OJ Simpson was in my yoga class this morning.

I swear. I thought he was in jail, but my eyes insist it was him sweating it out in his Speedo next to me in hot yoga this morning.

My, oh my! So much has happened since I’ve arrived on American soil. I left again and went to Canada. I got a paycheck, the first of 2009. I cooked risottos and eggplants and stews. I hung out with my family. I sneaked into a double-feature. I got manicures and pedicures and realized that the only thing that makes you feel like a girl again after a long year of feeling like a boy is a nice pair of 5-inch heels. I rode around town on my moped. I joined the fight against Iran’s Islamic Republic. I decided I’ll never get a dog. I went on a date. I ate dinner next to Mary-Kate or Ashley. I saw a piano recital. I noticed blogs to be quite narcissistic (what's with all the "I"s?). I made a plan for the year and then yelled at myself for making plans. I dressed like a slutty clown. I met new friends. I met old friends again. I stayed in my pajamas for a whole week straight. I learned to appreciate my little hometown and its many fragrant trees. I found a cute little apartment in Venice Beach.

New digs!

It turns out starting life again is a bit more difficult than I thought. So I’ll be parking this page until I set up my new little desk in its new little spot on January 9th. And then you’ll be able to read about funny humans in Venice Beach or along Route 66. Yep, I just drove my car from LA to Chicago and now I'll be driving it back. Hoping to spot some hummus plants or maybe even the Juice. Nah, I don't really want to spot OJ again. If I see a celebrity on my drive, it better be someone good. Like Richard Simmons.

Have a wonderful holiday season, or whatever they say. Thank you so much for making this past year really really special for me. Smell ya in 2010.

Meat cups?

Do I think this is gross because I am a vegetarian? Or because it is a cup made out of meat? It's a meat cup. No. A meat cup.

The answer we've all been waiting for

is here.

A poetic tantrum

Fuck. I’ve caught up. No more travel stories. No more muddy pant legs or sweaty scarves or damaged cameras. It’s all over. I’ve got a lease in my hand and a pen that is about to sign my life back into normal-dom. And I don’t wannaaaaaaaa. Somewhere along the way, I got the idea that staying put and having a job and having pets and being ‘normal’ was horrific. So, this pen represents for me a life that I don’t want to live. Ah! What should I do? I was just frolicking among the rubber trees in Laos and now I'm in a sterile cubicle. My synapses are protesting. I'm pounding my feet into the warm Santa Monica ground and screaming and wailing and tantruming more than I did when I was fourteen and calling my mom a bitch. I am in a perfect state of confused chaotic panic that I secretly love because it can only mean a new beginning. In times like these, I can only write a poem, which is weird because I'm not really a poetry kind of girl. Something is seriously amiss.

I saw the world

I wrote a blog

I ate a lot

I pet some hogs

I sweat on trains

I puked up peas

I chased the rains

I switched to teas

I met new friends

I donned new clothes

I gave kids pens

I took some blows

I pet a fish

Saw skirts on men

Some made of pigs

Some made of hens

I had this thing

It defined who I am

Now, very over

And I question again

Back to life

Back to reality

Searching for a word

That rhymes with reality

Back to work

Back to before

This time it’s different

I'm so much more

Lessons from someone who knows stuff.

I’ve always wanted to know stuff.
Unfortunately, I don’t.
I mean, I know stuff... But it seems I’m one of those jacks of all trades and masters of none. I hate it. It irks me. I want to be the expert witness they call to the stand to verify something only my keen eye could verify. Or the specialist they call to get a witty and informative quote for a magazine article.

But so far, nobody has needed an expert in the art of plucking ingrown hairs from my leg or in making log houses out of spray-painted straws, two areas in which I’ve been known to excel.
So I’ve been patiently learning a teeny bit each day, cradling the hope that this new knowledge will eventually congeal and become something.

The trip was quite a something. I met lots of knowledge as I skipped around continents. I'm still no expert in any area, but I learned a lot. About life and people and humanity. And I decided to share it. Here you have it... words of wisdom from someone who kinda knows some stuff.

I learned...

...that all people are the same no matter where they were born. Really. We all judge, love, die, urinate, eat, hope. We’re all yearning to be better. Some of us wake up to alarms and some of us to roosters. But, really, we are all the same.

...that most religions are the same. They each answer that annoying question about what happens after life and are based on being good. Really. Hindus, Jews, Catholics, Muslims, Buddhists, Mormons, Jains…. I heard each of their spiels and was shocked at the similarities. To me, it’s like choosing a basketball team.

...how to say no... how to have an opinion... how to ask for what I want. When those in the tourism industry are eyeing you like a lion licking his lips, you better ask them to throw in a Taj Mahal snow globe. You’re paying for it anyway.

...that we are all so lucky and we don’t know it. Advertising and society make us think we need more and more and more and that this more has to be from a certain designer. But, really, we don’t need much at all. I think it’s crazy that some kids in the West cry because they want Elmo for Christmas and some kids in the East cry because they want more than rice for dinner. Crazy!

...that traveling alone for a long period of time is like turning off your life. No bills. No phone. No commitments. No job. Nobody you know. Nothing to do but listen to yourself. I think it’s something that everyone needs to experience.

...that my body is not infallible. Damn! I am athletic and never thought I would feel like I couldn’t do anything. But F! My feet and knees were used to sleeping under my desk. Then I made them get lost around unknown cities for 9 whole months. They hate me.

