Snuffy and a Cockroach January 27, 2010

I was a dirty little kid.  We lived on a farm until I was 8.

We had two dogs; Cassie (looked like Lassie) and Snuffy (an old mutt who came with the farm when we moved in).  Both Cassie and Snuffy served as a furry buffet of delight for the swarm of wood ticks living in our meager acreage.  It was up to us kids to relieve our four-pawed siblings of their blood sucking tenants.  We had a jar, the wood tick jar (I now shudder). One by one we placed the plucked creepers into their clear jail cell.  I was taught to pull as close to the dog’s skin as possible, to ensure I would get the whole tick and not just rip off the body leaving the head still embedded in their skin. Sometimes this task was very difficult because the tick had been feasting for so long it had become ridiculously fat and tan colored (I never understood why they changed colors as they got bigger?  I assume it was the blood?) so I had to be careful not to make the little guy explode during extraction. Once the jar was relatively full we burned them.  Wood ticks, when thrown into a fire, make a little popping sound similar to those small fire crackers that you throw on the ground.  Sometimes we would simply dump the whole jar into the fire pit at once and other times we would throw them in one by one or in small groups.  The bigger ones were always louder and my brother made sure he got first dibs on the fatties.  Often during naps or at night I’d have vivid nightmares of my bed full of crawling wood ticks. Upon waking, and after a significant amount of crying, I’d realize my bed only had the typical dirt or cookie crumbs that naturally cling to a young filthy child.

I bring this up because two nights ago as I pulled my blanket and sheet back two, not one, but two little creepy bugs scuttled about on my sleeping quarters.  I immediately stripped the bed and shook out my sheets.  But where did they come from?  Did my mattress become a host for some exotic jungle flea population!?  I couldn’t find any of their friends but regardless I was severely disturbed after turning off the lights and snuggling in.  Last night as I opened my armoire (yes I have a wooden armoire in my tin-roofed room) a cockroach the size of a baby’s foot calmly made his way through my clothes and into the back left corner. I didn’t know what to do.  The last time I spotted a cockroach in my room I used a piece of paper to shoo it out through my bedroom door, after it went through the hinge crack I slammed the door shut, re-opened it and discovered his sad lifeless body had been crushed from the door impact (apparently the little guy hadn’t quite made it through in time).  I honestly felt a little bad.  After reading Charlotte’s Web so many times as a kid I’ve always tried to spare the lives of little bugs, spiders and insects (except for mosquitos). So I stared at the corner of the closet and I could see his long pointy antlers moving around.  I was too tired to move him and just hoped he wouldn’t defecate on my apparel.

Sleep did not come easily as the rain pounded loudly on the shanty shelter.  As I was just about to fall asleep I felt something move under my blanket to the left of my feet.  I ignored it and began to drift off until it moved again, this time I could feel the blanket’s weight shift.  I jumped up and screamed that high pitched ‘I’m dying’ horror movie melody.  I immediately ran for the light switch and cowered near the door staring at the foot of my bed.  Nothing stirred.  I carefully nudged the blanket a few times and then bravely lifted it up.  Nothing!  Where the hell did the little effer go!?  And more importantly what was it!!!!!?  I looked under the bed, empty.  I glanced over at the bathroom, nothing except those ugly black worms that crawl everywhere in my room.  I stood there, panting for several minutes before deciding whatever it was had found a decent hiding spot.  I turned off the light (a little worried that my death screams hadn’t awoken my host family… what if I was really dying?) and crawled as close as I could up to the head of my bed, laying in the fetal position. I awoke only hours later to my host family going about their morning rituals (every day at 4am…. Although usually I sleep right through it).  I got up to go pee and saw two more of those little nasty bed bugs from the night before scuttling about my tile floor.  I grabbed a shoe and with an, “Eff you Charlotte,” I smashed both of their little brains in.

The days of Cassie, Snuffy and midnight cookie crumbs are looking pretty good right now.  At least there aren’t any wood ticks here.

