TODAY'S OBSERVATION OF HUMANITY . . .
Despite conventional wisdom, it occurs to me that men are just as good at leading women on as women are reputed to lead men on. It occurs to me that it doesn't matter the man's vocation, his age, his maturity, his outward behavior. It also occurs to me that perhaps men know exactly what they're doing, and do it anyway. That's just not right.
***
TODAY'S OBSERVATION OF MYSELF . . .
Sometimes, I wonder how much I interfere with the fulfillment of my own destiny. I wonder, what could I have accomplished, what desires of my heart could I already have realized, what people could I have loved and what pain could I have let go of if I had been bold and made the first move? I see people around me being apparently shameless, being apparently bold and adventurous, being apparently innocently unafraid, and I am equally appalled at their shamelessness and envious of their courage. I wish I could say what I wanted to say. I wish I could invite the company of people. I wish I could wash my hands of those who waste my time. I wish I could just take a step out on the plank, and not be so filled with trepidation about how wide or long the plank is.
I think I anticipate too much, and I just want everything to be perfect. I don't want to hurt people's feelings, I don't want to push people away, I don't want to get all up in someone's grille, I don't want to overstep my bounds. But as a result, perhaps I retreat too much? Perhaps I let my inherent shyness and fear dictate too much of my behavior. I sit by and let someone else live the exciting fulfilling life that I envy. I don't just reach out and grab it like he or she does. I don't trust that people will be honest with me if I'm being pushy, and I dread the possibility of hearing that truth.
And I think the worst part is this: I'll sit idly by and make excuses for myself by saying, "God will take care of this for me." I don't subscribe to the school of 'God helps those who help themselves.' No, in my life, it has always been true that God and only God helps me and sustains me; I'm useless to Him when it comes to running my life. But even so, I find myself using Him in the worst way, as a crutch for the circumstances in my life. I don't have that soul-satisfying public interest job: is it because I assume I don't have the entrepreneurial spirit to delve into it? Right, so I'll wait for God to create that spirit in me before I even make a go for it. I'm not married to the man of my dreams: is it because I assume he'll come to me instead of me going to him? Right, so I'll wait for God to point him in my direction. I go for weeks and weeks not having a single evening to myself: is it because I don't want to say no to all my friends and loved ones and risk being left out of the loop or hurting someone's feelings? Right, so I'll run myself ragged and ill and hope that God will heal me soon.
The thing is, God ain't my garbageman. He always does, and is always willing to, clean up my messes, but that is not what He is in my life for; that is not why He is God, my God. So why do I treat Him like one? And why do I underestimate myself and limit myself, glancing jealously out of the corner of my eye at those who have everything I apparently want, while saying, "God, how come you didn't get that for me?
Friday, May 20
STICK A FORK IN ME . . .
I'm done.
What a long week this has been, and I need a nap.
But first ...
What is your favorite topping on...
1. ...Ice cream? Soft chocolate crumbly things, like the kind you get between the layers of a Carvel ice cream cake.
2. ... Pizza? Spinach, extra salt and red pepper flakes.
3. ...Steak? Nuthin' but that cocktail sauce-y steak sauce from Peter Luger or Flames.
4. ...Salad? Two humongous seared sea scallops.
5. ...Yourself? Index: Pear Cassis by Fresh.
***
SACRILEGE! . . .
Is it alright that I just entitled an article for our church's newsletter: "When You Have a Spiritual Booger, You Can't Help But Pick It"?
I'm done.
What a long week this has been, and I need a nap.
But first ...
What is your favorite topping on...
1. ...Ice cream? Soft chocolate crumbly things, like the kind you get between the layers of a Carvel ice cream cake.
2. ... Pizza? Spinach, extra salt and red pepper flakes.
3. ...Steak? Nuthin' but that cocktail sauce-y steak sauce from Peter Luger or Flames.
4. ...Salad? Two humongous seared sea scallops.
5. ...Yourself? Index: Pear Cassis by Fresh.
***
SACRILEGE! . . .
Is it alright that I just entitled an article for our church's newsletter: "When You Have a Spiritual Booger, You Can't Help But Pick It"?
Thursday, May 19
NO, THE OTHER ME . . .
Have you ever wanted to do something crazy -- I mean, really wacky, nutso, impossible, only in your dreams crazy -- no matter what the consequences? I'm talkin' streak-buck-naked-down-the-street, punch-that-person-in-the-face, lean-over-and-give-him-a-kiss-in-front-of-everyone, free-fall-out-of-a-plane, say-everything-you've-ever-wanted-to-say, throw-things-out-a-window-just-to-hear-the-crash crazy.
Oh, yeah.
Imagine the possibilities.
***
IT'S THAT KIND OF DAY . . .
When everything is surreal, when the edges of the world are kind of blurry, when toilet paper bits in the bottom of the tank appear to lie in the shape of an apple pie, when time seems to be moving backwards and you could have sworn it was 3:52 p.m. half an hour ago, when memories seem like they never happened, when dreams seem like reality, and when you have Christmas songs like "For Unto Us a Child is Born," from "The Messiah," running through your head.
For unto us a child is born, unto us a Son is given, and the government shall be upon His shoulder; and His name shall be called Wonderful Counsellor, the Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.
***
HOW OLD AM I? . . .
So, I know this attorney who's slightly uptight, even as far as uptight attorneys usually go. He's nice enough and funny enough, and certainly quite bright and capable (which, sadly, is more than can be said for most in our trade), but very proper and efficient and ... well, uptight. He got married a few weeks back, and I had an occasion to encounter him soon after his return to work from his honeymoon. He was still uptight. So, naturally, Hooch and I had a great giggle over this, for reasons which shall remain not spelled out in vulgar terms.
Earlier today, I had the occasion to speak with him again, and he was NOT uptight. He was charming and gracious and effervescent and effusive and cheerful and loose. And of course, my first, my immediate, my only thought was: Oh good, he's gettin' some.
Oh, my gutter-brain knows no bounds.
Have you ever wanted to do something crazy -- I mean, really wacky, nutso, impossible, only in your dreams crazy -- no matter what the consequences? I'm talkin' streak-buck-naked-down-the-street, punch-that-person-in-the-face, lean-over-and-give-him-a-kiss-in-front-of-everyone, free-fall-out-of-a-plane, say-everything-you've-ever-wanted-to-say, throw-things-out-a-window-just-to-hear-the-crash crazy.
Oh, yeah.
Imagine the possibilities.
***
IT'S THAT KIND OF DAY . . .
When everything is surreal, when the edges of the world are kind of blurry, when toilet paper bits in the bottom of the tank appear to lie in the shape of an apple pie, when time seems to be moving backwards and you could have sworn it was 3:52 p.m. half an hour ago, when memories seem like they never happened, when dreams seem like reality, and when you have Christmas songs like "For Unto Us a Child is Born," from "The Messiah," running through your head.
For unto us a child is born, unto us a Son is given, and the government shall be upon His shoulder; and His name shall be called Wonderful Counsellor, the Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.
***
HOW OLD AM I? . . .
So, I know this attorney who's slightly uptight, even as far as uptight attorneys usually go. He's nice enough and funny enough, and certainly quite bright and capable (which, sadly, is more than can be said for most in our trade), but very proper and efficient and ... well, uptight. He got married a few weeks back, and I had an occasion to encounter him soon after his return to work from his honeymoon. He was still uptight. So, naturally, Hooch and I had a great giggle over this, for reasons which shall remain not spelled out in vulgar terms.
Earlier today, I had the occasion to speak with him again, and he was NOT uptight. He was charming and gracious and effervescent and effusive and cheerful and loose. And of course, my first, my immediate, my only thought was: Oh good, he's gettin' some.
Oh, my gutter-brain knows no bounds.
NOT YOUR MAMA'S ROCK N' ROLL . . .
U2 at the Continental Arena: it could have been everything I've ever dreamed of, and more. But as far as dreams go, I'd have to classify it as one of those fillers that come between the first and second memorable dreams one has at night.
Not that it wasn't full of its share of good times. They played all my new favorites from the latest album: "City of Blinding Lights," "Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own," "All Because of You," and my favorite of favorites, "Yahweh." They busted out some tunes that transported me back to my good ol' college days: "One," "Mysterious Ways" and "Zoo Station." They threw out some amazing and pleasantly dizzying lights on "Beautiful Day" and "Vertigo." They took me back to my earliest U2 days (still not early enough for some, I know) with: "Sunday Bloody Sunday," "Bullet the Blue Sky" and "Pride in the Name of Love." They even tossed in a snippet of a song so close to my heart, the Beatles' "Blackbird," that nearly brought tears to my eyes. And easily, one of the highlights was seeing a local garage band, The Bank Robbers, be pulled up out of the audience and invited onto the stage to play "I Still Haven't Found (What I'm Looking For)". They were pretty damn good, as far as local garage bands go, and the vicarious thrill I felt was totally worth it. To play The Edge's guitar. To share a mike with Bono. To have your voices recorded for all posterity in U2's little computers. In the words of Napoleon Dynamite, that's incredible.
But. BUT. Big, big, big BUT.
They just weren't dirty enough for me.
Check that. Bono wasn't dirty enough for me. As I explained to PEd, having never seen U2 in concert before, I was mentally stuck in the 1980s-early 1990s, when U2 was gritty, rock-n-roll, grubby, soulful. When their music had me cranking down my car windows to sing out at the top of my lungs until my voice cracked and polyps formed on my vocal chords. When the guitar riffs had me stomping my feet and slapping my thighs and shaking my head back and forth to the rhythm. When the blood, sweat and tears coming forth from their voices pooled at their feet, soaking the soles of their shoes. U2 defined high school and college for me, and that's all I wanted to see.
