A Tale of Two Meetings.

So.... Last I blogged, I wrote about the lengthy agent submission mail out that I had done in October.  Art thou curious for a follow up?

After over 70 submissions by mail and email, I received four phone calls from agencies interested in meeting me. (side note: I've been told this is actually a good response, given that I am just starting out and am unknown.  Crazy, eh?)

One of them was interested but had a very full roster already but liked my look, and wanted me to resubmit in January.  Nah, not a good sign. 

Another made a meeting and rescheduled twice, I have still yet to meet them.  Tsk, another red flag.  

See, I have the idea that signing with an agency is like choosing a boyfriend.  You have to read the signs and trust in Higher Powers because in this industry, it's all about relationship.  If there's no mutual love and respect, it won't work.  Dramatic?  Well, yeah.  

So then there were two.  I had gotten a call from this one agency fairly quickly after my mail-out, and after some finagling of my travel schedule (ahem, I had to wait til I was actually in town and not working), I put together the perfect 'meeting agent' outfit, big girl pants included, and strolled into the building pictured above to have my very first agent meeting. I was actually not very nervous, which surprised me, especially considering I had to wait for a while.... oh and I had tight jeggings on, cutting off my circulation and subsequent oxygen supply.  Oh, you didn't know jeggings are the new 'big girl pants'?  As in, bigger girls shouldn't wear them?  Consider this a first hand news delivery.  

Despite the tourniquet pants, the meeting went well.  I felt like myself, making jokes, faces, and laughing a lot with the two agents in their office.  We teased each other and I felt like they got me.  The owner of the agency even gave me a huge hug as it was over and said he already loved me.  Scene: me pushing through glass doors with gigantic dopey grin. 

Ok, so that was good.  But every Hollywood story has a villain, right?  Well I certainly found mine.  This other agent I met with, should have been ignored from the start.  When he called, he already kinda weirded me out.  Without telling me what he was calling me for he just said his name and asked if I wanted to come meet him.  I don't memorize agent names, so I was really confused.  He also wouldn't give me an appointment time, but had me call every morning I was free to inquire if he was available that afternoon.  nonetheless, I felt like it wasn't smart to just sign with the first agency that offered me a contract so I arranged to meet with this other guy.

First of all, his office was a wreck.  If hoarders ever does an LA agent episode, I'm nominating this guy.  Everything was covered in dust, he had piles of crap everywhere, and the leather couch in there was worn and dirty.  His leather jacket was the same, and his fly was down.  He was talking on the phone when I walked into his office and didn't even acknowledge me.  In fact, he continued to answer his phone the entire time I was there and made no apologies about the interruptions.

But this isn't even the worst part.  This guy was a grade A B-TARD. From the beginning, he was arguing with me on everything, making crude comments about people including but not limited to: "Why do so many young Filipino girls date ugly old men? Are they ALL that money greedy?  and, "I'm from Texas.  Only gay guys play basketball", and "My daughters are always competing.  One of them is prettier than the other, but I still don't get it".

I know, right?  But it's still not even the worst.  I already knew that this guy wasn't going to be one for me.  I was so uncomfortable I had turned on my 'bad blind date' mode.  I was stiff and polite, trying to just get through it and get the hell out of there.  Before I had the chance, this guy laid into me.  He asked me if I thought I had the potential to get a leading role.  Of course, I said yes.  I think that I have the ability to interest and entertain people, and to carry a storyline.  I really do.  That's why I'm here.  Apparently, he didn't agree.... and boy did he tell me about it.  He said that he doesn't think I will book roles unless I lost quite a bit of weight.  He said that my headshots are deceiving because he thinks I look much heavier in person and even asked me if I have gained weight since they were taken and if they were edited to make me look thinner.  He THEN speculated that perhaps it was the way I was sitting and made me stand up and turn around to get a better look.

Listen, I know I'm no Rachel McAdams.  My body is a work in progress and there is still much work to be done before I will be content.  Im not the ingenue and will never be a sex symbol, which I am more than okay with.  But I do think that the entertainment industry has room for all 124 pounds of me, and that I have potential that extends beyond sex appeal.  I'm not looking for the bombshell roles.  I want to make people laugh, cry, and think.  In addition, I also believe that the industry is changing and even if Melissa McCarthey were the only example, I think she's enough.  She's phenomenal and even if I were to gain another fifty pounds I would do if it came with her talent.

