Fallin' Out of Love

Fall has always been my favorite time of year. I love when the leaves change color, I love taking my scarves out of hiding, I love seeing beanies being used for functionality and not fashionability. But living in LA, I haven't experienced any of these things! I've spent the last three years without seasonal change or any indication of the passage of time in general. I just didn't think fall existed here. I missed the crispness in the air and wanting to curl up next to a space heater and pray for summer. But this fall was different. This fall I learned. All I need to do to feel the LA fall is get up before the sun!

When I was a nanny and unemployed (my two previous careers), I didn't have to interact with the outdoors until early afternoon. I missed any night-to-day transitional temperatures and only ever knew the monotonous sunny, warm, cloudless weather that's made Southern California famous. But now that I'm a trainer and have clients at 6am, I wake up before the sun can warm everything around me to a delightful 65 degrees. I'm finally up early enough to experience the chill of winter creeping in. To feel the fall. To live the fall! And I hate it.

My main problem with LA fall is that it's a sneaks up on you. We're distracted from seasons with a beach and constant selling of flip flops for MONTHS and then it hits you, bam! And out of nowhere you're searching for all your tank tops to layer/wrap around yourself at various angles as an interim jacket. No one is prepared. I imagine the thermometers used at the local news stations in LA are measured with smiling suns, the sunglasses it wears grow darker as the temperature increases and below 65 degrees is just a big question mark.

What happened to you fall? I used to love you. I used to talk about you to all my friends. 'what are you being for halloween?', 'let's get HOT apple cider!', 'Brrr' and 'are we wearing socks now?' But now I'm too cold to care. Maybe three years of mild temperatures and never ending 'beach days' has made me a wimp, or maybe, just maybe, everything sucks. I might also have learned that changes in weather really affect my mood.

I've learned I have a hard time recovering from an overcast morning. I wonder why God has cursed me with a cloudy day when there was a cloudy day ONLY FOUR MONTHS AGO. If the sun is not in my face I don't know what day it is, or time it is, or where I is. And daylight savings, or as I like to call it, fall's devil sidekick, does not help my confusion. Mere weeks ago I would wake up at 5am, in the pit of night, to train clients and now that pit of night feels like 11am. But we humans adapt. So I adapted myself right into coffee addiction. Sure, I can't feel the difference between 8am and 2:30pm, but there is no such thing as 'feeling' when you have that brown goodness coursing through your veins.

This blog post is brought to you at a very interesting time in my life. We, ALL OF US AS A UNIT, are nineteen days away from me being cut off from my parent's health insurance and I could not be more excited because there is nothing more fun than searching for the health coverage plan that is right for you when you don't even fully understand multivitamins. To cope with impending adulthood I rang in my birthday with a visit from my two of my best friends from college. It was the best. We went to the CU/UCLA football game and won! Just kidding we lost. But I consider it a victory if we aren't confused for the pee-wee football half-time show. Oh, wait, I did that. But in my defense, they were really bad too. If I can spend one day a year like I spent my 26th birthday, with beer bongs, party buses and CU pride then I think I can handle aging. But can aging handle me?!? GO BUFFS!

Flirt City, Population: Everyone Who Speaks To Me

I don't know whether this is something society has done to me or just another example of my internal overanalyzing, but I think anyone who is being nice to me is flirting with me. You would think I grew up surrounded by terrible, unloving and unfriendly people, who were more likely to greet you with a slap in the face than a smile or eye contact. But we all know I'm from Perfect Colorado so that's just not the case. Thinking that general friendliness is flirtation is not the worst way to look at it. I could be suspicious of everyone, preparing myself for whatever scam they are trying to lure me in to this time – I reserve that judgment for Coconut Water.

But this “everyone is flirting with me” paranoia yields two extreme reactions on my part. I either get a crush super easily on any guy who asks how my day is, immediately file him under “potential life long love” and become too distracted planning our lives together to listen to what he's saying. OR I will quickly zone out in a panic to focus on how I'm going to subtly tell a friendly woman that I'm straight. I say 'subtly' because nothing would be worse than shouting “I'm straight!” right into her face. What if this interaction was (definitely was) general human decency and not seduction? Then I come across as a person who takes a nice conversation as flirtation. Which is exactly who I am.

I don't envy people in relationships who have to reveal their 'taken' status in potentially flirty interactions. If you just blurt it out, you're a presumptuous ass and if you hold back and allow the flirting to continue you're a selfish ass. Either way you're an ass. It all has to be done subtly and organically. Recently I had an experience where a guy naturally, but purposefully told me he had a girlfriend. I really give this guy props because revealing that kind of information is important but is all dependent. I mean, what if I wasn't flirting with him?? I was, but it's amazing he picked up on it because I called him bro a few times and gave him a lot of high fives. Just goes to show you.... my flirting style is totally workingggg! Because what is a high five if not a hand hump?

He was telling me about all of his different jobs and I said, “whoa, you're really a jack of all trades” to which he responded “that's what my girlfriend calls me too.” It wasn't sly and it wasn't announced but it was clear. So good for him, the awkward part of the conversation was over for him. He had revealed the information he needed to reveal and now I had to react to it. Subtly. So without saying a word I turned around and walked away. I couldn't waste anymore of my single lady flirt on a taken man.

I suffer from the opposite problem. I want everyone to know that I do NOT have a boyfriend; another thing you can't just go screaming from the rooftops or whispering into guys' ears. It doesn't help that I'm always with my brother. And it really doesn't help that we look nothing alike. We've been confused for a couple too many times for it to not be a huge concern for us. I try to subtly reveal that we're related by raising my voice and inserting “have you talked to our parents today?” into our conversation and then looking around slyly to see see the look of intrigue on the face of all my potential suitors.

The ins and outs and subtleties of flirting are truly exhausting. And, honestly, I feel like I'm always flirting. I'm flirting with girls because I want, nay deserve, a large friend circle. I'm flirting with clients because I want them to know, nay need them to know, their journey to change their body is both of ours. I'm constantly flirting with the idea of moving back to Colorado. And don't even get me started on the amount of high fives I give out, bro. #flirtcity

Twerkin' Girl

I know the “I'm not a grown up and think it's ridiculous that I ever need to become one” is a pretty common theme for this blog. I mean, the picture for this site is still me in a graduation cap reading “Job Hunting for Dummies” with a six pack of beer sitting loyally by my side. But I can confidently say that picture is no longer an accurate depiction of my life. I can throw away that dumb old book because this girl has a job!

Yes, I have been a nanny previously, but this time I have one of those job where you fill out a W-9 and get taxed and all that good, cool, confusing but semi-grown up stuff. I got a job as a personal trainer at a gym in sunny Santa Monica! If you define a “real job” as one of those 9-5 office jobs, then no, this is not a real job. But if you define a “real job” as one that earns you enough money to support yourself and live a happy life then this is still not a real job. That's why I've also become a Lyft driver. That's right. TWO jobs that required me to fill out FORMS and get TAXED. So I'm officially on the grid, mother fuckers.

For those of you who don't know what Lyft is, it's kind of like a cab service that is used completely through an app on your phone. All the “cab drivers” are just cool people driving their own cars and the whole idea is that Lyft is “your friend with a car.” It takes away the weirdness of a cab, the grossness of a cab (they made me get my seats shampooed before I started - a whole different, terrible story) and strives to make the ride to your destination more fun and comfortable. You can google Lyft and get even more information if that's something you're in to. Right now Lyft is under some scrutiny but I am not one to stray away from a good controversy! That's not true, I have called my mom, dad and brother countless times to make sure that I won't find myself in any sort of confrontation because we all know how I do with confrontation.

But being a Lyft driver is a pretty sweet deal. It combines three of my favorite things: driving my car, listening to my music and being in control. I've met a couple of cool people who I'll always remember, a couple of drunk people who will never remember me and one fetish party host. Pretty decent ratio, I'd say. I used to be concerned that I would be driving around total weirdos, but even this fetish host was a really nice British guy. He mentioned the fetish party I would be driving him to so casually that I thought it must mean something different in the UK. It wasn't until his friend got into the car dressed in several different variations of leather with chains, straps, and fish nets that I realized it was the same fetish that we have in America. Honestly, kind of comforting to know our cultures aren't all that different after all! In the beginning I think my biggest fear was that someone would need to be dropped off at a secluded cabin with no cell reception but now my biggest fear is that I'll fart in my car right before I have to pick someone up. Kind of a toss up as to which would scar me forever.

For those of you who don't know what a personal trainer is, you probably need one and can call me anytime for a free session [this is my marketing tool]. Being a personal trainer is a lot like being a nanny. I think of exercises (games) that will teach my client (child) something and hope they enjoy it (don't cry) and at the end of the day I can always rely on a good high-five to keep them happy.

You know what they say, the more things change the more they stay the same.

Beginning "Pre-Adult Life"

I've been out of college for three years now, a fact that has been hard to come to terms with. For three years I've been describing myself as a “recent college graduate” in coverletters and in everyday get-to-know-yous (which is what I call conversations.) I've even been subconsciously using it as an excuse for being behind other people I meet in the world, career wise. I can look at someone and think, 'sure that 27-year-old has been promoted three times and has a company parking spot, I'll get there, afterall I am only a recent college graduate.' A RECENT one. That means I can still not know how to work a fax machine or use Dropbox because I am transitioning from the party/study/eat-non-stop phase to the be a real person phase.