Instead, I got United-Nations-I-hang-with-Nelson-Mandela-and-was-nominated-for-a-Nobel-Peace-Prize-and-wear-slick-shades-and-run-a-major-charitable-organization Bono. I got I-have-serious-political-opinions-and-I-want-you-to-know-them-so-I'm-going-to-run-propaganda-on-the-screen-behind-me Bono. I got I-know-you-guys-love-these-old-songs-so-I'll-sing-them-for-you-but-I-won't-really-enjoy-it Bono. I got you-should-buy-an-iPod-because-I-help-advertise-them Bono. I think I've got serious issues with Bono even though I'm sure he's a very nice person and his heart is in the right place. But for now, the only thing that truly charms me about him is his Irish accent.
I'm all about artists expressing themselves in a public forum. I'm also all about political awareness. I'm all about stopping hunger and promoting peace. I'm all about the International Declaration of Human Rights. I'm all about all sorts of good things, and I'm glad that someone as high-profile, as adored and admired, and yes, even idolized, as Bono, is spearheading efforts to spread all these good things and to make excellent changes in humanity as we know it. I just like to compartmentalize, to Container-Store my life, and when I go to hear good music, that's all I want. That's what I got with John Mayer and Missy Elliott and Alicia Keys and even Beyonce. Propaganda and preaching tainted my first and only Madonna experience, and the non-compartmentalization taint reached into my first and only U2 experience. Sigh and sniff, sniff.
Thank goodness for The Edge. He still rocked out. I love him and his bald head and his little beanie and his neat goatee and his stomping his feet and his slapping on his guitar. He saved the show.
Also, thank goodness for encores, for oddly, that's when U2 hit its stride. That's when U2 as I know them busted out and started rockin' and rollin' and performing for the joy of the music, not for the joy of campaigning. That's when I boogied down without feeling emotionally manipulated and let my feet do the stomping. That's when I went wild and my insides trembled with the reality that I WAS SEEING U2 IN CONCERT. Awesome.
U2 at the Continental Arena: it could have been everything I've ever dreamed of, and more. But as far as dreams go, I'd have to classify it as one of those fillers that come between the first and second memorable dreams one has at night.
Not that it wasn't full of its share of good times. They played all my new favorites from the latest album: "City of Blinding Lights," "Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own," "All Because of You," and my favorite of favorites, "Yahweh." They busted out some tunes that transported me back to my good ol' college days: "One," "Mysterious Ways" and "Zoo Station." They threw out some amazing and pleasantly dizzying lights on "Beautiful Day" and "Vertigo." They took me back to my earliest U2 days (still not early enough for some, I know) with: "Sunday Bloody Sunday," "Bullet the Blue Sky" and "Pride in the Name of Love." They even tossed in a snippet of a song so close to my heart, the Beatles' "Blackbird," that nearly brought tears to my eyes. And easily, one of the highlights was seeing a local garage band, The Bank Robbers, be pulled up out of the audience and invited onto the stage to play "I Still Haven't Found (What I'm Looking For)". They were pretty damn good, as far as local garage bands go, and the vicarious thrill I felt was totally worth it. To play The Edge's guitar. To share a mike with Bono. To have your voices recorded for all posterity in U2's little computers. In the words of Napoleon Dynamite, that's incredible.
But. BUT. Big, big, big BUT.
They just weren't dirty enough for me.
Check that. Bono wasn't dirty enough for me. As I explained to PEd, having never seen U2 in concert before, I was mentally stuck in the 1980s-early 1990s, when U2 was gritty, rock-n-roll, grubby, soulful. When their music had me cranking down my car windows to sing out at the top of my lungs until my voice cracked and polyps formed on my vocal chords. When the guitar riffs had me stomping my feet and slapping my thighs and shaking my head back and forth to the rhythm. When the blood, sweat and tears coming forth from their voices pooled at their feet, soaking the soles of their shoes. U2 defined high school and college for me, and that's all I wanted to see.
Instead, I got United-Nations-I-hang-with-Nelson-Mandela-and-was-nominated-for-a-Nobel-Peace-Prize-and-wear-slick-shades-and-run-a-major-charitable-organization Bono. I got I-have-serious-political-opinions-and-I-want-you-to-know-them-so-I'm-going-to-run-propaganda-on-the-screen-behind-me Bono. I got I-know-you-guys-love-these-old-songs-so-I'll-sing-them-for-you-but-I-won't-really-enjoy-it Bono. I got you-should-buy-an-iPod-because-I-help-advertise-them Bono. I think I've got serious issues with Bono even though I'm sure he's a very nice person and his heart is in the right place. But for now, the only thing that truly charms me about him is his Irish accent.
I'm all about artists expressing themselves in a public forum. I'm also all about political awareness. I'm all about stopping hunger and promoting peace. I'm all about the International Declaration of Human Rights. I'm all about all sorts of good things, and I'm glad that someone as high-profile, as adored and admired, and yes, even idolized, as Bono, is spearheading efforts to spread all these good things and to make excellent changes in humanity as we know it. I just like to compartmentalize, to Container-Store my life, and when I go to hear good music, that's all I want. That's what I got with John Mayer and Missy Elliott and Alicia Keys and even Beyonce. Propaganda and preaching tainted my first and only Madonna experience, and the non-compartmentalization taint reached into my first and only U2 experience. Sigh and sniff, sniff.
Thank goodness for The Edge. He still rocked out. I love him and his bald head and his little beanie and his neat goatee and his stomping his feet and his slapping on his guitar. He saved the show.
Also, thank goodness for encores, for oddly, that's when U2 hit its stride. That's when U2 as I know them busted out and started rockin' and rollin' and performing for the joy of the music, not for the joy of campaigning. That's when I boogied down without feeling emotionally manipulated and let my feet do the stomping. That's when I went wild and my insides trembled with the reality that I WAS SEEING U2 IN CONCERT. Awesome.
Monday, May 16
HAPPILY EVER AFTER . . .
I have an extremely vivid and well-rounded dream life. In the span of the last twenty-nine and a half years, I have probably dreamt everything there is to dream. I have dreamt in black-and-white, Technicolor, muted shades, and through the lenses of various color filters. I have spoken Russian, French, Spanish, Korean and English in my dreams. I have been alive and dead and killed and buried alive and resurrected. I have dreamt my own birth (albeit in another country) and watched my own funeral (while sitting on top of a playground slide, no less). I have fought the recurring nightmare and continued warm-and-fuzzy dreams from the night before. One time, I enjoyed a storyline so much, I dreamt a series of episodes in the same vein six nights in a row. I have heard God speak to me in my dreams, and I have seen Him help me run from Satan in my dreams, once even lifting me up and putting me on the back of a pigeon -- A PIGEON! -- to rescue me.
But until Friday night, I have never dreamt that I got married.
Friday night, I had the most wonderful, warm, curiously happy dream, where I married a man I didn't even know I loved until the vows had been spoken and the deal sealed with a kiss. In the moment of the kiss -- a very short, dry-lipped, no-body-parts-touching-except-for-the-lips kiss -- I knew that my life was complete and that I was exactly where I was supposed to be, with the person with whom I was supposed to be.
The strange thing is ... the wedding itself was less than ideal. When I imagine now what I would like for my wedding later, all sorts of plans come to mind. The music, the colors, the food, the guests, the service ... all of it is planned in bits and pieces in my head. I just need a cooperative groom, to tell the truth. But Friday night's dream wedding was nothing like that which I would have asked for. The service was over before it began, and only immediate family and very very close friends were in attendance. There was no reception, for my husband had to return to his work immediately, and had no time for a three-hour party, or even a post-ceremony meal. In fact, I think the few guests went out to eat by themselves! We changed out of our wedding finery into casual work clothes, and I embarked on my life with my new husband, walking shyly behind him as he returned to his work, being introduced by him to his coworkers and friends. I knew I had but one or two days to accustom myself to his life before I had to start helping him, but my heart of hearts was so, so, so happy at this prospect. And this less-than-ideal wedding fulfilled me more than anything else in my life thus far. I felt not a touch of disappointment or dissatisfaction; heck, I wasn't even hungry.
The other strange thing is ... I felt like my husband and I barely knew each other before the wedding, at least not in the "you're my best friend and I know everything about you and vice versa" way that seems ideal before one gets married. I don't think the marriage was arranged, for I felt immense affection -- akin to a lifelong crush, perhaps? -- and a good deal of familiarity with him, and he with me, as if we were great friends. Not a touch of reluctance anywhere. But nothing in my dream self -- or in my real self, upon waking -- prepared me for the overwhelming, all-consuming love I felt for him after the wedding. This feeling flooded me, to stay permanently I know, the moment we changed into our regular clothes, and I started to watch him work, giving his kind and generous self to everyone around him, not even showing a spot of weariness after our busy morning, gently taking my hand to lead me around with him, placing a hand on the small of my back even as he was talking business with others, catching my eye every now and then to shoot me a quick grin. Knowing, in my dream, that I had given up so much to be with this man, I felt nothing but hope and soul-infusing happiness and contentment, and more love than I had ever felt for any human being before, in my dreams or in real life.
And the best part is, the feeling lasted allllllll weekend. Dream wedding, indeed ...
The only hitch to this dream was keeping this overwhelming love to myself. I knew that I had never told my husband that I loved him, and I knew I had never heard it from his lips to my ears. Perhaps we never expected to say it to each other, to feel it enough to say it; we just knew we could share a life together, so we decided to do so. Thus, the only frustrating and torturous part of the day was walking around with him, knowing that I could honestly and truly and whole-heartedly express my firm, deep love to him ... and not being able to do so until the end of the long day, when his work was done, and we might be able to spend some time alone together. That, and wondering if he did or ever would feel the same towards me ...
