It Happened in Barstow

I met the love of my life on a Las Vegas turnaround that didn't quite make it to Las Vegas.

The UPS man at the job I'd just quit had invited some of my girlfriends, who in turn invited me. So on a weekend when I was supposed to be picking up extra work formatting a dreadfully dull RFP, I found myself on a bus instead.

Our bus tour didn't take us to the famed Las Vegas Strip. It took us to the Nevada state line, where a few random, low-rent casinos rose randomly, but not necessarily majestically, out of the desert. The kind with old ladies and nickel slots.

There on the bus was a cute, cute guy. I guessed him to be in his mid-late 30's. 6'1". 180 pounds. Brown-skinned. Kinda wavy hair, with just a hint of grey. Big eyes.

Cute.

He didn't talk to me. I didn't talk to him.

But I definitely noticed him. And as it turned out, he definitely noticed me. (He later confessed that he followed me around the casino, where, in his words, I flitted like a butterfly from slot machine to slot machine.)

On the way back, the bus pulled over at the McDonald's in Barstow.

We were in line at the same time. Our eyes met.

That was all.

I was almost 27 years old.

It had been six months since I'd escaped from my Great Aunt and moved into my own apartment. It had been a year-and-a-half since the worst of my casting-couch experiences.

And it's probably no exaggeration to say that I was experiencing post-traumatic stress disorder. I had nightmares about Stripper Pimp and the other Hollywood users and losers who had crossed my path.

And I had a new wound I was trying to heal. A month before, I'd had a one-night stand with a guy who came inside of me, even though he knew I wasn't on the pill. So on top of feeling easy and terribly unloved, I was also worried about pregnancy and HIV.

When I saw the cute guy on the bus, the question that arose from deep inside of me was, Why can't I ever have a guy like that?

Nearly a month later, I got a surprise phone call from one of my girlfriends at the former job. Some guy from the trip was looking for me. He'd given his phone number to the UPS guy, who gave it to my girlfriend, who gave it to me.

I hoped and prayed it was the cute, cute guy from the bus.

It was.

And he totally changed the trajectory of my life, mostly for good.

(Brown Diaries Part 1 of 18: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 | Lessons Learned 1-3: 1 2 3)

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Putting Off the Next Chapter

I'm still in love with my ex.

That's how I think of him. As my ex.

We were never married. We never lived together.

And our relationship only lasted 18 months.

But in a sea of meaningless, dysfunctional, short-term, botched romances, he stood out from the pack.

Because he was the first person I ever really truly loved. And losing him was devastating, even though I broke up with him, and I was the one who walked away.

I've been putting off this chapter for weeks.

He's the one I just don't want to write about.

Because he's the one I've never been able to replace.

And now, nearly 10 years after we went kaput, it's time for me to move on.

Completely.

Emotionally, spiritually, mentally, romantically.

Maybe just getting it all on paper and putting it out there will help me finally move on.

The Legend of Olaf Olaffson

I have an imaginary husband. His name is Olaf Olaffson.

Now, before I tell you all about him, please just keep one thing in mind. He was conceived in a tent. In the wee hours of the morning. After many a tequila shot.

He is what happens when two imaginative women put their collective (and tipsy) heads together to create the perfect man.

My friend Chief had taken me camping. Chief used to be my boss, and thank God, she adopted me. She is part dear friend, part big sister, part mentor, part mom, part partner in crime.

So Chief and I were in a tent, after liberally taste-testing three or four different kinds of really expensive tequila, when the subject turned to what kind of man would be right for me.

I was in bitter black woman mode, so I decided he definitely wasn't a brother. And if I was going to go white, why not go European?

I speak a spattering of Italian, so Italy might have been a good choice. However, having been burned by a two-timing Italian, I ruled out the entire country.

I also crossed England and France off the list. My limited interaction with co-workers from Southern Europe had left the impression that they were lazy, rude and always on holiday.

Germans were known for their strong work ethic, but they were also known for World War II.

Hmmm.

I'd had great experience with co-workers from Northern Europe. They seemed really smart, and they spoke impeccable English.

Ok.

My perfect man would be from Norway.

His name? Olaf.

Here's his complete dossier:

• Name: Olaf Olaffson.
  
