thank you, zoe

here's a little story for you.

when I was little I wanted to be a writer. I mean at one point I wanted to be a gymnastics coach but I think that's just because I liked practicing with my sister and bossing her around. But anyway I wanted to be a writer. It all started with J.K. Rowling, really. I love that woman. I'm actually kind of sad I didn't come up with Harry Potter myself, but that's another story for another day.

so I wanted to be a writer and I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. I wrote all kinds of stories, set in all kinds of places, like Hogwarts because back then I didn't understand what copyright meant (I was young, sorry). I even finished one novel once when I was 12. I only ever showed my sister the stuff I wrote and she said she liked it but obviously I forced her to say that, so who really knows.

then some really bad stuff happened when I was 14 and I lost every last bit of confidence I had, which wasn't much in the first place. So I stopped writing.

in high school I stressed about the future way sooner than I should've. I didn't know what I could be now that I thought I'd never be good enough to be a writer. At one point I thought of studying psychology and becoming a therapist but then I realized I couldn't even deal with my own damn problems (and there were plenty, let me tell you) so really I had no time or patience for anyone else's (but that's not true because I think I'm a pretty decent listener).

then I joined the high school newspaper and decided I could be a journalist because I'd still be writing, which is my favorite thing to do ever ever ever, even though it was real stories, not stories I made up in my head. But it didn't matter because writing real stories was fine too. Also, I was deluded and thought being a journalist would be a more, you know, "stable" job than being a "novelist." Clearly I wasn't paying attention because the internet happened and now no one really cares about magazines and newspapers anymore. Oh and also the economy jumped off a bridge and all that. So getting a job as a journalist wouldn't be that easy or anything.

but whatever. I came to college and took my journalism classes and learned how to write better articles. Then this past summer I had an early quarter-life crisis (I say early because I'm not even a quarter of a century old yet) and it was just like, is this all I have to look forward to in my life?

and my dad whispered, "Novels. Your real passion was writing novels."

I was all like nah nah nah nah because nothing sounds scarier than trying to become a book writer, especially when you just don't think you're good enough (I always think my sister is so brave for following her dreams of becoming an artist or a yoga instructor or whatever she's up to these days. But then again she says she's a Jew-Buddhist so it's not like this is her last chance at life. So if she messes this one up real bad she'll have plenty of other incarnations to make up for it, right?).

but my dad kept insisting.

so I tried. And good God my stuff was so terrible. I got really discouraged.

but then Zoe said to me that just like anything I needed to get back into practice. Keep writing fiction. Keep trying.

and by some miracle I listened (I'm usually really stubborn, ask my boyfriend) and kept practicing even though I wrote some crap that almost made me cry, it was so bad. I even signed up for a fiction writing class this semester.

and I wrote and wrote and wrote every single day.

this week I even submitted a few short stories to writing contests. Which I won't win. Because unlike Alyssa I never win anything (obviously I secretly hate her). But hey.

anyway, I can sort of half get behind my writing now. I kind of like it, almost? I'm no Kurt Vonnegut, obviously. And I never will be.

but maybe there's something to following this crazy dream after all.

or at least I hope there is.

what's in a name?

"Debbie! Wow, that is such a pretty name," the curly-haired Starbucks barista said as she took my order.

no one has ever said that about my name before.

I couldn't take the compliment. I just couldn't. I hate my name. I always have (sorry, Debbie. You know I love you. We've talked about this. The name, you know).

for one thing, it's ridiculously old-fashioned. Other than the Debbie linked to above, I do not know any fellow Debbies in their 20s. I know plenty of nurse Debbies. And cafeteria lady Debbies. And while they are all (mostly) lovely people, they are in their 40s, 50s, 60s. So being a 21-year-old Debbie just feels plain...out of place.

I feel that, with my background, I am entitled to a cooler name...you know, something more ethnic. Or whatever. But maybe I'm just a brat.

I always thought the name Debbie belonged to an early '80s high school cheerleader. One with purple mascara and a really dreadful perm. Preferably with a mullet.

and then there's high school, when all the awkward, oh-hello-my-voice-is-cracking-and-I'm-growing-an-ugly-mustache-just-because-I'm-finally-hitting-PUBERTY boys concluded that old pornos were, like, the best thing since bra straps, or something.

"oh hey, Debbie! Debbie does Dallas!" they'd yell down the hallway and explode in a fit of ridiculous guffaws. And I was like, what? So one day I enlisted the help of my trusty old friend, Google, and then it was, like, OH. I see.

don't even get me started on Little Debbies. Yeah, I'm short. No, I don't like Little Debbies, even though, hardy-har-har, my name is Debbie and I am little.

and "Debbie downer"? Please. It's as if I was never even given a chance (Negative Nancy, I feel your pain).

