Things that DON'T happen in real life.. but seem to happen all the time on TV and in the movies

Masquerade balls. 

It's such a cheap shot. Oh, hey, I have a bunch of characters. They have all types of feelings for each other. Some are unrequited, tragically. Some are seen as socially unacceptable, either by society as a whole, or by the set group of people. Brilliant! Let's put tiny masks on them, spike the punch, and watch them make bad decisions. In theory it works, but there are too many inconsistencies for me to sufficiently suspend my disbelief. 


Known, documented issues with masquerade balls: 

1. Masks that cover barely half the face don't fool anybody. Actually, masks in general don't fool anybody. I know it's creepy, but if you were shown photographs of all the people you knew and saw on a regular basis, you could figure them out by their bodies and clothes. No one wants to admit to being that aware of other people's body parts, but face it, we all are. 
2. Humans, as a species, tend to take their clothes off and/or lose things while drinking. [[[Case in point: myself. You. All your friends.]]] So, at an actual masquerade party, people would get drunk and take their masks off. Therefore making the entire charade pointless. 
3. Before you say that people wouldn't drink at a masquerade party, think about it: it's a masquerade party. 
4. Finally, in any population present at a party, there are always those people, THOSE AWFUL PEOPLE that don't wear costumes. You know them. They're the ones wearing the exact same thing they normally wear, those same horrifically uncreative ones who "go as themselves" for Halloween (NOTE: It is acceptable to do this if you show up at the party after 11 p.m., when people have already begun following rule 2, and cowboy hats and boas are draped over random people, furniture, and people passed out on furniture). Anyway, those people make everything weird because they don't show up in masks, and they ruin the whole concept. Which, as I've stated, is built on flimsy logic to begin with. 

People get injured, get back up, and are miraculously unscathed the next day. 

Several weeks ago I fell down a flight of stairs. It sucked. I had a few drinks in me, but I was sober enough to feel every iota of pain. It was awful. I had to plan my lessons with whole blocks of dialogue, in case my lip (which I bit through) was still too swollen for me to talk (and students would read it off). For two weeks, I looked like an abuse victim. Bruises, huge and yellow, covered me. I couldn't bend down or kneel for a month. Yet people in TV and movies seem to get the crap kicked out of them and bounce right back. It makes me have more respect for Buffy, because at least, on that show, they address it. They literally say, several times, that she has accelerated strength and healing powers. 

No one's roots grow out on TV. 

This does not really require much explanation, but it brings up something that's just generally unfair about life: When you don't dye your hair, it takes FOREVER to grow. When you dye it, even slightly, the roots show up almost immediately. On TV, this never happens. 

Women wear loads of makeup and somehow don't look like prostitutes. 

I was watching Pretty Little Liars the other day (because yes, I watch that show. Partially to have some common ground with my students, but also because I genuinely like it). All of the main characters are loaded with makeup. The thing that I don't get is, they look fine. You know how you can wear makeup to make yourself look like you're not wearing any? It's like that, multiplied by eleven. What kills me is that if I (or any woman) wore that kind of makeup during the day (or even at night), I'd look ridiculous. I'd look like a trying-too-hard-hooker. Yet these girls (21-year-olds playing 16-year-olds, obviously), look pretty. I'm sure it's some combination of lighting and camera work. In fact, I know it is. I remember vividly how much more makeup I had to put on when going onstage. But it's just another inconsistency that bothers me. 

How to be a grown-up: COOKING

Sometimes I think there's a class I missed in college.

I can do wonders with numbers. I can tell a hell of a good story. I can outline the differences between multiple versions of The Maltese Falcon. I can talk Piaget and Freud with authority. I'm legally certified to teach 12 grades. But sometimes things happen and I wonder, how did I not know that? How did that fact somehow slip through the cracks on the 17-year sidewalk of my education?

This post is about cooking. I cooked plenty with my mother growing up, and I still call her constantly while I'm hovering over the stove wondering what I did wrong. But there are certain things that I don't know until she tells me, and from what I can gather, some of them are actually important.

There is no substitute for sugar. You can talk the benefits of splenda all day long, but if you try to make carmelized onions with it, it dissolves and leaves you with flavorless onions stuck to the pan. I used to make a wonderful asian-style lettuce wraps recipe (I have been too afraid to calculate the WW points), and I must have cooked it five times before my mother joined me and barked, "What are you doing? You have to use real sugar. The flavors won't bind. Real sugar brings out the flavor Leah!" How was I supposed to know that? Did I miss the day on how to yell with authority about sugar binding flavors?

