Simple Things

Needs

2010-10-24T15:21:00.000-07:00

Journal entries are almost always skewed. When I pour through my old junior high and high school journals, I'm always shocked at two things: one, that I am so depressed, and two, that I am so obsessed with boys. But this is how journals work. When we're floating on air, why would we stop to write about it. It works inversely with photographs. On facebook, all my pictures are of fun parties, costume events, and bars. Basically anything that involves alcohol. No one stops to take a picture at a funeral.

Things have been going well in my life. I'm got a great career and wonderful friends, so it feels pathetic to feel sad, but what can I do? This past week was one of the worst I've had in a long time.

Three car issues plus late nights, classroom mismanagement, and just an overwhelming feeling of loneliness have totally overcome me. Not to mention Iowa losing, which happened on Saturday. Seems dumb to get so upset over a sports team losing, but it totally deepened my overall feeling of depression. In therapy, I had trouble keeping it together. I hate crying in front of people. It's so revealing to just sit and lose your breath and turn red, and sob. Who would ever let another human being see that?

Apparently, I'm in the minority. Some people have no issues crying in front of others. I'm not one of those people. I had a nice cry in the shower yesterday, but it didn't seem to help. It's October and I've never felt more overwhelmed at my job. Never have I had the amount of responsibility as I have this year and I feel like I'm failing.

My therapist asked me two weeks ago how I address my needs. I literally looked at her like she had two heads because the answer is that typically I ignore my needs and move forward. Of course my basic needs are met. I'm fed. I'm washed. I sleep at night. But when it comes to emotional needs beyond friendship or physical needs, I ignore what I feel I need. What other choice do I have?

It's no longer a matter of just being with a guy. Been there, done that, emotional void remains intact. There's something missing and I can't put the puzzle together for whatever reason probably because I have no prior example to cite. Does it really come down to never having been in love? I doubt it.

I think I just need to be held. And I'll own that. It's not pathetic. Everyone I know that is secure and happy is held and hugged/held/touched on a regular basis. How much longer can I ignore what I physically need?

But does addressing that mean giving up my independence? Needy girls and needy guys have never ranked high on my list. To me it looks desperate and pathetic to need all the time. But maybe I've gone too far the other end of the spectrum. Maybe addressing my needs is the happy medium.

But how do I address this?

Therapy in the last month or so has been eye opening. I've been more open and confident in meeting people for the first time, I've taken social risks and gone out when my first instinct is to stay in. I've also pinpointed the reasons why I've chosen the men I've chosen throughout college and beyond.

So what's next? That's what I always ask my therapist. Now that I know that about myself, how can I use that information to take the next step forward? The truth is, sometimes awareness of my own needs, my patterns, and who I am on the whole is enough for five steps forward.

For now, this chai latte and the scarf wrapped around my neck will serve as warm substitutes for my real needs. Cheers.

Psychology

2010-08-22T18:15:00.000-07:00

It's funny, but sometimes I feel completely unaware of what my passions are. Writing is a "duh." So is television. But after browsing several book stores in the last few weeks, I've realized I love psychology and social sciences. I enjoy learning about the way people think, make decisions, and decide to live their lives.

I can sit and listen to people and learn about their perspectives and world views. I can listen to my friends discuss their relationships and enjoy trying to work out where each party is coming from. The mechanics of people. What makes them tick? What makes me tick? What stimulates me would bore someone else. I love hearing about relationships and I finally realize that I love relationships in general.

What I mean by this is that I'm always curious as to how they work and what they're like. My curiosity is insatiable. I want to know about your latest fight, a great moment, the pitfalls, the pet peeves, and the best and worst of your partnerships. This doesn't mean I want to be flooded with everyone's problems, but I am continual interested in the workings of my friends' relationships.

I think this is what hooks me onto some shows. I realized that a lot of the shows I love to watch, I watch because of how the relationships develop. Maybe everyone does, I don't know, but I'm interested.

I wrote an essay about being single in college and I'm pretty sure its theme was, what's wrong with me? I am not over this, but I've been turned on to the work of Byron Katie, this slightly hokey former business woman that has an interesting thought process. She says, "I discovered that when I believed my thoughts, I suffered, but that when I didn’t believe them, I didn’t suffer, and that this is true for every human being. Freedom is as simple as that. I found that suffering is optional. I found a joy within me that has never disappeared, not for a single moment."

Granted, I don't believe that suffering is completely optional, but I'm turned on to the idea that arguing against our irrational thoughts with rational ideas works. She uses logic to convince people that their negative thoughts are absurd. Now, I've been told to think positively, stop being negative, etc., but I've never been manipulated into thinking positively. I watched a couple of youtube videos of her and while I'm not completely convinced, my thinking has expanded to include the way she argues against the most negative ideas about ourselves.

I went out and bought her book last week. I'm also reading The Gift of Therapy, a book that's helping me see therapy in different ways. I love thinking, thinking about thinking, and learning about all of the above.

I'm worried my impending school year is going to squash these ideas in me and trade them for grading papers and planning lessons.

I can't let myself forget what I love.

Truths

2010-08-01T15:29:00.000-07:00

1. People are who they are because of the ways their insecurities manifest in themselves.

2. Take a look at the narrator. Are they reliable?

3. We all know our friends' flaws. Should we focus on the flaws or why we're friends to begin with?

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

2010-07-29T17:02:00.000-07:00

Everyone tells me how lucky I am to have this summer break. I am. I know I am. It wasn't even a reason I chose to be a teacher even though I know it's a perk that isn't afforded to many.

Ever since school let out, I've been in a constant state of worry. I can't let this summer go by without doing something great. I need to write. I need to exercise. I need to date. I need to organize my life. Especially my teaching life.

I'm lucky and I realize I'm lucky, but I see this world through my lens so if I have complaints or struggles it's because I'm attempting to figure out how to live in the world the best way I know how. Confusing?

What I mean is that I live in a state of disappointment and high standards I set for myself (some of the time). I'm not going to jump off any buildings. Every so often I have great days, great moments, rewarding moments. But most of the time, I've striving to do better.

In truth I am trying to find a paying writing gig, but I think that comes from more writing which I have found some time for this summer. It doesn't help that television news in the summer is rare and there isn't too much new material to write on.

Here's what I have done this summer:

1. Seen movies. Like, more than I can count, but I'll try and name them.

Toy Story 3, Inception, A Winter's Bone, Cyrus, The Girl Who Played with Fire, Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work, Get Him to the Greek, and it's possible there are one or two more that I can't recall.

2. Hung out with friends and talked.

3. Written a few articles about various shows (Mad Men, House, Glee).

4. Met Barbara Barnett, the author of the new House book I'm going to review for her. Here's the site:

http://www.barbarabarnett.com/

5. I've fixed up both blogs in the last couple of days thanks to blogger's new designs and my roommate.

6. I've read a couple of books and I am in the middle of reading Under the Banner of Heaven by Jon Krakauer. I love reading about religion when it's written in an interesting way.

7. I went to Michigan with my dad and sister. That place holds a lot of memories for me so it was great to be there again, even though it did make me think of my mom.

On a separate note, I've had some really great therapy sessions lately that are making me stop and think about the way I conduct myself. What's funny is that I've always considered my fierce independence a good thing. And on most levels it is. I know I can rely on myself entirely and that who I choose to trust is up to me. I am with who I want to be with and when I'm alone, I enjoy my time. In fact, more than anything over the last few years is that I realized I need my time along. I relish thinking and reading and watching and writing.

But. And of course there is a but/however/except. I think this is why dating is incredibly hard for me. I am a bundle of nerves on any date and meeting new people scares me. It's hard, nerve wracking, and risky. So yes, I hate dating websites even though I know they are a tool I need to utilize, but there are so many things I'd rather be doing than investing time in finding a partner. Additionally, I hate other people sleeping in my bed.

This blog entry is starting to scream "intimacy issues." All I can say is that I'm aware and that I've very much a work in progress.

Of course, it wouldn't be me if I couldn't connect this idea to House. Insert groan here.

But I've finally pinned it down. One of the main reasons I love this show is because of its main character. I understand what a lot of other people don't about him and I can relate to everything he does even though I don't have the same personality as him. He was hurt physically and scarred from his relationship that left him raw and closed off to others.

He is very used to pushing people away and letting in very few. He rarely dates and is terrified of intimacy with the opposite sex. He is emotional, hopeful, romantic, sarcastic, ethically and morally interesting, and not a believer in religion. He fears no one will understand him and that he's too much for anyone to handle in a relationship (generally, not looking at this season). This could be why I was so beyond thrilled at the end of this season. The fact that he is loved unconditionally by someone he is in love with made me feel like it's possible to be open in that way.

I've never been in love and no one has ever been in love with me. On some level this is a good thing because I've never been hurt the way I know people in love have. On the other hand, I've never been completely open with someone in a partnership. I'm curious and in therapy I've realized that the rest of my life, while still complicated, is mostly together. This is probably why every time I go home, see people I haven't seen in a long time, or am talking to friends, we talk about my dating life, or lack there of.

Why not try and finish the puzzle? I have a job, a career even. I have this writing thing that I'm hoping can lead to something, and I have a large group of friends and family that are supportive. It's no wonder people wonder where my other half is.

I used to dole out advice, wanted or unwanted, to tell people that if they want to be in a relationship, they need to be happy with themselves first. Maybe I've gone too far on the independence spectrum. I'm very okay with myself and maybe that's why I seem closed off to the idea of a relationship.

If you're still reading this entry at this point, you must be a good friend, (or my sister) since I've clearly gone off the beaten path.

At any rate, I don't know if I'm ready to be with anyone yet. How do you practice being open to strangers? Seems easy for some. Not so for me.

More fodder for therapy...

Validation

2010-05-22T18:02:00.000-07:00

My therapist told me I should write about my happy moment before I diminish it into nothing, so here goes.

I feel like my range is getting larger and larger in scope and I want to keep it going. Is that clear?

Let me elaborate. I love writing. Always have. I love TV. Always have.

When I get obsessed with shows, it's because I typically connect, or latch onto a main character or storyline. Anyone who knows me at all knows that I've been totally obsessed with the show House since about November of 2008.