I always felt bad admitting to my intense dislike for my name for fear of upsetting my dad (my mom, not so much. She's done enough harm for me to consider sparing her feelings on the matter). But then, a year or so ago, my dad told me that he didn't really have a say in my name. "I wanted something more Israeli," he said.

FIGURES.

{can we pause for a second to discuss the fact that my sister, Ariela, got the pretty name? What is that nonsense about? Ariela. Ugh, such a beautiful name. And Debbie? Blergh}

let me explain my life story. Or, like, my pre-life story. I was born in February of 1991. During the Gulf War. When Saddam Hussein thought it might be fun and games to shoot Scud missiles Israel's way, unprovoked.

anyway. My parents lived in Haifa at the time, spending many a night in a bomb shelter with gas masks strapped to their faces (there was a fear of biochemical warfare, or something. I don't know. I need to brush up on my history). My mother was pregnant. Her father, a Polish Holocaust survivor living in Costa Rica, freaked out. So my mother flew to him, at least until things settled down in Israel.

my father had just been called on reserve duty, in case Israel decided to retaliate (it didn't).

I was born early, after my mother's water broke at a Chinese restaurant.

my mother's family called my father in Israel. "You have a daughter, and her name is Debbie."

and that was that. Cute turtle that he is (my dad is a turtle. I promise), he was too thrilled to have a child to even care what my name was.

so that makes me feel better. Because at least my horrific name is not exactly my dad's fault.

sometimes people ask me why I don't go by Hannah, which is my actual first name. I like Hannah better, after all. Well, nobody has ever called me Hannah. My parents always called me Debbie. And so if you were to go, "Hey, Hannah!" I'd be like, who are you even talking to? A ghost?

which is why I don't think I would ever change my name, whether it is to Hannah or anything else. How does one get used to a new name, anyway?

did anyone seriously just make it through this word vomit of a post?

p.s. NO OFFENSE IF YOUR NAME IS DEBBIE. Promise. I'm sure you're really nice.

happy halloween!

it really makes no sense that Halloween is, hands down, my favorite holiday (I prefer it to my birthday, even, but that might be because I did not have a good birthday until my sophomore year of college, when I turned 20 and my friend Alex threw me the best party in the history of the world -- I mean, really. Seriously, let's not even discuss my 18th birthday -- now that was a piece of shit and a half. And now here I am, going off on a tangent about birthdays on a Halloween post...).

so yes. It makes no sense. I'm a huge wimp. I'm afraid of everything: big things, like failure and losing loved ones, and dumb things, like being fat and fire (e.g. lighting a match...I only just learned how to light a lighter like, three weeks ago. As a kid, I freaking hated having to light the Hanukah candles). Even though mental illness fascinates me (I guess I'm a sick, sick person?), dissociative identity disorder (read: multiple personality disorder) scares the living shit out of me, ever since I watched the movie Sybil and had to endure hours upon hours of one of Sybil's alter-egos, Peggy's ramblings. That was some freaky crap. Actually, just yesterday, my roommate Jessica was watching another movie, Session 9, and I happened to walk in right when one of the characters was listening to an old tape recording of a woman diagnosed with DID, and as soon as I heard the voice of one of her alters (without knowing what the movie was even about, mind you), I was like, HOLYSHITISTHATSYBIL!?!?

yeah. I'm afraid of everything. Rats. Rodents in general. Ugh. And then tonight, when I took Simba out to potty, some bastard asshole dressed in a horse mask freaked me out. I'm like absolutely the worst person to have with you in a scary situation, because I'll probably just have a panic attack and leave you to fend for yourself.

but I love Halloween! Ooh, I love it. I love the candy that I never really eat and dressing up in clever costumes and watching scary thrillers like Shutter Island. I love reminiscing and watching Are You Afraid of the Dark? (which still scares me...oops).

I love Halloween, even though the smell and taste of pumpkins make me gag.

this year, for the first time ever, I was nothing (zilch, nada) for Halloween (I know, I know). But perhaps I haven't blown my chance yet; isn't it "Halloweek" this year instead of "Halloweekend"? Right? That's what I thought.

p.s. Jess and I made Simba a Twitter Simba made himself a Twitter. Follow him. He's got lots of thoughts for such a little dog. I promise he's funny. I also promise I'm not a crazy dog lady or anything.

the day i decided to write a novel {again}

last winter, while waiting for a flight to Athens at the dingy, food-less (the horror) Mykonos airport, a lightbulb went off in my head. Sort of. But really, I suddenly had this novel in my mind, this main character, and it was all unraveling (or, rather, I was spouting off word vomit to my dad and little sister, who, to be fair, were really good sports about it). We all got really into it, actually, offering possible scenarios and characters and ways in which the plot could thicken even thicker (it was already pretty damn thick, but you know).

then I got home, and I may have tried to start writing, oh, you know, once or twice. But then I chickened out. C-O-M-M-I-T-M-E-N-T. P-O-S-S-I-B-L-E F-A-I-L-U-R-E.*

