Literally Leah

sharing is caring, so I obviously care a lot.

If my boyfriend dressed me for a week…. May 19, 2011

Filed under: Fail,Men — The Under-Analyst @ 12:03 pm
Tags: , ,

So today is a busy day at work, as usual.   But mid facebook chat I noticed that I had a new email in my inbox!  How exciting.  The suspense was killing me… Was it one of my daily newsletters on how to tone my thighs and butt?  Maybe an update from Amazon on things I should buy but never will? Or possibly one of the twenty e-mails back and forth with my mother? 

Maybe, just maybe, it was something super important like my daily horoscope!   

I quickly brb’d my friend on fb and clicked to my other tab.  Oh, what a pleasant surprise, it was an email from my boyfriend. 

Subject line:  “i think we should try this”

Fear crept over me… I quickly did an over-the-shoulder glance around to make sure no one would see what could potentially get me fired.

To my relief it was a link to a yahoo article. 

http://shine.yahoo.com/channel/beauty/would-you-ever-let-your-guy-pick-out-your-clothes-i-did-for-a-week-2482587#photoViewer=9

I clicked.  What I discovered was a woman who allowed her boyfriend to pick out her outfits for a whole week.  It was entertaining and in his defense he actually did a pretty good job! 

***So I thought about it and wondered what my experience would be like if I tried this (as my boyfriend suggested).***

 
 
Day 1-  Apparently my boyfriend  has forgotten I work at a middle school and has picked out a small black dress with high heels and a push up bra.  
 
 
 
Day 2-  This skirt is WAY too short for work,  thank god I sit behind a desk most of the day.  The tank-top really makes it over the top skanky but at least he gave me a blazer to look “professional.”
 
 
 
Day 3- This is lingerie!  NOT CLOTHES.  No dear, the scarf doesn’t make it trendy.
 
 
 
Day 4-  I have been fired.  Thank you for the  sweatpants and  oversized t-shirt so I can cry on the couch all day.  
 
 
Day 5- My highschool cheerleading uniform?!   Please dress me more appropriately so I can leave the house to run errands and look for a new job.  PLEASE.
 
 
 
Day 6- NO, I will not wear the slutty Halloween pumpkin outfit to dinner with your parents.  NO.  I don’t care if the place we’re going to is informal! Besides I really can’t walk in those heels, no seriously, I can’t.
 
 
 
Day 7– My swimsuit?  Really?!  The boots do NOT tone it down.  What the hell is wrong with you? This is not Farmer’s Market appropriate. Oh you think a belt would do the trick?  I can’t even look at you right now…
 
 
 
Day 8–  My boyfriend and I have broken up…
 

2011, Hello to a Better Me! (fingers crossed) January 6, 2011

Filed under: Fail,Identity — The Under-Analyst @ 5:14 pm
Tags: , , , ,

Happy New Year!

Wow, time flies, has it really been 11 years since our Y2K scare?  Is it already time to confront last year’s lack of follow through?  Do I have to make more resolutions?  The pressure!

This year I took a moment to silently reflect on my Ghost of Resolutions Past.  As I sat, dully looking out my apartment window, I first became aware of my annual disillusionments of somehow becoming a new and better person.  No, I would not become an early riser and no I wouldn’t stop needlessly judging people.  Had I been setting my New Year goals at an altitude far beyond my reach? I pictured myself, a lean and tan rockclimber, without a crotch-harness, stretching for the next jagged rock ledge and falling to my death. What support had I asked for or provided myself with along the way?  I kept my resolutions a secret between me and my diary and anyone who would listen. It’s quite the let down that written pages do not keep you accountable, umm besides legal documents used in court.   Discouraged I still would not subscribe to the notion that resolutions weren’t worth making.  I still had hope that maybe this year it’d be different.  I decided to do some research, an arsenal of facts to guide this year’s optimistic objectives.

I discovered;

A)      I had a history of making highly unattainable resolutions:

1996, “I will meet J.T.T. and he’ll fall in love with me!” – FAIL

1999, “I will grow boobs!” – FAIL

2001, “I will not get grounded all year!”- FAIL

2004, “I’ll study harder and get better grades!” – FAIL

2006, “I’ll drink less and stop spending so much money on going out!” – FAIL

2008, “I’ll become fluent in Spanish!” – FAIL

Last year’s resolution was “I will get published!”  Considering I didn’t really write anything I’d say that was a fail, unless you count the fact that some obscure online magazine in Belgium published one of my blogs! 

B)      Wikipedia states, “ Recent research shows that while 52% of participants in a resolution study were confident of success with their goals, only 12% actually achieved their goals. A separate study in 2007 by Richard Wisemen from the University of Bristol showed that 78% of those who set New Year resolutions fail, and those who succeed have 5 traits in common.[3] Men achieved their goal 22% more often when they engaged in goal setting, (a system where small measurable goals are being set; such as, a pound a week, instead of saying “lose weight”), while women succeeded 10% more when they made their goals public and got support from their friends.”[

Well clearly I knew what I had to do.  Create realistic goals and find someone to help keep me accountable.  By writing this blog I have already enlisted readers in aiding my quest to be a better person in 2011. Now it was time to come up with a resolution.  But how to choose!?  I began my list… and then it dawned on me, like cuddly kittens maybe the more goals the merrier!  I’d make a list of 15 resolutions and only have to actually fulfill 5! And every one after that would just be evidence of how amazing I truly am in 2011!  This would be the best year of resolutions ever!