A Tica Life January 19, 2010

 

I am writing this as I sit barefoot enjoying the bliss of wireless internet and overlooking the Sarapiqui river with her small raging song. How can my office possibly be this beautiful second story porch where Tucans appear in trees and monkeys have been known to play?

the outside office

 

My English classes do not begin until February 8th and so I must instead scramble to organize my Becados Scholarship 2010 program.  I was hoping to spend my birthday (a saturday) at the beach for a weekend trip to the Pacific coast… but instead I will be here from 9-3 meeting with all of my scholarship students and their parents, signing contracts, writing letters to their sponsors and participating in a service project for the center.  Not exactly the perfect birthday, but definitely memorable!  My goal is to double the size of our sponsorship this year and I am already brainstorming ideas on how to most effectively contact various organizations and institutions with the details of our program (if anyone thinks they might know someone/church/business that might be interested in providing an education to a deserving student let me know!)

I went rafting!  

Yes, my weak long arms manipulated the angry rapids of our intoxicating Sarapiqui river (with the help of an oar, a guide and five other rowers).  It would seem cliche for me to simply say I cannot begin to describe the surrounding rainforest scene and so I will instead post a few photos and compare my new home to that of the animated film Ferngully (so much greenery).  As a new bird enthusiast I chanced upon several Snowy Egrets, Turkey Vultures, Kingfishers and my favorite, the Montezuma Oropendola.  While the rapids aren’t extreme here the river was slightly more aggressive after the torrential rains that I so divinely avoided (apparently it rained a week straight before my arrival).  I brought the sun from Minnesota?!

I promptly gave up on appearances after realizing that life here is akin to permanent camping.  My feet are always dirty, living in flip flops.  My hair is a frizzy mess of sticky curls because of the humidity and is always back in a disheveled ponytail/bun.  All of my clothes smell like musty dirt even after being just washed.  

my shower head made up of plastic piping and a little string

 

Basically all I need for my day is a deodorant stick and my Burt’s Bees chapstick.  I haven’t abandoned shaving although the freezing showers make this difficult. I did paint my toenails the other morning and the toe nails of little Jessica who then insisted on painting my fingernails all by herself.  Needless to say my nails look amazing!  I had a good laugh when the other night, at Kaity’s birthday barbecue, John (a rafting guide) commented on how it may be difficult for me to maintain my manicure here (it was dark outside).  So I showed him more closely in the light and replied that it wouldn’t be a problem since I have a five year old nail technician living in my house. 

This place is undoubtedly changing me.  I am comfortable inside my tin shanty now and wonder why we really need all of those big rooms back home anyways.  That carpenter guy from Extreme Makeover: Home Edition could go crazy here with the amount of people needing a new roof etc… And yet they are all so incredibly happy and nice!  Women wave, baby on hip, as I walk my little route home on the death highway.  This death highway is the main road connecting Chilamate (our town) to the surrounding towns.  It is 2 lanes and hosts a wide variety of cars, trucks, semis, motorcycles, bicycles and pedestrians.  There is a small section near the local school in which a sidewalk is available but other than that we are all supposed to share this paved thoroughfare.

mi casa

 

the part of the house with no walls, just a fence

 

up in a tree

 

the inside of my house! I LOVE the pink!!!

 

the kitchen at the center. We take turns making lunch for everyone during the week but Hilda makes lunch for us on Mondays and it is always amazing! We also suck down a lot of amazing Costa Rican coffee throughout the dia.

 

Little Juan Paulo during our day camp activity making signs for the Chilamate Jungle Reserve

 

La Pura Vida!! More stories and photos to come!

First 24 hours in Costa Rica January 15, 2010

I landed in San Jose at 2:30.  The sun was shining and the temperature was around 80 degrees F.  My luggage came out of the baggage carousel right away, which was something unexpected and welcomed!  I breezed through customs with zero questions.  I hailed a taxi and asked him to take me to the Caribean Terminal.  Oscar (pronounced Oh-Skerrrr)  was a friendly driver who enjoyed practicing his English with me.  He took the side streets of San Jose and that is when I started to wonder if I had made a mistake in coming here.  The city was cramped and dirty with shacks of all shapes and sizes littering the sides of the roads.  Even more disheartening were the metal bars surrounding the shack windows and doors.   These shanties were colorful however, bright yellows, blues, pinks and greens.  He dropped me off at the bus terminal and I moved slowly towards the ticket booth. 