*wuss.

when I was 12, I wrote crappy novel after crappier novel after crappiest novel. My sister pretended to read them. My main characters had cool names. Like Sanne and Emma (hey, I thought that was real original back then, okay?). Not like Debbie, which I still think is a name better suited for an 80s high school cheerleader with one of those poofy perms that is just out of control.

obviously, at the time, I thought I was a way better writer than I actually am (and certainly than I actually was).

anyway! Today I realized how bored I am on a daily basis. I go to class. I feed Simba. I yell at Simba. I tell Simba to stop shitting in the house. I go on a run. I contemplate signing up for a 5K and then think of how embarrassing it would be to be the last one crossing the finish line. I ditch the 5K idea. I go to class again. I eat peanut butter. I nap. I blog. I work, if there is any work to do. I yell at my boyfriend for not texting me back. I text Simba pictures to my boyfriend's sister and my sister and my dad and every single one of my contacts. I read. I watch Mad Men (or Teen Mom or Dance Moms. Real quality television). I do homework. I drink coffee.

buuuuuut I am bored!

the truth is that life was so much more exciting when I was doing gymnastics. But I am not anymore. Because I cannot will my back to un-injure itself, as much as I try to pretend. I guess I will write about this some other day. Maybe. It's upsetting.

so so so!

I have officially decided to put my big girl panties on and write the stupid novel. Yep. I'm putting it out there so that I can be kept accountable. Possible internet shame should be enough motivation, don't you think?

okay. So I'm doing it. I'll write in my room and at Starbucks and from the balcony with a side of coffee or chai tea. P-E-R-F-E-C-T.

i guess i'm, like, published

here here!

and by the way, I nearly had a panic attack when it went up on the website. Obviously a part of me still believes that everyone else is thinking "liar liar!" just like my mother did. But thankfully, all of the comments have been incredibly supportive and beautiful and I am proud of myself for writing about what I've been through. Maybe someone else will feel less alone.

if anything, it was cathartic for me (when I wrote it. Which was months ago).

I love writing. I want to be a writer.

the end.

p.s. if you are Jewish and fasting, I hope you're having an easy fast. Which I am not, since that would be one big Crohn's mess that I am sure I do not want to deal with (well, at least that's what my dad and my roommates and my boyfriend said. DO NOT FAST ARE YOU CRAZY!? So I'm taking their word for it).

deep thoughts on a night of drinking

when I first began my "recovery" (and I use this term loosely as I was so reluctant) from anorexia as a senior in high school, I followed a terribly strict meal plan, complete with measurements and exact portions (good God, who has the time to measure vegetables!?). I ate the same three meals and two snacks day in and day out. While I was entrenched in my eating disorder, I became a hermit of sorts, locking myself up in the upstairs room, reading pro-ana websites (freedom of speech my ass -- those websites are dangerous and should be illegal) and counting calories. As part of my recovery, I was encouraged to go out with friends, just like I used to before my illness completely took over my life.

so one day, I did.

I was terrified. I promised myself I wouldn't drink -- calories! I packed my dinner (chicken, vegetables, brown rice), even though we were headed to a fair where there would surely be delicious (albeit fatty) options.

my friends (to be honest, at that point I had drifted too far apart from everyone to really consider them close friends) and I rented a "party bus" (keep in mind I grew up in Costa Rica, so this scenario is entirely plausible -- I was also of legal age there) and the drinking started right away.

it is kind of impossible to resist a drink when you've got 20 rowdy teenagers urging you on (peer pressure at its finest, no?), especially when you are too ashamed to admit to the real reason you aren't drinking: you're freaking terrified to get fat. Liquid calories! Empty calories!

so I did what I thought I "had" to do, my "only choice."

I flushed my dinner down the toilet. That way, I could make up for any (or most) calories I consumed when drinking (never mind the fact that drinking on an empty stomach is never a good idea).

when I got home, my dad asked me, "Did you eat dinner?" and I said, completely straight-faced, "Yeah, obviously."

an eating disorder is an expert liar.

I think back to this day and I cringe a little.

so what was that about? The point of this is not to give anyone any ideas (of course not), or to let everyone know what a sad life I lived back then. Nope. The point of this is to remind myself of how lucky and glad I am that I am finally able to let go, have a drink or two or three, and maybe even order a pizza on the side -- you know those drunk munchies are vicious.

I had a fabulous time last night with my boyfriend and his friends here in Connecticut. So what if I feel like crap this morning? I'll only be 21 once (reincarnation aside, obviously).

how things have changed.

a post about fantastic quotes

lucky for me, I hear fantastic things on a daily basis. If these things are particularly fantastic, I try to make a mental note in my head to jot them down later. Or I bust out the handy dandy iPhone. It's 2012. Get with it.

"I thought Kate and Prince William got divorced."
"Um no?"
"Well that's not what the Egyptian news said!"