I have an extremely vivid and well-rounded dream life. In the span of the last twenty-nine and a half years, I have probably dreamt everything there is to dream. I have dreamt in black-and-white, Technicolor, muted shades, and through the lenses of various color filters. I have spoken Russian, French, Spanish, Korean and English in my dreams. I have been alive and dead and killed and buried alive and resurrected. I have dreamt my own birth (albeit in another country) and watched my own funeral (while sitting on top of a playground slide, no less). I have fought the recurring nightmare and continued warm-and-fuzzy dreams from the night before. One time, I enjoyed a storyline so much, I dreamt a series of episodes in the same vein six nights in a row. I have heard God speak to me in my dreams, and I have seen Him help me run from Satan in my dreams, once even lifting me up and putting me on the back of a pigeon -- A PIGEON! -- to rescue me.
But until Friday night, I have never dreamt that I got married.
Friday night, I had the most wonderful, warm, curiously happy dream, where I married a man I didn't even know I loved until the vows had been spoken and the deal sealed with a kiss. In the moment of the kiss -- a very short, dry-lipped, no-body-parts-touching-except-for-the-lips kiss -- I knew that my life was complete and that I was exactly where I was supposed to be, with the person with whom I was supposed to be.
The strange thing is ... the wedding itself was less than ideal. When I imagine now what I would like for my wedding later, all sorts of plans come to mind. The music, the colors, the food, the guests, the service ... all of it is planned in bits and pieces in my head. I just need a cooperative groom, to tell the truth. But Friday night's dream wedding was nothing like that which I would have asked for. The service was over before it began, and only immediate family and very very close friends were in attendance. There was no reception, for my husband had to return to his work immediately, and had no time for a three-hour party, or even a post-ceremony meal. In fact, I think the few guests went out to eat by themselves! We changed out of our wedding finery into casual work clothes, and I embarked on my life with my new husband, walking shyly behind him as he returned to his work, being introduced by him to his coworkers and friends. I knew I had but one or two days to accustom myself to his life before I had to start helping him, but my heart of hearts was so, so, so happy at this prospect. And this less-than-ideal wedding fulfilled me more than anything else in my life thus far. I felt not a touch of disappointment or dissatisfaction; heck, I wasn't even hungry.
The other strange thing is ... I felt like my husband and I barely knew each other before the wedding, at least not in the "you're my best friend and I know everything about you and vice versa" way that seems ideal before one gets married. I don't think the marriage was arranged, for I felt immense affection -- akin to a lifelong crush, perhaps? -- and a good deal of familiarity with him, and he with me, as if we were great friends. Not a touch of reluctance anywhere. But nothing in my dream self -- or in my real self, upon waking -- prepared me for the overwhelming, all-consuming love I felt for him after the wedding. This feeling flooded me, to stay permanently I know, the moment we changed into our regular clothes, and I started to watch him work, giving his kind and generous self to everyone around him, not even showing a spot of weariness after our busy morning, gently taking my hand to lead me around with him, placing a hand on the small of my back even as he was talking business with others, catching my eye every now and then to shoot me a quick grin. Knowing, in my dream, that I had given up so much to be with this man, I felt nothing but hope and soul-infusing happiness and contentment, and more love than I had ever felt for any human being before, in my dreams or in real life.
And the best part is, the feeling lasted allllllll weekend. Dream wedding, indeed ...
The only hitch to this dream was keeping this overwhelming love to myself. I knew that I had never told my husband that I loved him, and I knew I had never heard it from his lips to my ears. Perhaps we never expected to say it to each other, to feel it enough to say it; we just knew we could share a life together, so we decided to do so. Thus, the only frustrating and torturous part of the day was walking around with him, knowing that I could honestly and truly and whole-heartedly express my firm, deep love to him ... and not being able to do so until the end of the long day, when his work was done, and we might be able to spend some time alone together. That, and wondering if he did or ever would feel the same towards me ...
Friday, May 13
WOW . . .
Omigosh, I'm on time today for Friday Favorites. Will wonders never cease.
What is your favorite...
1. ...Superstition and why? Never stick utensils straight up and down into a bowl/plate of food. Back in the Motherland, when it comes time to honor your dead forefathers, you go to the gravesite (or even at home during the yearly family gathering) and set out a gourmet feast on the ground. You stick the utensils -- chopsticks and spoons -- into the food vertically, because, as everyone knows, dead spirits can't grab utensils which are lying flat on the ground, and if they can't grab the utensils, they can't eat, and no one wants to deal with the hungry and therefore unhappy spirit of a dead forefather. This is a purely Buddhist ritual, and as a Western Christian, it's utterly ridiculous (and probably sacrilegious) for me to abide by it, I suppose, but something about the purity of this superstition touches me. The moments where I glimpse serving utensils stuck vertically into food and I surreptitiously take them out to lay them alongside the food instead, allow me moments to think upon my own ancestors and consider how I might honor them and their legacy, bestowed unto me through my parents and extended family.
2. ...Horror movie (Friday the 13th, Halloween, etc.)? I can't say I'm a big fan -- did I ever tell you about the time that I caught glimpses of "Poltergeist," the scene where the little girl looks into the television screen that's all fuzzy and snowy and the television talks to her? To this day, I can't stand it when a television goes haywire and becomes snowy -- I simply won't look at it, and if I can, I'll walk out of the room. Or do you know about the time I watched part of "Nightmare on Elm Street," the scene where the girl is taking a shower and Freddy comes out of the shower stall wall with his knife-fingers and claws her back up? To this day, I'll try to keep my eyes open as long as possible in the shower so I can make a quick run for it should anything like that happen to me. And I definitely don't do well with horror flicks that delve into the spiritual realm -- I totally refuse to watch "The Exorcist," and after seeing "Fallen," I didn't touch another human being for days. Psychological trauma does not become me.
3. ...Spoof of a horror movie? The entire "Scream" series. No, I didn't enjoy the bad guy always popping back up or the creepy music or the dark corners or the something-bad-is-going-to-happen camera shots. But the hysterical one-liners and hot Skeet Ulrich made them worth it.
4. ...Urban Legend? The one where the college student is studying with friends and realizes she needs something from her room. The only problem is, her roommate is sleeping. As the student doesn't want to disturb her sleeping roommate, she quietly enters their room, does NOT turn on the light, manages to grab what she needs and leaves the room without waking her roommate. The student falls asleep while studying with her friends, and returns to her room the next morning. Upon opening the door, she finds her roommate slashed to death in bed, and written upon the wall in blood, "AREN'T YOU GLAD YOU DIDN'T TURN THE LIGHTS ON LAST NIGHT?" SHIVER.
5. ...Old wives tale? All roads lead to "keep your stomach and innards warm no matter what, or you'll never be able to have children." As a result (I think), I don't really enjoy ingesting large quantities of ice cream; I try to avoid sitting on cold surfaces, like a rock in the outdoors or a marble floor indoors; I cover my stomach with my hands after I eat to keep it warm while it does its digestive work; and even in the hottest heat of summer, I won't sleep unless I have a corner of a very heavy blanket covering my torso.
Omigosh, I'm on time today for Friday Favorites. Will wonders never cease.
What is your favorite...
1. ...Superstition and why? Never stick utensils straight up and down into a bowl/plate of food. Back in the Motherland, when it comes time to honor your dead forefathers, you go to the gravesite (or even at home during the yearly family gathering) and set out a gourmet feast on the ground. You stick the utensils -- chopsticks and spoons -- into the food vertically, because, as everyone knows, dead spirits can't grab utensils which are lying flat on the ground, and if they can't grab the utensils, they can't eat, and no one wants to deal with the hungry and therefore unhappy spirit of a dead forefather. This is a purely Buddhist ritual, and as a Western Christian, it's utterly ridiculous (and probably sacrilegious) for me to abide by it, I suppose, but something about the purity of this superstition touches me. The moments where I glimpse serving utensils stuck vertically into food and I surreptitiously take them out to lay them alongside the food instead, allow me moments to think upon my own ancestors and consider how I might honor them and their legacy, bestowed unto me through my parents and extended family.
2. ...Horror movie (Friday the 13th, Halloween, etc.)? I can't say I'm a big fan -- did I ever tell you about the time that I caught glimpses of "Poltergeist," the scene where the little girl looks into the television screen that's all fuzzy and snowy and the television talks to her? To this day, I can't stand it when a television goes haywire and becomes snowy -- I simply won't look at it, and if I can, I'll walk out of the room. Or do you know about the time I watched part of "Nightmare on Elm Street," the scene where the girl is taking a shower and Freddy comes out of the shower stall wall with his knife-fingers and claws her back up? To this day, I'll try to keep my eyes open as long as possible in the shower so I can make a quick run for it should anything like that happen to me. And I definitely don't do well with horror flicks that delve into the spiritual realm -- I totally refuse to watch "The Exorcist," and after seeing "Fallen," I didn't touch another human being for days. Psychological trauma does not become me.
3. ...Spoof of a horror movie? The entire "Scream" series. No, I didn't enjoy the bad guy always popping back up or the creepy music or the dark corners or the something-bad-is-going-to-happen camera shots. But the hysterical one-liners and hot Skeet Ulrich made them worth it.
4. ...Urban Legend? The one where the college student is studying with friends and realizes she needs something from her room. The only problem is, her roommate is sleeping. As the student doesn't want to disturb her sleeping roommate, she quietly enters their room, does NOT turn on the light, manages to grab what she needs and leaves the room without waking her roommate. The student falls asleep while studying with her friends, and returns to her room the next morning. Upon opening the door, she finds her roommate slashed to death in bed, and written upon the wall in blood, "AREN'T YOU GLAD YOU DIDN'T TURN THE LIGHTS ON LAST NIGHT?" SHIVER.