Real cooks approximate. People on diets measure. Rachel Ray is the expert on not being exact. To avoid writing a long-winded rant about her, I'll focus on just this one unfavorable characteristic. Watch her cook and she'll say things like, "Oh, a pinch of this," and "A few shakes of this" and "A handful of that." Which is all fine and good if you're Rachel Ray, or Gordon Ramsay, or some famous sous chef in NYC, but for the rest of us who are actually concerned with the amount of muffin top hanging out of our jeans, it is necessary to measure. This lesson was especially confusing to learn. I have been on a diet of some form or another for most of my life. Even before I dieted, I knew that white bread was bad, and fat-free was good. I've also been a struggling, learn-as-I-go cook for most of my life, and it's mighty confusing when the people you observe cooking use this haphazard approximate measurement system. It makes me wonder if any famous cooks eat the food they make. But this lesson my mother taught me, in a very positive way. I interpreted it as, "If I'm logging 3 points for using extra virgin olive oil, I don't want to accidentally eat 4 points-worth and get fat. My mother, goddess of wisdom and kitchen-related wonder, responded with, "If you're logging three points for olive oil, you want to ensure that you enjoy every last drop." Truer words have ne'er been spoken.

Pre-ground thyme = mortal sin. My mother walked into my apartment a few weeks ago and was quite happy with what she saw. It's beginning to look more lived in and homey, as it should: We've been here almost 2 years. It's about damn time. But she did have one complaint, which she voiced quite vocally, as is my mother's custom: I had a tiny container of ground thyme in my spice box. Apparently, this is a moral sin, on the same level as involuntary manslaughter or negligent homicide. Little did I know that a) thyme should NEVER be pre-ground, I should buy it and then grind it as I need it, and b) it goes bad REALLY quickly in ground form. This, of course, brings up an even more interesting question (and I like to picture Ice-T asking it in a super intimidating way, as if interrogating a possible witness to the aforementioned homicide): WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THYME GOES BAD? I mean, aside from the usual things that you'd expect: war, famine, sacrificing of the first-born, tulips wilting dramatically in a windowsill while Death Cab for Cutie plays in the background. The answer is that I don't know what happens when thyme goes bad. I don't know what warning signs to be on the lookout for. I just googled it, and no combinations of Thyme, Expires, Stale, Spices and a variety of other words lead me to the answer. I did, however, find several websites that believe time / thyme is a witty play on words. Sad. I guess I'll just have to be on the lookout. Still, I wish I'd known.

snow days

Usually, I dislike snow days. I mean, I like them at the time, because hell yes it’s wonderful to have a random day off in the middle of the week. The surprise is the fun part. But I hate getting out later than necessary in June, because Lord knows by then every day is five years long.

However, all that changed the other day. I don’t even remember who told me this… if per chance you end up reading this, brilliant one, please remind me. But anyway, the person reminded me that currently days are about thirty five seconds long. Then BOOM it’s night. Come June, the sun won’t go down until nine o’clock. Thus, we need the day more now than then.

WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT?

Brilliant.

January 18, 

The ManBullyMooch

Let me begin this by saying that I am all for gender equality. I don’t believe that women should be given jobs solely because they’re women, but I do believe that the best candidate should get the job in all cases, regardless of gender. With that said, I’m not above flirting my way into and out of things. As a problem solver, you have to be prepared to use all the tools at your disposal, even if those tools involve long legs and nice boobs. Plus, men do the exact same thing when they can, and when they remember to.

This is a roundabout way of getting to my point, but I assure you, it will all make sense eventually.

This past Saturday night, I went out to the Liquor Store with my friends Stephanie and Danielle. Despite 3 years at Emerson, I have never been to this bar. I guess after hearing so many times, “You’re from Texas? You’re probably amazing at the mechanical bull, you should take your top off while doing it!” I was turned off completely. It was snowing and freezing, but we needed to celebrate Danielle’s last weekend of freedom before starting her insane workout / diet regimen in preparation for a body-building competition. Yes, I know. There aren’t enough words in the English language to explain how f-ing cool that is, so I’m not going to try.

The bar was actually pretty fun. Multiple rooms, fun decorations, good dance floor… All was well until we were approached by them.

Two men, about our age, sauntered up. One was short and unattractive. The other was tall and moderately attractive in that “I spend too long trying to make it look like I didn’t spend too much time on my hair,” tight graphic t-shirt kind of way.

“So, I was nervous but my friend said I HAVE to come up and try to talk to you ladies,” the attractive one said.

I will never understand why men use this line. Really?

We talked to them for a while. They complimented us, we smiled, we all made small talk. It was altogether uninteresting, until I started to feel this pressure when we made eye contact. There’s a moment when one party expects something from the encounter, and you can feel it in their unwillingness to look away from you. It’s the moment when the conversation becomes slightly suffocating, when you can barely answer one question before they sling another in your direction, and it’s all moving too fast and yet still it’s not interesting, and it becomes harder and harder to find a polite way out. We were at this point. I decided to say, “Come on girls, let’s do a shot.”

The boys looked at us expectantly.

“What?” I asked.

“Can we join you?” they asked.

“Sure, but you’re buying your own shots. I’m not paying for you.”

I figured this was direct enough to convey that, despite their pitiful efforts, we were not going to go home with them. Instead, they accepted.

