Survey says... inspiration! Or broccoli.

It’s 2011. Fuck.

It’s now time for people to scoff at me and return my checks due to my failure to remember it's 2011. Not that I write checks that often. Other people do. And those people are usually in front of me at the supermarket.

Shit. This post isn’t so positive. One of my 2010 2011 resolutions is to think more positively. Wow, that shirt looks great on you.

There’s a reason for the timely negativity. A reason for my cowering in the corner, very reluctant to welcome in a new year. It’s because 2010 2011 will be one of the biggest years in my professional career. I’ve planned it that way, so that’s how it’s going to be. Shit is going to happen. My vision board agrees.

That also means that I’m going to have to make all that stuff happen. And that’s creating a lot fear and vulnerability all throughout my little body that is miraculously still pretty little compared to the amount of food I’ve eaten this holiday paired with alcohol in the hope that I’ll forget the fear and vulnerability.

You, see, I have this dick of an ego, Lawrence, and he likes to chime in and tell me I’m a failure and that it’s stupid to actually try to be a full-time non-advertising writer because I’m just going to fail. But, rejoice! I read a book about dealing with dickface egos, and it said to write out Lawrence’s words with the non-dominant hand and then respond with the dominant hand. And let me tell you, Lawrence has some bad handwriting.

It did teach me that my biggest fear is failure. And that I’m making failure out to be this horrible demon of a thing that I won’t be able to escape, a red X on my face like that on the faces of the Family Feud contestants who don’t know that the survey said broccoli.

But then I thought more about it and realized that failing is my own invention.

Some people think Obama is a failure. Others still really admire him (I swear. We’re out there.). But what’s really the most important is how he sees himself. He can choose to be mad at himself and listen to his jerky ego, or he can be proud of what he’s been able to accomplish and go to bed smiling.

My point is that fear and failure live only in our own minds. And if we have the power to deem ourselves failures, don’t we also have the power to deem ourselves winners? Let’s choose that option. Let’s all be winners.

I’m still unclear on the very objective failures like fathers who leave their kids and never call them until they’re in their twenties. That’s a parental failure, right? Well, I guess the kid could think the father failed, but if the father was doing the best he could at the time, he could still think of himself as a winner. See how I turned that around? I should really be a helpful guest on Jerry Springer.

Is that show still on? If so, I can believe it. I spent a lot of time avoiding Lawrence by watching my mother’s television this holiday season. There are some really crap shows on. Cake Boss? Seriously? See how I’m starting to go all over the place now down here toward the end? My old self could say that this is a total writing failure. But my new self declares this post a winner.

I’m coming out of hiding and am now prepared for 2010 2011, the best year yet. For real. Because I said so. Let’s enjoy it, fellow winners. Let’s be positive and make things happen. My, that shirt looks really, really good on you.

UPDATE: I don't really have a vision board.

UPDATE #2: Tony Robbins called. He wants his post back.

UPDATE #3: The guy who made up the joke about things calling and wanting their stuff back called. He said that shit is old.

News & history for aliens. Jurg.

It’s much easier to appreciate how funny humans truly are if we try to explain our everyday goings on to those who don’t understand. Like aliens. If I had some aliens over for dinner and tried to explain human culture, they’d surely burst with laughter. Or just say, ‘jurrrrg.’ I don’t know.
This is how I’d sum it all up:

Jesus
There once was a man who came to town and told everyone that his father lived in the sky and controlled the whole world. Some people didn’t believe him.
Those people were persecuted then and even 2000 years later. Some of them escaped persecution and have become heads of Hollywood movie studios, but others are still really hated for collectively killing the son of the man in the sky thousands of years ago.

Muhammed
There are some people who worship a god. Nobody is allowed to draw this god even though they have no idea what he looks like because nobody who actually saw him ever drew him. It’s forbidden to even draw a fork or a wagon and say it’s this god. If you do, the worshippers will try to kill you.

