The Best Time I Exposed My Secret Shame

Disclaimer: There are real names, people, and feelings referred to in this entry. Very real.

When I was a young woman, not yet burned by love's cruel flame, I was very much in love with a boy in my class named Matthew Leyva*. Matthew was the smartest boy in the class, he talked to me, and he had really big teeth which I fucking DUG. He was really good at basketball (or, I assumed he was good, I still don't know how basketball works) and consistently made me feel like an idiot. This was the likely model for the rest of my romantic experiences, but that's probably besides the point. The point was that I was in deep, and I hadn't yet learned to be brazen and tactless so I kept my distance.

As most little girls (and grown, sad women working at catering firms in Downtown LA) do, I used to doodle his name. Mrs. Leyva. Mr. and Mrs. Matthew Leyva. Mr. and Mrs. Jessica Matthew Blatter. I tried out different fonts, generally sticking with bubbly graffiti (how de rigeur) or loopy, Bronte-esque signatures. I had imaginary fights with him over the bills and the kids' soccer practice, and we always made up by going to sleep without pants, which is how I assumed grown ups did the sex (I have yet to be proven wrong on this account). I really really loved him.

Until one day, after two years of a strong imaginary relationship, I decided that I was done with Matthew Leyva. I was too busy with times tables, much too preoccupied with my goals of Spelling Bee victory to be messing about with boys. I was too old, he was too young, we had grown apart. He also probably only knew my name because there was a total of 70 kids in our graduating class. Whatever the source of our irreconcilable differences, I was done. I threw away the doodles, and decided to start fresh under an alias (thus began the fateful 2 days when I forced my mother to call me Elizabeth until we both tired of it). I decided to let go of my Hootie and the Blowfish obsession, as I no longer felt the song, "I Only Wanna Be With You" spoke to our relationship. I also started to realize that I was mistaken in thinking that the lead singer looked anything like him, partially because Matthew isn't black.

Enter David.

My brother David didn't care much for me growing up. Our relationship could be defined as torture with a hint of Stockholm syndrome, as any attention from him was devoured with a desperation so heavy and defined it could be identified in the outline of my shadow. So when he approached me one day to ask who Matt Leyva was, I was at once both elated and petrified. How does he know? Is he as interested in my life as I am in his? Are we FRIENDS???
"Why?" I asked.
"Who is he?"
"Why," I persisted.
"Jessica, just tell me who he is. Do you know him?"
"He's a kid in my class, WHY DO YOU ASK, BROTHER?"

It was at that moment that he produced a doodle which I had hidden away in a cupboard and forgotten to destroy. There it was, sparkling in gel pen ink, puffy and inflatable writing proudly declaring "I ONLY WANNA BE WITH YOU, MATT LEYVA." David sang the words with delight as I looked on and felt my soul slinking out of my body, the mortification washing over me as slowly and painfully as tar. I sputtered to respond but there were no words; I had been found out. My heart was crushed and my secret exposed, not only that I loved someone who never thought about me, but that I also genuinely liked Hootie and the Blowfish.

It was the moment when I learned to keep my mouth shut about affairs of the heart when in the company of family. And while the memory is as sharp today as it was at that moment when I first understood the genuine desire for death, I promise you my brother has no recollection of it.



*Absolutely his real name. Look it up.

The Best Time I Lost A Spelling Bee

Listen, I don't mean to brag, but I've lost a LOT of spelling bees. I'm pretty good with words. Not "Oscar Wilde at a game night featuring Catchphrase" good, but pretty good. I started reading fairly early (likely the cause of my heathen political and religious views later in life) and generally consider myself to be a reasonably well-read person. So between 1st and 8th grade, I participated in almost every spelling bee that De La Salle could throw my way and was consistently thwarted by curve-balls like these:

The word: Debris.
What I heard: DA-BRLIGHSIN.

"Jessica, spell 'debris.'"
"I don't know what that is."
"Would you like me to use it in a sentence?"
"OK."
"We picked up debris on the sidewalk."
"That told me nothing."