Last year, in October, I ceased an opportunity that was brought to my attention for a writer of articles reviewing the show from BuddyTV. One of the reasons I started latching onto this show is because I found that I could analyze it and read into it in ways that were stimulating to me. To be able to do this for an audience was extremely appealing.

I wrote an article, sent it in, and got the position. I was beyond thrilled then, and I wish I could experience that high over again where I was chosen based on my writing because I have a keen eye for detail and write about it well. That feeling was extremely validating.

Fast forward two or three months and I write an article that gets posted on the FOX website. Another validation that what I'm doing is going in the right direction.

All the while I've been writing, I love googling the articles and seeing if other people post them in places where other people comment. Because strangers reposting what I wrote makes me feel really good. Call me narcissistic, but House has the biggest audience in the world. I've seen my article reposted in Poland, Spain, and Italy. Needless to say, that excites me.

So the finale aired on May 17th. I wrote up my review, or attempted to anyway, since I was still completely hyped over the excitement of my favorite characters finally getting a chance at happiness and I was thrilled to see how many people comment.

Then, since I watched the last scene multiple times, I wanted to write an analysis of House and Cuddy and how they got to where they were. When I look at TV, I feel like I'm analyzing literature. What the best television shows do is put things in purposefully. Wardrobe, hair, props, dialogue, locations, music choice, blocking. It's all planned out meticulously. And I appreciate this. And notice it.

The last article I wrote about that scene is one I'm really proud of. So I did something I haven't done with any of my other articles and I tweeted it to Greg Yaitanes, the producer and director of the show. He directed the episode "House's Head," one of my favorite episode and he earned an emmy for his direction on it. He also directed the current season finale "Help Me."

He has 266,204 followers and counting. So he's kind of a big deal. I assumed that my article would get lost in the shuffle of fans that write him silly things about the show or thank yous from fans about doing the finale so well, or even complaints, god knows why.

Regardless, I took a chance and sent it to him from @TVTherapy. When I went on twitter yesterday, I noticed I had gained a few followers. I assumed they were House watchers, but I checked anyway and had to do a double take. He was following me!

He only follows 165 people currently out of the quarter of a million or so that follow him, so this was meaningful to me. Then I realized that since he was following me, I could Direct Message him if I wanted to.

I was in the process of deciding what to say when I realized I had a message. It was from him!

It said, "Nice look at that ending. thank you."

Keep in mind it had to be 140 characters or less.

I totally lost it. I recognize that yes, he is just a person. But to me, this means so much more. An emmy winning director of a show that I'm passionate about that was behind the camera directing the scene that I analyzed liked my take on it. And more than that, he took the time to tell me.

So what's next? I wrote him back with my email, but haven't heard anything yet and I don't know that I will. Regardless, I've gotten the best validation possible and I'm completely over the moon about it.

I went into therapy yesterday so excited about what had happened, and then I realized as the day went on, I tried to minimize how big this was based on what other people thought about it. I just need to not do that.

This was a huge step forward for me and major recognition that the writing I'm doing is not going unnoticed. And even more than that, it's being read by a very important person.

To bring things around to even more full circle, someone called yesterday to tell me the bowling league that I attempted to join in September was starting up again. I got DVR for my house because bowling was on Monday nights and I needed to make sure House was taped. It's been invaluable for my writing to be able to rewatch episodes.

Here's hoping I can make a break in the writing world or House-land someday soon.

Lost and Found

2010-04-11T16:34:00.000-07:00

Whenever I go to therapy, I have a list with me to refer to for talking points. Whether it's House, my friends, or my relationship with my family, I always have things on the list to discuss. This week I felt totally lost in therapy.

I went through each item on my list and looked at her, threw up my hands, and said, "I don't know what the fuck I'm talking doing and I feel scattered. And restless. And sad."

But was it restlessness? I couldn't put my finger on how I felt which was all the more frustrating because I can usually express myself in words fairly well. The last ten minutes of therapy made me realize my therapist is either a genius or has me really figured out.

I was in the process of asking her what this crazy feeling was when she crossed her legs, leaned back in her chair, looked me in the eye, and said to me that this was not a new feeling. She said this was lost Lisa, high school Lisa, hitting walls and unable to talk to anyone without a mom and with a dad I didn't feel comfortable broaching things with.

As soon as she said it, I had this physical response. When my body responds to things my therapist says, I know she's hit a nerve. I was feeling the same loneliness I had felt in high school. It's like nothing was ever enough. Even when I was doing something, I felt like I was failing and nothing was ever enough to satiate myself and I was stuck within myself.

I feel like today, right now, this feeling has gone away, but for that day, it was horrible. I despise feeling like I don't belong where I am. And that day I couldn't place myself.

Today, however, is a bit better. I feel like I've gotten some of myself back. After a night talking to friends about topics ranging from Phoebe's wardrobe on Friends to homemade Challah bread, I feel like their versions of who I am are enough to make me feel found.

March

2010-04-04T21:56:00.000-07:00

[Disclaimer: the following blog is me sorting out why I'm feeling low and as a result reads as a giant pity party. Feel free to skip if you're not into the latest cathartic essay.]

I feel like I should be making cross motions and apologizing that it’s been a couple of months since my last confession. My last personal post was all about strength and how empowered I felt. I’m not sure if that was momentary or my current feeling of failure is.

Beware the Ides of March. March was unkind during Caesar’s time and it hasn’t brought me much luck either. Without a single day off, I was at school every day, tutoring, decorating for Renaissance Day, Egypt Day, playing basketball against students, and doing work on the weekend in the form of report cards and grading. I realize it’s normal for people to work a month straight, but I wasn’t prepared for how it was going to make me feel.

Additionally, students started coming to me asking for advice on personal stuff. I love that aspect of work, but after consoling a few crying students about their friendship drama of the moment (which my junior high self could relate to), I started realizing I was completely draining myself. I was going to bed at 11:30 instead of 10:30. Getting up at 6 instead of 5:30 because I couldn’t drag myself out of bed, and I began to hate school.

By the time I got home on some nights, closer to 7 on quite a few nights rather than the 6 I had grown accustomed to, I couldn’t start up the trusty laptop again to tap out a review on Big Love, 24, or whatever else I was trying to keep up with. Then I stopped doing school work on weekends. Then I stopped writing on weekends. Then I stopped working out on weekends.

It’s at the point I should probably mention I stopped taking birth control near the end of February. I opted out because I’m not in a relationship and I wanted to see if it might change my skin, my drive (sexual or otherwise), and my overall demeanor.

So why did March fail me? Or I it? Failure is all I can think about. Why can’t I succeed at what I want? I look around my and see all these fit people around me, beautiful faces, and successful writers, and when I set my goals, instead of being consistent and putting in the time, I fell into a comfort zone of watching reruns and exquisitely trashy reality shows (i.e. Millionaire Matchmaker).

I feel like I’m spiraling. I’ll take a look at myself and really attempt to see myself as a stranger might. I went out with my friends on a Saturday night mid-March. We went to see a movie and then went out for a friend’s birthday party. My friends support me and sustain me, but whenever I’m out I feel like I’m supposed to be sniffing around for a future partner and it completely flusters me. I feel like I never represent myself in a way that would make someone interested. Are my teaching life and writing life boring to people? If I don’t have an “interesting” career or pitch to date me, should I rely on my looks and attitude?

If that’s the case, I’m really stuck, because my confidence in those two things are at an almost all time low. I feel like so many people that I know have this freedom around strangers that I just can’t make happen. So this brings me to online dating.

I know so many people that do it. I’ve gotten past the point of being embarrassed about it, but I hate it. There really isn’t one thing that I find redeeming about looking through profile after profile to try and find someone that might fit with me. It isn’t fun for me to find someone I think is attractive and then read that they are fundamental Christians (not anything wrong with it, just not compatible with me). And then, when I find someone I like, I take a chance and email them and hear nothing back. Does it seem like I’m discouraged? I am.

I want to be motivated to get in shape. To eat better. To date. To even watch a new television show so I can write about that. To find more fun places to go, to take more risks. Because I feel like I should.

Ahhh. I hate blogs like this. I hope to have just excised these feelings by writing them out, but I know that what I've just written have been things I've been struggling with for much of my life and things I will continue to struggle with until I become comfortable with myself.

Getting back into my personal blog is one step in the right direction.

Here's to April and pushing towards the end of the school year.

Fulfillment

2010-02-20T18:30:00.000-08:00

I have had an insane February thus far. I've been precariously trying to balance my writing life with my teacher life with a potential dating life. I've managed not to drop any balls, but I can certainly say I haven't been the most lively person to be around of late.

Although my work and my fun come at a price --falling asleep on the loveseat in my house at 8:30 watching the Olympics with my sock covered feet hanging over the side of the couch--I am in love with writing right now.

Two weekends ago, I finally came up with a name for a blog about TV reviews that met my own high standards. TV Therapy. Kind of like retail therapy without having to leave the house.

It's no secret that I love television. And I've heard my fair share of judgement over it, whether it be from myself or subtly from people in my life. Arguably, I watch too much of it. In high school, I know I did. But now I get why I was so into it. I thought about it. Although I appeared to be a passive watcher, I was always thinking about character development, symbolism, and motifs throughout different series. I was always making connections and storing them.

In high school, this rarely proved useful and I guess you can argue that to some, it might never be considered useful. The difference though, between now and then is that now I consider my vast television knowledge useful because writing about it fulfills me.

Hence, a new goal in my life has surfaced. I want to do this writing about TV thing and get paid for it. When I went to college, I had a very specific goal. Go. Learn to teach. Get a job teaching.

Check. Check. Check.

At 25, I've developed a few new passions, or maybe old passions that I can finally pinpoint, develop, and define.

Here's what I've been fulfilled by lately:

1. The rewardng parts of teaching.

-One of the 8th grade girls I tutor was passing my by in the hall and she stopped with her friend and asked me point blank: "How does it feel that everyone here loves you?" How do I say to a student that that's all I've ever wanted and that acceptance and self-actualization are the reasons we want to keep living in this world? I smiled and stumbled through some kind of modest reply.

