PUTA: a poem

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 did that open-eyed
wild-haired
bright-faced 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
makes you ask,
"are you on your period?
is that why
you gave me detention?"

the little girl 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 covered in shadow
her mouth now spewing
spanish words i
shouldn't know
the definitions of
but i do
unfortunately

well 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

not every puta can do that

WHEN I WAS FIVE

When I was five

I decided the trees

were all boys or girls

(tall trees were boys)

(short trees were girls)

When I was five

I hated to read

but halfway through

Ramona Forever

I hid under blankets

with a flashlight

(couldn’t put it down)

When I was five

I chopped off dolls’ hair

and cried

when I realized

it wouldn’t grow back.

Impatient,

I cut my own hair

then baby brother’s hair

until Mom hid the scissors

(thank God).

When I was five

David threw sand

stung my eyes

broke my heart

(we got a divorce)

When I was five

I rode horses all day

tiny cowboy boots

dry heat

When I was five

ballet was my love

I danced through gym class

“Leah, pass the ball!”

(can’t hear you,

busy spinning

my hands in the air).

When I was five

I wore a shower cap

to school

My mom couldn’t stop me

so she gave up

(can you blame her?

I was five).

When I was five

Mom went away

and Dad fed us peanut butter and jelly

for all three meals

Mom was not pleased

“It’s pretty healthy food, Leah,

tell your students that,”

he insists

when I call him

to ask for details

about when I was five

Hanukkah 09 Recap

I CLEANED UP this Hanukkah. It was the best Hanukkah ever. The only one I can think of that was better was 5th grade, when I got a boombox and Hootie & the Blowfish's Cracked Rear view. God damn, what a good album that was. You don't get that many albums nowadays that you can just listen to straight through. I blame iTunes. And Bush.

The top gifts:

• a drill. so I can drill things. and drill holes in things. and sometimes, i will even drill different-sized holes in things.
• a label-maker. I already labeled the cactus in the kitchen. "cactus." in case you thought i labeled it with something else.
  
• jew bling for my phone. i now have the five books of moses represented in silver keychain form.
  
• A BULLET BLENDER. oh my god, it's like, imagine a food processor and a blender got together and did a lot of cocaine, a lot of steroids, and then had a baby.
  

You know what really bugs me? Those movie trailers that are 3 minutes long and somehow manage to say almost nothing about the movie. what a waste of time. Boo sex and the city 2.

Just kidding. I didn't mean it. I swear. Promise. Forgive me?

Writing yet again about dieting (how boring, you should fire me)

Let me begin by saying that I know diets. I've been on one, more or less, for the better part of my twenty four years. Growing up in Texas it's just a reality. When we moved to Boston, my mother used to joke with New England natives about how in Dallas, they put the diet drug Phen-Fen in the check-out line next to the bubble gum. The next time we went grocery shopping, I eyed the bubble gum in the check-out line, wishing there was Phen-Fen there like in Dallas, so I could be the same size at the Limited Too as my (slimmer) friends. I was ten.

I won't say that I've been through all the diets in the book, because I haven't, and thank God. Here is a list of weight-loss measures I have tried:

1. running. I started by running a mile a day in 7th grade, and ended up... a runner.
   
2. anorexia. I wouldn't recommend it.
   
3. bulimia. I also wouldn't recommend it.
   
4. Atkins. Not a good idea for a vegetarian.
   
5. South Beach: Works like a charm, but is impossible to sustain for life.
   
6. jenny craig: also works wonderfully, but is ridiculously expensive, and although it teaches you portion control, there's no lifelong method.
   
7. crazy expensive gym with personal trainer 4x a week: also works, but slowly, and I didn't learn anything about the muscle groups. Idiots.
   
8. winging it.
   

Some worked. Some didn't. Some worked really well- South beach, first time around, was amazing. I was so thin. Elyse, do you remember that? I came to visit you at Scotty's? I was CRAZY thin. But again, it just seemed so hard to sustain. I do well with structure, so I do well with most diets at first, and even for a few months. But after that, I'd get fat again.