To be honest, I don't feel like I did three years ago. The wound of moving away from my small, PERFECT college town of Boulder, CO is no longer fresh, but there is definitely a scab. The kind of scab that you could tear off and somehow find yourself sitting alone in your room clicking through a slideshow of college pictures, listening to Pitbull's “Go Girl” and brainstorming how to take a beer bong by yourself. You know, THOSE kind of scabs. But those traumatic days of reminiscing in my one-bedroom apartment that, unfortunately for my psyche, was part of a complex that served as an unofficial dorm to the local community college are behind me.

I no longer simmer in jealousy of everyone in Boulder whose biggest concern on any given day is which awesome party filled with all of their friends they were going to attend and which awesome sandwich shop they were going to stop by beforehand. Now I simmer in anticipation for my future concerns (marriage, children, providing, taxes, home renovations, finding a good cable plan, eternal happiness, etc.) I'm not ready for all that. So just like three years ago I find myself in a transition again, unsure of what to call this phase in my life.

In the famous words of one Britney Spears, “I'm not a girl, not yet a woman.” Except in my case replace 'girl' with 'recent college graduate' and 'woman' with 'grown up.' And you have my exact feelings on this point in my life that I am now going to call “pre-adult.” Look for it in my cover letters.

Aside from the three year post college milestone, the fact that I've attended two weddings in the last three weeks should be an eye opener to the fact that people are getting their lives together and people are getting their lives together FAST. This past weekend I went to another friend's wedding and it was my first super fancy event and considering I consistently referred to it as such things as “the nicest shit ever” or “classy as hell” it was probably be my last.

It was held at the Beverly Wilshire and while that is where “Pretty Woman” was filmed I felt much more like I was in “The Great Gatsby” (the movie, not the book) because everyone was dressed in black tie appropriate clothing, sashayed down a staircase to find their table which had THREE different drinks waiting; wine, water and champagne AND it was all in 3D. So I felt nothing like a cheap whore like Julia Roberts at the beginning of Pretty Woman, I felt much more like a well cared for whore, like Julia Roberts at the end of Pretty Woman.

The bride and groom weren't the only two that experienced a life changing event that evening. I was handed a sign that a step out of my “pre-adult life” phase was on the horizon. I accidentally caught the bouquet. I say accidentally because it's true. I didn't mean to and didn't necessarily want to, but I did. I tend to, especially after a few drinks, outwardly react to things in a very psyched manner but internally I am pretty neutral on the whole situation. I pose for pictures like I've just walked into my surprise birthday party, or won a car when I'm really just getting my gym membership card.

I think it is funny to act overly excited about everything. I guess on some level it is a cover for not ever having to show when I am genuinely excited about something because what is lamer than being genuinely excited? Anyway, being one of the only girls at the wedding not in a mild to serious relationship, I thought it was hilarious to treat the bouquet toss as a marriage proposal. My intention was to exaggerate a high jump, give the comedic effect of a woman taking the toss way too seriously and have the bouquet land, rightly so, in the hands of someone much more deserving. But when the flowers hit my enormous and outstretched hand I had no choice but to continue with the bit.

I jumped up and down, I fist pumped, I'm pretty sure I dropped the the ground and thanked the heavens above for my journey for love had finally come to an end. I could see the photographer taking pictures of me, prepared to document the lucky gal who would humbly take her bouquet and sit quietly and cutely in the corner with her boyfriend. Instead she got several candid pictures of me pelvic thrusting and raising the roof. Again, I said this was probably my last fancy event. I was genuinely surprised when I caught the bouquet and am going to retire the bit of the “overanxious marriage hungry wedding guest” for all future bouquet tosses. Which doesn't matter because thanks to my athleticism, I will be married by then anyway so, whatever.

I Know Pronounce You Happy as Hell

This blog post comes to you while I am in the midst of processing several emotions. My best friend (whose bachelorette/bridal shower I posted about previously) just got married. This was my first friend wedding and I have to say they set the bar pretty high. Almost unattainably high. Like, I probably can't even get married now. I've already experienced the best day of my life and it was my best friend's wedding in San Antonio, Texas. The most I can hope for on my wedding day or for the birth of my child(ren) is the second best day of my life.

I was lucky enough to be a Co-Maid of Honor which made me privy to cool things like emotional breakdowns, crafting, sleepless nights and champagne in the bathroom. I've heard horror stories about being a bridesmaid and I don't know whether I have a really high tolerance for terribleness or whether this bride was the best ever, but I loved being part of this wedding. Considering that today I found a hole in my favorite pair of 9 dollar Target leggings and declared it “the worst day of my life,” I'd say my tolerance for terribleness is at an all time low, making Maya the best bride ever.

This being my first friend wedding and my first bridal party experience, I would be lying if I said I didn't have my struggles.

I wasn't always sure how to de-stress the bride. In times of high tension I get self conscious that my actions will introduce new stress as opposed to relieving already present stress. On the day of the wedding, when my brother accidentally brought the coffee I asked him to deliver to me all the way to Maya's floor instead of calling me in the lobby, I did what any neurotic weirdo would do: I intercepted him at the elevator and forced him to stand in the hallway.

I did take a risk by allowing my mom to come in and say hello and in an effort to prove my allegiance to de-stressing the bride I acted like a security guard trying to keep a starstruck fan from overstaying her welcome at a meet and greet with a huge and easily irritated pop star. I believe I even gave a “sorry these guys are so obsessed with you” eye roll to the bride as I ushered my mom out. After the groupies were gone, I decided my new role in the Bridal Party Prep Room would be eating triangles of bagels and standing in various places. I killed it.

Emotions are high at weddings. And when emotions are on the rise so are hugs. I love hugs, I used to be against them from people I had just met mostly because I can't stand the movements of uncertainty leading up to the embrace, are we shaking hands? Are we hugging? Is your right arm going over while mine goes under? Are both of your arms going over? I don't like feeling vulnerable by going for a hug and being met with an outstretched hand but I also don't like feeling unloving when my extended hand lands in an open, unreceived embrace. Hugs are sketchy, but cheek kisses are the worst. Cheek kisses are grounds for staying awake all night, reviewing the play-by-play and wondering where you went wrong.

It's hard to find that perfect angle that lands the kiss in a friendly manner on their cheek and not in a creeper manner on the side of their lip, or in a humiliating manner inside of their ear. I've come to expect a cheek kiss from an adult male because there is no pressure to reciprocate; it's a gentlemanly thing to do. But a cheek kiss from a female sends me straight to stress-town. I never know they're coming and once I've missed it, I can't shake the feeling that I let them down.

I like to keep a mental note of who does a cheek kiss greeting so that I can do a cheek kiss goodbye. I did that over this wedding weekend and when I put myself out there with a cheek kiss goodbye, MY cheek was untouched. She downgraded me from a cheek kiss hello to a simple hug goodbye. I have never felt so foolish. One time I greeted a, not quite friend, but close acquaintance with a hug but then hours later only high-fived him goodbye. I still think about how abrupt that change in physical contact must have seemed and how he must have been confused and/or totally crushed or completely unscathed and is off living life like a normal person who doesn't think about the proper, unwritten rules of high-five, to hug, to cheek kiss progressions.

Aside from stressing myself out trying to de-stress my bride and trying to predict who was going to kiss my cheeks, there was only one other difficult part about being a bridesmaid. And that was keeping it together while watching Maya walk down the aisle. I KNOW no eyes were on me and I KNOW the photographer was focusing on the bride because I KNOW the whole day wasn't about me, but I'm just very thankful it was like that because the still image of a face holding back tears is not super attractive. Some people look constipated. Some people look mad. I look like my eyes are going to pop out of my skull and my head retracts backwards into my neck folds and my mouth goes limp, allowing my brain to focus on containing the tears. So it was mad CUTE.

I didn't have much practice in holding back my tears because it was not until I saw Maya walking down the aisle, arm in arm with her parents that it all finally became real. There was no more planning, no more scheduling, no more last minute details to finalize. It was a wedding. It was my best friend, someone I have known, confided in, joked with, grown up with and loved for 25 years getting married.

I said at the beginning of this post that I am in the midst of processing a lot of different emotions. I was so unbelievably happy when these two got married. I mean I started KISSING people's CHEEKS for god's sake, my especially friendly and outgoing demeanor fueled by pure joy. But then the wedding ended and I hugged the newlyweds goodbye, again choking back my tears and allowing my neck to retract against my windpipe. I'm in a constant cycle of remembering the wedding, reliving it in my mind and being filled with happiness followed by facing the harsh sadness that it's over. Who knew one event could make you the happiest AND saddest you've ever been in your life?

It all boils down the fact that the wedding was so perfect. If I could go back in time and make one change it would be to have the DJ make an announcement when the tamales were being served because I missed that and it's a major contributing factor in the sadness portion of my current emotional cycle.

I have to get really REAL for a second here and make a very sappy comment about love and commitment and all the dumb, gross, marriage stuff. Being a child of divorce, I have a weird take on marriage. Not that I don't believe in it or think it's a sham or impossible to have, but more kind of like what is the point of marriage? I was lucky enough to grow up surrounded by amazing single parents and not being married still yields awesome kids, happy lives and everything like that.