2. Television Therapy

-I've always written. Be it from old hand-written journals to livejournal.com when I was 18, to facebook statuses, to twitter, to more hand-written journals, to short essays in writing classes and now to my personal blogging, House articles, and all the way through to my latest endeavor TV Therapy. I love writing. That much should be clear.

The fact is though, and thank you Andy again, for pointing it out when I started getting published, my obsessions finally have a purpose. And this is why, when I figured out I should start another blog to write about television, it felt like something had clicked. Because it's not stupid. It's not surface. It's my analysis of various aspects of these shows and my active watching that keeps me ticking. I couldn't sleep I was so excited after I came up with the name and that much excitement is significant.

3. Friends

My last blog spoke highly of my friends and I can mostly just refer to that. They're there. They're supportive. They get it.

4. Simple Things

This blog, that I named "Simple Things" for my love of the little things (and my favorite Zero 7 album) has really pushed me to articulate myself more and more. Writing is what makes me solve myself. Odd sentence, but true.

5. Therapy

I don't know if it's "normal" to love therapy as much as I do, but it feeds me. Discussing and figuring out how I tick makes me think about how I think. Yes, it's meta (Dani), and might be over the top, but I am completely addicted.

6. House writing

During almost every therapy session, I discuss this show briefly. Why am I so interested in it and its cast of characters? Thankfully, there are some people out there that are as interested as I am and read the articles I write. The comments after those articles completely feed me and embarrassingly enough, I check back quite often on buddytv.com to see if anyone has responded to my articles.

At any rate, I'm having fun. I'm working hard. And I'm trying to do my best to carve out a fulfilling life for myself.

A partner might be nice, but who has the time?

Round Numbers

2010-01-31T14:59:00.000-08:00

Why are the numbers 5 and 10 so seemingly clean? Maybe it's not the ten so much as the zero. Round. Easy.

I was born in 1985. Any year that ends in a 5 or a 0 means that I'm either turning a number that ends in a 5 or a 0. I like this roundness. It suits me. Don't get me wrong. I understand that most people my age also have this. I'm not unique. Here's what is:

I'm lucky.

Well, maybe that's not quite it.

Maybe it's the fact that I realize I'm lucky. Every year on my birthday, I have at least two celebrations. One smaller dinner typically and then a night out. I've been doing this since college.

I want intimacy and I want to make a splash and feel good.

This year was no different. Eight of my friends came to a dinner and we talked. I don't know how it is that you can just have endless things to say to the people you love, but when people know you that well, it just makes everything so easy.

My splashy night out this year was fun, but too loud. The intimacy at the end of the night was the best part for me even though I fell asleep in my friend's lap. I woke up to a discussion on how sexy Jeff Goldblum is.

I'm in love with my friends. And even more so the person that they think I am and that I hope I am. (Especially the ones pictured above after a weekend with them in Ojai. Kasey's in the middle. Dani's on the right. Becka's taking the picture.)

Birthdays can be difficult for a number of reasons. For one, it means you're getting older. For me this has never really bothered me. I know I'm young. I also know that I'm successful for being as young as I am.

Turning another year older only bothers me for one real reason. I'm getting to the point where I've almost had more birthdays without my mother than with her. This year was my 10th without her.

I wasn't really depressed about it. The thoughts came and went as they usually do when I get sad about her. The real freak out came the week before when I literally couldn't remember how old I was when she died. It used to be a natural response. Fourteen, I'd say. The age of my students.

When I was asked last week, I couldn't remember if it was 13 or 14 and this really scared me. An event that would change the course of my life and I couldn't remember how old I was?

So what does this all mean?

A few options:

1. I've stopped dwelling in the past. I'm not constantly recounting the event in my head, running the facts through my head so I will never forget, always wanting each detail to remain in my head, memorized. Could this be the first year where my mother's death no longer defines me? Should I want it to? It has certainly shaped who I am. How much it has, who could know?

2. I'm actually forgetting. The details of that time are actually so far away at this point that they are just becoming less vivid.

3. I've subconsciously realized that remembering these details aren't going to make me feel like I have all the answers and can solve the mystery of my mother or myself so I'm starting to let go of them.

4. I'm overanalyzing. (Duh.)

In some ways I feel completely shackled to that time in my life. It made me. It broke me. It strengthened me.

In another way, I feel like it's just within my psyche, lurking around, infecting the way I process things, work with people, react to certain situations, eat my food, exercise, talk on the phone.

Is there even a point in asking what would have happened if she was still here? Maybe I would never be here. And by here I mean lucky. And appreciative. And in California. If I could have her back, I would, but if the event had to happen, which it did, I'm glad I somehow managed to climb out the other end feeling lucky.

And when I turn 30 in 2015, I hope I'll feel just as fortunate.

Unrequited

2010-01-10T15:37:00.000-08:00

I used to think of this term in ways only regarding Shakespearean love, but I realize now how significant this word is regarding my life.
Unrequited example #1:

Take for instance, my therapy. Therapy is selfish. I'm doing it for myself. I have no idea what my therapist is getting out of it. I don't know who she is outside of her calming office with self-help books and the sand garden I never use for fear of becoming a Freudian cliche.

I talk and she listens. She gives. I take.

I pay. She provides me with insight and fodder for discussion at our next session or just food for thought.

Does she learn from me outside of her office? Am I dinnertime discussion over chicken and vegetables? Is she learning what not to do from me? I've been in therapy for one year now. We didn't get the time to discuss what I've learned in a year, but I'm wondering if I'm moving forward or just wading in a gray area of one-sided selfishness.

I realize therapy is supposed to be about me. I accept that. But I wonder what my therapist is learning from me because I'm certainly learning more about myself. It's what I do with what I am learning that makes therapy effective. But what about her life? What does she do with all the information she has about her patient's psyche's?

Unrequited example #2:
Last Monday morning I was heading into school dreading my first day back after winter break and I went to go get my chai tea latte and bagel at the Coffee Bean close to my work.

I'm walking towards the door and I realize the person walking towards me looks very familiar and that I should say hello since I clearly know him.

I said, "hi."

He said, "hey."

It was Omar Epps. He plays Foreman on House.

I don't know Omar personally. But the fact is, I had just watched a marathon on USA or Bravo or whatever station is currently syndicating House and his face when I saw him for a passing moment just had an air of familiarity. So I said hi thinking I knew him personally.

Three seconds after we exchanged brief pleasantries, I realized who I had actually said hello to. Ridiculous.

With the exception of terribly difficult frame by frame trivia regarding House, I'd say I know almost everything there is to know about this show.

But no one over there knows me. I thought, albeit briefly that because I've seen so much of Omar Epps' face, that I actually knew him. But I don't! And most likely never will.

There is a wall between me and this love I have for the writers, the actors, and the producers of this show.

I did this with Dawson's Creek too. I knew the lines by heart, the characters' lives, the names of the writers and producers. I eat up this information without ever knowing if it will serve me and give back to me.

**Side note: I realize I'm writing reviews for this show which makes me feel closer to the viewers of the show, but I still feel quite detached to the creators, actors, and producers of the show.

Unrequited example #3:

I've never been in love. But I have been infatuated and I have had serious crushes.

And before this pity party goes on, let me just say that no one I've ever been totally infatuated with has ever completely 100% given back what I've felt for them in the way that I deserve. So I'm counting it all as unrequited.

From Mr. I'm-Going-to-Break-Your-Heart-Through-Gmail to all the ones that wanted to use me for everything but a relationship, nothing has ever been equal between myself and a man.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So where do I go from here?

The same place I've been going for a year.

Back to therapy...

Resolve

2010-01-03T19:06:00.000-08:00

What is it about a new year that makes everyone take stock of their life and try and make it better? As much as I consider myself unique in many respects, I wouldn't be human if I didn't do this exact thing as I was home in Chicago seeing family, hanging out with friends, and visiting my grandmother whose memory is unfortunately no longer as sharp as it used to be.

So, in no particular order are my New Year's resolutions:

1. Write. And get paid to do so. And love it. And do more of it.

2009 was my most successful year in writing to date. 2010 needs to top that. I started writing a blog which has felt more right than anything else I've ever done. I became obsessed with the show House and actually turned it into a writing gig and I've been able to funnel my overly-analytical side into something productive.

I'm considering asking BuddyTV to do reviews for one of my other favorite shows Big Love. The problem with that is my obsession with that show is not nearly as strong as House and I don't have time to do the leg work to become as obsessed with the show. Additionally, I don't have HBO and Sunday nights are typically reserved for me to scramble around and do the work I need to do for teaching. Also, I don't want to overload myself, but hey I need to work hard to make it in this world of writing.

Anyway, with landing the House writing gig, I finally feel like I can turn into something. My new goal of becoming of a reviewer of shows and movies I deem to be intelligent doesn't seem that far out of reach, which is something I never thought I'd say.

2. Stop putting undue pressure on myself.

This is something I've been doing for years. On one hand, I like to consider myself a person that has high standards that I need to live up to. However, if one thing goes wrong, I can't keep blaming it entirely on myself. If I screw up, I screw up.

Also, when things go well, I need to be proud. And stay proud.

3. Work on my classroom management style.

Starting tomorrow, my 7th graders will be whipped into shape. It's time. And it's time I tailored my teaching style to them even though they aren't what I'm used to.

4. Buy stamps and start writing letters to the ones I care about.

For some reason, I've always loved the idea of writing letters and sending things out, but have never actually executed this idea. I need to. Especially for my grandmother.

5. Save money and budget.

Ever hear of mint.com? I need to visit that site regularly. I need to think ahead. Just because I don't want to buy a house anytime soon doesn't mean I shouldn't have a savings account. I've made it this far in the most expensive city (next to NYC) in the country and if I'm going to continue living here, I need to spend smartly. Time to start DVRing Suzie Orman.

6. Embrace the things I love and if they can reciprocate, tell them so.

I've been embarrassed on some level about my obsessiveness with House. Forget it. I love it. I have my reasons. I know more about it than 95% of the population and I just need to embrace the fact that I'm passionate about its characters, writing, and production. Anyone who thinks it's stupid or can't accept that can't accept me. Luckily no one has come to that conclusion yet.