So yeah, that happened.  Of course, I felt like crap about it for longer than I'd like to discuss.  However, I didn't allow myself to wallow in it forever because I know that this kind of nonsense has happened to thousands before me, and will surely happen to thousands after.  Plus, this will be a good story to tell Barbara Walters someday.  This I believe: self pity gets you nowhere.

MAYDAY.

{a text message was relayed to me from a distraught friend, my interpretation}

THIS HAPPENS SO MUCH. WHAT TO DO.

Above: yet another reason why I'm so single. 

BoMass.

I'm not sure if I have ever mentioned this; one of the items on my bucket list is to visit all fifty states.  Of course, there are stipulations.  What constitutes a 'visit' is either an overnight stay, or driving across the longest dimension of that state.  Airports of any kind are not considered.  Furthermore, visits do not count if made before the age of 18.  I think these rules sound pretty reasonable, but I must admit that I lost credit for quite a few, just with the over 18 determination.

To get to the point, I crossed Massachusetts off of the list.  I had been to most all of the states in New England as a child living in New Jersey, but since becoming an adult, I have had to start over.  So when the prospect of Thanksgiving with my own family was squelched  by the obligation of work, I was not so difficultly coaxed into spending the week in Beantown with Stace and her family.

A few thoughts:

-The young men in this town dress like they ought to be ready to row something at a moment's notice.  It's such a stereotype, but it's true.  They all look so collegiate and distinguished.  I wanted to spill on their Brooks Brothers tailored shirts and step on their shiny loafers, it's the destructive streak in me.  I was happy to observe and tease them in my mind, however.

-The historical significance of every building, sidewalk, light-post, and mailbox in that town is overwhelming.  You amaze at the seeming nonchalance of the locals.  Do they KNOW that the garbage can they just spit their gum into sits RIGHT ON the Freedom Trail?!

-The 'burbs in New England are not like the ones in the West.  The houses sit right on the God-made landscape, set upon hills and around creeks.  The roads wind haphazardly and the woods are relatively untouched.  In the West, the suburbs are carved out by bulldozers, and then lined up neatly.  Perhaps that's why I have such distain for them?

-I don't care what anyone says.  There is something charming about the accents.  They aren't particularly pleasant to the air, but the distinct sound of them is so unique to me that the merit lies in the local flair.  I don't sound like I'm from anywhere.  That makes me boring.

Another state closer to the Bucket List Item fulfilled!  note: most of my missing states are in the Southeast.  Who wants to invite me to the Grand Ole Opry?

Quelle Pressure

This is the newborn babe of a great friend of mine, whom just adopted him with his partner.  Isn't he just delish? They live in Portland and will assuredly give this little nugget a life full of love.  They are the greatest people and I'm so excited for them as they learn to be the greatest parents.

So this event got me thinking, Nick and I were talking about this recently, how do you feel about gay people adopting kids? I'm certainly not against it; despite the fact that two gay parents are obviously not the same as two straight parents, I think that love and commitment make a family.  Children need security, consistency, and conscience, and whomever can give that to them are deemed quality parents in my book.

The only issue I can think of is one that is not even distinct to same sex parents.  Have you noticed what @$$holes kids are becoming nowadays?  In my own opinion, I see a direct correlation to the instability of families with the downfall of upcoming generations.  As more and more children are being raised while thrown around between different sets of families, changing partners to their parents, half siblings, step siblings, and all of the ex-siblings of all varieties, I see parents becoming more lax.  It's only natural; we are putting kids through our own emotional changes and bad decisions, so we compensate for this by letting them get away with everything.  Again, just an observation, and of course, a sweeping generalization.  Back to the original point, if I were a same sex parent, I would probably add this to the list of 'things my kids have to overcome', alongside kids of divorce, remarriages, single parents, young parents, and everything in between.  I would probably feel bad for the added stress that this might bring to them, because of the way some people will inevitably treat them.  And so they would be spoiled.  Either way, all of this makes me terrified of ever having children.  But, as everyone has told me, this is also natural.  Right?!

BTW Nick disagrees.  He thinks he would be harder on them because he will expect only greatness from his own.  Ha, we will see!

Location Services.

{fall in Spokane}

I read somewhere that a blogger should never apologize for tardy or scant posting.  I don’t know why, but I feel like I should anyway.  It’s been so long.  Here’s the thing....

...I’ve been lacking in inspiration lately.  Well, I've come full circle. When I first left Spokane in search of adventure and experience, I could not spend enough time away from home.  You could coax me back to GEG with the birth of my goddaughter, but barely negotiable for any other occasion.  As far as I was concerned, time in Spokane was time away from Everything Else.