"all I'm saying is, the CrossFit Games would be a lot more fun if they had an elliptical competition."
"or the stair master!"

"so what did you guys do this weekend?"
...
"no one? Well, I guess I'll go then. I went to a cat show."
"what's a cat show? Like, a dog show?"
"yeah, but they don't do tricks. They just sort of sit there to be admired."
"can you pet them?"
"no, well -- you have to ask for permission."
"how did you even hear about this?"
"another professor and her boyfriend invited me...so, basically, I was the third wheel at a cat show."

"hey girl, what's your dog's name?"
"Simba."
"did you know Simba means lion in Swahili?"
"yeah, I actually knew that."
"well, are you gonna ask me how I know that?
"um...sure. How do you know that?"
"I'm fluent in Swahili." -- says the drunk white kid that wants to get me to sleep with him
"...okay."

"...and then I decided a career in math was not for me, so I went to the CIA and tried to pass the test to become a spy in the Soviet Union, since I was already fluent in Russian."

"Daaaaamn, what happened to your foot?"
"I broke it."
"Daaamn, I know how you feel. That sucks."
"I know, especially in New York City."
"Right, 'cause you have to walk everywhere. I'm just like you; I got shot, so that's why I walk with a limp."
"..."

{okay, so obviously this was when I had a broken foot and that one obviously is not funny, per se, but more like oh my God I am so sorry you got shot and I am so sorry you have to carry heavy boxes around all day for your job on a bad leg and no, getting shot in the leg and breaking your foot is so not the same thing}

dog shaming

I always vowed not to be that mother that shamed her children in public -- or on the internet, obviously. But guys, I have to do it. I just have to. I have a story about Simba that is just too good not to share.

{I hope that he will learn to forgive me someday, and I pray to the dog gods that he will not be scarred for life. He's a good kid -- puberty and all. Dropping balls make for one crazy little puppy. Ask my roommates. Or his bed, which unfortunately has been on the receiving end of most of the humping.}

for the past two days, my little man has been constipated. Which is kind of nice, actually, because it means that I hardly ever have to pick up poop. Except, sadly, this also causes me so much anxiety because if he doesn't poop when I take him outside, I start hyperventilating, thinking that maybe he didn't have to go just then, but he'll certainly have to go later, when he's on my bed. You know, I've got white sheets. I think my anxiety is perfectly justified.

anyway, tonight after dinner, I took him out for his usual walk. I thought he'd for sure have to go, since he didn't this morning.

oh, he had to go all right.

{this is about to get graphic.}

in fact, he squatted for a good 30 minutes, straining his little body, a turd very visibly stuck inside his butt.

after a few minutes of this, we got an audience.

frat boys. Girls coming back from the gym. Couples. Everyone.

"come on little dude, you got it!" the frat boys cheered.

it was the most mortifying and most hilarious moment of my life. I'm laughing now, writing about it.

once he finally finally pooped (you guys, 30 minutes later! I had to go to class!), the poor dog got a standing ovation.

a freaking standing ovation!

and judging by the frantic tail-wagging and tongue-licking, I daresay Simba liked it.

the day i realize i used to speak russian

so a few days back, someone commented on my blog and asked, "wait, what's your first language?" because I said that English wasn't my first language, even though it's the only one I can write in (sort of, I think). So I was all like, oh, you know, Hebrew or Spanish and actually I'm not really sure, because I've lived a weird young life.

but then last night, I was on a (horrifically delayed...like five hours) MegaBus to Connecticut to see Mike, and I was jamming it up to The Beatles' "Back In The USSR" (my favorite Beatles song ever given my obsession with Soviet gymnasts...I mean, you can't tell me this isn't lovely. Or this. Or this.), and I was like, man, I wish I spoke Russian. Basically because I watch weird shit like MTV Russia when the Russian gymnasts are on getting interviewed about the Olympics and such, and it'd be nice to understand. Also, it sounds cool.

so in my head I was like, hmm. I know some words. I totally know some words. Like da is yes and nyet is no and stoi is stick it and davai is go! And then I thought, wait, I totally know the word for vacuum cleaner, but I just can't really think of it right now and good God, it's driving me crazy (much like I couldn't remember the name of "the other bookstore" the other day -- it was Borders, duh. DUH).

{by this point the Russian had been long forgotten, and by the way, my sister used to walk like Tommy from Rugrats and when the doctor put casts on her feet, I insisted they had to be pink, so that's what that story is about}

okay the point of this story is that then I was like why in the world would I know the Russian word for vacuum cleaner? And then it hit me! I used to speak Russian! I swear! My first babysitter was from somewhere in the former Soviet Union so I'd go running around in my diapers (just kidding, I was too fat to support my weight, much less run around...chubby baby, you see) spouting off Russian words left and right.