5. ...Old wives tale? All roads lead to "keep your stomach and innards warm no matter what, or you'll never be able to have children." As a result (I think), I don't really enjoy ingesting large quantities of ice cream; I try to avoid sitting on cold surfaces, like a rock in the outdoors or a marble floor indoors; I cover my stomach with my hands after I eat to keep it warm while it does its digestive work; and even in the hottest heat of summer, I won't sleep unless I have a corner of a very heavy blanket covering my torso.
Thursday, May 12
WHAT'S THAT STINK? . . .
Oh, it's me. Pardon me, I just took an hour-long spin class and managed not to die.
AND I LOVED IT. Don't listen to me when I say I'm a wimp and try to convince you that I can't handle something. Tell me to shut up and just do it.
Of course, this confidence did not develop without my fair share of sheer idiocy. Like the fact that I couldn't get my feet into the stirrups (no woman really enjoys putting her feet in stirrups) for like five minutes. But that is really so, so minor compared to the fact that it took me half the class to figure out how to pedal with my butt off the saddle without looking like a complete jackass. Seriously, I don't know what the problem was -- everyone else was doing it, so what the heck was up with me? I couldn't manage my weight distribution and I kept locking my knees straight on the down-pedal. This is painful -- I wouldn't recommend that (bad) technique to anyone. And so I kept jerking around like a mentally-impaired marionette on twisted plastic strings. And yes, once, I almost DID launch myself off the bike, for my left foot slipped out of the stirrup (grrr, I shudder at the word, even), and caught myself only at the last second, sitting back on the saddle to catch my breath and pat myself on the back for escaping death yet again.
Clearly, no matter what a powerhouse I think I am, the bottom line is, I'm still a super-klutz. So, naturally, a mere eight minutes into the class, as I'm trying to figure out how to stand and pedal at the same time with launching myself off the (stationary) bike, I'm flailing around attempting to distribute my weight in an accurate and not stupid manner to make my stand-up-pedalling smoother. And in a vain effort to restart myself and resdistribute my weight, I knock my knee into the resistance crank in the center of the bike. And naturally, I give myself a whomper of a bruise, bloody, scratchy spots and all. It's hard as a rock now, and the big bump jutting out of the side of my knee is painful to boot -- so much that it hurts to have clothing touch it, and I might have to sleep with a leg sticking out of the covers tonight. Sigh. You can put the klutz in tight bike shorts and make her sweat and give her thighs of steel, but at the end of the day, she's still a klutz, with the injuries to prove it.
But then, I had a sweaty epiphany: standing and pedalling is hard when the resistance is easy. DOI. So I cranked up the bike, pedalled to the beat, leaned forward with a fierce gritted grin on my face, ignored the throbbing pain from my crank-bruise, bent my elbows, stared at the sweat spot on the back of the lady in front of me, imagined I was going to make her eat my dust, and stood up. WORD. Down, up, down, up. Push, pull, push, pull. Slow and steady, ain't no one I need to keep up with. Plus, I didn't want to puke from over-exertion.
Now, this is not to say that I was any kind of Lance Armstrong. Please, get real. And it took me a while to build up anything even remotely resembling endurance. But, oddly, towards the end of the class, the strength really kicked in. I heard C's voice in my head urging "go, go, keep GOing." I saw Papi next to me sweatin' like his life depended on it. I saw DYC with all his tree-branch wounds in front of me and determined to catch up. And of course, I saw our instructor, her bike probably pumped up to the max, barely damp, hip-hop dancing on her bike and singing along to all the songs in full voice, yelling at me, "lookin' good! Lookin' GOOOOOOOOOD! Boo-yeah!" And so I kept going, standing, sitting, standing, sitting, increasing and increasing and increasing the crank, ignoring my burning lungs, my weakening thighs, the sweat dropping off my chin in steady rivulets of salt and water, the prodigiously annoying college kid next to me loudly heckling his friend who was using a bike halfway across the room!
I could barely get off the bike at the end. Papi had a good chuckle at me stuck half-on and half-off as the rest of the class prepared to stretch next to their machines. When I leaned over to stretch my quads, my knees locked and I couldn't unlock them. But a good stretch, a quick cold rinse of the face, and a sideways glance at myself in the locker room mirror and I felt like a meathead, wanting to pose and stare at myself and go, "GRRRRRR. YOU'RE A MONSTER, BABY."
And of course, there's one more story before I leave the gym. It's the one where I walk down the stairs to get to the exit door and my wobbly thighs start to give out. Then they give out completely, and I cling to the railing, willing my body to stop being so wimpy. Then a man going up the stairs happens to be right there and he catches me before I fall to the ground and down the steps. "Are you alright?" he asks. I look pathetically up at him, feeling much like Westley in "The Princess Bride" after he's had seventy years of life sucked out of him, and simply state, "my first spin class ever." The man nods in understanding and throws his mouth wide open for an "aaaaaah. Gotcha." I smirk at myself as I start to straighten up. "Do you need me to carry you down the rest of the way?" the man asks. "Nah, I can manage," as I wave him off. A short chuckle shared, and I slowly proceed to the exit, walking kind of bow-legged to ease the pressure on my thigh muscles.
Three hours later, I'm still alive. My lungs are still protesting a bit, and I just ate an ice cream sandwich (which, I truly believe, only replenished a mere quarter of the calories I burned today). I'm all clean and not stinky anymore. I'm full and shortly will be sleepy. I'm totally satisfied and proud and loving the sensation of my muscles still feeling hot to the touch.
I'M A MONSTER, BABY.
Post-script: exercising my lungs as much as I did today did wonders for my singing capabilities. I was Bono on the car ride home. Check it.
Oh, it's me. Pardon me, I just took an hour-long spin class and managed not to die.
AND I LOVED IT. Don't listen to me when I say I'm a wimp and try to convince you that I can't handle something. Tell me to shut up and just do it.
Of course, this confidence did not develop without my fair share of sheer idiocy. Like the fact that I couldn't get my feet into the stirrups (no woman really enjoys putting her feet in stirrups) for like five minutes. But that is really so, so minor compared to the fact that it took me half the class to figure out how to pedal with my butt off the saddle without looking like a complete jackass. Seriously, I don't know what the problem was -- everyone else was doing it, so what the heck was up with me? I couldn't manage my weight distribution and I kept locking my knees straight on the down-pedal. This is painful -- I wouldn't recommend that (bad) technique to anyone. And so I kept jerking around like a mentally-impaired marionette on twisted plastic strings. And yes, once, I almost DID launch myself off the bike, for my left foot slipped out of the stirrup (grrr, I shudder at the word, even), and caught myself only at the last second, sitting back on the saddle to catch my breath and pat myself on the back for escaping death yet again.
Clearly, no matter what a powerhouse I think I am, the bottom line is, I'm still a super-klutz. So, naturally, a mere eight minutes into the class, as I'm trying to figure out how to stand and pedal at the same time with launching myself off the (stationary) bike, I'm flailing around attempting to distribute my weight in an accurate and not stupid manner to make my stand-up-pedalling smoother. And in a vain effort to restart myself and resdistribute my weight, I knock my knee into the resistance crank in the center of the bike. And naturally, I give myself a whomper of a bruise, bloody, scratchy spots and all. It's hard as a rock now, and the big bump jutting out of the side of my knee is painful to boot -- so much that it hurts to have clothing touch it, and I might have to sleep with a leg sticking out of the covers tonight. Sigh. You can put the klutz in tight bike shorts and make her sweat and give her thighs of steel, but at the end of the day, she's still a klutz, with the injuries to prove it.
But then, I had a sweaty epiphany: standing and pedalling is hard when the resistance is easy. DOI. So I cranked up the bike, pedalled to the beat, leaned forward with a fierce gritted grin on my face, ignored the throbbing pain from my crank-bruise, bent my elbows, stared at the sweat spot on the back of the lady in front of me, imagined I was going to make her eat my dust, and stood up. WORD. Down, up, down, up. Push, pull, push, pull. Slow and steady, ain't no one I need to keep up with. Plus, I didn't want to puke from over-exertion.
Now, this is not to say that I was any kind of Lance Armstrong. Please, get real. And it took me a while to build up anything even remotely resembling endurance. But, oddly, towards the end of the class, the strength really kicked in. I heard C's voice in my head urging "go, go, keep GOing." I saw Papi next to me sweatin' like his life depended on it. I saw DYC with all his tree-branch wounds in front of me and determined to catch up. And of course, I saw our instructor, her bike probably pumped up to the max, barely damp, hip-hop dancing on her bike and singing along to all the songs in full voice, yelling at me, "lookin' good! Lookin' GOOOOOOOOOD! Boo-yeah!" And so I kept going, standing, sitting, standing, sitting, increasing and increasing and increasing the crank, ignoring my burning lungs, my weakening thighs, the sweat dropping off my chin in steady rivulets of salt and water, the prodigiously annoying college kid next to me loudly heckling his friend who was using a bike halfway across the room!
I could barely get off the bike at the end. Papi had a good chuckle at me stuck half-on and half-off as the rest of the class prepared to stretch next to their machines. When I leaned over to stretch my quads, my knees locked and I couldn't unlock them. But a good stretch, a quick cold rinse of the face, and a sideways glance at myself in the locker room mirror and I felt like a meathead, wanting to pose and stare at myself and go, "GRRRRRR. YOU'RE A MONSTER, BABY."