Since I've moved to LA, the travel bug has raged within me.  Something about being on a plane soothes my nerves about having a lease and furniture.  I've been on a plane at least once a month since I moved there, and have jumped at every opportunity to run around.  Up til now, I justified it in a multitude of ways.  Weddings, birthdays, weather, etc etc.  The thing that I've come to realized, however, is that all this running around is a total distraction from what I came here for.  I am in LA to chase a butterfly, and have been too distracted to even really start.

This fall, I spent a loong vacation at home in Spokane, which was filled with beloved friends and warm fuzzies.  I should have known better, because the fact of it is, I can’t go home without some kind of identity crisis following me on the plane.  When you grow up on a place like Spokane, with a personality like my own, it’s like you’re constantly at war with what you really want out of your life vs. the genuine joy you see in simple things and contented people.  I am not a contented person, but would like to be.  People who dwell and remain in places like Spokane tend to be well adjusted and satisfied.  Spokane is the easiest place in the world to live, I swear.  There is no traffic, four distinct seasons, tons of outdoor opportunities, alongside any amenity you could really desire.  You can stroll into any restaurant downtown, any day of the week, and be seated immediately.  Except for on Mother’s Day.  People are generally trustworthy, and families thrive.  The local economy is quite stable, sheltered from the highs and lows of this time....because people stay.  There’s no turnover.  Like I said, easiest place in the world to life.  Well, everyone likes easy, right? 

Therein lies the issue.  I just don’t handle easy that well.  While I was there, I always felt like I was wasting my time, waiting for my life to start and just begging for some cultural/creative/passionate interactions.  I need palpable culture, and people who take chances and act insane.  Living somewhere difficult forces you to decide, every day, what you’re there for and why you chose it.  

But it doesn’t make returning from ‘easy’ places any easier.

This is embarrassing, but honest.  I think that perhaps, after I came back to LA from Spokane this fall and took a serious look into my last year and life here, a bout of low grade depression set upon me.  For the past few months, I have found it difficult to want to engage in anything; wasting entire days holed up in my house, bundled in blankets and fighting the urge to cry for no reason.  All I wanted to do is watch musicals and buy plane tickets.  Mind you, I have had such incredible experiences and gone so many places in the last 12 months.  In fact, a quick review of my Skymiles account will reveal 80k+ miles in the air and 14 trips.  I have been nonstop running around even more since I decided to stay still in LA.  Ironic, eh?

My emotional coping mechanism has been the physical act of leaving for so long that I don’t know how to have a life!  How effing sad!  I'm serious, I think that I pacify myself with running around the country.  Do they make pills for this?!

So I have already decided that 2012 will be travel light, with ‘travel’ being the noun here. , not a verb.  I need to stay long enough in LA to really make something of myself and train myself to be ok in one place.  I didn’t accomplish that this year.  I cant think of how many workshops, meetings, and social events I haven't gone to because of my travel plans.  This year, I was always out of town or working like mad in prep of going out of town.  

Next year, I stay.  Y’all better start booking your flights to come to me.  

P.S.  Except EuroTrip with Coco next summer.  I mean, please.  I’m growing, not becoming someone else entirely.  

Apple Pie Baseball

My precious Coco Noelle celebrated her dirty thirty birthday last week, and I was all too excited to fly on up for this, plus another wedding.  I spent a wonderful 10 days in Spokane (I know! go figure!)  and was so blessed to get to spend so much time with her.  Coco and I met when I was a client at her fabulous salon, five years ago.  She, like so many of closest loves, was one that I met and decided within 2 minutes that we needed to be besties.  What can I say, when you know, you know...... ya know?  In honor of three decades of this delightful lady, please behold my Top Ten Coco Memories:

10: The day we met.  She was wearing this cute black jumper and looked like a little Peter Pan.  We giggled through the entire haircut and within the hour, I wanted to know everything about her.

9. I'm not going to publish the actual conversation, but while she came to visit me in NYC, we spoke at length about one of her favorite things in the world.... which is gross.  The subject matters not, but the fact that she is so candid about herself.  We laughed for so many hours, laying on that futon with Hayley.

8.  Coco is the friend I want with me when things are bad.  When bad situations are around, wrong place, wrong time.  I want her in my corner when the bummer comes.  She got into a little fender bender in my car while I was in Peru, and I am so thankful that of all my friends, it was her.  I'm sure she doesn't feel the same.  Having your first accident in someone else's car sucks.