{okay, I totally know davai and stoi from watching so much gymnastics, but I still don't think this tarnishes the authenticity of my first-language-Russian-ness}

I realize there is really no point to this post, other than to pretend like I am super multicultural (I mean, I am), and also because I think it sort of justifies my fascination with Russian gymnastics. So there.

and if you're still wondering why a baby needs to know the word for vacuum cleaner, then you've obviously never grown up with an obsessive compulsive parent.

the end.

#fail

what's that?
how was Myrtle Beach, you ask?
well. It wasn't.

after a little (I kid, a major) hiccup with the airline, we decided it wasn't worth to stick out a 12-hour (I only slightly exaggerate) flight delay for a two-day trip. So. With much further ado (read: with many further obstacles that I have no desire to describe in detail because I might just tear my hair out), we decided to rent a car (do you know how expensive that is? I really had no idea!) and road trip it to Montauk, where we drank to our hearts' content (our bartender was quite heavy handed, and also, a very friendly drunk that insisted everything was "on the house"), got sick (me, to my stomach, of course), ate pizza, got sick again (me, to my stomach, again), and then could not, for the life of us, find a motel with a vacancy.

never mind the motel; as we drove around aimlessly in hopes that we would find somewhere to stay, my throat closed up. I couldn't breathe. An allergic reaction to...cheese? I couldn't tell you. But I can tell you that cheese is evil indeed (yes, it is delicious, but tastes can be deceiving, you see), since apparently not only does it cause me gut-wrenching stomach pain (pun totally intended), but I may or may not be allergic. Luckily, we found a gas station with Benadryl, and all was (sort of) good in the world again.

we did find a sleazy motel eventually. In the woods. The owner was a first rate creeper. We slept with the light on, lest he try to kill us in our sleep.

{I have always wanted to use the word "lest" in a sentence. Did I do it right? No? Well, thanks for raining on my parade then}

we spent Sunday morning wandering around East Hampton and visiting Rich People Stores. Eventually we did decide to come home early (meh), as my stomach and I are not friends at the moment. I am now making a commitment to living healthier - the way I'm going lately, I'm worried I'll need a bowel transplant by the time I'm 25.

New York City's welcome back gift to us? A torrential downpour that may or may not have ruined Mike's favorite Cole Haan shoes (we love you too, New York...nawt). What can I say; the kid's got style.

let me tell you about gymnastics, p. ii

{in honor of the women's all around final, taking place later today}

It didn’t all come so easily to me.


The floor exercise and the balance beam did, of course. Eventually, my vault came around too. I loved to dance. I loved to flip on the beam, to hold on to the event with my toes. And even though I wasn’t a big fan of tumbling backward, especially where twisting was involved, I did it well.

The floor, the beam, the vault: I was a top-level gymnast in those three apparatuses. I could compete among the elite.

It was the uneven bars that were the problem.

By then, I had this one teammate. Let’s call her M. I looked up to her tremendously; her flexibility was astonishing, and, to this day, something that I’ve never even seen on an Olympic gymnast. She was two years older than me, cooler than me, and for some reason or another, she’d taken a liking to me. We were cliquey – but so what, we thought? After all, we were just too cool for school.

M’s mother, C, was, without a doubt, Kris Jenner’s long lost twin – the gymnastics version, at least. A momager. C lived and breathed for her daughter’s gymnastics, attended every practice, and always made it a point to observe everyone carefully, whether a teammate or a rival.

“The thing with Debbie,” she told my father one time, “Is that she has very strong legs. Very, very strong legs. She doesn’t even need to run to build up momentum. Her legs are that strong.”

Ironically, I would later learn to despise those very same legs with a passion, as a teenager plagued with anorexia.

Perhaps it was my legs that made the vault, beam, and floor exercise a total breeze for me. But my legs wouldn’t be of much help on the uneven bars, now, would they? 

{to be continued}

let me tell you about gymnastics

{I am writing this in honor of the women's Olympic team final, which took place today, of course, and which America won for the first time since 1996, which Alyssa not-so-kindly rubbed in my face. Funnily enough, I was very happy for them - I mean, they are "my" team, after all, right? And also, they kind of deserved it after coming up short in 2004 and 2008. I was sad for my lovely Russians, as you can expect, but surprisingly, not overly devastated. I figure this is because I already expected them to screw up, and then once I thought about it more, I realized that perhaps I subconsciously love Russian gymnastics because they are self-destructive, as am I. A match made in one effed up heaven! Freud would have such a ball with this.}

The first time I decided I would be a gymnast - an Olympic gymnast, at that - I was upside down. The 1996 Atlanta games were on television, 14-year-old Dominique Moceanu was performing one of the most charismatic floor exercise routines in history, and there I was, all five years of me, in a headstand, supporting my body against the foot of my parents' bed (or rather, "beds." At the time, my family was having a rough time making ends meet, and my parents had taken my mother's twin sisters' old beds and placed them next to each other to create a larger queen sized bed).

