We Should Talk...

Hey guys,

Don't think I'm not aware of the 4 month blog silence.

I've been kinda uninspired by this medium.

This fall was pretty tumultuous and maybe I was too wrapped up in my nonsense to really put work into writing.

I've been cheating.

The truth is, I started a secret Tumblr page several months ago.  I don't know what my deal was, other than I just had some thoughts I wanted to say anonymously.  For the first time since I can remember, I've felt the need to keep myself and my thoughts a bit private or maybe just separate from myself?  I've been wanting to say things and process things but not necessarily under a snarky heading or with animated GIFs to accent.  So I started this secret Tumblr to post all of the things I find too annoying to let people I love read.  I'll let strangers find my rantings and yearnings obnoxious, eh?  The Tumblr is not linked to my name at all, although there is a non-identifying photo of me in its banner.  It is also entirely made of posts of poetry, or lists.  Some of it is really fun and silly, and other postings are heart breaking and wrought with way too much emotion to take responsibility for.

I hope someone out there reads it and finds it funny, sad, well-written, and annoying. 

 In that order.

Ways My Parents Tried to Make Me Like My Race.

I grew up in the whitest town in America, and often was the first Asian friend any of mine had. I hated it. I just wanted to have blonde ringlets and freckles like Shirley Temple (ah, RIP) and sing John Denver songs at the school talent show.

My parents were idiots about it. Well, my mom mostly. My dad is a eye rolling butthead, and never gave any thought to forced cultural connections beyond learning enough english to order a steak properly. My mother, on the other hand, clearly flailed with how to convince me to find pride in my straight black hair and slanty eyes. A few tactics that have proven to be ineffective:

(source)

1. She told me that I was related to Kristi Yamaguchi. As a child of the early 90s, I was, like so many girls, completely overtaken by figure skating. I would put on the sparkliest garb I had, strap on my clunky mint green roller skates, make my dad move all the furniture in the living room, and crash around on the hardwood floors while she was on TV, trying to imitate her every axel and toe loop.

Why it didn’t work: As soon as I went and told all of my friends the crazy and wonderful connection I had with the Olympian, they all told me I was full of shit. If no one has written the book on what happens to 6 y.o.s when they are found to be un-faultily full of shit, I will. Let me tell you, finding out that your supposed figure skating cousin is the WRONG RACE (Japanese) and isn’t related to you, will ruin your year.

(source)

2. She told me I was named after a Chinese princess. I have a name that’s really Chinese and relatively hard to say for the common white man with common (none) language acquisition skills. I just wanted my name to be Sarah, so that my teachers and I could both stop sweating through every first week of school. Or Rebecca, after the Aunt in Full House. (She had the best outfits and got to make out with Uncle Jesse). Instead of telling me to embrace my name because it was given to me by my Grandfather, it wasn’t my choice, but it’s uniquely mine, she just told me I was named after royalty.

Why it Didn’t Work: Well, even as a child, my precocious and over confident nature already predisposed me to feelings of misplaced-royalty. A kid like that doesn’t need to be told she actually is the namesake of a monarch. Really? I needed to be brought down to earth, and she just ignited my rocket fuel. I admit, that this ruse did bring me some inner pride albiet temporary. I believed it for years, until one day when I was in Jr High she casually mentioned that it was made up. I haven’t stopped having regular identity crises since.

(source)

3. She tried to get my school involved. My poor mother was always offering to bring in Chinese food, teach the kids Mandarin, and decorate my classrooms with gold and red paper cuts for Chinese New Year. I wasn’t having any of it. Instead, I was always trying to convince them to hang Christmas lights early, write Valentine’s cards, and go camping. When my fourth grade music class was preparing for a concert celebrating the different nationalities of the world, we were being taught a song that was ‘Asian influenced’. The song was supposed to be a translation of an English song, but was so horrendously done that it was effectively asking a group of 8 y.o.s to sing “ching chang! bing bong! soy sauce chopstick!” to the tune of Yankee Doodle Dandy. My mother was wildly appalled and immediately marched me to my music teacher with an appropriate and accurate translation of the song in Chinese.

No one could sing it; they couldn’t pronounce any of it.

Why It Didnt Work: She made me the Weird Girl with the Annoying Mom who is Making Us Make Sounds We Can’t Do. While she was totally righteous in her actions, I was mortified. Afterward, I made an even more fervent effort to be white. I stopped going to Chinese school, wore my hair in a side pony at all times, and used any catchphrase that was featured on T.G.I.F.

