PUTA: a poem (revised)

You look the same

in your fifth grade

ID picture

but different

I look at you now

as you slump

against the back of the

green, metal chair

and wonder

where'd that 

wild-haired

bright-eyed 

ten-year-old

go?

You didn't have bangs back then

maybe the fringe hiding your right eye

is what makes you evil

maybe the hair gel seeping into your brain

is what makes you ask,

"are you on your period?

is that why

you gave me detention?"

the little girl in the picture

the one without the eyeliner

would never have said the word "pad"

out loud

without trying to

smash chin

into chest

bright red

mortified

wanting to disappear.

so where is that

sweet

little girl?

her frizzy black hair

now flattened and gelled

her wide eyes

now ringed with liner

covered in shadow

her mouth now spewing

spanish words i

shouldn't know

the definitions of

but i do

unfortunately

you know what? 

i might be a

PUTA

but i'm still the

PUTA

who tries to wipe the slate

clean after every nasty comment

you can't resist yelling

i'm still the

PUTA

that wants to read your words

even if yesterday they were

swears screamed at top volume

i'm the 

PUTA

who can sit down next to you 

twenty minutes after being called a 

PUTA 

swallow my anger

and read your poem

with an open mind

I'm the PUTA who gives a shit

not every PUTA can do that

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

Snookie's Beautiful Prose

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is NOT what she writes about.

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

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

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

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


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

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

Leave the publishing to the rest of us.

Word Vomit Part 2

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

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

Word Vomit Part 1

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

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

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

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

Word Vomit Part 1: 12/19/11

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

BOOTS: A LOVE STORY

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


There aren't words. 


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

Everything I did today to avoid being productive

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

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

READ THIS BEFORE DATING ME

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

DON'T tell me my job is easy.

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

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

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

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

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

Scene: First Date. Restaurant in Boston area. 


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

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

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

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

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

Dear Nick Carter

I'm 26, and I still love you.

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

I did some pretty epic things that year.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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


Love, Leah

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

2011-2012 Year Goals

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goal #4:


TO BE CONTINUED

The Baby Corn Experiment

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


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

Awesome.

Results: 

Baby corn and...

peanut butter: unnecessary

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

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

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

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

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

italian dressing: quirky. like zooey deschanel.

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

mayo: awkward. like, jonah hill superbad awkward.


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

There's a patch:

And my personal favorite:

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

Acceptance Speech for Most Amazing Caprese Salad Ever

I just made the most amazing caprese salad in the history of caprese salads. I am having an out-of-body experience right now. The perfect union of white balsamic vinegar, fresh mozzarella, salt, tomatoes, and three (not one, not two, but three) kinds of basil. The flavor is dancing across my tongue.

I couldn't have done it alone. In no particular order, I would like to thank...

• The Market Basket in Chelsea, MA, for providing high-quality fresh mozzarella cheese at a sinfully low price. 
• Trader Joe's, for the perfect Kosher salt. 
• My mom: 
• for generously donating three kinds of basil from her garden
• for insisting that I take home some tomatoes freshly picked from Wilson Farms
• for raising me to have good taste, and appreciate good food
• for giving me white balsamic vinaigrette in an old salad dressing bottle, and labeling it with her perfect mommy handwriting
• for taking time out of her day to read this completely ridiculous blog that is mostly dedicated to her supreme and total awesomeness 
• The Kingdom of the Netherlands, for inventing Heineken beer, which goes perfectly with this meal. 

 XOXO- Leah

Dear Unfolded Pile of Clean Laundry,

Don't look at me like that. I know. It's been two days, and you're angry. Help me, you're thinking, get me out of the jumbled, wrinkly messy situation in these God-awful, loud crinkling blue Ikea bags. Fold me. Crease me. Put me away in the correct locations so I can finally get some peace.

I never set out to hurt you, clean laundry. I didn't haul you home from the laundromat Sunday night with the intention of ignoring you. But soon after your reentry into my apartment, I realized that life had other plans for me, as it so often does. Life had other plans for me in general, because suddenly, all four seasons of Mad Men were available on Netflix Instant.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

Hear that? That's all the productivity I had planned for this week. That's all the unit planning, mentor text-reading, running, boxing, tanning, cooking, stretching, cleaning, and doctor's appointment-scheduling I wanted to do this week exploding into the nothingness that awaits once a show like Mad Men becomes instantly available via the internet.

