Which [Charlie's Angels] characters are you?
Thursday, July 31
I AM NICE AND NORMAL AND HAVE A HEART. . .
. . . compared to the chuckleheads with whom I shared an airplane flight yesterday evening. As promised, here are the results of my further adventures in unabashed voyeurism (for Character #3, I actually leaned in so I could hear better), taken almost verbatim from my real-time written journal entries (I had to write it down as it happened or else I would forget the utter charm of it all):
Character #1
Before take-off, in the window seat in the group of seats across the aisle, sits a Hispanic woman wearing a huge brace on her right leg. A young blond woman, dressed trendily with a bared midriff, with long and slightly stringy hair, wearing the slightly pursed sour, bored and snotty look customarily worn by privileged prissy bee-yatches, comes to the row. Without even a cordial for-strangers smile, she tells Hispanic Woman that she, Blond Girl, belongs in the window seat. Hispanic Woman, apparently not very comfortable with the English language, signals timidly, as if to ask if she could sit by the window, so that she could stretch out her heavily-braced and unbendable leg in the little space between the seats and the plane wall. Blond Girl, in response to the timid signaling, says "Yes, that's my seat," still without smiling. There is no emotional generosity emanating from Blond Girl AT ALL. Brrrr.
Blond Girl stands impatiently in the aisle, glancing mutinously at the passengers around her as she waits for the man in the aisle seat to get out. She then watches as Hispanic Woman struggles her way into the aisle while trying to balance her purse, a huge poster tube with the label "Papyrus" on it, and her cane. Neither the guy nor Blond Girl make any move to assist Hispanic Woman as she inches her carefully-balanced self out of the row. Certainly, it hasn't occurred to Blond Girl to just let Hispanic Woman have the damn window seat.
Without so much as a "thank you" or a tight bitter grin, Blond Girl scoots into her seat and settles in. End of story.
The kicker (I almost laughed out loud, stood up and showed Blond Girl what I was writing about her because she struck me as so ridiculous at this point): before the plane even starts to taxi to the runway for take-off, Blond Girl closes the window blind, shutting out the light and the view. It stays closed for the entire flight, and is slid open only for the landing into JFK. So much for the window seat.
Character #2
The aforementioned guy in the aisle seat directly across from me is not nearly as offensive as the blond girl, but I have to shake my head at him anyway. He's apparently a lawyer -- he sits before take-off with a sheaf of printed-out Westlaw cases from the Fourth Circuit in one hand and an orange hi-liter in the other. Minutes before take-off (after the Hispanic-woman-with-a-cane fiasco), he rushes down the aisle towards the front service area and returns with a plastic cup full of some fizzy clear liquid and a bunch of napkins. I figure he is just really thirsty, until I see him dip a napkin into the liquid -- club soda, I determine at this point -- and start dabbing frantically at a spot on his shorts on the leg farthest from me.
It seems that Lawyer Guy got some orange hi-liter on his shorts and doesn't appreciate the potential stain. Now, the curious part is that the shorts don't appear to be some kind of designer concoction that merits gentle care. In fact, they're frayed cut-off cargo shorts. I can see a prior stain -- looks like food -- on the leg closest to me. And this silly little Lawyer Guy is dabbing club soda on them to get rid of a pen mark. Jeez.
Character #3
I get on line for the bathroom at the front of the plane. As I'm waiting, a hoity-toity looking bleached blond lady takes one of the flight attendants aside into the little service nook right by the bathroom. Hoity-Toity looks to be about 45 years old (though she would probably slap me if she knew I said that), is wearing a tight white pants-suit, and has really tanned, stretched-out skin. Not the kind of stretched-out leathery skin that results from years of smoking and sun exposure, but the over-treated, face-lifted, chemical peeled stretched-out skin usually belonging to media moguls' wives. She carries one of those "now" Louis Vuitton purses -- the white leather one with the multi-colored logos printed all over it.
Hoity-Toity is showing the flight attendant what looks like a magazine or newspaper spread, covered with photos of really shiny people with big hair -- people like Siegfried & Roy and other Las Vegas types. Lots of sequins and teeth-are-too-big-and-abnormally-white smiles. (This is when I do the lean-in to get a better view and better sound quality.) These are the words coming out of her mouth at that point, and in the minutes following, as verbatim as I can recall:
"My dad owns Caesar's Palace."
"I'm in all of these photos . . . see?"
"I normally fly first class, you know, but I chose JetBlue for the television because I'm a television FREAK."
"I know a lot of famous people and have a lot of influence with society types."
Yes, she actually said all of that, and probably more, but I was disgusted and had to lean away before I snorted in her face.
Basically, Hoity-Toity was complaining that the TV monitor at her seat did not work, and she wanted to move to a seat that had a working monitor. After her mini-tirade, she pointed to a young boy sitting in the first row and asked if he couldn't be moved since he was too young to watch TV anyway. Unfortunately for Hoity-Toity, the flight attendant explained, the boy was sitting with his mother. Ultimately, a man in the first row gave up his seat for Hoity-Toity. The entire plane watched as she grabbed her Louis Vuitton purse and her little racquetball racket and moved up. Sheesh.
Others
Then there were the two ladies who acted like rock stars, got drunk, screamed their conversations to each other during the entire 5-hour flight, flipped the bird and cursed at the people around them and the flight attendants who asked them to pipe down, and basically went nuts. But I can't stand to write more than that about them because they were so hateful.
Not that other people's character deficiencies should make me feel better about myself . . . but they do, sometimes. Sigh.
. . . compared to the chuckleheads with whom I shared an airplane flight yesterday evening. As promised, here are the results of my further adventures in unabashed voyeurism (for Character #3, I actually leaned in so I could hear better), taken almost verbatim from my real-time written journal entries (I had to write it down as it happened or else I would forget the utter charm of it all):
Character #1
Before take-off, in the window seat in the group of seats across the aisle, sits a Hispanic woman wearing a huge brace on her right leg. A young blond woman, dressed trendily with a bared midriff, with long and slightly stringy hair, wearing the slightly pursed sour, bored and snotty look customarily worn by privileged prissy bee-yatches, comes to the row. Without even a cordial for-strangers smile, she tells Hispanic Woman that she, Blond Girl, belongs in the window seat. Hispanic Woman, apparently not very comfortable with the English language, signals timidly, as if to ask if she could sit by the window, so that she could stretch out her heavily-braced and unbendable leg in the little space between the seats and the plane wall. Blond Girl, in response to the timid signaling, says "Yes, that's my seat," still without smiling. There is no emotional generosity emanating from Blond Girl AT ALL. Brrrr.
Blond Girl stands impatiently in the aisle, glancing mutinously at the passengers around her as she waits for the man in the aisle seat to get out. She then watches as Hispanic Woman struggles her way into the aisle while trying to balance her purse, a huge poster tube with the label "Papyrus" on it, and her cane. Neither the guy nor Blond Girl make any move to assist Hispanic Woman as she inches her carefully-balanced self out of the row. Certainly, it hasn't occurred to Blond Girl to just let Hispanic Woman have the damn window seat.
Without so much as a "thank you" or a tight bitter grin, Blond Girl scoots into her seat and settles in. End of story.
The kicker (I almost laughed out loud, stood up and showed Blond Girl what I was writing about her because she struck me as so ridiculous at this point): before the plane even starts to taxi to the runway for take-off, Blond Girl closes the window blind, shutting out the light and the view. It stays closed for the entire flight, and is slid open only for the landing into JFK. So much for the window seat.
Character #2
The aforementioned guy in the aisle seat directly across from me is not nearly as offensive as the blond girl, but I have to shake my head at him anyway. He's apparently a lawyer -- he sits before take-off with a sheaf of printed-out Westlaw cases from the Fourth Circuit in one hand and an orange hi-liter in the other. Minutes before take-off (after the Hispanic-woman-with-a-cane fiasco), he rushes down the aisle towards the front service area and returns with a plastic cup full of some fizzy clear liquid and a bunch of napkins. I figure he is just really thirsty, until I see him dip a napkin into the liquid -- club soda, I determine at this point -- and start dabbing frantically at a spot on his shorts on the leg farthest from me.
It seems that Lawyer Guy got some orange hi-liter on his shorts and doesn't appreciate the potential stain. Now, the curious part is that the shorts don't appear to be some kind of designer concoction that merits gentle care. In fact, they're frayed cut-off cargo shorts. I can see a prior stain -- looks like food -- on the leg closest to me. And this silly little Lawyer Guy is dabbing club soda on them to get rid of a pen mark. Jeez.
Character #3
I get on line for the bathroom at the front of the plane. As I'm waiting, a hoity-toity looking bleached blond lady takes one of the flight attendants aside into the little service nook right by the bathroom. Hoity-Toity looks to be about 45 years old (though she would probably slap me if she knew I said that), is wearing a tight white pants-suit, and has really tanned, stretched-out skin. Not the kind of stretched-out leathery skin that results from years of smoking and sun exposure, but the over-treated, face-lifted, chemical peeled stretched-out skin usually belonging to media moguls' wives. She carries one of those "now" Louis Vuitton purses -- the white leather one with the multi-colored logos printed all over it.
Hoity-Toity is showing the flight attendant what looks like a magazine or newspaper spread, covered with photos of really shiny people with big hair -- people like Siegfried & Roy and other Las Vegas types. Lots of sequins and teeth-are-too-big-and-abnormally-white smiles. (This is when I do the lean-in to get a better view and better sound quality.) These are the words coming out of her mouth at that point, and in the minutes following, as verbatim as I can recall:
"My dad owns Caesar's Palace."
"I'm in all of these photos . . . see?"
"I normally fly first class, you know, but I chose JetBlue for the television because I'm a television FREAK."
"I know a lot of famous people and have a lot of influence with society types."
Yes, she actually said all of that, and probably more, but I was disgusted and had to lean away before I snorted in her face.
Basically, Hoity-Toity was complaining that the TV monitor at her seat did not work, and she wanted to move to a seat that had a working monitor. After her mini-tirade, she pointed to a young boy sitting in the first row and asked if he couldn't be moved since he was too young to watch TV anyway. Unfortunately for Hoity-Toity, the flight attendant explained, the boy was sitting with his mother. Ultimately, a man in the first row gave up his seat for Hoity-Toity. The entire plane watched as she grabbed her Louis Vuitton purse and her little racquetball racket and moved up. Sheesh.
Others
Then there were the two ladies who acted like rock stars, got drunk, screamed their conversations to each other during the entire 5-hour flight, flipped the bird and cursed at the people around them and the flight attendants who asked them to pipe down, and basically went nuts. But I can't stand to write more than that about them because they were so hateful.
Not that other people's character deficiencies should make me feel better about myself . . . but they do, sometimes. Sigh.
HOME SWEET HOME . . .
I am such a sappy cheeseball. I cry at those cotton commercials, Kleenex commercials, episodes of "The West Wing," AT&T long-distance service ads. Add to the list the "Welcome to New York" sign that greets me as I walk out of the airplane into the terminal at JFK airport. I love that sign. I love New York. I love being home, even though I was at a home away from home.
I have so much to say, including some commentary about some characters I observed on my flight back. Is it California? Is it New York? Is it the clientele of JetBlue? I don't know -- all I can say right now in my semi-pooped-out slightly-jet-lagged do-I-really-have-to-go-to-work-in-the-morning state is: there are some weird people out there. And they were all on my flight this evening. But you wait till tomorrow when I'm more coherent (and on a faster server).
