

We know this. It’s not a secret. I complain quite frequently about it. MCAS is a soul-sucking, creativity-killing, beaurocracy-driven, logistically despicable waste of valuable learning time. I understand why tests need to happen. I don’t understand why we can’t figure out a faster way to revise the testing process to make it more accurate and meaningful. 

Thirteen years ago, the sophomores sat down to take 10^th grade MCAS for the first time (officially, anyway, because previous years served as guinea pigs). Thirteen years later, we finally have a new set of learning standards, but we’re scrambling to create a better test to assess these new standards. Thirteen years of stupidly-worded questions, boring, repetitive analysis, and hours of missed learning time later, we’re TRYING to make a new test.

THIRTEEN YEARS. Why can’t it happen faster? What’s with the slow turnaround? While we were wasting time on a dumb test that doesn’t measure anything worth knowing, THIRTEEN YEARS worth of kids grew up and graduated or didn’t but it doesn’t really matter because we can’t help them now. Thirteen years worth of students think open response is a genre and multiple choice is a way of life. Thirteen years worth of students missed God knows how many hours of learning time that was spent prepping for or taking a dumb test. 

What took so damn long? When a ship is sinking, you jump ship and try to swim to shore. You escape in a lifeboat. You shoot off flares. You do anything, really, as long as you’re doing SOMETHING. You don’t stay on the sinking ship until it hits the ocean floor, just to make sure it’s really sinking, just to make sure there’s no hope. 

So here’s a radical idea: What do you say we try not to drown from now on? 

This depicts my feelings towards MCAS.

Turn into the skid.

Friday it rained. It wasn’t light rain, drizzling rain, or soaking rain, it was hard, furious, pounding rain that makes you think the sky is angry and out for revenge.

Naturally, I was driving in this rain. My windshield wipers leave a lot to be desired on a drizzly day, so they were no match for this deluge. On the nastiest section of North Beacon Street, I couldn’t feel the ground beneath my car. It was the strangest feeling, like my car was floating. Hydroplaning, I realized, as my mind reverted back to Driver’s Ed. Nothing I did with my hands or feet made any difference. I just floated down the road, headed directly for a median strip, the pounding water against my car deafening. All I could see was the blur of a red car as it spun off the road next to me.

Random bits of information whirled around in my head. A car is one of the safest places to be hit by lightening. It’s not speeding until you go 10 miles above the speed limit. You have to change your registration within 30 days of moving. And if you’ve lost control of your car in a snowstorm, turn into the skid.

Turn into the skid.

Nevermind that I wasn’t in a snowstorm. Nevermind that I was a few feet from hitting a median strip with rails that would destroy the front of my car. Nevermind that I had no idea if there were cars beside me or in front of me or behind me. I turned into the skid. Slowly, deliberately, I turned into the rails I was about to hit. As soon as I did it, my car drifted away from the median strip, back towards the lane I wanted to be in. I felt the tires reconnect with the ground. I saw taillights in front of me. I saw the blurry neon of signs. I saw a red light from far enough away that I had time to stop without slamming on the brakes. I was fine. The rain slowed down. I found parking in front of the restaurant I was meeting people at, and sprinted across the street barefoot to avoid ruining my shoes. I ate vegan food. It was glorious.

Everything turned out okay because I took a risk. I threw logic to the wind. Something dangerous was in front of me and I turned towards it. It makes me wonder about logic versus emotion and the idea of risk. I’m great at taking risks at my job. No matter how flawless your planning is, life gets in the way. Sometimes a tangent can lead to a more valuable lesson than the one I have typed in my lesson plan binder. Sometimes a teachable moment trumps a content lesson. In fact, I think it does more often than not. I’m smart, spontaneous, flexible, creative, impulsive, and able to adapt, which is a large part of my strength as a teacher.

But what about life outside work? Do I take risks there? When I’m sliding down the road, do I ever turn into the skid, really?

The more I think about it, the more I realize I’m kind of a wuss, especially when it comes to relationships with men. You know until this year, every relationship I’ve been in has started with the guy telling me he likes me, and then me saying it back? They’re just words, I know, but my actions mirror them. I never LET myself have feelings for anyone unless I already knew they had feelings for me. I never took charge. I never got the ball rolling.