As for telling the people in my life that I love them, I feel like 2009 was a strong year for this. I constantly try and let the people in my life know that I appreciate them, but there really aren't enough ways I can show it. I'll do my best in 2010 to do that. This can be combined with Resolution #4.

7. Give back to the community.

I hadn't thought of this one until now, but I'm inspired by so many people that I know that make the time do things for others (i.e. Mck and Sean that are going into the Peace Corp). Last year I looked into it briefly. This year I want to do it.

8. Remain one day ahead of things at work.

My beginning of the year goal to stay one day ahead in planning has worked for me beautifully and made my year world's easier than last.

9. See the positive.

This is also something I worked on in 2009, but I think in 2010, I'm going to try harder.

10. Keep reading and working out.

I grouped these together because both are difficult to start but so rewarding as I'm doing them and after I'm finished. I read a lot in 2009 and want to continue the trend for 2010. Right now I'm 200 pages into a biography on Carole King, Joni Mitchell, and Carly Simon called Girls Like Us and it's incredibly informative, inspiring, and provocative.

11. Learn how to roller blade.

Sounds easy enough. It's not. I'm terrified.

12. Get lots of sleep.

I plan on going to bed by 11 tonight. At the latest. I function better on at least 6-8 hours and last year, I didn't always get that much.

13. Branch out and do things in LA I haven't done before.

Upon reading my list, I realized none of them appeared all that provocative. I need to start doing things that make me more well-rounded as a person and that truly explore a city that offers so much.

Is it unlucky to end on 13? Referring to Resolution #9, I'm going with no.

Happy New Year!

Feel free to write comments about resolutions you think I should have (be kind) or write your own.

Are You Chandler?

2009-12-22T22:23:00.000-08:00

I went to see Up in the Air tonight. Alone.

Sometimes seeing movies alone is better than with others. I'm only concerned about my thoughts regarding the movie. I don't need to worry about laughing too loudly or crying too softly.

In other words, I can process on my own.

I loved it. But that's not the reason I'm writing.

Usually when I go to the Arclight, my antenna is up. I am sleuthing for celebs trying to be incognito. I am not ashamed to say that I am excellent with faces and great with names so a place like the Arclight, where I've spotted the majority of the actors I've seen in Los Angeles, is a heavenly place for me, a person seemingly inundated with useless information, i.e. too many names and faces.

After the movie, I wasn't looking for people. I was processing the movie, how George Clooney is gifted and gorgeous, and about its various themes. It was an interesting movie to see alone considering the movie was about connecting with others.

Regardless, I somehow ended up in the parking validation line behind some tall fellow. I glanced around and noticed several people looking where I was standing.

The man in a black long coat turned to the side and I realized I was standing behind Matthew Perry.

I smiled flashing back to almost two years ago.

I walk up the Arclight. I have only been in LA about six months. Seeing celebrities is still new.

I freaked out. Matthew Perry. Chandler Bing. One of my numerous crushes! He was in line right after Joshua Jackson and before Leonardo Dicaprio. How could I not ask him for a picture? If I didn't, wouldn't I regret it for the rest of my life?!

The picture was taken and I earned some serious facebook cred from the folks back home.

When I asked him for the picture he wasn't thrilled about taking it. Shouldn't he have been pleased to know people liked him? Shouldn't he have wanted another fan?

Back to tonight.

I laughed to myself thinking about asking him that when the man behind me, of Asian descent tapped Matthew Perry on the shoulder and asked him with a thick accent, "Are you Chandler?"

I held my scarf over my face so my laughing wasn't completely apparent.

"Umm, yeah," Matthew said, defeated and annoyed he was asked at all.

"I'm a big fan. BIG." The Asian man smiled and held his hands apart to demonstrate just how big of a fan he was.

"Thanks," mumbled Matthew, turning back around to face the parking attendent.

Little did I know validating my parking ticket would feel like such a circular moment for me.

I would never have asked Matthew Perry for a picture now. I would be too embarrassed. This isn't to say I don't get completely jazzed at the sight of any celebrity. Typically, sightings put me in a better mood. However, I wouldn't be that guy. In tonight's case, I wouldn't be the guy behind me complimenting --or bothering, if you're Matthew Perry-- the actor.

(Keep in mind exceptions to the picture rule apply to anyone from Young and the Restless and House. Duh.)

So what can I make of this?

Have I become numb to the life of luxury in LA? Rubbing elbows (or unvalidated parking tickets) with the stars? Have I become embarrassed to express my love for actors?

Or am I just now starting to understand that they are going to live their lives and I am going to live mine and I have nothing to do with them except that I watch them. Rather, I have something to do with them, but they are completely unaware of me.

Maybe it's neither. Maybe both.

I'm just glad tonight I was the one laughing about someone else's encounter with my scarf over my face, blissfully observing.

Nerd World

2009-12-05T15:06:00.000-08:00

I know I haven't written in over a month.

Let me rephrase. I know I haven't written in my blog in over a month.

I have been writing:

1. Letters of recommendation
2. Report card comments
3. Bar/bat mitzvah speeches
4. House articles (2 a week)
5. To Do lists (once a day)

Sum total = no blogging for over a month.

But I digress.

Before I got my dream job (minus the paycheck) writing analytical House reviews, I used to read reviews by someone named Barbara Barnett on this website blogcritics.com. She was queen of my House Land and I read her reviews on episodes religiously, never knowing how deep House went until I read her reviews.

When I first got into the show, I craved some deep analysis and she was the only one providing it. She also wrote essays on House's love interests and various themes and motifs in the show.

She critiqued the show House as if it were a significant piece of literature, and not just a television show on Fox. For once, I could read someone's perspective that I agreed with, someone who was willing to actually admit television was smart, and network television at that!

I admired her. And still do. And now it is my goal to become as good at reviewing the show as she is, but at a faster pace.

A month ago, when I started my reviews, hers went up before mine did on BuddyTV. I wasn't sure why, but this bothered me. Was it that she was automatically better than me because she was faster? Because she has been doing this for a long time? Because her reviews have been posted on Fox's website?

I was jealous. Of Barbara Barnett. She has a large readership, has had interviews with multiple House personalities, and has been at this for a much longer time than me.

In other words, I want to have what she has. Street cred among the House fans.

In order to retain this "street cred," I've decided I want to meet the following goals:

1. Get my reviews posted earlier than hers. This is a silly goal as I have no control over when my editor puts my review up on the website, nor do I have control over Barbara Barnett.
2. Focus on the small things in House, remaining attentive to detail.
3. Post my review on every House universe humanly possible including the Fox Fan Forum, what I call the "stalker site" in which people post House-related links including Barbara's reviews, facebook, and twitter. In other words, I need to inundate the internet with my reviews.

Now. A small goal has been met already by my social networking stalker skills.

See if you can follow these bizarre connections:

A girl named Annabelle Attanasio played House's POTW (Patient of the Week) in the November 9th episode of House. She happens to be on twitter. The night her episode aired, I tweeted her something that said, "Hey, I'm writing a review on the episode. Nice job."

She actually responded and I happily read her reply that said something encouraging like, "Great, can't wait to read."

I wrote up my review, careful to mention her acting, which I enjoyed.

I tweeted it to her and she managed to tweet it to everyone who followed her! Fabulous!

The best part about all this is who her parents are.

Parent #1: Mom is Katie Jacobs, executive producer, sometimes director, and one of the main creators of the show.

Parent #2: Dad is Dan Attanasio, executive producer of the show.

I'm hoping she shared this review with both parents, seeing as she was mentioned.

With this social networking thing, I'm hoping to go far with my House writing and be as acknowledged in House-Land as Barbara Barnett is.

With that, I refer back to the title of this blog, as by now, it should be self explanatory.

What Goes Up...

2009-10-31T21:10:00.000-07:00

I was high on Tuesday.

Not a drug high, a life all-time-high.

I love to write. I love my favorite television show, House.

This summer I considered writing a spec script for the show (a fake script on the show to present to anyone involved with TV writing) to show you can write a script.

I started a blog so I could start doing what I loved again as a hobby.

By some rare coincidence and sheer luck, I stumbled across a really amazing opportunity last week and it snowballed into a major milestone in my life.

Someone on some House twitter page posted this link: http://www.buddytv.com/articles/dexter/calling-all-aspiring-writers-l-31958.aspx By the way, I haven't looked at the link since I applied, and it now says the position of fan columnist under House MD is filled. Squeal!

I knew I was fully capable. Write a review of the most recent episode? No problem, I had seen it twice. It took about two hours, but I wrote it, edited it down, and emailed it in.

The next day I received an email back notifying me that the article I wrote was great, exactly what they wanted, and barring a few edits, I would be chosen as a fan columnist for the show House MD.

Of course, I was elated. The only downside of the whole thing is that I won't be getting paid and this may take up a lot of my time.

The upside? I get to write about my favorite obsession and get an instant fan base from people like me who love the show. And, the best part, I am published for writing about something that I talk to everyone I know about ad nauseum.

My friend tells me that my obsession now has a purpose.

And it does! I get to talk to people directly that care about the same things I do. I was chosen specifically for me own merits as a writer and my knowledge on the show. No connections, no luck of the draw, purely based on my writing.

And it feels good. Really good.

So I was high. Life high. Even my trip to the eye doctor didn't go that well because apparently I have swollen spots on my cornea that I need artificial tears for and a strong medication.

Didn't matter. I'm published.

And then I was low just as quickly.

My grandmother, who wants me to be happy and successful more than anything became really ill this week. She's 90 years old and this past week she couldn't remember who my dad was.

It was at that point, the idea of losing her became completely real to me and I completely lost it.

You might notice this entry doesn't carry the usual Lisa voice. Sarcastic and cutting.

That's because I'm scared. Better than I was on Thursday and Friday, but I'm scared.

She was better over the weekend, but I'm starting to realize that there may be another huge loss coming my way and the prospect of that frightens me. Especially when I feel like I've had so many successes in my waking life.