...that I love writing this blog. Love it! I received encouragements and emails from so many strangers and old friends and worried parents and pissed off Malaysians. I can’t describe the feeling of knowing people are rooting for you. It’s amazing. And I thank you all so very much for being there with me. I will continue writing about how humans in the US are funny, especially the ones in advertising or the ones that interview me for jobs for which I have no business applying.

...that the people who stamp passports take their jobs way too seriously.

...that I’ve deprived myself way too much. Before the trip, I would never think of ordering dessert. Now I not only order it, I eat it slowly, and enjoy every single bite. I'm so lucky to have the privilege.

...to look around! I couldn’t believe that the tribes living in the Papua New Guinean mountains didn’t realize their homes were swathed in absolute beauty. But as I was telling this to someone, she pointed to Venice beach, a place that I take for granted. I saw a cluster of palm trees and it all became so clear.

...that the best times come from the experiences you were most reluctant to have. So now I try to say yes to everything. I try not to let fear be a factor in any decision. Ever.

...to master Sudoku puzzles. What a great way to sharpen the brain fibers.

...that being away from everyone you know forces you to see everyone you know in a new light. I feel closer to many of my friends and family now than I did before I left.

...that everyone’s priorities are different and that’s ok. We’re all just different but neither is better or worse.

...to trust myself. Standing by a decision and not looking back saves loads of anxiety.

...to ask questions. People love to answer. It’s the best way to meet.

Here's a sunset to help you contemplate.

911: Expired Mambas & Crotchless Pants!

Home. Is it where the heart is? Or is it where your pager is? For me it’s the latter. And that pager has friends.

When most people sail away to college, their high school bedroom mysteriously transforms into a study or guest room. The previous occupants, Mr. Bear or Miss School Girl Uniform, get shipped away to Goodwill in hopes of taking root in another high school room. But my little sanctuary, upstairs and away from all the goings-on of the household, was quickly abandoned and forgotten. It probably spent years yearning to become an inviting study filled with books and beanbag chairs. Or perhaps it would have been happy with a simple upgrade from a twin bed. But no one ever noticed. And eleven years later, it is exactly how I left it that sad day in 1998 after listening one last time to Sarah McLachlan’s ‘I will remember you’ and caressing my cheerleading jersey.

This room is now like Pompeii, its contents solidified by eleven years of dust: The crusty shot glass collection. The Zimas hidden in a corner, expired and ashamed. The bored teddy bears who no longer bother to come alive at night. The journals filled with detailed commentary on what Robbie Novak was wearing throughout the entirety of third grade (usually a red sweater that I thought looked ‘totally cute’).

Now here I am, making this room my home again, twin bed and all. I find myself acutely aware of my odd surroundings. The big box of scrunchies and the thousands of loose photos from Cancun Spring Break 1998 are reassuring reminders of how far I’ve come in these 11 years. I no longer drink Zimas. I’ve even surpassed Schmirnoff Ice! I’m no longer dating the dumb quarter back or certain that Addison Trail High School’s Homecoming Court is the most important monarchy in the world. I no longer get drunk in parking lots by mixing any liquor into a Snapple bottle. I no longer wear catsuits. I no longer think flip flops are weird. I still love Sarah McLachlan, and ‘I will Remember You’ still chokes me up every time.

Even though many adults still drink spiked Snapples in parking lots, I'm gonna say that my moving on has me steeped in a big pile of adulthood. I am an adult. My friends are getting married and pregnant. And I'm.... well, I'm strapping myself in for some months of living with my mom. That's what happens when you blow all your money on traveling. But I swear, I am an adult! And it shall be reaffirmed as I throw everything from childhood away. Everything. I thought about donating my pager and jelly bracelet collection but decided it might be an insult to needy people. I have immortalized the following items right here in this blog so that I will feel better about never seeing them again. Here’s a look at my pager and his friends-- A FINAL GOODBYE:

I won this box of candy on The Bozo Show in.... 1988. It's almost my age! And sadly, it’s still good. I wouldn’t trust the ingredients in them things.

I must have been a civil rights activist in a previous life because I defended them as a child in a big fat racist town. Some hairy jerkwad pulled this baby down during every party I threw, and I always just put it right back up.

We labored over writing this for some time, especially the title. For all future cheerleaders, remember that ‘excepting the challenge’ is the key to winning.

I was in love with Gerardo because he claimed he was rico and suave-ay. I wish my old self could have told my young self that men who wear bandanas are NEVER suave-ay.

I once told my fourth grade class that I was secretly friends with Debbie Gibson. They didn't believe me. But I'm still hanging on to the possibility. Deborah... call me! We have the same hat!

There was a time when my friend, Dana, and I would wear matching daisy dukes, half-shirts, and black Reebok high-tops to traipse around town festivals, bowling alleys, and malls. We tried to meet boys with cars and collect numbers. She has two kids and a husband now. What do I have? These numbers.

Michael Jordan fruit snacks - I thought these would be worth money one day, so I saved them. Man, I had quite the eye for rare valuables at such a young age. Jordan fruit snacks anyone? Surely they’re on Ebay for thousands so why don’t you just Paypal me $200 and we’ll call it even?

That’s right. These pants don’t have a crotch in them. And they cost me $60. Long story. Long, sad story (Please note that these were purchased after high school. And worn with shorts).

I dug this out of my grandma’s house when I was eight and thought it was so dirty. I mean, a penis! I showed it to all my girlfriends every time they came over. This penis thing, I knew, was something important.

Goodbye, pager. We shared some sweet 411. But, by gosh, it's almost a 911 that I still have you.