So here we are, decades later, and I am still only starting to be okay with my name and straight hair. There are certainly days that I still wish that I was white, but what my mom might never understand is that I became cool with being Asian when I became a stand up comic and realized that my slanty ethnicity bestows me with a wealth of material that white kids just don’t get access to. Follow me to math camp!

A New Story.

{Complete Violation.}

You guys, I finally get the 'crazy bitch' distinction and I am just sick over it.  Men who call women crazy should be immediately separated from every last hair on their heads and assigned a women's department store to live in for the rest of their existence.

You make us crazy.

There's an introduction.  Classically, in my life, it happens within the construct of a gathering of people.  A music show, comedy night, a wedding, happy hour, a dinner party, a birthday, etc etc.  Maybe glances are coyishly exchanged from across the crowd, maybe not. However, the night progresses and one way or another he eventually declares himself as attracted (notice I don't say interested.  this is another word entirely.)  Well if I'm attracted as well, usually something will go down.  My sexual energy is more curious than meaningful most of the time, and I just want to know what your lips feel like.  So I find out.  I'm young! It's fun!

Sometimes there are more encounters like this in the subsequent weeks after this initial flurry of fun.  We might see each other again, exchange some conversation, have a few pints, and flirt further.  Maybe it gets a little out of hand, but good-naturedly.  Eventually, one of us loses interest or moves on and the other gets the Fade Out.  It's the Circle of Life.

This cycle is usually about 1 hour to 4 weeks in length.  Upon completion of this cycle, I usually merely roll my eyes and busy myself.  I'm not a dweller; I like to keep moving.  If I'm the fader, I hope he just assumes I met my Dude.  If he does the fade, I just assume maybe he's in a coma?  Either way, it's fine!  We weren't invested anyway!

Well, this post in particular is in existence because something different happened.  In relation to a dude, I finally felt crazy.

HE BROKE THE RULES.

In referencing the previous post of casual-relation situations, he effing broke every single one.  We spoke of a no-stress, let's enjoy each other while we can kind of a deal.  Life is weird and complex, but we clearly had an intoxicating chemistry.  Let's play science for a minute.

Well, he played too well.  This dude was on his gaaaaame.  In the few encounters we had together, he sent me into such a tailspin I could hardly blink.  When I saw him it was sweet, intimate, and wildly romantic.  He strolled me through neighborhoods in the rain, danced me under streetlights, and cradled my face in his hands.  He hummed in my ear as we soaked up gorgeous views, arms entangled and hearts pounding.

I will admit, I ate it all up.  He served it piping hot, and I could barely satiate.

Maybe it was just his nature, the aggression and passion.  Maybe he just fell into romance quickly, a muscle memory from his recent past.  Maybe he's just an ass.  But when the hard fade out hit, I went berserk.

Do guys really know what happens when they lay it on so thick and then blatantly deny any affiliation?  I didn't either, but it's dark and ugly.  My brain immediately went to A Beautiful Mind mode, a constant inner dialogue of trying to decipher the truth from my imagination.

{Do I even believe my own evidence? uh.....?}

"oh, cool.  I made it all up."

"Never happened.  No, it wasn't just you that kissed me in the rain and carried me up those cobblestone steps."

"That's just a movie that I watched once."

"It couldn't have been real, because now you can't even respond to a message or make up an excuse why you've disappeared.  We're not friends.  Nope, it never happened.  I'm clearly delusional."

So then I just went on about my life, refusing to acknowledge those strange sensations that would course through my body whenever I heard a song on the radio that I knew he liked, or I drove by the restaurant where he pulled me into him on the sidewalk.  Someone told me once that these are feelings (sp?).  Well I have now had them and surely they are not welcome here.   Not only are they wholly unwelcome, but they are an outright danger to any semblance of progress in my life.  For the few weeks following, I was so distracted at work I was writing notes down three times before I knew what they meant.  I could remember nothing anyone said to me and forget driving.  I'm already Asian, I don't need some dude making me clinically insane as well thankyouverymuch.

 My thoughts were consumed with "Was that real? Was that real?  Was he even there?  Did he see what I saw?  What if it was all me?"

So yeah, I crawled into the crazy bitch brain space.  But I was lured and locked in, alone and in darkness before I had any chance to get out.  So the next time you hear someone accuse a gal of being a Crazy Bitch, consider first how she might have gotten there.  and check her garage for bulletin boards and newspaper clippings.

Simple Rules.