Normally I was an alternate who never had to actually go on stage to spell arbitrary words to a fleet of children who, while not the brightest, were smart enough to know that spelling bees are a waste of time. In 7th grade, however, I was front and center, competing against my best friend (the irritatingly more intelligent than I) Stephanie Crawford.

"Stephanie, the word is IN-TER-GER."
"Please use it in a sentence."
"The number 65 is an IN-TER-GER."

As would be discussed for years to come, everyone in our class knew what an integer was. We also knew that you don't just throw an extra R in there to spice things up. But there sat Mr. More, our Renaissance Fair (and cross-dressing) enthusiast history teacher, with his long white ponytail and permanent sneer, repeating IN-TER-GER as though we were the idiots. Stephanie opened her mouth.

"I-N-T-E...R-G-E-R. Integer."
"I'm sorry, that's incorrect."

INJUSTICE! TREACHERY! FOUL PLAY! He mispronounced it on purpose! Simply to foil a 7th grade girl in a spelling bee. I was more panicked than ever; not only would he certainly do worse to me, I was far less intellectually capable and much more sensitive to embarrassment than my friend (despite my rap years).

"Jessica, spell 'vaccinations.'"

Are you fucking kidding me? I thought. What's your game, More? No way are you pitching something simple like 'vaccinations' after The Interger Affair of 2001. My heart was racing; I was elated at having such a simple word and could feel success tugging me foward, hear the roar of the crowds, see the neutral, head-nodding approval of my parents!

"Vaccinations," I began quickly. "F-A-C--"

My god. I have been foiled by my own hubris, I thought, horrified. I knew I was done. But I'd be DAMNED if I didn't demonstrate that I knew exactly how the hell to spell 'vaccinations.'

"F-A-C--Oh, JESUS CHRIST. It's V-A-C-C-I-N-A-T-I-O-N-S. And I know I spelled it WRONG the first time. God." With that, I unceremoniously stormed off the stage; I might as well have screamed, "SEXUAL CHOCOLATE" and dropped the mic. But something happened as I made my descent into the crowd: applause. Resounding applause and approving laughter. I received slaps on the back and handshakes, we passed around cigars and champagne, chanting, "OH JESUS CHRIST" repeatedly. I'm pretty sure I even saw the panel of teachers smile when I threw my arms up in incredulous defeat.

To this day, I can't go to the doctor without maniacally spelling "vaccinations" in my head, just to make sure I remember how. And at times when I'm feeling particularly lost, depressed, or insecure, I take a deep breath and think At least we can be certain that there is only one R in "integer."

The Best Time I Ever Choreographed A Dance Routine

When I was in 3rd grade, I loved few things as much as I loved pretending that I was cool, and as the kids say, that I didn't give a fuuuuhh. Point in fact, I gave many fuuuhhs and still do. I suffered from paralyzing insecurity and shyness which I covered with excessive, albeit affected, confidence. Something that is maybe important to know is that my sister's husband, Kevin, was the coolest human being I had ever met. Kevin was so cool, I believed him when he told me that his naturally curly hair was the product of tiny rollers that he wore every night. I believed this for years, and have a hard time to this day shaking the glorious image of him teasing out his curls with Aqua Net every morning. One of the coolest things about Kevin was that his taste in music was (for lack of a better term) THE SHIT. So when the school's annual talent show approached and my desperate need to appear more relevant than I was made me turn to Mimi and Kevin, who in turn introduced me to Blackstreet's "No Diggity."

I selected my partners with care; they needed to be fun and not have a problem with being bossed around by a be-freckled monster. Natasha was soft-spoken and whiter than I (we were inexplicably best friends) and Gabrielle just wanted to have someone to play with her every day. Next came the challenge of convincing--nay, forcing--them to dance to my cooler-than-cool song of choice. In 3rd grade, it turns out, that simply meant telling them to do it with conviction. The costumes were the strings section of our orchestra. Not wanting anyone to forget that we were the coolest bitches around, nor that we were the whitest, we chose jean shorts and canary-yellow floral print tees with brimmed hats. In case you missed it, we were dancing to Blackstreet, and once again we were in 3rd grade.