"I want to go to gymnastics classes!" I told my parents later.

"Me too!" my sister said.

"I want to go to ceramic classes too!" I added.

"Me too!" my sister said.

I won my first medal at seven or eight years old - a bronze for the floor exercise. I was particularly proud of myself, because not only was this my first competition ever, but I didn't even have my back handspring without a spot yet, even though I was a level four, and level fours were supposed to have their back handsprings without a spot, so if I won a bronze without it, I totally would've won the gold with it, I thought. The gold! Can you imagine? And better yet, I'd beat Becky, who could do a back tuck - a back tuck! In the air! - even though she was only a level four, and level fours weren't supposed to do back tucks yet.

One of my teammates, Rebecca - not Becky, but another Rebecca - cried because I'd won a medal, and even Michelle had won a ribbon, and she'd won nothing. I felt a little bad, but not really, because I was a child, and I just felt special, and duh, if Rebecca wanted a medal or even just a ribbon, she just had to quit complaining and get better.

After steadily building up my collection of silvers and bronzes, I won my first gold on the balance beam, at age 10, in Mexico. My sister, who also came to Mexico, had gotten sick from the water, and I was a little sad that she missed my routine. My dad videotaped it, of course, but he was so nervous the camera shook in every which way, so it was pointless. She would never see my gold medal-winning performance.

Also at age 10, my coach decided to teach me a full twist on floor. "Just turn your arms like this when your body has rotated enough that your eyes are facing the ground up in the air," he said, demonstrating a twisty motion with his body. "Then the rest of your body will follow."

"Okay," I said, because I was too scared to say, hey, I'm a little scared here.

I ran about five tentative steps. Round off, back handspring, back layout --- halfway up in the air, I imitated the twisting motion he'd shown me. Then things got a little too spinny, and then I couldn't see, and it was all a blur, and then there I was, on the floor. On my butt.

My coach laughed, arms up in the air, ecstatic. "Do you know what you just did?"

"Um. No."

"Two-and-a-half twists. Two-and-a-half! Not one! But two-and-a-half!"

"Really?"

"Ana!" he called to his wife. "We got ourselves a twister!"

From that day on, I hated twisting with a passion.

{to be continued? Yes, no, maybe? Thoughts?}

in which i have a life

last night, Erika danced with a hipster. She grabbed him by his suspenders. HIS SUSPENDERS. This is the quality shit that sitcoms are made of (too bad no one makes sitcoms anymore. I could totally write one).

to any kind souls that read this, my instagram is @debbiele03. I'm not very interesting, though, so don't bother.

anyway, that got me thinking. White boys (and girls, sorry) really can't dance, can they? I mean, I realize that is a pretty gross overgeneralization, and I think white people are cool and all, but come on. Get with it! Us, on the other hand, Erika and her Latina friends and me with my half Middle Eastern-ness and Costa Rica growing up-ness, we were just totally killing it on the dance floor.

it felt good to feel young for once. I should try it more often.

(it also felt good to discuss moving to the West Coast. Erika's in Los Angeles, which to be honest I'm not remotely interested in, but I do have my eyes set on California...hm)

the one where i am excited because erika will come to town

(truthfully, this should be "the one where I am excited because Erika is in Jersey and I will kill her if she doesn't come into the city and see me because I am lonely" but that is far too long, no?)


I had such a brilliant idea earlier today. I had the following conversation in my head:


"Wait, hold up!"
"What?"
"I should name my blog posts after Friends episodes! You know, 'the one where __'"


obviously this wasn't such a brilliant idea, because it is never a brilliant idea to rip off a TV show that everyone else has gotten over except you (sorry. Still waiting for the 11th season). 


but do you see the irony there?


anyway!

Erika is not only the future Chelsea-Handler-meets-Ellen-Degeneres (except, not a Jew or a lesbian) but also my best friend from high school (or, more like "my only friend from high school," mainly because I was too anorexic and weird to have very many friends back then. You know how it is in high school). Since my graduation three years ago (she is a year younger than me), we have been really bad about keeping in touch. In fact, we're horrible at it, which doesn't really make sense since we're both on Facebook and cell phones exist. But we have this sort of unspoken agreement that even when we don't talk in months, we will still be soul sisters until the day one of us kicks the bucket. It's a nice arrangement, really.

circa a really long time ago. Look how cool we thought we were! It's adorable. Kind of like when you think about Justin Bieber and you're like aww, I just want to pet him like a puppy (no? Just me?). 