{photo credit}

This isn't uncommon.  You meet someone, but things are immediately complicated.  One of you isn't entirely available, location is a hassle, or you're just not into each other enough to make it legit.  So you fall into a casual half-life, seeing each other occasionally without a definition of what you mean to each other or where you're going.  The idea of the Two of You is likely doomed from the start, so instead you entertain the distraction of a Someone to scratch your back and bridge you to wherever you're really going.  Now, I'm not saying this is an innovation in the human condition or anything, but we all do it, and I don't know why certain practices aren't universally understood.  So I shall impart my wisdom. 

Here's what needs to said:  when in casual dating encounters, responsibility is on both parties to remain emotionally neutral and relationally distant.  

My proposed guidelines, or the Let's Have Fun, but..... List:

1. Keep the details.  I don't want to know the sordid specifics of your family dynamics, and I'll spare you the comprehensive list of my food allergies.

2. No ex girlfriend talk.  I don't want to compare myself to your Goddess that Got Away, or think about you using me to fill the her-shaped hole in your life.  We're using each other to feel good, not inadequate.

3. Be polite.  At the very least, we are both people who know each other.  Don't be a d*ck.  Respond when I reach out, leave when prompted.  I'll do the same, and remember that you're still a person.

       3.a. Get over yourself.  I am NOT TRYING TO WIFE YOU.  I know we aren't in a relationship.  I know this isn't going there.  You don't have to intermittently be an ass just so I don't fall in love with you.  Eyeroll.   

4. Keep our mouths shut.  We probably know some of the same people.  We're keeping it light, so let's not broadcast our silly flirtation to the masses.  Do YOU want to explain this?

5. Don't. Get. Romantic.  This is the most important.  I am really well evolved to keep emotions at bay, be light and breezy, but it takes some effort, man.  So we both have to be realistic.  Romance clouds the confines of what this isn't, and confuses us both.  No calling it a date.  

                                          It's not a date.  

My Superclose Cousin Ren

What if....

the way Renee Zellwegger looks....

....is the most elaborate Asian joke there ever was??

I mean, I am as genetically Asian as a girl can get, and I still have to squint in order to impersonate her.

You think she is just sitting at her house, laughing at how no one has accused her of it yet?  She just traipses around Hollywood with those slanty-ass eyes, booking those white girl roles and subliminally bragging to the real Asian girls??  If this is true, it's genius.  Evil genius, but brilliant nonetheless.  

oh NO.

Mom at age 24.  As endless as my ability to squawk about how I am my own person, that the Chinese people DO have variations in their faces and I'm so much more a evolved human than any other Fresh Off the Boat immigrant.... there's no denying that that's my nose up there.  and chin.  and ears.  Grooooooaaaaann.

Extra Extra Read All About It

The headline reads:  Maid of Dishonor appalls unsuspecting wedding guests; wears otherwise classy dress scrunched up at her hips.

When questioned, she squawked that she needed the added range of motion in her legs that the restrictive sheath silhouette could not provide.  Furthermore, she blamed the wedding DJ for playing beloved hits from the 90s that she could not merely shuffle ladily-like to.  She cited reasonable logic in her decision making, as children had not been welcome at the celebration, and thus were not in danger of being influenced by the surface area of her exposed thighs.  It should be noted that all of the fun guests were understanding, but the boring people took offense.  At the end of the night, the MoD showed remorse only that she would look like a giant hair scrunchie in all of the wedding photos, and it will probably lead to her dying alone in her impeccably furnished beach house.  

Purple Blog Monster

I've basically been a blogger nightmare, eh?  I go to Africa in November, I blog in March.  Compile a blog to-write list THIRTY items long, sit on it til June.  

What can I say?  I've been really busy trying to swallow all of the nonsense that I create for myself; making new friends and monochromatically dressing from the waist down.  

Love you all; thanks for sticking with me.  

Oh and, LINDSAY LAVIN.  EXCUSE ME, I HAVENT REALLY BLOGGED IN A REGULAR FASHION SINCE 2012 AND I HAVE BARELY HEARD A PEEP OUT OF YOU.  EITHER YOU GOT MARRIED AND YOUR PRIORITIES TOOK A NOSE DIVE, OR YOU'RE TRYING SOME REVERSE PSYCHOLOGY BULLSHIT, TRYING TO MAKE ME FEEL LIKE YOU DON'T CARE IF I KEEP MY BLOG UPDATED.  CHECK YOUR CONSCIOUS AND ADJUST.  I NEED YOU TO PROD ME TO REACH MY POTENTIAL.

addendum: I have received word from Mrs Lavin that the nature of her silence was of the latter scenario.  she has been reprimanded. 