This 2011 I will:

1)      Help the animals at my local shelter

2)      Read more

3)      Send my niece and nephew more cards/post cards/letters/things

4)      Meet and befriend a true Native American

5)      Take a writing class

6)      Go to yoga at least once a week (vacations excluded)

7)      See more foreign films

8)      Make more money (U.S. Currency)

9)      Travel somewhere new

10)   Do my laundry before running out of clean underwear (this should be someone else’s resolution too, you know who you are!)

11)   Get to know my neighbors

12)   Drink more water

13)   Pay parking tickets on time

14)   Complete the 30 day shred!

15)   Go to the dentist

Feel free to share your resolutions with me… I will be your harness.

 

Letter of Complaint August 2, 2010

Filed under: Fail,Jobs — The Under-Analyst @ 1:38 pm
Tags: , , , , ,

Dear Craig,

I pride myself in being a woman of the community thus my deep affection for your website, Craigslist.org.  As evidence of my good character, please note that I can provide 828 personal references (see facebook profile).  I was extremely excited to contribute an opportunity of a lifetime on your website last week.  You can imagine my horror when not once but twice my posting was flagged and consequently removed only minutes after publishing.  One would assume I had posted pornographic material or something equally as offensive but I assure you my ad was indeed tasteful if not charitable. It is not often that people, in this faltering society, offer up free professional guidance and experience.  I was doing this.  In return I was met with hostility and dismissal.  By removing my post you are only hurting those seeking a better life and better resume.  I will not give up, Craig.  I owe it to my community.  Please stop flagging and removing the following ad:

Personal Assistant Opportunity of a Lifetime!!! (Westside, Brentwood, Santa Monica)


Date: 2010-07-30, 8:49AM PDT
Reply to: gigs-r5ssk-1871558390@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]


 

Looking for someone who has ZERO experience as a personal assistant. I am a non-professional who is here to help mold you and give you purpose in life. This will be EXCELLENT work experience on your resume for future employment. Must have car to run errands for me because I don’t trust you with mine, obviously. Also, must have phone so I can text you and call you at ALL hours of the day (you’re kind of like a doctor). You don’t have to speak English or even be a legal citizen (hablo espanol). Creative types wanted, especially if you can draw caricatures of me and my friends.  

Duties include (but are not limited to):

-Trips to Mc. Donald’s to get me a mid-day work snack or maybe a mid-night post bar snack (I will provide you with an item from the dollar menu).
-Frequent visits to the grocery/liquor store.
-Bar/Restaurant drop off and pick-ups, including my friends.
-Searching alleys for free furniture and fine art.
-Brushing the tangles from my hair.
-Following me with a clipboard in front of my friends so I look important.

This could be considered an internship, so if you’re a student I can give you credit.

You don’t need a resume. Just a picture and your horoscope sign.

*will consider providing gas money

Sincerely,

Leah

 

Stop Showing Off Your Privates and NO Stealing… Early Life Lessons. July 27, 2010

Last week I witnessed two teenage girls being arrested outside of Urban Outfitters for shoplifting.  I had assumed stealing went out of style during the late 90’s but obviously I was mistaken (how do they get those ink tags off??).  I wanted to tell these two ruffians that they could have easily avoided this little altercation by visiting their local thrift store where they could find identical outfits for five dollars (if they don’t mind the perfumed medley of peanut butter, meat and urine).   Far too many of my friends had fallen victim to the lure of potentially free clothes via the five finger discount during their teen years resulting in indefinite grouding and community service.  Hope those flared Jincos were worth it ladies. But I was above all that, clearly gifted with superior moral etiquette!   In reality I had simply learned my lesson at a much earlier age.

My first run-in with the law,   by Leah Josephson

-Living in the apartment on Pine Street ended up being a huge turning point in my life. Our complex and the surrounding low-income buildings were filled with what I like to call, Landfill Children. There was cleft-lip Aaron, who was in my then 2nd grade class, his older brother Corey, the Bopsy twins (can’t remember their names but I got caught eating their ice cream and playing with their Barbies when no one was home… their parents found me hiding in the closet, oops?), Slutty Jerine and finally the Fussys.  Yeah their last name was Fussy. The Fussy kids acted like the Boxcar Children on meth, similar to retarded bean plants watered with vodka.  Beyond continually wearing their shoes on the wrong feet, they all donned the same haircut as their lumpy single mother, a mullet. I played with my new friends every chance I got and was rarely bored, a perfect distraction from the growing tension between my mom and dad #2.  During this social blossoming I even joined our local Girl Scout’s chapter, only to quit two weeks later when I discovered all we did was bake crap and visit smelly old people. 