Here’s where I made a mistake. I should’ve asked the bartender for three shots, and let the boys order their own. Instead I ordered five and said, “The two guys are paying for theirs separately.” I know, I’m shitty. I just felt like, why should he have to mix up two batches of shots two minutes apart?

Two minutes later we figured out what their game was. They were the guys who hit on girls in hopes of being bought alcohol. First, they refused to pay. Then, they paid, left no tip, and THREW (yes, threw) the bill (which was in one of those black folding things) at the bartender. Who then yelled, “What the fuck is your problem, you don’t throw the bill then NOT TIP..” and some other stuff about how they shouldn’t expect ladies like us to buy them drinks when they were such manipulative shitheads.

That poor bartender. The assholes then started calling him a loser low-life bartender, and I busted out the serious teacher voice, and they went to prey on other innocent victims. We of course tipped the bartender obscenely for our next round of drinks, then ran off to the other end of the dance floor.

All I have to say is, leave it to men to screw up something as simple as that. Yes, it’s preferable to have someone else spend money on your drink. But it’s not like a race, where most times, if you push hard enough, you will accomplish your goal. You flirt for a few minutes, and if it doesn’t work, buy your own drink. It’s not a science, or an art. It’s just part of hanging out at a bar. And if someone tells you that you’re buying your own drink, you do NOT pretend you didn’t hear and then physically and verbally assault the bartender. Ugh.

I was so angry I almost wanted to ride that damn bull. Luckily, it was turned off for the night.

Tall boy approached me an hour later and said, “Wow, what the hell was wrong with that bartender?” I smiled and said, “You have ten seconds before I break your nose. Walk away.” No, I’m not proud of it. But damn it felt cool to make that threat and know full well that I could deliver it.

Back to my original point: I believe in equality. I don’t expect things, financially, from men. I go to bars to dance with the friends I came with and possibly meet new friends. If someone buys me a drink, great. If I decide to buy someone else a drink, great. But I have no expectations, and whatever happens is fine. I don’t believe that men should always get the check. I don’t go to bars expecting for men to buy me drinks. All I ask for is to not be bullied into buying drinks for men. Is that so much to ask?

ManMooches. That’s what I’ll call them.

Ugh.

Boston Marathon 2011- Training run #1

I've officially started training for Boston 2011. I write about all sorts of topics in this blog, but I must say it feels good to finally have it live up to its URL.. so I run marathons...

Technically, our first team training run is tomorrow morning, but I didn't want to chance running long distance the day before going back to school, so I did it yesterday, and it was fantastic.

It's weird how things change as you get older. Five years ago, the most I would run alone was 8 miles. I lived in Beacon Hill, so I'd run down Cambridge street, over the Longfellow, down to the Harvard Footbridge, and back up to the Longfellow. I loved it. A solid 8 miler. Now that I'm older, I've found I'm much more willing to run longer distances alone. Plus, I'm thinner. Last night at my parents' house I looked at the Saucony 26 billboard and for the first time, I noticed what you are all talking about: My face looks drastically different without the extra 25 pounds. I was pretty then, and lord I miss that long hair (soon, soon), but I was chub chubs. Major chubs. It's so much easier to run when you're thinner. Granted I still have ten pounds to go, but still.

It's weird how I used to run short distances. I have to get back to that. Lately I'm in this mindset of "if I run, I want to run at least 9 miles." This isn't such a bad thing, but I need to do speed, intervals, hills, and short runs. I looked at my training log, and I'll run 12 miles, then not run for 5 days, then run 11 miles. I need to stop that. There should be 3-milers and hill workouts in between That NEVER used to be the way. I used to love my fast-paced 3-milers, 4-milers, etc.

When I try, I can't remember when it happened. It must have been sometime after I moved to Brookline/Brighton, because I don't have such easy access to short runs that involve mostly esplanade. I love my new neighborhood, but I so miss being half a mile from the Charles. Back then I didn't even have to count the distance I ran to get to the Esplanade. I just did it as a 10-minute warmup and then measured my mileage by the bridges. Now I'm 1.88 miles from the nearest bridge over Storrow (bay state Rd, BU). Then I'm 1.98 miles from the Everett Street exit off Soldier's Field Road. So basically, even if I run to the first one, run down the esplanade, and leave at the Everett exit, that's 6.7 miles. I could shorten it by taking the Cambridge / Double Tree exit, but I hate running there. About half the time, I zone out, and then get confused when I run up to the tolls for the turnpike. Being yelled at by cops for almost running on an interstate = not fun.

So yeah, it must have started when I moved out of Beacon Hill. As much as I love Boston, it's difficult to make routes that don't involve stopping at a thousand intersections. Even yesterday's 12-miler involved 7 minutes of waiting. That is, the difference between my start and end time was 7 minutes slower if I didn't stop my watch at intersections.