Why didn’t I? I mean, clearly I can take charge. All day long at my job, I make decisions. All day, I am in charge. All day, I move mountains to make things happen for my students because that’s my job, and I do it well. Sometimes I think that’s where the problem lies. Maybe by the time I come home to real life I’m just too exhausted. Life is the space between what you should do and what you want to do, logic and reason versus heart. I’m so good at balancing the two at work, but when it comes to my life outside my job, I’m at a loss.

Should. I hate that word. I should be asleep right now so I’m rested for tomorrow, but instead I’m writing something that has been eating away at me, crawling around in my mind for over a week. SHOULD is irrelevant. As my eyes struggle to stay open and I dread the exhaustion that will come tomorrow afternoon, I don’t regret staying up late to write this because I want to, and I need to, and I have to believe that’s more important than whether or not I SHOULD.

I met a man a few months ago who was everything I SHOULD like, but I felt nothing. You can’t choose what you feel and what you don’t feel. You can’t turn feelings on or turn them off. You can’t help it. You are completely powerless. No amount of logic or reasoning or thoughtful decisions will make a difference.

It’s been so long since I had a long-term relationship that I only vaguely remember what it’s like, and I’ve changed so much since then that it’s probably not even relevant. I was hurt and disappointed so much that I stopped trying. You know how I said “turn into the skid”? Well if we’re continuing with that metaphor, when it came to relationships, I never gave myself the chance to turn into the skid. I never got in the car. I just stayed home.

The more you are hurt, the more guarded you become. The more things go wrong, the more you expect them to go wrong. We become master detectives, seeking out evidence to prove that our conclusions are sound. Sometimes we become masters of logical fallacies… “If Guy A did this, and also broke my heart, then if Guy B also did this, inevitably, Guy B will also break my heart.” We psychoanalyze everything about the situation, listing reasons why it’s not the right time, why we’re not ready, why it wouldn’t work, and what bad things could happen as a result. We’re cautious, calculating and completely batshit terrified.

What if you had this choice?

1. You meet someone incredible, share something electrifying and life-changing, but when it ends you are shattered almost to the point of no repair.
2. You don’t meet that person, don’t experience any of it, and are not hurt in the end.

No one wants to hurt. No one wants to be let down. If you’d asked me a year ago, I would have picked option 2 easily, to avoid pain at all costs. That’s the logical answer. But now I’d choose option 1, because I realize that pain is there to teach us something. Pain is there to make us stronger, fiercer, and more resilient than before. If pain is a prerequisite for these qualities, then I’ll have to embrace it. I’ll have to turn into the skid.

So here’s to turning into the skid. Here’s to diving into a lake where you can’t see the bottom. Here’s to doing what FEELS right rather than what I should do. Here’s to taking risks. Here’s to putting the pieces of me back together when things fall apart, because they will. Here’s to my loved ones, the glue that holds me together. Here’s to the unknown, to making decisions that go against the rules.

It’s one thing to say, “It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” It’s another thing to really believe it. It’s another thing to live your life by it, to live in such a way that you regret the things you DID do rather than things you DIDN’T do.

Here’s to turning into the skid.

I’ll drink to that. 

The Pudding Situation

There is a situation, and it involves pudding.

I should begin by explaining that I'm an accomplished procrastinator. Trust me you've never seen anything like it. Before you go so far as to THINK you're in my league, I'll remind you that I pulled my first all-nighter at age 12 because on the night before a history essay was due, I needed to spend 5 hours in the kitchen mixing ingredients until I found the perfect combination to dye my white-lined paper to look like it had been around since the historical time period I was writing it about. If you point out that the previous sentence is a horrific run-on, I will deploy my loyal army of 12-year-old girls who will scream Justin Bieber songs outside your house in lieu of an attack. So don't.

Part of being an incredible procrastinator is being flexible and able to think outside of the box. Which is where the pudding comes into play.

I love pudding. I always have. I even love tapioca pudding, despite the fact that as far as I know, scientists have yet to find conclusive evidence proving what's in it, and thus it might be made of miniature eyeballs. I don't care. I guess I like eyeballs in my pudding. I just love pudding that much.

