Update REDUX.....

So, the new website is officially done.

The address for the site is www.ilyanalanai.com

If you want the direct link for the blog it's www.ilyanalanai.com/blog

Hope you like:)

Update

Hey!

I haven't abandoned you. I have just been working furiously on a new website and my book. As well as spending an entire week in bed, doing absolutely nothing, including showering, as I cleaned furiously, became a domestic goddess by actually using my oven to cook instead of as a storage unit, watching the first 3 entire seasons of Sex and the City and and reruns of CSI Miami and eating everything in sight. Fun times had by all.... all being just me, as the boyfriend looked at me and repeatedly asked, "Who are you and what have you done with my girlfriend!"

Happy Post Thanksgiving:)

Mindless Eating?

Professor studies psychology- why do we eat mindlessly?”

Recently, Dr. Brian Wansink published a book called, “Mindless Eating: Why we eat more than we think.” I would like to take Dr. Wansink to task. He says that, "The more people, the more you eat, up to 90% more than you eat when you're alone." Well, as an amateur with no PhD to wave around, I tend to believe that Dr. Wansink thoroughly researched this subject, I'm just not sure he accounted for all subjects. Because see, there is a demographic of people *cough* single twentysomething chicks* cough* who I think might dissagree with his assesment. In fact, I would just like to ask Dr. Wansink if he has he ever gone out to dinner with four, single twenty-five year old woman? Particularly, but not limited to, those from L.A., New York or Miami.

I think not, because if he did, then he would know that rule # 1 is “don’t look like the food whoring pig.” In other words, when we go out we order a salad or grilled chicken. And absolutely no dessert. In fact, when the waiter comes to ask, we all look at one another hoping, praying that someone will say, “Yes, bring me that tiramisu, STAT” and then we can follow suite.But alas, this never happens, because no one wants to be the topic of conversation. “Can you believe she ate that Chocolate Mousse. And she wonders why she has a gut.” No, we choose instead to indulge in the pleasures of fattening fare in solitude. In the privacy of our living rooms as we watch “ Greys Anatomy" and "What about Brian” wondering why two of the most beautiful men ever aren’t fighting each other for the honor of marrying us. We eat alone in shame, but with profound pleasure. Dulce de Leche'Ice Cream, chips, Starbucks Vanilla Fraps…. If no one see’s it, it must not have happened. Right?

We look for the answer to our neurosis at the bottom of the brownie pan or chunky monkey bowl. But always in private, or if very close, with only 1 other. A best-friend who is sworn to secrecy. Of course there are exceptions to this rule, one petite Asian with a stomach like a hoover vacuum comes to mind, but then she bucks all tradition:)

We may eat mindlessly, but we are very conscious of those around us, what they are eating, and what we want them to witness going into our mouths. Call me Dr. Wansink, I can teach you all about it.

Shopping for Friends

So, he keeps telling me I need to make new friends, new LOCAL friends. Like it's just that easy. I'm not 16, or even 20 for that matter, where I'm in high school or college, and we are forced to see each other everyday so why not become buddies. I don't have a 9-5 office job, so no fertile ground there for picking up new friends. No. The only regular place I go to everyday is Barnes and Noble, and well, most of the people here are just strange. There is a girl sitting across from me, just from listening to random conversation I've learned that she is studying to be a nurse, never lets her roots grow in, and is engaged. She's pretty, seems to study a lot( a quality I like in a friend.... she's no lazy moron) and not single, which when you aren't single, you like to befriend people who aren't desperately seeking a man, and want you to accompany them on that mission. But I don't know......, she hasn't given me any kind of opening, a smile, a hey, I'm open to making new friends, kind of look. And I don't know how much we might actually have in common... Does she listen to Kelis and John Legend, does she know about the beef between Game and 50 Cent. Does she watch the Wire??? I wouldn't bet on it.