  
• Occupation: Norwegian Billionaire. He rescues me from a life of working for the man, because he is the man.
  
  
• How I Know He Loves Me: He built me a beautiful heated tunnel made of ice and crystals that takes me straight from his castle to his private jet, so on those rare occasions when we visit Norway, I never have to feel the cold or step in snow.
  
  
• Favorite Hobbies: Catering to my every whim and playing with Baby Ollie, our perfect progeny
  
  
• Best Quality: Outrageous sense of humor
  
  
• Best Movie Star Lookalike: Clive Owen
  
  

So I'm saying all that to say, if you know any gorgeous, sexy, funny Norwegian billionaires who are into pleasingly plump, pushing-40 black chicks, tell Olaf I'm waiting.

In the meantime, Mr. Mirage hasn't called.

Anatomy of a 10-Year Drought

Am amazing thing happened to me today. A good-looking guy asked me for my phone number. And I actually gave it to him.

This is a minor miracle. You see:

• Once you get past a size 14-16, most guys (even black guys) stop asking for your number.
  
  
• Most of the guys who still think I'm cute fall into the greasy fried chicken category. Some combination of country, over the age of 50, loud and/or wearing loud clothes.
  
  
• It's hard for guys to approach me. Even under the best of circumstances, I'm pretty oblivious. Other people have to point out when a guy is checking me out. I just don't see it.
  
  
• Even when asked, I almost never give out my number. I usually flat out refuse, or if I'm trying to be polite, I pretend I'm married.

It's been 10 years since my last relationship. Ten long, friggin' years.

The first two were spent grieving. You see, once upon a time, I fell madly, deeply, completely in love. I thought it would last forever. It didn't.

I spent the next two years in Weight Watchers trying to undo the byproduct of grief – chocolate!

Newly skinny again, I had my first slipup. After four years of miserable celibacy, I fell briefly into the arms of a two-timing Italian. After a few months, I kicked him to the curb.

Three years of celibacy and slavish devotion to Weight Watchers followed. I got laid off from my job, wrote a play, invested in headshots and tried once again to become a successful Hollywood actress.

Then I had a brief dalliance with a friend. I broke up with him a month after I broke up with Weight Watchers. And I broke up with acting a few months after that.

That was three years ago.

I went back to my first love – chocolate! I also went back to work – a joyless, brain-sucking day job. I gained back the 85 pounds that I lost in years 2-4. And my personal favorite, I became a church lady.

So yes, it's a minor miracle that a drop-dead gorgeous guy asked me for my number today.

Maybe it's the beginning of the end of my 10-year drought, or maybe it's just another mirage in the never-ending desert of Spinsterland. But whatever it is, it's a welcome diversion.

You're Only Dating Yourself

Somewhere in all my self-help travels, I had an epiphany about Semi-Homeless and every other Mr. Wrong I dated and mated.

On some level, I was dating who I was at the time.

Hard to wash that one down on an empty stomach, given the calvacade of losers that have made pit stops between my sheets.

But it's true.

When I met Semi-Homeless, I was a broke, broken, irresponsible, lost person who was sponging off my Great Aunt. And the only real difference between me and Semi-Homeless was the degree to which we were both broke, broken, irresponsible, lost and sponging off other people.

I looked better. I smelled better. I had a degree. But on a certain level, Semi-Homeless and I had a lot in common: We were both bums.

Opposites don't attract. The head on the coin and the tail on the coin look different on the surface, but they're made out of the same material and they're hiding out in the same wallet.

Are you dating a loser? Someone who's bad for you? Someone who seems to be your opposite?

Chances are, you're dating your own insecurities, your own disappointments, your own unresolved issues.

Get better.

I did.

(Semi-Homeless Diaries Parts 1-12: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 | Lessons Learned Part 2 of 2: 1 2)

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When in Crisis, Wait ... Don't Date

The most important lesson I learned from my Semi-Homeless debacle is that it's impossible to make good dating decisions when you're in the midst of a major life crisis.

When you're home situation is so bad you're spending 12 hours a day in the mall, you don't need a man. You need a new place to live.

When you're deeply depressed and suffering from an STD, you don't need a man. You need a doctor.

When you're broke and your career is in shambles, you don't need a man. You need a job.