Obviously, I have Jello instant pudding in my house. Obviously, I do not have milk. So after I sulked for twenty minutes, I decided to take the next logical step: Start texting people with "I LOVE PUDDING."

I'm not really sure what happened next. It's all a blur. It's like I blacked out and when I woke up, I was having detailed text conversations with twenty five people about pudding. I just learned how to copy/paste on my phone (don't say it, because I already agree with you: It shouldn't be called a smart phone if the person using it is an idiot and can't use it) and this only fueled the fire. Every time I thought of something awesome to say, I texted it to EVERYONE. Which led to 25 people receiving the following texts:

BYOP

Bring Your Own Pudding

What would you do if I had a party and put that on the invitation? 

My friends and family members... God love them, they all rolled with it.

Amanda, innocent autocorrect victim (Join us on the droid side)

AMANDA: I love pudding.
LEAH: I know.
AMANDA: Pussy is awesome.
AMANDA: PUDDING PUDDING PUDDING

Leah's Bro

LEAH: BYOP. Bring Your Own Pudding. What would you do if I had a party and put that on the invitation?
LEAH'SBRO: I would say that I'd be there.

SPANDEX/CHRIS, epitome of all things awesome and future cofounder of Anti-Pants Coalition

LEAH: BYOP. Bring Your Own Pudding. What would you do if I had a party and put that on the invitation? Besides show up in spandex, as is your custom.
SPANDEX: Rice, or tapioca? Don't you DARE say butterscotch.
SPANDEX: Yeah... to answer your question I'd probably write something inappropriate on the event page.
LEAH: Pudding is excellent.
SPANDEX: That's a fact. Tell me something I don't know.

Emma, my soul sister, my wife in polygamous marriage to our boxing coach Big Tom and Joseph Pilates and Alexander Skarsgard and a variety of other men we've never met most of whom are actually alive though really. 

LEAH: BYOP. Bring Your Own Pudding. What would you do if I had a party and put that on the invitation?
EMMA/SOULSISTER: Come to the party and think you are the best. And make you awesome hippie pudding.

I LOVE YOU EMMA. I want hippie muffins too. DUCK YEAH.

Ali, who will always be more of a badass than me, BUT I'M TRYING :) 

LEAH: BYOP. Bring Your Own Pudding. What would you do if I had a party and put that on the invitation?
ALI: I would bring chocolate with a vanilla swirl.

Meet my consultant father, who's quick to call in the experts:

LEAH: BYOP. Bring Your Own Pudding. What would you do if I had a party and put that on the invitation?
LEAH'SDAD: Call a doctor.
LEAH: No seriously.
LEAH'SDAD: Chocolate or call mom.

Meet my mom, who was clearly too busy to accomodate my pudding whims

LEAH: BYOP. Bring Your Own Pudding. What would you do if I had a party and put that on the invitation?
LEAH'SMOM: 7tytk.a
(She is still working on her texting skills). 

This conversation takes the pudding. Let's give it up for bodybuilder Danielle! 

LEAH: BYOP. Bring Your Own Pudding. What would you do if I had a party and put that on the invitation?
DANIELLE: I'd bring protein pudding, my new fav snack, and make pudding shots. One extreme to the next lol.
LEAH: I love you.
DANIELLE: When's the party?
At this point, it becomes real... 
LEAH: Late September.
DANIELLE: Gotcha. I'm pumped for pudding. Every time I eat it I wonder what it is...?
LEAH: OMG, this is my favorite convo ever.
DANIELLE: Like, how do you make it from scratch without Jello mix?
LEAH: I have no idea. Maybe it's like the sun. Another state of matter entirely. Not a solid or liquid or gas. PLASMA!
DANIELLE: What is it? Milk sugar eggs flour vanilla cocoa heat it on stove or something.
LEAH: Plus magic. And sorcery.
DANIELLE: Absolutely because those ingredients also make cookies and this isn't a cookie.



As a result of all of this nonsense, I have
a) spent 2 hours not doing work
b) laughed so hard that my abs are in serious pain
c) jumped on my bed in glee
d) tentatively scheduled a pudding party for late September

I call that a win.

XO-LKW

PS: I WANT TO GO TO STORYVILLE SATURDAY NIGHT. SOMEONE MAKE THIS HAPPEN.