But then I went to this wedding, and I saw the jittery excitement in my best friend as we hid in the bathroom before the ceremony. I saw the calm happiness in the groom's eyes as he read his vows, I signed the Ketubah (Jewish marriage license, basically) that these two wrote together so honestly and collectively. And then I got it, I got why people get married and I truly have them to thank. When the feeling surrounding a couple announcing their love to each other is so real, honest, and easy it is impossible not to be swallowed up in it.

I know it's cliché for the bridesmaids to have total life freak outs and start the hunt for their future husband right after the wedding but the truth is, I'm, like, suuuuuper busy right now.

This Maid is 100% Honor

I recently returned from a trip to New York City for my childhood best friend's bridal shower and bachelorette party. I hadn't been to New York since I visited this same friend almost a year ago as a pit stop on my way to Israel and I couldn't wait to be reunited with the big city. I was ready for everything New York had offered me last year: the energizing hustle and bustle, the intoxicating freedom of public transportation and the sunshine! Oh, the sunshine! Really. Last year I was lucky enough to catch a weekend of golden skies and mild temperatures so the grey, cold misery everyone describes as New York's early spring was a myth to me. In fact, the energy, weather and ease of subways left me spending my flight back to California wracking my brain for one positive of LA and one negative of NY. That is how good the weather was.

I could not wait to rekindle my fascination with New York but alas, much like a lover who has overstayed their welcome, everything I once found endearing was truly the worst thing ever.

I took a red eye flight and after a long, smelly, sleepless flight, the last thing I was expecting to be/wanted to be welcomed by at 5am was a hustling and bustling sea of people, chit-chatting and gabbing over coffee like the sun was up. This was not energizing, it was offensive. Even later that morning when I tried to find a coffee shop in down town Brooklyn the number of people on the streets was so intimidating and confusing that I couldn't even make out basic landmarks or reference points for my walk. I had to stick to the 2 block by 1 block grid I had mentally made for myself, which unforuntaly only yielded one coffee shop result. A convenience store where the coffee was dispensed through what looked like a fountain soda machine and where the sugar had been dumped into a large party punch bowl with an oversized laddel for serving. So I left and did what any girl who was two blocks from her hotel but terrified to stray much further would do. I sat on a bus bench and used my Google map app to search directions from my current location to “food.”

I mentioned in my last New York City post that I hate to look like a tourist. So I would have preferred to spend hours pretending that walking up and down this two block stretch in downtown Brooklyn was my daily routine than ask anyone for help or directions and risk exposing myself as a visitor. I was not prepared for the number of people.

I was also not prepared for the weather. It was cold and dry, so, so dry. Either it was seriously dry or I was at the level of dehydration reserved for people who hadn't had water or fluids in their body in their lifetime. Not only was my leather jacket/sweatshirt combo not enough to weather these temperatures, the pockets of both the jacket and my jeans were too small to fit my large but TRULY elegant hands. The dryness, the coldness, my general attraction to the non-chalant look of hands in pockets, had me forcing my hands inside these teeny spaces. Which, if it did not look like shoving a wad of sandpaper into a small cashmere sock, it's what it felt like. I was lucky enough that my friend had an spare long, puffy winter jacket that I could borrow and just as I was coming around to how great – and I do mean GREAT – I looked in a long winter jacket, the temperature spiked to 80 degrees. I could barely walk around the city because my jeans were on my thighs with wetsuit-like tightness. So I did not luck out with the weather.

New York trip 2013 already had two strikes against it, but I was still totally onboard with the public transportation. Sure, I routinely swiped my subway pass incorrectly and would walk full force into an unmoving turnstyle. But I was not going to let that deter me, I was determined to love public transportation. That was until I had to carry a bag full of decorations for a bridal shower and bachelorette (that's right, that means penises) from Brooklyn to Manhattan. Taking this bag on the subway and through the busy city streets was not an option. But a cab was. As was a cab for the next 4 out of 5 trips between Manhattan and Brooklyn. Cabs are public transportation, right?

I did have the opportunity to prove to myself and others that I could handle a solo subway trip, which was nothing short of a complete disaster. After being lead to the wrong platform, and being left completely alone after watching everyone pile into one train (not the train I was specifically told to take) I got suspicious. I called my friend who had, up until this point, been coaching me through this adventure through text message. Between the mix of her not knowing where I was and me not knowing my cardinal directions (where is west without the ocean??) she could not tell me where to find a correct platform. She, her mother and my own mother who were all hunkered down in Brooklyn awaiting my Manhattan arrival, all agreed I should give up and take a cab. I resisted for a moment but agreed. Once in the cab I considered asking him to drop me off at a platform where I could catch the F train but it had started to drizzle and I've already addressed my fear of being a known tourist so NO THANK YOU!

By my last day I had successfully turned against the three aspects of New York I had obsessed about, dreamed about, pointed to as examples of why New York is a viable place for me to live. I don't know, call me spoiled but I just need constant sunshine, warm temperatures, weather that allows me to wear flip flops 80% of the year, chill vibes, my own space, a coffee shop that has sugar packets or shakers and a car. Lord knows I need a car.

Realizing New York and I might not be the best fit was an unforunate side note to an amazing weekend celebrating my oldest friend and her engagement to a pretty cool dude. Bridal showers are so silly, they're like birthdays on steroids. But instead of congraulating someone on NOT dying we congratulate them on not dying ALONE and pretend it's not awkward and weird for older relatives to gift lingerie.
But in all seriousness, the bridal shower was beautiful and it was very special to see all the people from various points in my friend's life come together to celebrate the happiness she has found. And she's my best friend, a truly great person and she and her future husband deserve nothing but the best and lucky them because that's exactly what they are getting.

In other news, I have been studying for my personal training certification. I have not studied for anything in years and I forgot how much more appealing EVERYTHING else seems when you have studying to do. I'll sit down to at my kitchen table, ready to crack open the ol' book and instead decide to clean the kitchen sink cuz that drain isn't going to unclog itself. I'll cut my studying short for things I would never usually care about. Like The MTV Movie Awards. And I'll think even the easiest tasks require double the amount of time, I'll give myself five minutes to walk to the kitchen from my bedroom to make lunch.
I also have had at least two dreams in which I sneak into the house of the family I used to nanny for to take care of their kid without their knowledge. I'm not sure what those subconscious thoughts mean but...

Speaking of my nanny life – I'll leave you with a sketch I made about my left over nanny tendencies surfacing in my daily interactions with my roommate:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=4feuVexBj9o

Game Changer

My new years resolution for 2013 was to make big life changes. Changes that could put me on a new path, changes that could alter how I view the world, changes that would let me grow on a spiritual and emotional level. And last week I took the first step to following through on my big and scary 2013 plans. I got bangs.

This is HUGE for someone who has had roughly the same hairstyle at varying lengths since introduced to the (then very up-and-coming and trendy) side-part in high school. I've seen the side-part gain rapid popularity and then fall to a surge in the middle-part style, all the while remaining loyal and true. My hairstyle has been my rock. It has stuck with me through thick and thin. Everything has been easy with my side-part and I've never had to challenge myself with it. A simple five-minute run through with a blow dryer and my hair is, not runway ready, but nanny ready which has been pretty alright with me.

I wish I could say getting bangs was an independent, awesome and empowering 'life is too short to not have bangs!' kind of decision, but the truth is I realized my hair was becoming a metaphor for my life. Easy, stable, comfortable, adorable and always clean, but predictable. So I quit my job. This could be the beginning of a great new style and so much more OR the early indications of an emotional breakdown... only time will tell.

Yup, you heard it here, folks. I am throwing in the nannying towel again; retiring at an early age, while people will still remember me as the awesome, able-bodied, young, hip nanny who always ran around with the kids and molded sarcasm into their clay-like brains at an impressionable age. And NOT as the elderly woman in velcro shoes and an oversized bonnet who carries hard candies in her purse - which I'm terrified will happen if I don't get out soon.

It's been wonderful nannying this child, Mitsy, as I've referred to him in past posts. He is trendier and cooler than anyone I've ever met in my life. He is the only kid I've ever downloaded music to impress (he introduced me to Gotye's “Somebody That I Used to Know.”) And he prompted me to call a tank top I found in my closet while getting ready for my nannying day a “game-changer.” Looking back it's hard to remember if I was hoping he'd love the tank top or if it truly was a game-changer; a top that would alter my outlook on the nannying wardrobe forever. I was confused as his mother more times than not, which I think was only because we had the same haircut and both wore skinny jeans but I dunno, I don't know how DNA works. He is the sweetest little kid in the world and I'm sure when he does something big and important with his life he will thank me in his acceptance speech just like Quvenzhané Wallis from “Beasts of a Southern Wild” did with her nanny.

So what does this mean for me? It means no longer sitting at the park and deciding, based on looks and attitude alone, which 4-year-olds are going to grow up to be sluts, jocks and nerds in high school. It means the indentation on my car's backseat from constant pressure of a securely attached carseat can resurface to an even level. And it means not being demanded to look into someone's eyes as they poop. Yeah. Like I said, big changes.

But really this means that I will be actively supporting my writing in a new way. I'm getting my personal training certification! For those of you who didn't know, I was an all around athlete in high school. And by that I would say I was a mid-level basketball player who played with the enthusiasm and swagger (chest bumps in the middle of games) of an Olympic gold medal athlete. So athleticism, fitness and all around health have always been an important part of my life (except my freshman year of college when I apparently decided it didn't count as gaining weight if I could still make out my jawline when tilting my head back at unnatural angles.)  