C was gracious enough to pick me up and drive me home with only two big-head jokes thrown in. En route, I saw the sonogram prints of his and M's twins! They are almost 2 lbs apiece and they are CUTE, even for such tiny little things. CC2 was just lying there with her arms at her sides, with what appears to be a slight "get that sonogram probe off of me" frown on her face, eyes closed in peaceful repose. MC2 had a thumb in his mouth, the other fist up near his chin in boxing stance, all ready to fight his way out (but not yet!). Adorable. I shall teach them all I know . . . which should take just a few hours, and then I shall play with them until my arms fall off and coo at them until I lose my voice. And then I shall dance for them to make them laugh. I can still hear the sweet gravelly tinkle of Baby's laugh in my ears . . . what a great kid! Ha and Co. are super-lucky, and I bet C & M will be too.
One last note: I walk into my house and it's done! Apparently, the painters have wrapped up and left, and we are left to settle back into normalcy again. My poor parents -- while I was in L.A., they rearranged all the furniture in the three rooms that were uprooted; ran dozens of loads of all the dishes and pots and pans we own to cleanse them of the thick layer of dust that pervaded our home for the past month and a half; and started to slowly replace all our knick-knacks and valuable display things after doing a meticulous cleansing of each.
The walls are painted, the new hardwood floors are shiny, and the furniture is arranged differently. It looks like . . . a white person's house. I know, I know, that's a weird thing to say, but it's true. There's just something about us Korean-Americans -- 1st-generation Korean-American immigrants, in particular -- that makes it virtually impossible for us to keep a clean, dust-free, well-decorated, not tacky or kitschy, modern-looking, cool house that isn't over-accessorized and doesn't have boxes or crates of Korean food stuffs or other random items in every corner of every room. But our house -- our brand-new, shiny, paint-smelly, bare-bones new house -- isn't like that!
I choose to look upon this as a new beginning for our family. From now on, we shall not be tacky. We shall not be messy. We shall not leave random items in places that are "convenient" to us, even though no logical person would see the efficacy of leaving 2 pairs of scissors, a box of red pepper powder, toe-nail clippers and a case of napkins from Sam's Club in the formal living room. We shall not clutter up our display cases and table-tops with meaningless knick-knacks. We shall Swiffer the shiny new floors weekly.
Eh. I'll let you know where we stand in September.
Ahhhh, my New York bed beckons from my New York bedroom. My New York car sits outside, ready for me to hop in and get to my New York job. Tomorrow (today), I will see my New York friends and get back into my New York groove. This is not to say I didn't love being with Ha and Co. and didn't appreciate their hospitality and never-ceasing love, but . . . they should really move to New York.
I am such a sappy cheeseball. I cry at those cotton commercials, Kleenex commercials, episodes of "The West Wing," AT&T long-distance service ads. Add to the list the "Welcome to New York" sign that greets me as I walk out of the airplane into the terminal at JFK airport. I love that sign. I love New York. I love being home, even though I was at a home away from home.
I have so much to say, including some commentary about some characters I observed on my flight back. Is it California? Is it New York? Is it the clientele of JetBlue? I don't know -- all I can say right now in my semi-pooped-out slightly-jet-lagged do-I-really-have-to-go-to-work-in-the-morning state is: there are some weird people out there. And they were all on my flight this evening. But you wait till tomorrow when I'm more coherent (and on a faster server).
C was gracious enough to pick me up and drive me home with only two big-head jokes thrown in. En route, I saw the sonogram prints of his and M's twins! They are almost 2 lbs apiece and they are CUTE, even for such tiny little things. CC2 was just lying there with her arms at her sides, with what appears to be a slight "get that sonogram probe off of me" frown on her face, eyes closed in peaceful repose. MC2 had a thumb in his mouth, the other fist up near his chin in boxing stance, all ready to fight his way out (but not yet!). Adorable. I shall teach them all I know . . . which should take just a few hours, and then I shall play with them until my arms fall off and coo at them until I lose my voice. And then I shall dance for them to make them laugh. I can still hear the sweet gravelly tinkle of Baby's laugh in my ears . . . what a great kid! Ha and Co. are super-lucky, and I bet C & M will be too.
One last note: I walk into my house and it's done! Apparently, the painters have wrapped up and left, and we are left to settle back into normalcy again. My poor parents -- while I was in L.A., they rearranged all the furniture in the three rooms that were uprooted; ran dozens of loads of all the dishes and pots and pans we own to cleanse them of the thick layer of dust that pervaded our home for the past month and a half; and started to slowly replace all our knick-knacks and valuable display things after doing a meticulous cleansing of each.
The walls are painted, the new hardwood floors are shiny, and the furniture is arranged differently. It looks like . . . a white person's house. I know, I know, that's a weird thing to say, but it's true. There's just something about us Korean-Americans -- 1st-generation Korean-American immigrants, in particular -- that makes it virtually impossible for us to keep a clean, dust-free, well-decorated, not tacky or kitschy, modern-looking, cool house that isn't over-accessorized and doesn't have boxes or crates of Korean food stuffs or other random items in every corner of every room. But our house -- our brand-new, shiny, paint-smelly, bare-bones new house -- isn't like that!
I choose to look upon this as a new beginning for our family. From now on, we shall not be tacky. We shall not be messy. We shall not leave random items in places that are "convenient" to us, even though no logical person would see the efficacy of leaving 2 pairs of scissors, a box of red pepper powder, toe-nail clippers and a case of napkins from Sam's Club in the formal living room. We shall not clutter up our display cases and table-tops with meaningless knick-knacks. We shall Swiffer the shiny new floors weekly.
Eh. I'll let you know where we stand in September.
Ahhhh, my New York bed beckons from my New York bedroom. My New York car sits outside, ready for me to hop in and get to my New York job. Tomorrow (today), I will see my New York friends and get back into my New York groove. This is not to say I didn't love being with Ha and Co. and didn't appreciate their hospitality and never-ceasing love, but . . . they should really move to New York.
Wednesday, July 30
COUNTDOWN TO N.Y. . . .
My time here in LA is drawing to a close. I'm exhausted. I love being exhausted by vacation . . . until I return home and I realize I need another vacation to recover from my vacation. THAT is not the nicest feeling in the world . . . But I've been starting to get homesick. That's the problem with me: I love my family, my home, my bed, my friends, my car, my job, my familiar things too much to go anywhere else for too long. I know people who would LOVE to get away for weeks and weeks on end, but not me. What would I do without normal-size shampoo bottles; plates of homemade kimchi; chatting with my mom while cleaning up after dinner; watching bad TV or good baseball with my dad; the freedom to walk around naked in the house? I love traveling, and I love seeing my friends in all the varied places they live, but there ain't no place like home. MY home.
I'm pretty pooped out, so I'll do a quick rundown of the most recent days' highlights:
* Met up with my uncle (mom's sister's hubby) -- newly-minted President of a Korean-American bank whom I haven't seen in years -- and my maternal great-uncle and aunt for coffee. It was slightly stressful to have to whip out the ultra-respectful Korean and smile a lot, but it was so wonderful to see them and connect with them, if even for a short time. My face hurts now, though.
* Took a two-hour nap today, after getting up late and eating breakfast. Man, I love vacation and lazy days. The combination of the two is deadly. I do believe I could be the chubbiest, most unhealthy person alive in L.A. right now. I've got no tan, no dirty-blond hair, no ultra-defined muscles. Rather, I have sleepy eyes, East Coast office-worker pallor, and a full belly. I'm totally loving it.
* Strolled through The Grove/Farmer's Market yesterday evening with Ha and Co.. At times during my stay here, I've often felt like I was in a foreign country, and I would be shocked when I heard people around me speaking English. Last night was a prime example: I don't know exactly why L.A. seems so foreign to me, but it would jolt me to turn around and see a J.Crew store, or a Barnes&Noble, or a Haagen-Dazs stand. Weird. I felt like a tourist, but I wasn't. I felt like a foreigner, but I wasn't. Weird.
* Met a wonderfully cute gentleman tonight -- a friend of Ha and Co.. They didn't know him very well before this evening -- just had a good impression of him and thought he and I would hit it off. We sort of did, although it was hard to tell in the midst of our conversations focusing on labor and delivery, bowel movements, East Coast vs. West Coast, babies and animalistic eating habits, non-traditional healing methods, sibling rivalry and lactose intolerance. So stay tuned . . .
I can't wait to get back home. Do some laundry, see how the home renovation progressed in my absence, take a shower with awesome water pressure, hang with the fam and thank my parents for raising me. If there's one thing I've learned with Ha and Co., it's that parenting ain't easy. To do it right is nearly impossible. I think I turned out okay, and for that I shall be eternally and outwardly thankful.
New York rocks. JetBlue, fly me away . . .
My time here in LA is drawing to a close. I'm exhausted. I love being exhausted by vacation . . . until I return home and I realize I need another vacation to recover from my vacation. THAT is not the nicest feeling in the world . . . But I've been starting to get homesick. That's the problem with me: I love my family, my home, my bed, my friends, my car, my job, my familiar things too much to go anywhere else for too long. I know people who would LOVE to get away for weeks and weeks on end, but not me. What would I do without normal-size shampoo bottles; plates of homemade kimchi; chatting with my mom while cleaning up after dinner; watching bad TV or good baseball with my dad; the freedom to walk around naked in the house? I love traveling, and I love seeing my friends in all the varied places they live, but there ain't no place like home. MY home.
I'm pretty pooped out, so I'll do a quick rundown of the most recent days' highlights:
* Met up with my uncle (mom's sister's hubby) -- newly-minted President of a Korean-American bank whom I haven't seen in years -- and my maternal great-uncle and aunt for coffee. It was slightly stressful to have to whip out the ultra-respectful Korean and smile a lot, but it was so wonderful to see them and connect with them, if even for a short time. My face hurts now, though.
* Took a two-hour nap today, after getting up late and eating breakfast. Man, I love vacation and lazy days. The combination of the two is deadly. I do believe I could be the chubbiest, most unhealthy person alive in L.A. right now. I've got no tan, no dirty-blond hair, no ultra-defined muscles. Rather, I have sleepy eyes, East Coast office-worker pallor, and a full belly. I'm totally loving it.
* Strolled through The Grove/Farmer's Market yesterday evening with Ha and Co.. At times during my stay here, I've often felt like I was in a foreign country, and I would be shocked when I heard people around me speaking English. Last night was a prime example: I don't know exactly why L.A. seems so foreign to me, but it would jolt me to turn around and see a J.Crew store, or a Barnes&Noble, or a Haagen-Dazs stand. Weird. I felt like a tourist, but I wasn't. I felt like a foreigner, but I wasn't. Weird.
* Met a wonderfully cute gentleman tonight -- a friend of Ha and Co.. They didn't know him very well before this evening -- just had a good impression of him and thought he and I would hit it off. We sort of did, although it was hard to tell in the midst of our conversations focusing on labor and delivery, bowel movements, East Coast vs. West Coast, babies and animalistic eating habits, non-traditional healing methods, sibling rivalry and lactose intolerance. So stay tuned . . .
I can't wait to get back home. Do some laundry, see how the home renovation progressed in my absence, take a shower with awesome water pressure, hang with the fam and thank my parents for raising me. If there's one thing I've learned with Ha and Co., it's that parenting ain't easy. To do it right is nearly impossible. I think I turned out okay, and for that I shall be eternally and outwardly thankful.
New York rocks. JetBlue, fly me away . . .
Monday, July 28
CITY MOUSE, COUNTRY MOUSE . . .
I'm not often stirred by cheesy nature photos of sunsets, breaking ocean waves, eagles soaring through the air. Even Ansel Adams, at times, fails to move me. But when I'm face-to-face with Creation, it's a whole other story.