Last Friday Night

Three books in one weekend? Why yes, I'd love to. #booklove #challengeaccepted #booksaremorereliablethanmen @bennettmendez @writer -- Leah (@McCrae)

digestive epiphany / mama wyner rules

After 36 hours of vomiting, I have found the answer.

No more weight loss programs. No more vitamins. No more carbs, or no carbs, or high protein, or low protein, or massive amounts of whatever vegetable I fancy. It's much simpler than that.

As it so happens, the only thing fierce enough to shock my digestive system back into functioning is my mother.

If you've met my mother, you understand. She's a force of nature. You don't cross her. Two years ago she came to watch a 7th grade poetry event. One student that I sent out every day for three months for cussing me out started to be rude. I say "started to be rude" because she didn't get to finish. Once my mother caught wind of the tone of voice this student was using, she raised her eyebrows, said, "Excuse me?" and this girl cowered in fear. COWERED IN FEAR. I mean she shrunk back, wide-eyed, and ran out of the room. If you work with me, and you want to know which student this was, just ask. She just graduated 8th grade. Unless she was held back, I don't know.

Back to my intestines. I've had a fucked up digestive system for most of my life. There's no rhyme or reason to it. As a child, doctors tried to figure it out. I don't really think they did. They made me drink this stuff that tasted like chalk so my stomach glowed. Well... that might not be what happened. I am remembering this through my seven year old eyes. In any event, throughout my life, on multiple occasions, my insides stop working. Food comes out incorrectly through either or both ends. It's awful.

The epiphany began at around noon today. I was lying on the floor of my bathroom, head propped up on a pillow, playing words with friends. By this point, I figured I'd shorten the commute to the toilet. Something odd occured to me... The only thing I hadn't puked up in the last day or so was a pupusa. If you don't know, a pupusa is probably the most fattening food ever. It's a Salvadorian GODSEND. Picture a homemade corn tortilla, except as you're making the tortilla, you built in all the things you would normally wrap inside the tortilla. And it's fried. VERY FRIED. There is no reason my body should have processed this food... except that my body knows quality.

The is a list of my thoughts in order: 
Moms know quality.
Moms know quality food.
The pupusa in question was hand made my the mom of a former student.
The pupusa was quality.
I did not puke up the pupusa.
My mom knows quality.
My mom's food must be the cure to my mysterious illness.

My next thought was SHIT. My mom's in Lexington, and there's no gas in my car, and last time I checked, there's no reliable way to vomit while driving without crashing.

Then I remembered the contents of my freezer, carefully wrapped for a time when I wasn't so strictly dieting: EEVB (Existential Experience Veggie Burger) and OCC (Orgasmic Cheese Cake).

I then did what any normal person who's spend the last day vomiting would do: I stuffed myself with my mom's home cooked veggie burgers and cheesecake.

I AM PROUD TO SAY THAT I HAVE SPENT THE LAST 8 HOURS VOMIT FREE.

Fuck diets. Fuck weight loss. Fuck low carb bullshit that prevents me from running. Fuck all of that. I'm going to eat food again.

I just called my mother to tell her this, and her response was hilarious, in that she didn't really respond at all. There was no attempt to explain this phenomenon using science. There was no laughter, no acknowledging the transformative nature of her cooking. She simply said, "We're grilling for Father's Day, what time will you be here?"

LOVE YOU MAMA.

PS: I called her again, read her the blog, and she laughed hysterically at the last part.

Gym Pet Peeves: Judgemental Ladies on Zero Resistance

Judgmental ladies on zero resistance piss me off. You know what I mean. I didn’t specify what area of the gym because you find these ladies everywhere, but there is an epidemic of them in the cardio room, so that’s the example I’ll use.

Picture this: You’re on the treadmill, stationary bike or elliptical, they are right next to you. You’re hauling ass on some insanely high level of resistance, and to the outside world, you appear to be trudging through a mixture of mud, quicksand and molasses. Sometimes it looks like you’re barely moving. Sweat pours down your face. You look like you’ve had the shit kicked out of you. The lady next to you is going buck wild, flying along at a dizzying pace on level .0001. There is nothing wrong with this. To each her own.