I'm really excited about the new change and to see what this world of fitness holds for me. This will bring so many new people and experiences into my life and therefore into this blog and therefore into all of your lives, which I am sure you then share with everyone you meet, which in return will lead to my eventual superstardom.

But right now I can't even focus on all the new things that will be brought into my life because I can't stop thinking of the return of one: I can finally swear again on a normal, uncensored basis and I could not be happier. Cuz god dammit. I've missed the shit out of swearing.

Quinceañera-Rock is in the HOUSE TONIGHT!

I was again invited to experience another nanny's hugely personal life moment this weekend when I saw her daughter say ¡adiós! to childhood and ¡hola! to womanhood at her Quinceañera. This was not nearly as uncomfortable or confusing as the baby shower and my daily park life; partly because it wasn't a very intimate venue, (over 400 people!) and also partly because I brought my male roommate, Alex, as a companion/witness.

I thought I was going to have to be constantly explaining that Alex was not my husband because very young marriage and piercing a newborn's ears are two things my nannies and I have never seen eye to eye on, but in one of many surprises of the evening, no one asked. The second surprise was realizing we were not the whitest people there. That goes to the young man with a platinum blonde, spiked mohawk, checkered tie and vest whom we sought out and sat with all night.

While I was happy to be able to talk to someone besides my girl-crazy roommate who was desperately trying to figure out which pretty, elegantly dressed hispanic girls were 15 and which were age appropriate, I couldn't help but feel territorial. Being the white person who doesn't speak Spanish but is beloved anyway is MY thing.

Of course the language barrier caused some confusion: was the DJ dismissing everyone to make their way through the buffet style dinner line or just close family? Dunno, but we went. Was it an open bar or cash only? Dunno, but we didn't pay. Was there espresso in the frappuccinos being made? Dunno, but I gave one to a kid. But the confusion and silliness of not speaking Spanish is not the topic of this post, my newly developed, misplaced emotional attachment is.

When the Quinceañera girl took the stage to perform a choreographed dance with her “court” (similar to a wedding party) I was hit by a sudden parent-like sense of pride. While my roommate was narrowing down his “babe-pool” by checking which girls had alcoholic drinks in their hands, I was trying to force back tears and suppress the urge to say things like, “She's turned into such a beautiful woman. It seems like only yesterday she was in diapers!” As if I were her grandmother or had known her any amount of time before that night.

This mix of parental pride and nostalgic happiness is a very confusing emotion for someone who has never had children. I thought maybe it was the setting; maybe everyone has this experience at their first Quinceañera. But then I remembered a few recent conversations and realized this feeling has been conquering a lot of my social interactions.

The other day, a mother I sometimes talk to at the park asked me how my writing was going, I brushed her off and chose to focus, for several minutes, on how her son was riding a bike. My writing? My writing? Who cares about my hopes and dreams when your son is RIDING a BIKE. Your 4-year-old is riding a two-wheeler without any help and the kid I nanny regularly trips over the dishwasher door when it's open. I imagined that this woman must be living a life of constantly suppressed glee that her child can ride a bike. I mean how could she not? I was basically living a life of unsuppressed glee and I had little to not investment in his growth.

It's not that weird when my parent-like pride is directed to a 4-year-old because it is cool to see a kid develop new skills and abilities. It is very weird, however, when it is directed to someone my own age. When a man mentioned his daughter goes to law school at Berkley, it would have been normal for me to say, “oh cool” and to move on. It was less normal, but still okay, for me to say, “wow, you must be so proud” but it was not normal at all to follow his humble nod with a stone faced, wide-eyed, stare into his eyes, “No. You must be SO proud.”

Who am I to talk to these parents? I don't have kids. I can't relate or share similar stories. I'm just this over sensitive, childless woman whose intense reactions to common accomplishments make the parents' reactions to their own children seem cold and lacking love. I'm concerned this will only intensify with age and when I have my own kids I'll burst into tears when my 15-year-old ties his shoes.

But should it go in the opposite direction and my parental pride fizzles out before I actually become a parent, I can count on another Quinceañera to get my emotions back. Because I'm 100% sure I'm on that Quinceañera circuit now.

I drafted this post before the tragic elementary school shooting in Connecticut, and now feel that my parent-like pride is less weird and more just a characteristic of a decent human being. I'm less concerned that I'll make parents blush when I tell them their kid is amazing and more concerned that being a parent means living everyday worried that your child is going to die. This is LITERALLY an insane time we live in and regardless of your views on gun control, mental health accessibility, etc, I think we can all agree that something has GOT TO CHANGE. Sorry to end this post on a sad note - not really my style, but yesterday's news hit me much harder than little Ryan riding his two-wheeler did. So to get back to the funniness, re-read this post minus the last 140 words.

Gather Round the Water Cooler

In my line of work, the closest thing I have to co-workers is the group of nannies I see at the park everyday. And while I love seeing their friendly faces, there is one thing holding us back from developing long lasting friendships: the fact that I speak zero Spanish.

This language barrier has never affected me negatively; the ladies love me. They will wave me over to enjoy the impromptu park party they've set up, (this could not be impromptu at all, and instead planned for months and discussed extensively at the park, but I wouldn't know.) They will text me to see if I want to bring the kid I nanny to a fun outing they've organized. And they keep their ears open for the occasional babysitting job because they know I love my extra cerveza money. I thought we were all silently accepting of the reality that our relationship would never extend outside of the park, but then I was invited to one of their baby showers and all confines of our friendship were off!

I've never been to a baby shower in my adult(ish) life; I'm just barely getting used to the fact that people my age are getting pregnant on purpose. I think we can all agree that pregnancy is weird, it makes a lot of unacceptable behavior, acceptable. People do the strangest things around pregnant women; it's like body-talk surges to the forefront and personal privacy and space go out the window. I feared that this would be invited, even required at a baby shower. I had no idea what to expect.

Do I randomly just grab the woman's belly? Do I ask her weird questions about her boobs? Do I get the ins and outs of her upcoming C-Section? Do I harass her about baby names? Are baby showers like those birthday parties where everyone goes out of their way to shift all conversations to be about the birthday girl, only now all conversational shifts to be to her body and its changes and functions? I had a lot of concerns and questions, and clearly no idea what goes on at a baby shower, so deciding to attend one held in Spanish added an extra special stress level.

Would the cliché pregnancy phrases I had stored in my mind translate? When I said 'bun in the oven' would everyone turn to check the kitchen to see if its smoking? Would 'you're glowing,' lead to an anxious run to the bathroom to check the mirror? The only reason I ponder is because, about a year ago, when I explained to one of the nannies that my first day at work was easy, consisting mostly of the mom “showing me the ropes” she responded with a confused, “ropes??” The terror on her face said a dark, unfinished, torture basement full of ropes hanging from the ceiling flashed into her mind. Seeing as that common phrase most certainly did not translate, I had some worries.

As it turned out finding baby or pregnant body things to talk about was not an issue. I forgot that I could slip into my park persona, which is hanging out just outside of the conversations taking place with a non-stop, goofy grin on my face. Call me an optimist, but when you have no idea what's happening the best thing to do is smile. Forever. Regardless of the tone change in the conversation. No wonder these women love me, who wouldn't love the girl who is constantly smiling in such wonder like there is nothing more beautiful and fleeting in this world than the sunshine all around us?

I'm like an exchange student, which is actually pretty great because I never studied abroad in college. This is my real life immersion program. I'd be lying if I said some Spanish hasn't seeped into this English loving (literally studied English in college – a piece of information that got a huge laugh when I shared it with the nannies) brain. I know, zappatos, bano, hombre, agua, comida, puerco, cochino, sombrero. Which, unfortunately, when strung together sound like a mental patient recounting his last human interaction outside of the institution.

“shoes, bathroom, man, water, food, help, pig, nasty, hat”

Despite the language barrier, we shared a few hearty laughs, like when Gladys suggested I wear a sign that says “I don't speak Spanish.” The baby shower as a whole was equal parts wonderful, delicious (homemade tortillas... yum) and awkward. Which is fine with me because that is the balance I strive for in all of my interactions. I truly am grateful for these women, their kindness and it was genuinely very nice to be included in such an important life celebration. I left with a deeper connection to these women, a better understanding of baby showers, and an invitation to a Quinceañera for next weekend.

Cold Calling My Best Friends

I have come into a wealth of time. My nanny hours have been cut but hours in the day have not. To fill my days with activity and fill my soul with pride, I've been volunteering with the Obama campaign. When you are the occasional volunteer you are put in charge of cold-calling potential voters which combines my two least favorite things: phone calls and strangers.

Successful conversations between myself and strangers hinge on multiple variables. The environment has to be casual, open to witty banter and by no means confrontational. The interaction also has to be face to face. Not because eye contact is key; eye contact is terrifying, but because my hand gestures work as visual aides. For me. I like to think that my moving arms distract people from my uncomfortableness. It sounds like I have social anxiety. I don't. But I think we can all agree that talking to strangers about anything is terrifying.

So obviously phone calls rule out all of my preferred variables. I hate cold calling; it's never been my thing. When I was younger, my dad, in an effort to either mold me into an independent woman or sway me to stop spending his money on clothes from Land's End, would force me to call in when I wanted to order something from a catalogue. That's my first real memory of hating phone conversations. But thanks to modern technology, the internet made having to talk to those nosy and pesky Land's End employees a thing of the past! That was until now. Until I sacrificed my own personal comfort and happiness to cold-call for Obama.

