Richard Simmons Walks it Out

Work it out...

My obsession with working out at the gym started at a late age. It happened somewhere between my numerous years at attempting to pass algebra in community college and then finally soaring my wings to the big state college. Being a late-college-bloomer I flew under the radar with my ability to blend with the youngsters while still being the only one old enough to buy beer and rent a car. After numerous attempts of passing algebra with no avail I had plenty of elective classes that I needed to take to occupy my time. Unfortunately they only teach Hip Hop Dance Class I, II, and III and my tenure there did not last long.

"Hey YOU...in the back!" the teacher yells.

(No response)

"Hey YOU white girl!"

I look around like I don't already know I am the only Caucasian in the room.

"Yeah!?" I pant trying to execute the Bobby Brown and Boyz to Men crossover-combo without hitting my peers.

"Go furrrther back..."

Further back? Like outside the class?? What does she mean??

I go for the reverse running man, like I this was part of my master dance-off plan. I knock one unsuspecting dancer off her feet and in turn manage to throw the remaining row of dancers into a four person pile up. Just like dominoes; it really was freakish how they fell on cue.

"Some people are just more challenged" she explains after class as I ice my throbbing ankle "their hearts are in it but their feet just aren't. Maybe a different work out class would be better suited for you...."

Did I really get "asked" to leave Hip Hop class? Who does this happen to?? What do I tell my parents??

Needless to say my aspirations of becoming a "In Living Color Fly Girl" were stomped out before I even could implement my cabbage patch move for the semester's final. So wrong.

What does a washed-up-wannabee-Fly-Girl do for a community college elective if she was politely, but firmly, asked NEVER to come back to class? Well... join Gym 101 with all the other "challenged" students of course.

Single handedly the best political move I could have ever done in my community college career. Apparently there was an overflow from the badminton and bowling team and I now rested at cream of the crop in this class. I became the leader of all people that were cut from teams or asked to leave classes deemed too challenging. The overweight girl that could not hang in the swim class heard from the guy that was too small for the football team that I could whip any one into shape. I became the new age Richard Simmons or the lady from Fame that tapped the cane counting "5-6...5-6-7-8....!". A blond pony tail and pink bandanna with a mission: to bring satisfaction to every exiled second rate, no-rhythm, overweight student in all of community college. Looking back I am not even certain that the teacher was present. If he/she was I am sure they were jumping on the Sadowski-Jazzercise-Bring-It-On-Train; it's the stuff legends are made of after all.

I moved on to State College from my long attendance at community college. I was now a small fish in a big pond. I had to find my niche. Kids here were much more strong minded not to mention good looking. My acquiring followers would be much more difficult. I went to Plan B: join a gym--a "real" gym.

I find out quickly that regular gym goers are a unique breed. They can actually be considered mentally unstable in some circles but it is usually not good to cross someone that is leaner, stronger, and boasts biceps bigger than your head. I tried to hang out in all the different gym crowds.

First there was the early morning water aerobics with the retired ladies. I was easily the youngest by 40 years. Before you start thinking these are nice little grandmas that will bring you cookies and milk I have two words for you: hard core. Not exactly welcoming me with open arms this group means business.

"Alright ladies now lets kick those legs up on the pool deck and give me 75 sit ups!" the Nazi-instructor belts out. Instantly women in their 80s are throwing both legs up on the deck. Before I even have a chance to contemplate how to actually maneuver into this position they have taken over the whole side of the pool and are counting in some crazed militant fashion.

I sideways look at my nemesis Grandma Moses and wonder if she is actually going to let me participate in the "fun" this time. From day one this woman has been nothing but a thorn in my side.

"Ummm..." I say quietly "Do you think I can squeeze in here...?" I point at the one foot of space left.

"29...30...31" Moses' drill Sergeant voice echoes throughout the pool as she belts out her sit ups.

"Ummmm...."I start again but this time try to politely position myself next to her--you know-- hold my ground.

"You are TOO BIG! You won't fit!" She yells just loud enough so I am sure the basketball players outside can hear.

Did she just call me fat?

"TOOOOO BIG! Taken--this area is taaaaaken".

No way. What is she 12 years old? Not this time Mama Moses, I decide. I will show her. I push my way in not caring what casualties I take with me. Two can play this game. I start to flip my legs up on the deck and she throws an elbow. I counter her elbow with a jab to her ribs.

"Owwww---she HIT ME! My RIBS!!!" She screeches across the pool. Oh great. I actually feel bad and go to help her get back to standing position and she throws another elbow; this time with more conviction. In the struggle I decide to let go of her flailing body and let her calm down. This situation is out of hand. She sinks to the bottom of the pool while holding her side.

Oh my dear goodness, I think to myself, my membership dues are so going up.....

The instructor dives dramatically into the pool and proceeds to pull Grandma Moses up from what I think is the brink of death.

"Are you OK??" I ask once I see she is in fact conscious.

"She tried to KILL ME!" she wags her finger my direction "I told her she was too big and she didn't listen so she tried to KILL ME!"

Seriously? Kill is such a strong word.

"You threw the first elbow!" I yell back. The whole entire swim class is now mad-dogging me. I think I even heard some booing and hissing but it was hard to tell over Mama Moses' screams.