We took our place on the improvised-stage in our school's outdoor pavilion. Lined up with our heads down, we waited for the third "Mmm-mmmm" to lift our heads in succession; the body language conveyed nothing short of "shit's about to go DOWN." I don't remember all the moves, but I do remember our dramatic swivel toward the audience and my severe annoyance with Gabrielle who was smiling like an idiot. Didn't she know cool girls don't smile? Didn't she realize that we were by no means av-er-aaage? And Natasha, always moving one beat ahead of us, speeding up dance moves that were supposed to be sensual and dripping with attitude! This song was about presence, it was about having no doubt! It wasn't until the applause erupted and we were panting in our end-pose--leaning back to back with our arms crossed over our concave chests--and that we were a hit.

Nevermind that we were children in Mayim Bialik hats and jorts who had just earnestly danced to "No Diggity" with the seriousness of Baryshnikov. It was magic, and my only regret is that we never got to perform my fantasy encore presentation of Montell Jordan's "This Is How We Do It."

Fuck You, Hemingway.

When Hemingway had writer's block, the story goes that he would sit down (presumably once he found a space amidst all the empty wine bottles and letters from Gertrude Stein) and just write the truest thing that came to his mind. Today I decided to break my writer's block and give ol' Hemmy a try. Here's what I came up with:

"Stories that end with, 'and it was SO funny' should never have been told in the first place."

I know why you did it. Everyone was talking and laughing and you were there, waiting to jump into this very subtle double-dutch game of wordplay. You sat there, sweating, panicking, tuning out of the conversation in order to come up with your very precious contribution. Something moving? No, the other people seem to be enjoying themselves and this doesn't feel like the time to share your grandmother's last words. A significant statistic? Hm. You don't actually know how many people per year lose limbs from deep-frying turkeys at Thanksgiving, and it would be the ultimate embarrassment if Steve knows and calls you out on it because fuck that guy.

They are all laughing and ordering another round. You shift your weight in the squeaky booth, uncomfortable with how long you've been silent; they must be noticing that you haven't said a word in the last 4 minutes. The beers arrive, but this is no time to be drinking and dulling your social senses. This is the time to look alive, be sharp, kill them with your wit. And then Steve clears his throat, ready to say something he's obviously been waiting to say but your silence is too uncomfortable to bear for the length of another person's story. You jump in.

"Hey, remember that time that we all went up to Big Bear?" You have their attention, a few smiles of recognition. Yes, they remember that weekend. But dear God, you went too fast too soon! What were you going to bring up? GET YOUR HEAD IN THE GAME. There's no time, you've gotta play it fast and loose or that dick Steve is going to talk about when he got into a snowball fight to the death and shit, that's a good story.

"I just...remember when I went to buy 30 pack but left it at the store and then we had to go back and you guys were all, 'Dude!' and it was SO funny?"

You get a chuckle. A pity chuckle at best. Somewhere in the distance you hear a faint "Oh, yeah..." and you give yourself a little breathy laugh because what a hilarious memory for you. But the momentum has hit a roadblock and you have to bury your face in a beer to pretend like you don't know you kicked it into drive and jammed it into the wall against which it is currently crushed. You sit, smiling, emitting a soft, "God, that was hilarious. "Dude." Haha."

And just like that, you've teed Steve up for the snowball story and you know what? Fuck that guy. It's not that good of a story.

But it really is.

HEMINGWAY, WHAT HATH YOU WROUGHT?

I've Become One of "Those"

You know the type. Not the round-the-way girls with the big booties and the stink; the I'll-just-have-a-salad girls with the clicky heels and the bedtimes. I've become one of those people.