Ape Blues.

Africa is so many things, but one of the first things I think of when people ask me about my recent trip there is the F@$%ING BABOONS.  It's no secret that the wildlife is perhaps the most distinguishing characteristic of this place, but hell, I was not prepared for the non-romantic aspect of my jolly holiday in the wild kingdom.

Janni and I were in Storms River, South Africa hiking in the Tsitsikamma National Park, along the coast.  It is breathtakingly beautiful, you get to weave through lush jungle before you emerge to the craziest coastline I have ever seen (above!).  While we were in the jungle-y portion, I had my head down examining the ground the entire way up.  You see, we had just heard some paralyzingly scary stories about black mamba snakes, how they can rise up 6 ft to strike you, and how a mere glance of a fang can leave you asphyxiated and dead in 15 minutes.  The locals were telling us that they kill lions and entire herds of cattle.  Soooooooo I was focused on the snakes, which was not a simple task given that the terrain was covered in smooth ground vines and roots.  Everything looked like a big gray snake.  I was doing a particularly good job of this as we came a down a section of the path when Janni grabbed my shirt and hissed "MINGNI.  Do you not SEE where you are going."  Umm, no.  What?  Oh, that.

I was literally about to kick him in the tush.  He sat about the height of my nose like that, and was the ugliest shade of gray.  I felt totally weird about it, but he glanced our way and seemed unimpressed and unbothered by our presence on the trail.  

So depending on where you grow up, you learn the wildlife tricks for survival, right?  Be big and make noise around mountain lions, play dead for bears.  Don't touch sharks.  rightrightright.  Well we don't know what to do about baboons!

So we called the hostel (they call them backpackers) so ask about what we should do.  This guy was sitting squarely in the middle of the trail, we had already made a few hours progress, and I am not one to allow wildlife to foil my plans.  The guys at the backpackers were also unimpressed, and breezily told us to just stay a healthy distance and leave them alone.  Well what does that mean?!

We were about to find out.  As we started getting brave and moseying closer to this furry gargoyle in attempt to coax him elsewhere, a pack of other baboons all drop to the ground from the trees.  There were probably 6-8 of them, smaller and daintily formed.  They all had at least a few babies on their back.  They were not pleased to see us.  Groan.  The moms all saw us immediately and GEEZ their expressions are so human-like!  I could tell immediately that they were angered and threatened.  I scurried backward down the trail past Janni while she rolled her eyes.  As I turned back to respond to her lack of urgency, I could see a few of them tearing down the trail toward us.  I yelled at her to run, and the two of us scampered farther until they were out of sight.  Perhaps it was a hasty reaction, but I just kept imagining this scene from Disney's Tarzan, where Jane gets descended upon by hundreds of rabid baboons, and has to be plucked to safety via swinging vines and cliff jumping.  I was not about to become victim to another Disney Damsel-in-Distress scenario.  

We ended up playing push and shove with these guys for 40 minutes, sneaking down the trail and just waiting for them to move on until the path was clear.  The babies were just too cute, playing and rolling around in the underbrush.  The adults were all business, pulling branches down and munching loudly on the leaves they yanked off.  

As our trip progressed, the relationship between us and the babs never improved.  They were everywhere, basically rude criminals wherever we went.  Because their hands are shaped like ours, they are able to use everything we do, and you could plainly see them opening car doors, doorknobs, backpack zippers, and fence latches.  They're irritatingly smart as well, and we couldn't even carry groceries in the street without them knowing and wanting to approach us.  They're also emotionally abusive!  We heard stories about how they would break into people's house and trash the kitchen, without even eating anything.  They just wanted to make a mess.  What assholes, eh?

See the rest of my Africa pictures, including the not to be missed Tsitsikamma National Park here.

Where the Cool Kids Are.

Photo Source

This year is that of my 10 yr High School Reunion.  You know, when you reach such an age, it's important to stop, reflect, and resonate on the decade past.  On the time spent in your life since you left your friends and upbringing, to set out in pursuit of your youthful daydreams and earnest goals.

VOMIT.  I'm just kidding.

What I really want to talk about is how dumb people, including myself, are in high school.

A scene:

I was recently in Spokane, and caught the show of a band that I really like.  We were sitting in a box on the balcony, and a man sitting in front of me caught my eye.  He was of average height, build, appearance.  Scruffy face and cheesily gelled hair.  Dirty Carhartt jacket and ill fitting jeans.  His shoes were untied.