But then she leans over and looks at you in her judgy-faced glory, eyes narrowed, lip curled, eyebrows raised, thought bubble above her head containing the words, “Wow, I’m going soooo much faster than you.” You had to go there, didn’t you? Now that you have my attention, I can look at the numbers on your machine and see that I’m working 79,000 times harder than you because I’m 79,000 times stronger, yet you judge me? You somehow think you’re better? Guess what? You’re not pushing yourself. Know how I can tell? You have NO resistance on the machine, and you have enough mental and physical energy to give me the stink-eye. Crank it up a notch and mind your own business.

The worst thing is, it is impossible to ignore these ladies. I’m not talking about the ones who glance over at your machine occasionally. I’m talking about the obnoxious ones who lean over too far and won’t give it up. You can look at my machine all you want if it makes you happy. The issue is that they don’t give it up. If you ignore them, they get bolder. They lean closer towards your machine. I make a big show of looking at the TV in the opposite direction, checking my watch, drinking my water, yet they won’t let up until I make eye contact just to get them out of my personal space.

I have experienced some success with the following reaction. Be warned, this is not for the faint of heart. This is for dealing with a first class obnoxious bitch who really won’t leave you alone. Allow her to give you the condescending eye. Wait 10 seconds. Then look at the numbers on her machine. Don’t glance. Turn your entire face, partially turn your shoulders, and stare at the digital display on her machine for at least 6 seconds. Then, do the same thing with your own machine. Look at her legs, pretending to gauge the pace. Look down at your own legs. Look at some spot in between both sets of legs, so you appear to be comparing the respective paces. Look back at her numbers. Look at your own. Raise your eyebrows, curl your lips into a hint of a smile, and nod slightly.

If you follow my instructions perfectly, the following thought bubble will appear over your head:

“Hmm… No wonder your legs are moving so much faster than mine… You have your machine set at the easiest level. Well, good for you, joining a gym for the first time. We all had to start somewhere.”  

Why I'm PUMPED for Les Mis

I have so much to do I can barely function. Instead of doing any of it, I'm going to write this.

1. Russell Crowe as evil inspector Javert? PERFECT. He is just so perfectly mean smarmy gross dirty calculating evil. He even LOOKS icky. 
2. Anne Hathaway as Fantine = perfect. She can do anything in my eyes. Plus, she has this very earnest, honest face, all smooth lines and pale. She looks as I'd imagine Fantine to look. 
3. Amanda Seyfried as grown Cossette. YES. When I saw she was in it, I was terrified that she was playing Eponine, which would be awful, because Amanda Seyfried is too sweet. She has those big, open eyes that even made her idiotic character in Mean Girls seem endearing. She's lovely. She can sing. She can hold her own next to Channing Tatum. That is unrelated, but oh well. Cossette is a character that's complicated. You have to simultaneously want to be her, save her, and pity her. Seyfried can pull it off. 
4. Hugh Jackman is hot, and not pretty boy hot. Perfect. 
5. Sacha Baron Cohen as Thenardier? Win. He'll be creepy perfect evil. Hopefully, he'll actually disappear into the role, which would be just as cool. 
6. Helena Bonham Carter as Th's wife. She has proven time and time again that she can do evil wench. I rest my case. 
7. Anne Hathaway's voice doesn't have too much vibrato, which is actually a nice change. I wish more people sounded like Norah Jones. The British broadway revival from a while back was so full of vibrato I was bored. 
8. There is never enough Les Mis. Make it. Remake it. Wait five years. Do it again. 

I can't wait. I was raised on Les Mis. My mother played the soundtrack during my entire childhood. When my father and I saw it in London it was an existential experience. I await the day when I can add a new version of the soundtrack to my already excessive collection. 

NOTE: For those of you who are new to Les Mis, googled it, and are reading the synopsis skeptically, allow me to reassure you of one thing. Within the context of the story, it totally makes sense that Valjean goes to jail for 6 years for stealing bread. Yes, it's f-ing ridiculous, but once you're into the story, you can suspend disbelief. It won't seem at all odd. 

Dear Selena Gomez

Dear Selena Gomez,

Your 50 Shades of Grey parody is hilarious. I knew it would be. For a rich, annoying little Disney star who says things like, "I don't work out, I'm just genetically blessed," you have decent comedic timing.