I was starving.  I hadn’t eaten anything since my egg mcmuffin at 5am.  I bought my ticket to Puerto Viejo de Sarpiqui and purchase some chips at the little tienda nearby.  A nice man helped me put my suitcase under the bus and I secretly wondered if after I got on the bus he might have gone back and taken it (as if I had valuables, hah!).  The bus was a smaller and older version of a greyhound.  I managed to get a seat next to the window (which was open).  An old man sat down beside me and proceeded to sleep the entire trip.  I watched as we headed out of San Jose.  I saw the following:  chickens walking precariously close to the highway , unaccompanied, a truck pulled over by the cops with caution tape around the whole vehicle and a group of young men on the hill with handcuffs on (there were dogs in crates in the bed of the truck and I wondered if they were dog fighters), beautiful waterfalls cascading down steep cliffs as we drove up the winding mountain, people of all ages and sizes walking to who knows where…. I saw many things.  I was astonished by all of the greenery.  I became nervous when the bus started making stops roughly an hour into our trip. I was told that it would take 1 hour and 45 minutes to get to my destination, but I was afraid I might miss it.  The bus driver wasn’t announcing the various stops so I leaned over to the sleeping man, poked him in his side, and asked “Puerto Viejo?”  He mumbled something in Spanish that I couldn’t understand and then made the hand signal for ‘up that way.’  As people exited the bus he moved to another seat and I was able to stretch out my legs a little.  It was very dark by the time we finally made it to Puerto Viejo.  A young man helped me with my luggage and I was relieved to see that it was still there. I then looked around and Kaity (the coordinator) came swooping in with a hug and cheek kiss, welcoming me to la Pura Vida.  I was introduced to Don Gerardo, the director, and put into the car. 

They were taking me to my host family’s house where I would stay for the rest of the evening.  We didn’t have to drive too far and we pulled into a grassy yard.  My house!  How can I possibly describe my house?  It is small, but larger than a shack, I suppose.  The inside consists of a living room/kitchen, 3 small bedrooms, a bathroom and a laundry/dining area.  Basically it is all in the same area.  AND  part of the house doesn’t have walls, well it’s a wall but it’s actually a fence made of metal.  The roof is made of tin.  But my shack is nicer than some because my family has a television!  And a stereo! And an oven!  My family was very welcoming, they had killed a chicken from their backyard in my honor!  There are four of them, well five total but their eldest son Tony (12) is gone studying in San Jose.  Mom is 27, I desperately tried to do the math on how old she was when she started having children but gave up and returned to that thought later (15, wow!).  Dad is 34 and so smiley and happy.  Jose is 8 and Jessica is 5.  I immediately fell in love with all of them, but mainly with Jessica who followed me around the whole time talking in Spanish that was mumbly and hard to understand.  My room is big, well big for their standards and has a twin bed (with a Pokeman blanket) and a dresser.  I get my very own toilet and shower in there!  But I was told that this room was only temporary and that at the end of the month I am being moved into the smaller room in the front, ohwell.  We ate rice, beans, peppers and chicken for dinner.  It was lovely.  I gave the family some candy I brought with as a gift and the kids were beyond thrilled.  By 8:30 I was exhausted and excused myself to my bedroom to unpack and go to sleep.  My house is conveniently located one house away from the bar Los Portones.  And so I drifted off to sleep to blaring bad Karaoke.  I woke up in the dark to the television on as loud as I imagined possible.  What the hell?  Maybe Papa couldn’t sleep?  I looked at my watch and sighed as it read 5am.  Oh yeah, I forgot, they get up at that time.  I managed to fall back asleep (I didn’t have to be at the center until 9:30) and woke up at 8.  I had a moment of panic as I opened my eyes and they focused on a tin roof!  Then I remembered where I was.  The family was all gone except little Jose who was told to stay and make sure I found breakfast alright.  Breakfast was sitting on the stove and consisted of rice, tortillas with cheese and fried bananas… yum!  I am convinced already (by their portions and choice of food) that I will surely gain weight while here. 

The center is a five minute walk from my casa.  It is amazing!  It is overlooking the beautiful Sarapiqui river and is full of green wildlife and trails.  I met my fellow volunteers and they are all amazingly nice.  I helped make lunch in our outdoor kitchen.  We made an American meal of Tuna Melts, Salad and Potato salad.  It was delicious.  I then was shown my first big Iguana that was hanging lazily from a tree.  Heidi (the other ESL teacher) and I sifted through various materials in the office and discussed what classes we wanted to teach (I chose beginners).  I sat in on a crafting meeting with some local women and Ann (a volunteer from Canada, leading crafts).  I met Daniela, a local girl (15) who I immediately adored and she taught me various Tico words that were necessary to know… Que Dicha-Cool, Mop/Mae-Dude, Que Tierna-how cute etc…   I saw a Rufus Hummingbird and some other kind of bird that was friendly looking.  Birding is huge out here and I am determined to become a birder, traversing the great topography of Costa Rica with binoculars in hand.  It is Friday and Kaity is taking me to the Chilamate Jungle (a bar), where I will get acquainted with the Tican beer and some of her local friends.  I have gone from wondering if I made a mistake in coming here to thinking I could live here forever in the course of 24 hours.  La Pura Vida!