When I was walking into the cafe today, I was alongside a girl who looked to be my age, maybe a little younger, cute, sort of shaped like me, I think she was Spanish, maybe Cuban, or maybe Italian.... she told me how she loved my dress and smiled a really warm smile. This probably happens a few times a week, a girl complimenting my clothes, or shoes... This should be my opening. "Hey, you like the way I dress... that's already something in common, LETS BE FRIENDS!!!" But instead I just politely thank them and tell them where to go shopping. I am too shy... Too afraid of rejection. Too afraid of picking up a friend I will later decide is all wrong for me. This is why I was never much of a dater. One of my best-friends now, was picked up by my one of my OTHER best-friends... because she has balls. She said, "Hey, lets get her number." And just walked up to her and started talking to her. I can't do that. I don't know how! But if this is to be my home, then I really need to start meeting girls. If anyone knows anyone in Miami, please, let me know... I can use all the help I can get.

Things unsaid

She was my best-friend. She may not know she still is. But things are different now. We hurt each other in different ways, the injuries inflicted on each of us just the same. I miss her so much sometimes it hurts. It's not that we don't speak. We do. But its infrequent. No longer completely effortless. There was a time we practically lived together. Wrapping our arms around one another in protection. I wasn't there when she needed me most. I couldn't be. I wasn't even the same person, and I needed to negotiate that in my own mind.

She needed my compassion, my protection, my love and hugs and kisses. She needed me to hold her hand. But I couldn't. I was incapable. She said hurtful things to me. Things that burned deep and dark holes in my heart. But she felt justified. She felt the person she desperately needed abandoned her. And I did. But not with malice, not with intention, not with lack of love. I was paralyzed. Emotionally paralyzed. I couldn't expect anyone to understand this. Especially not someone who had always been there for me. I'm like a dog in many ways, I love unconditionally and can take many hits on the nose. But too many eventually makes me crawl away with my tail between my legs. If someone said "Fuck You" to me I was never good at yelling "Fuck You" back. And because of this, resentment builds up. Add to0 that emotional paralysis and you create a deadly cocktail. I was too vulnerable. Too naked then. I couldn't take the chance of being hurt. But in pulling away, I cheated myself. And her.

I missed her babies growing up. I missed being an Auntie. I missed hours of figuring out how many different times we could call something "pastel-ee" or turn even the most random thing into some silly sports metaphor. Going a day only saying things we had heard Walt Clyde Frazier exclaim during a Knick Game. We had our own secret language. But then, she does with everyone. She's just that kind of person. She can turn the most mundane day into something to laugh about years later. We used to give each other little presents. Everyday. Just because. We even made lists of why we were best-friends. Silly yes...... but those are the things that you recall later in life, when you've moved away and know that no one on earth will ever replace that person.

I look back with hindsight and say, "I could have done things differently." But I couldn't have. I did the only thing I knew how at the time. I have to live with my behavior, as does she. But there are no villians or heroes in this story. Just two people who shared and still do share a friendship rare and special. I should have been able to deal. But I couldn't. It shouldn't have mattered how many things I was mad at her about, or how I feared she might scar me again. We were best-friends. We love each other, the good, the bad and the ugly. I love you. This is my apology for years past, for regretful things, for not being there and wishing more than ever that I was. I miss you and miss you fiercly. In my darkest hours, my most vulnerable moments, it is you for some reason that I want to cling too. It's with you I wish I could take refuge. I wish I was there or you were here. And I wish I could turn back time.

Love and War

Love is turmoil. She knows this. Her heart breaks like shards of a mirror. The distorted reflection stares back at her. Broken. She cries. And cries and cries. She yells. But all she feels is tired. Tired of the tears. Tired of the fighting. Arguments that never end, 360 degrees of insanity. Dirty words launched like nuclear missiles. When is enough enough, she asks herself. Will love conquer war? It never does. But she holds out hope. Hope is her currency. She sees the best in him. She loves him. But sometimes, his love is so painful it makes her want to crawl into a corner to die. End it all. "It's too much." She says. "I will never measure up. Never." She thinks. "I would love you better." Others tell her. But she doesn't want them. She wants him. Him only. She wants to look into his eyes and know that no one in the world will hurt her. He will protect her always. But instead he is the enforcer of her torture. He protects her from everyone but himself. He wields the knife that cuts her 100 different ways. But she believes in him. So she wraps her wounds up in gauze, wipes away her tears and holds her head high. She will live on faith. On Hope.....