It was glorious, however. Part of the reason I think I rarely do short runs is that for distance runners, often it takes 3 miles to get into the groove, and if the run's only 3 miles, then you never even get there before it's over. In this case... well, I'm not sure exactly where the mile markers are on this run, and I'm deliberately trying not to know. I'm compulsive. Very, very compulsive. Even knowing that when I cross onto the Esplanade it's exactly 1.88 miles is very difficult, because I psychoanalyze everything. But with that said, the first 40 minutes-ish were tough. I was not feeling it. I persevered, but it was long. The route I did involves most of the Esplanade--- BU, Storrow, all the way up to Route 28, past MOS, and back down Memorial. I honestly didn't feel good until I was almost on the other side of the river. Then there was this moment when I realized "I can push it harder. I can fucking fly, why am I going this slow?" and off I went.

Towards the end, it hurt, but not too badly. I ran sub-10 minute pace, but beyond that, I didn't calculate. I suppose I could if I didn't have an aversion to math. Next Saturday, I'm running with the Fitcorp team. That should be fun.

Not sore today, surprisingly. Maybe I'm in better shape than I thought I was. Although I do have one question for runners, if anyone reads this, and if you haven't been driven away by my rambling and repetitiveness by now. Do you ever get sick after runs? I don't mean "puke when you walk in the door." Lately, if I don't eat something major within 15 minutes of the end of my run, I get really, really sick. Vomiting violently sick. This never happened before this year. Does anyone else run into this problem? Haha. run into. Luckily I managed to stuff a few pieces of bread into my system just as I felt the nausea coming on, but it wasn't as foolproof as eating a Luna bar.

OH, ONE MORE THING.
I ran 3.2 miles on a treadmill in Cleveland and went into near-anaphalactic shock. No idea what cauesed it. Luckily my brother was on the treadmill next to me, and I was able to somewhat communicate to him that he needed to retrieve our father from the family suite (my face was swollen, talking was difficult). I'm also lucky that my brother is THAT GUY who takes his cell phone to the gym with him. Now I have a bunch of random food allergies, but I hadn't eaten any of those foods. What the hell?

Okay, over and out.

Sookie Stackhouse epiphany

SPOILER: I've watched seasons 1, 2, and 3 of True Blood and read the first 8 books. Be warned.

I had an epiphany.

I'm on the ninth book of the Southern Vampire Mysteries series. Which is to say I am currently debating purchasing it, because although my lovely cousin sent me the first eight, I am having a panic attack that I do not have immediate access to all published Sookie material. However, I've been doing a lot of thinking about the difference between the books and the series, and I figured it out.

There are basically two types of POV- first person (I) and third person (she/he). Within third person, there are additional divisions based on which character(s) tell the story, and how much they know versus how much the reader knows. I won't get into it. But I do love the word omniscient. Anyway, I am an avid lover of story, be it in book, short story, movie, or television form. I love getting lost in flawed characters and complicated storylines. This is not the first time I've devoted a serious amount of thought to the difference between books and TV shows/movies. I even took "Novel into Film" at the castle, which had the potential to be a great class, except our crazy Belgian professor sucked. But he was beautiful to look at. I just didn't see much value in watching multiple versions of the Maltese Falcon. I also don't remember doing much actual comparison, concretely, of books versus movies. That doesn't mean it didn't happen. I was living in the Netherlands. It's possible that school was not my number 1 concern. Although actually, that's a lie. I adored my other classes. But the most useful thing I remember was our discussion of the Remains of the Day, and how although both versions were beautiful, the movie paled in comparison to the book.

In any event, I've been scanning True Blood versus Southern Vampire Mysteries forums and it hit me, almost embarrassing in its simplicity. All the changes made when the books were adapted into True Blood happened because the books are first person, and the show is in third person.

Think about it.

In a first person narrative, we're entirely in the narrator's head. We see, hear, think as she sees, hears and thinks. That provides us with a deep understanding of her and her world because the perspective acts almost as a running commentary. We only see other characters through the lens of her description. We only witness events as they happen to her. But in a TV show or movie, that's impossible. I'm sure it's been attempted, or somehow done in some way, but it's still not the same. The closest thing I can think of is Sex and the City. Carrie is in almost every scene. Grey's Anatomy is the  opposite: an ensemble cast.

I imagine that making the transition from first person book to third person TV show must leave a lot of empty space. Which is why they made all the changes. We can't very well have Anna Paquin narrate the entire show in a voiceover, so they had to beef up the other characters. And, in Jessica's case, create new ones.

Think about it. Every change (almost) can be explained by this theory.

1. In SVM, Eric kills Longshadow, but on TB Bill kills him. That way, he can be punished by the magistrate, and forced to create a new vamp, Jessica. More characters, more Bill. 
2. In SVM, Tara's alcoholic crazy mom was a thing of her childhood and she only occasionally appears. On TB, that's all current. More focus on an existing character. More drama. 
3. In SVM, Sam has a fairly simple backstory. On TB, his crazy pants shifter family takes up half of the third season. More Sam. Less Sookie. 
4. Lafayette is explained I think by how awesome he was, and how they wanted to keep him on the show. As for that random guy in his mother's nursing home that he hooks up with, the Wiccan, that all goes back to giving him a story if they wanted to keep him there. 
5. Eric is fantastic. Many people seem upset by his adaptation into the small screen, but I think he's brilliant. Although I did notice, the further along we get, the bigger they try to make him (physically, and storyline-wise). There is a moment in the second season when you realize, Holy Shit, Alexander Skarsgard is like 6'6. 