Photos to come

Love in Mormon Country January 6, 2010

The mind is a fickle monster who can create ridiculous expectations and sinister judgments (with, of course, zero concrete evidence).  My monster had decided, some time ago, that Utah was a place for Mormons and Losers (not one in the same mind you). I had no reason to think much about Utah, just enough that I knew I wouldn’t be vacationing or living there ever!

In comes a new love.  Yes, how exciting to feel the pulse quicken with a kiss or an exchange of a hug. 

He lives where?  But why?  Utah?  Surely not.  Oh, I see, you love mountains and snow and the company that had you transferred out there.  Fair enough. 

I describe the beaches of Barcelona and the palm trees of Santa Monica and then tell him how I believe Utah to be extremely undesirable.  I repeat my distaste for the cold weather and snow, as we ironically share this conversation in Minnesota (where the weather is below zero).  We are attempting to spend as much time together as possible before I leave for Costa Rica.  We decide that I must accompany him back to Utah and stay for a week before flying back home to pack and depart.

The drive goes smoothly until we are two hours away.  Having stayed up the entire night neither one of us is in a particularly great mood.  I grip the steering wheel and fight off sleep as the Utah mountains begin to envelope the interstate on either side.  He takes over the last jog and I am allowed the pleasure of taking in the small pockets of large cabin-looking communities to my right.  We have arrived in Park City, Utah.  We climb the road in Summit Park to his house.  It is large, with a beautiful wooden stairway leading between balconies on each tiered floor that face the road below.  The inside is large and open and is much nicer (and larger) than I expected. I immediately try to visualize my belongings in here, which is almost comical considering what I have only takes up two suitcases and a large cardboard box.  Yes, I can see myself cooking here in the kitchen behind this large lovely island (assuming I will learn).

We walk through the passages of Main Street and enter the No Name Saloon.  I am immediately infatuated with the large antler chandelier that dangles precariously overhead upon entry.  First state of affairs; is Utah beer any good?  We order two large mugs of some pale ale.  Yes, this beer is lovely, good, glad that’s handled.  We each get a burger, I get the Saloon burger.  It is delicious and suddenly Utah seems less terrible than once presumed.  A man sits in front of us in an Aztec inspired sweater and large boots.  Scenes from Dumb and Dumber come to mind as I witness the various costumes and characters sidled up against the wooden liquor ledge. Having little experience in lodge-lands I am tickled to be witnessing such an array of fur and Indian designs. Surely I would look amazing in snow rabbit attire?  The shops are cute and we meander inside a gallery or two to comment on the overpriced paintings.  The weather is surprisingly warm, much milder than the land of a thousand lakes.  

The next day it snows.  We have breakfast at the No Worries café, situated at the bottom of the hill his house resides on. The coffee mugs are mountain ranges in various colors.  I get the biscuits and gravy with scrambled eggs.  He gets the Eureka, his favorite.  I ask him if he ever watched the show Northern Exposure.  He shakes his head no and I explain to him that it’s an older show about a town in Alaska and this place reminds me of it.  It’s still snowing when we leave and he takes me for a scenic drive up the mountain.  I am bewildered at some of the houses we encounter on the leg up, houses that lean at obscene angles over the mountain’s cliff.  I tell him that I would suffer from anxiety if forced to live in one of the dangling abodes.  As the snow gently falls I admit that it is beautiful and that I almost like it, almost being the key word.

We take the little dog, Jimmy, for a hike with some of his friends and their canine counterparts. It’s a winding back road with looming hills and a coniferous backdrop. A creek flows to our left, beyond the steep embankment.  We walk hand in hand, avoiding minor slips and falls.  Sensitive to my hate for cold he switches gloves with me to ensure the warmth of my clammy hands.  I have a few more days in Utah and am instantly excited going over our future itinerary.  As we stop to kiss and the snow hits our cheeks I wonder if I have made a mistake in judging Utah.  Her charms begin to warm me internally and I think I might just learn how to ski after all.  