Personally, I think the reason we are such good friends is because one time we had a sleepover and rented the movie The Quiet, which was so strange and disturbing that watching it was almost like signing a contract with blood - there's just no turning back from shit like that, you know? Like, after you've been through The Quiet, you can't not be friends (let this serve as a lesson to you all: never ever ever ever watch The Quiet under any circumstance; it's as binding as marriage in Saudi Arabia. Also, I could not look my dad straight in the eye for months).

are you guys excited for me? No? Whatever! I don't care. FRIENDS EXIST. Loneliness be gone.

shit dogs do {shit my dogs do}

first off, I would like to say that it would've been so clever of me to jump on the "shit ___ say" bandwagon with this post (albeit a little late, like three years late or something), but unfortunately dogs don't say, they do. But of course, since I am a crazy, crazy dog lady (think cat lady, but a cat lady that prefers cats with wagging tails, because that way you just know that it can't secretly be mad at you), I just had to write a post about the bizarre things that have happened with the hundred or so dogs I've had (just kidding; at last count, I've had eight dogs throughout my lifetime, I think, and five at the same time. Five! That was cray cray. But I promise I ain't no animal hoarder).

first, there was Korrelon, which is roughly translated into "one who runs fast," but spelled incorrectly, with a "k" instead of a "c" (like Khloe Kardashian, for example). This is when I was in Costa Rica, and my Spanish was the best it has ever been. My sister and I are real trendsetters in the dog naming field (there is a "Justin Bobby" to come, like from The Hills). Korrelon was bitten by poisonous snakes twice, ran over by a car, kicked by a cow (Costa Rica, remember?), tangled on electric wire, and attacked by a dog that I am still convinced was really a wolf (the bite was so deep that the vet had to sew his muscle back together). But my favorite memory with Korrelon?

He humped the other dogs all day long. This was, of course, before my sister and I knew what sex was, human, canine, or otherwise, so we would burst into fits of hysterical laughter and exclaim in between short breaths, "Korrelon plays so funny!"

He played funny, indeed. He played so funny that he got like ten other dogs pregnant (no one ever neuters dogs in Costa Rica). I wonder what half dalmatians*, half mutts look like?

*of course he was a dalmatian, since we bought him at the time when Cruella DeVille was all the (infamous) rage.

then there was Joyita, one of Korrelon's many daughters, which we kept. Joyita means "little jewel," which is a really dumb name, wouldn't you agree?

there is not much to say about Joyita, though. She was a straight up bitch. I've never liked female dogs since.

Joyita and Korrelon did the nasty (geez, was Korrelon like a frat boy douchelord or what!?), and Snoopy was born (the first normal name of the bunch, however generic). Just as medical history predicted (or so I've heard, since I don't know squat about medical history), Snoopy was a little...no a lot...slow. I mean, slow doesn't even cut it. He was nothing short of a moron. And also, he looked like a bulldog a little bit, which makes me wonder if Joyita was, you know, making friends behind Korrelon's back (is this really surprising, though? Her father was getting intimate with her; it is no wonder that her escape was to become a slut).

And Snoopy? As I said, the kid (or dog, whatever) was real, real dumb. Like, other dogs would be trying to fight him and he would just sit there wagging his tail until they were done eating his flesh or something.

You want to hear something funny, though? Snoopy's vet would swear on his life that his name was actually "Goofy." Um, no it wasn't.

Nala was a beautiful, yet completely deranged, golden retriever. Her original owner couldn't handle her, so my sister begged and begged until we adopted her. Truth be told, I didn't want her. She was psycho. Psycho, I tell you. Kind of like an awkward, clumsy mammoth that did not understand his own strength (sorry, I had to bring mammoths into the conversation. I always forget what "furry elephants" were called, but now it is here, recorded for prosperity).

Eventually, we couldn't deal with her either.

The people that lived upstairs at our apartment building had an award-winning husky, so I got it in my head that I just had to get one. As luck would have it, my fourth grade substitute teacher was selling husky puppies, so I went over to her place one weekend to check them out. I set my mind on one particular puppy, and my dad and I went to the bank so that we'd have the money to pay for it.

By the time we got back, someone else had already bought it and taken him home. I cried for days. Finally, my dad took pity on me and set out to find baby huskies for sale (in Costa Rica! In that heat!). Eventually, he found one. We named him Nevito, which means "little snow" (there we go with those fabulous names again).

The most bizarre thing about Nevito? My mother actually liked him. I try not to hold that against him, may he rest in peace.

One by one, the dogs died off (sorry, how morbid), mostly due to snake bites. In early 2010, we got a Yorkie, Justin Bobby (not Justin Beiber. Justin Bobby from The Hills. This Justin Bobby. I believe this has been our most brilliant dog naming decision yet).

What bizarre thing does Justin Bobby do? Many a thing, that's what. But my favorite? Acting like a kangaroo. I mean, he jumps just like a kangaroo when he wants our attention (not that I've ever seen a kangaroo or anything). I wish I had a video to upload. It's hysterical.

Then, my boyfriend and I had another husky, Mikos, for a while. I don't feel right making fun of him since he died a very sad tragic young death due to a genetic disease. But I will say this: Mikos is hands down the smartest dog I've ever had, amen.