7.  Also in NYC, Halloween night.  Our cab driver was getting into a verbal spat with another driver while barreling down Midtown Manhattan.  I was getting in on the action, and Coco was mortified.  Hilarious.  We just laughed about this last week.

6. New Orleans.  She was going down for a birthday party, and I was living in TX.  I met her and her friends for the weekend, and we ventured Bourbon Street one night by ourselves.  She stole me some artwork I have in my house now, we sang karaoke, and got kicked out of a strip club..... before we even got in.

5. Last year, when I first moved to LA, we were bored and looking for something to do.  I got on the LA weekly website and found this quirky comedy show in the back of a comic book store.  Sounded so lame, and we almost left before the show even started.  Cut to this year, after thousands of laughs and awesome comics seen.  Now Coco only flies out of LA after Wednesday, so that we can go to the Meltdown Comedy show.
         a. Coco was heckled at one of these shows one time.  It was hilarious.  Ask me about it.

4.  Coco has the balls to say anything to anyone, pretty much.  She can saunter up to a gorgeous man and just tell him so.  She leaves him her number at his work.  She has balls.  There are multiple examples.  I cannot just recall one, but I love having her around.  She makes friends like no one else I know.

3.  Coco and I bullied one of our friends to three way smooch us last week.  He wasn't having it at first, but we talked him into it.  I think about it and laugh loudly every time.  Peer Pressure!  Delightful!

2.  Last week, she was in LA with another friend and we did a late night In N Out run.  She, a vegetarian of over a year, said "screw it!" and got a double double with fries.  We drove down Hollywood Blvd, stuffed our faces and laughed at the freak parade.  She knows what's important, right?

1.  We danced and belted Justin Bieber all night on her birthday.  We have embarassed ourselves and so many others with impromptu performances at grocery stores, gas stations, and department stores.  We have Bieber dance parties in her dressing room, and for the 10 days I stayed with her, we started every day with the Biebs Christmas song.

Wanted: Someone Far Away.

I know the very term conjures terror in women's hearts worldwide, but I should still say it.

I think I would make a really good long distance girlfriend.

Let's face it, my unluckiness in love is probably equal parts lack of opportunity and personal issue, so perhaps a serious relationship is not a realistic ambition for me.

I am also really independent and don't understand the nuances of having another person constantly at my side.  I don't get it, and I don't know how good I would be at it.  I have a hard time taking guys seriously when they are trying to be genuine with me, and I could care less about corny ritualistic 'holidays' like Valentines Day or anniversaries.  Really, it sounds like a lot of stuffy, fussy, nonsense to me.  I will never remember the date of a first kiss, or recall what I was wearing when we went out the first time.  I hate fancy restaurants.  I hate feeling like I have to behave.

However, I am really good at sending prizes in the mail, texting fun pictures, and getting on a plane for any reason.  I like the idea of having someone to visit somewhere, and acquiring a whole new set of friends in another place.

I am skilled in not obsessing over where another person is, making friends with other girls, and showing up when it really counts.

So, from here on out, I think I will be mostly interested in men who live a reasonable flight away.  I'm thinking Seattle, San Fran, Denver, or New Mexico.  This might be a solution for me!  I'll keep y'all posted.

The Loo Line Lad.

So there's this guy.  (go ahead, groan.)

We met at a party last winter, both waiting in line for the bathroom.  Hilarious and delightful banter ensued, somehow we ended up with each other's phone numbers.

We talked, for a little while.

However it happened, he quit the communicating and I forgot about it.  Classic LA brush off.  Well then, imagine my shock when I get a nonchalant message from him in late August.  Six months later, mind you.

I didn't think much of it; he probably just got bored.  Twist: he hasn't let up, since!  He also hasn't really made a  move.  He came close, last week, asking if I was too tired to come over for dinner after I told him I had had a mere 4 hours of sleep the night before.  I told him I had dinner plans, but suggested a bite or drink another day.  He balked at the insinuation of being a 'second hand date'.  Oh LAWD.  Attraction plummets when insecurities surface preemptively.  Take note, gentlemen. (ha, like any men read this blog! I kill myself.)

Communication has been spotty since, but still not dead.  Normally, all of this nonsense would barely be noteworthy, but there are a few aspects to the situation that intrigue me.

First of all,  I really like his name.  This is a stupid reason to engage.  But, sometimes, I am quite a stupid girl.  Second of all, I haven't seen this man at all since the first time we met, and laughed uproariously while timing people in the bathroom (side note: laughing is the worst thing to be doing while waiting in line to pee).  Third, I don't really remember what he looks like.  See, being in line for the bathroom at a party usually means that you have had a few beverages, enough to warrant 'breaking the seal' if you will.  I was already three glasses of wine deep when we met and all I remember is this really great jacket he had on.