I don't like this entry very much. But sometimes thoughts need to come out, and out they came.

Why must the world always need to be in balance? Why can't things just go 100 percent well?

I went back to the eye doctor today. In addition to walking in and finding BJ Novak, writer and actor in The Office, at the same Lenscrafters counter I was approaching, my eyes passed the test, and I am now able to wear contacts.

The doctor said my authentic tears helped get rid of the spots in my corneas.

Hebrew Pinups

2009-10-18T19:47:00.000-07:00

A week ago Friday I was doing the usual facebook inventory when I came across this headline:

Nice Jewish Guys 2010 Calendar Wine Tasting

After controlling my wheezing laughter, I clicked on the link.

Apparently, Silverlake Wine was hosting a tasting in honor of the calendar coming out.

After canceling my standard LA Friday night plans (dinner and movie at the Arclight), I roped Sophia into going with me to meet these allegedly "nice" Jews. She owed me from the "art" show a couple weeks back.

Nice Jews. This was an occasion I needed to be prepared for.

I dressed up. Put on my new LBD (Little Black Dress), high heels that I felt unstable in, and put on a coat that the outfit called for, but not the weather.

In hindsight, it strikes me as odd that I would assume that this evening would be filled with highly successful, attractive, single, nice Jews. What happened to my usual grating cynicism?

Deciding to delight in this enthusiasm, my roommate and I eagerly clamored into my gold grandma car and bounced in our seats to Sam Sparro's "Black and Gold."

When we parked, I got out the car, unsteady on my heels. Why did I feel so nervous?

Upon entering, I immediately took stock of the room. Wine covering every inch of the four walls, blown up poster-sized pictures of a few of the calendar men, and about 10 people near the bar in the back tasting. Sophia and I didn't pay to taste immediately. We needed to conference about whether or not this would be worth our time.

Deciding we would find our other roommate in a bar nearby, we took a brief recess from the Jew room and went to another bar. In and out. Couldn't find our roommate on a happy hour with her teacher coworkers.

Back to the Jews. Decision time. Should we stay or should we go? Would there be more people arriving? Any eligible, good looking Jews? Deciding we should take advantage of the fact we were there, we went in.

Sophia wanted to actually bargain the Jews down on the price of the tasting because she decided that one calendar in between us was enough to sustain our lust for the Hebrews.

Yes. She "Jewed down" the Jew. Let's pause to enjoy the irony of the only Shixa in the place doing the swindling.

We went to the bar in back to grab our first taste and appetizer and looked around the room. One David Schwimmer look alike aptly named David stood next to his blown up poster drinking a glass of red and glancing around. A girl approached him and asked him to sign her calendar.

I gulped my wine down quickly without tasting it.

More people filed in. Many girls in pairs wandered in, flipping through their calendars and looking up, hoping to see Mr. January or July.

I wasn't sure how to proceed. It's surprisingly difficult in situations like these to actually make a move and begin talking to complete strangers. Even with an opening line as brilliant as "So, how did you get involved in the Jewish calendar business?"

I approached the Schwimmer look-alike who sadly was not as friendly as I imagined the real David Schwimmer to be. He seemed hardened. A New Yorker. Like one too many people had said he looked like Schwimmer.

Time for "taste" two.

Sophia and I turned to talk to a couple. They were just there for the wine tasting and the nice Jewish boys being there was just collateral damage.

Regardless, they did a stand-up job of match making.

We ended up talking to Joe, one of the calendar boys. He wore a Sigor Ros t-shirt and seemed excited to be there, and genuinely interested in talking to people.

Well, we did talk. For about an hour, despite being interrupted by adult women acting as teenagers getting autographs from the Jonas Brothers.

So I met a nice Jewish guy. At the Nice Jewish Guy 2010 Calendar Wine Tasting.

I'm actually not sure stranger things have happened.

Bowling

2009-10-08T15:47:00.000-07:00

When I was twelve, I decided I loved bowling so much I asked my parents if I could take a summer bowling class.

I was thrilled to be a part of this bowling class even after I realized it would take place at Glenwood Bowl.

Glenwood Bowl was dimly lit, smokey even without smokers, and didn't have the new-fangled electric scoring machines. This was a traditional bowling alley. Mark the strikes, spares, and gutters on your own. The only good thing about Glenwood Bowl is that it was next to my favorite Chinese restaurant, Dragon Inn.

I did well then. I even had my birthday party that year at the bowling alley and got a turkey! For those of you that aren't educated in the world of bowling jargon, a turkey is when you get three strikes in a row on the last frame.

No one gets a turkey.

But I did.

Presently, my sister is in a bowling league. My dad is in a bowling league. In order to meet people, I decided to revive one of my favorite past times and research bowling leagues in the area.

I'm good at Scrabble and bowling. And teaching. And that's about it. Might as well join one of those things competitively.

Upon doing research, I found a league nearby. Unfortunately, it was on Monday nights, conflicting with my other favorite hobby: watching and obsessing over House.

Choosing social activity over isolation and obsession, I decided to spring for DVR in order to have both worlds at my disposal.

Fast forward to this Monday night. I triple-checked House was being recorded, I put on jeans, a green tank top, a black sweater, and maroon flats.

Socks in purse. Check.

Arriving early at the bowling alley, I asked the person behind the counter what I should do and where I should go. Before he even opened his mouth, I knew it was the moron I had encountered over the phone who had to cover the receiver to ask someone next to him what I had just asked him, only to return to the phone and say he couldn't give me an answer.

He was young. And no matter what he said, it sounded like a question.

He had me fill out a form asking for my email, address, and bowling average.

I put down 100 and was told to wait for the league to start at 7:30.

I sat and opened my book to read, glancing around me at the nearly empty bowling alley. 7:05 PM.

I squinted at a sign at the end of the alley advertising a league, possible the one I was in. The sign's background was a rainbow. Did I just inadvertently sign up for a gay bowling league?

As I nearly finished my book, a guy of about my age named Edgar approached me. English wasn't his first language, but we interacted nicely. He told me where we would be and that my shoes would be free. He wasn't gay.

Good start.

Then I was put onto a team. My team consisted of all men. In fact, there weren't any women in the entire league. One of my team members was 40ish, wore a ring, and walked on a slant with slight limp. I asked him what he did for a living and he responded by asking me what I did.

Then there was Chris. He was the one who introduced me to the "low five." After you bowled, you always got a low five. Chris was a slapper. Instead of just touching hands, if he did well and got a strike or spare, he would reach back and slap your hand with vigor.

Jeff was just a grazer. His low fives were slight. He texted the whole time I was there.

Javier tried to give me tips after my first practice shot. "Move closer to the alley before you let the ball go."

Ok. Jeez. First timer here! It did help though, I do admit.

On my first game, I scored the lowest on my team. 123.

Apparently, we were to play three games. No one was talking to me. People were polite, but they didn't even talk to each other! And if they did, it was in Spanish and English.

I played my second game and wondered if I was up for a third.

My objective in joining the league was to meet people. I met people. No one told me their profession. Everyone was polite. The bowling wasn't that competitive, and yet everyone was completely focused on the bowling!

Anomale.

I opted out of the third game once I realized I would be there until 10:30 if I stayed. I asked Edgar if my leaving would be detrimental to the team and he assured me it wouldn't be, but when I started saying my goodbyes and nice to meet yous, everyone gasped, "You're leaving?!"

Umm...yes? I have to work...I thought this wasn't serious...not that competitive...Edgar said it wasn't a big deal?

Well. I still like bowling. I still want to meet people. But I don't think I'll be returning to this particular league.

Strike one. And I mean that in baseball terminology, not bowling.

Art

2009-10-03T17:44:00.000-07:00

I can't draw.

I don't paint.

And I certainly don't claim to be an art expert.

However, I would like to think I have taste, especially after going to the Art Institute numerous times, taking many art history classes, and developing an artistic aesthetic through the years that my mother would be proud of.

Last night, I went with Sophia to an "art" show.

We walked into the small, closet-sized room with a drum set (a band was to play) and saw that there was a narrow corner that looked to open up to the rest of the space.

Pshew! Thank God. I hadn't seen any art yet and was beginning to wonder if we had come to the wrong place.

Sophia peered around the corner next to some boxes labled "Photo Ops" and some male with a faux hawk shook his head no.

Silly us. Not back there! We walked right past the art!

We backed up and stared down at a small circular table.

On the table was the book Fahrenheit 451 opened to a page that was blowing back and forth because of a fan in the room. Next to the book was a little garland of leaves.

I peered around the room. Packed. Filled with hipsters of every shape and size.

Outside, a girl with a flowery dress on and boots took a drag from her cigarette, threw her head back, and laughed.

Everyone huddled in groups to chat with each other.

Sophia and I walked out, and tried to discreetly figure out if what we just saw was "art," a joke, or some kind of failed attempt at getting an art show together.

Being me, I taped a cute guy on the shoulder and asked, "I'm sorry, but isn't there supposed to be an art show in there?"

He was polite enough. "Yes, there's a sculpture and an essay on display inside. You should take a look."

Wait, essay? Was he talking about the book Fahrenheit 451? If so, I have news for him. The person who created that "art" is named Ray Bradbury and he did so a number of years ago.

Sculpture, sculpture...let's see...

By George! Was that the pile of boxes Sophia and I skipped right past? How wonderfully creative! Boxes! My! I create art every time I move apartments. Had I known, I would have invited everyone for the show.

Now, I can appreciate found art like the ala Duchamp because he was the first to do so, and it was revolutionary.

This, as seen from my humble art eye, was not.

Sophia and I left the gaggles of American Apparel clad art students and went back to have tea with Dan and Becka.

Dear Writers

2009-09-29T20:37:00.000-07:00

Dear Y&R Writers,

I never liked Colleen, but you killed her off.

I loved Brad, you were starting to do interesting things with his character, and you killed him off.

Victor is the staple of the show, and you're going to write him off. Some of the best actors from your show now appear on The Bold and the Beautiful.

Ashley has a hysterical pregnancy and is in a mental institution.

You turned Adam Wilson from Kansas into a completely psychotic character, not to mention an asshole.