Abortion
Sometimes, when a man makes a woman pregnant and she doesn’t want to be pregnant, a doctor takes a vacuum and sucks the baby out of her womb. In order to elect a president, the people of the United States need to know how the candidate feels about this vacuum.

Media
Certain things happen in the world. Humans need to know about it. We pay certain people a lot of money to get their hair styled to look like a brick and read about these events to a TV camera. Sometimes, they have nothing to report so they make up stories. Powerful people who don’t want anyone to know about their events persuade the people with brick hair to NOT talk about them. Also, there is competition among the people with brick hair, so they add details to their stories to sound better. And they love to use the word ‘exclusive.’

Kim
There is a man who rules a country called North Korea. He will not allow anyone to enter or exit his country. He doesn’t allow the people in his country to know anything about any other country even though there are 195 countries in the world. He does not even let them watch any people with brick hair. Instead, he shows them pictures of himself and tells everyone that he is the best.

BP
People use cars and trucks to move themselves around. But there are so many cars and trucks that the world is having a hard time keeping up with the demand for oil, which is what makes them run. Some oil companies decided to dig for oil in the middle of the ocean. And then everyone was really surprised when they spilled a lot of oil into the water.

Lohan
There is a girl who was in a few movies. None of them were that good or memorable. She put a lot of illegal and unhealthy chemicals in her body and got in trouble. Then, she put more illegal and unhealthy chemicals in her body and got in more trouble. She went to court and wrote ‘fuck you’ on her fingernail to insult the judge (‘fuck you’ is considered very rude.). Nobody knows why the people with the brick hair talk so much about this girl. But many people in the USA know more about this girl than all of the other things listed here.

As is evident, Martha MacCallum reports on very significant issues of the day. She also carries one brick in her hair.

One Joke = Bye bye aliens

Remember that time I bombed on stage at The Comedy Store?
I've been scared to look at the tape (or whatever tapes are called these days, kiddos), very frightened to see my own face as it digests the fact that nobody's laughing.

I opened the file today (because it's actually a file and not actually a tape).
I have only been able to watch the first joke.
And it's not so bad. I fear the others, but the first one is not so bad.
And some people are laughing! One person even clapped in agreement.
Plus, the lighting is so good that you can't see my adult acne.
Score.
Here it is. One joke. Like my granny always said, a joke a day keeps the aliens at bay.

The Paradox of Books About Paradoxes

I hate choosing shampoo. Or toilet paper or rice or jeans. I’ll even wear the same crusty boots into the ground because I can’t stand the idea of picking out new ones. The thought of making decisions truly immobilizes me. And with more and more to choose from every day, capitalism is causing me to panic at the grocery store.

This Pantene says it’s for normal hair, but mine is not really that normal. It’s more dry, but Suave for dry hair is too cheap to actually work and the bottle is pink. I hate pink. The Aussie shampoo smells good, but I don’t want to buy it because they’ll think their advertising is working and then they’ll make more of those horrible commercials that make me want to kill every kangaroo and hate every Australian. I should actually just stick to natural formulas. I’m gonna go Burt’s Bees. No, wait. I’m not paying thirteen dollars for that tiny tube of shampoo. Actually, I don’t even need to wash my hair. Forget it.

The same thing happens with cars and apartments and men. Sometimes I choose out of exhaustion, sometimes I talk myself into the wrong thing, and sometimes I just close my eyes and pick, which has gotten me into some really damaging relationships. There’s a constant pros/cons list writing itself in my head along with a looming fear that I’ll miss out if I make a bad choice. If I go with the veggie omelet, I’ll forgo the french toast and the french toast might be better. If I choose Luigi from Chicago, then I’ll miss out when Javier from Buenos Aires comes along, and everyone knows he'll be better.

And then there's that whole job dilemma. In the sixties, women's career choices were limited: Teacher, Nurse, or Secretary. Now, I could give manicures to dead people or bathe apes or run for president (ok, vice). Is it really that great that we have so many choices? Everyone I know seems to be wondering what to do with their lives.