This evening, we went for a drive up to Angeles National Forest, the entrance of which is a mere 15 minutes from Ha's home. It's hard to believe we went from plain old suburban paradise to flora, fauna and endless horizons in such a short period of time. The winding road lifted us up through dry brush, eventually leading us to the fluffy variety of trees able to grow in the cooler, more temperate climates of the mountains. Ears gently popping, I leaned my forehead against the passenger seat window so I could nervously peer over the edge of the road into the canyons dropping off below. The horrible prospect of falling and rolling down into that canyon made my stomach lurch just a little bit, but made me more eager to see just how long I could keep looking down -- we humans are such strange, masochistic beings, aren't we?
I tilted my head back and looked up, but the view of the mountains and trees was just as endless as the deepest valleys falling behind us. And then, all of a sudden, I discovered that our car had crawled its brave little way up to the top, and there was just . . . sky and us and a chirping Baby. Oh, there were mosquitoes too, and they loved, loved, LOVED my juicy East Coast legs, but . . . bygones. We took a mini-hike -- gentle, because two of us were wearing sandals -- on a gravel trail near the top. We threw pebbles off the edge of the path to see if we could hear them hit and bounce and keep on hitting. We bounced Baby in her back-pack carrier and listened to her yak at her surroundings. We ran, sort of scared but not really, through a dark and mercifully short tunnel. We posed for glamour shots against strong mountains and glowing sunsets. And then we made our treacherous don't-ride-the-brakes way back down and home again, talking about our parents' immigration experiences, marriage, in-laws, second-generation Korean-Americans, baby talk.
It was stunning. It occurred to me that some knucklehead had paved a road through all of that, and that we, now, were driving around on that road. Still, helpless guilt aside, I remained in awe of what stood in front of me. Sure, sometimes I take a moment when I return home at night to look up at the stars and take a deep, refreshing breath. Sometimes I open my sunroof on a glaringly sunny day and let the wind take my hair. And sometimes I open the windows at home to let some freshness fly through. But there's nothing like being smacked in the face with the wonder, glory, hugeness and untouched wildness of God's earth, even if it is in the middle of L.A.
***
I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR . . .
My friends go to a relatively new, still-struggling and still-developing church. It started with a core group of young Korean-Americans, and now has a healthy regular group of about 50 Asian-Americans and other-Americans. They're all cool people -- very friendly, truly welcoming, and of course, mostly tan and healthy-looking. (I look pastier white than usual standing next to them.) And just as I normally enjoy going to other churches and seeing how they mix things up, I also enjoy going to church with Ha and Dr.Y.
But one thing -- the same thing -- gives me pause. The teaching at this church takes a more conservative bent than I'm accustomed to. No, it's not as though the men and women worship separately, or the women have to wear head coverings, or stuff like that. But one thing that I've heard more than once concerns the role of Christian women: their work is inside the home, they must be submissive to their husbands, they must be good role models to their children as mothers and wives.
That's all fine and good, and it is Biblical, for the most part, I think.
I'm all for women doing work inside the home -- we do it better than most men, anyway, and many women take great pride in how they maintain their home. I mean, who am I kidding -- Bed Bath & Beyond is one of my favorite stores, and I put almost as much thought into my cleaning products purchases as I do on my new fall wardrobe! And yes, in most cases, women and/or moms who stay at home work waaaay harder than I do most days at my office. But doesn't it always sound like disapproval of women who work outside the home?
I'm all for women being submissive to their husbands -- as the church is submissive to Christ, and as Christ is submissive to His Father. I think that second phrase is not sufficiently emphasized, and Lord knows, certain religious factions have latched onto that precept as an excuse to make their wives stay at home, barefoot and pregnant. Icky, icky, icky. Of course, I'm on the prowl myself for a good man who will be a strong and worthy spiritual leader in my home -- I wouldn't have it any other way and I will have no less a spiritual role model for my children. But intellectual, emotional and physical servitude -- even implied (or misinterpreted by me) -- just ain't my cup of coffee.
I'm all for women being good role models to their children as mothers and wives. Even now, as a single, childless woman, I worry about whether I'll be a good mom, whether I'll be able to raise my kids in faith, with a good and steady moral barometer, whether I'll maintain a healthy and loving home, etc. But I'd also like to be a good role model to my children -- and to my daughter(s) in particular -- as a conscientious lawyer, as a world-aware citizen, as an always-curious learner, as an independent person always seeking to serve others, not because I'm a woman, but because God tells me to.
So, why do my hackles rise when someone else tells me to be and do these things? Why do I read the relevant Biblical passages again and again and wonder and mull and argue with myself and with God and try to justify my reactions? Why are my traditional and contemporary selves always at war? Why do I immediately become defensive and argumentative, and scowl at the pastor as he delivers his message?
I have no idea.
***
DR. JANE GOODALL . . .
I am a voyeur. I love people-watching. I love listening in on people's conversations. I love seeing how people interact and react. My few days here in L.A. have been no different. Daily, I've been meeting new people: Ha's mom, dad, little brother; Dr.Y's mom, dad, older brother; their church friends, work friends, extended family members. Each drive through portions of the city exposes me to the L.A. community of Latino-Americans, African-Americans, Korean-Americans, other Asian-American, and white Americans.
And without going into too much gory detail, my ground-breaking innovative thesis is as follows: we all have our own unique issues and personalities, but myopically are unable to recognize this fact most of the time, much less accept it gracefully in others. One man's adorable quirk is another man's pet peeve. One woman's easy-going nature is another woman's laziness. One child's brattiness is another child having a good day.
You know what, folks? That's just the way it is.
Okay, so where's my Pulitzer in sociology?
I'm not often stirred by cheesy nature photos of sunsets, breaking ocean waves, eagles soaring through the air. Even Ansel Adams, at times, fails to move me. But when I'm face-to-face with Creation, it's a whole other story.
This evening, we went for a drive up to Angeles National Forest, the entrance of which is a mere 15 minutes from Ha's home. It's hard to believe we went from plain old suburban paradise to flora, fauna and endless horizons in such a short period of time. The winding road lifted us up through dry brush, eventually leading us to the fluffy variety of trees able to grow in the cooler, more temperate climates of the mountains. Ears gently popping, I leaned my forehead against the passenger seat window so I could nervously peer over the edge of the road into the canyons dropping off below. The horrible prospect of falling and rolling down into that canyon made my stomach lurch just a little bit, but made me more eager to see just how long I could keep looking down -- we humans are such strange, masochistic beings, aren't we?
I tilted my head back and looked up, but the view of the mountains and trees was just as endless as the deepest valleys falling behind us. And then, all of a sudden, I discovered that our car had crawled its brave little way up to the top, and there was just . . . sky and us and a chirping Baby. Oh, there were mosquitoes too, and they loved, loved, LOVED my juicy East Coast legs, but . . . bygones. We took a mini-hike -- gentle, because two of us were wearing sandals -- on a gravel trail near the top. We threw pebbles off the edge of the path to see if we could hear them hit and bounce and keep on hitting. We bounced Baby in her back-pack carrier and listened to her yak at her surroundings. We ran, sort of scared but not really, through a dark and mercifully short tunnel. We posed for glamour shots against strong mountains and glowing sunsets. And then we made our treacherous don't-ride-the-brakes way back down and home again, talking about our parents' immigration experiences, marriage, in-laws, second-generation Korean-Americans, baby talk.
It was stunning. It occurred to me that some knucklehead had paved a road through all of that, and that we, now, were driving around on that road. Still, helpless guilt aside, I remained in awe of what stood in front of me. Sure, sometimes I take a moment when I return home at night to look up at the stars and take a deep, refreshing breath. Sometimes I open my sunroof on a glaringly sunny day and let the wind take my hair. And sometimes I open the windows at home to let some freshness fly through. But there's nothing like being smacked in the face with the wonder, glory, hugeness and untouched wildness of God's earth, even if it is in the middle of L.A.
***
I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR . . .
My friends go to a relatively new, still-struggling and still-developing church. It started with a core group of young Korean-Americans, and now has a healthy regular group of about 50 Asian-Americans and other-Americans. They're all cool people -- very friendly, truly welcoming, and of course, mostly tan and healthy-looking. (I look pastier white than usual standing next to them.) And just as I normally enjoy going to other churches and seeing how they mix things up, I also enjoy going to church with Ha and Dr.Y.
But one thing -- the same thing -- gives me pause. The teaching at this church takes a more conservative bent than I'm accustomed to. No, it's not as though the men and women worship separately, or the women have to wear head coverings, or stuff like that. But one thing that I've heard more than once concerns the role of Christian women: their work is inside the home, they must be submissive to their husbands, they must be good role models to their children as mothers and wives.
That's all fine and good, and it is Biblical, for the most part, I think.
I'm all for women doing work inside the home -- we do it better than most men, anyway, and many women take great pride in how they maintain their home. I mean, who am I kidding -- Bed Bath & Beyond is one of my favorite stores, and I put almost as much thought into my cleaning products purchases as I do on my new fall wardrobe! And yes, in most cases, women and/or moms who stay at home work waaaay harder than I do most days at my office. But doesn't it always sound like disapproval of women who work outside the home?
I'm all for women being submissive to their husbands -- as the church is submissive to Christ, and as Christ is submissive to His Father. I think that second phrase is not sufficiently emphasized, and Lord knows, certain religious factions have latched onto that precept as an excuse to make their wives stay at home, barefoot and pregnant. Icky, icky, icky. Of course, I'm on the prowl myself for a good man who will be a strong and worthy spiritual leader in my home -- I wouldn't have it any other way and I will have no less a spiritual role model for my children. But intellectual, emotional and physical servitude -- even implied (or misinterpreted by me) -- just ain't my cup of coffee.
I'm all for women being good role models to their children as mothers and wives. Even now, as a single, childless woman, I worry about whether I'll be a good mom, whether I'll be able to raise my kids in faith, with a good and steady moral barometer, whether I'll maintain a healthy and loving home, etc. But I'd also like to be a good role model to my children -- and to my daughter(s) in particular -- as a conscientious lawyer, as a world-aware citizen, as an always-curious learner, as an independent person always seeking to serve others, not because I'm a woman, but because God tells me to.
So, why do my hackles rise when someone else tells me to be and do these things? Why do I read the relevant Biblical passages again and again and wonder and mull and argue with myself and with God and try to justify my reactions? Why are my traditional and contemporary selves always at war? Why do I immediately become defensive and argumentative, and scowl at the pastor as he delivers his message?
I have no idea.
***
DR. JANE GOODALL . . .
I am a voyeur. I love people-watching. I love listening in on people's conversations. I love seeing how people interact and react. My few days here in L.A. have been no different. Daily, I've been meeting new people: Ha's mom, dad, little brother; Dr.Y's mom, dad, older brother; their church friends, work friends, extended family members. Each drive through portions of the city exposes me to the L.A. community of Latino-Americans, African-Americans, Korean-Americans, other Asian-American, and white Americans.
And without going into too much gory detail, my ground-breaking innovative thesis is as follows: we all have our own unique issues and personalities, but myopically are unable to recognize this fact most of the time, much less accept it gracefully in others. One man's adorable quirk is another man's pet peeve. One woman's easy-going nature is another woman's laziness. One child's brattiness is another child having a good day.
You know what, folks? That's just the way it is.
Okay, so where's my Pulitzer in sociology?
Sunday, July 27
WOW . . .
There are many things about L.A. that stun me just a little bit and cause me to wonder if New York and California are part of the same country. The prospect of Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger aside, other things have given me pause and jolted me with a touch of culture shock: healthy toned men and women everywhere; fancy-schmancy cars and other status symbols ubiquitous on the roads; low stucco-ed bungalow-style houses; 3rd-generation Korean Americans who act like FOBs and speak not a lick of English. They sure do lots of things differently out here.