Sidenote: Never, ever say that again. First of all, your time will come. It happens to all the girls who could eat like horses without consequences. Second of all, you're dating the Biebs. Don't you have enough haters? Think about your safety, little one. 

Seriously though, what the hell were you thinking? Did you forget that your fan base consists largely of adolescents? Did it not occur to you that YOU making a parody would instantly bring this book series onto their mascara-smudged radar?

Until now, our students have remained ignorant to the smoldering ways of Christian Grey, and their ignorance has been our bliss. You see, Selena, few things are sacred in this media saturated society. Our kids can find anything on the internet. They are also often unsupervised, because their parents are working multiple jobs. Who can blame them? If it comes down to feeding your children and making sure they aren't traumatized by that scene from season two of True Blood where all the citizens of Bon Temp go apeshit and sodomize each other with various root vegetables, well... You have to feed your kid, as terrifying as that sounds.

Truthfully, it sucks. Nothing is off-limits. They read Perez Hilton. They watch dozens of R movies. Today, one of my seventh grade boys was wearing a shirt that said, "Fangtasia," and I didn't even have to play it cool because we've already had the conversation. You know the one: Yes, I'm a grown up. Yes, I have a life outside of school that involves shorts that are shorter than bermudas, and sometimes I watch TV shows and movies that I wouldn't use as reference points in class discussions. No, I will not comment on most areas of this life, because even though I teach you to write narrative, there are boundaries. Because the world sucks, this conversation was over and done with in October. I wish I'd never had to have it. Do you see why this is frustrating? I can't even have my way past creepy giant hot blonde Swede fictional vampire obsession to myself.

But Christian Grey? He fell in their blind spot. No one knew about his twitchy palm. And now they do.  Or they will. And that's your fault.

Maybe you can help me out. How do I answer their questions? Here is a list of things they might ask. If you would, please type out a grammatically flawless response, organized in paragraphs by main idea.

1. What is a twitchy palm?
2. Do my parents have a sex contract?
3. Is this at all related to the Rihanna song S&M?
4. What is a butt plug?
5. How do vibrators work?
6. What's an hard limit?
7. You can get a shot instead of taking a pill for birth control? What other kinds of birth control are there?
8. What are cable ties?

Please respond as soon as possible. I anticipate backlash from your impulsive decision will be immediate, widespread, and awkward.

Love,
Pissed Off Teacher

5 Reasons Why People Text Me

There is a sale on tiny skirts at the Arsenal Mall. When I told this to a guy friend, he asked if I subscribed to a slutty skirt newsletter. After I was done being pissed that there ISN'T one (HOW MUCH TIME WOULD THAT SAVE?) I explained how I found out: 6 people texted me about it. Literally. Six. Which brings me to the subject of this blog:

Things people feel the immediate need to inform me about via text message: 

1. Leah, I saw a sale on tiny skirts. 

The way I see it, miniature skirts are the closest you can come to not wearing pants at all in public. I am known for these skirts. I have been known for these skirts since I was 14 years old.

Related Sidenote: Thank you, LHS, for having no dress code. This not only nurtured my love of tiny skirts and spaghetti straps, it taught me how to concentrate with cleavage in my face, which is helpful in my line of work. As a teacher. Of teenagers. Although today I did have to lay down the law. These words were spoken: "Male, female, gay, straight bi, it doesn't matter: No one can think straight when there is that much skin showing."

2. Leah, I found iappropriate photos of Alexander Skarsgard surfaced on the internet. 

Everyone knows of my beyond excessive obsession with True Blood. Everyone knows that between the months of June and... June, I eat, sleep, and breathe True Blood. Just now, I checked 3 spoiler websites for what character Christopher Meloni will be playing in Season 5. Right, now, I'm picturing him as Stabler, trying to investigate murders with Andy Bellfleur. In these investigations, Stabler takes his shirt off, Andy does V, and Jason Stackhouse stares vacantly at the landscape. Everyone knows that the only reason I went as Pam for Halloween last year is because despite my love of theme parties, I make a terrible dude. I figured going as his progeny was the next best thing. Suffice it to say that when there is ASkars news, I am informed multiple times. I'm not going to elaborate on the pictures, because that would rob you of the experience. Google "Alexander Skarsgard hot." You're welcome. Yeah, sorry I killed your productivity for the next 3 hours. And used up all the ink in your printer. Oops.