Recession Woes and a Puppet Killer December 14, 2009

Shortly after moving to the Santa Monica area I was pleased to discover a local paper, “The Santa Monica Daily Press.” Aha!  Here was the perfect vehicle to introduce my candid reporting to all the uninformed neighbors!  The paper’s articles were dull and lacked a much-needed edge (thoughts of Des Moines’ “Juice” came to mind).  On a Friday, a few weeks later, I was meandering home from the grocery store when a cartoon-like character, peeping from a window, caught my attention.  I turned to my right and gaped, open-mouthed, at the gem in front of me.  A quaint building displayed the words, “Santa Monica Puppetry Center,” which casted a shadow over the narrow sidewalk.  I peered closer at the strange images in the windows.  Photos of puppets and what I presumed to be the puppet master filled the two large  panes.  The door read, “Puppetolio, LA’s Longest Running Puppet Show.”

This would be the story that would make my name known in the circulating small paper world! What would my angle be?  “Puppets, Santa Monica’s Silent Neighbors… A Real Boy, the Local Pinocchio… Puppet Masters Vs. Hollywood…I’ve Got An Arm Up My Ass, I Must Be a Puppet…”  I needed to see a performance of this Puppetolio and if I was lucky maybe get a behind the scenes tour. It was then that I noticed a Saturday matinee performance posted on the entrance. I skipped home with visions of puppets and journalism awards dancing in my cerebellum. 

The next day, the BIG day, I woke early and began my in-depth research via Google.  The center’s webpage, www.puppetmagic.com , introduced me to Steve Meltzer, Puppet Master, maker, owner and friend.  Normally open-minded, I had to focus on my un-biased data collection (fighting off labels such as; pervert, weirdass, loser, puppet-lover).  I invited a few girlfriends to join me but they all graciously declined (their loss!).  This was probably for the best since I was on a job, after all.

I walked the sunny four blocks and was surprised to see a line of people outside the door.  For some reason I had assumed I might be the only patron or that there’d be no more than three or four of us.  The line had at least 8 people: a few grandparents with their grandchildren, a mom and dad with an unfortunate looking child, and a girl who appeared to be around my age.  What the hell was a twenty-something doing by herself at a puppet show on a Saturday day (we were so close to the beach)?   Maybe she was on assignment as well… competition, bring it skank.  The door opened and the excitement I experienced was nothing short of a Christmas morning.  Tickets were only seven dollars to my surprise.  Steve, the puppet master (whom I recognized from the photos and website) stood behind the ticket counter and asked me if I was meeting a friend.  Nope, just taking in a mid-day puppet show solo, but thanks.  I looked around and was overwhelmed with puppet décor.  Framed photos of puppets and puppet masters lined the walls.  Puppets in un-opened packages were mounted next to antique characters on strings.  The room to the right was packed with puppet paraphernalia and I was slightly frightened.  Where was I?  What did I just willingly pay money to see?  He opened a velvet curtain and we were all ushered in the theatre. The stadium seating was impressive and it appeared that maximum capacity was twenty or so.  I took a seat in the back row and took out my yellow legal pad and pen.  I began jotting down detailed descriptions of my surroundings.  I looked to the right and saw that a middle-aged woman had joined the young twenty-something.  I suddenly felt alone.  Some of the other audience members peered up at me scribbling on my paper.  I ignored them and sat upright with journalistic pride.

The puppet master introduced himself and made a small political joke, which impressed us adults.  The main puppet, used ventriloquist style, was Freddy Mingo.  He led the group on a few songs.  The music in the show was previously recorded and featured the voice of Steve Meltzer, puppet master.  After Freddy, Steve danced a few string puppets on the stage to the delight of the children.  I found myself singing along to “On Top of Spaghetti,” with vigor.  I loved puppets!  I was reminded of my childhood days watching “LambChops.” My only real criticism was the husky voice used for the girl puppets giving the audience the impression these “ladies” on strings had smoked most of their lives and quite possibly had a hormonal imbalance. The show ended after about forty-five minutes, which was perfect for the small attention span of children.  Post-show he unveiled the “workshop” (a small corner of the theatre with puppet body parts strewn about…slightly disturbing) and a giant animatronics puppet that he turned on and made sing for us all.