I won't go through every nuance, but you get the point. All of the changes, well, most of them, seem to be creating bigger, more complex characters to fill in the space left when you take away Sookie's first person narration. I'm happy. Satisfied. 

I also just found out who's playing the witch Hallow in the fourth season, from which I infer that Eric will be cursed and he will get together with Sookie. YES. 

Final notes: 

• The more I read of the books, the more amazing I think Anna Paquin is for portraying Sookie so amazingly. Think about it. The actress is a tiny, pale brunette. 
• I love Eric. Team Eric. 
• I hope the bookstore is still opened. 

XO

This is a post entirely about beautiful boots.

I found the perfect boots. It pays to be picky. Dozens of times over the past year I've been tempted to purchase "cute" boots from Target but I've stopped myself, intent on my belief that I would find THE boots, the boots that, like my black slouchy boots, I felt an instant connection with. It paid off. I had a dream about them on the airplane. Brown, knee-high, western boots. Worn brown leather. Stacked heel. One simple embellishment, nothing gaudy. The picture in my mind was so clear that I was sad when I woke up. 

We were eating at Corky and Lenny's (Jew deli in Cleveland) when I realized that there was TJMaxx next door. I felt a pull, a cosmic, supernatural pull, not unlike the pull Sookie feels towards Eric after she's had his blood. Yes. I went there. I compared my love of boots to a fictional vampire show. Bite me. HAHA I DIDN'T EVEN PLAN THAT. Anyway, while my father was paying the bill (thanks Daddy!) I ran next door and there they were. I tried them on and realized, to my dismay, that the zippers were on the outside. To say I felt deflated would be an understatement. I sank to the floor, and then I saw them... hidden in an unmarked generic brown box marked "size five-and-a-half" with large, scawly sharpie. I knew instinctively that the boots inside were size 8.5 and would fulfill my every footwear desire. I was right. 

Backstreet Boys, Book Club, That One Tough Student (of the day)

Today we had a discussion about the images that surround us in my 8th grade class. One student asked, "Miss, don't you have 200 posters of the Backstreet Boys?" These students have had me for two years, so they clearly know about my former obsession. I explained that now I only have one poster. "Why do you still have one?" they asked. I was honest. I told them that I have an old poster hanging in my study for days when I feel frustrated with teaching, to remind myself of what it was like to be thirteen, to keep myself humble. "Being 13 is easy," one girl said. ... Am I missing something? No... she's just lying...


***


S: Miss you like Cee lo? YOU'RE SO COOL. 
L: YES! I also love the Glee version. 
S: I take that back. This conversation never happened. 




***


Last period I have a 7th grade book club. Truly, they are wonderful. They're a brilliant, rowdy, mostly-male group and although they have their moments for the most part it's wonderful. Often, I make things worse actually. They are expected to read silently (except while writing or discussing) but they have so many questions, so many wonderful questions, questions that other, more structured classes don't have time to address. So what ends up happening is that I answer their questions, and one, two, nine of them chime in, and then we're all talking about the consumerism allegory in The Star-Bellied Sneetches instead of reading. Here are some of the conversations we've gotten into: 

1. Whether going to a low-income public high school or an applications-only regional vocational high school will look better on a college application. 
2. The detailed reasoning behind why they all take MCAS. 
3. The travesty that is the writing of the first three Harry Potter books. 
4. How the length of flashbacks in a novel can make or destroy it. 
5. How aggravating it is when authors create inauthentic teen characters and how easily you can tell, because it sounds like your 70-year-old next door neighbor who goes out once a month wrote it. 
6. The religious undertones in The Chronicles of Narnia

I love it. It's difficult to control them sometimes, but it's for the best reason possible. They get in shouting fights about books. 

Another reason this class is so fun is because by the end of the day, I get silly. Today, one student left for the library with a pass. 

Student A: Where's he going? 

Me: Narnia. 

Student A: Oh, okay. 

ten minutes later... 

Student A: Wait, what? 

***

Weight Watchers changed how they calculate their points. I am struggling to hold onto the fledgling grip I have on NOT getting obese. 