I look to the crowd for someone to defend my honor. Everyone knows that Mama Moses is a tyrant. Somebody has got to see that Moses is not some feeble grandma--she is just a wrinkly bully that preys on newcomers.

"That's it Sadowski! You are out of here!" the instructor/wannabee umpire points at the door.

"Wha....? SHE STARTED IT!". More disapproving looks from the crowd. No one will even make eye contact with me.

"Really??? You know my grandma has a bad hip you want to stop by later and push her down too?" the instructor sneers at me.

So uncalled for.

I slowly get out of the pool. Conveniently my towel is missing and I get to do the walk of shame shivering all the way to the locker room. I look back one last time to see if I have any supporters. I even think about shouting 'who's with me???' but I figure my efforts are futile.

One last look at the evil Mama Moses who claims I injured her and for a split second I see her smirk as she does a perfect breast stroke across the pool. I feel like applauding and shouting "...and the Oscar goes to MEAN MAMA MOSES!" but think about the potentially raised membership dues and the whole legal suit and decide to let it go.
Who gets run out of water aerobics by an 80 year old? It is so wrong. On so many levels.

My second attempt at acceptance went down shortly thereafter in the bad neighborhood of the gym; the weight lifting area. The bad neighborhood, otherwise known as the prison yard, requires each member have full-sleeves of tattoos and be able to grunt louder than anyone else so everyone knows you are the strongest kid in the yard.

I walk past the man adoring his pecs in the mirror. He love his pecs and it is apparent in the way that he talks to them "ohhhh yeah.. you are sooo good". The key is to not make eye contact. Eye contact will imply that you too think his pecs are the best thing since the 10 protein shakes he downed this morning.

I pass the man lifting 400 times his body weight and his spotter. The spotter makes me blush with his dirty talk to the man.

"Ohhhh yeah baby. You got it. Just one more. You got it baby--you got it baby. Ooooh yeah!' he chants. The machinist is grunting so loud that I actually think that the large vein popping out of his neck is going to start its own zip code.

How is this acceptable?

I reach for the 10 pound weights all the while wondering who decided that increments of 10 is the way to go? Where is the love for the three pounders? A man named Sly feels that it is his life's mission to tell me everything I am doing wrong.

"You know you are cheating.." he shouts over the Tupac blaring in the background and the clanking of weights.

Cheating? How is it cheating if I am sweating and have lost mobility in my chicken winged arm
"You are cheating your body of what it needs. Your body craves proper lifting...here I will show you how it is done..." he picks up a hundred pound weight like it is a three pounder. This was the start of a complex relationship. I appease Sly and follow his genius level weight lifting advice for weeks. He knows weights-- his body boasts the biggest biceps in the yard. He convinces me that my body is a temple and the only way to absolution is to be the biggest meat head. I envision me going back to the swim class and giving Mama Moses a run for her money. My arms are freakishly manly and I actually put on a dress shirt that I can't get my pythons through without feeling like The Hulk. I frequent words like "shredded", "cut" and ask people if they need tickets to "the gun show" and actually think it is gets more funny every time I say it. Unfortunately the Mr. Miyagi-Daniel San relationship came to a screeching halt the day I was leaving the gym and I see Sly taking a Marlboro break in between sets. After all the bonding we had been through? All the times we grunted and rooted each other on! His eyes averted and he avoided eye contact the same way Zsa Zsa Gabor might if you caught her giving marriage advice. I never have returned to the prison yard feeling I was socked in the rock hard abs by hypocritical Sly. It's still too soon; the pain is too fresh.

Unable to find my niche in the gym world I decide to at least reap the benefits of the amenities. I like to hang out in the sauna and steam room and see what the bizarre under achievers are doing. You know the type. The person that sits in the sauna and calls it a work out? At my gym this is the Sun-Lee dynasty. I am not sure but I am pretty certain this pack of mothers, sisters, grandmothers, and distant cousins bypass the rows of machines and the swimming pool only to set up shop in the sauna and steam room. Their leader, Min Sun Lee, operates the steam. You aren't melting enough? No worries--she turns it up 40 more degrees and then gives you hot tea and 5 reasons why you should thank her. They brag about their steam room stamina--or at least if I spoke their native tongue I think this is what they would talk about. They grunt often and have no regard for being naked. Their idea of personal space totally differs from my idea of personal space. I have perfected staring at the ceiling and wearing two towels to cover myself since Min has been known to rip the towels off of new comers.

"You sit! Drink Tea!" she will say to newcomers all the while she rips the towel off of your body and throws it out of the room "Heat takes away all evil".

It's kind of a two-for-one deal: inspiration AND 15 pounds of lost water weight.

I tease but I have really grown to love the simplicities of my fellow gym goers. I love their costumes too. Like the martial arts guy with the shirt that says "Judo-n't know who you is messing with" or the big galoot in the corner with the shirt that says "I lift heavy things". This is pure enlightenment.