I had the epiphany that I wasn't looking for a diet sometime around last spring. I realized that the problem with all these diets is that they don't promote lifestyle changes. Or maybe they do, and I just completely missed that. I was so busy trying not to hate myself physically that I changed my lifestyle drastically to fit a diet, and then when the diet fell away, I was left with nothing.

I tried all summer to lose weight. I told myself, I want to change my lifestyle so that these bad eating habits don't come naturally, so that if I fall off the wagon occasionally, it won't be so hard to get back on. And I tried, God love me, I tried. But it wasnt' enough.

It was Elyse that finally inspired me to do Weight Watchers. More about that later. Need to watch Cougar Town.

Thoughts on October 26, 2009

I'm so tired. I love my job, I really do, and I know it will get easier every year, but whoever said that the second year of teaching is significantly easier than the first is lying. A bit, maybe. But not a lot.

I am so frustrated with my students. I want so much to motivate them, but it has to come from them. At a Halloween party last year, an old friend from high school/temple said, "Wow, so you're like Michelle Pheiffer in Dangerous Minds," and I couldn't comprehend the comparison. Movies, books, all narratives essentially, are made with the audience in mind. There are things like narrative arc, climax, rising action, characterization, etc. Real life is a lot less interesting. It tends to wear on you day by day, like a layer of gauze between you and the outside world, until finally your mind is so blurry that you sleep for 14 hours starting at 7 p.m. Friday night.

I will, however, try to use positive motivation whenever possible. I can't keep giving detentions. There's no point. I am happy with my decision to not hold afternoon detentions anymore (Haleluyah), but still, something about the model is broken. I don't know.

I ... am tired.

Loans

Here's the thing about my relationship with loans. I love the idea that borrowing money is so easy, but the interest freaks me out. Most people are okay with it. I am not. I worry, agonizing, calculating how much more I'm actually going to have to pay back beyond my original principal amount because of how slowly I'm going to pay it back.

I know you have to pay to borrow money, and nothing's free, but I still lie awake at night hyperventilating about the 20+thousand dollar graduate education that very well may end up costing me over thirty. And although I'm prone to exaggeration, this, dear friends, is not an exaggeration. I have the loan payoff calculator bookmarked. Apple-D baby, Apple-D.

I can't figure it out. On the one hand, I want to subtract my living expenses from my paycheck and send the rest into Sallie Mae. On the other hand, what if I need more money than I anticipate. And shouldn't I be saving?

Saving is another thing I wonder about. I love the idea of saving money and buying a place. But I wonder... what good is putting away money each month if I'm rapidly incurring interest? Won't I eventually be spending all the money I save on the interest I'm incurring while I'm saving it?

My inability to answer an MCAS prompt

It's funny, actually, that so many writing prompts involve choosing a relaxing place. The irony that I of all people am tasked with teaching 13-year-olds how to best organize their thoughts into an MCAS response is... well, we'll talk about that later.

I always do what I ask my students to do. Maybe not immediately, or in the exact same way, but I would never ask them to try a strategy I haven't tried myself. As a result of this, I've tried to do the MCAS prompt about a special place I go to relax. And... I can't.

I wasn't an overanxious kid, as far as I know. I'm sure I was as demanding and outspoken as I am now, if not more so, but I wasn't so high-strung that I never relaxed. I just can't remember relaxing places from my youth that I went to with any regularity.

I remember moments, not place with broad, overarching feeelings attached to them. My parents' bed was one place I remember going to cool down. They always had silky sheets that were crisp and cool against your cheeks, and this comforter with a nubby design that I loved to pick at (and that my mother, naturally, loved. I remember their pillow shams, the stiff ruffled edges, so full of ... pillow stuffing... that I thought they might pop. I remember the darkness in the air, even in the bright mornings, and I remember a velvety blanket we used only occasionally. I remember that I had to lie a certain way to attain maximum comfort between my mom and dad.

I remember hide and seek. My brother and I spent years trying to craft the perfect position to hide in. We were positive that if we crumpled the covers up JUST SO, then the seeker wouldn't notice the human body rolled up in them. I don't think we ever succeeded.