I heard an elderly couple tell their grandchild that they’d come back in a few weeks.  I held my notepad and continued to take notes.  Steve watched me with curiosity.  I felt powerful.  Finally everyone began to clear out.  Steve turned to me and asked, “I hope you’re not auditing me.”  Haha, oh Steve…

“Heeheeheee Who me? No, just writing a little piece on your setup here,” I replied.

“Oh really?  What are you writing it for?  What publication?”  He asked, smiling. 

This is when I lied.  “The Santa Monica Daily Press.” Well, it wasn’t exactly a lie because I had every intention of getting my story published in there. 

“Oh fantastic, you guys have always been so good to me. Please come have a seat.”

I couldn’t believe this!  I, Leah Josephson, was going to have a one on one interview with the puppet master himself! 

“Let me give you your money back, I never make press pay.”

“No, no, I want to contribute,” I said guiltily.  I began to ask him questions pre-rehearsed from earlier in the day.  We discussed his beginnings, the love he immediately felt for puppetry, his struggle to make a living from it, all of the festivals he had appeared in and the current recession setbacks.  He told me of old puppet legends he had met and worked with (including LampChop’s lady).  He told me, off the record, about just how hard the economy was on the show (which I won’t get into in order to respect his off the record wishes).  The shows were still drawing a crowd but his main source of income was school performances and this year all of the schools cut out their entertainment funds.  He told me to make sure to include this in my article so everyone could be aware of just how critical school funding is. 

Before I left he gifted me a DVD of the show and asked when the article was set to appear.  I told him it was completely up to the editor (liar, liar pants on fire). 

I was filled with adrenaline from my puppet journalism experience and called my nana to tell her that I was the next Barbara Walters (minus the lisp). 

The next week I kept trying to write the article.  I would start and then get stuck.  I sat there at my office and in between clients I’d write a sentence or two, only to read it back and delete it.  I sent the DVD to my nephew.  I began to panic.  Who was I kidding?  I couldn’t write a full feature article that would be good enough to be published, especially by the Santa Monica Daily Press.  And poor Steve! I had duped him.  He’d be waiting and waiting, picking up the paper and searching desperately for our in-depth interview.  Maybe he’d call the paper and ask for Leah and they would say, “I’m sorry we have no such writer here.”  Maybe he would cry.  Maybe he would slam his fist down and lament all his woes to his puppets.  I felt terrible but it was done, I couldn’t write it, I was a puppet journalist failure.

A month later I walked past the puppet center and read the notice on the door, “Puppetolio CLOSED.”  I crept away from the door, shaking my head.  Closed?  It wasn’t possible.  I immediately checked their website after I got home and there it was, “PUPPETOLIO IS CLOSED.  We thank all of our friends for their support over the years.  Unfortunately the economy and other factors has made it necessary to close the Santa Monica Puppetry Center and Museum.” 

“Other factors?”  Like lying, fake journalists!?  I had ruined the puppet center! I had ruined Steve’s life!  I wanted to write a large check out to him and give him back his life and dreams… but I had no money. 

I kill puppets.  So, now I carry this burden on my back.  Like a camel with humps I traverse this desolate world secretly crying out, “I’m sorry Steve, please forgive me.”  A scarlet letter burns on my chest.  And so this blog now serves as a sort of repentance.

Puppetolio lives on! here in my blog, and here in my heart.  

Final Show *(image from official website)

Rambles on a Tuesday December 1, 2009

I pick up a copy of “Pen on Fire, a busy woman’s guide to igniting the writer within.”  Well, this book isn’t for me now is it!  Where is the book titled, “Mac book on fire, a lazy too-much-time-on-her-hands woman’s guide to igniting the writer within?

 “This is crap,” I announce to my mother as she is steeped over the stove.  I am skimming the first chapter of the book and I read aloud the following inspirational paragraph:

 “Spectators don’t win fights and the one fighting technique I have not seen fail yet is to just keep getting up.  People shouldn’t be discouraged, because they can go from everybody saying that they would never be published and all of a sudden the wall’s down, not from any one punch but from the accumulated weight of all the punches…”

“I’m not a puncher!” I say out loud.

My mother clicks her tongue and smiles at me, “No fancy, you’re not.  You’re more like a whiner.”

“Maybe I’m a slapper,” I venture.

“No, sweetie.  You’d be like this, ‘Heeeey, there’s a wall here.  Not fair! Shit. Stupid wall.  Nooooo. Hhhmm what’s on tv?” 