This topic interested me so much that I bought a book on it: The Paradox of Choice.
I couldn’t wait to read it, but I put it on my shelf while I finished another. And that was five books ago. I still haven’t read it. And that’s because every time I saddle up to my bookshelf to pick out my next read, there are so many books from which to choose.

I bet there are some really good insights in that book about how certain things are overlooked when there are too many options.

Let’s lighten up the mood in this bitch.

If you saw me in the street these past two weeks, you would never have guessed that I had just been reliving that whole father situation over here. Because, while it was emotional to write, I felt so relieved about getting it all out there. So, thanks for reading and commenting and emailing and supporting me even though I veered off the humorous observation path. I appreciate that I have this world of strangers encouraging me. Even if there are only five of you.

The ironic part is that all this dad stuff emerged because of my stand-up comedy class. I am trying to learn how to be funnier (which is funny in itself), and the openness I’m learning there moved me to write about dead dads for two whole weeks! Hilarious. In an aside here, I’d like to tell America that this is irony. Taking a comedy class that makes you more depressing is ironic. T-shirts, however, are not ironic. Stop using that word wrong. A T-shirt is only ironic if you sell your hair to buy one for your husband who has sold his torso to buy you a comb for your hair.

But something amazing happened as I left those dad articles up for a week each. They were like statements nailed to my door if I had a door and lived back in the day when people nailed stuff to doors. All of a sudden, everybody knew. And that felt fucking awesome. Because for my whole life I’ve been shoving this stuff deep inside me. I felt it was something I shouldn’t talk about, something that made me abnormal and scarred and not good enough. I didn’t come from a perfect family and my dad story was a big black stain on my memory. My therapist (what, are you surprised?) told me not to talk about such private history until date six. And usually when I did, there’d be a blank look and an oh-I-feel-so-bad-for-you conversation.

Barf. It’s just life. Gimme a break.

But now it’s out there! And all five of you know about it. And it’s no secret. And telling everybody is so freeing. I’m on the offense instead of the defense. Now it feels more ‘this is me, so suck it’ rather than ‘oh, well, I guess I should tell you this because it’s time for us to be closer. Hope you still accept me.’

So, my point is: Let’s tell our secrets. Let’s make secrets obsolete. I fucking hate secrets. I am so racist against secrets, it’s disgusting. I want to throw all secrets into a gas chamber. I’ve always loved Post Secret, and now I finally understand why all those crazy people send in their secrets. Because it feels fucking good. To let it out and let it go.

So, you know, feel free to share some secrets here. Or not. You can always email them to me (salasala@gmail.com), and I will write about them.

In turn, I will tell you a secret. Another one. A less depressing one. Ready? Here goes:

I religiously read ‘Missed Connections’ on Craigslist. I do! I’m embarrassed each time I click on the link, but just what if? What if the guy I’m sitting next to at this here coffee shop with the scarf on is really not gay but European and happens to have made eye contact with me purposely instead of just because his friend was standing behind me? And maybe he would have totally asked for my number but looked at the clock and realized he was late to pick his grandmother up for their weekly tea. Oh, and I guess my other secret is that I am a hopeless romantic and am positive my movie ending will happen (much like it did in my friend’s book, which you should most definitely read. Uh, I spent Fourth of July in bed reading. Another secret: I'm lame.).

Wait, maybe this is a depressing secret. Sigh.

At least it’s all out there. I’m so in control now. I feel like a little bird.

Now... let’s have some fun in this bitch.

Dead Dad Part 2: acceptance, leftovers, and magic wands

This week was shocking. So many friends and strangers and bloggers and dads reached out to me to let me know how much they related to my Fathers Day tribute. Or how much they cried. Or how much it made them feel (It's here if you haven't seen it).
And hearing all this is really the most wonderful thing to hear. Knowing that my words have moved someone to tears is astounding. And unreal. And feels so fucking good. That’s really my life’s goal-- to make people feel something.