3. Leah, the Backstreet Boys did.. pretty much anything. 

Ever since my Dear Nick Carter letter was published, the remaining 5 people on the planet that did not know were informed: I still love the Backstreet Boys. And since watching Blue Bloods, I also love New Kids on the Block. I know... I did that in the wrong order... but I'm too young to be an authentic New Kids fan.

When the Backstreet Boys were in town, I knew (and bought tickets). When there was a groupon for their tour/boat/situation, I knew. People who hadn't talked to me in years let me know about that one.

Sidenote: I don't buy Groupons for music. I use them for the following items: pedicures, unnecessary electronic devices, temporary gym memberships, and HOT PANTS. Oh, and that one time I bought those crazy strong magnets. Something in the description called out to me.

4. OMG Leah I met another teacher! 

This one I find hilarious. It's kind of like when I went to UMass for one year. No, I do not know your friend Joe. Even if you knew his last name, I still would not know him. Even if I knew him, I would not remember him, because I was drunk, sleeping, or biking for hours on end. Yes. That was the year I biked a lot. Now my bike lives in my garage. Sometimes I hit it with my car.

Anyway, people tend to think that teachers are some sort of organized crime family in that we're all somehow related. This is not true. Not to mention, do you know where I teach? Why would I know your friend that teaches at a prep school or private university or after school SAT prep program 78 miles away?

At the end of the day, this one doesn't bug me, because I realize that it very easily could be true, like it is for Jews. Jews all know each other somehow. Correction: Jews all know my mother somehow. We could totally play Six Degrees of Jewish Separation sometime, but let's be honest: Apples to Apples Jewish Edition and Taboo Jewish Edition are way more fun. No I'm not kidding. Yes my Grandma DID kick my entire family's butt in Taboo Jew. I suck at Yiddish, unless it's an insult.

5. I just spent way too much money on boots and I need you to help me make the guilt go away. 

This I can do. I can tell you stories of how I stayed up all night to get a pair of boots, or searched nine TJ Maxx stores until I found a pair of cowboy boots I had a dream about (at TJs in CLEVELAND no less). I can tell you about the time in college when I walked home from Allston to Beacon Hill every weekend for a month because I had no money for cab fare, because I spent it on black leather cowboy boots. I can tell you about how every time I go to the mall wearing boots, I hear a woman with an accent of some sort commenting on them from somewhere behind me, and soon after I hear her child say, "Wait, I know those boots... THAT'S MY TEACHER! YO MISS I RECOGNIZED YOUR BOOTS!"

Sidenote: This is why I drive to the Burlington Mall (or further) to buy underwear. Also so I can stop at my parents' house on the way back and HELL YEAH FREE FOOOOOOOOOOOD.

I digress. No matter how reckless your purchase was, I can help. Is someone telling you those boots won't match most of your clothes? I will tell that person to shut up, and then I will help you buy (reasonably priced) clothes that DO match. I can also help you budget so you can buy more boots.

Life is about priorities. And shoes.

Yes you can quote me on that.

Why Irish men are dangerous, and how to approach them with caution.

The topic for today's blog is rather serious. No matter who you are, or where you are, if you are a woman, you have undoubtedly encountered an Irishman.

And Irish men are dangerous. If you aren't careful, you'll end up a drunk, swooning, half-naked mess. Luckily, you have me, and I have provided you with a guide. Here are the three main reasons why Irish men are dangerous, and how to keep your pants on around them. In public.



The Problem: The Accent. Irish accents are sexy. All the time. In every case. There is no exception to this rule. Even the kind of Irish accents that are barely understandable because the vowels are so warped. I met an Irish man last night and the moment he opened his mouth I was a goner. It didn't matter what he said. I thought it was hot. He could have been spewing the most ridiculous crap and I still would have been there smiling. I swear to God if he had at some point listed fruits, I would have found it both fascinating and sexy. This is one reason why Irish men are dangerous. Their accents make everything sound hot. Apple. Banana. Cherry. Date. Me. Or. Just. Take. Me. To. Bed. Just keep saying words that involve many vowels.