Having a man is not going to make the mess you've made of your own life magically turn out alright.

It's up to you to save yourself.

Because the bum you pick up off the street – in my case, literally, not figuratively – is not going to make your life easier. He's going to be one more nasty, smelly problem for you to solve.

Please do yourself a favor, and just start solving the problems you already have.

(Semi-Homeless Diaries Parts 1-12: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 | Lessons Learned Part 1 of 2: 1 2)

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The Beginning of the Rest of My Life

Obviously, I didn't kill myself. After that rock-bottom night, I began the hard, slow task of pulling my life back together.

The first thing I did was decide that the quality of my life mattered more to me than my so-called acting career. And quality of life meant getting out of my Great Aunt's house and getting my own apartment. And getting my own apartment meant getting a real job with a real paycheck. And getting a real job with a real paycheck meant putting myself first. And putting myself first meant no more following other people's agendas for my life.

I definitively cut Semi-Homeless out of my life.

He continued to stalk me by telephone, sobbing into my answering machine and begging for this, that and the other. One day, he even resorted to leaving me a gift basket along with a poignant love letter: "You dropped something – my heart."

Oh, ick.

My mystery STD turned out to be trichomoniasis. A week of antibiotics vanquished the horrible parasite that had been stinking up my panties for nine months.

I advised Semi-Homeless to get tested, and replaced him with a guy from my acting class.

A white guy from my acting class. A 6'2", 200-pound, body-builder white guy who once doubled for Ah-nuld as a stunt man.

Was it a long-lasting, close, satisfying relationship?

No.

It was a relationship of sexual convenience.

But at least it was sane. Stunt Man looked good, smelled good, turned me on, owned his own home, and most importantly, had good sense.

I started packing. I didn't have a place to go yet, and I didn't have a job yet. But I was 100% clear that my days as a nursemaid were over.

Mr. Sweet Talker tried to lay the guilt on thick. "You are all that old lady has got. Don't leave her. She loves you. If you leave her, I don't know what will happen. You know, she doesn't have long to live."

Thank God, I didn't listen. Great Aunt outlived Mr. Sweet Talker. She outlived Neighborhood Watch. She even outlived her nephew, my Uncle Gaunt, who moved in after I left. She lived to be nearly 101. It took another 12 years before she finally passed away.

If I had stayed, she certainly would have outlived me. Because I would have slit my own throat.

Less than a month after nearly ending it all, I got a $35/hour gig, proofreading and formatting a sales proposal for AT&T. That was my moving money. And this time, I didn't let an abusive psychic con me out of it.

A few weeks after that, I had a job offer. It was a sucky secretarial job, but it was enough to live on. (And it led to me finding the love of my life. More on him later.)

A month after that, I found my own apartment, in the Mar Vista area of West Los Angeles, 12 miles and a world away from the grime and crime of South Central. I moved in September 1997, and it was the beginning of the rest of my life.

Not an easy life. Not a perfect life.

But a much, much better life than the casting couch / semi-homeless nightmare I'd just barely survived.

(Semi-Homeless Diaries Part 12 of 12: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 | Lessons Learned 1-2: 1 2)

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The Bleakest Night

Of course, Semi-Homeless refused to go quietly into the night.

When I realized I couldn't take him anywhere, because he wasn't even housebroken, I broke up with him. Not that that did any good.

He begged me to meet his mom. So the next day, off we went to the ghetto boondocks, better known as Lynwood, CA. I met his mom and sisters, who seemed like normal black folks of normal intelligence. His mom even confided, in an embarrassed voice, "I don't know why he turned out that way."

I broke up with him again. The next day, I woke up to three answering-machine messages, which I promptly deleted.

A few days later, I met a self-proclaimed mogul and would-be Motown impresario the same way I had met Stripper Pimp nine months before: from a bogus casting notice in the Hollywood trades. He talked the same sleazy game as Stripper Pimp. He would make me a star, but first, I had to prove I had the good sense to put out.

The thought of screwing that short, fat, no-name loser thrilled me about as much as tongue-kissing the foul-breathed Semi-Homeless. This new loser got three weeks of my time – time where he tried to rope me into a stupid pyramid scheme, time where I started learning Mary Wells songs because he promised I'd play her in a show, time listening to his lectures about how I needed to be smart enough to screw the right people, namely him.