***

One of my students is having real trouble. She's new to the class, having been switched out of her homeroom due to bullying and drama (sometimes perpetrated by her). Today, I asked her to help another student and she didn't. I know she doesn't HAVE to help someone else, but she'd wasted three class periods refusing to take a writing test, and hadn't handed in the major assignment due 5 days ago. Then I caught her on photobotth (her desk partner's accommodations include a laptop). I snapped and wrote her up. She saw, became very upset, and tried to talk her way out of it. I ended up tearing up the referral for a couple of reasons: 

1. She explained earnestly that she was only using photo booth to check her hair (she said it so seriously, like, how dare I even conjure up the thought that she'd be taking silly pictures). I smiled. 
2. When I said, "I know something's going on with you, and that's why you're struggling with the writing prompt, but you have to give me something, some small thing I can do to help you," and she burst into tears. "I CAN'T TALK ABOUT IT," she gulped out. 

Some tiny, cynical part of me wondered if she was turning on the waterworks to guilt me. But I don't know her that well, so I realized I'd never know. Plus, how many times have you turned on the waterworks and then realized that you're actually upset? I've done that plenty. I guess there are a few things I really know for sure about this girl. 

1. Despite good and bad things she's done, things she's been caught for and things she's gotten away with, she is someone adults rarely listen to. When she gets to tell her side of the story, often the person listening has already made up his/her mind. 
2. She is a creative thinker that doesn't know she's a creative thinker because she hasn't been given or doesn't know she's been given creative freedom. 

I believed her. Plus, if she's just making it up to get out of work, the time and energy I'm spending trying to help her will make her feel so guilty that she'll turn it around anyway. I'm really good at that. 

I'm about to go make her what she called "A List of Nonthreatening Writing Ideas." Here's hoping that works. 

*** 

How awesome was Glee this week? 

*** 

xo

Why I will stop watching Grey's.

I'll do it. I'll stop watching Grey's. But first of all, I need to bitch about something annoying.

PART 1: ASS

One storyline in this episode is about a girl getting ass implants. Lexie Grey is worried that she's doing it for the wrong reasons, and the girl proceeds to convince her that she's doing it for the right reasons, for herself. However, this included a) a long speech from the girl telling Lexie she had a nice ass and b) a scene at the end of  Mark checking out Lexie's ass, which, surprise, is awesome.

NOW I"M PISSED.

Dad, if you're reading this, I don't blame you, even though it is technically 100% your fault that I have no ass. I'm happy that I am essentially a female replica of you. I love having nice legs, boxer shoulders, and curly brown hair, all of which I got from you. But sometimes, like now, I just really wish I had an ass.

PART 2: WHY I WILL STOP WATCHING GREY'S


I have been there for the long haul, Grey's Anatomy. But so help me God Shonda, I will stop watching if you keep this shit up. Allow me to explain:

1. I watched the first episode. I was 19, in my first apartment. It was Sunday night. I had just finished watching Desperate Housewives, which was an OK show back in the day, and then a new show came on. Usually, I turn off the TV. But in this case, I couldn't. The show began with a girl having a one-night stand. He asked her name, and she refused. The next day, it turned out he was her attending. She was an intern. At a hospital. SO GOOD. I was hooked. 
2. When Isaiah Washington revealed that he was a vicious homophobe, I still watched, even though Meredith had to cut Christina's wedding dress off of her, even though you waited WAY TOO LONG to get him off the show. If I ran a show, and one of my actors slung homophobic slurs at a fellow costar, I'd kill him off in the next episode. Fuck narrative arc. 
3. I watched when you killed off Denny the first time, and Izzy spent half a season crying on the floor of the bathroom. 
4. I watched during Izzygate, when you somehow thought it was a good idea to get George and Izzy together. 
5. I watched after Meredith "drowned," died, hung out with dead Denny, then came back to life, all to the tune of Snow Patrol ("Make This Go On Forever" was the one redeeming part of the episode). 
6. I watched when you, having realized your grave error in killing off Denny, brought him back as a symptom of Izzy's tumor. 
7. I watched when you had the worst episode ever and the hospital got shot up in the most slow, predictable, uninteresting way. The final ten minutes were good, though. 

If you let Christina Yang quit, for real, I will stop watching. I will always love the times we've had, and the music you've introduced me to via the show. I will not regret the time I've spent discussing it with everyone I know. But you will lose me as a fan. For real. Permanently. 

I am listening to "Make This Go On Forever" right now, for dramatic purposes. 

The weight of water, the way you taught me to look past everything I had ever learned... 

I'll close with something I tell my students when they are doing something stupid. 

MAKE A GOOD CHOICE, SHONDA. 

Love, Leah

worrying

I miss being young.

I was zoned out, wandering through my mental rolodex of memories when I realized that our worries define us. What we worry about says more about who we are than almost anything else.

THEN, I worried about the bottoms of my jeans being bleached from the salt on the ice in the winter.

I miss worrying about things like that. I miss high school, when my biggest worry was that my mother would find out. I don't like all the worrying I do now, and I don't like that it's all my own. I don't make sense. I give up.

Death and Buttons

Well, now I know. I don't handle death well.

uh...

I'm so overwhelmed.

I love my job but there aren't enough hours in the day. I spent the entire weekend doing nothing because the prospect of starting was too scary.