I think I've stayed away from Mad Men this long in a misguided attempt to rebel against my parents. My parents both have doctorates in marketing. My mother used to be a professor. My father IS a professor (GO TO BU. GET YOUR MBA. LET ME COME WITH YOU TO MY DAD'S CLASS). Growing up in my house, we were only allowed to go to the bathroom during the Superbowl, because it was unheard of to miss the commercials. No "goo goo gaa gaa," in our house. It was more like, "Wazababyyy... can you say 'marketing ploy?'"

I spent most of my life trying to run in the opposite direction from my parents. It began when I realized that, despite both being "Dr. Wyner," neither of them owned a stethoscope. I'd like to think that at the ripe old age of 3, I said to myself, "What's the furthest thing from being a doctor of marketing... A BALLERINA! I'LL DO THAT!" when in reality I probably began dancing because I loved attention and I loved pink. 

I love my parents dearly, I do. They always encouraged me to find the right path for myself, and they never told me to follow in their footsteps. I know that I 100% invented the pressure I felt to be like them, but that doesn't change the fact that at the time, it felt real. When both of your parents are marketing geniuses, the LAST thing you want to do is go to a frat party and be noticed because the guy with the washboard abs just wrote a paper citing an article your father published in the Harvard Business Review. You want to be noticed because you're wearing a 40 dollar push-up bra that you purchased just for this fantastically low-cut shirt. Terrible return on investment, Victoria's Secret.

I AM SO FUNNY. Daddy, if you happen upon this blog post, I hope you're laughing, because you're the only one who will find that last sentence funny. Anyone else, ask me if you want to understand the joke.

I tried to watch Mad Men once before. The urge struck me on a rainy Sunday afternoon when I should've been planning lessons. Actually, I have no idea when it happened, but given my schedule for the past three years, it's a pretty safe bet. I couldn't get through the first episode I was so bored. I could see all the nuances, but they stuck out like those rods you buy to support flowers in the garden (the cheap ones, not the nice ones my mother buys, those don't stick out). It was as if big purple letters floated across the screen...

...NEW GUY TRIES TOO HARD...

...NEW GIRL WISELY PLAYS DUMB, DOESN'T SHOW HER HAND...

...IT'S THE 60S, SO THIS CHARACTER WILL STAY IN THE CLOSET UNTIL SWEEPS 6 SEASONS FROM NOW...

...LOOK AT OUR SUPER AUTHENTIC VODKA CONTAINERS! LOOK AT ALL OUR CAREFUL RESEARCH...

I wasn't ready yet. It's kind of like yoga. I tried it at age 18 and fell asleep I was so bored. Now I'm obsessed, because I'm old, jaded, stressed, anxious, overworked, underpaid, and exhausted and yoga makes it all better.

So laundry, I'm pretty sure you're staying put. I know my drawers are calling out to you in their glorious near-empty state, but you will have to wait, because right now, I have a fever, and the only prescription is  :

sexism

racism

materialism

adultery

lying

media manipulation

double entendres

vodka

smoke

(in other words... MAD MEN)

Don't hate me. I'll fold you tomorrow.

Maybe.

Probably.

Okay, probably not.

XOXO-Leah

Everyone Loves a Rude, Scruffy Cowboy (TEAM SAWYER)

Before I begin, you’re going to need some background info on the television show Lost. Lost is the story of the survivors of Oceanic Airlines flight 815. What begins as a story of survival develops into an intense, multidimensional, often nonlinear journey. It revolves around the mysterious, mystical island the plane crashes on. There are numerous flashbacks, flashforwards, and a literary technique called flashsideways, which will make perfect, logical sense to you once you begin watching the show. If you’ve seen Lost, you need no further explanation. If you haven’t seen it, any description I give will make me lose all credibility because you’ll actually think I’m insane. Just know this:

1. The two most integral, interesting male characters are Jack and Sawyer.
2. If you see two people yelling about Lost, odds are, they are arguing over whether Jack or Sawyer is cooler.
3. There is often a person on the sidelines of the argument asserting that another, creepy character like Benjamin Linus is cooler than both Jack and Sawyer. This person is 100% wrong, and the arguing people ignore him, as well they should.
4. I am Team Sawyer, and my hope is for you, dear reader, to join my team, whether you’ve seen the show or not.

