I’m still learning to play the mandolin. It’s been slow going, but I haven’t given up yet. What I find MOST interesting is that there are so many people out there who play some kind of instrument but you’d never know it if you didn’t ask. I continue to be amazed by musicians, artists and the like who seem to just naturally KNOW how to play music, create art, write, etc. It really is a gift. What I’ve also discovered, and continue to realize, is that even if you are not naturally talented or gifted, it really doesn’t matter. The more you practice and just continue to DO what you enjoy, the better you will become at it. The key here is ‘enjoy’. Once you stop enjoying something, really, what’s the point?

I’ve taken a whack at just about everything. Last summer it was a writing class, and for a few summer’s before that it was Pottery (wheel throwing). I really loved pottery, and will probably do it again. I enjoyed the writing class but honestly, felt a bit out of place. I write because I enjoy writing, but I am admittedly not a big reader and because of this I wasn’t able to participate in most of the banter the class liked to engage in. It was still enjoyable, I just felt like a poser.

As for pottery. That’s just fun. I took wheel throwing while I was in college and loved returning to the ‘mud’. They offer fantastic classes at the Visual Arts Center downtown (formally known as the Hand Workshop). One day I’d love to teach an art class, or really, anything that inspires.

Here is a pic of some of my pottery. I have a few more pieces here and there, but you can see just about how far I got with it. Variations on a theme, really.

Squat and round.

Peter and I decided to run a half marathon. Yep. We’re doin’ it.

I don’t even really know why we’re doing it but I LOVE it. I’ve never been a long distance runner. Im more of a gym girl myself, pretty regular, but never a long distance runner. Its been interesting for me because what Im finding is that my biggest hurdle is my mind, my own thoughts as I run. I’m finding that it’s relatively easy to convince one’s self of what you CANT do. Its harder to convince yourself of what you CAN do. My mother (who happens to be turning 64 this weekend) is also running the half marathon.  Crazy, isn’t it?  We’ve all signed up for this fantastic training program with Sports Backers. They have a social networking site and everything (I lifted the picture below from one of the pictures from their website), so its pretty cool.

Either way, I’ve decided I have to blog about it. The training program is 3 months long, and in the first week, we ran 23 miles and this week we are scheduled to run 22. Last Saturday we ran 7 miles. Sunday we ran 5. Monday was Cross-Training and today, 3 miles. Tomorrow 5 miles, Thursday 4 miles, and so on and so forth. It’s going to be a crazy ride. 

Max was my step brother.  When I first met Max and his sister Franni, I thought they were the coolest people I had ever met.  Franni had pink hair and Max had a rat tail about 15 inches long. Even though it wasn’t entirely cool to have a rat tail at the time, Max pulled it off. He wore thrift clothes and she wore Vintage. Franni, who was older by 4 or 5 years had her ears pierced multiple times. Max was cute and rode a skateboard. When our parents met, I was 11 years old.

Max was killed on a motorcycle when we were 17 years old. It was a stupid accident. He was going too fast on Cherokee Road.

I’ll never forget the evening before Max died. We were sitting on the deck, smoking a cigarette after dinner. Out of nowhere, Max started asking me a series of questions. I don’t remember them all, but they way it went was something like this: He would ask a question and your answer would somehow relate to something else. For example, ‘If you were a body of water, what kind of water would you be?’ Supposedly, however you answered would somehow reflect how you felt about relationships or friends or something like that.

I don’t remember all the questions he asked. I only remember one. “If you were asleep and someone turned on the light and woke you up, what would be your reaction?” My answer was: curious.  I would be curious if I was asleep and someone turned on the light and woke me up. Who turned on the light, and why?  He then explained to me that that this was how I felt about death. Strangely enough, he was right. I am pretty curious about death. Not scared really, just curious.

So, I asked him the same question: “If you were asleep and someone turned the light on and woke you up, what would be your reaction?” His reply was: angry. He explained how he would be angry if someone turned the light on and woke him up. He then went on to say that he had always been angry towards death, ever since his grandfather died. To him it was as if death  took something away, and that made him angry.

Max died on April 26th, 1990. 19 years ago. To this day I still think about that conversation. It was the last conversation we every had. I wonder if somehow he knew he was going to die. Not a conscious thing, but something else. I wonder if he sensed that he would never marry, he would never have children, he would never ride his motorcycle again.

Max’s life and death taught me something precious and profound. Life is short. Relationships matter. And Rush really does rock. This one, Max, is dedicated to you.

I’ve decided to ‘re-ignite’ my passion for writing. Its a bit strange with a blog, seeing how you never really know who’s reading, but its my passion so I figure I might as well write and care not who reads.

I’m reading a book right now called Julie/Julia. Ya, that’s the one. The one that’s a movie w/ Meryl Streep and the girl who’s married to Borat. Its a cutesy book, but exactly the kind of book I enjoy reading. The way I see it, my brain is heavy enough as it is so when I read I prefer light. 

So, in this book Julie documents her adventures making recipes from Julia Child. Its a cute book and for now, its my inspiration to start blogging again. Not even sure what I want to write about, but I plan to just write, whatever, whenever. I’m tempted to post a recipe for Banana Bread or Power Bars, but for now Im just going to leave it at that. I’m going to recommit to my commitment to write.