So to sum up, I entertain the idea of maintaining contact with this wishy-washy fellow because I have this deluded-too many rom coms-over imaginative fantasy that someday soon we might actually see each other after a full year of whatever it is we have been doing, and that the year of bad communication will lead to a funny and dysfunctional interaction upon that first meet.  Of course, this will be mostly just useful as material for the sitcom I will eventually write. .... or my memoir.

How to Return Home.

This song was written for a musical by the incredible team Kerrigan and Lowdermilk, and is referring to how one feel's going home for the first time during freshman year of college. I felt exactly this way then, I still feel the exact same way now, every time.  I think that anyone who has left home in search of something might agree with me:

Your bare feet sliding on the old wooden floorboards,

Home just as you left it but still you’re shaken,

Like walking into a museum somehow out of time.

It’s all the same except the girl in the hallway,

Where she’s been and who she will ripen into,

Your childhood’s on the other side of a sprawling divide… too wide.

Take a silent breath.

Hold in the change.

Tell yourself you still live here.

Take your bags upstairs.

It’s the only way you’ll get through today.

Count the hours.

Take a shower.

Wash yourself away.

The house is pulsing with an alien heartbeat,

Was it always here but you never listened?

It’s calling you to be the girl that you were way back then… again.

Put away your clothes, take it nice and slow.

Be their daughter.

Nothing’s harder

When nobody knows

How to return home.

How to return home

And how to survive,

There’s no written guidelines.

How to go back,

How to show up and unpack.

How to show up.

How to grow up.

How to take a breath.

You still share a name

But you’re not the same.

You don’t fight it.

You don’t hide it.

It’s a whole new game of how to return home.
(abridged)

I'm going back to Spokane for the first time since, er, (I don't actually recall) next week.  I'm already dreading the self righteous sixteen year old that will emerge from the tarmac at  GEG.  It's revertigo.  


PS:  Want to hear my fav B'way star, Laura Osnes' version?  

Terrible Twos.

{this is insanity. Don't I look ok?!}

Two Givens:

1: Internet communication is not ideal.
2: Communication itself is hardly ever received the way it was intended.

Still, two retarded exchanges:


1. Me: Hey! Was just thinking about you.  Where are you in this wide world?

2. Guy I Knew Once: Hi! I'm in Cali, and chillin.  Are you OK?

(loud record scratch).

Two reactionary thoughts:

1.  He's in Cali?  That's nuts.

2. WHAT DO YOU MEAN, "Am I OK"?!

There are two scenarios when a girl is asked if she "is OK":

1.  She is not, and assumes that this fairly obvious given that she is probably crying hysterically, in a rage, or curled up in the fetal position rocking herself.

2.  She is OK, and is thus offended that you insinuate that she isn't.

See, the rules of communication are clear and finite.

Disclaimer:  I have no romantic intentions toward this individual.  The problem was, he is memorably attached to a certain holiday in my brain, and when that time came this year, I was apparently overwhelmed with curiosity to find out what had become of him.  That probably won't happen again.

Gumpty Old Men.

Dear Mr. Gold,

How's this for a project?  This week, I did the big mail-out to all the agencies in LA in hopes that I will find my Ari Gold.  (as Sheriann said, "is this like Coyote Ugly?"  why yes, Sheriann, yes it is!).  I went and bought the Yellow Book, which comes out once a season, and lists all of the agencies in the area including: if they are taking new clients, what kind of new clients, and how they would like to be submitted to.  I filtered through all of that, and came up with 65 agencies to mail to, and 30 to email.  Here we go.  Stomach cramp.  

I realize I have been in LA for some time now before doing this and I am in no delusion that time is of the essence.  I see it on my forehead.  Nonetheless, I had been putting this off for so many reasons:

1. going to Peru

2. Had to have the right headshots, and then had to have them edited, formatted, printed, etc

3. Waiting for the next yellow booklet to be released

4. Thought I needed more time in acting class

5.  Needed to think about really wanting this.

6.  It's scary.

It's so hard for me to ask things from people.  I like to count on myself to make things happen, but in this place, you need people to help you get in the door.  

So, first order of business after sifting through the above list of poor excuses was to write a cover letter.  This pretty much explains who you are and what you want from these people, but it's not as easy as it sounds.  Most cover letters read like stereo instructions, boring and to the point.  This letter, along with anything else you send in the envelope, are all made to sell yourself; your personality, your charisma if any, and anything else that might shed light on who you are as a person.  After all, these people are not just presenting your skills to a potential employer like so many other jobs.  Agents pretty much present the essence of your being to directors and producers, trying to convince them that throngs of people will relate to you and admire.  Dramatic?  Well yes, it's what I do.  

This is what I ended up with:

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Talent Agency

address

Los Angeles, CA 

Dear Mr Agent:

I am writing in hopes that you might be interested in indulging an underachieving Asian girl’s quarter life crisis.  After wallowing in the sorrow that comes with realizing boredom in one’s first career, I have decided that A: much to the chagrin of my sterotypically overachieving family, I will not be fulfilled by a collection of post graduate degrees, and B: Getting what you want is mostly having the balls to attempt it.  Acting is what I wanted to do before I knew what a job was.  So here I am, back to the ambition of my free-thinking youth.  I am most interested in television, film, and commercial acting experiences. 

I graduated from Gonzaga University with a degree in Nursing, and have been taking cold reading and scene study classes with Doug Warhit in Beverly Hills for the last 9 months.  I have also taken various workshops with industry professionals during this time.  I am definitely a developing actor, but am ready to start auditioning.  I was last seen in a pilot called “All the Wrong Reasons” last year.  

I have included my headshots and resume, for your review, and will be following up to confirm receipt of my portfolio package.  Please feel free to contact me if there is anything else you might need to know; I am available to rendezvous at any time. 

I am enthused and highly motivated in taking this step toward my goals.  Thanks so much for your time, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.  

With warmest regards,

Mingni Sun

I know I KNOW, I used the word "balls".  I actually simmered over that word for an embarrassingly long time.  I realize that the very term might be horrendously offensive to some readers.  However, after carefully contemplation, I could not find any other alternative phrase that carries the weight of the original.  Furthermore, I am the girl who would use balls in a cover letter, and whomever gets the privilege/curse of representing me is going to have to be someone who is okay with it.  Thirdly, there is such a thing as style points, and if nothing else, I want style points.  

Soooo....... yeah.  Hope something good happens!

Ratchet Nurse.

Last week, I was working a particularly strenuous stretch of three days at the hospital.  Around 0815, we nursies decided that the day would not carry on efficiently without adequate dark brown caffeinated delight, so another nurse and I volunteered to walk the two blocks down the street to the local Starbucks for some brew.

You ever notice how a face lights up when you ask "You want anything at Starbucks?"  It's like seeing snow for the first time.  No?  Well, I'm a shift worker.  Coffee is revered*.

So the two of us trekked over to the Green Lady Caffeine Mecca with a looong list.  .... and as some of you might guess, many fussy fussy orders:

"-half calf skinny upside down caramel macchiato with extra sauce but no whip.

-venti light caramel frap with extra caramel IN THE CUP, NOT THE DRINK."
                                                                                                        oh Lawdy.

I was somewhat mortified to be relaying these requests to the employee behind the counter, but this is LA, and I had to assume that fussiness is forgiven here.  I even put her through the "I'm going to use my card, but when someone else in line uses cash and you open your drawer, would you break this twenty dollar bill?"  Like she didn't have enough to deal with.

Imagine my surprise, then, when she and another barista handed us our drinks/trays/lid stoppers/change/whatever else we wanted short of a pony and said,

"I just wanted you to know that you guys are the nicest nurses I have ever dealt with in here.  Seriously, you are the first to say 'please' and 'thank you'.  We have had so many nurses in here that are just demanding and rude.  Thank you guys so much."

UGH. (stomach drops).  That made me soo sad.  I mean, I have come across plenty a cranky nurse, but seriously?!  This Starbucks is within three blocks of three major hospitals in LA, so I can only imagine that the number of healthcare workers they encounter is great.  We were the first to be polite?!  I just mumbled something about working with babies and shamefully carried my seven drink trays our of the door.

I hate the reputation nurses have for being grumpy, lazy, oversensitive, patronizing, and demanding.  I also hate that the reputation isn't fabricated.  I know that it's not all nurses are known for, and I have also had a lot of positive reactions about this profession, but this encounter just hit hard.

Be kind.  Love Love Love.

*sidenote: to those who know me, you might be balking at this dialogue inferring that I am drinking coffee again.  I had gone through the torturous process of rehab-ing myself off of it after nursing school, and alas, I have fallen off of the bandwagon.  Most of it is psychological.  I feel better just holding it in my hands.  I know, pray for me. 

Lighter.

This makes me feel exponentially better.  Confession:  I have been blasting this song and dancing in my skivvies to this all summer.  Who needs prozac when Ryan Tedder is readily available?!

Decade.

Dear Father,

A fifteen year old girl watched that horrific day from the safety of a living room a continent away and still had nightmares for months.  Ten years later, I still don't understand.  I don't understand why.  I hate it.  I still have trouble sleeping at night if I think about it too much.  I just don't see it.

But someday I will.  Someday I will see the big picture and see the Greater Plan. Until then,

I will cry.
                                                   My heart will ache.
                     I will pray.

                            I will try to live my life like it's being stolen.

and I will watch this:

..... and cry some more.

Someday!  

Love Love Love.
                                            

Compliment.

He may not know this, but my friend sent me the best message after seeing the pic of machu picchu I posted a few weeks ago:

"So I saw your picture and have to ask, what are you doing with your life? Not asking in a concerned way, like a sibling toeing the line between recreational user and addict. Asking more from an interested perspective. Seems like you are always climbing something...."

Ah! A woman can still maintain her mystery in this day and age! And be interesting without being a train wreck! And the angels are singing!

Insult.

So I've gotten three of these left on my doorstep in the last few months. I'm assuming that the wonderful makers of these items now know that they are useless in the physical sense; nobody actually uses a phonebook anymore.  So thus, I am forced to assume that someone is making quite blatant short jokes directed toward me.  Hardy har har.

breathing.

Well wasn't this just the summer of love?

I think I set a wedding-attending record this year (and its still not over! what up josh and nicole?!).  It seems that, this year, everyone apparently decided maturity is upon us.  My friends and I are all in our late twenties, and soooo.... that means life changes.  Weddings.  Babies.  Mortgages.  All of those tax deductions that all present themselves as evidence that welp, we got our big kid undies on for reals. 

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!  But why?!

You can send my PBJ to the treefort.

Es-cah-pay.

Aww see?  We fancy ourselves as just plain hilarious.

As much as the next patriot, I think that I am fairly aware of the vastness of our great nation.  It boasts most every kind of climate found on the planet, is home to most every different kind of person, and is a mash up of so many cultures, accents, etc etc.  We have a lot.  Despite all of this, I still maintain that every American, as able, should make it of utmost priority to get the HELL OUT OF THE STATES at least once a year.  Here are ten reasons why:

1.  You have to get out of the States in order to do all of the things that you can't do in the States.  The boys and I giggled every time we were led across a rickety drawbridge, traversed across skinny ledges on the edge of a cliff, biked downhill through construction sites etc etc, laughing that "this S**t would never fly in the US!"  Keeps you alive, taking risks and learning how to choose your own steps.

2. You have to build your immunity somehow.  In the United Sterility of America, you will rarely have to wash your hands in muddy water or eat from dishes rinsed with a hose.  Buck up, fussies.  Yes, I did spend the bulk of my trip quite ill, but sometimes that's good for you.  Misery breeds character.

3. In the States, you pretty much only meet other Americans, and people think that's cross cultural.  Im sorry, but I don't think it's interesting to talk to someone from South Carolina.  "You have PinkBerry?!  WE HAVE PinkBerry!"  Please.  In contrast, while in Peru, we met and made friends with people from the UK, France, Tunisia, Belgium, Germany, Australia, Canada, and the Netherlands, just to name a few!  Now isn't that just so much more fun?!

4. Deficit or no, we are rich.  We should spend our money contributing to those less rich.  Buy their food, ride their cabs, invest in their children.  It's simple, and so rewarding for both parties.

5. Along with the former, traveling to other countries teaches us about money.  No matter where you go, a huge part of the culture of a place is tied in its financial habits.  How much people earn, how they spend their money, how it's exchanged.

6.  Geography.  Along with math, science, reading and writing, US schools are also quite lacking in this subject.  In my opinion, they best way to counter this is to fly away, read a lot of maps, and explore.  I admit to knowing quite nothing about South America before embarking, and now know a little.  Progress.

7. We have GOT to do something about the American stereotypes.  When chatting with the friends from places mentioned above, we loved asking them what they really thought about us Yankees.  Most common answers?  Fat.  Loud.  Overconfident. Irresponsible.  Blurgh.  If only they weren't all true.  I like to think that the three of us tried our best to show another side to the gluttonous Yanks.  You know, the giggly and outdoor loving side.

8.  For three weeks, I got to ignore the budget crisis, didn't have to drive a car, and was blissfully ignorant to all of the media blitz that surrounds anytime the newest Hollywood starlet tweets about her shoes/hair/toileting habits.  I feels cleansing to only worry about what's right in front of you.

9. I get inspired by other travelers.  We met so many people with interesting stories, abilities, opinions.  Everyone else we met spoke multiple languages, and had such seemingly profound understandings of the world.  Doesn't it ever feel like Americans are completely ego-centric, like we are the only country/culture/economy that matter?  While there may be a bit of truth to our nation's influence, I still feel like it means that its citizens don't learn as much.  Bothersome.

10.  IT"S FUN!!  I like going places without answers, just the balls to try it out.

Move about the cabin!  Take me with you!  Love Love Love.

el Banditos.

So this is the kind of crap that makes backpacking so much more fun of a kind of trip:

At the first hostel we stayed in Lima, we made friends with one of the guys that worked the front desk: Jhony, pronounced 'Johnny'.  Jhony is a guy around our age, whom has a degree in tourism and apparently was quite the expert on his fair city.  One afternoon, he took us to his favorite ceviche restaurant and introduced is to his friends, two lovely European girls also backpacking through Peru.  After a scale tipping meal and fun cross cultural conversation, we decided that we wanted to go to the Centro district of the city to see the underground crypts, under the Iglesia de San Pedro.  It's a huge church just off the central square, right by the financial district in Lima.  The church itself is, of course, beautifully ornate and historically significant.  The draw, however, lays in what lies beneath.  A while ago, archeologists discovered tens of thousands of skeletons and other remains of saints and other religious nobles.  In fact, they now know that they have only unearthed one layer of the crypt, and they estimate thousands more skeletons are still entombed underneath the layer already opened.  Fascinating huh?

Here's where it gets good:

So we are rushing through the city in order to get there before 1730, when the crypts close to the public.  Despite our best efforts and fast paced nurse walking, we arrive about five minutes prior.  Jhony tries to duck past them, but the security guard blocks him, and I immediately think our plans are foiled.  But nope, Jhony turns around and instructs us to wait there, while he slipped inside.  A few minutes later, he emerges through a crack in the gigantic door and motions for us to follow him inside, but discreetly!  We scamper past the ticket counter and down into the catacombs.  It's dark.  The ceilings are low.  There are gray brick enclosures everywhere... oh, and filled with human remains.  Right, then.  We run through the crypt, ducking under the freakishly low ceilings and peering into the vats of skulls, femurs, hand bones.  Every so often, we hear activity above us, and Jhony points out that the church is right there, and audible through the floor grates.  There is music and ceremony upstairs, and I finally ask Jhony "So, how did we get in here?" We were the only ones down there and it was quite apparent that there was something going on upstairs.  Jhony then laughs and explains to me that, at this very moment, there was a priest who was being buried in the crypt.  He gave the guards some sob story about us leaving Lima the next day, and they agreed to let us in as long as we went all the way into the crypt and didn't come out until after the burial was over.

Uh, what?  Well, look at that.  We peer past the brick columns and sure enough, song and incense are following a casket that is being placed into a wall inside the very crypt where we were trapped by a mob of priests blocking the entrance into the crypt.  Aaron fell silent as his Catholic guilt erupted, and Nick and I tried to not gasp at the air of formality we were breathing in.  Jhony obviously wasn't taking it so seriously.  I accidentally catch the eye of one of the priests, and hope that he isn't too offended.  They complete the ceremony and the priest waves at us to go before them out of the tomb.  We oblige, and then are paraded through a crowd of priests, monks, nuns, and family, all staring at us as we tumble out of the tomb.  There are no words for that kind of awkward, but I still felt oddly exhilarated having been witness to something I might never see again.  Afterwards, Jhony sneaks us into the rest of the monastery, through the ancient libraries, cloisters and hallways.  We literally hide from security guards as they march by, and Jhony somehow magically knew how to open all of those crazy doors.

We complete our haphazard tour, and just look at each other as we leave the church, amazed at what we had just seen.  Undigestible at the time, but now brings feelings of both honor and embarrassment.  A good story all the same.

The Name is Misleading.

How DARE he tell me no!

3 minutes later, I wasn't too broken up about it. 

Standing on reeds on Lake Titicaca, playing with the locals and trying to not cry over the gorgeous views.  Behold:

Note: name Titicaca is a mixture of indigenous languages of Peru and Bolivia, as the lake straddles the border between the two nations.  It means "rock puma', because of its shape.