Of course I encountered the classic phone quandaries; ear sweat, unintentional interruptions and awkwardly long silences, I was expecting that. But what I was not expecting was the glimpse I got into these people's personal lives. You can tell a lot about a person from even the most short and basic conversation. It does help that I have a real knack for understanding someone based on their tone and general vibe.

For example, I knew the man skeptically and urgently answering questions was hiding a criminal past. If “none of your business” isn't the answer of a felon on the run then I don't know what is.

I recognized the trembling voice, barely able to hold back tears while explaining the woman I was trying to reach had moved to Arizona, clearly belonged to a heartbroken man recently left at the altar.

The young man who happily ran through the entire survey with me only to have his friend jump on the line at the end, and scream “JK we love Romney!” beginning a loud and confusing exchange between the two of them of “Obama!”, “No, Romney!” “Gobama!” “Romney, Ryan!” was clearly drunk in the afternoon and having the time of his life.

Honestly, knowing more about these people made our conversations much easier. It humanized them. Of course, none of this information was actually verbalized and I had to use my active imagination to fill in the gaps around the bones of story their tones of voice and, to be generous, basic answers gave me. Is it possible that the felon was actually just a private man who doesn't believe his voting tendencies are anyone's business? Sure. Will I entertain the idea that the heartbroken man was not trembling with loneliness but was actually just out of breath? Maybe. Could the young drunk have been... no, he was definitely drunk and definitely having the time of his life.

As we all know, all of my (none of my) posts have a deep-seeded life lesson and this life lesson is calling strangers is much more manageable when you manipulate their lives into a tangled web of emotions for your enjoyment. I just wish I had learned this trick for the people working the phone lines Land's End.

Giving Me The Eye

As a person who hates telling people “how it is” and prefers telling “nothing at all” I would have pegged myself as a big fan of letting facial expressions do all the talking, but a recent interaction proved otherwise. Of course we all communicate with our eyes, eyebrows, smiles, and when the situation is not important, I have no problem with that. But the stranger involved in this situation was playing a small but incredibly lasting role on my life. And the facial expressions were just not saying enough.

On a recent flight, I sat next to a priest, which sometimes can soothe me because they are very calming people, but can also freak me out because who is more welcoming to their own death than someone who is close with God? I wasn't aware of this man praying quietly to himself the entire time we were airborne but when the plane settled smoothly on the ground, he looked me right in the eyes, nostrils slightly flared, lips gently pursed and bible tightly clutched in hand. His look was a sassy and sarcastic mix of “you're welcome” and “thanks for nothing.”

It was as if he knew I hadn't been praying like he was, as if this whole “safe flying” thing is a team effort and I had really let him down. He tried to cover it with his look of irritated disappointment, but I could tell he was secretly basking in his accomplishment of landing this plane with his prayers and his prayers alone. I could tell he wanted attention and applause for his work but instead he settled for freaking me the fuck out.

Was it all true? Is flying a team sport? Were we one “Hail Mary” off of sure death? Was there a prayer quota that has to be met in order to land safely? I have always thought of myself as a team player and I couldn't bear to be thought of as anything less. I also couldn't bear to board another plane without his man. That is the curse that comes with giving an ominous, but also incredibly revealing, stare to an over thinker with a fear of flying. Had I tricked death and was only able to live another chunk of my life until boarding another plane because of this man, because of his prayers?

I needed to know! But instead of asking him to clarify I stared at him, mouth agape, and mechanically reached for my backpack stowed under the seat in front of me. Because, turns out, I don't speak with words or facial expressions when they end in confrontation.

Creep Vision

There are a lot of talents that go into being a nanny; the ability to make a gooey but unburned grilled cheese, the quick wits to change a game, mid-play, knowing it is soon to turn into a lot of effort on your part, the ability to stop a hand full of sand from ending up in someone's face before it was even an idea in the child's mind. But of all the skills, I pride myself on my dedication and concentration to spotting creepers. With the exception of people walking dogs, there is no reason for an adult to ever be at a park without a kid. Even if you are walking your dog, do so quickly; don't linger. Lingering is creepy. Lingering is alarming. Lingering is what PEDOPHILES do. I'm sorry if that seems extreme, but I don't have time to beat around the bush here, I'm mid-blog post.

While the kid I nanny is safely playing, I'm on the look out for predators around the park. When I lock in on what I believe to be a potential threat, I stare them down until they do something that proves their harmlessness, which can be any of the following:

-An adult passing through the park, talking on his cell phone (note: bluetooth is even better.) These people are distracted with business and are most likely using the outdoors to cool themselves down, clear their minds and think rationally. Who knows how many people would be fired, or how many businesses would go under if this businessman/woman did not take that call in the park? I don't like to think about it so I let them pass through freely.

-A person who does not ask the kids if they want to pet their dog, but instead waits for the kids to initiate interest. This is pretty clear. DON'T LINGER, DON'T BE A CREEPER.

-Calling “their” child by a nickname. Ie: Cam for Cameron, TyTy for Tyler, even Gracie for Grace will suffice. God help those parents who did not name their child something that is easily shortened. I will question you forever.

That last one is tricky because while I fancy myself an undercover creep specialist, monitoring the park and ridding it of suspicious patrons, in reality I am the childless woman, sitting in the shadows of trees, staring at true family moments and soaking them in like a weirdo.

It is unfortunate that my constant lookout for creepy behavior does not prevent me from doing creepy things myself. Nor does it put an end to my creepy behavior that has already begun. Instead I am much more aware of it, making me sweat and lie and question why I ever allow myself to interact with anyone, ever.

Being one of the only non-Latina nannies, I am constantly confused for the mother of the kid I nanny. While I think I am too young and young looking to have a three-year-old, and would prefer if people assumed I was an older sister or young aunt, under certain circumstances, I politely accept the assumption of mother. But the circumstances are key! I can't go around claiming to be a mother because that's weird and the reputation of 'young mother' in a beach community would really damper my chances with the professional male volleyball players prowling the area.

I have been able to categorize which situations call for me to politely accept the assumption of mother and which call for me to be honest. If the conversation is not going to extend past a one-line comment, I'm the mom. If we are going to run into each other again or have an actual conversation, I'm the nanny. For example I'm the mom when a passerby says, “your son's hair is so cute” or “your daughter's hair is so cute” (the kid I nanny has long, beach-y, golden locks and is confused for a girl just as often as I am confused for his mother.) But I'm the nanny when someone says, “I think our kids are in the same class” or “is he your only child?” or “water birth?” I let them know I am the nanny because these initiations are leading to a longer interaction or are directly personal.

I'm pretty good at recognizing early on in the interaction if I am going to give Mom responses or Nanny responses, but the one misread I had lead to a confusing, stressful, hour-long disaster.

For purposes of this post and to keep his identity a fun mystery, we'll call the kid I currently nanny 'Mitsy' because I think that's a fun name – and Mitsy is tons of fun – and because he is often confused for a girl.

Anyway, Mitsy and I were at the park in the late afternoon, which if you are familiar with my blog post (girlfight), you know to be my favorite time to be at the park. A man, probably late 60s or early 70s, walked by us with his dog and said, “he's a real climber!” referring to the fact that the Mitsy was shimmying up a random telephone pole (Hey, you gotta entertain these kids with whatever you can) Then added, “give your mom a break!” turned to me, laughed and gave me a 'boys are a real handful' head shake that suggested we were comrades of some child rearing army. In retrospect, I should have taken that look to mean we would be chatting for awhile but I didn't, my Mom response came out and the terror began.

After identifying myself as Mitsy's mother, there was no turning back. That means when he asked where Mitsy got his blonde hair and noted that it “must be from his dad” I had to find a logical origin for the golden locks because I instinctively and truthfully said that his dad had brown hair. “His grandparents,” I blurted. Then added, “I also used to have really blonde hair but grew out of it,” which is true. Maybe it was to make this facade easier on myself or make me feel better about it all, but I was seamlessly inserting truths into a HUGE lie, a convenience that did not last long.

When he started asking me about where I went to school, when I moved to LA, and what I planned on doing with my life we got dangerously close to the actuality that I could not possibly be Mitsy's mother. When I told him that yes, Mitsy was my only child, he said I “looked good for having a three-year-old” which....my body BETTER look good for having a three-year-old because I don't have a three-year-old. I couldn't take it as an insult because it was meant as a compliment; for god's sake, this guy thought I had a three-year-old! So my body must just look semi-okay for having never had kids.

I'm not totally oblivious to good choice. I'm fully aware a good choice at this point in the story would be to end the conversation and leave the park. But Mitsy would not stop playing with this dog! And unlike the power a real mother's stern voice has, mine was powerless to lure Mitsy away from this (god dammit) friendly and adorable pup.

As time passed it became more difficult to pepper my lies with truths. The whole situation was taking a mental toll on me and I could sense myself getting sloppy with my answers but I was at 100% anxiety at this point. Half of that anxiety was being focused on trying to get Mitsy to stop playing with this guy's dog so we could leave, while the other half of my anxiety was being focused on the fear that one of my bosses would show up at the park and the most uncomfortable situation imaginable would arise.