Poor Sharon has turned into a petty criminal with strange blackouts and is now pregnant with Nick's baby who she's pretending is Jack's.

Mary Jane, a perfectly fun villain on the show went too over the edge and had to go and shoot Victor and dump Colleen in the lake where Brad died.

You gave Lily cancer. Killed off her mother a few years back and now her best friend presently.

I know that the economy is in a recession and everyone is out of a job. Money is tight. People are depressed.

Does this indicate to you that we need a world where people have to die, give birth to still-born babies, or need a heart transplant from the person they indirectly killed?

To me, it means now, more than ever, we need a break. Enough already with these dour story lines and hospital scenes. Y&R never has needed to be a reflection of real life doom and gloom. What it needs to be is our fun highlight on DVR at the end of the day with glamorous parties, weddings, and gratuitous daytime soap opera love scenes.

Please writers. Hear my plea.

Lighten up.

Sincerely,

Your most devoted Y&R follower of the last 20 years

Dental Trip

2009-09-23T22:18:00.000-07:00

I used to love going to the dentist. It didn't hurt me and I could pick any prize out of a literal treasure chest. This was Dr. Perry's office circa 1996, of course. Before I had braces, cavities, or breasts and a tongue scraper was the most sophisticated instrument I had ever seen.

Dentist Visit #1

These days, I wasn't so thrilled to be heading back to the dentist. Before the beginning of this month, I hadn't been to the dentist in two years. I thought that meant I had missed two appointments. My dentist informed me it meant I missed four.

Truthfully, I picked my dentist because it seemed like he had a nice Jewish name. After he spoke, I couldn't figure out how to place his lispy accent.

Regardless, it was his hygienist that did all of my teeth work anyway. My first visit to the dentist in two years was one of the most painful doctor experiences of my life.

If the hygienist wasn't so nice, I would have thought she hated me, hated my teeth, and was a complete sadist.

She took that scraper and scraped the built-up plaque off my teeth with the vigor and muscle of a man twice her size.

Just when I thought the worst was over, she decided to floss for me. It was like a horror movie. My teeth and gums were bloodied and I'm sure if I'd ever gotten into a fight, this is what I would have looked like. Assuming, of course, I would lose in a fight with anyone.

Naturally, I assumed things could only get better. Then came the x-rays. Ok, hold this awkward metal thing in your mouth this way while it slowly slides up your gums and threatens to tear through straight to your teeth.

No problem. There are only a few of these X-rays, right?

Ah. No. There are 18.

And the final nail in the coffin that is my mouth. I am the proud winner of three cavities.

Dentist Trip #2

I scheduled my cavity filling for Monday. I figured I would want a reward after my dentist experience and that reward was the premiere of House MD (which was fabulous, by the way).

I assumed after my last experience that getting my cavities filled would be a new kind of torture. But this was just the beginning. She told me I ended up having six caveties that they found on the x-rays.

"But don't worry. They're small."

Does that mean they cost less?

It was at that time, that my favorite hygienist gave me the numbing shot.

"Close your eyes. Keep breathing," she told me.

She said the shot would hurt. It didn't.

I started feeling quite strange.

"Is this supposed to feel really weird?"

"Why, how do you feel?"

"High. And really weird."

And then she told me she wanted to start. My cheek felt like it was protruding out of the side of my face.

And then the laughing started.

Now. I wasn't given laughing gas. Just the stuff that numbs you.

She put a thing in my mouth that holds it open easily and I started to relax.

Then I started to giggle.

While she was drilling.

She started to laugh and removed the mouth-holder-opener.

"Is this normal?" I barely managed to gasp out between giggles.

"Ummm..." she answered. "Not really."

Hmmm. How hilarious!

I started thinking about sad things to get me through it. Dead mother. Sick grandmother. Death. Death. Dying. Loneliness.

That did it for awhile. I stuck my hands in the pockets of my skirt and made fists.

My thumbs were in my fists. Fist. Wrist. Dentist.

Wow...

That set off my third set of giggles.

Focus. Death. Yes, death. The grim reaper.

Dan's reaction when he finds out. Stop it!

"You should feel some pressure. Is this ok?" she asked winding some kind of ancient torture device around my tooth.

"Yeah, feels great!"

When she told me to rinse, I tried to puff up my cheeks, but the side that was numb wouldn't puff. Water dribbled down my chin. I did it three more times thinking the result would be different. It wasn't.

* * *

After it was over, I realized it might be a mistake to get in the car and drive considering I was talking to myself and running my tongue over my numb lip repeatedly.

So I went to Anthropologie. And decided that I should try on dresses. I loved them all, but I wasn't sure if it was because I was on my dental trip or if it was because the dresses were really beautiful. I put the dress on hold.

I walked over to my car, touching lamp posts, glass facades, and fingering the magazines on a stand.

I get the next set of cavities done in a month. Let the dental trip begin.

Origins

2009-09-20T21:08:00.000-07:00

This weekend I went to my best friend's wedding. I cried. A lot.

I cried when I saw the groom in his suit. I cried when I saw the bride rehearse her vows. I cried when the bride walked down the aisle with her father. And most of all, I cried when the groom gave his vows in a song he wrote.

But why?

My friend Caitlin, a physical therapist, knows everything. Literally. Everything. Of course I went to her demanding an answer.

Why do people cry? Why is it, when we get emotional it's hard to swallow and salty water springs from our eyes? Why do we start to sniffle? Why is that an automatic response to pure joy and pure sadness?

Caitlin was stumped. And I was reeling.

How do expressions start? Once I started thinking about crying, I of course thought of laughter.

How did laughter become our automatic response to something that's funny? And how do people develop such strangely different laughs?

I'm sure it all starts with the smile and cavemen being proud of themselves or something, but truthfully, I'm baffled.

When I cry for longer than five minutes, I get a headache worse than any hangover I've ever experienced. I consider it punishment for letting my emotions get the better of me.

Fair? No.

And while we're on the subject, if this is a natural response, why do men rarely cry as much as women do? I know these seem like Carrie Bradshaw annoying questions, but I've been quite curious as to why I response the way I respond to certain situations and I am wondering if there is actual medical reasoning behind these emotional responses.

If anyone happens to know, please enlighten me.

Y&R

2009-09-13T21:04:00.000-07:00

School came about so suddenly, that I completely forgot to write about this "O.I.L.A." experience. (Only in Los Angeles)

I was doing some casual internet surfing, just looking into my soap opera, when I came across an article about Young and the Restless having an open casting call. Women between the ages of 18 and 35 of all races, sizes, and the full spectrum of looks were invited.

At stake: an onscreen role for one episode, a photo shoot on camera for the magazine within the show called "Restless Style," and an actual actor's salary for doing the shoot. Oh yes, and an automatic AFTRA membership (the soap actor's SAG).

Luckily, I qualified. Even more luckily, I could drag Becka into it because she was equally in love with our ultimate guilty pleasure known affectionately as Y&R.

I figured Becka had an actual shot. She is gorgeous, could probably act, and has a background as a fan.

The only way I figured I had a shot was by cornering the untapped Jewish market and convincing the person that interviewed me that I was the only true fan of the show I've been watching for 20 years.

First, the materials. There was some background information that needed to be filled out.

Q: Have you ever acted before? List your SAG, AFTRA membership or any related experiences.
A: Does my high school acting class count? I had to memorize an Anne Frank monologue...

Also, "Please sign on the dotted line so we can expose everything we deem as relevant about you if you do get this position. We can also pull you out of line if we think you're hot. And we don't have to interview you at all if we think you're not."

I signed. Hard.

And don't forget to include a head shot! I included my school picture from last year. Almost as good as a head shot. At least it was on photo paper.

Done. And done.

Becka and I arrive in Studio City, attempting to look our best. We notice there is a line, but it doesn't appear to be too long. Appear being the operative word.

We step in it. And stay in it. Suddenly, the line moves! We nod, approving the move, realizing we might not have long to wait.

Silly non-actors. Open casting calls are for EVERYONE!

We realize the line actually goes underneath a parking garage, up a stairwell, and then into the studio!

We finally get to the studio (after about an hour and a half of waiting) and we think we're in for a much shorter wait.

No no. We just get to register and hop to line number 2. Someone said it only took a half an hour.

They lied.

I brought a book. Becka got antsy. We started observing our direct competition. One girl looked like she had taken her walk of shame all the way to studio city. She had paler skin than me, a skinny figure, and a strapless ruched dress, and a white jacket over it. Her stripper heels could have passed without incident under a pair of skinny jeans, but with her bare legs exposed, she looked like an albino post-rave.

Another girl was Asian with violet eyes and a purple shirt. Becka and I argued over whether she was wearing colored contacts.

Then there were the girls in front of us whose head shots looked nothing like them. At least my yearbook picture looked like me.

And let's not forget the girls who started strong in their insensible heels that they were now carrying.

Everyone shifted from foot to foot. I read my book and advanced in the line. Becka made business phone calls.

John Driscoll, the actor we would eventually read with if we advanced past the first cut, circulated, flirting with potential costars as he went. Becka and I gawked as he pulled one girl in a short dress out of the line and up to the front with him.

Skank.

Finally, we got to the front. The tables were set up in a square U. It was totally random as to who would interview us. Whoever was available first. My strategy was to speak as much as anyone would let me.

I lucked out. The person interviewing me had worked on production for the show for 15 years. We reminisced about the good old days. I told her I remembered when Michael tried to rape Christine and clawed through the wall. I remembered when David got "Killer" tattooed on his forehead and was killed by the trash compactor.

I impressed her by telling her I recognized the Restless Style studio as JT and Colleen's old apartment. I pitched myself as the new Jewish girl on the block, pointing out my curly hair and vivacious figure as all new pluses to a traditional soap opera. I made her laugh, I asked her about her experience, and she handed me the two page script I would have to memorize if I was called back.

If? Snort!

I was getting a call back.

Becka's interview didn't go well because the person interviewing her was half as personable as mine. Unfortunate.

We went home and I thought because I had charmed my interviewer, I would be receiving a phone call.