We both laugh.  “Face it baby girl, we’re giver uppers.”

As I sigh and smile up at her I am frustrated.  Why can’t I be a puncher? 

It was only a week ago that I lay on the small couch, feet dangling over the edge, watching Barbra Streisand Live in Concert on a Saturday night with my mom and her husband.  As I watched the band accompany her I was suddenly reminded of my days as first chair flute in eighth grade. 

“I could have been a professional fluter,” I declare to no one in particular.  And this gets me thinking about all of the things I could have done but didn’t.  Is there still hope?  At what point do dreams become past time shouldas and not future maybes?

I am comforted by the fact that writing is ageless without an expiration date.  Maybe I will find the discipline I need inside of my mature years?  Or maybe I simply need to learn how to be a puncher.

7 weeks and counting… November 18, 2009

I tried, I really did. But this whole back to school Masters thing is just going to have to a) be put on hold or b) enter the discard pile. It was a responsible and logical step at the time but after hours of studying, cold Minnesota nights in my basement room and that little glitch of a break up, I have redirected my near future to be a tad more me-friendly.  

Monkeys, big trees, poverty stricken children and equator-like climate?  Maybe I’ll like these things?  I guess I’ll find out in seven weeks.  I’m moving to Costa Rica in January.  I will be “working” (for free room and board) at the Sarapiqui Conserve Learning Center in the lowlands of the Rainforest. The six surrounding communities have elementary schools with poor english education and no high schools.  Most of them do not attend school past the sixth grade.  Because tourism is a very large working sector for the Ticos, (as they affectionately refer to themselves) English curriculum is important for their future career opportunities.  I will be leading classes for both students and the parents of students along with creating curriculum to be used for other teachers.  

the center is in the La Selva region.

 

 

While helping children is definitely a plus I am more excited to learn about the booming industry of eco-tourism. The Center hosts groups and individuals that come through to learn about the culture (through dance, cooking classes, story telling…) and then help with a community project (planting trees, restoring churches, making sidewalks…).  I am thinking I want to branch into that industry, but I will have to find out if I like it first!

It feels good to have travel on the life itinerary again.  Now it is simply time to save up as much money as I can until take off. My nana came over today with a stack of books from the library with titles such as, “Exploring Costa Rica,” and “Living Abroad in Costa Rica.”  Finally something to study that won’t bore me to tears. 

 

Theme Song November 12, 2009

Well, its been a while since my last blog.  As you will be able to tell from the video below I haven’t been up to much except trying to “find myself.”  

So here it is… a deeper look into the life of Leah. 

R.I.P Leah Jr. Barren for eternity?? October 8, 2009

Leah and (fill in the blank) plus 8

never gonna happen. 

Ok, technically I suppose that could happen since they used fertility drugs but it’s the principle of the matter that I am referring to; having babies, damnit.

Our professor looks out onto the young unsuspecting class (myself included) and announces that 1 out of every 4 women in the room will suffer from infertility.  I discreetly glance around for that 1 in my row. Aha, it’s most likely that redhead at the end with the leopard printed backpack, poor thing, but in this case it’s probably for the best.  I am still feeling bad for the barren cheetah co-ed when the professor proceeds to tell us that with our generation pushing back breeding so late we are experiencing infertility more than ever.  I nod my head in agreement.  Who are these crazy fifty somethings having babies anyway?  But, wait.  She isn’t referring to the crazy fifty somethings, no she is talking about the thirties… what, wait, did she say 31!?  Yes, apparently at the age of 31 women’s ability to become pregnant decreases by a staggering 50%.  I begin to panic and quickly look at my right hand to count my fingers.  Okay, 25 oh crap I’ll be 26 in January, okay, 27,28,29, 30, 31.  Oh my GOD!  FIVE FINGERS!? NOOOOOOOOOOO.  I then start to calculate the other variables;  2 more years for school puts me at 28, which only leaves me with 3 years to get my career going, say yes to a request of marriage, marry and set up the nursery! SHIT. 

Defeated, I look over at the infertile backpack girl and take a deep breath.  We now have become one in the same.   What have I been doing all these years?  Wasting precious baby making opportunities!  It’s too late now.  And I’m not ready! !  I could adopt later, older celebrities do that all the time.  But I think those babies are expensive, hhmm, I could just get more cats or maybe my brother and his wife could give me their kid, he’s cute and I like him. 