Girl seeks help

I want help. I think I need help. I feel completely out of control. I was told time and time again to see someone but I thought I was ok. I was in denial. But now I know. There is no hoping it will get better. I need professional help. But I am scared. Nervous. I've always been more porous than others. My skin's never been thick. Instead it's always been more like gauze, soaking up everything. I've always been sensitive. But hardly ever angry. Nearly never irritated. Almost always absurdly patient. That has changed. Now, I go from happy to angry to irritated back to apathetic, all in a matter of seconds. A loud voice can drive my nerves to a breakdown. Waiting in impossibly slow lines can make me want to yell, yell at the top of my lungs. I try my best to curb this. I try, in vain, to control this. But it's not possible. I have absolutely no buffer. No rational. Nothing. I am powerless. And that is such a scary place to be.

They say that after a stroke, or any traumatic brain injury for that matter, that you are never the same person. Many have severe, significant personality changes. For others, it manifests itself more subtly.

They say that post-stroke we tend to be cautious, hesitant, anxious and disorganized when faced with an unfamiliar problem. *Check.*

We can suffer from "emotional lability", excessive crying that often has little relationship to sadness or what is happening around them. We might not be sad when crying, happy when laughing or angry when hostile. *Check*

The stroke survivor may seem a different person, showing feelings of anger, caution or anxiety that are completely out of character. The affected individual may also feel like less of a person. *Check*

They may become very sensitive to and often fearful of changes in their environment, and will thus benefit from, and be comforted by, an effectively established routine. *Check*

Many stroke survivors are overwhelmed by too much stimulation. *Hell yeah, CHECK*

Even minor brain damage affects a memory related area of behaviour called quality control. This refers to how well individuals check and control their own behaviour. A previously fastidious person may fail to bathe or zip his fly, or a formerly polite person may become rude and profane. *Check.*

I don't want medication. I don't want to be modified by Prozac or Zoloft. I want my old brain back. I want to be able to feel like my emotions aren't constantly spinning out of control. My boyfriend says I have no concept of reality now. He says that what I perceive, what I see, hear and understand, is almost always wrong. Sometimes, I know he is just saying this to get his way. But all too often, when faced with incontrovertible evidence, I become terrified. And anxious. Confused and profoundly sad, frustrated. I can't continue to live like this. I need help. But I feel paralyzed to get it. I don't know why. Complete and total paralysis..... Pick up a phone. Make an appointment. Simple....

If only it was.

I can paint her the way I want

I am a perfectionist. See that ^ - it's a picture of my room. Okay, not really. But it could be. I write and edit and re-write and I'm never happy. I'm not talking about this blog. This is where I come to express my most incoherent, disaterous self. This isn't work. This doesn't get edited. But my actual job, writing a Novel, tentatively entitled "That Dating Lives of Butterflies" is fast becoming "The Never Ending Edit." Every night I go to sleep after hours sitting in front of my little Dell laptop, thinking what I've written is brilliant, only to wake up the next day and say, "Oh god, this fucking sucks." And the process begins all over again. I read everything like a script, I attribute voices to all of the characters, Who would play them in a movie? Does this ring true? I will ask myself when reading dialogue I've written. I'm obsessed, everything has to be just right.



I've always been a drama queen. At least in my own mind. An only child, we tend to live in our own little heads, our own carved out worlds. We don't have brothers and sisters to play with, just ourselves.... My mother, not big on playing Barbie with me, would throw me a book and tell me to entertain myself. So I read, and read and read. And then made up my own stories. I never knew I wanted to be a writer. I was a professional dancer up till my twenties and in college majored in Psychology. I wanted to help people. I wanted to save the world. Go into Americorps, Doctors without Borders. For various reasons, that dream never came true. Mainly my mother forbidding me. One day I will rebel against her demands, I just might be 70 before that happens.

I have to finish soon. I have deadlines. Deadlines make me nervous. Very nervous. When I was working as a magazine writer, juggling two to three stories at a time I never met deadline. "I need an extention." I would beg.I was very bad that way. But I refused to turn something in until it was, in my opinion, good enough to bear my name under it. Of course, my editors would take what I wrote and butcher it, infuriating me. But that is par for the course in journalism. Those who can't write, Edit. ( Okay, that sounds a bit harsh, but seriously.... ask most writers.)