And of course, there's one more story before I leave the gym. It's the one where I walk down the stairs to get to the exit door and my wobbly thighs start to give out. Then they give out completely, and I cling to the railing, willing my body to stop being so wimpy. Then a man going up the stairs happens to be right there and he catches me before I fall to the ground and down the steps. "Are you alright?" he asks. I look pathetically up at him, feeling much like Westley in "The Princess Bride" after he's had seventy years of life sucked out of him, and simply state, "my first spin class ever." The man nods in understanding and throws his mouth wide open for an "aaaaaah. Gotcha." I smirk at myself as I start to straighten up. "Do you need me to carry you down the rest of the way?" the man asks. "Nah, I can manage," as I wave him off. A short chuckle shared, and I slowly proceed to the exit, walking kind of bow-legged to ease the pressure on my thigh muscles.
Three hours later, I'm still alive. My lungs are still protesting a bit, and I just ate an ice cream sandwich (which, I truly believe, only replenished a mere quarter of the calories I burned today). I'm all clean and not stinky anymore. I'm full and shortly will be sleepy. I'm totally satisfied and proud and loving the sensation of my muscles still feeling hot to the touch.
I'M A MONSTER, BABY.
Post-script: exercising my lungs as much as I did today did wonders for my singing capabilities. I was Bono on the car ride home. Check it.
Wednesday, May 11
THE REAL ME . . .
Patience = thin. Thin as ice.
I actually rolled my eyes at her, in front of everyone.
I don't know why her in particular, now, lately, all the time.
Is it the claws? The fluttering eyelids? The constant nodding? The jutting chin? The shrill voice? The transparent desperation? The know-it-all paternalism? The trite speech? The wretched grammar? The apparent inability to form personal and original opinions or thoughts? The apparent unawareness of personal space? The too-oft-repeated anecdotes? Did I already mention the shrillness and the claws?
Argh. I need so much grace right now. I know God forgives me for my evil thoughts and my awful, awful rolling of the eyes, but I certainly don't forgive myself. In fact, I feel even worse knowing that I derive some sort of perverse enjoyment in watching her and internally scoffing at every possible moment and pointing out to myself every little flaw I notice. I feel awful knowing that if she were a man, I wouldn't care at all. I feel terrible that I can't even bring myself to pity her, because that would require sympathy and compassion and kindness on my part, and I confess: I just don't want to give ANY of that to her.
She grates on me. She annoys the living daylights out of me. I want to actually be mean to her, to her face -- I can't even bring myself to be cordial or polite to her. I can't look her in the eye, partly because I can't stand the sight of her nodding needlessly at me, partly because I know the thoughts I am thinking, and some small, conscientious fraction of small, evil me wants to spare her my venom. She is everything I hope I am not ...
And still, I know in my heart of hearts that she is a precious creation of God, and who am I to say differently? And I know that my arrogance and meanness and pettiness knows no bounds, and still I am forgiven by an all-powerful, all-knowing, ever-merciful God. Why can't I give even just a little bit of that grace to her? I can't ... or I won't ... or some combination of both. And I really don't know why.
***
UNDER A ROCK . . .
Tonight, I realized: I have been so busy and out of it that I have not even seen a television trailer for the new "Star Wars" movie.
Bommalommadingdong helped point this out. And I shrugged it off, but it's true. Where have I been? I've been everywhere, but I haven't been anywhere. Trigger events here and there have made me withdraw and pull away from certain people -- people I had thought I could trust and lean upon as a beloved friends. Self-evaluation and acknowledgement of my terrible behavior have made me ashamed to be around people in whose company I'm not worthy to be, though of course, that doesn't stop me from constantly seeking redemption. My lessening tolerance for all things annoying has made me unavailable -- I simply avoid the company of those I don't enjoy, even if those whom I do enjoy are there, fully tolerating everything that need be tolerated. I question my own motives and so, while I'm looking at myself, I don't want anyone else looking at me; thus I hide myself away, at least the inner parts of me.
I think it's just a phase. Lots of changes coming up, and girl needs a coping mechanism. After all, a touch of withdrawal and introspection is way better than binge-drinking, no? But maybe some of it's real? I just get tired of trying to interpret looks, drop hints, ask for help or friendship or clarification, playing the guessing game, seeking approval, waiting. Instant gratification is the name of my game ... but naturally, my own passive-aggressiveness doesn't help the "instant" part of the gratification. Or at least the knowing.
Don't know what I'm talking about? It's alright. You don't have to. Heck, I don't even know. Just thinking aloud and wondering if I really even want to see "Star Wars III."
Patience = thin. Thin as ice.
I actually rolled my eyes at her, in front of everyone.
I don't know why her in particular, now, lately, all the time.
Is it the claws? The fluttering eyelids? The constant nodding? The jutting chin? The shrill voice? The transparent desperation? The know-it-all paternalism? The trite speech? The wretched grammar? The apparent inability to form personal and original opinions or thoughts? The apparent unawareness of personal space? The too-oft-repeated anecdotes? Did I already mention the shrillness and the claws?
Argh. I need so much grace right now. I know God forgives me for my evil thoughts and my awful, awful rolling of the eyes, but I certainly don't forgive myself. In fact, I feel even worse knowing that I derive some sort of perverse enjoyment in watching her and internally scoffing at every possible moment and pointing out to myself every little flaw I notice. I feel awful knowing that if she were a man, I wouldn't care at all. I feel terrible that I can't even bring myself to pity her, because that would require sympathy and compassion and kindness on my part, and I confess: I just don't want to give ANY of that to her.
She grates on me. She annoys the living daylights out of me. I want to actually be mean to her, to her face -- I can't even bring myself to be cordial or polite to her. I can't look her in the eye, partly because I can't stand the sight of her nodding needlessly at me, partly because I know the thoughts I am thinking, and some small, conscientious fraction of small, evil me wants to spare her my venom. She is everything I hope I am not ...
And still, I know in my heart of hearts that she is a precious creation of God, and who am I to say differently? And I know that my arrogance and meanness and pettiness knows no bounds, and still I am forgiven by an all-powerful, all-knowing, ever-merciful God. Why can't I give even just a little bit of that grace to her? I can't ... or I won't ... or some combination of both. And I really don't know why.
***
UNDER A ROCK . . .
Tonight, I realized: I have been so busy and out of it that I have not even seen a television trailer for the new "Star Wars" movie.
Bommalommadingdong helped point this out. And I shrugged it off, but it's true. Where have I been? I've been everywhere, but I haven't been anywhere. Trigger events here and there have made me withdraw and pull away from certain people -- people I had thought I could trust and lean upon as a beloved friends. Self-evaluation and acknowledgement of my terrible behavior have made me ashamed to be around people in whose company I'm not worthy to be, though of course, that doesn't stop me from constantly seeking redemption. My lessening tolerance for all things annoying has made me unavailable -- I simply avoid the company of those I don't enjoy, even if those whom I do enjoy are there, fully tolerating everything that need be tolerated. I question my own motives and so, while I'm looking at myself, I don't want anyone else looking at me; thus I hide myself away, at least the inner parts of me.
I think it's just a phase. Lots of changes coming up, and girl needs a coping mechanism. After all, a touch of withdrawal and introspection is way better than binge-drinking, no? But maybe some of it's real? I just get tired of trying to interpret looks, drop hints, ask for help or friendship or clarification, playing the guessing game, seeking approval, waiting. Instant gratification is the name of my game ... but naturally, my own passive-aggressiveness doesn't help the "instant" part of the gratification. Or at least the knowing.
Don't know what I'm talking about? It's alright. You don't have to. Heck, I don't even know. Just thinking aloud and wondering if I really even want to see "Star Wars III."
Tuesday, May 10
IS THIS REALLY ME?! . . .
I never, not in a million years, thought I would ever say this: Bo Bice might win "American Idol."
***
LAWN ORNAMENTS . . .
I generally dislike them very very much, but I am strangely fascinated with the Travelocity gnome.
***
BACK IN THE SADDLE . . .
Literally.
The nice folks at ET Cycle pumped up KitchenAid, and I hit the road. Or, more accurately, the trailway.
Quite enjoyable. Loved the extra protein I ingested, if you know what I mean. Did not enjoy struggling with my new toolkit, trying to put my mini-pack on my saddle rack, OR realizing that I am waaaaay out of biking shape. Did enjoy the sensation of thighs-of-steel (steadily turning into thighs-of-wobbly-muscles).
***
IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING?! . . .
I AM SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO FREAKIN' HAPPY THAT UCHENNA AND JOYCE WON "THE AMAZING RACE"!!!!!!!!
I AM ACTUALLY CRYING RIGHT NOW. I AM WATCHING A REALITY TELEVISION SHOW AND CRYING LIKE A BABY!!!!!!!
THEY WON! THEY WON! THEY WON! THEY WON!
I AM A SILLY STUPID REALITY-TV WATCHING, CRYING LIKE A BABY, MUSHBALL OF A MEDIA SUCKER RIGHT NOW!!!!!
GOOOOOOOOOO, UCHENNA AND JOYCE!
AND THE BEST PART IS; ROB AND AMBUH LOST!
I never, not in a million years, thought I would ever say this: Bo Bice might win "American Idol."
***
LAWN ORNAMENTS . . .
I generally dislike them very very much, but I am strangely fascinated with the Travelocity gnome.
***
BACK IN THE SADDLE . . .
Literally.
The nice folks at ET Cycle pumped up KitchenAid, and I hit the road. Or, more accurately, the trailway.