Including the dol-janchi -- the traditional birthday extravaganza commemorating a child's first birthday. The tradition is rooted in celebrating the fact that a child even lived for a full year, stemming from the days when babies succumbed to all variety of ailments and levels of malnutrition.
All the ones I've been to or helped organize -- on the East Coast, mind you -- involved the following:
. . . designate the child's paternal grandparents' home as the party location
. . . spend a couple of days cleaning the house and cooking the party food
. . . order the dduk (rice cake in assorted flavors, colors and fillings)
. . . set up a low table with traditional symbolic items on it (pencils = child will be scholarly; books = child will be scholarly; new money = child will be wealthy; bowl of rice grains = child will be healthy; spool of yarn = child will have long life)
. . . the baby and parents dress in traditional fancy Korean dress
. . . guests pig out, then watch as the family takes photos -- with baby tearfully ripping off the icky Korean hat
. . . everyone laughs and applauds as baby selects one of the above-mentioned five items.
None of the previous dol-janchi's involved:
. . . restaurant catering space rental
. . . months-long planning and arts-and-crafting
. . . three days' worth of baking, icing-making, meringue-leaf-making . . . FROM SCRATCH
. . . six homemade cakes
. . . five flower-and-balloon centerpieces
. . . party favors
. . . Armenian female clown performing magic tricks and making balloon items (can't really call them animals, sorry), all the while expressing herself in a strangely strong Eastern European accent . . . in front of a crowd of about 80 Koreans.
This is what Baby's dol-janchi was like tonight. Ha's beloved first child, a precious daughter -- she who reaches out her hand and throws a humongous toothy grin at anyone who will look at her; she whose wipsy hair flutters hither and thither and can't quite manage to grip a barrette; she who gives you a high-five or bows repeatedly or claps gleefully at her own human tricks; she who eats any and every food without scrunching her nose or turning away, non-stop; she who is the biggest flirt with the biggest heart in the making. She had an Armenian clown tonight.
I'm amazed. I'm stunned. I'm blown away. I feel like I'm not in America anymore.
But I'm also in awe. For only Ha could do this. Only Ha would pull out of her pantry a large shoebox filled with Wilton School baking items and accessories, including an icing piping-and-head set, and horizontal layer-cake slicer (see, I don't even know the official names of these tools). Only Ha could incorporate real flowers into chocolate cupcakes to make them look like little plants. Only Ha could pipe little leaves that turn into hard meringue candies overnight. Only Ha could wrap regular cardboard boxes and top them with tulle to make lovely, dainty cake-stands. Only Ha could go to Costco and purchase a helium tank to fill balloons. And only Ha could manage to do most of this humongous project by herself, feed her family, care for Abby, receive guests and be gracious, put her hair up and look glamorous, and still be good-natured and slap-happy afterwards, ready to go rent "Bring It On" for our annual viewing and cheer-fest.
So, culture shock be damned -- it was a blast. Baby ATE IT UP --literally and figuratively -- and adored the Armenian clown.
That's all that matters, right? Right.
There are many things about L.A. that stun me just a little bit and cause me to wonder if New York and California are part of the same country. The prospect of Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger aside, other things have given me pause and jolted me with a touch of culture shock: healthy toned men and women everywhere; fancy-schmancy cars and other status symbols ubiquitous on the roads; low stucco-ed bungalow-style houses; 3rd-generation Korean Americans who act like FOBs and speak not a lick of English. They sure do lots of things differently out here.
Including the dol-janchi -- the traditional birthday extravaganza commemorating a child's first birthday. The tradition is rooted in celebrating the fact that a child even lived for a full year, stemming from the days when babies succumbed to all variety of ailments and levels of malnutrition.
All the ones I've been to or helped organize -- on the East Coast, mind you -- involved the following:
. . . designate the child's paternal grandparents' home as the party location
. . . spend a couple of days cleaning the house and cooking the party food
. . . order the dduk (rice cake in assorted flavors, colors and fillings)
. . . set up a low table with traditional symbolic items on it (pencils = child will be scholarly; books = child will be scholarly; new money = child will be wealthy; bowl of rice grains = child will be healthy; spool of yarn = child will have long life)
. . . the baby and parents dress in traditional fancy Korean dress
. . . guests pig out, then watch as the family takes photos -- with baby tearfully ripping off the icky Korean hat
. . . everyone laughs and applauds as baby selects one of the above-mentioned five items.
None of the previous dol-janchi's involved:
. . . restaurant catering space rental
. . . months-long planning and arts-and-crafting
. . . three days' worth of baking, icing-making, meringue-leaf-making . . . FROM SCRATCH
. . . six homemade cakes
. . . five flower-and-balloon centerpieces
. . . party favors
. . . Armenian female clown performing magic tricks and making balloon items (can't really call them animals, sorry), all the while expressing herself in a strangely strong Eastern European accent . . . in front of a crowd of about 80 Koreans.
This is what Baby's dol-janchi was like tonight. Ha's beloved first child, a precious daughter -- she who reaches out her hand and throws a humongous toothy grin at anyone who will look at her; she whose wipsy hair flutters hither and thither and can't quite manage to grip a barrette; she who gives you a high-five or bows repeatedly or claps gleefully at her own human tricks; she who eats any and every food without scrunching her nose or turning away, non-stop; she who is the biggest flirt with the biggest heart in the making. She had an Armenian clown tonight.
I'm amazed. I'm stunned. I'm blown away. I feel like I'm not in America anymore.
But I'm also in awe. For only Ha could do this. Only Ha would pull out of her pantry a large shoebox filled with Wilton School baking items and accessories, including an icing piping-and-head set, and horizontal layer-cake slicer (see, I don't even know the official names of these tools). Only Ha could incorporate real flowers into chocolate cupcakes to make them look like little plants. Only Ha could pipe little leaves that turn into hard meringue candies overnight. Only Ha could wrap regular cardboard boxes and top them with tulle to make lovely, dainty cake-stands. Only Ha could go to Costco and purchase a helium tank to fill balloons. And only Ha could manage to do most of this humongous project by herself, feed her family, care for Abby, receive guests and be gracious, put her hair up and look glamorous, and still be good-natured and slap-happy afterwards, ready to go rent "Bring It On" for our annual viewing and cheer-fest.
So, culture shock be damned -- it was a blast. Baby ATE IT UP --literally and figuratively -- and adored the Armenian clown.
That's all that matters, right? Right.
Saturday, July 26
NOT TOO LATE . . .
I haven't gone to sleep and ended my Friday yet, so here's my Friday Five . . .
1. If your life were a movie, what would the title be? Quantum of Evidence, like my band. I could be a franchise. QoE, mugs, textbook covers, binders, lunchboxes, baseball caps, t-shirts, bumper stickers, McDonald's Happy Meal toys. People will probably confuse my movie with some Tom Clancy offering, but maybe more people would see it then . . .
2. What songs would be on the soundtrack? All the songs on my top ten list, at least. Theme song for the flick: She, by Elvis Costello.
3. Would it be a live-action film or animated? Why? Live-action. Animation kind of creeps me out. Teddy Ruxpin, Mrs. Butterworth, the Snuggle bear = all creepy. PIXAR = cool, but so impersonal and computerized. Cartoons = too . . . shiny and colorful, and therefore weird and over-stimulating. Everyone needs a little "c'mon people, what's your motivation?!"
4. Casting: who would play you, members of your family, friends, etc? Me: Sarah Jessica Parker. Selfishly, I haven't thought much beyond that, but someone asked me this question years ago, and SJP was and will always be my first choice. She's a spazz, I'm a spazz. She's smart, I . . . try to be. She's cute . . . people tell me I am and I pretend I hate it, but I'd rather be cute than not, I suppose. She wears cool clothes and has her own quirky style, I would like to wear cool clothes and I'm just plain quirky. Plus, she's on the shorter side of actresses. I mean, Julia Roberts is just out of my league.
5. Describe the movie preview/trailer. Oh, it's just too late at night for me to be creative, innovative, imaginative, witty, touching, tear-jerking, emotional, hilarious, ironic, lovable . . . all the things I want the trailer to be. Oh, it would also be downloadable.
I haven't gone to sleep and ended my Friday yet, so here's my Friday Five . . .
1. If your life were a movie, what would the title be? Quantum of Evidence, like my band. I could be a franchise. QoE, mugs, textbook covers, binders, lunchboxes, baseball caps, t-shirts, bumper stickers, McDonald's Happy Meal toys. People will probably confuse my movie with some Tom Clancy offering, but maybe more people would see it then . . .
2. What songs would be on the soundtrack? All the songs on my top ten list, at least. Theme song for the flick: She, by Elvis Costello.
3. Would it be a live-action film or animated? Why? Live-action. Animation kind of creeps me out. Teddy Ruxpin, Mrs. Butterworth, the Snuggle bear = all creepy. PIXAR = cool, but so impersonal and computerized. Cartoons = too . . . shiny and colorful, and therefore weird and over-stimulating. Everyone needs a little "c'mon people, what's your motivation?!"
4. Casting: who would play you, members of your family, friends, etc? Me: Sarah Jessica Parker. Selfishly, I haven't thought much beyond that, but someone asked me this question years ago, and SJP was and will always be my first choice. She's a spazz, I'm a spazz. She's smart, I . . . try to be. She's cute . . . people tell me I am and I pretend I hate it, but I'd rather be cute than not, I suppose. She wears cool clothes and has her own quirky style, I would like to wear cool clothes and I'm just plain quirky. Plus, she's on the shorter side of actresses. I mean, Julia Roberts is just out of my league.
5. Describe the movie preview/trailer. Oh, it's just too late at night for me to be creative, innovative, imaginative, witty, touching, tear-jerking, emotional, hilarious, ironic, lovable . . . all the things I want the trailer to be. Oh, it would also be downloadable.
Friday, July 25
I STILL LOVE L.A. . . .
I don't think I could live here permanently, but in the last couple of years, my affection for the West Coast has increased dramatically. The prospect of studying AGAIN and suffering through THREE DAYS' worth of the California Bar Exam is probably the only thing at this point that prevents me from seriously considering temporary relocation. But should I ever need to take some time away and try something new, it helps knowing that there's some family out here, including my sister Ha and her crazy nutty family. (Baby is crazy and wild too; she just doesn't know it yet and people think she's just being cute. But I know better. I know she's wild and crazy. She'll fit right in with the rest of us.)
I've already been ragged on TWICE for Internet-ing while on vacation, but in true vacation fashion, I have much down-time. Dr.Y and Brother went to the airport to pick up the rest of the family; Ha is tidying up the upstairs and getting her life in order before the mad party rush begins; Baby is napping. I wish someone would put me down for a nap every three hours -- that would be so heavenly. But I digress. I have a few minutes, so I'll share the following, courtesy of my little Cheechster:
Section One - You
1. last place you traveled: Uhhhh . . . here, to L.A.
2. eye color: Dark brown.
3. nail color: A healthy pink.
4. height: A meager 5'2" (when I've been lying down in a relaxed pose for a while and my spine has stretched out).
5. zodiac sign: Scorpio, baby! Be afraid, be very afraid.
Section Two - Describe...
1. your heritage: Korean-American, with a little bit of Puerto Rican thrown in for good measure.
2. the shoes you wore today: I'm refreshing barefoot now, but shall wear Bandolino black sandals.
3. your hair: Dried, but probably thrown up in a hopeless ponytail within two hours.
4. your weakness: Potato chips, Killians Red, a good book, my bed.
5. your fears: That I will have lived my life and accomplished nothing to better the lives of those around me.