I quickly became best friends with Slutty Jerine because she wore training bras and taught me how to spider swing.  Jerine’s mom was a single chain smoking blonde with a newborn baby and an unhealthy addiction to Cinemax.  It was thanks to her that I saw my first graphic gangbang scene late one night while sleeping over.  Little Red Riding Slut was bossy and often forced me to do things I wasn’t sure about.  She told me that she didn’t have to pay for things, all she’d do is take them.  “My mom doesn’t even care!” She shouted.  Big surprise.  “Like what?” I asked.  “Lipstick, candy, toys, beef jerky.  Anything I want.” Well clearly at the age of 8 I had an extensive toy wish-list and was easily convinced that a trip to Main Street was in order.  We grabbed a couple duffel bags, mounted our Huffys and headed to Coburn’s, the local grocery/everything store in our small town (roughly the size of a hamster’s butthole).  I clearly remember shoving every Barbie down aisle 6 into my very own Santa Sack, along with a pack of Sour Grape Gushers.  My bag was too full to zip and Dentist Barbie stood completely exposed as we waddled out the front doors.  While riding our bikes back towards our white trash projects I turned to Jerine, “Wait… Where can we put this stuff!?  I can’t bring it home, my mom will ask me questions and there’s not enough room under my bed to hide it.”  SJ thought for a moment and then suggested we find a special spot in the woods, our very own secret fort to keep the stash.  At the edge of the woods one of my brother’s friends approached us on his 10 speed and asked us what was in our bags.  I immediately started to cry.  “Oh shut the fuck up Leah!” Screamed Jerine.  She gave the boy a smirk and confidently said, “ It’s our homework thank you very much and she just got stung by a bee which explains her sudden and stupid outburst.”  I sniffed and nodded in agreement and then grabbed my right arm squeaking, “damn bee.”  I had started experimenting with swearing after smoking used cigarette butts that Cleft-lip Aaron and Corey gave us weeks ago. So far my favorite words were “asshole” and “bitch”.  The boy eyed us warily and then rode off towards the park.  Minutes later Slutty Jerine and I were seated under big Oaks and comparing our steals.  I opened a pack of Gushers and decided I had found my new passion in life. I was basically a Robin Hood! I had just popped another fruit snack in my mouth when my brother came charging in, crushing twigs and branches underfoot.  His dipshit friend had followed us, seen our inventory and then had gone back to tattle, “Get home now!  You’re in SO much trouble! They called the cops on you two,” my rat-tailed brother yelled.  The cops?  Oh my god.  I was going to Prison!  I cried the whole way home as my brother explained to me that I’d probably get sentenced to life and maybe get the death penalty.  He kept asking me if I preferred getting electrocuted to death or being hung. 

When I got home my mom’s face was frozen in a mix of curiosity and terror.  I was told to sit on the sofa.  I took this moment to pray to the baby Jesus.  I heard laughs coming from the kitchen and an extremely tall officer bent down over my trembling body. “Leah, it’s Leah right?  Ok, I’m officer blahblahblah, don’t cry, it’s okay.  I need to have a little talk with you.”  I briefly stopped crying and pulled my stretch pants out of my ass.  “Do you know what stealing is?” Well duh, I’m not an idiot… or wait, maybe I was! Of course, that was the answer, playing dumb was surely the best route.  I shook my head no.  He then went on to describe the value of money and how we all need to work for money.  When he finished he handed me a cherry Blowpop and told me to “be a good girl now.”  No handcuffs?  A sucker?  I was almost smiling except my mom was still watching and I knew better.  After the cop left, my mom informed me that my loot had been recovered and I needed to personally apologize to the manager of Coburn’s and pay for the Gushers I opened.  I did both of these things.  The manger wasn’t as nice as the easily duped cop.  Mr. Coburn banned me from the store for a year.  The only effing grocery store in town! 

From then on I had to sit in the car (remember that Minnesota winters are fatal!) and wait while my mom and brother shopped.  They always gave the kids fresh cookies at the checkout lane and without fail my brother, upon returning to our 2 door rusted hatchback, would offer me part of his cookie and as I’d eagerly say yes, mouth watering, he’d lick it all over and say, “oops” and shove it down his throat.  I credit my selfish brother for truly teaching me the valuable lesson of not stealing, had I been given cookies that year I might have decided shoplifting resulted in sugary treats and frostbite, not a terrible combination.   As for Slutty Jerine, her mom didn’t care.  I was no longer allowed to play with the Whorey Hoarder without parental supervision. – The End

Concluding Thoughts:

I’ve been thinking that maybe I should share my story, assembly style, to grade-schoolers nationwide. My schools always had inspirational guest speakers… just say’n.

 

Recession Woes and a Puppet Killer December 14, 2009

Filed under: Fail,Jobs,Magic,Recreational Activity — The Under-Analyst @ 4:48 pm
Tags: , , , ,

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)

 

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

Filed under: Fail,Identity — The Under-Analyst @ 8:11 pm
Tags: , ,

Leah and (fill in the blank) plus 8jonandkate

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. old-lady-with-baby-cut 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.