But I have a confession to make. I feel an obligation to tell you that that post took me 14 years to write. Not literally. I wasn’t sitting at a desk for fourteen years with a pen poised over paper. Then you would have probably never met me, and I would either be really fat or malnourished. But writing that piece required that I accept everything about my dad, which took a while. Accepting everything about someone is like inviting everyone on the entire street to your party. And being okay with the homeless people who show up and raid your vegetable crisper. You have to truly accept things that you may not like. Or things that scare you. And the hardest part is that you have to admit to yourself that your way is not the only way. TOUGH stuff. For me, it’s easier with dead people. I have yet to accept any boyfriend without requesting minor changes in personality and character. Yes, honey, I swear I love you but really you should be more motivated and also like the things I like.

Parents are even harder to accept. You have an idea of who you want them to be, and when they don’t turn out like that, you have to just swallow it. I didn’t imagine my dad would be gay. But I accepted it. And just when things were cool, he up and committed suicide. Great. Hadn’t imagined that either.
I gotta hand it to him-- the man was an ace at surprises.

When someone commits suicide, your entire perception of him is stained. Every good memory is accompanied by flashes of death or guilt or panic. For a long time, I would see a size 15 New Balance sneaker, and I would remember my father. And I would smile. And then immediately my brain’s channel would flip to him dead on his bed waiting for someone to find him. And then I’d undoubtedly remember his neighbor saying that he only knew my father was upstairs decomposing after he’d cleaned out his refrigerator and realized that the horrible odor was indeed not Korean leftovers. Yep, my decomposing father smelled like old kimchi.
It’s gross. And perhaps horrifying. So I was positive those good memories were stained forever.
I thought his goodness was gone. I thought I could never get the good back without a slap in the face with the bad.

And then 14 years went by.
And it’s finally happened. I’m at the point where I can imagine his brown slippers and see only 3-year-old me pretending they were boats. And then smile. And then move on.
Only now can I listen to tapes of him playing the piano and simply remember his long fingers and how they swept across the keys like magic wands.

14 years is so long. So so long. It could have been sooner. All I had to do was make the choice.
But it’s hard to make that choice when you don’t understand there’s a choice to be made.
My dad had a choice. He had life right there asking him to decide. He could have said ‘This is hard, but I’m learning how to get through it.’ Instead he said, ‘This sucks. I’m outtee.’

Life’s all about those decisions. I have been choosing for years to say, ‘I grew up with a dead dad. That sucks. Whatever. I’m not going to think about it.’ And now I’m finally choosing to say, ‘This gives me a different perspective, and I’m going to learn what I can.’

Once I made that decision, things became clearer. I figured out that my pops was just a man. Like any other man. He had problems and fears and traumas and delights. And he spent his life winging it. Just like all of us do. We’re guessing right now. And that’s all we can do. In 1996, he felt hopeless and helpless. And he guessed wrong. He made the only kind of mistake from which he couldn’t learn. Before, I used to wonder what he was thinking in those minutes before death, completely conscious about his decision and his imminent demise. Did he think about me? Did it take long? Was he gasping for air? Was he thrashing around? Did he change his mind? Did he regret it? Did he regret anything? Did he wonder if he’d left the iron on? Did he know he’d end up smelling like Korean leftovers?

I’ll never know. But I have finally decided that I don’t need to know. I know that he was great when he was great. And I don’t need to spend any more time asking questions I can’t answer. Questions nobody can answer.
I have chosen to finally move on. To finally forgive this man and see him as just that: A man. A man who made a mistake. A man who would undoubtedly take back that mistake. A man who would be here with me right now if he could.

That’s why that tribute was so important to me. And that it means so much that other people got something from my years of work. 14 years in the making. 14 years to this moment where I can finally see our picture together and remember only the man whose feet I climbed onto. The guy who would dance me around the living room. That was my dad. That guy. That’s the guy I miss. That’s the guy who made everyone feel. Thanks again, Pops. You’re still teaching me lessons every day.