Jessica Gets A REAL Job, Is Registered for Personality Transplant

Have you been wondering for weeks upon weeks where I've been, losing sleep, muttering in corners while you repeatedly bump into both sides of the wall? Have you stared angrily at your computer screen for days on end, pressing "refresh" on your browser until your keyboard actually emits an "OUCH" sound and your unwashed body starts to absorb your clothing in an effort to survive while your brain focuses solely on this terrible, cheap, pandering blog? I know babies, I know. Come to my bosom, let me explain.

First thing's first: remember a few months ago, where I got all pedestal-y about moving to San Francisco as this thing I NEEDED to do? Well guess the fuck what. I didn't move. Nope. As a matter of fact, I haven't even changed positions; I'm still on my bed with my laptop burning a hole in my skin while the house settles and sighs around me because I'm it's only stationary object. I didn't stay because I stopped believing anything I said, I stayed because I recognized that I don't get to control the circumstances of my life, only the way I react to them. And I also got a job. Like a real lady job. With a badge and a parking space and an ergonomic chair. After spending months planning finding this new life in San Francisco, I finally got a chance to build a new foundation; only I started construction in Los Angeles instead.

I don't regret staying, at least not yet, but I regret going back on my word to someone I care about very deeply. But! Things are mostly good. A new plan with a new vision, a new job and new grown-up shoes! But then it hit me this evening as I declined an invitation for debauchery: I'm boring.

I drink boring coffee while I read boring emails. I sort through my mail and make bank transfers to pay loans. I work out to podcasts, you guys. PODCASTS. Sometimes I have to turn off NPR because it's too stimulating and I just need to relax, for chrissakes. And here's the real bullshit: everything fun is blocked at work. Everything. Fun. Sometimes I see people sitting with their laptops at the Starbucks in my building and envy the sheer joy on their faces from watching a cat fall off a doorjamb and I think that used to be me. Cats amused me, too! I mean, sure, I get things done at work and actually learn things but kitties! And endless chatting about inane things! And drinking with friends on weeknights because work isn't a two hour commute away and you can just put off real work tomorrow while nursing a hangover! To quote a dear friend, those days are gone. Now I sit across from a dude who makes taupe wallpaper sound X-TREME with only a thin cubicle wall dividing us. I wander to the bathroom and back 40 times a day to ward off falling asleep. I write fake emails. Sometimes I open up old work and pretend to type things in it to keep others from giving me new things to do. Sometimes I Google a live clock and watch the seconds of my life tick away one by one by one by one.
But, in a weird way, I'm really happy! I'm moving forward, slowly but surely, inch by inch. There are things on the horizon so exciting and inspiring that I listen to Dolly Parton for hours on end just to satisfy my workin' 9 to 5 excitement about the future! Another plan to move in February with the Elaine to my Jerry (and Kramer crashes on our couch and eats from a bowl next to the cat's bowl)! Drinking at kitchy themed-bars for unreasonably long hours and low prices (Bigfoot Lodge this weekend, any takers?), wearing ridiculously high heels and remaining generally off-putting! Arguing over politics late into the night with cheap red wine and our fictitious kitten cowering in the corner to hide from her owners who just want to put silly hats on her head! Those days are just around the corner, as long as I stop the transition into one of "Those" (I swear to god, I actually picked up a book that had an Oprah's Book Club sticker on it) and reverse it into one of "THOSE?" people who blog about people that aren't their dads, (not even close!) then I'm going to be fine. I'll be better than fine. I'll be an even bigger nutcase but this time I'll have a desk!

And I will blog for you, baby birds; I will regurgitate my office-spaced-out life bit by bit for your nourishment. You will profit from my dull, not-quite misery. You will hear about Wallpaper Guy on a regular basis.
But now I need to go read my Jonathan Franzen novel (I know) and get to bed at a reasonable hour.

BLERG.