Now, this isn't an article. I'm not writing about 50 Cent or Mark Wahlberg or The New England Patriots anymore. This is mine, all mine. I decide what the finished product looks like, even if I have to fight hard for what I want. I have control. So I write, and edit, and write and edit... I come to Barnes and Nobles Cafe everyday, grab my table in the corner, order my Vanilla Latte, Turkey Sandwhich and Fiji Water and get to work. But I'm scared.

I'm afraid my once fabulous Butterflies are starting to look like this. Dull and lifeless. What if everyone hates them. They have to be exciting, crazy, full of life. Butterflies, my metaphor for New York Twentysomething's emerging from girl to womanhood, trying to find their way in the often crazy, senseless city that is New York, dating the wrong guys, wearing the wrong clothes,suffering in the wrong jobs, saying the wrong things. Making your way out of 25 in Manhattan uscathed is harder then hitting the Powerball jackpot.

Soon I won't have any more time to edit. Soon, I will have to let this baby go. But part of me doesn't want to. While I have her I can nurture her, guide her, paint her the way I want. I suppose that the only thing that matters is that I love them. If nobody else does, well....... fuck 'em:)

"The Dating Lives of Butterflies."
- coming soon

Not the marrying kind

This past weekend was my future sister-in-laws bridal shower. The theme was Arabian Nights, although the catered food was Chinese and the music was mostly Reggae and Soca. The only thing seemingly Arabian about the night were the two belly dancers who came to perform and do an impromptu class. But neither of them were Arab, in fact one was Chinese, and kind of old, but moving on......

We were asked to bring gifts to "fill the lingerie drawer." Pink bags and boxes with silver bows dominated the table, nearly everyone buying from Victorias Secret, with a vibrator and a stripper pole thrown in for good measure. The bride looked happier than I had ever seen, at peace even. But the more time passed, the more I started to wonder if I was really the marrying kind. My mother has been married four times. She left her first husband, a Russian Basketball player because he was "Boring." She left her second husband, a prestigious Russian Plastic Surgeon,because he was "Controlling." She used her third husband to get out of the country. He died of a heart attack shortly thereafter, too quick for her to divorce him. On the telephone a few months ago, when talking about men and marriage she actually said to me, "Men aren't for marriage, they are for Transportation....." as in from one country and into another. From the day I could understand words, the first one's my mother said to me were "Do not get married. Marriage is a raw deal for a woman."

Though this was and still is my mothers mantra, I've always taken it with a grain of salt. She's been happily married to my father for over 25 years. She claims that she only agreed to marry him because she needed a good father for her children, and my brother loved him and begged her. My brother says she was dating three scumbags at the time, one was really fat and a chain smoker, and my mother couldn't pick a decent man if a gun were put to her head. My dad was the only nice looking, decent human being in the bunch. In many ways, I am my mothers daughter; in more ways than I wish to accept, actually. I have made emergency exits from relationships simply because I was bored, and I have tried to make work one's that were ticking timebombs. I have horrible taste in the opposite sex. Completely untrustworthy taste. The truth is that for much of my life, if I've really liked a guy, he must be really really bad for me.

My brother and sister have both ended up divorced, most of the marriages or committed relationships I know are filled with betrayal or unhappiness. As I age into my late twenties, and many of my friends are already in their thirties, they are marrying, or desperately wanting to get married because they think it's "time." They marry for things like security.....Convenience. They marry because they feel they have to or opportunity will pass them by. For women, carrying a baby after age 35 greatly increases the chance of miscarriage, as well as a host of other problems. The only thing that even makes me truly want to be married is having a child. I've lived with someone now for almost three years, sharing everything, for all intents and purposes, living a married life. Getting married would change little more than tax returns and health insurance benefits. I've never been the girl that fantasized about the wedding dress and cake and extravagant party. The only thing I do think about, often now... is my daddy walking me down the aisle. If I were to wait too long to get married, and my father weren't there, I would be devastated.