He caught my eye because he was the coolest, hottest, biggest man on campus in High School.

(Now now, I understand all-too-well that appearance is always the worst indication of character.  But I'm also human and have eyes to see and a brain to discern.  We all make choices every day as to how we will appear to others, and that has to mean SOMETHING about how we think and who we are.  So don't pretend like you don't care about looks.  hmphrt.)

I wasn't going to say anything; after all we weren't close in High School, and certainly aren't close now.  I was pretty marginal on the cool scale, and still only keep in contact with a select few HS friends.  But apparently I looked familiar to him as well, and he turned around and spoke first.  After the initial streak of pleasantries, the convo went on:

him "Hey, so are you living here? "

me: "No, actually I'm living in LA, I've been doing some acting and I work as a nurse.  How about you?"

him: "Oh, that makes sense cuz you were always doing plays and stuff in school.  Well I didn't go to college or nothin, but I'm here in the valley.  Hey, do you have a lighter?  We lost ours and don't got nothin to light our smokes.  and oh hey, come over to our friends house after this.  We got a bunch of weed so you should come rage."  Really.

Now I'm not writing about this only to criticize, but mostly to highlight MY stupidity, ten years ago.  This guy was the envy and prize of every guy and girl I knew at that point, and I could never have imagined at that time, that there would be a day when I didn't find him to be the Best Thing Ever.  I laughed aloud at myself, thinking about all of the time I spent thinking that I would never be worthy of him ever even knowing my name, and how he was SO LUCKY to be such perfection.

Isn't it funny how, perspective seems to be earned with age?  We are born with none whatsoever, only aware of our own feelings and needs.  Then as we age, we become more and more aware of the Bigger Picture. That's the thing about high school that I knew but didn't really believe:  your life hasn't even started to start yet.  Who you are and what you will be is ever-changing, and now is not the time to be at the top of your game.  If anything, I am now thankful that I wasn't beloved at a young age; I knew very early that I had a lot of cool factor to make up for, a lot to work toward.  I'm not saying that I'm even close now; but certainly learning to place smaller and smaller importance upon whomever the It person of the moment is.

This moment of wisdom felt like the first hour of the stomach flu.  That's it for me, folks.  Blech.  Oh, and I'm not going to my reunion.  I got enough of that already.

Love Love Love.

A TRAFFIC ATTACK.

Photo credit

I am so one of those people that thinks she's invisible within the confines of her car.  When I'm behind the wheel, there is no limit to my behavior, whether it's bouncing and wailing loudly along to the radio, picking my nose, or changing into/out of yoga clothes.  Truly, it's ridiculous.

But recently, I was stopped in my tracks while plucking my eyebrows at a routine red light stop.  The car in front of me, in ever terroristic fashion, turned.....his rear windowshield wipers on.

I have never felt so violated in my entire life.  Oh yeah, Voyeur McPeeping?  You were watching me and judging me so intensely that you noticed your back windshield was DIRTY?!

You are disgusting.  How dare you.  Mind your OWN business, sir!

These Thighs Don't Lie.

A few months ago, the writer/director/producer/actor (Note, it does NOT say model) Lena Dunham was effectively stoned by bloggers after wearing the above ensemble to an event.  They chastised her, demanding to know why she was forcing the masses to see her ample thighs.  Well, she had a lot to say and wasn't shy to say it, but she summed it all up in this:

"My response is, get used to it because I'm going to live to be 100 and I am going to show my thighs every day until I die."

Me too, girl.

Excuse me, my thighs are huge.  They're strong and thick and useful.  I'm healthy and active, and there is absolutely no reason to shield the masses from the 'horror' that is the view of them.  I love Lena for laughing about this, instead of checking herself straight into fat camp, like so many of the young starlets do.  Guess what, girls?  If you are talented, there is talent in your THIGHS, too.  If you aren't, whittling your thighs away won't bring any to you. 

Don't Throw Things.

Listen.

I consider myself fairly well plugged in to the movie world.  I like movies, and I pride myself in being able to appreciate a well made film, no matter the genre.  Despite all of this well-rounded cinema taste and experience, I do carry one deep, dark, secret.

I've never seen Star Wars.

             ...AND I DON'T WANT TO.

{photo source}

I just don't get why I would like it; and now I have a bad attitude about all of the backlash I will receive in response to this confession.