The Evolution of Woman and Yuck-Toe

Look at those faces. Look at those sweet smiles and those happy cheeks, scrubbed cleaner than a nun's hands, looking simply jovial as they hug one another and embrace Fenway Park, the heart of the Boston Red Sox. Remember those faces as I tell you the story of how they destroyed an entire city in four days.

Chapter One: Subterfuge



Oh what sneaks we were, planning for months to come out to Boston to surprise our dear friend Kelly. Conversations about visiting one day in the distant future slipped off the edge of our cunning tongues with the confidence of a seasoned spy. Oh Kelly, we'd sigh, how much I miss you. I only wish I could visit you soon, but it's just not possible! How easily the game was played, when disaster lurked around every corner in the intoxicated mouths of Steve/SJ's friends, freakish weather, and chance disturbances in our plan. As the plan moved along more and more smoothly, we felt sure the surprise would be spoiled and our fun ruined. However, as Kelly entered Parish Cafe it became clear to us through her look of terror and confusion that she had had no idea of our plans, and even clearer when she bared down and screamed as though birthing a child in the Middle Ages that she was indeed thrilled by the surprise. We talked and laughed and cried and held each other, the six of us (Emily, Jada, Kelyn, Caitlin, Me and Kelly) for as long as it took to believe that we were not only there, but we were there together.




Within 7 hours, two of us would be screaming at a Domino's employee while waiting for [REDACTED] to be released from what he referred to as "THIS PRISON!" (when it was really only an average jail cell) while the remainder of our group tried in vain to direct a lost cab driver around streets we'd never seen before. Friends were made (we'll never forget you, Bark) as well as enemies (at this point we were introduced to Yuck-Toe) as the night gave way to morning and those sunny, ecstatic faces crashed into pillows and cushions with the force of falling giants.

Chapter Two: I Am A Disgusting Human

When the first man crawled from the slime of centuries past and cells evolved, his body retching on the earth and his lungs taking their first breath, he declared, "I AM MAN." This was kind of like that, except way more off-putting. We clambered in our dresses, underwear, and each others' day clothes to recap the missing portions of our night. There was not a shower hot enough to wash away the events of the previous evening. Still getting used to our newly-evolved limbs and cognizant brains, we slowly dressed and emerged from our cave in bright yellow uniforms ready to conquer a formidable day.



Breakfast and 10 minutes of a BC football game later, we were tailgating and playing ridiculous (read: too difficult for me to win) games while an unnamed mother kept serving us finger foods and bite-sized Snickers. We walked along the reservoir and through the surrounding neighbors, repeatedly asking, "Steve! Wassat?!" in our childish wonder, momentarily forgetting the pain of Yuck-Toe and Bark, marveling at this new place which was shining its sun on our backs and guiding us with its breeze. We marched on to Fenway Park, gently (read: incessantly) teasing the Yankee-loving Jada about the many ways she could enjoy a Fenway Frank, occasionally looking out to the bright field to check that the game was still progressing as we enjoyed surrounding company much more than the roar of the crowds.



About two bars and something called a Scorpion Bowl later, we drifted off into the night and lost each other to various open doors and passing cabs. Our expeditions were rehashed over coffee and sandwiches in Harvard Square; we weren't allowed on campus because, unfortunately, we forgot to bring our tuxedos. The night drifted into Mojitos and flip-cup (because those two things match)and ended listening to the tall-tales of a man named Tex who smoldered in the corner of the bar with the mystery of someone with a name like Tex. Many voices were lost to the bar that night, as extemporaneous photo-shoots ("Be a tiger! Be a velociraptor! Jessica, get out of the picture!") and high-school era songs from Weezer inspired shouts of joy and suffocating laughter. Caitlin, on the other hand, lost hers to the streets of Boston as she shouted lessons in anatomy for the benefit of all passersby.