6. your perfect pizza: Thin cripsy crust, spinach and extra salt.
7. one thing you'd like to achieve: EITHER: the first Korean-American female federal judge; a reknowned author; a successful, honest, respect-worthy businesswoman; a really hip and cool mother of three awesome and well-adjusted kids.
Section Three - What Is...
1. your most overused phrase on im: LOL.
2. your thoughts first waking up: What shall I wear today?
3. your current worry: That I won't find a job for post-clerkship.
4. your plans tomorrow: Help Ha and Dr.Y with the party and eat lots of Korean food!
5. your best physical feature: Expressive (some would say TOO expressive) face.
6. your bedtime: Between 10:30 and 11:30pm. Sad.
Section Four - You Prefer...
1. gore or horror: Horror.
2. eastsiiiide or wessssside: WESSSSSSSSSIDE, forever.
3. money or fame: Fame.
4. planes or trains: Trains. Except for the apparently high derailment rate.
Section Five - Do You...
1. cuss: Only when I think it's absolutely necessary . . . or when I can't control myself.
2. do you think you've been in love: Yes.
3. want to get married: When I'm ready and not loving being single and FREE!!!!
4. type w/ your fingers on the right keys: For the most part, but my pinkies are woefully underused.
5. like talking on the phone: Not at all.
6. like thunderstorms: Always.
Section Six - Favorites
1. kind of fruit: Watermelon and oranges.
2. music to fall asleep to: Don't laugh but it's gotta be Fiona Apple's first CD . . . Miles Davis Love Songs is a close second.
3. time of the day: Early morning when I'm away from home on vacation or retreat -- no one else is awake and everything is new, silent and peaceful. I get to putz around looking for breakfast scraps or coffee grounds and put it on for everyone else. I can explore my surroundings, spend time with God, plan my day, have conversations in my head. I'm in the shower first and don't have to rush to get anywhere. And I can watch my friends and family wake up and join me in starting our day.
4. feature in the opposite sex: Arms, shoulders & hands.
5. thing to say when you're mad: Well, it's not very nice and it's very uncouth. And it makes me sound very uneducated.
Section Seven - Future
1. age you hope to be married: By 31 or when I'm ready, whichever comes first.
2. numbers & names of children: 2 or 3 kids and I'm not telling you their names because you will steal them (but of COURSE I have them picked out already!).
3. how do you want to die: Gracefully, in bed, with my family in the house having a good time eating and celebrating the hopefully worthwhile life I lived.
4. what country would you most like to visit: North Korea.
Section Eight - Opposite Sex
1. best personality trait: Well-rounded and diverse intelligence, curiosity and wit.
2. best height: Between 5'7" and 5'9". Tall is nice, but I want to be able to fit in his neck nook.
3. best weight: I dunno. Do I care? Just be healthy and have nice arms, shoulders and hands. Hee hee.
4. best articles of clothing: T-shirt and jeans.
5. best first date location: No place pretentious -- we can eat at nice places anytime, but how often can you go to the zoo and laugh at the bare-butt monkeys; or walk aimlessly around Manhattan ogling things in windows and people-watching; or hike in Maine. Someplace active and conversation-inducing, but you can still hold hands.
6. best first kiss location: The zoo. I don't know what my fascination is with the zoo, though. Weird.
Section Nine - Finish
1. i eat: Almost anything that tastes good. (N.B.: slimy shellfish, congealed cow blood soup, the little black Korean beans, frogs' legs, chicken feet and caviar do not taste good.)
2. i think: All the time and only half the time coherently.
3. i am: Me, all me, baby!
4. i loathe: People who are not nice or are completely inconsiderate of those less fortunate. And rapists.
5. i adore: My family, my friends, food, books, and my bed.
6. i suck at: Sports involving balls that I have to catch, kick, throw, maneuver, or hit back.
7. i can: Do anything I want with a little -- or a lot -- of practice.
8. i can't wait: To have a home and a family of my own.
9. i miss: The good days of high school, the better days of college, the sleepless nights of law school. I don't know why; I just do.
And that's all she wrote. Gotta shower. The family's due in any minute now and I want to be the clean, presentable Auntie . . .
Service Notice: still working on the comments server. I'm just gonna have to undo the one I have now and put someone else in. Hassle, hassle...
I don't think I could live here permanently, but in the last couple of years, my affection for the West Coast has increased dramatically. The prospect of studying AGAIN and suffering through THREE DAYS' worth of the California Bar Exam is probably the only thing at this point that prevents me from seriously considering temporary relocation. But should I ever need to take some time away and try something new, it helps knowing that there's some family out here, including my sister Ha and her crazy nutty family. (Baby is crazy and wild too; she just doesn't know it yet and people think she's just being cute. But I know better. I know she's wild and crazy. She'll fit right in with the rest of us.)
I've already been ragged on TWICE for Internet-ing while on vacation, but in true vacation fashion, I have much down-time. Dr.Y and Brother went to the airport to pick up the rest of the family; Ha is tidying up the upstairs and getting her life in order before the mad party rush begins; Baby is napping. I wish someone would put me down for a nap every three hours -- that would be so heavenly. But I digress. I have a few minutes, so I'll share the following, courtesy of my little Cheechster:
Section One - You
1. last place you traveled: Uhhhh . . . here, to L.A.
2. eye color: Dark brown.
3. nail color: A healthy pink.
4. height: A meager 5'2" (when I've been lying down in a relaxed pose for a while and my spine has stretched out).
5. zodiac sign: Scorpio, baby! Be afraid, be very afraid.
Section Two - Describe...
1. your heritage: Korean-American, with a little bit of Puerto Rican thrown in for good measure.
2. the shoes you wore today: I'm refreshing barefoot now, but shall wear Bandolino black sandals.
3. your hair: Dried, but probably thrown up in a hopeless ponytail within two hours.
4. your weakness: Potato chips, Killians Red, a good book, my bed.
5. your fears: That I will have lived my life and accomplished nothing to better the lives of those around me.
6. your perfect pizza: Thin cripsy crust, spinach and extra salt.
7. one thing you'd like to achieve: EITHER: the first Korean-American female federal judge; a reknowned author; a successful, honest, respect-worthy businesswoman; a really hip and cool mother of three awesome and well-adjusted kids.
Section Three - What Is...
1. your most overused phrase on im: LOL.
2. your thoughts first waking up: What shall I wear today?
3. your current worry: That I won't find a job for post-clerkship.
4. your plans tomorrow: Help Ha and Dr.Y with the party and eat lots of Korean food!
5. your best physical feature: Expressive (some would say TOO expressive) face.
6. your bedtime: Between 10:30 and 11:30pm. Sad.
Section Four - You Prefer...
1. gore or horror: Horror.
2. eastsiiiide or wessssside: WESSSSSSSSSIDE, forever.
3. money or fame: Fame.
4. planes or trains: Trains. Except for the apparently high derailment rate.
Section Five - Do You...
1. cuss: Only when I think it's absolutely necessary . . . or when I can't control myself.
2. do you think you've been in love: Yes.
3. want to get married: When I'm ready and not loving being single and FREE!!!!
4. type w/ your fingers on the right keys: For the most part, but my pinkies are woefully underused.
5. like talking on the phone: Not at all.
6. like thunderstorms: Always.
Section Six - Favorites
1. kind of fruit: Watermelon and oranges.
2. music to fall asleep to: Don't laugh but it's gotta be Fiona Apple's first CD . . . Miles Davis Love Songs is a close second.
3. time of the day: Early morning when I'm away from home on vacation or retreat -- no one else is awake and everything is new, silent and peaceful. I get to putz around looking for breakfast scraps or coffee grounds and put it on for everyone else. I can explore my surroundings, spend time with God, plan my day, have conversations in my head. I'm in the shower first and don't have to rush to get anywhere. And I can watch my friends and family wake up and join me in starting our day.
4. feature in the opposite sex: Arms, shoulders & hands.
5. thing to say when you're mad: Well, it's not very nice and it's very uncouth. And it makes me sound very uneducated.
Section Seven - Future
1. age you hope to be married: By 31 or when I'm ready, whichever comes first.
2. numbers & names of children: 2 or 3 kids and I'm not telling you their names because you will steal them (but of COURSE I have them picked out already!).
3. how do you want to die: Gracefully, in bed, with my family in the house having a good time eating and celebrating the hopefully worthwhile life I lived.
4. what country would you most like to visit: North Korea.
Section Eight - Opposite Sex
1. best personality trait: Well-rounded and diverse intelligence, curiosity and wit.
2. best height: Between 5'7" and 5'9". Tall is nice, but I want to be able to fit in his neck nook.
3. best weight: I dunno. Do I care? Just be healthy and have nice arms, shoulders and hands. Hee hee.
4. best articles of clothing: T-shirt and jeans.
5. best first date location: No place pretentious -- we can eat at nice places anytime, but how often can you go to the zoo and laugh at the bare-butt monkeys; or walk aimlessly around Manhattan ogling things in windows and people-watching; or hike in Maine. Someplace active and conversation-inducing, but you can still hold hands.
6. best first kiss location: The zoo. I don't know what my fascination is with the zoo, though. Weird.
Section Nine - Finish
1. i eat: Almost anything that tastes good. (N.B.: slimy shellfish, congealed cow blood soup, the little black Korean beans, frogs' legs, chicken feet and caviar do not taste good.)
2. i think: All the time and only half the time coherently.
3. i am: Me, all me, baby!
4. i loathe: People who are not nice or are completely inconsiderate of those less fortunate. And rapists.
5. i adore: My family, my friends, food, books, and my bed.
6. i suck at: Sports involving balls that I have to catch, kick, throw, maneuver, or hit back.
7. i can: Do anything I want with a little -- or a lot -- of practice.
8. i can't wait: To have a home and a family of my own.
9. i miss: The good days of high school, the better days of college, the sleepless nights of law school. I don't know why; I just do.
And that's all she wrote. Gotta shower. The family's due in any minute now and I want to be the clean, presentable Auntie . . .
Service Notice: still working on the comments server. I'm just gonna have to undo the one I have now and put someone else in. Hassle, hassle...
SUNNY L.A. . . .
I'm here! JetBlue transported me here in beautiful blue style: the plane was blue, the carpeting was blue, the snack packaging was blue, the potato chips were blue, the napkins were blue-trimmed, even the bathroom soap was blue (and smelled lovely, to boot). The best, cheesiest part of the over-plasticized, frozen-smile flight-attended travel experience was the captain's parting greeting: "Local time is 4:26pm; the temperature is approximately 76-degrees. Thank you for flying JetBlue, blah blah blah. And remember, be nice to your neighbor. Being nice to people makes people happy and it's what makes the world go 'round." The disbelieving guffaws of my travelmates made my day. Dorothy, we're not in New York anymore . . .
Dr.Y, Ha, Ha's little bro, Baby and I took a drive to Redondo Beach for some seafood. I now have sheep bloat in a really, REALLY bad way. Thankfully, Ha and Co. are just like family. I expect that we shall be sharing much sheep bloat together over the next six days. It's just like being home.
Ha has immediately put us all to work on favors for Baby's 1st birthday party (a humongous shindig in Korean circles). It's like being back at Wedding Camp, slaving away at JKo's favors, tying ribbons, folding boxes, packaging gifts. After all this, MY wedding and MY baby's first birthday better flow smooth like buttah . . .