People are MAD over this film, and I'm sure I will receive a self-righteous text or two over my negligence in this matter.  Don't care.

I think the obsession is stupid, and whenever I find myself in conversation with others who don't share my opinion, I just fake it.  YES, I LIE.  Whatever, man.  No one likes people who know more about Star Wars than they do, anyway.  I, really, just enable the enthusiasm of true fans.  I just throw around a few words like "ewok" and "saber", "jedi" and "yoda".  None the wiser.

the LA Brush-off

(I may just start my own mating dance)

In Los Angeles dating, tread lightly.  Don't take anyone or anything seriously.  Everyone here is in pursuit of a dream, whether it be acting or art, music, writing, or sport.  They are all the pride and joy of their small town, and come to the Big City, with a population of low brow drama teachers rallying behind them.  They save all of their money and arrive bright eyed and full of ambition.

So No One will get in their way.  No one can be a priority over their Big Deal, and everyone here has a Big Deal.  In addition, attraction overfloweth.  Gorgeous faces and bodies thrust themselves into your view at every coffee shop, printer store, gym, and restaurant.  There's always someone more beautiful, charismatic, or with more 'industry contacts'.  Woof.

So the inevitable result is that you make a connection, you are taken with each other's newness and possibility.  You dance for two weeks..... and then, he....just.......disappears.  Literally (say it in a British accent when reading this) drops off the face of the planet.  No calls, text, voicemails.  No smoke signals, fruit baskets, carrier pigeons.  Pony Express just clomping past your door, day after day.

Well what happened?  Another Someone, or another Big Deal.  It's not like I was in love; but I am starting to wonder when it's appropriate to just go ahead and file that Missing Persons Report.

The second part of this observation is the story of the One on Orbit.  I got the LA brush off, but then this guy kept cycling around every 3 weeks.  Disappears, gone, then reemerges like Lazarus from the tomb; all innocent and casual.  Well, I'm INNOCENT AND CASUAL.  So I didn't make a big deal of it.  We're young and free!  We don't have to be bogged down with common courtesies and polite truths!  So I entertained the revolve.

But I got tired, annoyed, and a sudden burst of self-esteem.  I knew that I was just distracting myself and that this was pretty pathetic.  I hadn't heard from this guy for almost a month, despite our last encounter being pretty intense and SO I DELETED HIS NUMBER.  I deleted all of the text messages, any recent dials, any trace of him from my mobile device.  I would have had to call At&T for my phone records in order to contact this person again.  I felt empowered, proud and self-contented.  I smiled to myself as I put my phone down and set out for my day.  I briefly considered wearing a cape for being such a feminist hero.

Guess who texts 90 minutes later?

How did he know?!
I tell you what, it's a lot harder to delete that number the second time.  Eye roll.

How We Torture Ourselves

The Best Conversation Between a Friend and Another Friend 

Her: Are you dating anyone?

Him: Well I "love" someone but she doesn't know it.

Him:  Love is in quotes because it's finite.  

The last line was nonsense.  Literally.  He told us later that he doesn't even know what that means and he texted it in a half-asleep and half-drunk state.  

But the story here is that, we girls got this message late in the evening.  Instead of laughing at the ridiculous rhetoric and just going to bed, we stayed up for an embarrassing long time, analyzing and explaining this cryptic note.  

"Well, finite means having limits, so I'm sure he means that it's in quotes because he doesn't see it going anywhere."

                            .....and then we argued over the definition of 'finite' for a few minutes.

"No, I'm sure he means that it's in quotes because he doesn't know what love means, or maybe it means something different to her than for him."

"Well wait, is this a line from a song or something?"

                                                    ..... Quick google break.

"Hang on.  He said it's in quotes to US, but maybe that's because he's embarrassed to tell us he loves someone.  You know, because he's a brooding musician."

We finally fell asleep murmuring about love and definitions and musicians and communication and THIS IS WHY GIRLS ARE RIDICULOUS.  

Disgust-xy.

It's late, but I still want to talk about Halloween.  

Instead of looking sexy, I like to look absolutely disgusting on this revered slut-iday.  In fact, I would go so far as to say that looking disgusting on Halloween is when I feel the sexiest.  This is just one of the adorable and weird quirks that I have woven into my consciousness.  Gag. 