Chapter Three: To All The Boys We've Loved Before



We passed the morning with Sister Mary Clarence of "Sister Act" (which could easily be converted to a thrilling drama if the score were changed from campy ragtime music to something less ridiculous) and packed slowly to drag out our last moments together. I was certain the shedding of tears would wait until we arrived at the airport, but was jarred to see Kelly stop mid-stride on the staircase as though she were fighting back the urge to say something to all of us. Caitlin and I looked up to her, asking, "What's wrong Kelly?" as she began to giggle. Her smile widened and her breathing deepened as she doubled over in laughter, ignoring our inquiries. Instead of answering, she held up a single finger as though to say "Give me a minute." As if given a cue from God, Jada declared in anger, "WHO THE FUCK FARTED?!"

As I sit here, still laughing, I realize that at that moment I knew we had just capped one of the greatest conquests in American history; Los Angeles had come to Boston and our presence will forever be felt.

So to all the Steves, Sweet Lous, Jareds, Matts, Marks, Mikes, Cams, Rosses, and all other mono-syllabic men whose visions of women as those smiling, kind, timid creatures were destroyed: we salute you. You now know that the giggling, curly-headed girl you know as Kelly did not come from the same slime as any other human. She came from the hurricane of Los Angeles that carried us five Marians (with special guest Yuck-Toe) to your town, the same hurricane which whirls and laughs and dances and shouts and doesn't mind tossing around a building or two. You are brave survivors of Hurricane LA, and as you begin to rebuild your city piece by piece, wear your battle scars with the pride of men who have seen it all. And you should probably build a bomb shelter in your basements in case you should one day see it again.

Make Sure To Wear Flowers In Your Hair

I'm 8 years old, and I'm car-sick. We finally find a parking space on a hill so steep my tiny little brain conjures up a vision of the car unable to stop itself from rolling down at a tremendous speed and crashing in a trolley carrying only nuns and children. We check into the Richileu, a hotel that was "Newly Renovated" 12 years before, and I am sleeping on the floor. It is the first moment I decide that I will avoid sleeping in the same room as my parents at all costs for the rest of my life. This is the weekend that my sister graduates from law school, and it is the same weekend that I begin the love affair that will last for more than a decade.

That San Francisco Sound

I've written more than once about my complicated love for Los Angeles, but out of respect for my geographical wife, I've never written about my mistress: San Francisco. She is the bitter cold to the tempestuous heat that is LA, the seismographic terrain to the endless flat rock of my home. It took me 22 years to accept that I love this place that bickers with me incessantly, but it took me only a few hours to know that one day I'd seek refuge in the arms of another, forsaking angels for Giants. Before Halloween I will pack up my sparse belongings once again and shove them into the crevices of my beaten, wheezing Ford Taurus to move to that hilly metropolis which may or may not accept me as a citizen this time, instead of just a passing tourist.

Graduating from college didn't make me feel liberated or nostalgic; it simply put a magnifying glass to the small but growing tear in the seam of my life. Joblessness gave way to a part-time flirtation in sales and small victories countered repeated failures, but my single life was invaded by an ever-present specter reflecting the person I could be somewhere else. Los Angeles gave me roots, and nourished me into an adult; my roots firmly planted, it's time to fall off the bush and roll onto different pastures. I've reached my greatest heights this summer, and as the autumn leaves begin to fall, a new season is approaching, during which I plan to take advantage of new soil. The point is, I'm getting out of here not because I want to, but because I need to.

I need to be the person I've been preparing to be since I was 8 years old. I need to know that what I want and who I've become is a real, fleshy person, complete with more flaws than I can count. I need to fail, I need to succeed, and I need to grow.
Saying goodbye to the place that made me this frazzled, confused mess will be the greatest heartbreak I will ever know; I can only hope that I'll fall in love again with new streets which I'll discover on my own.

I don't know if I'm brave or stupid, but at this point I can't really tell the difference. Eventually I'll probably figure it out, but until then I'm ready to get the shit kicked out of me by Life. And, as always, you're invited to share in my misadventures.

Next Week: The Top 5 Things To Do In The Valley!
**Spoiler alert, the same thing is listed 5 times.**