Overall I have lightened up on the judging of this eclectic bunch. I still love to run, lift weights, and be a gym rat. I am just not as concerned as "finding that niche" or following I was so concentrated on before. I am more comfortable in my skin than I have been in years and will still sweat to the oldies with the gym crew any day of the week. I even was lucky enough to have found my niche in the bizarre world of racquetball and have said good riddance to the Mama Moses', Slys and Sun-Lee dynasties of the world. Oh don't get me wrong; I do get to see them all from time-to-time..... usually when Grandma Moses and The Girls are waiting for me at my car to finish up some unfinished business.

xoxo

lms

Well, Hello Officer

I seem to have a magnet attached to my car that attracts the police. This has been a problem for some time. Before it was the parking officials in their three-wheeled-death traps; as of late I have upgraded to full-blown officers and have said goodbye to the glorified parking attendants.

When people ride with me they have one question for me:

"Are you serious right now??"

Right now? As opposed to the last 20 miles we just blew through? I boast some of the best back-seat drivers in my car. There is my father, bless is soul, that needs to tell me exactly to date the cost of each ticket violation I just risked getting.

"You know the lowest ticket in Minnesota as of January 28, 2008?? Doooo you??" my Dad shouts at me as he holds on to the dashboard.

"No, but I am sure you are going to tell me..."

"$175.24!"

"Whew, 24 cents?... at least this state doesn't round up" I say under my breath.

"They give tickets for sass mouths too Missy. You betcha you will be sitting in a cell with Big Betty again if you keep running your mouth that way...".

Somehow my hard of hearing-near deaf Dad is never hard of hearing enough to hear my mumble on my breath. I don't get it. Is it some kind of Dad gene I don't know about?

One tragic misunderstanding under the legal name: "vehicular public nuisance" which resulted in me being put with orange jumpsuits and this man will never let it die. Big Betty was pretty friendly actually at least once I agreed to that date at the VFW. We have a few years before we cross that bridge. Actually 7-10 years but I am sure we will reconnect someday.

There is also the passenger that prays a lot.

"Oh sweet Jesus...can you put your mascara on later??"

"Mommmmm....you see this knee? This knee can steer through anything in the 6 o'clock position. Now hold on...."

I have come to the conclusion that the recent all-time-high traffic jams have forced us into multi-tasking. Years of practice has gotten me to a pretty prestigious title according to my insurance company: 2009 Multi-Tasking Driver of the Year.

Now it is illegal to drive without a blue tooth and I praise the person that made this a California law; now I have one more hand free to, eat, wrap a gift and check my emails on my lap top. These people are genius. They have even taken it a step further with taking away the freedom of texting and driving. Even better; I have a Blackberry specializes in emails not texts.

"Ms. Sadawowowowski...you know that it is illegal to text and drive..." the officer is looking down at me through his Poncharella reflective sunglasses.

"Oh no worries Officer... I was just emailing!"

"You can't do that either Miss...."

"Realllllly?" I am dumbfound. Like he just told me that the world was round "Well offffficer..." (cue the tears) "I can't afford a ticket I was just let go from my job...."

"Wellllll...." He starts in slow like this ticket is going to require a payment plan; this is the mother of all tickets, "the first ticket is $20....then it goes up to $50....."

"Really???" I actually start to smile. Only $20??? I think to myself, "Sweet!" I chirp as I continue to finish my email in front of the officer. I even think about telling him that I thought it was $175.24 but I figure I shouldn't give him any ideas.

"YOU CAN'T TEXT IN FRONT OF ME!" the officer is outraged by my blatant disregard of his fancy-pantsy law talk.

"Officer, it is jussssst an email...."

"Ms. Sadawaowwowowoski please step out of the car...."

Dammit.

_______________________________________________________________

The one thing about the men in blue is that they are so full of information you didn't even know.

"Ms. Sadapowwwshi (really? How hard is the last name?) you have no front license plate. It's illegal in the State of California to be without a front license plate..." he drones on.

"Oh yah--that stinking thing? Well the DMV only sent me one. Thanks!" I say as if our meeting is over and I am going to drive away into La-La-Land.

"The DMV only gave you one??" He says in disbelief.

"Uh-huh." I nod looking up at him with big convincing eyes "They sent me one. I called to ask if they could send me another but they just put me on hold. They should really look into some more operators at the DMV or at least some music for the eternal hold situation...that was three years ago and no way am I gonna keep calling...."

Kill them with babble. Works every time.

Apparently not this time. There are now three officers circling my car like hungry vultures. I think they are all related to Big Betty--at least one of them resembles her to a "T"; must be her brother. The officers hover around my back license plate.

"Miss, please step out of the car..."

Crap.

I join the Betty relatives behind the car.

"Miss, you have TWO license stuck together" he yells at me.

I step back, bring two hands straight back and push his shoulders back in disbelief. "Shut the front door!!! I been driving this for years...! Holy Crap!" I yell at him.

I pat him on the back in a kind of way that says: 'thanks man you are the best..' I start to walk back to my car. Wow those boys in blue sure are smart, I think, as I start to get back into my car.

The officer calls out from behind me"Uhhh...Miss we have some paperwork for you here to sign...".

Seriously? Whatever happened to a warning?

_________________________________________________________________

The most amazing part of being pulled over is that they always ask you what you were doing wrong.

'Well officer I totally rolled that stop sign while doing 50 in a 30 zone. Oh and did you catch that I ran that pedestrian crossing about a quarter of a mile back? Poor kids they sure were scared...'. I mean really--who does such a thing?

I instead have perfected the batting eyelashes, leaning-over, dumb-blonde-meets big strong cop-man bit. I would say that it is a 50-50 chance if it works but you bet I won't go down without trying.

"Welllll hellllo officer..." I say with a slight drawl leaning over while thinking how lucky I am with the outfit I chose for this pull over date. There is nothing this officer can do to resist my charm I think to myself.

"You passed me by there on 7th and Robinson and I couldn't tell if you were a man or a woman..." he starts out.

Did he just pull me over to tell me I looked like a man?

"Wow officer," I coo, "I have never heard that one before!" I figure this is his opening line, his foreplay, his dumb-blonde-meets-big-strong-cop fantasy.

The officer had pulled me over in a such a location that there was nowhere else but the sidewalk for him to ride his motorcycle up on the side of my car. It was very nice of him to leave the lights on, in front of the bank, the grocery store, the post office, and in the most highly trafficked pedestrian area in the neighborhood for the entire ordeal.

I nervously look around. I want to shout 'nothing to see here folks! Keep it moving!' but I too have fallen for the rubber necking, slow down, and stare at the poor soul scenario.

He thinks I didn't hear him so he shouts, "I SAID I DIDN'T KNOW IF YOU WERE A MAN OR A WOMAN!"

Apparently I am manly AND hard of hearing. Really Officer? I don't think that the people in the bank heard you. Maybe we should wait until that carry-out boy is done sacking his next order of groceries to take out. Better yet I think I see some school children at the next light sir; they look they are ready to get off that bus to see what is going on.

I stare blankly at him. What does one say to something like this?? I take inventory. Sundress, make-up, boobs...yep all there.

"I am sorry officer. I realllly don't understand"

He looks at me like he is amazed I don't know what he is talking about.

"Your windows! Damn things are so tinted I couldn't tell if you were a MAN OR A WOMAN"

"Seriously, is that necessary?" I say cynically while looking around. I swear I just saw someone take a phone-picture and talk into a recorder. What if this makes the news? Oh Jesus...paranoia sets in.

"Apparently you don't know the danger you are putting yourself into---not to mention the rest of the world..." he drones on.

I figure I am officially done with Officer Billy Bob Joe when he starts telling me a "little elbow grease and a razor blade will do the trick" when I tell him I can't afford a fix-it-ticket. Fortunately I am a buff man in his book. A buff man with a new shiny ticket.

Dammit.

I can say that in my years of running from the law things have definitely gotten stricter in recent days. They have taken away our texting, our talking, and every thing in between. Seems that it is not even easy being a girl (or in this case man), to cleavage-cry-your-way out of a ticket, or to play the poor-me-strong-you role. It doesn't mean that I won't try. For some reason when given the opportunity of getting out of the ticket all feminism is out the window--unfortunately in this case the windows were just too dark.

xoxo

lms

Do You Have The Time?

My issues with time or rather being on time started at birth. I boast being over two months overdue at birth.

Two months.

I wouldn't make this up. My mother reminds me of my birth weight and the congratulations and hand shakes she got from strangers for having me naturally. I was comfy. Don't rush me.

It continued on through grade school and high school with the infamous times of missing the bus.

"Leah Marie Sadowski so help me if you miss that bus..." my Mom would threaten and then insert some random phrase like: "...you will be late to your own wedding!"

Is that a bad thing?

The Time Denial Disease (TDD) worsened in the teen years since I was plagued with the earliest curfew ever known to man--10pm. The only thing on my side during this era was that cell phones were non-existent or for surely I would still be grounded. As if 18 years of groundings wasn't enough.

It's not that I try to be late or even that fact that I am not an early riser. I get up earlier than anyone I know. I just get distracted. Shiny things usually the culprit.

The fact is, according to my Mom, I developed at a slower rate. In college when they finally discovered my Dyslexia (yes college) they made my parents disclose my developmental years to the pseudo-college-doctors.

Doctor: Did your child begin talking at an early age?
Mom: Ohhh heck no. She didn't make a peep until 3. Kinda worried us there for awhile.

Doctor: Did your child begin walking at an early age?
Mom: Nope. Nothing. She just sat there. She was so darn heavy too. Carrying around that butterball is no easy task Mister. Did I tell you how much she weighed when she was born? Total strangers congratulated me..."

Doctor: Did your child progress in school slower than the other kids?
Mom: Oh Holy Hannah....well she is just our special little girl.


Seriously?

Perhaps I was scarred by the time-sensitivity of my father. Tapping his wrist standing by the door with keys dangling from his work-jeans like Schneider. When that didn't work he would just get in the car and start leaving; whether or not I was in the vehicle or not. I missed many of after school practices because of this behavior. Where did he go--did he go to my practice without me? This makes no sense.

"Daddddd, why do we have to be at the airport 6 hours early?"

"We have to get a good seat"

"But don't we already have our seat assignment?"

"You just stick with what you know"

What does that mean? 'Stick with what I know?' Well I know that we have seat assignments but since I was just running along the side of the car that has taken off without me I decide not to challenge him.

Better yet who gets to the movies, for a matinee, 2 hours early, for a Disney movie? Is there some mad mob of Disney-fanatics I have missed out on? I am pretty sure if the employees aren't clocked in yet we are pretty safe.

"We have to get the popcorn when it is fresh" my Dad would say.

I have no response except: "seriousssssly?"

I recommend to all those who are plagued with the Time Denial Disease to carry around a spare traffic ticket. Just wave it in the air when you waltz in an hour late for work. Don't mind that someone may want to look at it and may notice the 2004 year on it. You did get a ticket--why don't they get off your back?

"Oh you know those things are so hard to read. Damn parasites must be low on their quotas this month. I might be late next week. I am going to fight this thing all the way to the Superior Court!"

"When next week?"

"Oh you know..the whole week. These things can get awful sticky."

People with TDD don't mean any harm. The only thing worse than being late is being early. The only thing early people get is a scalding hot box of popcorn. You can never get that time back.

Friends and family may fume at the Sadowski Time but someday when the tick-tock finally kills me off they will realize that I am just a simple person marching to my own drum. Starting earlier, planning accordingly, not cramming too much into one day, will not make a difference. Sadowski Time is a fine tuned time that can not be reckoned with.

xoxo
lms

The Next Chapter

You may have noticed I have been writing more. You might have even been plagued by my tenacious spamming with my request to "Follow me" or "Digg Me" or come to "MySpace". Well lets just say misery loves company. Even more so misery loves a good chase-- even if I am the one requesting the chase....

I have set out on a quest; a quest to rule the world.

When that doesn't pan out the quest to own my own slice of the American Dream, otherwise know as my own advertising agency, will have to suffice.

Yes, taking the plunge has never been so nerve racking.

Advertising Agency? Recession? Oh sweet Jesus.

Fortunately, I have been "lucky" enough so far to have worked a very diverse portfolio of marketing and advertising jobs. After these jobs opening a business should be a piece of cake. My biggest claim to fame was working for the Persian Mafia, who at the time combined forces with The Italian Mafia, and had me hustling large amounts of cash throughout the downtown area to "promote events". Quitting that job instilled the fear in me being dubbed "Cement-Shoes-Sadowski" but I was fortunate enough to learn how to walk the streets with thousands of dollars in five and one dollar bills and not get jumped by the Lithuanian Mafia.

Who could say that working for that luxury real estate company wasn't a close second? I learned how to help my employer pawn a couple of sports cars when the market started going south and to always rush immediately to their bank to cash your check. No waiting, no dilly-dallying.

Cash the check. Unfortunately if you don't cash the check you end up calling the bank for 3 years, 7 months, and 27 days just in hopes that there is money in the account to cover the $5,000 check. Forget about calling the employer--he was last sighted in Columbia. If it is the last thing I do I will collect this money. It is sheer principle at this point.

"California Bank this is Joe.. how may I help you?"

"Heyyy Joe what's going on?"

"Oh hey Leah--yeah. Same ole-Same ole"

"How's the bank account looking today?"

"Hmmm---" keyboard sounds come from the other side of the phone"...yeah doesn't look like any activity still"

"Alriggght....any plans with you the wifey and kids this weekend?"

"Oh yeah heading to Disney Land with the kids. Can't wait to spend $5,000"

"Yeah...me too...."

Truly I have been fortunate enough to always land on my feet (no cement) and keep on trucking. I think that is why it is so hard for me right now to admit that if I don't start seeing the money start rolling in with the new venture I could be in some serious dire straights. I could create a world of trouble according to my accountant, The Grim Reaper, who told me I will start the next chapter of my life: Chapter 13.

I have gone through all the denial stages: crying, doubting, yelling, whimpering, shots of tequila.... but I am left feeling nothing. Although not defeated there is a certain sense of numbness that takes you over and you just can't ride the "Emo-Roller Coaster" any more. You have to stand up, brush yourself off and make the best out of what you have---which in this case is an Advertising Agency....

Fortunately there are always people that are looking to help a girl out, both monetarily and with "advice" in these turbulent recession times.

The man at 7-11 convenience store was nice of to tell me they were hiring today after I held up his long line of impatient customers to recount my pennies and nickles for that cherry slushy.

The gentleman at the gym that had me cornered while I was on the StairMaster told me all about how he knew everything and he wanted to tell me about his theory on advertising:

".....well its dead and ain't ever comin' back. People will never pay for that crap again..."

Sweet.

Talks of the recession are old, tiresome, and I just can't take that song-and-dance anymore. It's time that we step up to the plate and start spending money and making money. Who really cares if we don't know where our next dollar is coming from? God invented Ramen Noodles for a reason.

So instead of admitting defeat my quest for greatness continues.

I always knew I was headed in that direction; the writing is just a bit of therapy.

You know, now that I think of it, maybe I will take up that job at 7-11; the possibilities are endless with the clientele. Open 365 days a year 24 hours a day will allow me to work all the needed shifts. Free cherry slushies worked into the contract and I am already wondering why I didn't think of this sooner? I just hope they don't expect me to handle money. Way too soon.

Even better idea: no potential client will be missed...I will start my way through 7-11 and work up to the AM/PMs, and the thousand liquor stores sprinkled around the county. People will write case studies on the girl that opened an advertising agency, in August, with no air conditioning, two dogs, one fan, and a stained slushy mustache.

Genius.

Once the L-Train gets in motion there really is no holding back....

xoxo

lms

Ms. Mihn

I love my tailor Ms. Mihn. She is amazing. This 4" foot tall Vietnamese lady has tailored me through break-ups, weight losses, weight gains, premature mid-life crisis's, and one too many bridesmaid dresses. The bond between me and Ms. Mihn is unbreakable. Without her how would I have made the dream of a one-pieced 1970s retro pants suit I could wear to Vegas come alive? Without her how would I have made it through that horrible phase of low jeans that you can't breathe or bend in? Ms. Mihn is the best.

Her tailoring, although an art within itself, is just a small part of what Ms. Mihn has done for me through the years. Our long talks may be slightly difficult since I don't understand Vietnamese, but over the years she has learned key phrases like "you" while wagging her finger at me "big butt. Smaw waist." and "extwa five dolla" for those emergency mendings.

Yes, Ms. Mihn has been the stabilizer, my confidant, my "go-to" in all good times and bad.
Ms. Mihn can do no wrong and I know that through all the times I have opened up to her about my life she would never divulge my secrets; this woman is a fortress.

Things have been a bit hectic lately and I haven't had the time to get to Ms. Mihn and I am sure she is just dying to see what is going on with me. After ten, long, faithful years of going to her she said something today that actually brought me to tears and made me question our whole friendship.
****************
I pushed open the rickety door with the cowbell clanging announcing my presence.
"Wan minute" she yells from the back. The most amazing smells are always present at Ms. Mihns. I figure she must be a professional Vietnamese cook for extra cash because she always has amazing food smells coming from the back of her shop. She enters through the long hanging sheet that is the divider from tailor heaven to food heaven.

"Ohhh Big-Butt-Smaw-Waist!"

"Leaaaaah" I correct her.

"Ohhhh how ah youu Big Butt Smaw Waist?" She is smiling up at me with her gold teeth and crooked smile. I smile back; who could ever be mad at such an innocent person?

"Oh Ms. Mihn! I have a million things going on right now. Life is so crazy! I am doing a million different projects, I am unemployed, and I am absolutely in need of this dress to wear out tonight"

She wags her wrinkly finger at me motioning me to the dressing room which is really just another bed sheet divider. You have to be careful with her; if she thinks you are not moving fast enough this tiny women will begin to herd and push you until you do what she wants; she is freakishly strong. For the bashful I would recommend changing at lightening speed because she will enter your ever-so private changing area and start grabbing body parts and pushing you into the garment if you are not working fast enough. This woman is busy; she has to attend to her secret exotic chef life too.
She scurries me behind the sheet.I don't want my time of unloading my entire personal and professional life to be shortened so I obediently get behind the sheet. I start undressing and apparently I am not 'Ms.-Mihn-Fast'. Within seconds Ms. Mihn is in my space. We are doing some sort of shimmy-shake dance and as soon as it begins it is over. I reflect back on the first time I met Ms. Mihn. I giggle to myself on the thought of her and I going to "second base" on our very first alteration date and how mortified I was. Her abruptness is charming to me now and I look forward to our long deep conversations. She yanks me back out into the main area. Without me even specifying what I want she gets to work. Pins pursed between her lips she is a woman with a mission. I sideways looks at her seeing if she is ready for me to talk. No sign from her so I go in for the kill.

"Oh Ms. Mihn....." I whine.

I drone on about the economy, how hard it is to get clients, the three tickets I got in one day, my love life, the shows I watched on TV last night....you name it, I cover it. I haven't seen her in probably a good month or so. She must want me to disclose everything right? I can only imagine she has missed me too.

She claps her hands and waves me a way. All done with the first alteration? My mind races. I should have brought more clothes. This meeting was entirely too short. I haven't even told her about my thoughts on current events and about my faux pas with the trimming of my own hair. I think of two things in my car that don't even need mending.

"I will be right back Ms. Mihn!"

I say holding my dress up and running out the door. I grab a tired old gym sweatshirt and a pair of vagarant jeans I have 'just in case' I should be somewhere I need to do an impromptu wardrobe change. I run back in the shop.

"Here. I need these done too" I say plopping them down on the counter.

Whew. Just added a few more minutes on my therapy session.
She gets to work. I am a mad woman talking a mile a minute. I actually paused for a quick second to catch my breath. She is just wrapping up the second garment and I realize how selfish I have been. I don't even know how she is. Come to think of it I don't know anything about her. I assume she has children and that with all my visits I have most likely put them through college. I don't even know if she is married. I don't even know the name of her secret chef business.

"Oh Miss Mihn. How rude of me. How are you?" I look down at her as she is putting the last un-needed pin in a pair of jeans that don't even need altering.

No response. Maybe she doesn't want to talk about herself. I turn the subject back to me but try to include her in it.

"What do you think about the hair cut? Do you think that my hair dresser repaired the damage or should I just go for the short-bob-look?"

Still nothing.

Hmmmmm......

"I think that we should go get a drink and catch up Ms. Mihn" I say but this time I shake her and she turns her head up at me.

I repeat myself "Let's go get some food and a drink Ms. Mihn. After all I feel that you and I are the best of friends...so what do you say? Then you and I can exchange Polish and Vietnamese recipes....."

"Ohhhh how aw you Ms. Big Butt Smaw Waist?"

"Did you just understand a word I said?" I stammer.

She smiles. No reply. Nothing. Just a crooked-gold-toothed smile. The realization that for the last 10 years I have poured out my every fear, aspiration, and frustration to this woman and she has not understood one word is devastating. I feel like I was socked in the stomach. She doesn't even know my name? I am just a big-butt-small-waist to her?? I am crushed. I feel defeated. I try one last time

"Ms Mihn. Please tell me that you understand me and that you have missed me!" I am frantic "I really meant what I said about a drink. I mean that's the least I could do to repay you for all the nice things you do for me...."

She points at the clothes in a pile she just marked for alterations. Sweet! She understood. I knew it was a mistake! She picks up the dress she worked on first and goes to open her mouth like she was going to respond to my plea to hang out.

"Extwa five dolla" she says holding up the dress.

Dammit.


xoxo
lms

If I could do it again I would speak Hindi....

I was just settling in for the evening.

With my inspiration at its peak I decided I was going to write a very insightful blog to make up for some lost time. I had an epiphany of how I was going to write about what I would do differently if given the chance. Not a regretful blog. A blog that would turn my questionable choices into a how-to-survive guide. I want to create a Gandhi-like following. A modern Socrates I would be named. With my knowledge and history I envision my blog taking the form of a bible that will be handed down generation-to-generation to struggling girls who need direction. I will be praised for my simplicity and depth and the How-To-Gurus of the world will wonder why they didn't think of it first. Oprah would call, however I would politely decline due to schedule conflicts with Ellen.

Who wouldn't learn from my world of mistakes?

It's not happening...at least not tonight....my computer isn't even working!

There was a huge road block in my aspiration to be the next Deepak Chopra. For some reason every time I typed, crazy characters would start flying up on my screen. Although I may sometimes doubt my eyes I knew something was wrong. It was definitely some foreign language I do not speak. I am also pretty certain my laptop doesn't hold the characters, symbols, and letters that were spewing out across my screen. Chinese? Japanese? Lebanese? I don't even know what it is so how could I solve the problem??


One hour and 42 minutes later I decipher the code. (Yes one hour and 42 minutes.) Just a mere button in my settings asking me if I want to translate my blog. I thought this meant my greatness would be translated into languages across the globe. No?

An hour and 42 minutes on a "school night" is a devastating loss of time and blow to the blog. To avoid the possibility of no sleep tonight the words of inspiration are going to have to be short, sweet, and to the point (think pocket-size bible).


If I were to do it again.............
(the condensed version)

1. I would read and speak Hindi.
This would result back in the one hour and 42 minutes I just lost.

2. I would have gone to college and experienced it at the same time as everyone else instead of later. In college I wouldn't work morning, day, and night just to have extra cash. I would have been poor, cooked entrees on a hot plate and complained about the dorms.

3. I would not have had a boyfriend for every moment from 4th grade on. On that note I also wouldn't have had my first boyfriend for 4 years. They have a name for this condition: Habitual-I-need-a-boyfriend syndrome.

4. I would not laugh at my Mom when she told me "if your Father and I didn't have money for a new TV we didn't go charge it on a credit card". Additionally, after I was done laughing I wouldn't proceed to ask for the credit card.

5. I wouldn't have been a orchestrator in two car crashes by the age 14. Contrary to what one may think having a savings account of $200 will not fix the car, the garage, and the contents in the garage before your Dad gets home from work. Not even a chance so don't try it.

6. I would not spend hours wishing for small ankles, no freckles, and the growing back of normal eyebrows and long lashes. I would instead embrace a strong body, Angel Kisses, and accept responsibility for that "accident" with my Dad's electric shaver.

7. I would not try so hard to be the center of attention. Human pyramids are fun but there is a time and a place. Therefore I would listen more, take in the scenery, and not feel the need to orchestrate the levels.

8. I would not have compared myself to everyone else wishing I was like them. I would find a way to love myself without needing constant reinforcement from others.
Lesson: It's all fun and games when people claim you are the "milk man's child" because of your blonde hair but sooner or later you have to accept you don't look like anyone in your family and really embrace it.

9. I would have been nicer to my parents growing up. I would have told them I love them more and admitted to them that I really did break my feet jumping off a roof while sneaking out of the house to see a boy. Unfortunately it was not that grueling morning jog I swore I took that broke not just one foot but both feet.

10. I would not let material possessions rule my life. Fortunately she who dies with the most shoes and clothes does not always win. I know it stinks-just move on.

11. I would play wrestle mania more, wear t-shirts, tennis shoes, pony tails and no makeup and not think twice about it. Lesson: Remeber if you rent Sumu suits at a party and you become out of hand your guests have every right to tip you over and leave you there.
Don't try to get up; your efforts are fruitless.

12. I would not have inflicted bodily harm on my siblings; namely my brother. Brothers grow up bigger and stronger.

13. I would keep my phone in my purse when not in use and would never, under any circumstance, use it while intoxicated.

14. I would teach my deaf dog sign language and pay for his hair transplant on his tail so he didn't feel so different.

16. I would build a tree house in my 30s. I would then call childhood "frenemy" Tommy Mankowski and tell him that my tree house doesn't allow boys.