IMPORTANT UPDATE: I now love Maroon 5.

I may be the last person in the world to do this, but I'm doing it: Jumping on the Maroon 5 bandwagon. Why didn't I notice their awesomeness before? His voice is so smooth. It's unreal. It has this relaxed quality. The only way I can think of to explain "relaxed voice" is to provide an example of the opposite: Katy Perry. She can sing, but you can always tell that she's working hard at it. You can sense effort, and good God, the melody just casually flows out of Adam  Levine's mouth. I wouldn't be surprised if he sings that way all the time, whether he's in concert, or hanging upsidedown on a jungle gym.

Some General Thoughts

1. Hilary, you're going to be in med school for a long time. You need to make your gchat away messages more interesting. None of this "studying." Try "studying... WITH NO PANTS ON!" 
2. Did body pump today for the first time. Just now, I could barely lift my arm to brush my teeth. I had to kneel in the bathroom floor and prop my elbows up on the sink in order to accomplish the task. YES. Tomorrow, I double up on whey. 
3. Room is almost clean. Not "looks clean on surface," but "if you open the drawers it is clear that there is a rhyme and reason to their contents" clean. 
4. I'm a lot better at helping my 8th graders with math than I was at doing the math in 8th grade. 
5. My shoulder might pop out of its socket. Oh well. 
6. You know how sometimes you stare at a hot guy's muscles for motivation at the gym? I have several go-to men for this. (SIDENOTE: Unlike most women, I actually WANT to get jacked. None of this "oh, I don't want to be too bulky." Bring it on. Bulk = I can kick your ass in boxing). But anyway, there are a few men I regularly stare at to give me motivation to complete my last set of whatevers. I don't talk to them. They might as well not have names. They are purely objects, inspirational brawn if you will. Today, one of them spoke to me and I realized HOLY SHIT YOU ARE SO GAY. I'm one of the most open-minded people I know, so clearly I have no problem with this, but how can I not have noticed? Does gaydar not transfer to the gym? 
7. I told my mom about this and she said the problem is that I stare at American men. She has a whole posse of 30-something body-builders at the gym who ADORE her. "Foreign men are much easier to read, Leah" she says. They love her though. Sometimes, I want to go to Gold's just to see roided-up body-builders who can't put their arms down by their sides follow around my 61-year-old mother. Sven is her favorite spotter. Oh, life. 
8. News from the teacher FB account: My students have begun changing their names on facebook. It would be as if I decided to make my last name "Deng" because my BFFL's last name is Deng, or if I decided to make my last name "DiCaprio" because my life goal is to have ridiculous sex with him. However, I just get plain confused, think their accounts have been hacked, and frantically defriend them. They are offended of course, but how was I supposed to know that that whole mess of last names was you? Your photograph is of Justin Bieber. You have NO identifying information on your profile, except that you love Drake, but that's about as helpful as stating that you're a middle-school student: NOT AT ALL. 
9. PS: I knew Drake when he was Jimmy on Degrassi. 
10. Where did all my ties go? Father dearest gave me plenty... IE: all the fruity ones Mom gave him that he didn't want to be required to wear. Out of sight, out of mind. Where did they go though? Has it been that long since a corporate hoes / ceos / dirty schoolgirl / sketchy professor / generic excuse to wear pleated skirts and ties and look like a general whore party? Maybe we should throw one, for old time's sake. Hmmm... *wheels turning*

Love you all--- MC

rummage sale contributions!

Do you have clothes, shoes, books, purses and/or jewelry that you no longer want/need? My mom chairs a rummage sale that runs Nov. 1-3rd. Drop stuff off at my house, or give me some notice and I can pick it up. Message me for more info.


Plus, you can also feel free to shop at the sale. Good stuff... and I know from experience (in case any of you wondered where my Gucci bag came from). 

9:18 minute miles

I just ran 9 miles at 9:18 / mile pace. I AM ON FIRE.

I realize that this is not fast for many people. However, for ME? This is fast. I can run considerably faster if I'm running 4 or 5 miles only, but this is the first time I've been able to maintain that pace for 9. 9 glorious miles, during which I passed 5 men. FIVE!

I don't even know what happened. I wish I knew. I wish I had the boys XC team from HS or college to psychoanalyze it for me, because lord knows I can't figure it out on my own. I'm just going to walk around on a cloud of awesome for as long as I can.

I think Boston might be a reality this year. I need to get my weekly mileage up, in a serious way, but if I can run 9 miles on Thursday and then again on Sunday, BOTH times with a good pace... I'm feeling very, very good about this.

However, I feel like I rode a camel for 5 hours. My hip flexors are toast. But damn do I feel good.

Anyone want to run sometime? Preferably someone who's faster than I am? I really need to push myself to do the shorter runs at a quicker pace.

XO

I love running

I just ran 9 miles and it was awesome.