But I also remember traumatic memories tied to that bed. I remember running in the middle of the night, zig-zagging across the living room, and hurling myself at them, only to be picked up, tossed over a broad shoulder sack-of-laundry-style, and carried back to my bed. I remember how far away the floor looked from where my head rested on my mother's shoulder as she carried me. I remember throwing up all over her, en-route, the puke staining her blue nightgown in streaks of dark navy. I remember how they used to calm me down.

Leah, look at one spot on the wall. Tell me five things you can see, five things you can feel, and five things you can hear. The first time a guy really hurt me, like, treated me like garbage, I dug my fingernails into my palms and pretended you were asking me to do that again.

So, what do you do with that? What if your memory isn't compartmentalized by emotion? I mean, I'm not worried about my life. I think it's a good thing that my memories are so multi-faceted and vivid that no place ever evokes solely one feeling. But still... it makes you think.

And ramble, clearly.

Loveyouall-lw

PS: Being a writer means...
-Sometimes you have to write, even if it's late, because the thoughts bubbling inside your head are too much to sleep.
-Sometimes you can't fully enjoy something in the moment, because you're already thinking of how to express it in words. This, however, lets you enjoy it later.

Day Sixteen

Day 16... -10 pounds and counting...

BIG thoughts

Done.

Maybe that’s why I took so long to finish the 8th grade poetry book. Because on some level I knew that the completion of that would really mean the end. I mean, what do I really have left to do? Buy envelopes. Pack. Organize. Find those damn letters. Dayanara is afraid to go to high school so she’s subconsciously sabotaging herself with negative behavior. Is it all that different? Probably not.

the sheer volume of information I have in my head is overwhelming on a level I never thought possible. If I thought I could write it all down I’d try, but I don’t know how far I’d get before losing it completely. However, one skill I have perfected this year is learning to take my own advice, and practicing what I preach, so more often than not I find myself saying, “What would I tell a student who had this problem?” It works, surprisingly. I think using student strategies helps talk me down from my metacognitive cliff because a) they are good strategies, b) we are not that different and c) it keeps me humble. So, how would I advise myself?

First, a flood of ideas would deluge my mind. Then, I would consider where the student was coming from on every level I could think of, and suggest something I thought they could handle. So, what can I handle now? Right now, I need structure. I need some way to express these ideas, some medium, because or else I’ll burst (or deflate). But I think I need to structure it so I don’t freak myself out.

Marion’s idea of color coding everything is probably going to help in the later stages of this mental inventory and organization, but for now, I think I’ll just broadly compartmentalize. If I had to put all the info, duties, plans, necessities, every part of my life into three buckets, what would they be labeled?

Personal/me, curriculum, remembering as much as I can.

There. There are my buckets. So, here’s the plan which I just came up with forty five seconds ago. I’m going to carry a notebook. Or maybe a little, four-subject notebook. and I’m going to keep a running list. Listing is another thing I tell students to do, because it’s not as scary as paragraphs and sentences, and more often than not, when you take the pressure out of the equation, most of your bullet points end up being sentences or something like them anyway. But regardless, I’m going to list. Two lists for each, one on computer, one on paper. And that way, I’ll remember everything I can.

How did someone with such poor executive functioning skills by nature get a master’s degree in education? I sit, in this room, in this disastrous hellhole covered with clothes, middle school vampire literature, New Yorker magazines and school supplies, and marvel at my ability to teach nine different classes when I can barely locate my right foot. But I’m working on it. Baby steps.

Just start listing. You might miss something, a thought might fly out of your head while you’re using your brainpower to write another thought on paper, but if you never start writing, odds are you’ll lose both of those thoughts.

I wonder what a thought looks like. That would make a cool personification exercise. If you had to give a visual representation of “thought” how would you do it? Food for thought. HAH thought.