If the dad showed up, I imagined the guy saying something like, “I've been talking with your wife and your son loves my dog” or “your wife is so kind” or “your wife and I have been talking and we agree, boys are a real handful.” It would be even worse if the mom showed up. I imagined Mitsy running to her, yelling, “mommy! Mommy!” At which point I would just run the opposite way, never talk to anyone involved ever again and let them all sort out the kinks of the psychological damage I had done to Mitsy and this old man on their own.

The sun was setting, it was time to go but I was trapped in a deep and (almost) completely false conversation. I wish this man could take a HINT! The “hints” being me nervously laughing, carrying on a conversation about raising kids while internally punching him in the face. I know I should be internally punching myself in the face but I'm pretty sure this man was drinking red wine out of a thermos and was kind of weird and creepy. And as we all know, I can spot a creeper from a mile away.

Normal and Honest Intentions

I need to start this blog post with an apology. I am so sorry I haven't updated in so long. I can't even imagine what it is like for you all to go so long without laughing. I have been extremely busy with producing the sitcom pilot called “Educated” I wrote, that I have mentioned a million times on here, that was on Kickstarter, and is now set to shoot starting on June 1st! There is an insane amount of work that goes into this and I am also a part-time, single mom right now because the mom I nanny for has been out of town. I have been fulfilling the mother void from 12pm-5:30pm everyday for the past four weeks. I know that doesn't seem like a real mom, but I did say “part-time.”

I would like to say that now that I have gotten back in front of my computer and am able to knock out this blog post that I will be updating consistently again. But that might be a lie. And the last thing I ever want to do is be in the room while you read one of my blog posts and lie to you. I don't know when things will quiet down around “Educated,” hopefully never because it's really fun. But I just haven't had a ton of crazy things happen to me outside of this pilot and being a part-time, single mother. So lucky for you all, both of these things play an integral part in this blog post! Thank you to everyone who has been checking out “Educated” and supporting it, there is still so much funny goodness to come out of it. Check out our awesome website up at www.iameducated.com to keep up with our progress! Now on to the funnies....

Lately I've been feeling like my honest words have been misinterpreted for a less honest meaning. I haven't gotten any feedback to really justify this concern but overthinking is kind of my thing, so I don't need justifications.

Being a nanny I have become extremely aware of safety and appreciate when I see people taking safety precautions seriously. The kid I nanny always wears sunscreen, always has a helmet, and always has his food cut into small pieces because I am trying to instill good, safe and healthy habits in him before I no longer have control.

I know that as soon as kids reach middle school age, sunscreen only blocks a great tan and wearing a helmet immediately becomes uncool and nerdy. I know the social stigma attached to wearing a helmet, I know the struggle. That is why I was overly excited when I saw a group of middle school kids riding bikes and long boards and wearing helmets. I wanted these kids to know that while being popular seems like the most important thing in middle school, safety is forever, and they were making the right choice.

I decided the best way to make a difference was to yell, “helmets are cool!” from my car as I drove by. But instead I sounded sarcastic and bully-like. The tone, the topic and the fact that it was yelled from a moving car gave it little to no legitimacy.

I can only assume the kids tore of their helmets, continued biking, paid a homeless man to buy them cigarettes and bought sharpies to practice Henna tattoo outlines on each other only to sniff when their creativity wasn't getting them high enough. Those three, honest words, “helmets are cool,” were probably misinterpreted and single handedly shoved those kids down the wrong path.

It was like when I was shamelessly promoting Educated's Facebook page, and randomly asking people through Facebook chat to check out our project. A lot of spam comes through Facebook chat* so I tried to ease everyone's concerns and prove that I was not a robot by blatantly identifying myself as NOT a robot. By doing so I not only sounded exactly like a robot, but I sounded like the loneliest and most desperate robot ever.

hey will you like this fb page for a sitcom i created that is premiering in june? http://www.facebook.com/educatedshow
THIS IS NOT SPAM
i'm your friend
and I'm shamelessly promoting
that sounds like spam, im sorry
but it's NOT! it's me, anna!

My honest, good natured, semi self-deprecating words were probably misinterpreted for that of a spam-wielding computer virus. Yes, this was a once sided conversation but I like to imagine the person on the other end thinking to himself:

I don't want this spam. BUT even in the very unlikely chance that it's not spam, I still don't want to talk to someone so needy and desperate. I bet this person wears a helmet when they bike.

*Facebook chat is an online chat service similar to iChat or AIM. This definition was included for my parents and other relatives who do not have Facebook but I know read this blog and do not want to be left out. If you do not know what iChat or AIM is, call me immediately.

Meet Me at The Kibbutz, It's Going Dowwwnnnn

It's been just over 2 weeks since I got back from Birthright, a program that pays to send young Jewish kids to Israel for 10 days. It was like sleep away camp meets college meets The Amazing Race and it was great. To be honest, I still can't fully process what all we did or how I feel about it because they kept us in a weird, constant state of psyched-exhaustion (little sleep but consistent coffee breaks and cool stuff to look at) and when I got back, I replaced my Israel exhaustion with every day exhaustion so basically I will never be fully rested ever again in my life.

With that being said, this post is going to be a surface level recap of some funny situations that I encountered in Israel. If you are looking for new life philosophies or personal reflections, you will just need to give me a call or send me an email or leave a comment or tweet at me (see, I'm giving you options!)

We all know how I travel; incredibly well by foot, car, train and bus but not so well by air. Writing about my travels, not so much the destinations, but my actual act of traveling is my favorite because I seem like an OCD, panic ridden weirdo. A fun departure from my normal sensible, no-mess persona. I'm proud to announce I took four long flights in 12 days with little to no panic. Yes, I did have a minor “this could be it” moment when my roommate of 10 days asked me if I had any secrets because, “this could be our last chance,” (honestly, a pretty weird question no matter what was to follow) but other than that it was smooth sailing. And by sailing I mean flying and by smooth I mean raucous. But not because of my inner mental workings, because of the 12 hundred screaming babies onboard.

I, on the other hand, I behaved admirably. And for that, I have to thank my newest flying distraction: thinking of all the really dangerous things I could be doing instead. People have done things much worse than flying on a commercial airplane and reminding myself of their survival puts me at ease. The activities that soothe me include, but are not limited to: cliff jumping, joining a gang, sleeping with the doors unlocked and overeating. Of course I can't just spend 10 hours imagining and re-imagining someone eating a really big sandwich so, in order to get a more consistent visual and one that I could not control, I read The Hunger Games. This was a good move on my part because that book is crazy dangerous! It allowed me to really put things in perspective. Sure, I'm in the air, thousands of miles above the earth, but at least I'm not living in a post-apocalyptic US being forced to compete in a televised fight to the death.

The security to fly into Israel was intense. We were asked a ton of questions, many of which seemed completely irrelevant. I think this was a tactic to lull terrorists into revealing themselves, but really flustered a few of our participants to the point of being flagged for extra screening. The heightened security kind of scared me, not because I thought my safety was in jeopardy but because I didn't want to do anything that seemed suspicious. I didn't even want to comment on the heightened security for fear that an observation like that meant I must have some reason to notice something like that?

I tried so hard to blend in that I succumbed to people cutting me in line at the metal detectors. I didn't want to look like a hot head, but I would never have taken that lightly on a domestic flight (that's a lie, you all know how I am with confrontation.) I instinctively and accidentally answered “no” when asked if I had bought anything at the Duty Free shops (I had!) which led me to simmer with anxiety in my seat, pondering whether I would seem more or less suspicious calling the flight attendant over to clear it all up. Yes, tight security was definitely on my mind, and it didn't stop at the airport. Just to make sure I wouldn't be flagged as someone for some reason, (notice how vague I am being, this is because I have no idea what I thought was going to happen or why; I just knew I didn't want it) for the duration of my time in Israel I refused to use the word “terrorist” and opted instead for “crazy person.” Which isn't helpful because I use the word “crazy” for anything cool, interesting, weird, silly, genuinely insane or scary. Needless to say, the vocab switch up made for some crazy conversations.

In my somewhat adult life I've only been out of the country to New Zealand, Jamaica and English speaking resorts in Mexico so a language barrier has never been an issue. It still really wasn't that much of an issue in Israel, but that's because I covered up my lack of Hebrew with excessive pointing and a pretty consistent use of English. I couldn't help it! Damn my parents for raising me to have my please and thank yous automatic! My be'vakasha and todas took a backseat to my American manners. And surprisingly I was only blatantly ignored once when I asked for the bathroom in English. Spoiler alert: I found it anyway.

The best part of going to different countries is getting to live a completely different life and experiencing a new culture. I loved pretty much everything Israeli culture had to offer. I could get behind the sliced cucumbers and hummus for breakfast, I was semi okay with the lack of belief in forming lines for food, bathrooms and ATMs, I was even allowing myself to support paying money to use public bathrooms that rarely had toilet paper, hand dryers/soap and, in one instance, stall doors that closed, but I could not, for the life of me, get on board with their showering situations.

We encountered a few curtained showers that had the appearance of many showers I have come across in my day. Except for one difference. Instead of having an angled floor below to funnel the water to the drain, or some sort of lip to enclose the space around the curtained area, they had a squeegee broom. While I didn't appreciate the squeegee broom, I almost had to respect the sentiment behind it:

We know this shit ain't gon' work, but we'll be damned if we'll clean up your own dirty water after you.