            Everyone loves a bad boy. Throughout the entire series, the good doctor Jack agonizes over every decision: How will my choice affect others? How will it affect my life? What kind of a person will I be if I do this, or that, or the other thing? How much longer should I spend looking up at the sky with a tortured expression on my face? (Answer: At least five more scenes). Meanwhile, Sawyer is busy making all the wrong choices. Jack’s trying to save everyone while Sawyer’s trying to piss them all off, and let’s face it: mean nicknames and unnecessary deceit are much more interesting than longing stares. In real life, most of us strive to be decent people, but no one wants to watch that on TV. We want to watch people lie, steal, cheat, and unnecessarily insult and alienate other characters.
            Everyone loves the conflicts that arise when the bad boy has a heart of gold. Halfway through season two, the audience begins to realize that Sawyer’s rude nicknames are his twisted way of showing affection for the people around him, who he’s grown to care about more than he’ll ever admit. We realize he’s a good guy seasons before he does. We realize that, five episodes ago, we subconsciously started rooting for him to do the right thing while also subconsciously hoping he’d do the wrong thing because it’s more interesting. Every bad decision he makes after the moment we realize he’s a good guy is that much more meaningful. We feel his inner conflict. We struggle with him. We identify with him, because let’s face it, even though we want to do the right thing, we often end up doing the wrong thing. Sawyer even goes so far as to make good decisions and keep them secret. Characterization doesn’t get better than that. Jack, on the other hand, has very little potential for character growth in this area. At the beginning of the series, he is the good guy. He is broken, but still good. Where, really, can he go from there? Should I become a slightly less good good guy, or an even better good guy? No, Jack please don’t. Please go do something reckless that hurts at least five people. Then maybe I’ll write a persuasive essay about joining YOUR team.
            Everyone loves a scruffy, misanthropic cowboy. Jack is pale, with dark hair and rather serious lovehandles. If you need a reference point, watch the episodes from season 6 when he’s walking around his house without a shirt on. He has no discernable accent, odd mannerisms, fear of intimacy or inability to talk about his feelings. Who, really, wants a male character who loves commitment and sharing his emotions? There is no reality (including all the parallel realities in Lost) where that’s interesting. Sawyer is tan and ruggedly handsome. Sawyer is drawl, cheekbones and jawline, and the man does five o’clock shadow like no one else. He gives off an “I woke up, didn’t shave and still look this g—WHOA is that dangerous/shiny/illegal/life-threatening/hurtful? Let’s do it!” vibe, whereas Jack gives off a, “Do I look pensive? Because I spent twenty minutes today practicing my pensive expression in the mirror?” vibe. Sawyer = effortless. Jack = trying extremely hard. Despite all Jack’s efforts to stare longingly into the distance, Sawyer can do a lot more with silence in a scene. Every time he tries to tell Kate he loves her, we can hear the words in his head and feel how he can’t say them out loud. Meanwhile, wherever he is, Jack is probably looking thoughtfully at a rock.
            If you’ve seen Lost, and you’re already on Team Sawyer, I applaud you. If you began on Team Jack but are reexamining your alliances, as long as you join me, I won’t hold it against you. After all, like Sawyer, we all make the wrong choices sometimes. If you’re still on Team Jack, fine. He deserves your misguided, overly-meditative adoration. If you still aren’t convinced, I don’t care, I’m too busy swearing, stealing, denying that I care, and doing the right thing while simultaneously insulting people.

PS: This was an assignment for a writing institute I'm in this summer. The assignment was to include a logical fallacy. 

Perfect.

It is a perfectly warm night. Comfortable, soft, fluffy heat with just enough wind. A sage candle burns on my nightstand. I just finished my third friendship bracelet of the summer. I'm happy with my health. Crisp covers. Falling asleep in the baby soft white cotton of the t-shirt I bought at the Mass Outdoor Relays my freshman year of high school...

Ah.

Welcome Warmth

I am so content. Content is the word. I've never truly known the meaning of it until the last few days.

It began when I was driving home... Thursday? Friday? I don't remember. I just remember walking outside, turning my head towards the sun, closing my eyes, letting the warm breeze hit me and...

Perfection.


Was last spring/summer such a sweet relief? I don't remember. I can't think that far back. This winter was so long, so cold, so grey, so miserable. So much snow. So much wet. So many shivers.

Early spring was just as bad. I don't remember last year, or the year before, but I am pretty sure it didn't include this much misery. Day after April day I came home and crawled under the covers because it was still uncomfortably cold in my apartment. Day after day I froze because I refused to wear a coat. Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention that. My favorite coat was stolen, and my two second favorites had buttons fall off, so I just said, "F-this" and wore my bulky H&M sweaters as coats for the remainder of the winter.

I love the heat. I love the warmth.

Thank God.

Multigenre Project Reflections: as of Monday 5/23/11

Overall goals: All year, students choose what they write, but I choose the genres. This time around, they choose both. They choose a topic, and they choose multiple genres in which to explore that topic.

First of all, I wish I’d started with the movie. I also wish I’d given them more choice in what genres to write in all year. I do believe in mainly genre-based units, but I could have embedded more genre freedom into some assignments, especially my less structured “Polish a Piece” assignments.

I also think I’m going to make a movie documenting my students’ journeys making these projects. That way, I can show next year’s students, and it will be that much closer to them.

One thing I’m noticing is that they are increasingly more confident in being confused and overwhelmed. While feeling in over your head isn’t the goal, it is a valuable part of the writing process, especially the way we teach it, as writing to discover. In the beginning of the year they panicked. It was clear they were used to being told what to do. Now, many of them have the attitude of, “I have no idea where I’m going with this, but I’ll explore and figure it out.” Yes. Go writer’s workshop model!

Obviously, it will be easier next year when I have more student exemplars to work off of. Although interestingly enough, less than a week into the unit, one student in each class has a full draft project done. They took me by surprise today. It was the classic situation. I saw a student talking instead of writing, so I walked over and asked, “What have you been working on, dear student?” Each student produced a thick packet of work. It’s not necessarily the students you’d expect, either. Well, one is. J

I also did some research about multigenre topics, because despite our students being very familiar with the “Explore, explore, explore, eventually decide what to develop into a draft” process, we don’t have enough time to do it fully. We have maybe 4 weeks, minus a couple of days. So in my googling, I came across a 7^th grade unit where the students all did multigenre autobiographies. I then changed the requirements of the project. Students have three choices: Multigenre Autobiography, Multigenre Project on 7^th Grade (or 8^th Grade), or more specific Multigenre project. I told them the truth, which is that I’m going to just write, and if I realize I’m writing a lot about my brother, then I’ll take the project in that direction. As they write, many of them are narrowing their focuses. I think giving the option of a broad autobiography takes the pressure off so they’re free to explore.

This teacher in the unit I found required students to choose 10 genres, which I think is overkill. It’s not that students aren’t capable of it. Rather, I don’t want to set unnecessary restrictions on them. This whole year I’ve never once told them how long something should be. I’ve just said, “this is what you need to focus on, make it as long as it needs to be. Make it wonderful.” Plus, I’m still figuring out my official requirements, but I’m keeping them simple. It will be something along the lines of, “Mark two places where you write about your topic in depth. Mark two places where you show your emotions.” Etc.

The topics are fantastic. I’m so excited.

Updates to come!

An Open Letter to The Container Store

I received a catalog today from the Container Store with the following title: "Been Dreaming of a Dream Closet?"

First of all I want to clarify that this will not be one of those blogs where I mock people who dream about home improvement. I find no fault with that. In fact, sometimes, in my (nonexistent) free time, I research shoe trees online. If you have a spare moment, I recommend doing the same. You'd never guess how many kinds of shoe trees exist. I'm still debating which one to buy. The point is, dream about whatever you want, even if it includes home organization.

With that said, Container Store, I looked in your catalog and I'm extremely disappointed.

When you send out a mailing about dreaming of a dream closet, I assume that a) You recently fired your copywriter and are using an unpaid intern and b) the material in the catalog is the organizational heaven that dreams are made of. I expected the best. You did not deliver.