UPDATE ON THE LEPROSY: hacking cough is gone. I took THREE spoonfuls of codeine-laden cough syrup before I went to sleep last night, fervently prayed to God to heal me and take the cough from me, and closed my eyes in utter faith (also because the codeine was knocking me out). This morning I woke up -- the usual desperate I've-been-trapped-inside-all-night cough never came. I stepped into the shower -- the hot-steam-has-loosened-the-phlegm cough never came. I sat in the plane for five hours -- the air-is-too-dry-and-my-cilia-are-not-happy cough never came. I walked on a pier on the Pacific coast -- the it's-too-humid-and-the-wind-is-bad-for-me cough never came. Just sheep bloat. Baa. Anyway, I feel great. But for the palm trees, I feel that I haven't even left my house. Dr.Y and Ha are always like my sister and brother. Baby smiles at me and grabs for me hand.
But! No time to dwell on how relaxed and pleased I am. I must get to work on the assembly line. Baby's party favors beckon me . . .
Service Notice: my comments server seems to be down and on the fritz. I'll have to switch over to someone else, but not until I get back to the East Coast. So if you have an urgent comment for me, just email me. Otherwise, keep it to yourself. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.
I'm here! JetBlue transported me here in beautiful blue style: the plane was blue, the carpeting was blue, the snack packaging was blue, the potato chips were blue, the napkins were blue-trimmed, even the bathroom soap was blue (and smelled lovely, to boot). The best, cheesiest part of the over-plasticized, frozen-smile flight-attended travel experience was the captain's parting greeting: "Local time is 4:26pm; the temperature is approximately 76-degrees. Thank you for flying JetBlue, blah blah blah. And remember, be nice to your neighbor. Being nice to people makes people happy and it's what makes the world go 'round." The disbelieving guffaws of my travelmates made my day. Dorothy, we're not in New York anymore . . .
Dr.Y, Ha, Ha's little bro, Baby and I took a drive to Redondo Beach for some seafood. I now have sheep bloat in a really, REALLY bad way. Thankfully, Ha and Co. are just like family. I expect that we shall be sharing much sheep bloat together over the next six days. It's just like being home.
Ha has immediately put us all to work on favors for Baby's 1st birthday party (a humongous shindig in Korean circles). It's like being back at Wedding Camp, slaving away at JKo's favors, tying ribbons, folding boxes, packaging gifts. After all this, MY wedding and MY baby's first birthday better flow smooth like buttah . . .
UPDATE ON THE LEPROSY: hacking cough is gone. I took THREE spoonfuls of codeine-laden cough syrup before I went to sleep last night, fervently prayed to God to heal me and take the cough from me, and closed my eyes in utter faith (also because the codeine was knocking me out). This morning I woke up -- the usual desperate I've-been-trapped-inside-all-night cough never came. I stepped into the shower -- the hot-steam-has-loosened-the-phlegm cough never came. I sat in the plane for five hours -- the air-is-too-dry-and-my-cilia-are-not-happy cough never came. I walked on a pier on the Pacific coast -- the it's-too-humid-and-the-wind-is-bad-for-me cough never came. Just sheep bloat. Baa. Anyway, I feel great. But for the palm trees, I feel that I haven't even left my house. Dr.Y and Ha are always like my sister and brother. Baby smiles at me and grabs for me hand.
But! No time to dwell on how relaxed and pleased I am. I must get to work on the assembly line. Baby's party favors beckon me . . .
Service Notice: my comments server seems to be down and on the fritz. I'll have to switch over to someone else, but not until I get back to the East Coast. So if you have an urgent comment for me, just email me. Otherwise, keep it to yourself. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.
Wednesday, July 23
ARE WE NUTS? . . .
What is this, the 18th century when foppish gentlemen settled issues with duelling pistols?! When did it become okay -- when was it ever okay -- to rid yourself of political, social, whatever-al rivals by KILLING them? What kind of society do we live in -- have we lived in -- where people walk around thinking that you can just get rid of people you don't like for whatever valid or invalid reason? That some kind of honor is preserved, that you are performing some kind of duty, that you are upholding some sort of ideal when you shoot someone to death? And how dumb are you to think you won't get caught or shot to death yourself? Oh wait, maybe you think yourself a martyr, fighting for a cause -- or a piddling argument -- you vapidly think is worth dying for. Stupid. It's all just stupid, and good lives are being wasted in the process of you living out your stupidity. So put your damn guns away, and if you're not smart enough to at least fight with words, then you shouldn't even be setting foot in New York's City Hall.
***
THIRTEEN HOURS . . .
Until I'm on a plane bound for sunny California. Everything should be peachy . . . except for this hacking cough I can't get rid of.
This is the worst part of being sick: the few days after the sickness has passed. No more drippy nose, no more aches and pains, no more chilly fevers or bleary eyes. Probably even my germs are squeaky clean. But alas for the lingering dry hacking cough. People cross the street to avoid you on the sidewalk, coworkers give you sympathetic but slightly annoyed glances, cashiers lunge for the rubber gloves before accepting your money.
And I have to get on a PLANE with this?! What if some loser looks at me and thinks I'm a SARS carrier?! (I'm not.) What if the baggage checkers think my cough drops are illegal drugs in disguise and arrest me?! What if the person next to me actually asks the flight attendant to change his/her seat?! What if the ticket-taker wrinkles his/her nose at me?! What if the icky plane air makes it worse and I spend the next week coughing all over poor Ha & Dr.Y's house and baby?!
In my mind, I am already a pariah. I'm The Hacking Cougher -- the modern-day leper. Oh, dear . . .
What is this, the 18th century when foppish gentlemen settled issues with duelling pistols?! When did it become okay -- when was it ever okay -- to rid yourself of political, social, whatever-al rivals by KILLING them? What kind of society do we live in -- have we lived in -- where people walk around thinking that you can just get rid of people you don't like for whatever valid or invalid reason? That some kind of honor is preserved, that you are performing some kind of duty, that you are upholding some sort of ideal when you shoot someone to death? And how dumb are you to think you won't get caught or shot to death yourself? Oh wait, maybe you think yourself a martyr, fighting for a cause -- or a piddling argument -- you vapidly think is worth dying for. Stupid. It's all just stupid, and good lives are being wasted in the process of you living out your stupidity. So put your damn guns away, and if you're not smart enough to at least fight with words, then you shouldn't even be setting foot in New York's City Hall.
***
THIRTEEN HOURS . . .
Until I'm on a plane bound for sunny California. Everything should be peachy . . . except for this hacking cough I can't get rid of.
This is the worst part of being sick: the few days after the sickness has passed. No more drippy nose, no more aches and pains, no more chilly fevers or bleary eyes. Probably even my germs are squeaky clean. But alas for the lingering dry hacking cough. People cross the street to avoid you on the sidewalk, coworkers give you sympathetic but slightly annoyed glances, cashiers lunge for the rubber gloves before accepting your money.
And I have to get on a PLANE with this?! What if some loser looks at me and thinks I'm a SARS carrier?! (I'm not.) What if the baggage checkers think my cough drops are illegal drugs in disguise and arrest me?! What if the person next to me actually asks the flight attendant to change his/her seat?! What if the ticket-taker wrinkles his/her nose at me?! What if the icky plane air makes it worse and I spend the next week coughing all over poor Ha & Dr.Y's house and baby?!
In my mind, I am already a pariah. I'm The Hacking Cougher -- the modern-day leper. Oh, dear . . .
Tuesday, July 22
GETTING OVER IT . . .
It has been one year, ten months, and twelve days since 9/11.
I hardly think about it anymore, except for when I chance to look up and see military helicopters speeding across the horizon . . . or when I'm standing outside with friends and hear the low drone of an Army cargo plane heading upstate . . . or when a CNN Breaking News alert dings into my mailbox . . . or when I read about the trial maneuvers of Zacarias Moussaoui . . . or when my anxiety is piqued by the beginnings of a news scrawl across the bottom of the sitcom I'm watching . . . or when I'm lying in bed at night and hear mysterious far-away booming sounds . . . or when I'm driving on the highway and see plumes of black smoke drifting in the distance . . . or when I wake from a bad dream and can't figure out where I am exactly . . . or when I meet someone who has the same name as my horrifically incinerated classmate and friend . . . or when the headlines announce another terrorist bombing in some other unsuspecting corner of the world . . . or when I'm driving down the West Side Highway and realize that my view to the south is no longer obstructed . . . or when my digital clock reads 9:11 . . . or when I'm one of tens of thousands of obliviously content people in a crowded stadium, arena, train station, Times Square . . . or when I'm crossing the Tappan Zee Bridge and look off to both horizons to make sure they're clear . . . or when I'm preparing to get on a cross-country non-stop flight in two days . . . or when I have a moment of silence at 8:45am and have time to allow myself to wonder "is this what it was like?"
Actually, I don't remember what it's like not to think about it . . .
It has been one year, ten months, and twelve days since 9/11.
I hardly think about it anymore, except for when I chance to look up and see military helicopters speeding across the horizon . . . or when I'm standing outside with friends and hear the low drone of an Army cargo plane heading upstate . . . or when a CNN Breaking News alert dings into my mailbox . . . or when I read about the trial maneuvers of Zacarias Moussaoui . . . or when my anxiety is piqued by the beginnings of a news scrawl across the bottom of the sitcom I'm watching . . . or when I'm lying in bed at night and hear mysterious far-away booming sounds . . . or when I'm driving on the highway and see plumes of black smoke drifting in the distance . . . or when I wake from a bad dream and can't figure out where I am exactly . . . or when I meet someone who has the same name as my horrifically incinerated classmate and friend . . . or when the headlines announce another terrorist bombing in some other unsuspecting corner of the world . . . or when I'm driving down the West Side Highway and realize that my view to the south is no longer obstructed . . . or when my digital clock reads 9:11 . . . or when I'm one of tens of thousands of obliviously content people in a crowded stadium, arena, train station, Times Square . . . or when I'm crossing the Tappan Zee Bridge and look off to both horizons to make sure they're clear . . . or when I'm preparing to get on a cross-country non-stop flight in two days . . . or when I have a moment of silence at 8:45am and have time to allow myself to wonder "is this what it was like?"
Actually, I don't remember what it's like not to think about it . . .
SERVICE NOTICE . . .
I've been out of commission since Friday night, felled by a pernicious cold that I've been fighting since about mid-March. In that time, I made it through four weekend getaways, two bridal showers, two wedding rehearsals, four weddings, two baseball games, two concerts, two cooking classes, two barbecues, thirteen dinner outings, and three-and-a-half weeks of home renovation. Finally, I hit a wall. There was no major social event meriting perfect health, no adrenaline push to keep the germs at bay. So, I succumbed. That was probably a good thing. For any given point in my life -- from the truly memorable to the utterly mundane -- I can easily look back and see God's hand directing me. This time, He was telling me to CHILL OUT. And I did (I was too tired to disobey). Aside from some nominal running-around on Saturday, my weekend was easy-as-pie. AND I stayed home from work yesterday, which gave me plenty of time to think about some new things that I discovered about myself over the weekend:
1. I LOVE STEAK: and if you do too, you should go to Peter Luger as soon as possible. It's about as no-nonsense a meal as one can get, and if you take me, Soy and AW, we will duly impress you with our ability to put away steak for four, german potatoes, tomato-and-onions, and creamed spinach. AND still have room for dessert and coffee. AND not fall completely asleep in the car on the way home. AND wake up in the morning craving a hamburger.