I sued a psychic. 

Back in my early 20’s, I went through a terrible phase. You know, confused, scared, unsure of my future, etc. Not unlike like any other 20-something, really. The only difference was that I thought my problems could be solved by visiting a psychic.

I found  ’Psychic Readings By Sheila’ (actual names have been changed) through a colleague of mine who met her at makeup demonstration at the mall. Believe it or not, this particular makeup counter hired  a psychic to entertain the ladies as they had makeovers and from what I was told, ‘Psychic Readings By Sheila’ was absolutely incredible. Such insight! And so accurate! That was all I needed to hear.  I grabbed the Yellow Pages and gave her a call.

‘Psychic Readings By Sheila’ was one of those places you pass on the street with a sign in the yard of a big HAND that says: Fortune Teller. I had always wanted to go in to one of those places but I could never bring myself to do it. Not this time though. I was at rock bottom.

So, I arrive at her house and knock on the door. I ask her if she is Sheila, she says ‘Yes’, and we sit on her couch. She explained her rate and how the process worked. I couldn’t get started fast enough. My memory is pretty bad, but I think the initial reading was about $45. Little did I know, this was just the beginning of a series of cash exchanges which would ultimately lead us to court.  

After the initial reading, Sheila convinced me that she needed additional cash to meditate on because she had to break a terrible spell that had been placed on me.

Yes. Let’s all take a moment to reflect on that. So, Im 20-something, scared about my future, and now I find out that  there’s this ‘terrible spell’ that I now  have to deal with. Great. Just great.

So, the good news, I come to find, is that Sheila (of course) knows how to break this terrible spell.  She also assured me that any additional money I give her will be returned to me after our work is complete. Like an idiot, I believe her. Over the course of 3-4 months, I give her close to $1,000 in cash which of course she promises will be returned to me.

And here’s where it gets fun.

After a while I decide its time to get my money back. My first request was by phone and Sheila said without hesitation,  ’Sure thing. No problem! Come on over to the house and I will give you your money back.’  So, I go to her house, knock on the door,  an noone answers. Hmmm…

And this is how it goes for nearly a month. I call and get her machine. I go to the house, and noone answers the door. I leave message after message with no avail.  She was avoiding me like the plague and I had no idea what to do. At first I was really, really scared and thought for sure I would never get my money back. But then something interesting happened. I got mad. 

I decided I had been taken advantage of enough and left her a final message saying that if I didn’t hear back from her in a week, I was taking her to court. 

Now Im sure by now your asking yourself, “But the title of this is ‘Makeup, Psychics, and Judge Judy’. What does Judge Judy have to do with any of this??” 

I’ll tell you exactly what Judge Judy has to do with this. No more than ONE WEEK after I filed my case in small claims court, I got a letter. The letter was from Los Angeles. It was from the Judge Judy Show. I kid you not. I guess they have staff who spend their time researching court cases but sure enough, I got a letter asking me to hold my trial on the Judge Judy Show! They even offered to fly myself and a family member to LA for free, as well as  $200 stipend. 

In a way ,that letter was the best thing that could have ever happened. First, I realized that I really wasn’t cursed, but rather just stupid.  Second, this really WAS pretty damn funny, and third, if I wanted to, my story would make GREAT trash TV. 

Looking back, maybe I should have done it. I mean, how many chances does one have to be on the Judge Judy Show? But, in the end, I just wanted my money back and to somehow forget having ever been so humiliated.

I learned a lot of  lessons that Summer, but above all else I learned that there is a place for everything in this world. There is a place for makeovers, there is a place for Psychics, and there is a place for The Judge Judy Show.

It was my first, and only year at Crestwood Elementary School. I didn’t have any friends and for some reason, two girls decided they didn’t like me. Maybe it was my hair? I have no idea. So, over the course of the year, they made fun of me and ‘taunted’ me as 4th grade girls tend to do, until one day they did something terrible.

I was sitting in class, minding my own business, and got the call over the loud speaker: ‘Jana Olshansky, please report to Principle Hick’s office, Jana Olshansky, please report to Principle Hick’s office’. I can almost remember thinking to myself, ‘Maybe I forgot my lunch and my mom brought it to school?’, but alas.. I was in trouble.

Minutes after I arrived at Principle Hick’s office, his assistant (or whomever he hired out to do his dirty work), said very sternly to me, “Jana, we know what you did. Did you think we wouldn’t know it was you?’. I of course was totally confused but proceeded to follow this very angry woman to the girls bathroom where in Big Black Letters was written on the wall: ‘Mr Hicks Sucks D**ks, by……….. Jana’ .

“WHAT??” I thought to myself.. “I WAS FRAMED! TOTALLY FRAMED!” Could this really be happening?? And the worse part about it was that they went so far as to bring a paper I had written in one of my classes and tried to convince me that a handwriting ’specialist’ had compared the graffiti in the bathroom to my handwriting and it was a perfect match!! I lost it. I begged, I cried. I even tried to explain, that even I, this scraggly blond haired child would first, never say anything terrible about Principle Hicks, but even if I did, I would never sign my own name!! But in the end,  it didn’t matter. They wanted a scapegoat — and I was it.

So, that’s what happened. That’s my story. To this day, I hold deep psychological scars from when I was framed in the 4th grade.