Quite enjoyable. Loved the extra protein I ingested, if you know what I mean. Did not enjoy struggling with my new toolkit, trying to put my mini-pack on my saddle rack, OR realizing that I am waaaaay out of biking shape. Did enjoy the sensation of thighs-of-steel (steadily turning into thighs-of-wobbly-muscles).
***
IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING?! . . .
I AM SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO FREAKIN' HAPPY THAT UCHENNA AND JOYCE WON "THE AMAZING RACE"!!!!!!!!
I AM ACTUALLY CRYING RIGHT NOW. I AM WATCHING A REALITY TELEVISION SHOW AND CRYING LIKE A BABY!!!!!!!
THEY WON! THEY WON! THEY WON! THEY WON!
I AM A SILLY STUPID REALITY-TV WATCHING, CRYING LIKE A BABY, MUSHBALL OF A MEDIA SUCKER RIGHT NOW!!!!!
GOOOOOOOOOO, UCHENNA AND JOYCE!
AND THE BEST PART IS; ROB AND AMBUH LOST!
Sunday, May 8
TIMELY . . .
Could my upcoming week BE any busier?
Sigh, ain't no rest for the weary.
But anyway ...
What is your Favorite...
1. …Vacation spot? So far, it's a toss-up between (a) Acadia National Park in Maine; (b) L.A. to chill with Ha; or (c) Whistler when the crabs aren't out yet.
2. …Time of year to vacation? Autumn.
3. …Vacation Memory Staying up late relaxing and talking sleepily anywhere: on a pullout couch in a cozy condo in Whistler, at the rustic dining room table in a cabin at Acadia, around a wine-soaked game of Cranium in a rental on Block Island, outside on the warm concrete at Red Mountain while watching for falling stars, on a plush couch in L.A. devouring chocolate ice cream and sliced strawberries, over a late dinner in Tampa discussing the gas we're going to experience that night, during a gaslamp- and citronella-lit game of outdoor Scrabble surrounded by mosquitoes, on a tatami mat in Seoul listening to my family's history.
4. …Vacation Souvenir? The business cards of the lobster place in Bar Harbor, the seafood shack in Tampa, the Thai place in Pasadena, the Greek place in Montreal, the Italian place in Whistler, the Chinese place in Vancouver, the brunch place in L.A., the bar at the W City Center in Chicago, etc. etc. etc.
5. ...Vacation accessory (swim suit, pajama’s, purse, shorts,)? Cozy pajamas that are still suitable for public viewing.
Could my upcoming week BE any busier?
Sigh, ain't no rest for the weary.
But anyway ...
What is your Favorite...
1. …Vacation spot? So far, it's a toss-up between (a) Acadia National Park in Maine; (b) L.A. to chill with Ha; or (c) Whistler when the crabs aren't out yet.
2. …Time of year to vacation? Autumn.
3. …Vacation Memory Staying up late relaxing and talking sleepily anywhere: on a pullout couch in a cozy condo in Whistler, at the rustic dining room table in a cabin at Acadia, around a wine-soaked game of Cranium in a rental on Block Island, outside on the warm concrete at Red Mountain while watching for falling stars, on a plush couch in L.A. devouring chocolate ice cream and sliced strawberries, over a late dinner in Tampa discussing the gas we're going to experience that night, during a gaslamp- and citronella-lit game of outdoor Scrabble surrounded by mosquitoes, on a tatami mat in Seoul listening to my family's history.
4. …Vacation Souvenir? The business cards of the lobster place in Bar Harbor, the seafood shack in Tampa, the Thai place in Pasadena, the Greek place in Montreal, the Italian place in Whistler, the Chinese place in Vancouver, the brunch place in L.A., the bar at the W City Center in Chicago, etc. etc. etc.
5. ...Vacation accessory (swim suit, pajama’s, purse, shorts,)? Cozy pajamas that are still suitable for public viewing.
Friday, May 6
SPOONFUL OF SUGAR . . .
Sometimes it's the little things in life that make a big difference.
Like the fact that today, along with my lunch, I packed a Turkey Hill vanilla ice cream sandwich -- arguably the best ice cream sandwich currently in existence -- for dessert.
Alright, so perhaps that wasn't the wisest idea, given the regular irregularity of our office freezer. And alright, so I had to eat it with a spoon because it wasn't firm enough to hold itself upright while I bit into it. And fine, I got more of it on my chin than actually into my mouth.
But sometimes, a completely soggy and limp but still cool-to-the-touch ice cream sandwich is all you need to get through the day, you know what I'm saying'?
Sometimes it's the little things in life that make a big difference.
Like the fact that today, along with my lunch, I packed a Turkey Hill vanilla ice cream sandwich -- arguably the best ice cream sandwich currently in existence -- for dessert.
Alright, so perhaps that wasn't the wisest idea, given the regular irregularity of our office freezer. And alright, so I had to eat it with a spoon because it wasn't firm enough to hold itself upright while I bit into it. And fine, I got more of it on my chin than actually into my mouth.
But sometimes, a completely soggy and limp but still cool-to-the-touch ice cream sandwich is all you need to get through the day, you know what I'm saying'?
BRILLIANT! . . .
So, you know how Senator Bill Frist wants to bar filibuster on Republican judicial nominees that come before the U.S. Senate? (What a dumbo -- they want to change all the rules when it's convenient for them, huh?)
Well, I don't normally tout the accomplishments of other Ivies, because I am a Lion snob at heart, but I must give two snaps in a circle to the brilliant kids at Princeton for filibustering Frist himself.
And the best part? They are doing this in front of the Frist Campus Center, financed by a $25-million gift from Senator Frist and his family. Brilliant, I say! UTTERLY BRILLIANT. Since April 26th, they've been standing in front of the Frist Center, reading all manner of materials day and night, rain and shine, wind and cold and chill, through heckling and derision, but mostly with lots of campus and area support.
It just gets better and better: they have a blog and a webcam for our viewing pleasure!
I think I just died and went to student activism heaven.
So, you know how Senator Bill Frist wants to bar filibuster on Republican judicial nominees that come before the U.S. Senate? (What a dumbo -- they want to change all the rules when it's convenient for them, huh?)
Well, I don't normally tout the accomplishments of other Ivies, because I am a Lion snob at heart, but I must give two snaps in a circle to the brilliant kids at Princeton for filibustering Frist himself.
And the best part? They are doing this in front of the Frist Campus Center, financed by a $25-million gift from Senator Frist and his family. Brilliant, I say! UTTERLY BRILLIANT. Since April 26th, they've been standing in front of the Frist Center, reading all manner of materials day and night, rain and shine, wind and cold and chill, through heckling and derision, but mostly with lots of campus and area support.
It just gets better and better: they have a blog and a webcam for our viewing pleasure!
I think I just died and went to student activism heaven.
Thursday, May 5
CAN'T SLEEP . . .
So I thought I'd share that I'm so so ever so sad that the Yankees are in last place.
And I want to see "Crash" and "The Interpreter" and "Mad Hot Ballroom" and "Madagascar" and "The Beautiful Country."
And I have an entire day in the city coming up full of dim sum, dinner and Margaret Cho ... I might also have time to finally fit in a visit (my first evah!) to MoMA and/or the Guggenheim (shame, shame on me for living in New York for 26 years and never having been to either of these locales), or to the Met to visit my painting.
And I really wish I had had a margarita for Cinco de Mayo.
And I can't wait for summer to get here.
So I thought I'd share that I'm so so ever so sad that the Yankees are in last place.
And I want to see "Crash" and "The Interpreter" and "Mad Hot Ballroom" and "Madagascar" and "The Beautiful Country."
And I have an entire day in the city coming up full of dim sum, dinner and Margaret Cho ... I might also have time to finally fit in a visit (my first evah!) to MoMA and/or the Guggenheim (shame, shame on me for living in New York for 26 years and never having been to either of these locales), or to the Met to visit my painting.
And I really wish I had had a margarita for Cinco de Mayo.
And I can't wait for summer to get here.
Wednesday, May 4
SPACE ODDITY . . .
I used to think that song was about me. But speaking of oddities, isn't it odd that a relaxing evening can be totally UNrelaxing.
And isn't it odd that just when one knee is healing and becoming strong (or so one thinks), you bash the other one into a counter such that multiple small blood bruises form and you feel the bone(s) scraping against the inside of your skin every time you bend your leg.
And isn't it odd that when a medical student friend carefully mulls over the symptoms of your latest defective body part, you feel warmly comforted and cared for.
And isn't it odd that events you always looked forward to, you just don't look forward to anymore.
And isn't it odd to understand that there are just people in this world you simply cannot be friends with, not because you don't like them, but because it's just not meant to be, and so the wall must be built up again.
And isn't it odd to realize one day that you don't like yourself very much anymore, because you're not the person you thought you were and you're definitely not the person others wish you could be, and really, grace is harder to give to yourself in the end, even if the whole world has offered it to you on a silver platter.
And isn't it always, ALWAYS, excruciatingly odd that you can spend the whole day in a dazed, sleepy, exhausted, bone-aching stupor, then be completely and agonizingly awake the moment you lie down in a comfortable, warm, welcoming, safe bed.
I used to think that song was about me. But speaking of oddities, isn't it odd that a relaxing evening can be totally UNrelaxing.
And isn't it odd that just when one knee is healing and becoming strong (or so one thinks), you bash the other one into a counter such that multiple small blood bruises form and you feel the bone(s) scraping against the inside of your skin every time you bend your leg.
And isn't it odd that when a medical student friend carefully mulls over the symptoms of your latest defective body part, you feel warmly comforted and cared for.
And isn't it odd that events you always looked forward to, you just don't look forward to anymore.