So, I’m glad I wrote all that. I’m sure it’s a mess, but the point is, I wrote it, and in doing so, I talked myself down off of my metaphorical, metacognitive cliff. I wrote to move time. Before I started, it was standing still, and I was not happy about that. I hate when time stops. It’s unnatural, illogical, impractical and wasteful, because inevitably when time starts up again, you miss the time you would have had if time hadn’t stopped. Say time stopped at 12:40 a.m. for roughly two minutes. When time starts again, it’s 12:42, and you’ve missed 120 seconds, skipped, gone, adieu.

But anyway, I hate it when time stops, and when I closed the document, it did just that. When time stops, you feel everything. Where your bangs lay on your forehead. Tongue against inside of your front teeth. Ring sliding down finger. Sometimes I swear sound slows down too, but I’m not entirely sure about that.

I don’t do well with big transitions. In fact, let’s call them negative transitions. I don’t mean bad, I mean diffused. When I suddenly have a lot less to do, and a lot more time, I flip out. The sudden loss of that is horrifying. It’s why I got depressed after running the marathon. I looked
up marathons overseas compulsively. I planned training runs. I even bought new sneakers. You need something to fill a void that size.

The real issue is that my 8th graders will be gone. My eyes are crossing with the revelation. I always tell them sometimes you have to write 5 pages of junk to get to that one great line. Well, I had to ramble about all this GodKnowsWhat to get to this place. The place where I’m going to lose a piece of myself when they go. It’s not weird or inappropriate, it’s just reality. They made me the teacher that I am today. Wow.

Need to sleep on that.

Sometimes I think I'll never have the time and energy to revise my own writing. Well, what I'm doing now is more important anyway.

Day One

Somehow, every year at around this time I find myself in the same place: a fat place.

Every year, regardless of how good or bad I look, I'm unhappy. The thing is, as far as I know (and to be truthful, I may not know as much as I think I know, given that I'm hardly an objective observer), every year it's a little bit worse. I think about past Junes, picture my figure, and say, "Wow, to think I thought THAT was fat." I reminisce about the various diets I've tried, some successful, some ridiculous. And I always wonder if it will ever end.

Last summer, I was complaining and a fellow lifeguard said, "Leah, you say you've been overweight for 5 years, and that you want to get back to your 'normal' weight? Five years is a long time. Maybe this is your new normal." It stung, cut like a knife, burned, whatever, insert all cliches denoting pain. But it really got me thinking... Is she right? What if I'm fighting a battle I can't win?

I've tried them all.

Atkins worked minimally, but was seriously unhealthy. Plus, being a vegetarian basically meant that I ate eggs and Greek salad for an entire summer, because the snack bar at the Boston Sports Club didn't sell anything else. Not a long-term plan.

South Beach worked, but I couldn't keep it up long-term.

Jenny Craig worked, but it didn't promote independence. They say you learn lessons that you can apply to your whole life diet-wise, but it's not true. Once you stop eating just Jenny meals, you're lost.

I also tried intense personal training and tons of protein. Worked, but hard to maintain.

I learned from all of them though. South Beach and Atkins taught me about how our bodies process fat, sugar, carbs, etc. Blood sugar, etc. Jenny taught me portion control, and personal training (James, I should say), taught me about the effect muscle has on the whole mix.

Now, though, I think I'm ready.

I think about what my friend said about my new normal, and I scream inside, because you know what? It's not my new normal. I am supposed to be slim. My body is built that way. I will never be skinny, because I have huge shoulders, and I'll always have lots of muscle, but I am not supposed to look like this.

I start tomorrow.

This did not turn out to be good writing. It was more like word vomit, that I had to get out of my brain.

That's okay.

XOXO_Mc

Ruminations

My feelings for them can be compared to the feelings you experience when you see a hardened, whored-out woman walking towards you on the street. I don’t mean faux-trashy BU undergrads with their black stockings torn by French-manicured nails, I mean the woman whose hair could be dyed or dirty, anybody’s guess. She’s tattooed, pierced in nineteen places, her eye makeup smeared, stumbling down the street. Half of you recoils in disgust and wants to sterilize the ground she's walking on, and the other half wants to reach out to her, give her a damp towel, and hug her, asking, "How did absolutely everything go wrong for you?"