The Approach: When interacting with an Irishman, it is completely unacceptable to say anything about the accent being sexy. They're used to it, especially Irish men in Boston, because Boston, as we all know, is populated with dumb girls who say things like, "OMG your accent is so sexy!" and American men who live in Southie and think it makes them Irish by association. The most effective thing to do is nothing at all. Do not mention the accent. Do not ask him to say words that highlight the sexiness of said accent. Do not ever tell him that his accent is awesome. The words will threaten to escape your mouth time and time again, but you've got to lock that shit up and throw the key in the river. You also must avoid, at all costs, staring at him in wonder with your head cocked to one side only half-listening to the words he's saying because you're so enthralled by his accent. Act normal. Pretend he's a grimy frat boy from Jersey. Think about unsexy things, like sewer rats, garbage trucks, and those obese people who walk around naked in the gym locker room for extended periods of time. Sidenote: Do they ever work out? When I arrive, they're naked. When I leave, they're naked. Yesterday I saw a woman shaving her armpits at the sink and I almost threw up. There's an unsexy thought for you. 



The Problem: The Calories. Irish men drink, and they drink well. There is no "light" beer. There is no "diet" soda. They drink all kinds of beer with all kinds of carbs and calories, and they don't understand that most women can't drink a lot of beer like that without turning into cellulicious tubs of lard. This is a huge issue. On the one hand, we have to look good naked. On the other hand, we can't order some light diet soda-water-related beverage around them, because then they are unimpressed, and the goal is to impress.

The Approach: There are several ways to approach this, and I suggest you do all of them, every time.

First, go to the gym and build lean muscle so your basic metabolic rate will be faster. The more muscle you have on your body, the more calories your body burns at rest. Don't worry about getting jacked. It's borderline impossible if you're a woman, unless you drastically change your lifestyle as part of a fitness competition.

Second, do cardio every day if possible. That way, you are at a caloric deficit when you arrive at the bar, and you can afford the calories.

Third, drink scotch and make it last. Whiskey works as well. If possible, drink it on the rocks. If you can't do it, grow a pair.

Fourth, drink beer. I know this seems counterintuitive, but one or two won't kill you. Just order a real beer. Better yet, let the Irishman pick.



The problem: Everything they do is adorable and sexy, because they are Irish, and consequently makes us want to take our pants off as soon as possible. I wouldn't know what this is like because I avoid pants at all costs, but you get the picture. It is a scientific fact that normal, everyday tasks are hotter and more adorable when performed by men from Ireland. They are even cute when parallel parking and doing laundry. Think of the most menial, monotonous tasks, like checking email and putting on shoes. When Irishmen do these things, it is hot. Think of the things you hate doing, like cleaning, and getting parking tickets. When Irishmen do these things, it is hot. I don't know this from personal experience, but I'd be willing to bet that Irish men are even cute when serving jury duty. Do they have jury duty in Ireland? Food for thought.

The approach: Well, there's nothing you can do about this one. You just have to keep it to yourself. When he takes out his passport in lieu of ID to get into a bar, you can't coo. You have to pretend it's normal. When he opens a door, you can't go all googly-eyed. OMG, he stood up, how hot. OMG he waved the bartender over, how adorable. You can think it, but you can't let on that you're thinking it. The following phrase will never leave your lips: "OMG I LOVE IT!" Never. Lock it down. When all else fails, picture James Earl Jones doing the same thing. Everything Irish men do is sexy and adorable; everything James Earl Jones does is serious, honorable, and regal. If James Earl Jones took out his passport in lieu of ID to get into a bar, you wouldn't find it adorable, you would wish you had thought to bring your passport because the world is a serious place full of serious people and serious people use passports for ID instead of driver's licenses. Which Irish men don't have. Because in Ireland, people drive on the left side of the road. Which is adorable and hot. BUT NOT WHEN JAMES EARL JONES DOES IT. James Earl Jones drives on the left side of the road because he is serious, regal, and honorable. Whenever you find yourself on the verge of cooing, just think this word over and over:

MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA

See? That wasn't so hard, was it?