on guilty pleasures August 24, 2012

real things I say to myself while watching.

“Hey A, you know what you should really do this summer? Catch up on Vampire Diaries on Netflix?”

 

“Hey Boyfriend, do you mind if we watch the latest episode of Teen Wolf before bed?”

 

“ Breaking Bad? Mad Men? You know what you should really watch? Awkward. It’s so funny!”

 

If after reading those quotes you haven’t figured it out yet, let me spell it out for you. I’m a 28 year old teenager basically. It should be an embarrassing problem. I know this because I keep telling myself to make sure no one ever finds out. Like the time I threw my remote across my living room and sat seething over one character choosing the person I didn’t like*. This lasts approximately until I see a commercial, a tweet, or overhear anyone say something that sounds remotely like one of my shows. For example, a patient at the end of her visit once asked me to explain more about std’s**. My answer: “ oh my goodness! You watch TVD?? Who do you like better Stefan or Damon? Stefan right?”

 

See.Problem.

 

So why did I decide to go public with this deep dark secret? To be honest, because the last couple of months I’ve been going through a hard time. I couldn’t look at the glass as half full because all I thought was “everything sucks! and clichés are stupid, Larissa.” Those thoughts just made everything worse until I realized the only way to get out of a funk is to actively do things that move you from that dark space. It’s easier to get down on yourself and sulk than it is to focus on the things that make you great and the things that make you smile. I decided to start with the small things that make me happy which was a Vampire Diaries marathon on Netflix, followed by catching up on Teen Wolf  and Awkward. before their summer premieres. Did it make everything better? No, but I was in a much better mood and frame of mind when I buckled up and started taking steps to solve my problems. That’s reason enough to make my guilty pleasures a little more desirable (except no less embarrassing admitting them. Please don’t judge me).

 

What secret things make you happy?

 

 

Ps. If anyone out there enjoys these teen shows too find me on twitter! All my friends judge me for it and sometimes I need to discuss things. I’m very serious.

 

* I told myself I wasn’t watching those stupid teen shows anymore and I was right back at it the following week.

**in my non writing life I worked at a women’s clinic

 

Rihanna and Writing August 21, 2012

Writing.

 

For the last few months I’ve been turning on my laptop, opening up Microsoft word and staring at a blank page. It’s not that I can’t write, or don’t want to write. It’s more like I’m scared that once I start typing, all the very private and personal events that have happened in the last few months will flood the pages in some weird written version of verbal diarrhea. Some things should just remain private, right?

 

I have that option.

 

I was thinking about this while watching Rihanna’s interview with Oprah. I was already a fan, but Oprah has this way of making people so relatable that I couldn’t help looking at her as if she was one of my friends (side note: Does anyone else feels Oprah’s sole mission on life is to make the viewer cry? And by “viewer” I mean me).  It wasn’t the way her neighbors in Barbados referred to her easily as Robyn or the way she tearfully admitted to still loving Chris Brown. It was something as simple as her admitting she’s lonely sometimes and how hard it is to let someone go when you’ve made space for them in your heart.

 

The feelings are simple to identify but the hard part, the getting through it part, is a war between your head and your heart. I think we forget about that until the moment we go through it.  A close friend going through a breakup once told me my straight forward no nonsense advice, while appreciated, came across as unsympathetic.

 

Unsympathetic?

 

I know what it’s like to stand next to someone I love and feel like I’m the only person in the room. Or how difficult it is to let go of the good memories etched in a broken heart. For Rihanna getting through it publicly has to be incredibly difficult. But, I have to admit that sometimes letting things off your chest, whether it be to your friends, on tv or on a blog can be cathartic. It’s easy to have an opinion and tell someone to get from point A to point B forgetting the journey in between.

 

That’s how I felt every time someone would ask me to write something. Every time I received an email asking me if I’ve disappeared. It seemed it was as easy as opening to a blank page and letting the words flow.  Except deciding how much I was willing to share stopped me cold. The easy option was deciding not to but if there’s one thing I’ve learned is that taking the easy way out doesn’t teach you anything. Doing something that makes you uncomfortable, that challenges you does.

 

Opening up about that uncomfortable incident in 2009 and how she still battles with her feelings made Rihanna just a 24-year-old woman not an international pop superstar to those watching. Actually typing on to a blank page made me start writing again. I still think that certain things should remain private but not at the cost of robbing me of something I love to do, like write (although I’m pretty sure no one visits my little corner of cyber space anymore). But like Rihanna sharing a little, no matter how uncomfortable it makes you, may not be so bad, everyone can use a little catharsis any way they can get it.

 

The Female Paradox February 1, 2012

My father thought I’d be pregnant by the time I reached my fifteenth birthday. I know this because my mother repeated the last words he told her before they separated over and over during my adolescence. It was easy for him to say that. After all, he moved back to the Dominican Republic and left my two sisters and I to be raised by a single mother who barely spoke English and worked minimum wage jobs to make ends meet. He thought we’d end up raising ourselves, end up in some older boys bed, drug addicted, with an infant as our prize. My mother, however, would not let that happen, reminding us of this every time she thought we were straying off the path.

Once, my high school sent home a postcard stating that I had not been attending my math class.  “Have you been cutting school, Larissa?” she asked me while shaking the postcard at me. “ No! I think that was a mistake. They do that all the time.” I told her. She looked into my eyes, accepted my answer and walked away. The next day, during math class, my teacher received a note asking me to go to the main office. I walked into the main office and found my mother staring at me with the postcard she had been shaking at me the day before. “Muy bien,” she smiled “just making sure you are where you’re supposed to be.”

That was my mother.

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Tooth Tribulations January 24, 2012

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There was a time in my life when I wasn’t the clumsiest person on the planet. Granted, that time was before I reached age 10, but in the third grade I was the most athletic I’ve ever been in my life. During gym class I was consistently one of the first two girls picked to be on someone’s team. I was in my prime. Basically, I was a lean, mean, running machine and there was no better chance to show it off than at recess. One day, I was running around my elementary school’s playground playing tag with some classmates. I went to a public school in the inner city. The playground was what we called the concrete parking lot surrounded by brick buildings behind the school. No swings, No slides, just your imagination. As I was running away towards the safe zone (the side of a building), Mario, who was chasing me, speeds up to tag me. I stretched out my arm and just as the tip of my fingers brushed against the wall Mario pushed me as hard as he could. I slammed face first into the brick wall. At first, I felt my face get warm and as I slowly peeled myself from the wall I noticed my front tooth felt loose. I brushed my tongue against it and half the tooth disintegrated immediately. I turned around slowly, tears streaming down my face and sprinted towards Mario determined to knock his front teeth in. The teacher stopped me and sent me straight to the nurse who had the unpleasant task of calling my mother and explaining why her daughter was disfigured.

 

As luck would have it, picture day was a few days later. Somewhere out there, there is a school picture of me smiling widely showing off my one and half front teeth.

 

My mother not wanting her daughter to spend the rest of her life with an imperfect smile took me the nearest dentist who would see me without dental insurance. This turned out to be the Columbia University Dental School where a student did his best to complete the other half of my tooth. It wasn’t perfect but it did the job.

 

The following year my sister and I were playing a game of tag in the bedroom we shared. The room was tiny with a red metal bunk bed in the middle of the room. Because of the size of the room we made up new rules to tag: one person closed her eyes and chased the other one until she was tagged. I moved around the bedroom with my eyes closed trying to catch my sister when I felt her t-shirt brush my hands. Just as I was about to grab her she slammed my head into the bunk bed.

 

There went my tooth again.

 

I ran to my mother and explained what my sister had done hoping to get her in trouble. However, my mother was fuming with anger because she’d told us not to play that game in our bedroom. We were both punished for breaking my tooth. To this day I still don’t understand why I had to be punished as well. I was the one who’s front tooth was broken in half again and of course picture day was a few days away once again (this time I didn’t smile. I learned my lesson the first time).

 

We went back to the dental school where a new student tried his best to complete my tooth. It wasn’t perfect but I was not coming back to that place again. I like to blame my lack of athleticism on the fact that I don’t want to have my tooth broken a third time. I’ve spent the last 18 years with my pseudo fixed tooth and grew accustomed to how it looked. To be honest, unless I told someone about it they could never tell it was ever broken.

 

A few weeks ago at my annual visit to the dentist my dentist pointed out that my tooth was awful. “Whoever you went to did a terrible job,” she said.  I nodded in agreement. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was a dental school student who was using me as a guinea pig. “I could fix it and make you beautiful” she finished. I don’t know if it’s because she said I would be the most attractive person ever (that’s what I understood) but I agreed in an instant. For the last couple of weeks she’s been working on my tooth to make it better than it was. Root Canal, tooth impression, filled in, filed down. Every week a new process and last night she finished the second to last step. A temporary crown before she put the final porcelain tooth in.  “There! Even this temporary tooth looks better than what you had before” she said and stood up to walk out the room. “make an appointment for the permanent crown in 2 weeks.” I got up from the dentist chair and walked towards the mirror in the exam room. I smiled and what smiled back at me was someone who looked like a bunny.

 

A rabbit.

 

My two front teeth stick out in a way that makes me look related to bugs bunny. I am horrified. Hopefully, when the real tooth is completed I look more like myself. If all else fails, I’ll have to lift my ban on playing tag so I can break my tooth in half for a do over.

 

Anyone out there know a good dentist? Is it ok to look like a bunny in your late 20’s? halp! (that typo is on purpose).

Se habla Español January 18, 2012

The night before I moved to New York City from the Dominican Republic I was on an emotional roller coaster. Well, as much as one could be between the ages of 5 and 10. Basically, I was trying to juggle feeling excited about being on a plane for the first time and paralyzing fear that no one would be able to understand my Spanish in a place where they only speak English. The only way I could express my conflicting emotions to my grandmother was to run around the backyard in a circle screaming as she chased me for 15 minutes before she got me in bed (Side note: I’m 28 now and not much has changed. Excited? Scream. Terrified? Scream). Once I landed at JFK International Airport the next day I ran into my parents’ arms and felt the comfort of knowing that there would be at least two people who could understand me.

I soon learned there was no need for my fear. My parents lived in Washington Heights, Little Dominican Republic, where almost everyone was from my country and hardly anyone spoke English. Sure, I had to learn to call the grocery store a bodega instead of a colmado and the roof was now a rufo instead of a techo but I could still buy platanos for breakfast and play the Dominican lottery for my parents (illegally. though I didn’t know that at the time, thanks mom) in the back of the bodega across the street from my building. If I had it my way, I would never have to learn a different language. Then I discovered my cousins spoke the most atrocious version of Spanish I had ever heard. They would speak with each other in English and failed miserably at translating their conversations to me. To an 8 year old, the only logical reason for someone to speak that terribly is because they are obviously talking about you and want to trick you. Needless to say, I took learning English more seriously and within a few years I was fluent.

 

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Fail to Succeed December 14, 2011

This is my favorite time of year and not for the reason many love it. To be honest, trying to find the perfect gift for coworkers I hardly know in a Secret Santa, sisters who say things like “ I’ll take a cheap purse, but make sure it looks expensive,” and those who say “ oh just get me anything!” gives me anxiety. No, this is my favorite time of the year because I get to set new goals or ‘resolutions’ and look back at what I accomplished in the last year. I’ve gotten better at making these goals since I figured out the trick to completing them.

It wasn’t easy. Growing up I thought my family tradition of eating 12 grapes at midnight and making a wish on each one was setting a resolution. Needless to say, not many of my “resolutions” came to fruition. I should have known something was not right when my favorite aunt would eat her grapes while carrying an empty suitcase around the block to ensure she’d travel often in the upcoming year. Every year she would do the same thing and every year she never made if further than Brooklyn.

As I got older I created goals that were impossible for me to keep. Such as, swimming across a lake (I can’t swim), driving cross country (I can’t drive), training a puppy to fetch (I’m scared of dogs). I learned to create goals that were more attainable but if I couldn’t succeed then I would give up and forget the resolution all together. That’s when I learned how to make sure I would keep every resolution I set each year.

To make sure I succeeded I had to be able to fail.

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Ladies, are we crazy? November 30, 2011

A few weeks ago I got an email asking me to be a contributor to Uptown Collective. I am so thankful and excited about this. I will be contributing to their site twice a month and here is my first post. Ladies, are we all really crazy?

It’s a universally known fact that women are crazy.

That is if you believe most of my male friends and Google. The moment I start to type “men think women are,“ Google finishes up with a suggestion – ‘crazy’. I can’t say I’m surprised. Nearly every female I know has had a moment where the lines between “this is totally normal” and “please don’t tell anyone I did that” cross.

I witnessed this the most when I was in college.  I saw girls sit in front of a dude’s room (Indian style) for hours waiting for him to return, argue loudly (and drunkenly) on dance floors,  and kiss other girls to prove how sexy they were. Somehow they always ended up in the girl’s bathroom, mascara running down their faces, crying so hard it was hard to understand them between sobs.

“ Why (sob) is (sob) man-I’m-not-dating-and-only-see-naked-on-Saturday-night (sob) doing (sob) this to (sob) me!”

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Giving Thanks, Giving Back November 23, 2011

When I was 9 years old my mother bought my sisters and I matching diaries. I had the red one and she had a blue one with gold trimming. We had watched enough sitcoms to know that we were supposed to write down our deepest darkest secrets, lock the diary, and hide it for only our eyes to see. The trick was finding the perfect hiding place in our one bedroom New York City apartment shared by 5 people. This would have worked out if we hadn’t figured out how to pick the locks and then use the information we had to blackmail each other. I chose to keep all my secrets stored in my head. It was survival of the fittest in my household and I was tired of washing dishes for my sister.

 

It wasn’t until 11 years later that I picked up a notebook to write in it again. I was in college and going through a tough period. It’s hard figuring out who you are, what you want to be, where you’re going and what your passion is at 20 years old. One day, I picked up a pink plaid notebook a good friend had given me for Christmas and sat on the old couch in the cold common room of my dorm. I put my pen to paper to get the thoughts invading my head out. I haven’t stopped writing since that day.

 

I started my blog after Boyfriend suggested (over and over) that I should. I was hesitant. Writing things for people to read felt eerily similar to that red diary. A diary with a faulty lock. What if people read this? Worse, what if people don’t? But, I did it anyway thinking “ well even if the only person who reads this is my mother at least I’ll get the thoughts out.”

 

It wasn’t until a few weeks ago when I wrote a post on a friend from college that I realized how many people I could reach. I was sad and angry about her murder and I wrote a post about it because writing has always been my outlet. I got more emails and comments about it than ever before. My friend Maiah says it’s because I spoke from the heart.

 

Recently I received a message from Cyan’s father and aunt about a campaign started in Cyan’s memory. If the story I shared came from my heart than this is something that comes from theirs:

 

Cyan Maroney was committed to the world of dance – as a performer, teacher, budding choreographer and by simply sharing her love of this beautiful art form.  She was only allowed 25 years to do so before her life was taken on October 2, 2011.

We are trying to establish an endowed scholarship at Connecticut College, Cyan’s alma mater, to assist dance students and allow Cyan’s memory to be a continuing asset to dancers and their education.

We are asking for everyone who is able to please donate $5 in her name and then contact 5 others who might be able to do the same. 

5 x 5 = 25, the number of years Cyan was given to dance on this earth.  An individual, who in a very short time touched many lives.

We believe that many small acts allow big things to happen and are asking for your help in making this scholarship become a reality. 

 BUILD A CHAIN AGAINST VIOLENCE TOWARDS WOMEN

AND HELP SUPPORT

THE  CYAN MARONEY MEMORIAL SCHOLARSHIP

I’m sharing this not only because Cyan was someone I knew who had a wonderful spirit. I’m sharing this because violence against women, violence against anyone, needs to be spoken against.

 

You can show your support by going to www.conncoll.edu  — Click the “Make a gift” link to the “Give Now” form and indicate “In memory of Cyan Maroney.” You can also check out a memorial website at http://RememberingCyan.com

 

I can’t think of a better way than to continue Cyan’s legacy.  Remember to love yourselves and love all those around you. Happy Thanksgiving!

I think I can November 21, 2011

Without a doubt one of my favorite things to do is browse websites and look at expensive things I can’t afford.  Let’s be serious, even discounted websites are over my price range. Sorry Gilt, I will not be spending 165 dollars on your fancy jeans. Because that’s ridiculous, right? Honestly, who would want to spend that much money for pants that look like they would fit like a glove? Pants that would go perfectly with my boyfriend blazer. Wait, if I wear them 165 times then they’ll basically pay for themselves. I’ll just tell all my friends I have to wear the same pair of jeans for 5 and a half months because of a newly discovered medical jeans condition.  I’ll just live on peanut butter sandwiches until I get my bank account together again after this set back. Peanut better is a great source of protein so it’s not like I’ll pass away and even if I do I’ll just ask to be buried in these jeans. I’m so sorry I ever doubted you Gilt. I will buy your wonderful fancy jeans!

Just as I’m in the middle of my awesome idea high my friend Jah brings me down to earth.

Jah: Instead of saying “I can’t afford that” what you should say is “How can I afford it?”

Suddenly, all the images of dancing jeans and peanut butter sandwiches stop. He’s right. Saying “I can’t afford that” does two things: 1) brings you to a halt (you can’t do it so why even try) and/or 2) if you’re crazy like me, you make up elaborate plans and end up putting yourself in debt (things that just hurt you in the end anyway).

There’s something very powerful about saying I can’t. Those two words are a full sentence. There’s no need to explain anything else to anyone or to you after that. The way to take that power away is to ask yourself a question that springs you into action.

How can I afford the expensive fancy jeans? I can find another source of income or maybe figure out where I can spend less.

This method can be applied to other aspects of your life:

I can’t leave the job I hate because I have to get my bills paid. How can you put yourself in the position to leave and still get things paid?

 

I can’t leave this relationship even though I know it’s no good for me. How can you leave and who can you surround youself with that will make it easier for you?

Fear is the reason we put up many mental barriers that stop us from doing what we want to do. Put yourself in the position to act rather than a position that doesn’t allow you to move forward. Instead of saying “I can’t” how about asking “How can I?”

Self Sabotage November 14, 2011

check something off

I am my own worst enemy.

I realized this as I was sitting across from my good friend at a fancy Chinese restaurant last week. We play this scene dozens of times in our friendship.

“What do you want?” she asks me.

“I have no idea” I respond staring blankly at the menu.

The waiter comes up to us, pours water into our cups and before he has the chance to speak my friend says “we’d like the scallion pancakes to start.” She doesn’t need to ask me because it’s what we always get. We also know I’ll end up with the chicken and broccoli and she’ll end up with one of the 3 dishes she rotates between.

“That’s it! starting next week I’m going on a diet. I need to be really strict this time.” She tells me with a straight face

“I need to do the same thing. I seriously need to learn some self control.” I reply automatically.

I don’t need to think about the response. It’s the same one I give every time I hear the words diet or working out. I have wired my brain to give an automatic response, the same why I set my status message on Gchat. I may work out a few times but inevitably, I find myself at the fancy Chinese place dipping my scallion pancakes in soy sauce complaining about my lack of self control.

It’s not only the diet. If I feel unmotivated it seeps to other aspects of my life. Writing? At a stand still. My friends? I can’t seem to keep up with them. Trying to be engaging on Twitter and Facebook?  It’s a downward spiral.

That is unless you become more self aware.

It’s easy to know to cut off the people that are no good for you but it’s not so easy when the enemy is you. Sometimes we get in the way of our own greatness. We make up excuses, compare ourselves to others, and don’t follow through on what we say we’ll do. Today, stop the self-sabotage (I think I made that up but go with it) and get out of your own way. Do one thing you’ve been meaning to do and check it off your list.

This is the start of a new week. Work on not being your worst enemy and becoming your best friend. I know I will.