At least this time, I didn't take the bait. I'd already tried selling my body, and all I had to show for it was seven months of a mystery STD that no amount of denial, herbs or supplements would heal.

I went out with Semi-Homeless one last time. He gave me a miniature rose-bud plant. I had no desire to care of it, just as I no longer had the desire to take care of him.

Ten days later, I told him yet again to get lost, that I didn't want to see him or talk to him "for the time being."

He asked, "Would a year be ok?"

A year might have been fine. But ten days later, there he was calling again and again and again and again and again. Leaving message after message that I never returned.

He was the last straw. The final proof that I was a loser. That my life was a joke.

I'd just turned 26. I'd been out of college four years. I'd been in Los Angeles one year.

And I had no money. No man. No job. No apartment. No acting credits. No career.

Nothing.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Except an endless, godawful future of taking care of my senile Great Aunt. An endless stream of stinky white stuff gushing into pantyliners. An endless, repetitive cycle of dating the wrong men. The endless disappointment of watching my dreams turn to dust.

I spent the darkest night of my life in my tiny little powder-blue bedroom. Crying.

All I could thing about was all the different ways I could end this misery. I could slash my wrists with a kitchen knife; I could O.D. on Great Aunt's blood-pressure medication; I could drink cleaning solution; I could drive down PCH and jump off the rocks into the icy, dark Pacific Ocean; I could stop my car on the train tracks and be demolished by a slow-moving freight.

There were all kinds of possibilities.

Or I could just try to spend as much time as possible in bed until the mood passed.

(Semi-Homeless Diaries Part 11 of 12: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 | Lessons Learned 1-2: 1 2)

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Malibu Boo-Boo

I'd been dating Semi-Homeless for four months, and it was starting to occur to me that if I hitched my wagon to his star, I'd soon be dragging the ground and eating dust while my head bounced off the concrete. For the first time since I gave up my virginity, I had no desire for sex at all. Zero libido. Zero.

Could it possibly be that my soulmate wasn't really my soulmate?

Two incidents answered that question once and for all.

The first was the arrival of my uncle, whom I'd only met once or twice in my life. He straggled into town on a Greyhound bus and came to see Great Aunt. I didn't know very much about him, and what I did know wasn't encouraging: He was a lifelong drug addict, and he and my dad didn't get along.

Needless to say, I was not looking forward to our reunion. I was afraid he'd steal my computer and rob Great Aunt blind.

My uncle was so tall and so bony, he looked like a skeleton. I'd never seen anyone so gaunt. But while I never felt comfortable around him, I quickly realized that Uncle Gaunt wasn't the crackhead ogre I made him out to be. Like the rest of the family, he was very intelligent (and hard to take).

I was driving Uncle Gaunt somewhere, and made a pit-stop at a strip mall where Semi-Homeless was painting a sign. Semi-Homeless made a point of introducing himself as my fiance, and Uncle Gaunt gave me a piercing look that plainly asked, "Have you lost your mind?"

I figured that if my down-and-out crackhead uncle thought I was nuts, maybe I truly was.

A few weeks later, on the four-year anniversary of my Yale graduation, came proof positive.

I drove Semi-Homeless to a beach in Malibu, for what was supposed to be an afternoon of relaxation. He had sprung for the food with his own money: fried chicken, supermarket sushi, cookies, Reese's, potato chips and soda. We had our little picnic, which consisted of him getting food all over his mouth and singing trite little love songs like an off-key 12-year-old. Turnoff, turnoff, turnoff.

Then he talked me into a massage. I half fell asleep as he rubbed my back, when suddenly he stopped. After a bit, I sat up and looked around to see where he was.

He was sandwiched between two sheriff's deputies, a big blond lady officer and a male officer. They were pat-searching him. I called out his name, and they all turned and looked at me. He held out his hands as if to command me to stop, and the three up them disappeared up a cliff and out of sight.

Clearly, the relaxing part of the afternoon was over. I gathered up what was left of our picnic and headed toward the car, wondering if Semi-Homeless had gotten arrested and wondering what for.