I am completely screwed up, lovable and unlovable in so many ways. Can I expect someone to commit to that for a lifetime? I don't know. I'm so fragile, to give someone my solemn oath to love and be faithful to them, and then be betrayed later would crush me to pieces. I suppose that is the chance we all take, but I would like to look around me and see that the odds for happiness and commitment were better. I not sure if I'm the marrying kind yet, I don't know. I suppose you'll just have to wait for the wedding invitations:)

Lucky Girl

"You are a very lukcy girl. Do you know that?" He said quite sternly and seriously.
As I sat in the opthamalogist's chair, my eyes heavy and numb from the drops, I laughed.... It's always the same laugh, hearty and easy going, as they look me over and shake their heads in what always seems like disbelief. I laugh because its what I've come to do.

The doctor didn't seem to find any humor in my laughter, in my casual way of shrugging it off, my easy going smile. He wanted a sign that I understood. "Be grateful you can see what you do. Once your optic nerve was damaged it is irreversible. Final. Nothing can be done to restore your sight. "

"So basically, your saying I'm screwed." I replied, sadly.

"Yes. But you do understand, you are a very lucky girl."

It happened 3 and 1/2 years ago, what now seems like another lifetime in many ways. The day started out much like any other. My best-friend(and roommate at the time )asked me to go shopping with her, she wanted to redecorate. So off we went to 18th street and 6th avenue, an afternoon of shopping at Bed Bath and Beyond. I became increasingly exhausted as time passed, at one point looking for somewhere, anywhere to sit down. We then ventured uptown to 44th st for dinner at our local Caribbean Restaurant, Island Spice. We talked about the usual things, boys, clothes and interior decorating. It was a night like any other........

Shortly after arriving home the phone rang. A dear friend, at the time playing for the Local Professional Football team wanted to make sure we were coming to his birthday party. "Please come, he said. Come for me, it will be fun." I hung up and before I could take two steps the phone rang again. I thought it was him again, but instead it was my fathers stern voice. "Don't go to the party." He said. "You sound exhausted. Go lay down, your friend will understand." I shrugged him off, in the way I often do. "I'm NOT foolin around with you, go lay down." He admonished me. I promised I would- and hung up the phone. Instead of going to my bed I grabbed my makeup bag and hairbrush and tried to transform myself into something at least semi- presentable. Any other night I would have obeyed my fathers wishes, but on that night, something told me I was ok, something told me to show up, at least make an appearance. Besides, my roommate desperately wanted to go and I didn't want to disappoint her. It would be ok. Two minutes after entering the bathroom I went blind. I wasn't all at once, it started slowly. It was methodic, like a wave....first my peripheral went dark gray...then black, moving across to the center until there was nothing. Complete darkness.

I fell straight to the floor, between a porcelain pedestal sink and toilet, just 6 inches between the two, without so much as banging my head on either. Straight down I fell, and as I'm told, started seizing violently on the cold bathroom floor. My best-friend said she heard a big sigh and then a thud before she found me. 911 was called and I was rushed by ambulance to the local hospital. Originally thought to just be having seizures alone, I was medicated and set to be released that night. A drug overdose, the doctors insisted. I must have taken something to make me have the seizures. They interrogated my roommate, who nearly laughed in their faces. "She's never taken a drug in her life. She doesn't drink. Something is wrong with her!" She tried to explain to them. They only believed her when the toxicology report came back negative. But the seizures never stopped, and increased in time and intensity. They soon discovered that 3/4's of my brain was flooded with water, swollen, and they couldn't see anything underneath it. I was critical they said, and every Neurologist on call was called in to assess me. I needed brain surgery they all concluded. Seven different neurologists looked at my brain and said it needed to be operated on, relieve the swelling, take a biopsy. Only One disagreed. One fought for me. One, demanded they give me 24 hours to fight. I was young, he said, I deserved a chance. If nothing changes then shave her head and take out a chunk of her brain, he said. They put me into an induced coma and waited to see. The next day I awoke, nearly blind but aware of what was going on around me, albeit it all seemed like a fog. I was sick.... that's what I knew. I couldn't process much else.