15. Most importantly I would laugh more and live every last day like it was my last.
If that involves me taking that long talked about trip, playing that nonsense jackpot lottery, or tackling some crazy adventure well then so be it..I just hope it doesn't involve Hindi......


xoxox
lms

I "L" therefore I am

It has been a life long goal of mine to make myself a household name.
Since missing my calling as a discovered-overnight-celebrity these are the things that occupy my everyday thoughts.

First and foremost-how in the world do you work with a name that is constantly mispronounced? My skin literally crawls when I hear that pitch or that drawn out "eeeeeeee" of a sound. Since it would be expensive to change the spelling AND hold classes on how to pronounce LeyAAAAAH perhaps a slight shortening of the name would suffice.

L.

Not to be confused with "el", taking the "L", or even reading Elle.

Just L.



Just kind of rolls of your tongue really. Half the battle behind me with the personalization of my name, I suppose I just need to integrate it into everyday conversation. Don't you have to be known for something, really excel at something, have some amazing trait in order to really make it work?

My brother didn't shout like a lunatic from across the driveway "Hey watch my JORDAN" and do nothing. Years of skinned knees, slams into the garage door, and prayers of growing taller and leaner, and meaner only implies an obsession with being The King of basketball.

My sister didn't just wake up one day and wear a thousand bracelets, get a really bad perm, wear ripped clothes and Jelly Shoes. On the contrary. This was part of the master plan to be oohed and aahed by her friends who said she was "soooo MADONNA".

Possibly a better way of approaching this dilemma would be to see what I am really good at in life. What in the world can I do better than anyone in the whole wide world?

Racquetball?
Word Games?
Shopping?

A second place racquetball athlete hardly gets a notice unless it was used in a negative tone. Taunts and jeers would be heard from the stands. "You so L-d that game!~
"Nice #2 status...you are soo L!"

I don't know that anyone ever made the front page for word games-although if they did I would be surely a repeat offender on Scramble Times. "The Word is L" would headline the front pages. Followers all around would clamor: "Oh you are so "L" with that crossword!" or "Wow you really L'd that Scramble game!"

I don't know if anyone has ever been known for shopping. Sure, everyone has their vices. The Brangelina duo shops for exotic children, Imelda Marcos boasted 5,600 pairs of shoes and Perez Hilton shops for gossip to fill his blogs. But I mean really shop.
Lots of hours need to logged, no sale or hidden treasure to be missed. When you come back from shopping your significant other should say:
"I can't believe you "L-d" all day long. Don't you know that we are not "L" Millionaires?.

Really shop.

I have achieved Shopper's Highs more times than I can count. In search of that perfect outfit or item that no one has or would think to put together is only part of the game. The other part is overcoming and winning over the purchases. When need be I even talk dirty to my clothes (although I would deny this charge in mixed company). When I find that perfect purchase it's almost a foreplay game. "I am going to buy the shit out of you Mister" "When I get you home I'm gonnna....". This proves more of an award, more feeling of satisfaction and a job well done. Without the feeling of satisfaction it hardly seems worth the escort out of the store for talking dirty to the purchase. A good game of cat-and-mouse can only be had if there is a chase, a winner, a triumph over all...or in this case a triumph for "L".

I suppose making myself into a household name is a bit vain--maybe even borderline psychotic but it seems the only thing to keep me going; trying to market myself in a recession.

The above should be an indication of why childhood dreams should not be forgotten. We age but we don't stop dreaming. Our dreams may change as we mature but who is to say that my brother couldn't be the next Jordan or my sister the next Madonna?
Without these childhood dreams ruling our pastimes what exactly would we have left?

Work?
Bills?
Recession?
Getting Older?
Forgeting our dreams?

Go ahead and get back to your work.
I will continue on in my quest for all things happy.
My L-ness is what made me who I am today and will continue to shape me for years to come. For those who want to judge--well you can all just go to L.

xoxo

Blogging Virgin

So I am putting out my first blog or rather I am trying to put out my first blog.



My stress level has hit an all time high.



What in the world do people blog about? All reputable blogs seem to be really deep and meaningful. They are amazing, inspirational, an art form not to be reckoned with lightly.

Nonetheless I am left here thinking:



"What in the world can little ole Leah blog about that will make people take notice??"



I want to move the blogging world. Throw out deep, philosophical, forward thinking thoughts that have people clammoring for more and shouting 'encore--encore!'. I want my blogs to be educational, moving, stimulating, refreshing. I want people begging for more saying "Wow...that Leah girl is pretty darn deep..." or "Where does she come up with this stuff??"



Nothing.





I have nothing.



Nothing comes to mind. Not a scrap, a morsel, a peice of anything worth typing comes to mind.



I Google.



And then I Google some more.



I Google so many blogs that I don't even have a handle on things anymore. How can I produce a blog that has so much depth when I can't even figure out what in the world to blog about? ??



There are blogs for businesses, hair, lack of hair, dogs, cats, funny people, charities, celebrities, little people, food, drink, ugly carpenters and even a blog that is a list of all blogs...who has time to list 1001 things to blog about??? What a show-off! It's like this blogger tyrant is throwing it in my face telling me he has so many thoughts, so many inspirational things to blog about that he had to number them to keep it all straight!



So I sit here venting my blogging woes and lookey lookey---looks like I just wrote my first blog.



Peice of cake.



I knew I had it in me.

xoxo