But at the end of the experience, you realize that this is a fleeting moment of horrified pity, five seconds in your life, the life of a person that can afford five second breaks to think about things like that. On second six, your mind returns to whether Kenmore Square will be mobbed, if the gas gauge is accurate, what you’re going to teach tomorrow, what leftovers wait in the fridge. You can't stop for more than five seconds. You can’t let either half win, because you have to live your life and not get sucked in.

365 things about me... #1-25

As a result of a double dog dare...

We'll see how far I get. I'm tired.

365 things about me

1. I'm 5'6.
   
2. In high school, elizabeth had a website and she posted a picture of me, tanned, grinning sleepily, in the car on the way home from the beach. The caption was "5'5 with brown eyes... smile like the sunrise" like the song. I didn't correct her.
   
3. My mom just called, and when I told her what I was doing, she suggested that I add this tid-bit, which I have probably heard, but forgotten: When I was a toddler, I really wanted to wear an ace bandage wrapped around my waist (over my shirt) and a polka-dotted shower cap. My mom, when faced with the task of going against my desire to do so, gave in and let me wear the outfit. She swears every mother who noticed in the grocery store understood.
4. I have terrible vision. I wear contacts, and it's correctable, but it's bad without them.
   
5. I usually have tan lines yearround.
   
6. I wear short skirts because I like my legs. I am not ashamed of this.
   
7. For my Bat Mitzvah, I couldn't find a dress that fit. That's how awkward I was. We had to have one made by a dressmaker. I ended up loving the entire experience. She did all the alterations on every prom dress I wore.
   
8. I am a mess. I work so hard to be organized, but... alas...
9. I lived in Texas until I was 10. I am glad I moved. I think bad things would have happened if I hadn't moved.
   
10. I think Dr. Pepper is an aberration.
    
11. I used to live in a castle.
    
12. I find Hugh Laurie extremely attractive.
    
13. I watched the new Hannah Montana movie illegally online last week. I loved it.
    
14. I grew up line dancing to Billy Ray Cyrus' "Achey Breakey Heart."
    
15. I was the north texas state champion horseback rider two years running. I'd love to ride again. Take me riding. I'll love you forever.
    
16. I think it's horrible that the brookline high school/middle school girls are trying to pull off wearing stockings and tank tops. I don't understand. You need to get dressed to come to school. If I can see your underwear through your stockings, that's a problem. This coming from a girl whose high school had no dress code, and.. well, I've worn my share of slutty things. I've pushed many envelopes. If I think it's bad... it's bad.
    
17. I love V8.
    
18. Smells transport me. Whenever I smell a certain variety of the "outdoor barbecue" smell, I am transported to Shade street, almost done with the run, pushing hard, trying to keep up with the older, faster girls, and smelling that food, and almost hurling, but still running...
19. There is always a moment when you walk outside and it just smells different. In this moment, you know it's spring. In 2006, I was walking back from the bus stop in Well, Limburg, NL. I had a huge backpack on that I was struggling to carry. I had just spent the weekend in Amsterdam with my mother, who had come all the way from Boston to visit me. I remember it so clearly. I was wearing those american eagle jeans, the danskos she'd just bought me, my trench coat, and I had my old, pre-ipod mp3 player with me. It was damp, and I just knew.
    
20. I hate intolerance.
    
21. I would wear a chunky digital watch with a cocktail dress, if no one reminded me not to.
    
22. Ooh, lesson idea: list stories that you've heard, or that you've told, a million times. or, added onto my oral tradition strand... hmm...
    
23. I'm so psyched that Tep moved in down the street. I was getting sick of driving to Watertown. Thank GOD.
24. I wish I remembered everything, even though I know I'd be totally overwhelmed.
    
25. I <3>

10 things I would change if I could

I have no recollection whatsoever of writing that blog about running camp. I know I wasn't drunk... maybe I was half-asleep? Wow. Some people sleeptalk, I sleepwrite, or sleepblog.

Well, since I have a strict rule of always doing assignments I give to my students, I decided to do the territories prompt I gave my literary magazine this week. Also, they reminded me. "Miss, did you do this already? You know your rule. You have to do all the assignments you make us do. It's only fair."