The weekend before Halloween this year, I flew to Nashville to spend the time with my bestie, Ashley.  The burger/fry combo had been a sensation of a hit in 2000, during the Valley Christian Fall Spirit Day "Food Fest".  My hometown friend Jasmine and I originated these costumes, won Best Dressed, and were the most popular and revered sophomores for the rest of the year.  I'm not one to waste a bad idea.  So this year, Ashbo (She calls me Mingbo because the first time she tried to text my name, her autocorrect changed it.  and we love it.) and I scoured craft stores in Nashville for the perfect foam sheets and made these costumes that did me so well a decade ago.  

You know what the best part of it was?  We were out at a bar, dancin' and carrying on as usual.  On any other night, young and old men alike would get brazen on the dance floor, descend upon young things like us, and start getting grabby.  It's rude, and an invasion of personal space.  Plus, I need room for my moves.  On this particular night, men would go ahead and descended upon us as usual, reach around our bodies for a feel,  and get a HANDFUL OF FOAM.  Game over.  

For Halloween 2.0, I was back in LA and scurried off to a fun and fancy Hollywood party thrown by a band and set in the famous Forever Cemetery.  Pop princesses and sitcom kings were seen there.  The DJs were renowned musicians.  The alcohol flowed freely.  The decor was outlandish.  

And I showed up spray painted in smurf blue.  Again, the best part?  No one could tell if I was pretty or ugly, hell maybe not even man or woman.  All pressure was taken off the table and I was free to just laugh like a damned fool, dance battle famous comedians, twirl about with drag queens and sweat myself silly.  

Disgusting is sexy.  Start the campaign.  

Too Cool.

LA is a cool place.

None more apparent than this last October, when the space shuttle Endeavor was flown on the back of a 747 over the city, making a big circle before landing at LAX.  Then, the shuttle was rolled through the streets, making a 12 mile journey through neighborhoods and parks, before reaching it's final resting place in the California Science Center.  Its journey started at night from LAX, and it moved at a snails pace past throngs of families and onlookers with cameras and binoculars.  Kids in jammies sat on their parent's shoulders and excitedly pointed at it, grazing by trees and brushing mailboxes.

{photo source

It was really effing cool.

I was slightly annoyed at the traffic disturbance as I happened to be picking a friend up from the airport at this time, but even my curmudgeon was quickly squashed by the sight of such grandeur.  It was so cool.

This is only one example of why LA's so cool.  Celebrities and moviemaking notwithstanding, LA is filled with crazy awesome fun for kids.  Disneyland.  Magic Mountain.  Universal Studios.  The beach is beautiful and spacious; everyone lives near one.  Anything ever released be it video games, sneakers, or new sports, is released first here.  There isn't anything you can't find, and growing up here with certain means has got to render oneself a well-stimulated, well-fed, and well-played childhood.

But is that a good thing?  I don't know, I tend to think that it's not entirely beneficial for children to have so much splendor in their early years.  If you are exposed to such amazement in your developing years, what have you to aspire to?  Are you every impressed by anything?

When I go down to Orange County and walk the white sand beaches down there, I just cant get over how gorgeous it is.  In my wise old age, I have discovered that I only feel this way because I don't take it for granted; it's so unlike the landscape I grew up in.  But I bet the kids down there take it for granted.  So when they go to other places, are they ever in awe?  Does anything ever compare?

The rest of the world is not Magic Mountain.  Hollywood and Highland is not a basic shopping centre.  The rest of the world has to wait to see new movies, and don't know people with access to screener dvds during awards season (you need one?  I've got a few...). Professional athletes and movie stars don't visit hospitals regularly everywhere else, and guess what.  Oranges aren't in season all year round.

So what happens when they grow up and disperse to other corners of the world; where it's just not as cool, people aren't as outwardly impressive, and entertainment isn't so neon lighted?  What are these kids set up to handle?  Yikes.  Get these kids to Spokane, stat.

Kindly. (ish)

{photo source}

Here's just another thing on the Long List of Things That Annoy Me.

Ahem.

The experience of dating as an adult has absolutely NOTHING to do with anything you did while younger than the age of 24 .  So if you met your Someone at an age younger than 24, kindly shut up.

In our younger years, dating is on autopilot.  In high school, you're milled around in a vat of hormones.  Notes are passed, friends get involved.  You dance, you play sports, you get assigned lab partners.  Romance abounds.

In college,  you're still in a vat of hormones, but now you're 'independent' and in a different world.  People are unfamiliar, foreign and sexy.  Alcohol pushes you into the arms/tongues of random strangers you will inevitably see again.  You get internships, you spring break (whoo-hoo!), you get assigned lab partners.  Romance abounds.