What, pray ask, is the best? Well, some of you probably already figured it out. There is one dream closet that no closet system from Ikea, Container Store, or any other retail outlet can match. One closet stands above the rest. One closet prevails. It is the closet we grew up dreaming of, the fantasy closet from our childhoods. It is, simply put, the stuff dreams are made of.

It is...

Cher's closet in the movie Clueless.

I know. It's cruel to even put your little box store in the same category as the wondrous, automated, rotating, computer-controlled closet from that gem of a movie. There's no way you'd measure up. Nothing can top the scene in which Cher pouts at the touch screen when it tells her, "NOT A MATCH!" until she combines that yellow plaid jacket and skirt.

It's only fair, thought, to show you what you were up against. Now you know why I was so disappointed. When you imply that the contents of a catalog are the stuff closet dreams are made of, that is what we are hoping for.

So cut the false advertising.

BLIND ITEM

Dear You Know Who You Are,

Thank you for your support. You always know just how to make me feel better, and just how to make me see reason. Even the most ridiculous things make sense when I talk them over with you.

I love you,

--Me

Take Shape For Life / Medifast update

This diet is definitely weird.

It works. Clearly. I have lost 14 pounds in 3-ish weeks. I am mostly un-hungry, despite eating under 1000 calories a day. It is scientifically sound. The purpose is to keep me just above that line where my body says, "Uh-oh, I'm on a deserted island, let's conserve body fat so I don't starve."

There is a whole online following devoted to making these medifast meals interesting by doctoring them slightly, and while I'm tempted, I can't bring myself to try with any kind of real dedication because a) the meals aren't bad at all as they are, and b) I don't think I'll be on the 5 medifast meals a day plan for that long. I hope I'm right about that.

For the first time in my life, HOLY SHIT shopping was fun. I mean, I love shopping always, but this was one of those glorious "Oh snap, that fits, no armpit fat hanging out!" events.

There are definitely moments when I crave food. Just food in general, not "OMG FRENCH FRIES PLEASE." Most of the time, I want an additional crunch bar. I'll have to figure that out, I guess. Clearly my blood sugar is low, and clearly it got that way for some reason. I think this summer I'm going to try to eat literally 8 times a day, instead of 6. I might even try this now. Each lean'and'green meal I eat I'll split into three portions and eat every half hour. I will have to study blood sugar more.

GOOD NEWS! I tried on my size 2 Abercrombie jeans from high school and they almost fit. I must, however, give a disclaimer: Those exact jeans, same dimensions, would probably not still be a size 2 at Abercrombie due to size inflation. My mom has been telling me to get rid of them for years. She's been saying that yes, I will lose the weight, but by that time I won't like them and they'll be taking up space in my closet. To that, I have one thing to say:

I'M SO GLAD I DIDN'T THROW THEM AWAY. They truly don't make denim like this anymore. I own 3 pairs of skinnies (1 denim, 2 cords), and I adore them truly, but there is something so sexy about perfectly-constructed flares that are slightly too long, so they fit perfectly when you wear them with 3-inch heels. I doubt I'd buy jeans like that anymore, but they are gorgeous. They look dressy in comparison to all these skinnies that now populate the streets. They are so hot.

Speaking of skinny corderoys, (I am NOT changing the spelling of that word, I will never know how to spell it, TOUGH SHIT), I bought them from Gap several months ago, size 8, and I adore them. All I wear to teach. They fit almost perfectly when I bought them (micromuffintop), and then they got uncomfortably small, as in "wear them with one button undone." Now, they fit. :)

Excuses my students gave this week

Student: I was just dancing with my highlighter.
Me: That's my highlighter.
Student: Well we've become quite close.

***

I was looking at her photos on her binder of her hot boyfriend! You never said THAT was specifically against the rules.

***

I was demonstrating how odd it would be if people's torsos moved sideways when they laughed, instead of up and down.

***

NONONONONO We're not passing notes! We're rating the girls in the book on a  hotness scale of 1-10. I swear to God we're rereading the most descriptive parts.

***

I forget to pull my shirt down over my bum. Frankly I've just gotten used to feeling the breeze on my lower back.

***

That's not true. If he wasn't looking when I stole it, it doesn't count. That's a rule.

***

So what if I oinked? You KNOW you're just going to go tell all your boring grown-up friends about it.

--LW