Ten things I would change if I could:

1. If I could, I would like Jeremy Irons to follow me around and narrate my life in third person. His voice is so gravelly, evil and incredible... Plus, I think I would get street cred from my fifth graders if Scar from the Lion King was my personal narrator.
   
2. You should be able to get married, regardless of gender. I don't understand the opposition. If you're against gay marriage... then don't get one, and shut up about it. It's not your concern.
   
3. I would like to be able to operate on 3 hours of sleep.
   
4. I wish one of my students specifically would take writing seriously, because he's a brilliant and wonderful writer and person.
5. I would make Karolina's wedding during Feb. vacation next year so I wouldn't have to use my personal days.
   
6. I would get tons of computers for my school.
   
7. I would make more hours in a day.
   
8. I would make Houghton Mifflin or Simon Schuster call me and beg me to publish my own curricular resource on writing instruction for a ridiculous compensation.
   
9. I would make protein shakes taste better.
   
10. I would snap my fingers and have my brother find his perfect job.
    

Over and out--LW

JUST like that, I'm back at running camp

the way the chilly air is hitting me through my window reminds me of foss. i smell pine. i feel anticipation. 5, 7, 9 tomorrow? more? less? who cares, as long as i'm moving.

satiny feel of my sleeping bag. always the navy one. softer.

sometimes i thought i could hear other cabins talking quietly. could have been crickets.

that burn of wanting, waiting, excitement.

i remember.

lw

good morning upper east siders

I don't like Blair and Nate together again. It's wrong. It's just convenient, that's all.

I have a confession to make, however. I was so horrified by Vanessa and Chuck that I almost gagged, but somehow, at the end of the morning after scene, I was completely speechless and unable to construct cogent thoughts. Damned good actors.

Welcome to the Jungle

 

There are some things you need to understand about this picture. 

1. I was not holding a guitar of any kind. 

2. I was not pretending to play air guitar. 

3. Mary Kate and I decided to take an entire series of photos of ourselves headbanging. As in, at least 20. 

4. The majority of these pictures will never be seen by anyone but me and Clayton (my computer). 

5. My shirt is from Forever 21. I am 23. I am only slightly ashamed. 

6. Lovely, generous people who leave their tabs open to the general public are both a gift and a curse on humanity (and my metabolism). 

7.  Does anyone remember that Alanis Morisette video where she's 

8. I am currently eating oriental rice crackers. 

9. #8 is not related to #1-7. I am okay with this. 

Love you all, 

lw

PS: more pics to come

badass canoes

Mega, I will update my blog. Promise.

But until I do... KBlack, I had a dream about you. I don't know if you still read this, or if you forgot I exist, but in my dream, we were in a hardcore canoeing contest. Like, badass canoeing. Hope you're doing well :)

<3 lw

SNOW DAY!!!

NO SCHOOL TOMORROW!!!!!!

:)

Is it wrong to cry over someone you've never met?

I was named after my great Grandma Leah, and I never really knew much about her until I started organizing my grandma's things. She was a writer, like me. She published in newspapers, journals, about so many different things .And she was a good writer! The way she wove words into sentences... I don't think I'm that good. I don't think I'm anywhere near that good. How do you teach that? This was before Lucy Calkins and Nancie Atwell, before writer's workshop and freewrites and invitations to edit and revise.

Writing used to be taught like a formula, like mad libs. Fill in the blanks. Arrange your sentences like this. Topic sentence, three supporting details, concluding sentence. Five paragraph essays.

How, in that environment, did she break free of all that?

I wonder what she was like. I wonder what her family thought of her. My family, historically, is the type that expects children to follow in their parents' footsteps. My father was never fully forgiven for not going into the family law firm. His brother resents him for it. His father thought less of him. He got out, and did something different, and that was unheard of.

My parents have always been supportive of me in my various pursuits. When I wanted to be a ballerina, my mother drove me all over creation for lessons. After my first month en pointe, she calmly bandaged my wounded, bleeding, nine-year-old feet and carried me to bed. You know those scenes from dance movies where the main character dramatically unveils bleeding feet from dancing on her toes? Yeah, imagine doing that when you're NINE YEARS OLD. I thought my feet were going to fall off. When you're nine, everything is much more dramatic.