Indecent exposure? It was quite possible he might have whipped out his favorite plaything while giving me a massage.

Thankfully, he wasn't arrested. He was sitting on my car, scowling, pouting and looking really ugly.

As we drove back to L.A., he told me his sad tale of woe. He said he could feel the cops watching us for about 15 or 20 minutes, so he got up and walked toward them so they wouldn't bother me. He asked them where the restroom was, and instead of pointing him to the in-plain-sight porta potties, they told him he looked "suspicious" and ordered him to open up his jacket.

Semi-Homeless replied that he had his hands in his pocket, holding his genitals, because if he let go he would pee on himself. The lady cop ordered him to let go anyway and laughed as he did just that.

The story ended with, "If anyone asks, this spot on my pants is Coke."

(Semi-Homeless Diaries Part 10 of 12: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 | Lessons Learned 1-2: 1 2)

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My Take on the Recession

Check out my guest post on one of my favorite blogs, Saroj on the Issues. Saroj asked a variety of folks from all walks of life to talk about how the recession has impacted them personally. Here's what I wrote:

The other day, while watching the evening news (something I try to avoid these days), I saw a sobering statistic – that unemployment in California is now in double digits. I instantly burst into tears.

Why?

I have a job I hate. And thanks to the sucky economy, I can’t quit.

Read the full post here: The Recession: Anita

My (Thirty) Five-Year-Old Boy

The problem with Semi-Homeless was that he didn't need a wife. He needed a mommy. And the problem with me was that I believed God was playing some hideous trick on me by sending me that fool and calling him my soul mate. It never occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, dating a smelly dufus wasn't a life sentence from Almighty God, it was a personal choice.

Semi-Homeless and I settled into a dysfunctional and totally stifling routine.

Initially, on days when he worked and actually got paid, I might spend the night with him in a $30/night ghetto motel. Where he might suck on my toes even though I've always hated people touching my feet. Or worse, despite the fact that he never brushed his teeth, he might lick my privates, while I secretly worried about germs making my already-infected lady parts even more drippy and disgusting.

I say initially, because eventually it devolved to me paying for the ghetto motel more often than not, with money I didn't have. He was always going to pay me back, but somehow never did. And it wasn't just motels. Often, I found myself reaching into my purse $3 at a time, even as I fumed, Why am I buying a hamburger for a 35-year-old grown man?

He wasn't just a drain on the little money I had, he was also a drain on the money I was trying to earn.

I had decided, at the urging of Mr. Sweet Talker, to stay with my Great Aunt. Mr. Sweet Talker bribed me with a salary of $800 a month, on top of the free room and board I already had. It was just enough to pay my car note, my phone bill, my acting class. In exchange, I tried to turn over a new leaf, sitting with Great Aunt more often, cooking occasionally, taking her to the doctor.

Meanwhile, I found a part-time job reading tarot cards on a psychic line. I could set my own hours, and I could work from home. It wasn't the easiest job in the world, listening to the problems of redneck housewives and ghetto girls, of blue-collar cowboys and hard-luck home boys, none of whom could afford $3.99-per-minute amateur advice. My tiny piece of the action was $.25 per minute, and the clock started only when a client was on the other end of the phone.

In order to make money, I needed to be disciplined and work at least six hours a day. Most days, I worked no hours a day. Or two hours. Or three.

There were the inevitable Great-Aunt distractions. She constantly wandered uninvited into my room to ask pointless questions, even when I was on the phone. Or I'd plan to spend the morning on the line, but instead find myself searching every conceivable and inconceivable place in the house for her missing teeth, only to find them three hours later wrapped in paper towel at the bottom of the kitchen trash can.

But Great Aunt was nothing compared to Semi-Homeless.

In addition to paging me 10 zillion times a day and leaving 10 zillion messages on my answering machine, our dates and get-togethers were a study in wasted time. A one-hour dinner break would turn into a three-hour, multi-stop excursion through the streets of South Central L.A., as I ferried him here, there and everywhere on his various shoeshine-boy errands.

By the time our relationship finally ran its course, he had progressed (or regressed) from paying for motels to me paying for motels to sleeping in my Great Aunt's garage to showing up unannounced in the middle of the night so I could let him in the house.