By the time our generation emerges from all of that slip-n-slide, over half are Boo-ed up.  This is the half that go on to commit, get married, procure golden lab and subsequent attitude.

Dating As an Adult:

We have been graduated and working for more than a few years.  The letdown is in full swing.  We don't understand where our lives are and why we're there.  We feel like we could still be on the verge of that Something Great we love, but don't know how to get there.  We don't have partners to make sacrifices for, so we live for ourselves.  We want it all, and we have a taste of it.  We have mortgages and phone calls from parents buggin about retirement.  It's not cute to whoo-hoo.  We meet people but have gotten so cool in our adulthood that we don't know what we mean to each other, and can't owe anyone anything.  We're spoiled by our independence.  Free, lonely, confused, unabashed, annoyed, hopeful.

So, how does one find bliss in the mess of that muck?

Hell if I know, but this is my request.  Listen to my stories.  Laugh, commiserate.  Drink wine with me and roll your eyes when I do.  If I'm sharing these experiences with you, I must think you're pretty great and in my corner.  I, however, do nowhere think that you're a dating mentor.

BEING IN A SUCCESSFUL RELATIONSHIP DOES NOT MAKE YOU AN EXPERT.

It makes you lucky.  So don't be a prick about it. 

I genuinely don't resent you for being in a happy relationship.  It actually gives me hope that it can still work in our whirlwind, messy world.  But still, you don't get to give anecdotes on a world that will remain at-large for you.  Seriously,  you just don't know.

So while I understand you are not living in my mishaps, I absolutely wont tolerate instructions.

"Just relax!"

"Be yourself!"

"Try harder!"

Yes, how DOES one TRY to fall in love?   I'm fascinated at my lack of effort toward acquiring a deep feeling of affection toward another human being.  Please, regale me.

I'm being an asshole.  I won't be regaled.  Just drink your wine and listen to this latest horror story.  

Romance Abounds: Minus Two

{credit}

I knew a guy once who I was set up with.  I was 18, he was..... older.  I'm actually not even being coy, I really don't remember his age.  Obviously I had no business even going out with this worm, but I was 18, and therefore still on the upswing of my stupidity arc.  You see, sometimes precociousness reveals itself in desires to be rebellious.  I know, so profound.  So I went on this date, feeling like a badass and armed only with the information that this guy was older and he drove a blue Dodge truck.  As I pulled up to the restaurant, I saw a (late twenty-early thirty something?) driving a blue Dodge in front of my car.  He was changing his shirt in the front seat, and picking his teeth into his rearview mirror.  Out of his window hung a half-tanned arm, the hand on its end dangling a cigarette.  Niiiiiice.  After 45 minutes of forced conversation about NOTHING, he dropped the bomb.  Apparently, he was recently divorced from the mother of his 2 kids and really thought I would just the ticket to drive her crazy.  

                                      "So, whatdoyouthink. I've got a boat."

A Case of the Mean Reds.

In case you aren't an avid follower of the Times, please consider me your filter to the culturally significant.  Lately, I was intrigued and inspired by this piece:

Banned in Beijing!

Opinion columnist writes a blog in China containing communist.... criticizing? material and language.  Part of this content relates to the speculation that at any moment, his blog could be shut down no later than his article goes to print.

fascinating, huh?

In this age of information overshare and globalization, one of the most powerful nations on this planet is still censoring everything that their citizens see, read, listen to, publish, etc etc etc.  The three major social networking conglomerates are banned (FB, Twitter, Youtube) , and thousands of people are employed with the sole purpose of trafficking public information, moderating what becomes available.  The Commies unwittingly call this process "harmonization".  You know, like calling the Holocaust "cleansing".

Of course, my genetic material makes me particularly interested in this matter, but I believe also that this is also a phenomenon that will be appearing in the forefront of our generation's upbringing.  As my sister says, "all of the jock-y business majors are taking Chinese" at her university.  Know what this means?

We are about to tango with the slantys.  China's growth in economic power and urbanization is so rapid that it's inevitable that, in a few years, its influence will rival ours on countless fronts.  It's all over the news; american architects are finding work in China, financiers are investing in China's market.... blah blah blah.  How will they compete with us while still not being afforded the social freedoms to influence each other and the entities which govern them?  I cannot even imagine such creative stifling.

So, upon reflection of this observation and its practical application onto my life, I have added another item to my bucket list:

Get something of my own creation banned in China.

Hear that?  Chairman Mao is rolling over in his grave.