When I wanted to be a singer, my parents helped me through my voice drills and came to every musical I was in. They have kept every article I've ever had published, and every story I've ever written. They are in the box where we keep the passports. I don't know why the passports and my beat reporting of the UMass tennis team are stored together, but oh well. I suppose both are important?

But when I took my first marketing class and declared a marketing minor, it was like the sun shone out of their eyes they were so proud. See, I am the spawn of two highly-educated people in the field of marketing. When I used to go to MIT parties, Sloan students would hit on me once I introduced myself because they'd recognize my last name.

"Are you related to Gordon?"
"Yeah, we're related."
" He's like, a marketing GOD! Is he like, some distant cousin of yours?"
"Um... he's my dad."

Basically, despite my parents trying hard to support me, there's a part of them that always wanted me to follow in their footsteps. It's just something about my family.

And, before that long detour about me, I was talking about my great grandma, and wondering how she dealt with all that. Can you picture a woman, at that time, running around interviewing people?

How awesome!

I just really wish I'd known her. I wish ... I don't know. For some reason, finding all this out took a toll on me emotionally. It sounds silly, I'm sure. But I really wish I'd known her. I feel this odd connection to her.

As usual, my timing sucks.

lw

The "Older man in denial about losing hair who wants to smell like a cedar closet full of newspapers, sweaters, mahogany and leather" brand of shampoo

According to Google's walking directions, it is 9.3 miles to my parents' house. I am tempted. But I have no iPod, because it is buried somewhere in a pile of clothes.

Pros:

• I have been lazy all day, so I should run. Instead of going on the super run I planned, I sat on my bum all day and read poetry. I told myself I was researching for the unit I'm teaching soon, but that's just how I justified it.
  
• I would get in better shape.
• I would get one step closer to having my legs back in fighting/miniskirt shape.
  
• Maybe I would acquire a butt. But that's a stretch.
  
• My boobs might get smaller if I run 9.3 miles, because I might lose weight miraculously, and sweet God am I sick of them.
• It will increase my cardiovascular strength.
  
• Running makes me happy.
  
• My parents will be surprised to see me sans minivan.
  
• I will save gas by not driving.
  
• I will save the planet by not driving and releasing toxic chemicals into the atmosphere.
  

Cons:

• It will take a while. Not 3 hours, because I will run, but it will take me a while.
  
• My back hurts, and my knees hurt.
  
• I am still dehydrated from that horrible drink last night. Why disguise it as a drink? Why pretend it's some classy mix of flavors? Why not just be honest and call it "whiskey on the rocks?"
  
• I am still out of shape. Maybe this is too much of a jump.
  
• I have no spare clothes at my parents' house. I would have to attend their dinner party in sweaty running clothes.
  
• I have no shampoo at my parents' house. I would have to shower and use my dad's brand of shampoo, "Older man in denial about losing hair who wants to smell like a cedar closet full of newspapers, sweaters, mahogany and leather" brand.
  
• My shoes are biting the dust. They might not have the shock absorption or medial support to carry me through 9.3 consecutive miles.
  
• I can't listen to U2!
• My inhaler is almost out of juice.
  
• I would be late, and my mom would yell at me.

Well, after all that, my mom just called and forbade me to run. I may be an adult, but you don't disobey DiAnne. Not if you know what's good for you. Love you mom. Not that you remember me giving you this blog address, but on the off chance that you do... shalom alechem.

Random thoughts: What did we do before we had loofahs to use in the shower? Really, what did we do?

goede nacht
tot ziens
lw

ps: Megaboobular, since when do you have a blogspot blog? Could you post to it, so I can read it? It would make me absurdly happy. Like, jump on Oprah's Couch happy. Ben and Jerry's naming a flavor after me happy. Pants being outlawed happy. Making it to the top of Heartbreak Hill Happy. Captain Morgans happy (that one's for you).