Starting out, I wasn't sure what I was going to do. I started out slowly. My legs felt... well, you know how there are those runs when your legs feel like lead? This wasn't one of those... it was a heavy feeling, but more similar to sandbags. It was impossible to find a rhythm. NOT in the zone.

Then I started to reminisce. Whenever this happens, I am always amazed at how many memories I have of running. My life is full of incredible things, but running is one love that's been around longer than many others.

Though now that I think about it, I've had many long-term lovers.

• ballet
• rum
• dancing
• torn sweatshirts, legwarmers, general Flashdance attire
• costumes
• peanut butter
• men with broad shoulders
• cars with spare tires on the back
• Backstreet Boys
• writing
• reading
• bass
• summer
• obscenely bright nail polish

Anyway back to running. It's amazing to me how much I remember. Hundreds of races later, I can still remember the way my feet felt in flip-flops on the dead grass at the Brown Invitational. I still remember the indoor track practice when we ran in the rain, and I realized that if I didn't brush my hair, I had ringlets. I remember putting makeup on after practice to go lift weights with the boys. I remember reminiscing about that a couple of years ago over mojitos and giggling hysterically. I remember which boys didn't race in underwear, how much every monogrammed sweatshirt cost, and every time I got partially (or entirely) naked in public to change because the baathrooms were too far away. Crosby dancing. My famous kick. Grandma Dorothy at my XC meet frosh year. My nickname freshman year at UMass, assless wonder ("it's a wonder she can sit down at all, let alone run!). Oh, and that BITCH who stomped on my foot during the first 100 meters of that race at Roger Williams. Her spikes tore a hole in the top of my spikes, and when I finished, there was blood up to my ankle. Jam sessions with Emerson XC in KB's apartment (she had probably 10 instruments). Early morning Dunkin while waiting at Boylston/Tremont for the bus. Peeing my pants three times during the marathon (I was SO PROUD of that. It's surprisingly difficult). 

By this point I was running much faster. I was listening to that Black Crowes song, She talks to Angels, and I sped up. Then BRMC's Weight of the World. Then Britney (YES). 

Good God it felt good. My knees were sore by the end but I was f-ing flying. 

I should mention that by the kayaking place (so, 3-4 miles to go), it started pouring. I had just run over the Harvard Footbridge and I figured, well, fuck it, I might as well keep going. I try not to run in the rain, because now it matters when I get sick, but this was by accident, so I figured it was okay. 

I love running in the rain. There's something so primal and strong and fantastic about not letting any weather get in your way as a runner. It's one of the many reasons I loved training for Boston. You're required to do most of your long runs in subzero weather. By the tiime you get to the marathon, it's a balmy 70 and you're like "Really? I was worried about this? I ran in weather so cold when I peed in the woods it froze before hitting the ground." True story, btw. 

Now I'm soaked and freezing and I smell like feet but hell I am SO HAPPY. 

And I ran fast. :) It felt fantastic. 

Love you all. 

Things I wish I could tell my BU neighbors

1. If you continue to walk out in the middle of traffic, you will get hit by a car.
2. Thanks for making all the cops angry. Last summer, when crazy lady hit my minivan (RIP minivan), the cop's exact words were "Listen up you little brat..." and he was shocked that I wasn't a BU undergrad. 
3. It's 2 a.m. on a Tuesday. Some of us have work in the morning. Shut the fuck up. I understand your passionate need to hotbox your bathroom while playing Stevie Nicks at full volume. In fact, I may have done the same, but I was living in Holland, so it's all kind of a blur. However, I respect that. Just not at 2 a.m. 
4. Out of state students- Hire people to move you into your dorms. Your parents can't drive worth a damn. If you were not taught to drive in this city, you shouldn't be trusted in an overstuffed Explorer with the rearview blocked. 
5. To the girl who yelled, "Do I LOOK like someone who cares about other people?" as Stephanie and I were walking by yesterday: No, dear, you don't. I'd go as far as to tell you that's not a good thing, but then I run the risk of a "talk to the hand" or an "ask me if I care" retort, and that's one risk I'm not willing to take. 
6. Do not play Ke$ha before 10 a.m. I guarantee you that she doesn't wake up until at least eleven, and probably doesn't bust out her toothbrush and Jack Daniels until at least noon, so I'm sure she'd approve of this plan. 
7. Stop blocking the footbridges to the esplanade. It's bad enough that I have to run 1.98 miles through your campus to even cross Storrow, and now you make me wade through sweaty plaid bodies to even get to the ramp? Make a path. 
8. In no way does your campus require 3 official (and 2 unofficial) T stops. WALK. 

To Plan or Not to Plan

I had this epiphany during a workshop I took this past summer. The woman running it wrote in her book (that I have taken on as my bible/torah) that your goal as a teacher of writing is NOT to have a set curriculum of lesson plans that you follow to the letter. Good teaching involves creating as you go. I totally believe in this, but at the same time... there's a little part of me that envies people who don't have to plan so much.

I'll get better at this. I will.

Hi

I am so tired but so happy.

Shalom.