I imagined this being said in a southern, almost Sling Blade voice, which is not fitting at all for a connection to an Israeli creation, but feel free to use any voice you choose. When we weren't using the showers that were one step above opening a skylight and waiting for a rainstorm, we were using handheld shower heads. These are totally awesome and kind of almost spa-like if you aren't actually trying to clean yourself.

So there you have it my top three memories of Israel. Taking sensitive security to a whole new level, being the stereotypical American who can't/won't speak the language, which I will again blame on the constant state of psyched-exhaustion, and showering in weird showers. We did a bunch of really cool stuff other than that like riding camels, sleeping in a Bedouin tent, eating a Bedouin feast, hiking Masada, visiting the Holocaust museum, going to the dead sea, sampling wines at a vineyard, freezing at the top of the Golan Heights, spending nights out in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, and much, much more. I couldn't possibly recap this entire trip because I continue to remember experiences, thoughts and feelings about it daily.

While it is just truly not my style, nor is it the style of this blog, to dig deep, I do think that I would be doing my trip a disservice by not being serious for a few minutes. I didn't have a ton of expectations going into Israel but I thought Judaism would be everywhere. I was worried I would stand out, not just within my group, but within the country, for being a non-religious Jew. And as ignorant as it sounds, I expected everyone in Israel to have an extreme and one sided stance on their country's political past, present and future. I thought I was going to be pushed one way or another politically and religiously while on the trip and what I got instead was a full, beautiful, hands-on experience of Israel. I respect and admire the Israeli people to an insane degree. I am beyond thankful for the experience I had; I think it is a place, Jewish or not, that everyone should see.

NEW YORK CITAAAY!!!

It has been a long time since I have been able to entertain you with the written word, and for that, I apologize. But I'm back from a weekend trip to New York and a 10-day tour of Israel and fully ready to blow your minds. So sit back, relax (not too relaxed, you will need your wits about you to scroll through the post) and enjoy.

My best friend from the moment my infant eyes could distinguish people from objects recently moved to Brooklyn and since my brother and I were scheduled to take off from Newark for Israel on a Monday, we decided a weekend trip in New York was perfect. It had been 16 years since I was last in The Big Apple, and my most vivid memories were of FAO Schwarz and the smell of homeless people and wet coins. I went into this trip wanting to replace FAO Schwarz with a more mature memory but knew the latter would remain because, as we all know, homeless people and wet coins are the smell of life and/or hustle and bustle.

My goal for this trip was to appear to be a local. I mean, what could be more cliché than visiting New York from LA for the weekend. I had also developed a fiery rivalry between New York and LA in my mind, (this could be a real rivalry, but I did not pursue any leads for fear of blowing my cover and getting caught in a crossfire of coastal battle cries) so I did not want to be labeled as an Angeleno in New York almost as much as I don't want to be labeled as an Angeleno period.

Unfortunately, my attempts to seem like a real New Yorker didn't even last the full cab ride from the airport to Brooklyn. I didn't think it was humanly possible to have traffic conditions that competed with LA, so while idling on the highway, I called my friend and told her I thought our cab driver was taking advantage of us. I outed myself as a non New Yorker by questioning the normal traffic flow and insinuating there was some lack of basic New Yorker knowledge that a cab driver would pick up on and exploit. The jig was up, I was a tourist. Honestly, it was a relief to drop the facade. I didn't have the energy to suppress the energy the city was giving me.

I was surprised by how much I loved New York. I kept catching myself tilting my head to the sky and saying, “NEW YORK CITAAY!” in a sing-song, Broadway voice as I tossed my hands to my sides, as if awaiting a theatrical embrace from the streets. If I didn't actually do this it's only because the decision making part of my brain moves faster than the imagination part of my brain, because that is exactly what I saw myself doing in my mind. I had decided to own the fact that I was an “LA/really Colorado girl in New York for the weekend,” and own it I did. I took pictures of everything.

Oh is that a tall building in the background? Great, let's get one with every possible combination of people in our group.
What's that? A subway? Let's take a picture of this foreign mode of public transportation.
Pizza? Well I've had that before but never in this city, picture it is!

I treated common, every day sites as if they were new revelations, things I thought only existed in Seinfeld episodes and google images.

I was a little concerned about how I would interact with the locals. People had told me that New Yorkers are a pushy and fast-paced kind of people. They are the kind of busy where “thank you,” “excuse me,” and “I love you,” can all be told with an exhale and shove. But the truth is... I would have no idea. I was far too busy noticing how a Staples was built on top of a Ross.

I loved New York and I can't wait to return, especially since most of the people from my Israel trip live there and I have friend/girl crushes on all of them. I know this seems like the perfect segueway to discussing my trip to Israel, and I know I lured you into reading this whole post with the faulty promise of some real good jew recaps but I need to break these trips into two separate posts. So I will leave you now with a brief update on my life outside of travel:

Educated, the sitcom pilot that was posted on the online fundraising site, Kickstarter, has been fully funded. We raised over double what our goal was, so thank you for everyone who donated! I'm still nannying and currently the child will only take orders from me if I am holding a stuffed giraffe and speak in an accent which sounds like Cleveland from Family Guy meets an old southern housewife. I think that's pretty much it now, stay tuned and alert for another post of a wild trip to the Home Land! I promise it won't take me weeks to write....

CONFRONTATION IS THE WORST! so I don't do it.

I am seriously THE worst at confrontation. I can't believe that for a large chunk of my college career I had every intention of being a lawyer. Following any rebuttal I would switch sides immediately, possibly before the end of the rebuttal. It doesn't help that my definition of 'confrontation' is incredibly broad, “Any situation in which my opinion could affect another person's mood in a slightly unfavorable way.” If that sounds like it knocks out pretty much all human interactions, it's because it does.

It is especially bad with people I will have to continue to see regularly. I basically volunteered to get paid less in my most recent nannying job. When the mom posed the lingering question, “we paid our old nanny $____ (you didn't really think I would let you know how balling my paycheck is, did you?), but, I mean, obviously, you would want $____ (two dollars more)...” I basically cut her off, saying, “let's just meet in the middle!” A completely unnecessary backdown. It would have been like a boxer retreating to their corner when being shown the venue.

A big reason I jumped at the chance for a smaller paycheck was because her old nanny had gotten me the job and I didn't want her to somehow find out I was being paid more, because who KNOWS what kind of confrontation that would have led to. After I hung up the phone, I thought, well that didn't go well. That is not how anyone in the history of ever having a job would have wanted that to go. But maybe I came off as really agreeable, affordable and flexible? Meanwhile I'm sure after the mom hung up the phone, she thought, well, the good news is she accepted the job, the bad news is I think she's retarded.

I'm sure my parents will be pleased to read that I consider it a confrontation to not give someone my phone number when they ask for it. While I would have no desire to see this person ever again, I would also have no desire to awkwardly think of a reason and possibly face the wrath of an upset stranger, someone who has just suffered from love at first sight. The result is some interesting additions to my phone contacts, including “Smilie Jack” and “DE'Playa.” The realist in me had to fight the anti confronter in me over asking if these were their birth names.

Despite being overly nice and agreeing to give these men my phone number, ice runs through my veins shortly after and I don't answer any phone calls or text messages, which I'm sure upsets, if not completely destroys, these men. The other day my roommate told me a girl he was interested in blatantly lied when he asked her out, I told him she handled that flawlessly because I just would have never answered. He preached that we should all just be honest with each other and when I saw how strongly he felt about this, I realized that when it comes to matters of the heart, my attempts to avoid confrontation end up affecting other people. Which, according my definition, would make my avoidance of confrontation a confrontation in itself. But what is the alternative? An actual confrontation? No, thanks!

But here is ONE thing I will confront people about and is my new project being live on kickstarter for donations RIGHT NOW! That means, as you read this, you could be throwing anywhere from 1 dollar to 1 million dollars to a pretty sweet project. Well, unless you are really behind in my posts, or reading through old ones to relive some happier times, and the kickstarter has already expired. But that wouldn't be the reality unless it was after MARCH 19, 2012. That's right, you have until MARCH 19, 2012 to donate to Educated on kickstarter and help make a really fun project happen! If you enjoy my awkward interactions in writing, you will love them acted out by hilarious and talented actors in a sitcom. So check out www.iameducated.com and throw a few dollars if you like what you see!

FUN FACT ABOUT THIS POST: I wrote the word “confrontation” or “confront” 10 times!

Cutting The Cord... For Now.

After almost a year and a half in Los Angeles, I did what I should have done (by law) in June 2010. I registered my car in California. Anyone who has ever talked to me for longer than three minutes knows I have a (possibly unhealthy) obsession with Colorado, and getting rid of my Rocky Mountain plates was the last thing I ever wanted to do. But my fear of driving an unregistered car had hit an all-time high; I became paranoid. I thought every cop was out to get me. I passed a motorcycle cop driving the opposite direction, and while he showed no intention or movement towards pulling me over, I turned my music completely off, gripped the wheel at 10 and 2 and slammed on my brakes to an inconspicuous 5-under the speed limit.

I knew it was only a matter of time before I was pulled over, and knowing how I deal with unexpected situations, I'm would volunteer the information of my illegal stay without provocation. I had to give into the law for my own mental well-being. My confidence hitting the California roads has skyrocketed since legally registering in the state. Now when I pass cops I throw my hands in the air in a confrontational manner and yell, “what, bitch!” daring him to pull me over. Hopefully that mindset will pass.