Now... on to the difficult task of accepting the people who are alive.

Me: Dad, I can't believe you let Mom cut my hair this short. It's hideous.
Dad: You look fine. I'm the one with this horrible beard. It really itches.
Me: Your beard is great. And those glasses. Just wait til 2010, and you'll fit in with the hipsters in LA.
Dad: Nah, I think I'll head out in 1996 instead.
Me: All righty then. It's been fun. I shall remember this time we had together. Peace out.

Yeah, rice. Get fluffy already.

Don’t homeless people actually seem like they really have it all?

Why won’t rice just hurry up?

Why don't people call TV 'the boob tube' so much anymore? I wish they did.

If my last name was 'Case,' would I be hilarious or horrible for naming my son 'Justin?'

Do hand models get to skip the line at dance clubs like real models do?

What is the point of iceberg lettuce?

Why the constant need to think of something new? Can't we just stick to Ford Escorts and step aerobics?

Are blind people really good at hide-and-seek?

I wonder if humans seem to dogs what giraffes seem to humans...? You know, because of the height and the angle.

Is it really necessary to count threads?

When will Whoopi Goldberg age?

Why do they say not to talk with food in our mouths, but every time we want to talk about stuff, we meet for lunch or dinner?

Isn't it crazy how, for the same amount of money, we can send a box across the country overnight, buy a gourmet chocolate, or feed a baby in Liberia for a week?

Does the guy who caught me shoplifting at JC Penney that one time still think of me as much as I think of him?

Why don’t animals like me as much as I like them?

Why does so much hair come out in the shower?

Do snakes ever get bored with eating? Swallowing stuff whole must take a long time.

Why do people so often say ‘by the way’ when introducing themselves? I don't want to know that you know how to say 'by the way.' I just want to know your name.

If I put asparagus down the garbage disposal, will the water smell weird?

It's hard out here for a hippie.

I’m having the hardest time being a hippie lately. I had no problems last year-- never brushed my hair or wore makeup, carried my life in a sack, lived wherever I felt like it. Life couldn’t have been better.

But now I’m in Los Angeles.

Chihuahuas wear designer clothes and you’re an oddity if you don’t have a German-engineered car. Plus, my adult acne requires I wear some fancy foundation for anyone to take me seriously, and I was forced to buy some decent jeans due to my exhibitionist butt crack. So, I’m now feeling like ‘one of them.' I’m a paradox-- surrounded by creative directors in Diesel jeans by day and meditating in lotus at night. It couldn’t feel more weird. I know a guy who just paid $50,000 for a couch ('It is the focal point,' he rationalized). Some of my friends are struggling to raise $400 to send a year’s supply of water to a village in Africa. Where the hell do I fit in the mix? If I could, I’d sell that couch, pay off my student loans, and go to Africa to deliver the water myself. Does that make me a hippie or just some chick who says she’s a hippie but is just lazy and wants to use travel as an excuse for never having to work?

I don’t know. But the best part is that I don’t have to know. Because I live in Venice Beach! You could wake up in Venice Beach stuffed in a cannon. You could crawl out of that cannon and find an eyeless homeless man, a guy selling cotton balls and taser guns, and a yuppie jogger pushing twins in a five-thousand-dollar stroller. And none of this would seem weird. And you’d say to a man playing bongos, ‘Excuse me, do you know why I woke up in a cannon?’ And instead of looking at you as if you had five noses, he’d tap his friends on their leathery shoulders and they’d all help you find out why you awoke in this cannon. And all together you’d find a guy sleeping in the sand who remembered that you were at the local freak show (the one that features an assortment of 2-headed animals) and that you volunteered to shoot yourself from the cannon after downing a magnum bottle of Opus One (bought for you by this Hollywood big shot at a bar down the street for $749 plus tax). And then you’d hear that the freak show owner stuffed you in the cannon but ran from the cops right afterward because he’s also the owner of the medical marijuana joint across the street that was getting raided. You know the one, next to American Apparel. And so you fell asleep in the canon until now when you just awoke to the aforementioned plus a dude frying up worms on a pocket kerosene grill, not because he’s homeless but because he’s a shaman and these particular worms are from Tibet and will help him with his Tantric sexcapades, about which you don’t want know-- trust me.

It’s a strange place, this Venice area. On the beach, it looks like a scene out of Rishikesh, India-- free yoga, dirty dreadlocks, street sleepers, seedy taverns, and marijuana. Lots of marijuana.

Four blocks over is where the hippies become pseudo. Here the marijuana is legit, the bars have bouncers, and the coffee shop baristas draw hearts in the latte foam. The dreadlocks on this side of Venice were professionally installed by a guy with thick plastic glasses and expensive skinny jeans. The yoga classes run upwards of twenty bucks.

It’s strange, this paradox of lifestyles. But I love it. Because I’m neither nor. I’m not one but both. I am a daily contradiction. I like chocolate and bread pudding. I want it all. I’m every woman. It’s all in me. And there’s no point in choosing now. So, I’m gonna ride my 400-dollar bike down to the free yoga and meditate the day away with the drum circle. And then maybe wash it all down with a plate of foie gras in truffle oil. (Ok, I would never eat foie gras, but the vegetarian shit I would like doesn’t sound fancy enough to make this dichotomy sound so astounding. So just imagine something really awesome & pricey on a plate served by a super cool hipster with funky pants and Converse.)

Venice is it.

Macho men that spend sunny weekends choreographing dances on their roller skates. Where else?

Do they even make Bud Dry any more?

Why can’t I ever spell license or exercise?

Wasn’t dating easier in junior high when we called boys on 3-way and got our friends to talk to them about their feelings?

Am I the only one who cringes in remembrance of ruined white shorts when I see the Japanese flag?

Why do musicians think it’s cool to sample sirens in their music? I have pulled over twice lately due to sirens coming out of the radio.

Why are the dishes always dirty even after I wash them?

Why don’t more people just agree with me?

What are babies thinking? Maybe they're agreeing with me but can't say so.

Why is farting so taboo if everyone does it?

Why ask why? Try Bud Dry.

Why does that one sock never make it into the washing machine?

Why is dyslexia so hard to spell?

Why do our taste buds prefer croissants to carrots? Damn you, creator!

Why do all men's colognes remind me of frat parties?

Why are there so many rules?

Why is it sometimes so hard to do the right thing?

Do aliens think that humans are like cars because they run on a weird brown liquid that they must ingest every morning?

Why do we continue to ask each other how we are when the response is always ‘fine’?

Why do we always respond ‘fine’ when people ask us how we are?

Why can’t I resist butter?

Why do I always have to pee right before the movie starts?

Why do I feel obligated to give a tip to the guy who pours my wine into a glass?

Why didn't Benicio del Toro respond to the Craigslist 'Missed Connection' I posted about him?

Why do people always seem to say ‘long story short’ after they’ve already told a long story?

Why are polish and Polish almost the same word? I've been fooled at car washes before.

Does Anonymous get mad when he sees his quote? And when he tries to claim it's his, do people just laugh?

Why do we argue so much about questions to which we’ll never have answers?

When did we stop clapping upon plane landings? I guess we got over the amazement. I wonder how many other things we now take for granted.

Why did we create this whole system of money and working? Bad idea.

What was the original meeting like where the designers unveiled the UPS uniforms? Did the corporate guys like the brown at first or did they have to be coaxed into the brown?

Why are you reading this? Go volunteer or something.

A decade is ten years. That's a long time.

It’s April 8th, 2010.
I have one month left of my twenties.
Holy.
Mackerel.

I’ve spent a lot of time hiding the fact that this day was coming. I omit the year whenever I can. I respond “I’m in my twenties” when people ask my age. Because, for most of my life, I’ve dreaded May 8th, 2010. I've dreaded the wrinkles, the chest freckles, and all the expectations that I failed to meet. But here I am, facing them all. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

And, actually, I don’t really want to.
Because the twenties.... well, the twenties were brutal. Incredibly fun and inappropriate, but difficult. They say the twenties are all about figuring yourself out. But they don’t usually say this until you’re turning thirty. Upon my twentieth birthday, I wish someone would have said, “You’re gonna try a bunch of shit in the next decade. And some of it you’re going to absolutely love. And some of it is going to make you feel either disgusted with yourself or sad or confused or just plain mad. But you have to go through this stuff so you can see what you’re all about. So do it. And don’t look back. But try to learn from every situation.”

But nobody said a word about that. So I found myself waking up in random hot tubs and crying in showers and screaming all the way to work. And I didn't understand what it all meant, so I just kept waking up in random hot tubs and crying in showers and screaming all the way to work. But I didn’t take the time to learn from all that stuff until I recently took the year off to mull it all over. Here's what I could have learned:

20 - I turned 20 in Spain. This was around the time that I drank too much street calimocho and threw up in my boyfriend’s mouth. No lesson learned then, but upon further review, I should have seen: I needed to control my alcohol. And that the guy who simply wiped his chin and took me home was a keeper.

21 - I got kicked out of a strip joint on Sunset Blvd for being a belligerent eye-roller and taking off my top, even though I was simply a patron and did not possess any of the assets required of a stripper. Should have learned: To control my alcohol. And that I should cross off ‘stripping’ from the list of back-up plans (still have yet to do that).

22 - Freaking out about my steadily climbing grad school debt, I finally stopped drinking to focus on getting a job. I focused a lot on that and only that. So it all went by in a flash. I only remember wearing slutty outfits and having a panic attack that showed itself in chronic foot itch. I was in South Beach! Should have learned to balance.

23 & 24 - I lived in London, Sao Paulo, NYC, and SF. Should have noticed I was more interested in traveling than advertising. WHY didn’t I see that then!?

25 - The chronic foot itch came back on the first day of my first job. All I could think about was the year’s lack of spring break. Should have realized that this job was a mere stone on the path to something bigger. Like most things are.

26 - Moved in with a boyfriend after knowing him three months. Should have learned to NEVER move in with a boyfriend after knowing him three months.

27 - I shot lots of commercials and actually enjoyed myself with clients. Never trusting myself, I cowered in the corner and became the girl who always said, 'I don't know. What do you think?" I should have realized I’m actually good at my job.

28 - I slaved away for 16 hours a day doing more than I could handle. Should have learned how to say no. And that being married to a job (especially one that doesn't really help many people) wasn't how I wanted to live my life. Oh wait, I did learn that. So I...

29 - ...traveled alone and finally learned all these lessons all at once. But most importantly, I learned to listen to myself so that future lessons won’t take another round-the-world trip to sink in.

In honor of these confusing yet exhilarating years, I will spend this last month of my twenties reliving them all. I plan to get totally wasted, travel, fall in love quickly, work feverishly, and perhaps take my clothes off in a strip club. And I will also go skydiving and make an eggplant parmigiana because I want to. Yes! This will undoubtedly be a great month. I will let you know if I make it to 30.

The year was 2000. I wore my jeans up to my bellybutton. My haircut looked like a mushroom, and I drank tequila for sport. And then I wondered why I couldn't meet a decent guy.

Ok, yes I had mushroom hair, but do you see that six-pack? Hot damn. I still thought I was fat. Could have learned to love my body and use it to my advantage. Sigh.

2008. Better hair. No more padded bras. No more tequila. Getting closer. Plus, I finally realized that relationships are the most important! That's when I left everybody I knew to go traveling. I swear it makes sense kinda.

This is the face of learning. Sometimes it takes a wooden pillow and a mosquito net to get the brain to make sense of stuff.

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.

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.