2. I LOVE BENADRYL: and if you don't, you don't know what you're missing. After a ceaselessly drippy Saturday afternoon and early evening, I finally made the desperate run into the local CVS for a box of the little pink pills. The last time I took Benadryl was in the 7th grade for an allergic reaction to fake crabmeat. I don't remember much about that experience because, well, it knocked me out and I must have slept for days. This time, I remember everything and it was wonderful. I don't have first-hand experience with recreational drugs, but I imagine the feeling from two Benadryl tablets is akin to being high on something. Sitting in the bowling alley on Saturday "Rock n' Bowl" night with nine loud, enthusiastic friends -- their voices and cheers bouncing off the walls of my brain, echoing . . . listening to the music -- so loud, so pulsing . . . bumping into the bowling-ball return tray when it was my turn -- no pain, no pain . . . watching the rotating disco colors and shapes reflecting off the lanes -- so pretty. . .
3. I LOVE BOWLING: and if you do too, you should come with us next time. Perhaps my experience was enhanced by the Benadryl (see above), but I'm pretty sure I enjoyed myself validly. It helps when you take Terry Cloth -- he of the Tai-Chi school of bowling ("silence, please!"); or Soy -- she of the weird-lefty-grip-and-finish-with-a-flourish school of bowling; or Banana -- she of the I'm-gonna-kick-your-ass school of bowling; or Jaime -- he of the I'm-just-as-much-a-spazz-bowling-as-I-am-anywhere-else school of bowling; or JKo -- she of the how-slow-can-the-ball-possibly-go school of bowling. We were such a motley group of bowlers and pseudo-bowlers, one couldn't help but have a good time. Also, I did not get hit in the head with a bowling ball, so perhaps we're making progress here.
4. I LOVE SCARY MOVIES: but if you don't, I completely understand. It usually takes me no less than a week to prepare myself to watch a scary movie. It doesn't matter if it's paranormally scary, suspenseful, psycho-thrillerish, horrific or mind-bending -- I need to prep. But once I'm in the theatre and the lights are going down and it's clear that I can't escape without losing ten dollars, the thrill sets in. I sit up straighter in my seat (at least until the first scary scene flits across the screen, and then I hunch down as low as I can go so the scary element can't see me), tense up every muscle imaginable, and poise my hands near my face so I can quickly cover my eyes if necessary. If it's really scary or traumatic, I will start to cry just a little bit. I don't know why I subject myself to such a seemingly unpleasant thrill, but I suppose it's better than . . . extreme skateboarding?
Saw: 28 Days Later
Finishing: John Adams, by David McCullough
In the batter's box: Benjamin Franklin, by Walter Isaacson
Running through my head: Amazing love, how can it be, that You my King would die for me...
I've been out of commission since Friday night, felled by a pernicious cold that I've been fighting since about mid-March. In that time, I made it through four weekend getaways, two bridal showers, two wedding rehearsals, four weddings, two baseball games, two concerts, two cooking classes, two barbecues, thirteen dinner outings, and three-and-a-half weeks of home renovation. Finally, I hit a wall. There was no major social event meriting perfect health, no adrenaline push to keep the germs at bay. So, I succumbed. That was probably a good thing. For any given point in my life -- from the truly memorable to the utterly mundane -- I can easily look back and see God's hand directing me. This time, He was telling me to CHILL OUT. And I did (I was too tired to disobey). Aside from some nominal running-around on Saturday, my weekend was easy-as-pie. AND I stayed home from work yesterday, which gave me plenty of time to think about some new things that I discovered about myself over the weekend:
1. I LOVE STEAK: and if you do too, you should go to Peter Luger as soon as possible. It's about as no-nonsense a meal as one can get, and if you take me, Soy and AW, we will duly impress you with our ability to put away steak for four, german potatoes, tomato-and-onions, and creamed spinach. AND still have room for dessert and coffee. AND not fall completely asleep in the car on the way home. AND wake up in the morning craving a hamburger.
2. I LOVE BENADRYL: and if you don't, you don't know what you're missing. After a ceaselessly drippy Saturday afternoon and early evening, I finally made the desperate run into the local CVS for a box of the little pink pills. The last time I took Benadryl was in the 7th grade for an allergic reaction to fake crabmeat. I don't remember much about that experience because, well, it knocked me out and I must have slept for days. This time, I remember everything and it was wonderful. I don't have first-hand experience with recreational drugs, but I imagine the feeling from two Benadryl tablets is akin to being high on something. Sitting in the bowling alley on Saturday "Rock n' Bowl" night with nine loud, enthusiastic friends -- their voices and cheers bouncing off the walls of my brain, echoing . . . listening to the music -- so loud, so pulsing . . . bumping into the bowling-ball return tray when it was my turn -- no pain, no pain . . . watching the rotating disco colors and shapes reflecting off the lanes -- so pretty. . .
3. I LOVE BOWLING: and if you do too, you should come with us next time. Perhaps my experience was enhanced by the Benadryl (see above), but I'm pretty sure I enjoyed myself validly. It helps when you take Terry Cloth -- he of the Tai-Chi school of bowling ("silence, please!"); or Soy -- she of the weird-lefty-grip-and-finish-with-a-flourish school of bowling; or Banana -- she of the I'm-gonna-kick-your-ass school of bowling; or Jaime -- he of the I'm-just-as-much-a-spazz-bowling-as-I-am-anywhere-else school of bowling; or JKo -- she of the how-slow-can-the-ball-possibly-go school of bowling. We were such a motley group of bowlers and pseudo-bowlers, one couldn't help but have a good time. Also, I did not get hit in the head with a bowling ball, so perhaps we're making progress here.
4. I LOVE SCARY MOVIES: but if you don't, I completely understand. It usually takes me no less than a week to prepare myself to watch a scary movie. It doesn't matter if it's paranormally scary, suspenseful, psycho-thrillerish, horrific or mind-bending -- I need to prep. But once I'm in the theatre and the lights are going down and it's clear that I can't escape without losing ten dollars, the thrill sets in. I sit up straighter in my seat (at least until the first scary scene flits across the screen, and then I hunch down as low as I can go so the scary element can't see me), tense up every muscle imaginable, and poise my hands near my face so I can quickly cover my eyes if necessary. If it's really scary or traumatic, I will start to cry just a little bit. I don't know why I subject myself to such a seemingly unpleasant thrill, but I suppose it's better than . . . extreme skateboarding?
Saw: 28 Days Later
Finishing: John Adams, by David McCullough
In the batter's box: Benjamin Franklin, by Walter Isaacson
Running through my head: Amazing love, how can it be, that You my King would die for me...
Friday, July 18
TIMES OF REFRESHING . . .
*yawn*
It's a good-tired this morning, as it is every Friday morning after an evening of chatting, eating, laughing, crying and ultimately praying with my Thursday night crew. We haven't met and really done anything other than hang out and eat potato chips and waste time in a really long while (at least since before J2 got married), so it was simply lovely . . .
(Unfortunately, I awoke with more sheep bloat, due to the massive amount of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Blast ice cream I inhaled. Baa.)
Nevertheless, I am utterly refreshed this morning. There is something ridiculously special about being supported by Christian friends, being prayed for, and praying for them, that does a lot to revive the soul. A swift kick in the butt to not be spiritually lazy, a proffered Kleenex to wipe away tears of sadness and frustration, a healthy and hysterical laugh at a preposterous this-only-happens-to-other-people story. I could spend days with these people and never get bored or discouraged. So I'm sleepy as all heck, but I shall doze off after lunch with a content grin framing my drooling little mouth . . .
Tangent #1: There is a sweet new Volvo S80 sedan, Ruby Red Metallic, sitting in the courthouse's secure garage. It is NICE. I covet it.
Tangent #2: This morning, Hooch read to me a headline about FBI moles being planted in white-supremacist groups. And it occurred to me -- I want to be an FBI mole. I'd be really good at it. I'd do everything the FBI told me to do, and I wouldn't eat that much or cost that much to maintain. And I'd be fun! C'mon, gimme a chance . . .
*yawn*
It's a good-tired this morning, as it is every Friday morning after an evening of chatting, eating, laughing, crying and ultimately praying with my Thursday night crew. We haven't met and really done anything other than hang out and eat potato chips and waste time in a really long while (at least since before J2 got married), so it was simply lovely . . .
(Unfortunately, I awoke with more sheep bloat, due to the massive amount of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Blast ice cream I inhaled. Baa.)
Nevertheless, I am utterly refreshed this morning. There is something ridiculously special about being supported by Christian friends, being prayed for, and praying for them, that does a lot to revive the soul. A swift kick in the butt to not be spiritually lazy, a proffered Kleenex to wipe away tears of sadness and frustration, a healthy and hysterical laugh at a preposterous this-only-happens-to-other-people story. I could spend days with these people and never get bored or discouraged. So I'm sleepy as all heck, but I shall doze off after lunch with a content grin framing my drooling little mouth . . .
Tangent #1: There is a sweet new Volvo S80 sedan, Ruby Red Metallic, sitting in the courthouse's secure garage. It is NICE. I covet it.
Tangent #2: This morning, Hooch read to me a headline about FBI moles being planted in white-supremacist groups. And it occurred to me -- I want to be an FBI mole. I'd be really good at it. I'd do everything the FBI told me to do, and I wouldn't eat that much or cost that much to maintain. And I'd be fun! C'mon, gimme a chance . . .
Thursday, July 17
ALL THE NEWS THAT'S NOT ALL THAT FIT TO PRINT . . .
Being a news reporter must be hard. There are deadlines, stories to scoop, competitive ladders to climb, reputations to establish.
Being an Associated Press reporter must be doubly so, because you have to chase stories with headlines like these (true, from today's nytimes.com):
From Clark, S.D.: "Ton of Mashed Potato Flakes is Missing"
From Anchorage, AK: "Moose Tries to Jump Rental Car"
From Kingston, NY: "Train Stopped So Employee Can Get Coffee"
But this story must have been worth it, at least for the chuckle:
From San Jose, CA: "Alabama Woman Wins Worst Writing Award"
The AP writes that "Mariann Simms of Wetumpka, Ala., won $250 in the 22nd Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, a parody honoring the writer of the worst beginning to an imaginary novel."
And the winning worst beginning paragraph? Read on:
"They had but one last remaining night together, so they embraced each other as tightly as that two-flavor entwined string cheese that is orange and yellowish-white, the orange probably being a bland Cheddar and the white ... Mozzarella, although it could possibly be Provolone or just plain American, as it really doesn't taste distinctly dissimilar from the orange, yet they would have you believe it does by coloring it differently."
YIKES.
Being a news reporter must be hard. There are deadlines, stories to scoop, competitive ladders to climb, reputations to establish.
Being an Associated Press reporter must be doubly so, because you have to chase stories with headlines like these (true, from today's nytimes.com):
From Clark, S.D.: "Ton of Mashed Potato Flakes is Missing"
From Anchorage, AK: "Moose Tries to Jump Rental Car"
From Kingston, NY: "Train Stopped So Employee Can Get Coffee"
But this story must have been worth it, at least for the chuckle:
From San Jose, CA: "Alabama Woman Wins Worst Writing Award"
The AP writes that "Mariann Simms of Wetumpka, Ala., won $250 in the 22nd Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, a parody honoring the writer of the worst beginning to an imaginary novel."
And the winning worst beginning paragraph? Read on:
"They had but one last remaining night together, so they embraced each other as tightly as that two-flavor entwined string cheese that is orange and yellowish-white, the orange probably being a bland Cheddar and the white ... Mozzarella, although it could possibly be Provolone or just plain American, as it really doesn't taste distinctly dissimilar from the orange, yet they would have you believe it does by coloring it differently."
YIKES.
Wednesday, July 16
WHAT IF . . .
I'm in the middle of reading John Adams, and it is just . . . blowing my mind. Every biography I read manages to make the synapses in my brain explode with more questions, more curiosities, more feelings of amazement at the fact that people actually lived through, well, HISTORY.
I picture Mr. Adams, putzing around his little house in Massachusetts, writing the state constitution, the oldest functioning state constitution in America.