And isn't it odd to understand that there are just people in this world you simply cannot be friends with, not because you don't like them, but because it's just not meant to be, and so the wall must be built up again.
And isn't it odd to realize one day that you don't like yourself very much anymore, because you're not the person you thought you were and you're definitely not the person others wish you could be, and really, grace is harder to give to yourself in the end, even if the whole world has offered it to you on a silver platter.
And isn't it always, ALWAYS, excruciatingly odd that you can spend the whole day in a dazed, sleepy, exhausted, bone-aching stupor, then be completely and agonizingly awake the moment you lie down in a comfortable, warm, welcoming, safe bed.
TYPICAL . . .
So, I just had a telephone conversation with Cheech. According to my work phone dialog box, it lasted nine seconds. This is how it went:
Me: Hello?
Cheech: Hey.
Me: Hey.
Cheech: You busy?
Me: Nope, what's up.
Cheech: I have a random question.
Me: Okay, go ahead.
Cheech: What were those jackets, in the mid-80s --
Me: Members Only.
Cheech: Okay, thanks.
pause
Cheech: So, how are you?
Me: It's okay, you can go.
laughter
Cheech: No, really, how are you?
Me: No, really, you can go.
Cheech: Okay, talk to you later.
Me: Yup, bye.
So, I just had a telephone conversation with Cheech. According to my work phone dialog box, it lasted nine seconds. This is how it went:
Me: Hello?
Cheech: Hey.
Me: Hey.
Cheech: You busy?
Me: Nope, what's up.
Cheech: I have a random question.
Me: Okay, go ahead.
Cheech: What were those jackets, in the mid-80s --
Me: Members Only.
Cheech: Okay, thanks.
pause
Cheech: So, how are you?
Me: It's okay, you can go.
laughter
Cheech: No, really, how are you?
Me: No, really, you can go.
Cheech: Okay, talk to you later.
Me: Yup, bye.
Monday, May 2
Friday, April 29
REVENGE OF THE NERD . . .
Sometimes, I surprise even myself with the depths of my capacity to be nerdy, and the fact that I get excited about things like the new Apple G5 and Tiger, the latest Mac OS-X version.
But it's all just so preeeeeetttttty.
***
IF YOU WERE ME . . .
If you were pretty darn sure of wanting something -- really, really, truly darn sure, and I mean praying-for-it-every-day-every-moment and thinking-your-life-would-be-simply-grand-if-it-came-to-fruition and unable-to-think-of-anything-else sure -- but felt like it might not become yours anyway, what would you do?
What would you do if you felt like if it became yours, it would be too good to be true and that's scary to you?
What would you do if you felt like you could move God's heart with your constant petitions, but were still not completely positive about that because you feel sort of bad about constantly bugging Him about it?
What would you do if you were on a constant roller-coaster because the positive signals you receive, indicating your wish might come true, are sparsely interspersed with negative signals, dashing any hope you might ever have harbored?
What would you do if the consequences of getting what you want are as scary as the consequences of not getting what you want are devastating?
What would you do if you became tired and ashamed of asking God for this thing that you want because you just think He stopped listening weeks ago?
What would you do if you want this more than you've ever wanted anything in recent memory, but still can't tell if you really want it, or if you just want to win?
What would you do if your heart felt pure about wanting this, but still feel sort of foolish for your longing?
What would you do if you felt like you would bank your future on this one thing, but feared being left in the dust because you put all your eggs in one basket?
No, seriously, what would you do? What am I to do?
***
OBJECTIFIED . . .
(OK, I'm not writing this to be arrogant or snotty or all up into myself, and I'm NOT NOT NOT fishing for compliments from those who know what I look like. It really is a weird phenomenon for me, and there's no one I can really talk to about this in a serious way, so I express myself in song. I wish.)
The other day, one of my dearest friends asked me, "haven't you been told before that you are beautiful?"
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I wanted to burst out in wild, hysterical laughter. "Are you freakin' kidding me?!" I wanted to screech. But I was at work, and we do try to maintain a minimum of decorum here.
No, I haven't really been told that before. But in the last week, more people have said that to me than in the last twenty-nine years of my life combined. Alright, so 99% of those offering me compliments were total strangers, friends of my parents whom I met at a huge Korean wedding, couples who all wanted nice, Korean-speaking, church-going, professionally-employed, clean, "beautiful" me to marry their sons and give them many, many grandsons. (But I take it where I can get it, you know what I mean?) Then last night, during dinner, my parents said I looked particularly lovely (only a parent could say such a thing when I have my bangs pinned up with big shiny clips, kimchi jigae dribbling down my chin, grains of rice stuck to my sleeve and meat juice grimed all over my fingers, God bless them).
It's so weird. When I look back over my physical appearance and how I felt about myself over my life span, these are the words and sentiments that come to mind: frumpy ... short ... frizzy-haired ... not Caucasian ... not Korean enough ... dorky ... clumsy ... too plump ... too skinny ... square-faced ... pointy-chinned ... flabby ... awkward ... too pale ... over-dressed ... always a season behind ... invisible ... boyish ... klutzy ... spastic ... insecure ... utterly uncool ... dumpy ... uncouth ... ugly.
What a strange journey I've taken since January to the present, from learning that God made me wonderfully and beautifully in His image, to developing confidence that He wants me to stand tall and walk facing forward with no burdens, to being encouraged by friends and family that the good qualities of my heart -- as few and feeble as they might be -- exhibit themselves in a lovely way in my outer appearance, to being told by strangers and loved ones alike that I look good and am behaving nicely.
Part of it is that I now let my hair stylist do whatever she wants when she cuts my hair. Part of it is that I can now afford to buy clothing that fits me properly, and have ceased caring about what others think of my fashion sensibilities. Part of it is growing up and realizing that if I'm short, oddly-shaped and not Caucasian, ain't nuthin' I can do about it. Part of it is growing in my faith and realizing that if God thinks I'm beautiful, I don't have to give two hoots what anyone else says. Part of it is stretching into myself and learning to receive compliments graciously. Part of it is being encouraged by friends and family who want the best for me and believe that I can be and do whatever I set my mind to. Part of it is the experience of getting my eyebrows shaped for Banana's wedding (Soybean can back me up on this one -- that was WEIRD). Part of it is allowing myself to be loved by people other than just Omma, Appa and Cheech (who would still say that I'm the biggest dork he knows, and would I please STOP wearing that awful hooded sweatshirt?!). Part of it is going out on a limb for crazy reasons, things, people, and coming out unbroken and strong. Part of it is being healthy (mostly) and reaping the benefits of full lungs and flexible muscles. Part of it is being satisfied.
Lots of parts to make up one beautiful me. I confess, I still can't say it without feeling self-conscious, being worried that I'm standing on the verge of extreme hubris or indulging a delusional ego. But I figure, there are enough things in life to get me down, to make me feel bad about myself, to make my shoulders turn inward and my face point down to the ground ... girl's got to learn to say a nice "thank you" and let her ego be boosted sometimes ...
***
AMPUTATION . . .
According to the evil beings at WebMD, I could be suffering from a pinched nerve, internal swelling, an injured blood vessel, or peripheral neuropathy in conjunction with an autoimmune disease, like lupus. GREAT. I detest WebMD, but I just can't seem to stay away.
I do not, however, detest Dr.Wu, who, while not being completely alarmist, has nonetheless instructed me to "call your doctor." Yikes.
***
KLEE, CLAY, SAME DIFFERENCE . . .
I dare you to tell me you don't love this:
The Law
And if I could create a little gallery in my home, I'd add these:
Signs in Yellow
Lady Apart
Blue Night
Flora di Roccia
***
F-F-F-F-FRIDAY . . .
What is your favorite…?
1. …Cold Remedy? Day and Night Comtrex.
2. …Thing to do when you’re sick (lay on the couch, stay in bed, etc)? Gather everything I might ever need -- snacks, carton of orange juice, box of tissues, extra blankets, books, magazines, Bob -- and lay in a prone position in front of a softly-humming television set to something I don't have to pay attention to -- The Learning Channel, HGTV or Bravo! -- so that I can sleep on and off throughout the day.
3. …Item of clothing to wear when ailing? My loose grey cotton lounge-pants, a long-sleeve cotton shirt and my big fluffy grey hooded sweatshirt.
4. …Person to comfort you? Mommy.
5. …Food to eat? Kimchi jigae and room-temperature water.
Sometimes, I surprise even myself with the depths of my capacity to be nerdy, and the fact that I get excited about things like the new Apple G5 and Tiger, the latest Mac OS-X version.
But it's all just so preeeeeetttttty.
***
IF YOU WERE ME . . .
If you were pretty darn sure of wanting something -- really, really, truly darn sure, and I mean praying-for-it-every-day-every-moment and thinking-your-life-would-be-simply-grand-if-it-came-to-fruition and unable-to-think-of-anything-else sure -- but felt like it might not become yours anyway, what would you do?
What would you do if you felt like if it became yours, it would be too good to be true and that's scary to you?
What would you do if you felt like you could move God's heart with your constant petitions, but were still not completely positive about that because you feel sort of bad about constantly bugging Him about it?
What would you do if you were on a constant roller-coaster because the positive signals you receive, indicating your wish might come true, are sparsely interspersed with negative signals, dashing any hope you might ever have harbored?
What would you do if the consequences of getting what you want are as scary as the consequences of not getting what you want are devastating?
What would you do if you became tired and ashamed of asking God for this thing that you want because you just think He stopped listening weeks ago?
What would you do if you want this more than you've ever wanted anything in recent memory, but still can't tell if you really want it, or if you just want to win?
What would you do if your heart felt pure about wanting this, but still feel sort of foolish for your longing?