It was really hard for me to take those good ol' Colorado plates off my car, figuratively and literally (I got my first ever blood blister from the pliers I was using-- A SIGN??) I thought about keeping them on my bookshelf in memoriam, surrounded by candles and Buffs paraphenalia, but my roommate noted how my room resembled a Chili's (one of his better burns) and I had to hide them behind a decorative box. The worst part about getting rid of my Colorado plates is that my CU Buffs sticker wilted away around the same time and now no one knows where my loyalty truly lies. To remedy this I'm currently looking into personalized liscence plate frames so that I can continue to proudly represent. Here is what I've come up with so far:

- I'd Rather Be In Colorado
- My Other Car Is... In Colorado Because That Place Is The Shit
- Colorado Is Smarter Than Your Honor Student
- How's My Driving? Call 1-800-I-Love-Colorado
- Honk If You're Horny... For Colorado (too much?)

I am open to more suggestions re: these frames. You can also contact me if you are interested in purchasing one of them, I'll get a deal if I buy in bulk.

It's About To Be.... A GIRL FIGHT!

As you all know, by night I am a blogger and all around badass, but by day I am a nanny in Hermosa Beach. A place that, according to its website, is “the best little beach city.” It is great. It's calm, laid back, slightly backhandedly judgmental, but great. I feel like everyone I encounter is a former hard core college partier/sorority or fraternity member who, after making millions of dollars, decided living in Hermosa was a fair trade for giving up their partying ways to raise beautiful, shaggy haired children. PLUS there is a Farmer's Market every Friday that has really great hummus, so yeah, I'm down with Hermosa Beach.

My working day in Hermosa is pretty straight forward: I take the boy I nanny to the park and we have the time of our lives. Every day is the best day of our lives. While the park is pretty great all day long, four o'clock is my favorite time. At four o'clock, the older kids are out of school and all the moms find each other and cluster together to (I assume) discuss their latest yoga class, their newest yoga pants and their plan to start a yoga collective. This point in the day just reeks of class and ease. But this illusion was shattered a few weeks ago when a mom fight broke out. I've seen my fair share of girl fights (like, at least two), and nothing could have prepared me for the schizophrenic verbal assault that occurred between these two ladies.

The interesting thing about this altercation is that it was a dog fight that spurred a cat fight. Literally. But also figuratively. One woman's large, unleashed dog attacked the other's small, leashed dog without cause. Their dogs started it so they, AS LADIES DO, finished it.

I figured these competent Hermosa moms would exchange information (should the small pup have any injuries), passive aggressively forgive one another and return home to tell their husbands and/or Pilates buddies everything they wanted to say to the other's face. But these women were confused. Unsure of whether to stick to their educated, mild mannered, beach persona or seem sincere and ready to brawl without hesitation, these women bounced between catty, personal digs and thug-like threats for twenty minutes.

The fight started with the usual insults that fly out in the heat of the moment, “I'll fuck you up,” “you're an ugly bitch,” “you can't do the Lotus pose and I'm embarrassed for you,” but that quickly changed. As the argument escalated, these ladies knew they had to really hit hard with their insults. “I have a Masters...and... I'm... going to shove it up your ass....with your dog!” “I have a PhD.....BITCH.” Only in Hermosa Beach would women put each other down by flaunting their higher education, realize it wasn't living up the the expectations of the situation, and scramble for a something to build a gangster facade around.

I was too entertained to be upset with them for ruining the point in the day that usually lulls me into relaxation. And, yes, I should have been more upset for the three-year-old I nanny. But I think it was motivation to stay in school. He doesn't want to find himself in the same situation, and only able to prematurely end the fight with, “Well, I have a high school diploma.....DICK!”

BeSt fRiEnDs FoReVeR!

A few days ago I was reunited with Mort. For those of you who need a refresher, Mort is the three-year-old boy I used to nanny who I lovingly named after a grandpa because of his large but dysfunctional vocabulary. (See entry “Out of the Motherhood” from September 6th, 2011 for more details on this amazing child.) I was so excited to see this little guy; I’ve been surprised by how much I miss him.

I had to stop nannying Mort because he started going to school, a place that I’ve recently realized harbors my greatest fear. Mort at school means he is constantly surrounded by teachers, teachers who could easily be confused for nanny-figures, and therefore nanny-figures who could easily replace me as Mort’s best friend in his mind. I didn’t know Mort forgetting about me was my biggest fear until I babysat him on Friday night and the time we’ve spent apart was all too obvious.

In an effort to remind Mort of all the fun we’d had, I acted like a 14-year-old girl desperately trying to win over the popular kid or a neglected son seeking his father’s love and attention. I was overeager (let’s play GAMES and have FUN!), I was overly flattering (cool new pajamas, Mort!), I was begging for his approval. I had to cram in enough fun in the hour and a half before bedtime to outshine the months of preschool fun he’d been having. I had no time to lose. As soon as the parents left, I decided to address the elephant in the room. I’m sure Mort was unaware of this elephant in the room; he was probably busy reflecting on the fun filled day he had at school with his cool teachers, but I had to know: did he miss me as much as I missed him?

“Do you miss me, Mort? Do you miss all the fun we used to have?” I was guilting him into reminiscing with me.
“No, I miss mommy and daddy” Not only did Mort not miss me in his daily life, he was also having so little fun with me that he already missed his parents who had been gone all of 5 minutes.
But I was not deterred, I was going to remind him how much fun I was whether he liked it or not! While playing with cutout monsters, Mort warmed up to me (I’d like to say I knew he would all along, but the truth is I was a jumble of nerves). When our monsters teamed up to successfully defeat an action figure, I found it to be the perfect time to bring up our friendship again.

“Nice job monsters! We’re a great team!” our monsters high-fived. “And best friends…” I added, gently insinuating that these monsters were a metaphor for us. Mort responded with a trailed off “Well…” and the very distinct let’s-not-get-ahead-of-ourselves-here tone was impossible to miss.

The lack of love I was getting from this kid was ridiculous. I found myself voluntarily doing things that he used to have to demand of me just so he would notice me. Hey, hey, Mort, do you see me hunching over, severely damaging my back so we can have this really life like train chase on this table that is a proper and comfortable height for a toddler but terribly low and awkward for a grown person? Do you see, Mort? DO YOU SEE??

I gave him some “look, I’m cool and fun” M&Ms, I let him stay up 30-minutes past his bedtime and I made sure the photo of us that I gave to the family before I left was front and center on their refrigerator. I really think I subtly reinforced my presence into his subconscious. Take THAT, teachers!

Cooking Up a Fire Storm

Happy belated Thanksgiving to all my food/American history lovers out there! This year I set out to cook my own Thanksgiving feast with my roommate and brother. I was excited, I was motivated, I was… not at all prepared for the stress that comes with cooking a large meal. Not just a large meal, but a large meal with such high standards attached. I mean for god’s sake this is the meal when the Indians totally forgave the white man for being real jerks and broke bread with them. Peace was accomplished, bygones became bygones, I’m pretty sure this is where the high-five originated. That is A LOT to live up to.

The struggles started in the grocery store. As someone whose grocery shopping is limited to spaghetti, vegetables and almond butter, I was flustered. I felt like I had never been in a grocery store before. When did those things get so confusing? I had so many questions. Many of which I was too embarrassed to ask of a real person. What if my questions were common sense? What if anyone who spent more than 12 dollars at the grocery store at one time could answer them? Does everyone know if active yeast is the same as nutritional yeast? If Lilly’s pure pumpkin is the same as pumpkin puree? The difference between kosher salt and regular salt or where the piecrusts are?

After we left the grocery store my nerves settled and the ease of Thanksgivings past crept into my mind, surely this year would be the same! I envisioned us laughing casually, nibbling on the cheese and crackers we set out and gently waving an oven mitt over a steaming dish to cool it down. Of course all of these visions were in slow motion because isn’t that how we all make memories? These images clouded the reality that would soon hit me.

The afternoon started out so peaceful and smooth, but it was not long before the fast-paced, high-risk activity of making sure every dish received the proper cook time and attention began. I cannot even accurately put into words the transition that occurred in the kitchen. And probably more likely than not, I was the one who instigated this transition from calm and collected to THERE’S NO TIME!!!!!! Gravy was flying, measuring cups went missing, people were crying! (a lot of the recipes called for onions.) My brother and I had a quick, pointless snap at each other over why we didn’t buy a potato masher. Honestly, I was treating each situation/minor hiccup as if a bomb were going to go off if we did not have each dish piping hot and on the table at 6:30.

But… SPOILER ALERT! I panicked for no reason. Dinner was delicious. We laughed, we drank, we cheers-ed to multiple things for which to be thankful, my favorite being that the house didn’t catch on fire when we burned through a pot while boiling potatoes. Oh, did I not mention that? It’s okay it wasn’t a disaster. Unless you call mashed potatoes that smell like burned steel a disaster, then, yes it was a disaster. But it didn’t matter; we had successfully cooked Thanksgiving dinner on our own! Maybe next year we’ll try to cook a turkey. Or maybe we’ll just buy a rotisserie chicken. Because I KNOW where that is in the grocery store.

Here is our wonderful dinner:



Here is the pot we burned through to make that beautiful dinner: