Tee Hee.

This is Smelly (Melly, Melissa!).  She was my very first college roommate.  She's currently on an adventure of her own; road tripping from Seattle to Mesquite, NV and was lovely enough to stop by my new habitat for conversation and camaraderie.

Funny how I feel like I can say anything to her, mostly because she's lived with me?  Smelly was the roommate everyone wished for when they got their housing assignments, but no one got.  Everyone else's roomies actually smelled.  Mine was steak sauce.

True Loaf.

This is how Kirsten and I feel about each other, in cheese terms.  

Abrupt, Yet so Poignant.

I took this picture so that I could take it to court in case I got a parking ticket (I've already been bestowed with one, forty seven dollars should go to a trapeze class, thankyouverymuch).  I kept it to share because it's kinda funny.  Kudos to whomever came up with the usage of DEAD.  How many other four letter words can be used to imply no wattage?  I can't think of any.

There is Beauty.

LA actually has a lot of sweet spots, if you can delve past the urban sprawl.  Please feast your eyes on a few that I have stumbled upon in these last 8 weeks.

1. Street performers in Venice Beach.  The boardwalk is famous for a reason.  Nevermind the puke and pot shops.
2. Hollywood sign from the Griffith Observatory.  I love a huge park in the middle of a city.  You know, like that other one.
3. Skate park in Santa Monica
4. View from Runyon Canyon, a real quick hike to sweet city views.
5. View from top of a parking garage at Paramount Studios, where I shoot Glee.  H-wood sign in the distance.
6. Pepperdine University in Malibu.  Good thing I didn't go like I wanted to; would have gotten absolutely nothing done.

Namaste, I'm not Staying.

About a year ago, I fell in love with yoga.

I love how it makes my body feel,
        I love how it has changed my strength,
                  I love how it requires no gear,
                              I love that it meets me wherever I am that day.

I have a yoga studio in every city that I have lived in since that I love.

My favorite is hot vinyasa.  They also call this power yoga, but the key is to do it in a room heated to at least 90 degrees, and the hotter the better.  Your muscles warm and just melt into submission.  I can always reach farther, hold longer, stand taller in the heat, it's so intoxicating.

Since moving to LA, I have been searching for a hot vinyasa studio.  This should not be challenging, since this city is known for being a raw foodie, composting, alternative medicine, incest burning, eco-friendly, sitar strumming town of hippie dippies, right?

blurgh.

I cannot, for the life of me, find the combination of hot+vinyasa here.  It's exasperating.

My closest next option is Bikram Yoga, which is a series of 26 poses, done in a room heated to 102-108 degrees.  Bikram Choundry, the founder, patented this series after rehabilitating himself using them.  You would think that the experience can't be too different from my beloved vinyasa, but alas I HATE IT. 

These are the Top Ten reasons why:

(other than the fact that it makes me look like this)

1.  They make it as least serene as possible.  Bright lights, no music, no soft voices.

2.  The instructors basically shout out a script to you.  I could probably recite it.  Despite this being a town full of actors, these Bikram instructors could really use a lesson in vocal variation.  They all say "lock your knee, lock your knee, LOCK YOUR KNEE" in the exact same tone.

3. It's so rules-y.  You get yelled at for drinking water within the first 25 minutes.  You get yelled at for going to the bathroom.  You get yelled at for wiping your sweat.  I even got yelled at for doing savasana wrong.  IT"S CALLED DEAD MAN'S POSE.  As long as I don't move, I'm doing it right.  Lay off!

4.  The studio reeks like sweaty balls.  The ceiling tiles are molding, and some genius thought it would be acceptable to have people sweating profusely while doing yoga in a carpeted room.  MRSA, anyone?

5.  You have to deal with men in speedos pouring sweat in a full circumference around their yoga mats.  This is including but not limited to men with long hair whom then whip it out of their faces, thus throwing their sweat all over innocent bystanders.

6. There's no flow.  Vinyasa is all about one movement flowing into another, and the sequences move beautifully.  Bikram is holding one pose, and then holding another.  A lot of set up and tear down.  Feels tedious.

7.  The instructors stand in the front of the room on an apple box, if you will, watching your every move, ready to call you out for being wrong.  They don't model the poses for newcomers, they just yell out your name when you aren't doing a pose like they think you should be able to.  I've actually had an instructor tell me "you look stronger than that, move farther!"

8. I hate the idea that Bikram patented yoga poses.  It seems so unholy to me.  Now, in order to use the term, any yoga studio must pay a huge franchise fee in order to teach the 26 poses.

9.  Damnit, Bikram is expensive.  A single class here costs $19, more than any other yoga class I have taken.  Apparently, only the rich are privileged to be hollered at to bend farther while bending over so far as to be able to breast-feed from themselves.

10.  It's the same every time.  I like the possibility of doing crow pose, head stands, dolphin stands, plow pose, and everything in between.  If variety is the spice of life, then Bikram is the vanilla of yoga.  Hum.

 I always feel so anxious to bolt out of there as soon as class is over, cutting short my savasana at the end due to childish frustration.  I mumble 'namaste' in unison with the rest and leap up to get my crap and get the hell outta there.

So why do I pay absurd amounts of money for this torture?  Well, I can now do camel pose without wanting to barf.  That's something, right?

A Practical Dilemma in Morality.

I have recently been made aware that Los Angeles is the homeless capital of the United States. It wasn't in the news, I didn't read it in LA Weekly, no article posted on my homepage CNN.com.

I learned about it the old fashioned way.  By looking out my car window.

Is everyone as bothered to the core when they drive by the homeless as I am?  My gut falls to my knees, my blood pressure skyrockets, and my palms sweat like brewskis in the South. I can palpate their desperation, and the glimmer of hope as a car approaches.

I always consider reaching in my wallet.  But then I chicken out, recalling all of those 20/20 episodes I have seen revealing lazy impostors with cardboard signs, or flighty girls like myself whose faces get blown off by violent criminals as soon as they roll down their windows.

oh, you don't recall that episode?  I may have exaggerated slightly....

nonetheless, I would be completely willing to spare any and all change I have to the less fortunate if there wasn't the constant undertone of bodily threat/carjack. Most of the time I consider just cracking my window to just throw the money at them, so that they don't need to come close to my car, or even shove it out of my sunroof.

....but what kind of an asshole throws money at homeless people?!  It would seem like I did it just to watch them scramble for it.

That is not the godly way to think.  The godly way would be to offer yourself as a target, and hope that your compassion and faith serve as a testimony.

I'm not there yet.  I give, but in courage-less ways.  I just still don't know how to hang out with my fears.

My Poopsie is so precious. 

When One Loiters about Paramount Studios....

Character playing.

Make no mistake, I am no Tom Hanks.  But I like sitting on his Forrest Gump bench.

Along with Gleeking....

Sooo I had a week of self misery around the first week of my arrival here.

My job is just not cutting it for me.  Being stuck inside for long hours, dealing with political nonsense while trying to provide care to patients, doing bullshit paperwork that serves no purpose but to create an ever growing paper trail, having to act like a professional while dressing like a homeless person..... I was over it.  I just plain have lost the excitement and challenge of my career.  I felt complacent.

I was feeling so melodramatic that, I swear, I was having moments of shortness of breath.  Like I said, dramatic.  Pathetic.  The list goes on and on.

I'm just overwhelmingly encased in the letdown of my circumstance.  I am twenty four, and I have always thought that I would be so much cooler by now.  I had always wanted to see so much more, know so much more, do so much more by the time I was this age.  Instead of nursing being an asset to my aspirations, I am starting to feel like I have outgrown it, and it might just be holding me back now.

I kept thinking about my friends at The Buried Life, and being insanely envious of their ability to take what the want from life, and make sure they exhaust all the vitality they have.  I want their situation so bad I can taste it.  So, one day, while completely self loathing and pitiful, rocking babies in the NICU, I sat on a chair feeding a patient and thinking.

what was it that i wanted to be before i was taught what limitations are?

There is a book that I have in my garage from when I was a kid.  It's a Dr Suess book called "My Book About Me", and its pages are filled with descriptive blanks, for kids to fill out information about themselves, their likes, dislikes, etc.  I can see the career page clear as day.  It reads:

When I grow up, I want to be a _________________.  

There is no single occupation written neatly in my slot.  Instead, I wrote across it, over, and under the blank.  I filled it with every occupation I could think of, erasing and rewriting numerous times because I just could not, as an eight year old, limit myself to just one occupation.

That eight year old didn't get over it.

PS. interesting anecdote:  the first item listed? actress.

In this place...

It's no exaggeration when they say that anything can happen.  About nine days into my contract here in LA, my new travel nurse friend Kristina asks if I want to go out to some bar in Melrose with her.  Sure, I say, what's the occasion?  Apparently a friend of her friend was having a birthday and she was making and an appearance because she's new in town and wanted to make friends.  Sounds like run of the mill social sitch, right?

No such thing in LA.  In LA, you go to birthday parties of casting directors.  Casting directors who are friends with other casting directors, whom may or may not be the recipient of your gin-laced confession that entertainment was your childhood fantasy and that you tried to move to New York both for the culture shock and the possibility of acting school, which seemed easy enough to hide from your friends and family until you figured out if you had any talent beyond the lead in your fifth grade production of Alice in Wonderland.  Which, of course, you had never said out loud to anyone until just then.

If he's an ass, he can laugh at you and tell you that the industry isn't hiring oompa loompas at the moment, which is what you would expect.  OOOOOR if he's a really good guy and will henceforth become a friend of yours, he will just say "Hey, why don't you go be a background actor for me?  You can try it out, see how you like being on set, and then go from there."

huh.  mmmmk.  "and what show is it that you cast for, good sir?"

right.

Friends and family, I am coming out of the show biz closet.  I am that girl, whom cannot see a great movie or theatre production without losing sleep at night, thinking, "Damn, I could do that." Previously, I had kept this all to myself, being too afraid of an industry so wrapped up in appearance and status.  I know I'm not Lucy Liu.  However, I'm also not that ugly asian girl you know, and even she has gained some notoriety in this looks obsessed part of the world.  Well, the time has come to chase another fear, and this time it's not as simple as jumping out of an airplane.  I have also come to the conclusion that I am no longer keeping secrets about my fantasies and wants, because you never know who might be able to help you, and my short time here has proven that stories are made from a series of human connections.

So I have been working as a background actor on Glee for the past six weeks.  I love being on set, I love learning the lingo, and I love soaking in everything I can about this industry.

I am registered with two casting agencies.  I have plans for acting school.  Commence the quarter life crisis.

in my mind.

{photo source}

You know when you get into an elevator and there's another person in there already?

[you smile, lean over to select your floor and glance across in their general direction....]

in these times, it's likely that they will either smile back and make light conversation like a socially competent human, OR....

they will whip out their phone and become engrossed with its contents.

I choose to perceive this reaction as pure intimidation.

sigh.

ok, lesson learned.  tucking tail between legs, no more bragging about the sunny weather.  is it only me or do other people live under the childish assumption that once sunscreen is on, it's on forever? reapplying is for shmucks.  and apparently, people avoiding skin cancer.  word.

snicker.

*basking at Venice Beach.  I like to roast with the weirdos.  
come play in LA, homies.  Til then, I gloat on. 

Love Love Love.

Buckets.

As I have mentioned, my bucket list is ever changing and growing, and so far has stayed tucked away in the drafts folder of my email account.  However elusive as this may seem, I would like to make clear that I do not take any of the items lightly and consider them all vital.  I was reading it the other day and making action plans for each when I came upon perhaps the most dodgy item : "Save a human life."  Now, I know that I am a nurse and play a part in human lives every day that I work, but that is not what I mean.  I want to be present in a dire situation and have the nerves and courage to not choke in the clutch.

Lofty dream, because burning buildings aren't that easy to come by and you can't guarantee that you will ever come upon a life and death situation that you can help.

Plus, how morbid would I be if I woke up every morning hoping someone's life needed to be saved?!

So my solution is this:  registering with the National Bone Marrow Program.  You still never know when you might be needed, but the fact that I can save someone's life by being willing to be poked in the hipbone seems a reasonable way to up my chances to contribute.

So I registered, am waiting for my kit to be tissue matched, and will be keeping myself healthy so that when shit hits the fan, my hips wont lie.  

Please consider.  Love Love Love.

Laughing in the Loo.

{seen at Nordstrom loo}

I cant speak for the entire gender.....

But my 'feminine protection' comes in the form of wiles, rhetoric, a roundhouse kick, and sharp footwear.  I somehow don't think cotton filled harpoons and absorbent rafts are much in real protection.  The verbage isn't quite right.  

Just sayin.  

New Light.

My favorite time in LA: Sunrise.
Streets are blissfully empty, and you can get past the urban sprawl rather effortlessly.
No, there's no explanation to how I found myself driving Hollywood Blvd at 0545.  Use your imagination.

Run, Run After It.

No one is going to make sure your life is awesome.  So when you want to be a part of something, you gotta buckle up and chase it.

I had plans last Friday to go to Malibu and sit on the beach with Courtney, a sweet girl who was a high schooler on my Thailand trip a year ago.  She's now going to school in Malibu, and we had made plans to beach around and eat Thai food.

That would have been a lovely time, but nothing to blog about.  Sorry, Court.

Fortunately for all of us, I am still an avid follower of  The Buried Life, and stay interested in their goings and adventures, trying to always add some awesome into my life the way that they do.  On this Friday, approximately 8 minutes before I was about to leave for the 'Bu, I saw that they announced an invite to be present for the taping of an episode of the show.  Dave, the wide eyed baby brother of the gang had taken it upon himself to knock out the item of "participate in a mixed martial arts fight".  Pun intended, of course.

uh, I was so there.

I drove all the way out to Malibu, scheming up ideas to get Courtney to want to go.  I came up with this:

me: "ok Court, so here are our options.  A, we could go to the beach, have dinner, and probably frozen yogurt later.  or B, you can commit to an adventure with me.  It involves a lot of driving, packing an overnight bag, and spending the night at my apt because I'm not driving you back here after our event.  Make your decision, this is all the information I am at liberty to divulge to you."

Intrigue, yes?  She would have been an idiot and thus someone I do not associate with to not choose the adventure.
So we took off for El Monte, for an address 57 miles away and far east of LA that I had never heard of before and was an impossibly long pilgrammage from the beaches of Malibu.

It took two hours.  We left at five thirty and drove across the greater LA area on a Friday evening.

but this?  worth it.

Might I mention that Court is like a little sister to me?  Literally?  She's seventeen and the first thing we see upon arriving at the fight venue is a sign saying "If you look under 25, be prepared to show ID"  I didnt even consider her age as a factor here.  So before we left the car I gave her my best pep talk including everything I've ever known about sneaking into a bar:

"walk in like you own the place"

"don't hesitate to make eye contact"

"leave everything in the car; your story is that I just picked you up from the beach and you had no idea where we were going and have nothing with you"

"for the hail mary, offer to let them write black X's on your hands to mark you as underage."

"flirt as necessary, don't take no for an answer."

I didn't think she had it in her, but the girl just blew right by the security guards like nobody's damn business, and even waited for me while my 12 year old looking, (but actually 24!) self got carded and braceleted.  Shiest.

oh yeah, and we got kicked out of the VIP section.  twice.  Those TBL boys need to hold educational conferences to clue me in on this business.

It was sick.  Awesome night, new appreciation for MMA fighters.  Don't miss episode 8 of Season 2 on The Buried Life.  Season Premiere tomorrow night on MTV, homes.

Discovery.

Sometimes, you mess around on Google and find things like this:
 via UrbanDictionary.com


Mingtastic: a girl that is a minger, therefore very ugly but has a nice personality......


                   i.e. "Dude, that lass is so mingtastic." 

which brings the insurmountable curiosity to therefore hunt for this:

Minger:  although now more commonly used to define an extremely visually challenging appearance, the word minger originally came from scottish gaelic, meaning 'septic vagina'.  Now often used by chavs all over Britain to define anything remotely disgusting.  


The common woman would scoff and feign indifference while silently fuming, unable to contain her resentment.  Well, I refuse to be such a woman.  Therefore, I will employ my 'nice personality' and embrace this.  Hell, it's hilarious.  


SO embracing am I that I have thus changed the name of this here blog.  I have been thinking about it for a while, but hesitant because I felt like I had to have some consistency or something dumb like that.  No more, I am running with my girlish whims.  


May I introduce my same old blog with a new name?


Trip the Light Mingtastic.

of course, taken from the phrase and song 'trip the light fantastic'..... meaning to dance nimbly and lightly.  My version?  To trip the light Mingtastic is to dance like Mingni.  Wildly, flailingly, and as much as possible.

To all you Scotts, that's dance like a 'Septic Vagina'.  take it or leave it. 

Seen In SM.

Signage gone classy. J'adore!

LA first week.

Holy strip malls.

The driving here is insane, perhaps the city wide anorexia epidemic causes the poor brain function on the roads?

The sun shines, even despite the smog.

Santa Monica is supersweet. Shops, cafes, and beach oh my!

Excuse me, leathery tan old lady with impossibly altered facial structure. Could you not double-park your convertible so that two way traffic is possible again? kthx.

It's impossible to familiarize yourself with this place. The highways intersect awkwardly, the streets are haphazardly placed, and the cool pockets are hidden amongst blocks and blocks of car rental lots.

Google Maps says your trip takes 20 minutes, the reality is 90 minutes.

One day, I had frozen yogurt for lunch and dinner. It seems almost right; froyo is everywhere.

No habla espanol. es un gran problema.

The hills everyone tells me to hike are crowded with bodies and canines. I'm gonna have to get me out of LA County for some real adventure.

When I was Little(r)...

My parents seriously cramped my decor style and gave the reasoning that someday, when I owned my very own house, I could do whatever I damn well please. Well, that day has certainly come and what I please includes, but is not limited to: painting the walls obnoxious colors, hanging my bike on ceiling joists in the living room, putting tibetan prayer flags up, using a Zags flag as a window treatment, and wallpapering with a world map. I'm 24. I can live in Candyland.

Oh the Horror.

disclaimer: i am almost embarrassed to relay the account of this below instance. it's pathetic, but it's all real.

It happens somewhere, every day. The unimaginable nightmare. You head into the bathroom for a routine draining of bladder. You relieve, and lightheartedly turn around to push the flusher. Just as your fingers are about to graze the edge of the lever, a silhouette catches your eye from the abyss of the bowl. You glance down, and your stomach drops out of your butt.

It's your iphone.

In a split second you gasp, shriek, and thereafter can't speak. Without a thought in your mind, you reach into that cursed bowl, potty water and all, and fetch that blessed gadget out from its yellow drowning. You fingers scramble as you desperately work against the clock to get the liquid off of it, wiping it on your hands, clothes, nearest bathrug. Immediately you run out of the bathroom (nope, didnt wash my hands, I now realize) and announce to the room that you just dropped your iphone in the toilet. If you happen to be at Jake Foster's house in Livermore with a bunch of boys while they help him move, they will all stop and respectfully gasp. and then Aunt Terry will tell you to put your phone in a bag of rice overnight, to draw the liquid out. From then on, it's a wait-and-see game, until the fateful next morning when you garner the balls to turn it on.

In this scenario, dear iphone will loyally turn on and give the illusion of full functionality. But after some testing and pushing, you will discover that it's actually developed a seizure disorder and is now possessed by the spirit of toilet bowl gremlins. It no longer gives sound from all speakers, and it keeps mistakenly performing actions without provoke.

Sigh.

Afterword: Although i lost everything on that phone, including notes from every church service I attended while having it, pictures, and apps, the beautiful people at the Pleasanton, CA Apple store just effortlessly replaced it. I'm sure they pitied me, after I gave them the sob story of being on my way to LA, where I don't know the roads......No, they didn't ask if my phone had ever been immersed in urine. So I didn't offer the information.

Spotted.

seen in the Huckleberry's parking lot in Spokane, WA on Labor Day 2010. Imagine the shenanigans this rig has seen.....

fa La La La LA.

Amidst all of this non blogging and playing around, I must address the harsh reality of my employment situation. I'm growing weary of my occupation. I feel like being trapped inside for 12 hours a day is becoming cruel and unusual. Yes, I'm being dramatic, but hey... we're here on my terms.

I'm starting to think about career alternatives and options for my second quarter life crisis.(the first being three years ago when I realized I was fat, of course). I have some thoughts brewing, but sharing those is for later.

In the meantime, I have resolved to appreciate this occupation I chose at the sage age of..... 15, and try to set myself up for success in fun factor assignments.

In lieu of this, I exasperated myself and all of the lovely people who work to get me employed every three months. I was fussy. I refused to consider night shift (it makes me bonkers!) or assignments located in places without a major airport.

that makes for some slim pickins, folks.

I had just about decided to run away with the circus or be a street tambouriner when I was submitted for jobs in LA, Palo Alto, San Diego, and New York, all within 12 hours.

LA called first. I made it through the gut wrenchingly intense interview (kid found drowning in pond. what do you do--GO!), and was offered a contract.

So here I am. Nestled in a hotel room in Hollyweird, waiting for my apartment in Fabulosity, CA (my recruiter promised me this...) to open up.

LA is. sunny. smoggy. crowded. strip mall-y. corny. touristy. foodie. hipster. vast. urban. varying. full of possibilities.

stay tuned, all. beyond the brown clouds there is an air of adventure here, I can feel it.

Love Love Love.

Soooo....

I met this guy. It's a good story; one that I would gladly retell in person, but may be too loaded to share on this ever exposing interweb upon which I write.

So I'll just tell you that we met while both exploring; finding ourselves in a similar predicament.

We had fun; it was rad to meet someone who was seemingly as adventurous as I, that was interesting and easy to talk to. The banter was delicious.

But then you know what's not fun? Being bombarded afterward. Dude, dont hound me. I dont want to hear what you had for lunch, what you think about crop circles, or that you could be on a flight over in an hour. creeper.

where was the slight elusiveness and mystery?! Geez, I know girls complain about players who mess with your mind....but this girl needs you to play the game at least a little. No one likes a guy who has to drag a huge cool card around, but just keep a small one in your wallet?

oh the love game. si difficile. pic source

Overheard.

So I've embarked on my seemingly endless journey home from China last July, when I hear these two American guys discussing the status of their dating lives. To set the stage, we are walking through the terminals at the airport in Guangzhou, to the international terminal. Surrounding these two men is a sea of black hair, almond eyes, and obscenely large luggage. People are yelling and stuffing fruit in their pockets. These two guys obviously assume that no one within earshot understands any english. Begin scene:

american man #1 : "so where are you going the weekend after that?"

american man #2 :" man, i've got to get to shenzhen, and see that girl i told you about before."

american man #1: "that one you nailed in the hotel three weeks ago?"

american man #2: "nah, i havent even talked to her. this new girl, i met her at that immersion event a week ago and she seems pretty cool."

american man #1: "alright, but how sticky is she?"

--my mind interjects : sticky?! gross! what the hell are they talking about?! these guys are d-bags!

american man #2: " i dont know yet, dude but i guess i'm gonna find out."

american man #1: "well she cant be as bad as the last girl i met, she was downright embarrassing."

my mind is reeling.

american man #2: "well dude, i hope she isn't. here's hoping she has her own visa and everything."

ooooooooohhhhhhh. got it.

sticky: adj. describing internationally born women who cling to american men in order to procure a hasty marriage/impregnation in the name of a US green card.

At this point I just have to turn around and put faces to this dialogue. Enter jaw drop. I'd expected Cristiano Ronaldo and David Beckham to be revealed, exchanging details about their torrid affairs as such. Oh boy, what I saw was PeeWee Herman and Screech, skinny ankles and all. So how bout the ol' US of A? Making otherwise self respectable asian women giggle impishly and bat non-existent eyelashes all for the apparent greater good of free speech and unaffordable health care. yowzas.

Can't Not Be Mentioned.

I mentioned it in passing with the bookstore blurb, but I cant just let my Denver trip be summed up with just a few words about some silly book summaries.

I had originally intended to take my dad to Alaska on a fishing trip as my not-working-after-China-bucket-list-item summer trip. He punked out.

So when Sheriann called to say she would be in Denver on business the first week of August, I demanded to crash. My lovely, Nick, lives there with his lovely and I just like it there.

Whoa, do I like it there.

I spent a week in Breckenridge, Denver, Colorado Springs, Boulder, and many surrounding little spots running, walking, hiking, rafting, biking, jumping, and laughing.

You must make this place a must-go.

1. I proclaim my victory over the Flatirons by stealing this here bandana. Such a rebel.

2. Peak train ride to the top of Pike's Peak. 90 minutes of high altitude transport.

3. Garden of the Gods, super rad and the most fun playground for dirt lovers.

4. Rocks losing by a lot. We're real broken up about it.

5. Big pile of rocks on the Flatirons hike.

6. From the top of Pike's Peak

7. A bike and a book. Loverly.

continuing...

again, i find myself dreadfully tardy on the blog front. it's a chronic condition.

here i go, sticking my literary finger down my literary throat.

love love love.

Off to Neverland

*pic from New York Times article "What Is It About 20-Somethings?"

Have you read this? It's been atop the NY times most emailed list of articles for several days now, and I can certainly see why.

Stuffy old people are just fascinated with why 20-somethings wont grow up'.

Yeah, I've seen the statistics, I understand the logic. People of youth these days are taking longer to become financially stable, start careers, get married and have children. They take longer to leave home, they go back more frequently even after doing so. We are over-coddled, over-loved, overindulged, and underestimated. True, true, true, most true.

This article chronicles the tales of so many examples of under-developed adults who "seem(s) to have gone off course, as young people remain un tethered to romantic partners or to permanent homes, going back to school for lack of better options, traveling, avoiding commitments, competing ferociously for unpaid internships or temporary (and often grueling)Teach for America jobs, forestalling the beginning of adult life."

Furthermore, the author goes on to spout endless statistics of how often people in their twenties move, how many times they change their jobs, how many romantic relationships they endure, and how old they are when they finally succomb to biology and get knocked up. ooops, I mean, decide to have children. Experts on sociology and psychology illustrate the idea that , in our society, the timeline for becoming an adult has changed. People are less focused on the traditional idea of when that age is appropriate. Then the article goes on to give X. Y, and Z reasons for why we are so stunted, what it will mean for future generations, and the pros and cons of this phenomenon, etc etc.

You, my friend, are going to hear my thoughts on the matter.

This generation was raised by a generation that was pressured to grow up. The baby boomers lived through a time where they were expected, in their early twenties, to take their place, fall in line, choose a career, stick to it, choose a spouse, stick with him/ her, have children, and basically be stuck for the rest of their lives. How sticky.

So how did that work out for everyone? I'm thinking not so hot. Our parents' generation, after all, made divorce acceptable and perhaps even righteous. They coined the term "mid life crisis". Suicide rates are through the roof and substance abuse runs rampant. From my own understandings, I have watched many an "adult" suffer through the choices that they made in their 20s, while telling themselves that they had to "grow up" and commit. So much dissatisfaction and turmoil seen now stems from seemingly iron clad commitments made in their twenties. Hmmmmm.

Well you know what? I'm not interested.

Yes, my generation is completely overconfident and gluttonous. Yes, we can't make adult decisions. Yes, we take longer to settle into what you old people call a "life routine." But it's because we have seen what our previous generation has been through with all of that, and it's not appealing. So who cares if we switch jobs 100 times in a decade? Who cares if we don't get married? Who cares if we don't have kids or a house or a 'stable routine'. Isn't it so awesome that we can spend the first years of our independence thrashing through, making mistakes, using trial and error, and figuring out who we are the kind of lives we really want for ourselves?

We've seen that other, mature, life. It sucks. I will choose adventure and the right to not commit to anything. Of course, I do own a house and all that that entails, but it's always negotiable. I never know when my house might be jettisoned for a beach hut in Australia, or a houseboat in the Maldives. I'm financially stable, but I won't commit to a career, I won't get married unless I can't stand not to, and I won't have children until my ovaries scream for them. I will relish in my lack of leashes and delight in my (no plan) plan. I will find joy all over this world and pray fervently for all of those who succumbed to the pressure of growing up, who jumped into a life they didn't choose, and whom can't remember why they are wearing a tie, are laying next to a person they married before they knew themselves, and are trapped in a cubicle for the sake for their retirement funds.

As my great hero Peter Pan says :

if growing up means it would be,

beneath my dignity to climb a tree,

ill never grow up, never grow up, never grow u-P, not me!

...and if it means I must prepare,

to shoulder burdens with a worried air,

i'll never grow up, never grow up, never grow u-P, so there.

'cause growing up is awfull-er,

than all the awful things that ever were,

i'll never grow up, never grow up, never grow u-P, no sir!

A Little Perk.

I like reading books that I know other people have read. I pay attention to reviews, I watch the best seller list, and I take personal recommendations seriously. That's why I was so tickled when I wandered into the Tattered Cover Bookstore in downtown Denver and came upon stacks and stacks of books with Post-its scattered all over, containing handwritten blurbs and recommendations by the staff. Makes me feel connected to the material, knowing someone else has connected with it. That's special.

oh for goodness sakes.

I like talking to strangers. It's interesting, educational, and self improving to reach out to someone unfamiliar. Plus, you just never know when someone you randomly meet is going to be supercool and teach you supercool things, or at least show you the other door into Narnia. Just sayin'.

I also sometimes lie to strangers. I don't know, call it my training for an inevitable Oscar-winning lead role in a film--someday. Despite the moral ramifications, I think it's entertaining to take on traits and stories that may belong to someone else. I'm not talking straight on multiple personalities; there's always some truth. But sometimes I stretch and reach in order to move conversations along, get people talking, manipulate the situation.

Gracious, I sound like a jerk. Well, there it is.

The flip side of this practice brings me to be wary of strangers and their truthfulness as well. The best example of this took place recently, on my flight from LA to Seattle, on the last leg of my trip home from China.

I am seated and situated in my place, greasy, exhausted and starving. This gangly, gaunt guy with little glasses and strawberry blonde hair comes tearing down the aisle, and already I am praying that he is seated either in first class or in a lavatory. He's loud, hollering at everyone he passes by and laughing at himself. He's obnoxious. As fate would have it, he plops his bony butt right next to me and makes some useless remark in my general direction.

I retort and pretend to be enraptured by my National Geographic. (I kind of was anyway,--the blue holes in the Bahamas! They're crazy!)

His reply? "Girl, you got game."

Oh great. A wannabe hiphop punk. I inch lower in my seat and gear myself up for what I am sure will be the longest flight of my life. He introduces himself, and I of course, give him my bar name-Emily.

After this initial thirty seconds, I am wholly convinced that this man is under the influence of more than just poor taste in graphic tees. He seems straight up tweaking. He continues to hammer on, showing me all of his iphone apps, making me listen to songs he's mixed, telling me that he wrote Gears of War 2, he had a best-selling novel, and that he works with Kanye West. He writes comic books, too and his bff is apparently someone named Snakebite, who used to play the drums/bass/triangle or something for Korn. Apparently he was down in LA to do some voiceover work for Gears of War 3 and then make appearances at Comic-Con to sign autographs. Huh.

So, I figure I can say whatever I want because I genuinely think he's toasted out of his mind. After the Gears of War factoid, I ask him this:

"So, how does it feel to be responsible for the demise of so many adult relationships and the developmental stunting of so many American men?"

I opened the flood gates. He starts in on the media, the male psyche, crazy babble I couldn't even take seriously. All the while he interjects this fascinating self report with quotes from rap songs, incessant snapping fingers/shoulder tapping, and telling me that everything I have said is "so next level". What's worse, he laughs at everything I say and keeps trying to convince me to create some kind of t-shirt company, marketing all of my "sick" quips. Oh Lordy.

We cover everything from relationships, video games, traveling, the linear nature of time, inner satisfaction, LA vs Seattle, food, and parents.

He tells me a lot. I think it's all horse crap. The clincher was when this fair skinned, light eyed, red haired man-boy told me he was half Mexican. I mean, come ON.

So of course after exchanging pleasantries, him telling me to start a blog (haha!) and me telling him I'll look for his next novel, we part ways after baggage claim. He hollers to contact him, just in case, I ever want to venture into something he can help with. Sure, buddy. As I'm waiting for my ride at the curbside, I dig for my phone out of my purse and google this guy. .....because I'm a girl of the 21st century and that's what we do.

Well Hell's bells. According to Wikipedia and all of the comic-geek websites, he was no liar. It was all true. Well crap. Now if I ever want to really contact him for a publishing deal like he gave me permission to, I'll have to admit my name isn't Emily and that he didn't really ruin a relationship of mine with video games.

Lesson learned. Probably.

PS- His suggested name for my likely-published-if-I-start-it blog? Putthehelmetdown.com. He shrieked it on the plane while I was telling him that human interaction isn't real when stifled through a headset. I was telling the boys of the world to put the helmet down and talk to someone for real. He thought it was so.... next level, of course.

The HK.

This separate post is no oversight on my part. It was no mistake that I did not include this section on my Hong Kong experience in the China portion of this blog-athon. In my humble (ha!) opinion, Hong Kong can barely be mentioned in the same breath as China. Yes, it's that different. Sure, the city is plagued by large quantities of black hair, small feet, and almond eyes, but please consider these:

Top Ten Reasons Why Hong Kong is so much better than China:

10. Efficiency: These people know how to gather and move. In high human traffic times, the metro stations route people appropriately as to avoid intersecting. Escalators change directions to accomodate more people traveling in certain directions, entrances and exits change to allow commuters to avoid moving against each other. Brilliant.

9. Chairman Who? Communism is subdued there. The governing bodies of HK are constantly battling with the Chinese in order to maintain the liberal and free thinking policies that were allowed while HK was on loan to the British for a century. Websites are unblocked, people protest in the streets, bookstores import literature freely.

8. The Food: I know I say this about every place that I like, but it's no coincidence. I like places with good food. Hong Kong is an international cuisine epicenter. Yum.

7. No Yellow Sea: I like that not everyone there is Asian. Call me racist, I just like a little variety. China is so solid yellow it makes me anxious.

6. Hustle Bustle: the air about the town is exciting. I like it. Big deals are being made, big fun is being had. It reminds me much of Manhattan in that manner.

5. Language un-barriered: Everyone there speaks English. Easy.

4. A major international city means that one could find just about anything you might desire either in store or online for comparable prices to the the States. China, not so much. My grandmother requests American Oil of Olay, because her neighborhood drugstore charges her double. Quelle ripoff.

3. There are options. The territory of Hong Kong consists of HK island, Kowloon side on the mainland, and a conglomerate of over 200 surrounding islands. I dare you to avoid adventure.

2. Dreamed and then planned: I don't know the exact truth in this statement, but I believe HK has made great use of urban planners. The skyscrapers are well spaced, the streets are well placed, and the skyline is breath-taking. Major cities in China are all a big ol' mess.

1: Lushery: HK is green! The city is nestled up against a row of hills on the island. This, combined with its latitude being within the tropic zone means trees, vines, and greenery just minutes from the downtown financial centers. You could be hiking within 15 minutes of a board meeting...... not that I would ever want to be caught dead in any kind of board meeting. Also, the city boasts many parks and recreational areas, all of which are so important to keep me happy.

In conclusion, I must admit that I have been heard saying, on the record, that I could live in Hong Kong. Holy bold statement. I have never felt that way about anywhere in China before. Possibilities.