I envision Mr. Adams, hanging out in Paris with Thomas Jefferson, touring the countryside, shopping in the city, and bargaining a little thing called the Treaty of Paris, thus symbolically ending the American revolution against Britain.
I see Mr. and Mrs. Adams, sipping tea in London, receiving letters about Shay's Rebellion back home in Massachusetts.
I anticipate good ol' Mr. Adams going on to be PRESIDENT of the United States.
It's just crazy.
So I mention this to Hooch: isn't it amazing that actual human men and women and children saw history happen and didn't even know it; that people paved the road of the future without knowing where it would lead; and that individuals changed the course of history and didn't even realize how significant it would be, or how their efforts would bear fruit?
Hooch's response: "Imagine if America never declared her independence, and we were still owned by the British?"
Hmmm. We pondered.
We decided that the U.S. would probably be half the size it is now (most likely ending somewhere around the Mississippi River), France would be next door, Spain would be below us, and we would be . . . well, we would be CANADA.
That would suck, if we were just one big CANADA.
That would suck a lot.
Poor Canada.
We always make fun of Canada. After all, it's just . . . there. And they've got those damn Mounties.
I call it the Switzerland of North America (without all the culture and leiderhosen).
Hooch calls it the "Justice Clarence Thomas of North America." You know, never has an opinion of its own, etc.
Harsh. But true.
(Although if I were you, Canada, I'd be really insulted. WE don't even like to claim him.)
Poor Canada.
(So thank you, American Revolutionary heroes, for saving us from becoming CANADA.)
I'm in the middle of reading John Adams, and it is just . . . blowing my mind. Every biography I read manages to make the synapses in my brain explode with more questions, more curiosities, more feelings of amazement at the fact that people actually lived through, well, HISTORY.
I picture Mr. Adams, putzing around his little house in Massachusetts, writing the state constitution, the oldest functioning state constitution in America.
I envision Mr. Adams, hanging out in Paris with Thomas Jefferson, touring the countryside, shopping in the city, and bargaining a little thing called the Treaty of Paris, thus symbolically ending the American revolution against Britain.
I see Mr. and Mrs. Adams, sipping tea in London, receiving letters about Shay's Rebellion back home in Massachusetts.
I anticipate good ol' Mr. Adams going on to be PRESIDENT of the United States.
It's just crazy.
So I mention this to Hooch: isn't it amazing that actual human men and women and children saw history happen and didn't even know it; that people paved the road of the future without knowing where it would lead; and that individuals changed the course of history and didn't even realize how significant it would be, or how their efforts would bear fruit?
Hooch's response: "Imagine if America never declared her independence, and we were still owned by the British?"
Hmmm. We pondered.
We decided that the U.S. would probably be half the size it is now (most likely ending somewhere around the Mississippi River), France would be next door, Spain would be below us, and we would be . . . well, we would be CANADA.
That would suck, if we were just one big CANADA.
That would suck a lot.
Poor Canada.
We always make fun of Canada. After all, it's just . . . there. And they've got those damn Mounties.
I call it the Switzerland of North America (without all the culture and leiderhosen).
Hooch calls it the "Justice Clarence Thomas of North America." You know, never has an opinion of its own, etc.
Harsh. But true.
(Although if I were you, Canada, I'd be really insulted. WE don't even like to claim him.)
Poor Canada.
(So thank you, American Revolutionary heroes, for saving us from becoming CANADA.)
Tuesday, July 15
SNIPE, SNIPE, SNIPE . . .
Out of left field, here are my wedding registry To-Do's and Not-To-Do's, realized after viewing a registry (nay, registRIES) yesterday evening (damn near took my mom and I all night to get through it!):
1. I will not register at FOUR different places, and place nearly identical items on all of them. This will confuse guests and make them wonder why we want 3 sets of a 10-piece $700 Calphalon pots n' pans collection. And it will make us look either scatterbrained, or greedy, or both.
2. I will register at four different places for the purpose of offering our guests a variety of choices and objects to purchase, if they wish to do so. However, once again, I will not place nearly identical items on all our registries.
3. I will not register for so many items that our guests will wonder if we are going to live in a mansion with five bedrooms, three kitchens and eight bathrooms, particularly if I marry while still in my 20s and have a lifetime ahead of me in which to accumulate all that silly stuff.
4. I will not register for things that, in traditional Korean culture, my parents, my husband's parents, or our extended family should purchase for us: really fine china (who needs Wedgewood in their 20s anyway?!), really fine silver (I would only oxygenate it and make it turn all yukky brown), really fine crystal (I would just drop it anyway).
5. I will not register for FURNITURE. I know people do. I know people feel they need to because they think they won't be able to afford it otherwise. But I just cannot burden friends with the responsibility of buying a SOFA. And I just cannot fathom sharing a marriage bed that someone else has bought. That's just weird. I will scrimp and scrounge and buy my own damn couch, thank you.
6. I will only register for things that we absolutely need to start a home (a small home, please). That means no wine tower. No four sets of bed sheets in four different colors. No three sets of bath towel in three different colors. No four different sets of dinnerware. No 10-setting placemats and napkins in three different styles. No three different sets of 13-piece Calphalon pots and pans. No two of the same iron from two different places. No eight different spatulas. No three different colanders. No two upright vacuums. No three different toaster ovens. No mini-3.6-cubic foot refrigerator. No Conair Ultra Massaging Foot Spa. No cute little trendy kitchen/house toys that we will have just to have and will look pretty but serve no other useful purpose: lobster pots, tortilla warmer, pizza spatulas, pizza cutters, butter warmers, "sushi-to-go" kits, hurricane lamps, stainless steel chargers, vermouth spritzers, and the like.**
7. I will not register for stupid things that we can purchase for ourselves: wastebaskets, Swiss Army knives, flashlights, shavers, decorative pillows, bathroom accessories, chip clips, doormats.**
8. I will not get carried away with that little registry gun. It is not a toy. Guns are dangerous.
I'm sure there are more things I could snipe about, but perhaps I'm just being ungenerous. After all, I never know when I'm going to be frying eight different things at the same time, and thus will need eight different spatulas.
**No joke. All this stuff is really on the registry/ies. I'd like to point out my absolute favorites: (a) the tortilla warmer. What is UP with the tortilla warmer?! These people are Korean, for crying out loud. How often could they POSSIBLY be eating tortillas?! (b) the Conair Foot Spa. Please. (c) the chip clips. Who registers for CHIP CLIPS?! (d) the mini-fridge. I don't understand THAT at all.
Out of left field, here are my wedding registry To-Do's and Not-To-Do's, realized after viewing a registry (nay, registRIES) yesterday evening (damn near took my mom and I all night to get through it!):
1. I will not register at FOUR different places, and place nearly identical items on all of them. This will confuse guests and make them wonder why we want 3 sets of a 10-piece $700 Calphalon pots n' pans collection. And it will make us look either scatterbrained, or greedy, or both.
2. I will register at four different places for the purpose of offering our guests a variety of choices and objects to purchase, if they wish to do so. However, once again, I will not place nearly identical items on all our registries.
3. I will not register for so many items that our guests will wonder if we are going to live in a mansion with five bedrooms, three kitchens and eight bathrooms, particularly if I marry while still in my 20s and have a lifetime ahead of me in which to accumulate all that silly stuff.
4. I will not register for things that, in traditional Korean culture, my parents, my husband's parents, or our extended family should purchase for us: really fine china (who needs Wedgewood in their 20s anyway?!), really fine silver (I would only oxygenate it and make it turn all yukky brown), really fine crystal (I would just drop it anyway).
5. I will not register for FURNITURE. I know people do. I know people feel they need to because they think they won't be able to afford it otherwise. But I just cannot burden friends with the responsibility of buying a SOFA. And I just cannot fathom sharing a marriage bed that someone else has bought. That's just weird. I will scrimp and scrounge and buy my own damn couch, thank you.
6. I will only register for things that we absolutely need to start a home (a small home, please). That means no wine tower. No four sets of bed sheets in four different colors. No three sets of bath towel in three different colors. No four different sets of dinnerware. No 10-setting placemats and napkins in three different styles. No three different sets of 13-piece Calphalon pots and pans. No two of the same iron from two different places. No eight different spatulas. No three different colanders. No two upright vacuums. No three different toaster ovens. No mini-3.6-cubic foot refrigerator. No Conair Ultra Massaging Foot Spa. No cute little trendy kitchen/house toys that we will have just to have and will look pretty but serve no other useful purpose: lobster pots, tortilla warmer, pizza spatulas, pizza cutters, butter warmers, "sushi-to-go" kits, hurricane lamps, stainless steel chargers, vermouth spritzers, and the like.**
7. I will not register for stupid things that we can purchase for ourselves: wastebaskets, Swiss Army knives, flashlights, shavers, decorative pillows, bathroom accessories, chip clips, doormats.**
8. I will not get carried away with that little registry gun. It is not a toy. Guns are dangerous.
I'm sure there are more things I could snipe about, but perhaps I'm just being ungenerous. After all, I never know when I'm going to be frying eight different things at the same time, and thus will need eight different spatulas.
**No joke. All this stuff is really on the registry/ies. I'd like to point out my absolute favorites: (a) the tortilla warmer. What is UP with the tortilla warmer?! These people are Korean, for crying out loud. How often could they POSSIBLY be eating tortillas?! (b) the Conair Foot Spa. Please. (c) the chip clips. Who registers for CHIP CLIPS?! (d) the mini-fridge. I don't understand THAT at all.
Monday, July 14
FATHERLY ADVICE . . .
Wisdom from John Adams' hand itself:
"Daughter! Get you an honest man for a husband, and keep him honest. No matter whether he is rich, provided he be independent. Regard the honor and moral character of the man more than all other circumstances. Think of no other greatness but that of the soul, no other riches but those of the heart. An honest, sensible, humane man, above all the littleness of vanity and extravagances of imagination, laboring to do good rather than be rich, to be useful rather than make a show, living modest simplicity clearly within his means and free from debts and obligations, is really the most respectable man in society, makes himself and all about him most happy."
- in a letter of John Adams, to his daughter Abigail,
offering advice on choosing a husband
Wisdom from John Adams' hand itself:
"Daughter! Get you an honest man for a husband, and keep him honest. No matter whether he is rich, provided he be independent. Regard the honor and moral character of the man more than all other circumstances. Think of no other greatness but that of the soul, no other riches but those of the heart. An honest, sensible, humane man, above all the littleness of vanity and extravagances of imagination, laboring to do good rather than be rich, to be useful rather than make a show, living modest simplicity clearly within his means and free from debts and obligations, is really the most respectable man in society, makes himself and all about him most happy."
offering advice on choosing a husband
MOTHERLY ADVICE . . .
From David McCullough's John Adams:
"These are the times in which a genius would wish to live. It is not in the still calm of life, or the repose of a pacific station, that great characters are formed. The habits of a vigorous mind are formed in contending with difficulties. Great necessities call out great virtues. When a mind is raised, and animated by scenes that engage the heart, then those qualities which would otherwise lay dormant, wake into life and form the character of the hero and the statesman."
- in a letter of Abigail Adams, to her son John Quincy,
on the occasion of his second trip to France in 1777
From David McCullough's John Adams:
"These are the times in which a genius would wish to live. It is not in the still calm of life, or the repose of a pacific station, that great characters are formed. The habits of a vigorous mind are formed in contending with difficulties. Great necessities call out great virtues. When a mind is raised, and animated by scenes that engage the heart, then those qualities which would otherwise lay dormant, wake into life and form the character of the hero and the statesman."
on the occasion of his second trip to France in 1777