Waiting for a phone call gave me ample opportunity to think about why Y&R had done this open call. If they wanted a hot actor, couldn't they have just gone through an agency? Or done a casting call on a smaller scale? Maybe this time they were looking for someone different. A different kind of sexy. Someone sarcastic? Someone with a sense of humor? Curly hair?

I did not get a phone call. (And neither did Becka for that matter).

Thus endeth my acting career on the number one rated daytime drama.

But it makes for an interesting blog topic, doesn't it?

Cruelty

2009-09-06T17:27:00.001-07:00

We have a writing group sometimes in our Boylston house. Our living room is the perfect size to accommodate a group of 6.

This is what I wrote given the topic of childhood cruelty:

**This story is actually two childhood cruelty stories combined if anyone actually reads this and disputes its accuracy.

"I'm going to jail!" I wailed as I hiccuped and clutched and clawed at my older sister.

"Breathe. Jesus," she muttered.

"But I can't! I'm going to jailllllllll!"

* * *

I slammed my locker shut. Then I opened it using my combo 6-16-6 and shut it hard again. It was lunchtime. I sat at the end of the table, barely squeezing on to the bench, while everyone leaned in towards the center to hear the desirables speak. Peanut butter sandwich. No jelly.

After lunch comes activity, or recess. We play four square, but this whole week, my friend Laura told me that the girls had to talk about something that didn't involve me. They sat on the ground in a circle of Indian-style crossed legs and I sat, Indian style, 20 feet away, pulling the grass out of the ground.

At home, no one was taking my calls. At school, Dominique, the nice one in our group wouldn't even clue me in.

"You'll just have to wait, Lise. It's no big deal." She said this, exasperated with my curiosity.

I called Jamie, my best friend, and let the phone ring 28 times. She didn't have an answering machine. We had a note notebook complete with nicknames, code names, doodles, and hearts. We'd pass it off to each other in the hall. It was covered with stickers.

And then Talia had to get involved. Talia had an Israeli mother. She used to give me Popsicles with jokes on them and rant about adult things on the phone. Talia was exceptionally close to her older brother. Everyday it would be Jonah thinks this, Jonah does that.

Talia, Jamie, Laura, Dominique. On Friday, the council met again. When I realized I was killing too much valuable plant life trying to overhear even just a single word of what they were saying, I stood up, and walked over.

"What are you guys talking about?" I shifted from one foot to the other, but I did have a hand on my hip.

They looked at each other, no one willing to speak first. Finally, Dominique stood.

"Well, like, Lisa, we just all kind of feel like you're really annoying. You like, call us all the time, and you, like, always talk about your mom."

Lump forming. Tears rising. Okay, diplomacy.

"Okay, well, what can I do?"

"Well, we don't think there's anything you can really do. We just don't really want to hang out anymore."

Both hands on my hips.

"Yeah, well, Talia does her brother!" I shouted at the top of my lungs so everyone shooting baskets and playing four square and jumping rope could hear.

"She does!" I said, getting louder, and with more conviction.

Talia stepped forward.

"You don't even know what that means."

"Yeah I do! It means you fuck your brother!"

* * *

"I'm going to jailllllll!" I continued flailing and pacing around my basement. My sister finally sat me down and made me tell her.

"Talia told her mom that I told her she does her brother and now she's gonna call mom!!!!!!!"

My sister stared at me, a crumpled, crying mess, and burst out laughing.

"You're not going to jail. But you are in trouble."

I waited in the basement watching a tape of Dawson's Creek to keep myself distracted until my mom got home.

* * *

"Honey, do you know what 'Talia does her brother' means?"

GULP.

"Ummm...kind of."

"Do you know why that's not appropriate?"

"Yes..."

It was at this point I realized, for whatever reason, my mother hated Talia's mom. And that was what saved me.

Discovered

2009-08-26T22:32:00.000-07:00

I had to get out my house. There wasn't anything wrong with it, but me in it.

Therapy is like using a rusty, squeaky can opener, and slowly turning it around a massive can and letting the air leak out when you thought it was closed for good. (And expired!)

Not the best metaphor, but I'm fatigued.

My entire ride home was me sitting there wondering why I can't discuss things, why I say aloud, this is pointless when I know she's just on the precipice of opening me up. Yes, the proverbial can. God, I never should have used that metaphor.

I push back.

When I was fourteen, my dad suggested I go to the Cancer Support Center for free therapy. The woman who was assigned to me was overweight, but most likely just pregnant. I felt like her body and her mouth kept making sounds that didn't make sense to me, and I just kept staring at the maroon-patterned diamond carpet. She asked me one question, and all of a sudden, I couldn't swallow.

Presently, I still can't swallow in therapy, but I keep trying to in attempt to avoid bursting into tears. God forbid someone see me cry.

Am I becoming selfish because of therapy? It is all about me in there. And then I walk out thinking about myself. And then I walk in my house thinking about myself. And then I talk to my roommates (sometimes) about myself. And then I feel selfish. And then I loathe therapy. And then I think about what I'm thinking about. And then I love therapy. And then I still can't figure out why I am avoiding tears like the plague.

* * *

In Los Angeles, you're typically confined to your car the majority of the time, aching to be out of it, arriving at your destination.

Today, I was in the car from 6-7:15 with all the rush hour worker bees, but I was swapping CDs out like an expert DJ. I listened to:

Beach Boys: "God Only Knows"
Beach Boys: "Wouldn't it Be Nice?"
Bjork: "It's Oh So Quiet"
Kanye West: Numerous hits off the Graduation CD
TV on the Radio: Various songs from Dear Science

and NPR's Fresh Air and other news programs

Sometimes I ache to be inside my car because it's there that I can get some thinking done. I roll down the windows, blast my music, and try to look at the person in the car next to mine without them seeing me. Unless they're male. And beautiful. Then I want eye contact. And I want them to toss me their cell phone. Because that means I have the key to their contacts, I have immediate trust, and I know they want to see me again. Shouting a phone number across traffic seems difficult. This seems like the ultimate movie way to do things.

Typically I catch the eye of a holey t-shirt wearing man in a large pick-up truck and a lumbering motor. He avoids my glasses-wearing eyes as quickly as I avoid his.

* * *

I want to be discovered. I want someone to plant a flag in the middle of my thick hair, and say, "I claim thee." Thou?

I realized that today. In my second gold car.

I want someone to be excited to have found me. Or my writing. Or the freckle on the tip of my lip. Or my hair that seems to sponge up smell more than most ordinary hair. Or that my glasses aren't hiding my eyes, but they're making me look smart. And that my House infatuation is endearing. And that my teaching is an unbelievably honorable and difficult profession.

And I want them to think, I can't believe no one has ever called attention to this woman before! This is an outrage! How is she not famous for her wit and unique body type? Isn't it amazing how independent she is?

This has morphed into a, "Here's what I want in a man" post.

Well, there it is. I want to feel new. Newly Discovered.

Talent

2009-08-23T23:25:00.000-07:00

What do I know? What can I do?

Well, I can write...

But not that well, and not professionally, and well, a lot of people can write.

I can't sing.

I have one slutty dance move that makes my legs sore after a night of drinking.

I can think well. My therapist says I'm psychologically minded, which I love to hear.

But I pay her.

What are my marketable skills? I can teach? I can learn?

I have patience. But so do lots of people.

I can wiggle my glasses up my face using just my nose. HA! I learned that when I was eleven.

I can dwell on things that don't change, i.e. any short-lived failed "relationship" I've ever had, death of a mother, etc.

I can be self-deprecating. Probably to the point of annoying others. I dislike that about myself, but sometimes it's fun to joke about one's faults and get smiles and laughs around the table.

I can set high standards, fail to meet most of them, and then beat myself up for not reaching too-tall goals and even the reasonable ones.

I can be fiercely independent, but can I be in a relationship?

I can easily be the third, fifth, seventh, and ninth wheel.

I can peel off my sunburnt skin in a long trail of foggy wrinkled tape.

I can tell you that the actor you're seeing now guesting on SVU was also a patient on House and was an extra on Friends and dead on scene in ER.

I can crack my fingers at will. Will that give me arthritis? That's what the librarian told me in the third grade. Her knuckles were swollen and knobby, but she continued cracking.

I can put on a brave face, but I can't cry in front of others.

I can put together a rather pathetic collection of what I can do, while mentally calculating just how much I can't.

And I can write about it.

The Coug

2009-08-20T15:45:00.000-07:00

Well, it's a sad day when LP in EP is selling The Coug.

I took it today to get one last wash (also its third) to get the car to be buyer ready.

The man at the car wash said his brother was interested, but then told me his brother had just bought a car yesterday.

So now craigslist will be lucky enough to post an ad with The Coug's picture and description.

I've had some times in this car. It has traveled with me numerous times to Iowa back to Illinois and back to Iowa again. It allowed me to escape from my house in high school when I needed to take off to the Indiana Dunes listening to Pure 80's with my best friends.

It allowed me to make middle of the night mistakes in college and get to my Telefund and Modeling jobs on time.

It stuck with me and had some serious pick up on the drive to California, and when that tire popped on the 405 that one time, I was able to maneuver it to the shoulder.

It has never failed me on a road trip, NOT ONE.

It has allowed me to listen to my iPod playing En Vogue and Ace of Base with the electric windows down.

She also always made that terrible noise when your phone rang and music was playing. Something about interference gave her indigestion.

Her plush leather seats gave everyone a taste of divinity.

Her lack of working horn gave me a chance to use other means to communicate with drives (waves, screams, and a certain finger waving).

She let me bang on her steering wheel to "Something in the Air Tonight." The moment in that song was mine before it was The Hangover's.

And even when we went into that ditch together on an icy deserted Iowan road, she didn't flip. I screamed long after she had settled into the snow, but we landed on our feet/wheels until a friendly Iowan helped us out. (Something in the Air Tonight was playing on my iPod while we went into the ditch).

She was the oldest car in my school's lot, but she was not intimidated.

And after therapy this year, even though I hurt her hood, she continued to work, and because she is so lovely, the tow truck driver we hit, gave us a break.

And I never noticed, until I rode on the passenger side, that the radio and all the controls were all tilted towards the driver, like no one else was to touch them except for ME!