And that brings us to Simba. He is quite the strange little man, that one (also, before I changed his name to "Simba," his name was "Little Man Charger." Like what is that? I guess it's not just my sister and I that suck at dog names). There's the obsession with playing with tape, even though it hurts him when I have to rip it off his fur. Or his refusal to sleep anywhere other than on my head.

Or the way that he makes out with my finger when I give him a little peanut butter (a boy after his mama's heart, I see).

karma, and why it's a real thing

how do I put this? The last several days have been a nightmare, what with the mouse infestation and whatnot. Long story short: Simba and I had no place to live. We stayed at the Comfort Inn for several nights, racking up the bill. And I felt bad, because poor Simba was so confused. Also, carpeted floors and potty training, they just don't mix.

Finding an apartment in New York City? Impossible. Finding an apartment, last minute, in New York City? Are you crazy? That just doesn't happen. Trust me. I would know. After hundreds of calls to landlords and real estate agents (this is not an exaggeration), I was anxious, defeated, and tired out of my mind. Also, I needed somewhere to live by next week, because, you know, I have work and all.

On Friday, I had to check out of the hotel room by 11:00, no exceptions. So there I am like an idiot, carrying Simba with one arm, schlepping my shit around New York City with the other, and on the verge of a breakdown. I also had to pee real bad, but, you know, couldn't really take Simba into a public restroom with me. Which sucked.

Somehow we made our way to Columbus Circle, where this college kid stopped me. He was working for one of those child sponsoring nonprofits. We talked, mostly about how cute Simba is, and then he asked me if I'd be willing to sponsor a kid for $25 a month in a third world country. So I'm like, I'm already having a shitty day, so why not? Might as well do something nice for someone. It'll make me feel better.

Now I am the proud sponsor of an Indian child. I chose India because it was the only country on the list that has elephants. I just really love elephants.

Lo and behold, not even three minutes later, I get a call from an agent. They found me an apartment! In the West Village (I've always wanted to live in the Village because that's where they lived on Friends, you know?)! Where I can have Simba! And it's nice and clean and there are no rodents roaming around!

{hello West Village}

I was supposed to go out with a friend that's living in Brooklyn last night, but Simba and I were so exhausted that we zonked out as soon as we got home. Ahh well.

So, that's where I am right now. I'm off to explore the neighborhood today, get some groceries, do some spinning, and maybe, if I find the energy to do so, rescue some of my stuff from my old apartment all the way on the Upper East Side. Ugh. Going there skeeves me out.

Anyway, that's not the point. The point is that if you don't believe in karma, I think you're an idiot.

p.s. also, sponsoring a child allowed me to cross off #1 on my "things to do this summer" list. Nonprofit Kid and I are now texting buds. He is even looking into getting a girl puppy just like Simba. I said okay, but only if he names her Nala. Duh.

in which swarms of mice drive us out of the apartment

Simba and I are having a grand old time here at the Comfort Inn. Turns out the mice decided to take over and eat all my food (including my favorite Justin's peanut butter and dark chocolate cups AND my Peanut Butter Puffins. What the hell!) and SIMBA'S FOOD TOO. Which pissed me off. Because you can eat my food all you want, but you don't mess with my dog child. You just don't. They also shat on my roommate's pasta. Mmm.

This is what I call an infestation. Otherwise known as "the plague" and alternatively called "I'm going to sue the landlord" or "the landlord is going to get one big fat bill in the mail for my groceries and hotel room expenses and possible medical and veterinary bills that may come out of this."


disclaimer: I either write this or I cry. Also, I'm homeless. 

rats. or mice, whatever.

so the other day, right? I'm having a highly intellectual argument with my roommate re: why I should let Simba sleep with me in bed at night, rather than in his crate (really, it wasn't an argument. More like me trying to justify the decision to myself, you know? I do that a lot).

I finally make the decision to sleep with him every night because (1) he's teeny tiny and won't grow much more (2) he doesn't have any accidents where peeing is concerned (3) we both sleep much better when we cuddle during naps than when he's hysterical in his crate at night (4) I want to sleep with him forever and ever because he's so cute and comforting

Weeeell. I thought, you know, I'd get a wee wee pad for him and place it right next to my bed in case he had to go in the middle of the night, because who wants to wake up with a puddle next to their head (or worse, pee in their eyes. That must sting)?

As I'm about to grab the bag of wee wee pads, I see a freaking mouse. Running away. In my room. And then I saw it AGAIN.

Cue: my roommate and I shrieking, screaming, crying, painting our nails to relieve our anxiety, hiding in Simba's doggie pen, holding on to Simba for dear life because obviously a three pound dog can totally protect us, calling every single 24 hour exterminator in New York City (none of which was really 24 hours, by the way)...

Ugh. So now in addition to worrying about being a bad puppy mom, I have to worry about a mouse eating Simba (hey, no one said my fears were rational). That's just peachy.