What finally made me give Semi-Homeless the boot? Urine and a drug-addicted uncle.

(Semi-Homeless Diaries Part 9 of 12: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 | Lessons Learned 1-2: 1 2)

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10 Signs You Might Be Dating a Hood Rat

I've never understood all the silly R&B songs of the last 15 years or so about wanting to date a roughneck, a thug, a soldier, whatever. Take it from me, ghetto boys are nightmares. Semi-Homeless put the toe in ghetto. Here are some of the lowlights of our relationship.

1. He called me Boo. I hated being called Boo. (For those of you new to my blog, this was 1997, when Boo was common slang for boyfriend or girlfriend. There was even a stupid song called, "My Boo.")
   
2. Semi-Homeless took CP Time to a new level. His five minutes was always 15. His hour was always three hours.
   
3. He didn't live Biblically, but boy, could he quote the Bible. He declared my new job as a tarot reader to be the devil's work and would quote Revelations to prove it.
   
4. Semi-Homeless engaged in chronic pager abuse. My pager would ring 5, 10, 15 times a day with some random number followed by 911 - 911 - 911. When I'd call back and ask what the emergency was, he'd go, "Honey, I miss you!"
   
5. When I screamed at him to stop paging me and asked him why he kept paging me when he knew I didn't want him paging me, his answer was: "Because that was the only way I could get your attention."
   
6. Then, he added in his most humble, apologetic voice: "I apologize for being in love with you."
   
7. His no-car-having self thought I was the equivalent of a ghetto chauffeur. "Uh, Boo, stop here so I can ask this guy about the money he owes me."
   
8. Semi-Homeless would pretend he was "just joking" if I called him on his crap. Like the time he asked if he could crash at my Great Aunt's house, then pretended he wasn't serious when I asked him what would possess him to even ask me that. "Oh, Boo, I was joking! I was joking!"
   
9. He thought dining out was going to Popeye's or Burger King. A special date called for Friday's.
   
10. He was always whipping out his private parts, demanding that I kiss and pet him.

My nerves were worn down to a frazzle. Semi-Homeless annoyed the piss out of me. But I tried to convince myself that he was The One because after all, he said he loved me.

(Semi-Homeless Diaries Part 8 of 12: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 | Lessons Learned 1-2: 1 2)

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Instantly Engaged

Five days after I met Semi-Homeless, we were engaged. In a self-proclaimed, no-ring-in-sight, no-date-set, don't-know-his-last-name, ghetto sort of way. I didn't tell anyone, not even the best friend who had recently steered me through my casting-couch crisis.

I was too embarrassed. Even I knew I wasn't making any sense.

Semi-Homeless was either a genius or a retard, I'm not sure which. There were moments of deep conversation where he seemed extraordinarily bright. He claimed to have scored a 1360 on the SAT and to have once held a six-figure job.

But the Semi-Homeless I knew was a common, dirty, smelly day laborer with no car and no place of his own. He made his living painting signs and doing odd jobs.

The day he proposed, I met him for brunch at a little diner where he was painting. He said he'd be through in an hour, and we'd go to the movies. I came back two hours later, and he was still painting. An hour later, I drove him to the vacuum shop that seemed to be his second no-home away from no-home, so he could change his clothes.

We barely made it to the movies before it started, and he spent his days' wages on tickets, popcorn and candy. In the middle of the movie, he decided to get nachos, which meant standing up and blocking my view of the screen. Not to mention, talking during the movie and trying to hold my hand. At some point, he even spilled his drink on me.

By the time the movie ended, I was pissed. But in the car, as I drove him to his second no-home away from no-home (some middle-aged woman's residence), he suddenly turned intelligent again, and I softened.

He sprang for a seedy motel at King and Western, where he paid cash for one night's stay. Instead of going home to the dreary circus that was my 88-year-old Great Aunt, I stayed the night.

We didn't have sex, because I had an as-yet-untreated STD. I'd been oozing discharge for two months, and penetration was just too uncomfortable. So we did everything but, and in the soft haze of orgasm and 10-dozen professions of undying love, he asked me to marry him. And I said yes. Not once. Not twice. But five times.

(Semi-Homeless Diaries Part 7 of 12: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 | Lessons Learned 1-2: 1 2)

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