God Bless you Cougar. I'll miss you when you're gone.

Here's the craigslist posting:

http://losangeles.craigslist.org/lac/cto/1333752905.html

And I'll post a few pictures to keep us entertained as well.

LA Dreams

2009-08-18T21:00:00.001-07:00

On going through my old journal entries, I came across some major themes:

1. Relationships
2. Depression
3. My dreams (not as in my hopes and dreams, but my regular REM sleep dreams)
4. Joshua Jackson

I'm going to focus on the fourth theme.

Upon moving to Los Angeles, I've had a number of celebrity/actor sightings. I've honed my recognition skills to a T and I think I am one of the best of my friends at recognizing people that appear on television or in the movies, but most likely, television.

I used to be obsessed with Dawson's Creek. At the time, I thought the obsession would never taper, which is why I'm now, the not-so-proud owner of DC seasons 1-6 plus the one discer series finale that fast forwards 6 years in the future.

I was in love with Joshua Jackson, or more likely, his character on the show, Pacey. This probably wasn't uncommon. I'm sure I wasn't the only teenager in America that had a crush, but my desire to learn about him overtook many other things including homework, and maybe some of my social time. I wrote about him, I dreamt about him, and my room was wall to wall covered with him. I knew his birthday (June 11th, 1978), type of dog (Rhodesian Ridgeback), and when his terrible movies were coming out (The Skulls, March 2000).

I vowed. Someday, I'll meet him.

And then, this year, I did. Los Angeles provided me a unique opportunity to go to an event hosted by the Paley Center that showcased the cast of the Fox show, Fringe. I have never watched this show. I had a slight interest because it's connected to JJ Abrams who did Alias and Felicity and I loved those shows, but no, this event was for me to fulfill my fourteen year old dream.

I went. I saw. I took pictures. He's still gorgeous, but I don't dream about him anymore.

But wait. A new obsession has cropped up in The Creek's wake.

For anyone that knows me, even as an acquaintance, we've probably discussed House at some point. I've racked my brain trying to figure out why this show and the man (Hugh Laurie) have hooked me so completely. I watched my first episode last October, and caught up with all the episodes of a show that had been on at the time for 5 and a half seasons, in January.

I know the characters, I know the dialogue, I know the cases, and I know the Houseisms.

def. Houseism: a quotable zinger from Dr. House; a theme of the show that Dr. House wraps up in a sentence; i.e. "People don't change. For example, I'm gonna keep repeating 'people don't change.'"

I became obsessed with the show to the point of trying to get anyone I could to love it so I could discuss it at length with them. Luckily, I found my boss who watched the show religiously. This worked on multiple levels. Bonding with boss = longer employment and fulfillment of House outlet needs.

After the season finale, I was left with a cliffhanger and a long summer to fill with travel and non-Houseian activities, until I stumbled on another event hosted by the Paley Center.

June 17th. Discussion Panel. Hugh Laurie. David Shore and Katie Jacobs (creator of House). Others unconfirmed.

$25.

I died. And bought a ticket on the spot.

* * *

Front row. Next to the cancer patient that because of the Make a Wish Foundation got to spend some time with the cast that was present at the event. I had stumbled upon the spot next to a cancer patient that worked her ass off to get to that point. On a side note, I heard later that she had passed away. I'll take that one to my therapist.

Hugh Laurie, David Shore, Katie Jacobs, Lisa Edelstein, Omar Epps, Robert Sean Leonard, and Greg Yaitanes (a director) were all present and I was six feet away to hear their thoughts and to later ask a question directly to Hugh and to David. And they addressed me back! Directly. Hugh even told me to be careful sitting down so I wouldn't miss the chair.

Sigh...

I am obsessed with Hugh to the degree of Joshua Jackson at 14. I have dreamt of him. I also know his birthday (strangely the same as Joshua Jackson's, just many years earlier), and although he doesn't decorate my walls, my iTunes is heavy with House episodes that I felt deserved a second, third, and possibly yes, pathetically, a fourth watch.

But. I met him. Just months after I started obsessing with him! Los Angeles provides, and to further illustrate this, we have next week's event...

http://cbs2.com/misc/The.Young.And.2.1127837.html

I realize these things appear silly, shallow, and to most people, ridiculous, but I am continually in awe of what this city allows me to do.

Y&R, no matter how ridiculous, or embarrassing, is a part of my life and always has been. If I have the chance to be in it, why would I not take it?

LA provides opportunities to make my TV obsessed dreams come true. What could be better?

DEFENDING TV

And while I have an audience, let me vent briefly on television. The LA Times recently wrote an article, mostly regarding the Mad Men premiere but detailing how TV shouldn't be looked at as a fool's paradise any longer, especially since it's becoming as high quality as film, if not more so. Halloween 2, anyone?

Granted, Y&R will never be known for it's deep storylines, but I love it, and I know it and its characters better than my family.

House, however, is an amazing character study of a misanthropic man and the relationships he struggles with while in pain. The writing is strong, not fluffy, and the show provides a bizarre medical mystery weekly while further examining its protagonist and supporting characters.

So. While I know some may view me as obsessed with the trivial, keep in mind what television is these days. With shows like Six Feet Under, Mad Men, The Sopranos, Big Love, and numerous others, it's nothing to be scoffed at.

Thus endeth the "TV is dumb" rebuttal.

This post wasn't half as succinct as the others, but all writing can't be great.

Aimless

2009-08-14T18:20:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I feel like I'm still in high school. Call all the friends and book them for your Friday night before they decide to hang out with each other or their boyfriends.

Figure out transportation. Pick somewhere cheap for the friend that has no money. In this case, that would be me.

Who's providing alcohol? Where are we going? What do you want to do? I don't care, what do you want to do?

Of course, I'm blogging while I should be reading World History: Ancient Civilizations, the 6th grade history textbook, but what kind of fool just reads a textbook all the way through? Like, for fun?

Well, it's not for fun. It's for school. Or work, I should say. And reading a textbook straight through is equally as fun as it was in 6th grade, but now it's just much easier to understand.

* * *

There was a huge time space there. Hence the stars. After an hour or so of Los Angeles research, I've decided I want to go to a trivia bar tomorrow night. And I might want to model for art classes again.

I want to inject my life with some excitement and healthy risk. The question is, how healthy of a risk is craigslist? I want to get in touch with a university and do it, but the scary thing is, what if I do it and there is some kind of connection to one of my students? Ew. And eek! Double ew. And I would be in major trouble?

Research time. I'm feeling the pull towards excitement. I need something that makes my heart beat fast besides the elliptical.

Puzzled Puzzles

2009-08-13T13:12:00.000-07:00

I stole some things from home in Chicago when I was there in July.

A photograph of my grandmother wearing flapper wear, kicking her foot out in succession with six other women, several letters, my mom's (now vintage) Ray-Ban tortoise-shell aviator sunglasses, and a videotape of my 3rd, 4th, and 5th birthday parties mostly held in the playpen of the basement of McDonald's. Don't question it. Those McDonald's playpens rocked my little three - five year old world.

Since January, I've been searching. And I've actually had the luxury of finding what I've been searching for.

My quest was simple. I wanted to know my mother as a person, not just as my mother. She died when I was 14, so I never got to have an adult rapport with her and I wanted answers.

Was I like her? What was she like? What did she do? Who did she date? What was she passionate about?

Yes, I was like her. She loved art, great music like Joan Baez, had terrible handwriting, was a klutz, struggled with her weight, and obsessed over men in journalistic writings. She dated everyone she met it would appear from her journal entries and she was passionate about art and helping students as a guidance counselor and DCFS worker.

In April, I went on a treasure hunt searching for answers and I found resource after resource providing them. So why are there still holes in my theories?

I found her old journals, letters to my father, her figure sketches (which I found most intriguing since I was a model in college for art majors), and tons of her old papers.

I have too many answers. And now I realize that even with the gift of these materials to sift through, (I've still barely scratched the surface), I will never be satiated because she's not here and she won't be ever again.

Crying over it will just cause a headache, and at this point, I'm so removed from the situation, it would just feel contrived.

I went to the cemetery this summer with my Aunt and Uncle. The last time I went was before I moved to Los Angeles, before I had a job, before I had met half my friends out here, and before I became a teacher. I spoke to the headstone then, like it mattered that I got her post-mortom approval.

This time, my shoulders were peeling from a sunburn. My aunt handed me a stone to put on her headstone. There was birdpoop on one side of the headstone and I couldn't stop reaching around to peel my skin off from my blistering shoulder.

I am literally, and I mean literally a different person. Lisa #1 stopped existing at 14. Lisa #2 entered the picture soon after and looking back on these materials feels more like a research paper then an emotional review of my family history.

I can't stop now. I have all the information just sitting around my room, collecting dust.

Frame the mom drawings. Read the love letters. Watch the birthday party videos. Wear the aviators.

I'm still short some major puzzle pieces.

Injuries

2009-08-11T15:28:00.000-07:00

I sprained my ankle.

Again.

I seem to have an affinity for twisting this ankle. It's always done in some spastic way. In February, an 8th grade girl pushed into me during the student/staff basketball game. This time, I was carrying my laundry down to my horror-movie basement, and I missed either one step or two, dropped the laundry, and ended up on the floor, looking at a Daddy Long Legs staring out at me from under the concrete decrepit stairs.

Surprisingly, my fall wasn't noisy. It was soft, as if I weighed about 40 pounds less than I actually weigh. Even my laundry had just softly bumped the dryer in the fall.

I sat there, clutching my ankle, debating whether or not to call back up to the roommate and her boyfriend on the couch watching TV.

Instead, I clutched my ankle, staring at the speedy swelling and whispering "Ow," and "Fuck" over and over until I felt I might be able to stand up and walk up the stairs.

Oh, but wait!

I did have a purpose in coming downstairs. After trips to Miami and New York, laundry had to be done.

I don't think I hit my head, but I did feel nauseous for some reason after the fall. It most likely caught me by surprise.

I made my roommate come in so I could tell her what happened, and I burst into tears.

Injuries are weird.