Everyone who came to examine me came with a look of deep concern on their face. They told my parents things were very serious, would be touch and go, and they would be lucky if I was a vegetable. They asked if I had been out of the country recently, could I have West Nile, it could be a brain tumor they told my mom and dad, or..... a stroke. I was completely paralyzed on my right side, couldn't recall words, remember anything longer than a few minutes past. I would pass in and out of sleep for weeks. Every day my hospital room was filled with people, my parents and friends, but to this day I don't remember anything that took place during that time. Spinal taps eliminated West Nile, or any virus for that matter. I was negative for the tumor..... I must have had a stroke, but the clot, a venous thrombosis, passed through the vein to my brain, making it much harder to find then obvious clots in arteries. Why... they couldn't understand. "She's so young." Everyone said. The next few months were spent relearning everything. How to hold myself up, balance, walk, write my name, read, open food. I was transferred to Mount Sinai, put into the same unit with Spinal Cord injuries. It was the most horrible, sad and yet amazing experience of my life.

I met an artist named Mickey from Soho, paralyzed after tumbling down her stairs after tripping over a box she had just packed for her move to a new apartment. I met Jorge and Jose, both from South America, both day workers injured on the job, falling off of roofs. They had never met before their injuries and yet had grown close like brothers. They always smiled, flirted with me every day, and laughed, often. They were completely paralyzed... forever. Jose's parents came everyday, adopting his new friend like a member of the family as his real family was back in his old country. The parents were full of support, unconditional love. Next to me, in my morning physical therapy class sat The 60 yr old Professor. He never spoke. Was always very solemn. Many thought mean or angry. I sensed something else. Profound sadness. He was diagnosed with late stage Cancer, unable to use his right leg following the surgery. Every day I sat next to him, and every day I tried to make him smile. My work eventually paid off... As I suspected, he was deeply depressed, afraid of his fate, frustrated with his body. But soon he began opening up, talking to people, even laughing. Finally, there was Ray. My age, about to graduate from the school of Pharmacy at Syracuse, I believe. He had been transferred over from the hospital Christopher Reeve was in after his injury. Ray had been in a car accident. He and his friends had been driving back from college after a night of drinking. They asked the completely sober designated driver to drive- and he did. What no one calculated was that though not drunk, he would speed, and they would all end up driving off a mountain into a ravine. All suffering miraculously little more than a scratch. All but Ray, who when the paramedics arrived believed to be dead and called the coroner, only realizing at the last minute he was actually alive. Ray was brought in, in his wheelchair with a shaved head and a huge scar down the middle of his head, down his neck to his back. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He didn't even want to look up. He would look at me, occasionally... and I understood. Eventually, we became close. We clung to each other in many ways... though the circumstances were different, the anger, the frustration, the fears we felt were the same.

I felt guilty the day I left. In many ways, I didn't want to leave the friends I had made. I especially didn't want to leave Ray, who would he laugh with? Who would he rehab with? Who would he trust..... And what would the world outside hold for me. I was no longer the same. I didn't move the same or think the same. I was moving in slow motion while everyone else went 100 mph. The next 6 months were spent back and forth to a different hospital, physical and occupational therapy every other day. I visited Ray shortly after I left Sinai, I would bring him magazine's like Stuff and Maxim, anything with hot girls. I could walk now, not well, but well enough to stay upright. Ray would never walk again. He would be released soon, back home to his parents. He was afraid.... how would they take care of him, they had to build wheelchair friendly rails into the house. I was so lucky, he would tell me, without any jealousy or envy. Just a sincere sentiment, one that I knew I should cherish. I was lucky. I would never regain all my sight. I would stutter, tremor and lose the ability to balance, walk if fatigued. I wouldn't be able stand bright or flashing light. I would have intense burning nerve pain down my right side. I would have seizures. But over time, I would learn to compensate. I would learn my limits. I was NOT a vegetable. And I wasn't paralyzed.

I was lucky. I AM lucky. I know this. Maybe sometimes I start to ask for too much, forgetting how far I've come. Maybe I become greedy. But never ungrateful. And I'll never stop laughing.