I now decide that this class is depressing and just plain mean. I already have a slight inkling that I am the oldest in this particular course (some of the freshman still have braces.)  It was only a few weeks ago that my ageist professor called me out, “Are there any of you who are 25 or older in the class?”  Not a single hand went up.  I was going to be honest and raise my hand, but that would have blown my cover… (as a hard-hitting blogger trying to understand the complexities of undergrad psychology?). She continued to inform us that our main capacity for learning stops by 25 so if we had some sort of genius it would have already developed.  Well great news for the 18 year olds surrounding me, but what about me!?  There’s ZERO chance of me becoming a genius??!!

I am at knowledge capacity, simply recycling my old tattered memory cells, and infertile (according to my 3 credit requirement).  I am thinking about how unfair the world is when I remember how hard that lady’s life was who ruled that south american country.  Crap, what was her name?  I think she grew up really poor and had to sleep her way to the top.  Oh yeah, it’s that Madonna movie.  Evita!  Yeah, life was hard on her, she didn’t have babies and she didn’t let it stop her from singing really good songs with Antonio Banderas and when she died a lot of people went to see her casket.  Yes, don’t cry for me minnesota… it could be worse I suppose.

Smitten with an Apple… October 4, 2009

I am smitten, a feeling/emotion/sensation I had forgotten but eagerly welcomed back. 

Being smitten is the best for several reasons;

1. It usually occurs unexpectedly

2. It makes you feel incredibly youthful, and

3. It reminds you of baby kittens, rainbows, pink-haired troll dolls, Klondike bars and everything else good in the world.

 

 

My first visit to New York was not this past July but the July before that (’08).  I was living in Spain and it commonly surprised people (usually the Europeans) that I hadn’t been to New York.  It was the “it” destination for them and apparently everyone else in the world.  The truth was I had never really had much interest in seeing the big apple.  Growing up I only had eyes for sun and surf, primarily that of California. Why did I want to see an angry overpopulated city with similarly frigid weather and obnoxious tourists?  The ocean wasn’t even warm or pretty there.  Oh and I HATE the Yankees. 

 

My first inkling that maybe New York wasn’t in fact all that bad was when I was living in London.  I loved London.  Although the weather sucked, the atmosphere, culture and people were fantastic.  It was an international hub, and I loved the pub (dr. seuss inspired).  I was aware that many people compared London to New York and therefore I decided maybe Lady Liberty’s hometown wasn’t sooo horrible. 

 

Back to July ‘08. -I liked New York just fine.  I spent four days there.  It was beautiful, sunny and fun.  I was visiting the boyfriend (who was there on business) and he flew in my mom for a day (who wouldn’t be happy??).  I think I was more enamored with being back in an American atmosphere (remember I was living in Spain) than the actual city.  I ate a hot dog from a cart, went dress shopping with my Mr. Big (Senor Grande?), saw a ballet at the MET and danced the nights away.   It was a lovely trip and New York was A Okay with me.

 

Skip forward to my second trip to New York.  This last January, for my birthday, SG and I had a romantic meeting.   I was only there for a day (I flew in Friday morning and left the following afternoon) and so it went by in a whirlwind.  We had dinner at the MET where we saw an opera and stayed at this beautiful hotel in front of Central Park.  It was wonderful, New York was cold.  A week or so after that trip I moved to California, where it was warm…

 

It’s fall time now and Minnesota has delivered her usual charm of robust oranges, golden reds and slightly colder than necessary wind gusts. With a quick change in plans I found myself flying to New York last weekend and…

 

The third time’s a charm! It’s official. I LOVE NEW YORK CITY.

 

The people, the streets, the food, the everything.  It had culture, it had history, it had character.  Suddenly all of those Sex and the City episodes made sense…  of course Carrie loved New York, of course Samantha didn’t last in LA.  I even fell in love with Brooklyn, well at least DUMBO area of Brooklyn (thank you arts festival).  Had I been on crack all of these years?? How had I ever thought badly of this paradise? It is as European as the States can get (could being a New Yorker be close enough to an Ameripean?). 

 

 

I have two years (according to the University of MN) to decide if New York is my gold at the end of the rainbow.  I have dreams of living off cart food and loitering in used book stores with over-priced coffee in hand.

 

 

Who knows, maybe I’ll get my own sex column and be on the side of a bus.