What would you do if you felt like you would bank your future on this one thing, but feared being left in the dust because you put all your eggs in one basket?
No, seriously, what would you do? What am I to do?
***
OBJECTIFIED . . .
(OK, I'm not writing this to be arrogant or snotty or all up into myself, and I'm NOT NOT NOT fishing for compliments from those who know what I look like. It really is a weird phenomenon for me, and there's no one I can really talk to about this in a serious way, so I express myself in song. I wish.)
The other day, one of my dearest friends asked me, "haven't you been told before that you are beautiful?"
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I wanted to burst out in wild, hysterical laughter. "Are you freakin' kidding me?!" I wanted to screech. But I was at work, and we do try to maintain a minimum of decorum here.
No, I haven't really been told that before. But in the last week, more people have said that to me than in the last twenty-nine years of my life combined. Alright, so 99% of those offering me compliments were total strangers, friends of my parents whom I met at a huge Korean wedding, couples who all wanted nice, Korean-speaking, church-going, professionally-employed, clean, "beautiful" me to marry their sons and give them many, many grandsons. (But I take it where I can get it, you know what I mean?) Then last night, during dinner, my parents said I looked particularly lovely (only a parent could say such a thing when I have my bangs pinned up with big shiny clips, kimchi jigae dribbling down my chin, grains of rice stuck to my sleeve and meat juice grimed all over my fingers, God bless them).
It's so weird. When I look back over my physical appearance and how I felt about myself over my life span, these are the words and sentiments that come to mind: frumpy ... short ... frizzy-haired ... not Caucasian ... not Korean enough ... dorky ... clumsy ... too plump ... too skinny ... square-faced ... pointy-chinned ... flabby ... awkward ... too pale ... over-dressed ... always a season behind ... invisible ... boyish ... klutzy ... spastic ... insecure ... utterly uncool ... dumpy ... uncouth ... ugly.
What a strange journey I've taken since January to the present, from learning that God made me wonderfully and beautifully in His image, to developing confidence that He wants me to stand tall and walk facing forward with no burdens, to being encouraged by friends and family that the good qualities of my heart -- as few and feeble as they might be -- exhibit themselves in a lovely way in my outer appearance, to being told by strangers and loved ones alike that I look good and am behaving nicely.
Part of it is that I now let my hair stylist do whatever she wants when she cuts my hair. Part of it is that I can now afford to buy clothing that fits me properly, and have ceased caring about what others think of my fashion sensibilities. Part of it is growing up and realizing that if I'm short, oddly-shaped and not Caucasian, ain't nuthin' I can do about it. Part of it is growing in my faith and realizing that if God thinks I'm beautiful, I don't have to give two hoots what anyone else says. Part of it is stretching into myself and learning to receive compliments graciously. Part of it is being encouraged by friends and family who want the best for me and believe that I can be and do whatever I set my mind to. Part of it is the experience of getting my eyebrows shaped for Banana's wedding (Soybean can back me up on this one -- that was WEIRD). Part of it is allowing myself to be loved by people other than just Omma, Appa and Cheech (who would still say that I'm the biggest dork he knows, and would I please STOP wearing that awful hooded sweatshirt?!). Part of it is going out on a limb for crazy reasons, things, people, and coming out unbroken and strong. Part of it is being healthy (mostly) and reaping the benefits of full lungs and flexible muscles. Part of it is being satisfied.
Lots of parts to make up one beautiful me. I confess, I still can't say it without feeling self-conscious, being worried that I'm standing on the verge of extreme hubris or indulging a delusional ego. But I figure, there are enough things in life to get me down, to make me feel bad about myself, to make my shoulders turn inward and my face point down to the ground ... girl's got to learn to say a nice "thank you" and let her ego be boosted sometimes ...
***
AMPUTATION . . .
According to the evil beings at WebMD, I could be suffering from a pinched nerve, internal swelling, an injured blood vessel, or peripheral neuropathy in conjunction with an autoimmune disease, like lupus. GREAT. I detest WebMD, but I just can't seem to stay away.
I do not, however, detest Dr.Wu, who, while not being completely alarmist, has nonetheless instructed me to "call your doctor." Yikes.
***
KLEE, CLAY, SAME DIFFERENCE . . .
I dare you to tell me you don't love this:
The Law
And if I could create a little gallery in my home, I'd add these:
Signs in Yellow
Lady Apart
Blue Night
Flora di Roccia
***
F-F-F-F-FRIDAY . . .
What is your favorite…?
1. …Cold Remedy? Day and Night Comtrex.
2. …Thing to do when you’re sick (lay on the couch, stay in bed, etc)? Gather everything I might ever need -- snacks, carton of orange juice, box of tissues, extra blankets, books, magazines, Bob -- and lay in a prone position in front of a softly-humming television set to something I don't have to pay attention to -- The Learning Channel, HGTV or Bravo! -- so that I can sleep on and off throughout the day.
3. …Item of clothing to wear when ailing? My loose grey cotton lounge-pants, a long-sleeve cotton shirt and my big fluffy grey hooded sweatshirt.
4. …Person to comfort you? Mommy.
5. …Food to eat? Kimchi jigae and room-temperature water.
Thursday, April 28
AWWWW . . .
Dang, I love my parents so much. They are so damn funny.
***
CAUSE FOR CONCERN . . .
Calling all doctors (and wannabes, because I know there's lots of you out there too): diagnose and cure me, please.
On Sunday morning, I did a difficult power yoga routine for an hour. Much stretching and balancing was involved. I felt great afterwards, if a bit perspirational.
On Sunday afternoon, I went running and walking on a really comfortable, bouncy high school track for about 2.5 miles. It felt great except it was really freakin' cold outside and I caught a chill. I stretched in the cold afterwards, then again at home that night when I was a tad warmer.
On Tuesday after work, I was feeling a bit better in the lungs, so I went for a run and walk on a paved trail near my home. I wore long pants this time, so I felt the coolness hardly at all. I stretched before and after, and drank plenty of water, and had a hearty dinner later on.
On Wednesday evening, after care group had ended and the masses had gone home, I sat on my couch and realized: I have no feeling in my left leg and foot.
This is not normal, is it?
I tried stretching. I tried massaging my leg and foot. I tried drinking more water. I tried elevating the leg and foot. I tried sleeping on my right side. I tried sleeping on my left side. I tried sleeping on my back, then on my stomach. I slept hardly at all last night. I tried removing my shoes at work. I tried rotating my ankles and stretching and doing desk yoga. I tried not to cross my legs or sit in cross-legged position as I worked throughout the day.
And now, I stretched again, I drank more water, I straightened my legs and am resisting the comforting urge to sit on my feet as I normally do.
My left foot is still numb, particularly along the outer edge. I can stab myself in the pinky toe and feel nothing. It reminds me of an episode of "Little House on the Prairie," and I wonder if my TV history is coming back to haunt me.
My hip joint feels fine. My knees are hurting, but that's nothing out of the ordinary. My ankle does not hurt. My foot does not hurt. Nothing is swollen. Nothing is red or inflamed. Nothing hurts. I just can't feel anything. Occasionally, the left foot tingles, as it's doing now. But even the tingling is vague; I can't really feel anything. It's just numb.
Just tell me true, doctors and wannabes: am I going to lose my leg?
Dang, I love my parents so much. They are so damn funny.
***
CAUSE FOR CONCERN . . .
Calling all doctors (and wannabes, because I know there's lots of you out there too): diagnose and cure me, please.
On Sunday morning, I did a difficult power yoga routine for an hour. Much stretching and balancing was involved. I felt great afterwards, if a bit perspirational.
On Sunday afternoon, I went running and walking on a really comfortable, bouncy high school track for about 2.5 miles. It felt great except it was really freakin' cold outside and I caught a chill. I stretched in the cold afterwards, then again at home that night when I was a tad warmer.
On Tuesday after work, I was feeling a bit better in the lungs, so I went for a run and walk on a paved trail near my home. I wore long pants this time, so I felt the coolness hardly at all. I stretched before and after, and drank plenty of water, and had a hearty dinner later on.
On Wednesday evening, after care group had ended and the masses had gone home, I sat on my couch and realized: I have no feeling in my left leg and foot.
This is not normal, is it?
I tried stretching. I tried massaging my leg and foot. I tried drinking more water. I tried elevating the leg and foot. I tried sleeping on my right side. I tried sleeping on my left side. I tried sleeping on my back, then on my stomach. I slept hardly at all last night. I tried removing my shoes at work. I tried rotating my ankles and stretching and doing desk yoga. I tried not to cross my legs or sit in cross-legged position as I worked throughout the day.
And now, I stretched again, I drank more water, I straightened my legs and am resisting the comforting urge to sit on my feet as I normally do.
My left foot is still numb, particularly along the outer edge. I can stab myself in the pinky toe and feel nothing. It reminds me of an episode of "Little House on the Prairie," and I wonder if my TV history is coming back to haunt me.
My hip joint feels fine. My knees are hurting, but that's nothing out of the ordinary. My ankle does not hurt. My foot does not hurt. Nothing is swollen. Nothing is red or inflamed. Nothing hurts. I just can't feel anything. Occasionally, the left foot tingles, as it's doing now. But even the tingling is vague; I can't really feel anything. It's just numb.
Just tell me true, doctors and wannabes: am I going to lose my leg?
COMPASSIONLESS . . .
Look, two more people in the world I simply cannot bring myself to have compassion for, even if they are victims of their own stupidity and ignorance:
Transcript of "The Jersey Guys" on the Edison Mayoral race on NJ 101.5
Below is a partial transcript of "The Jersey Guys" Radio show on April 25, 2005
Craig Carton and Ray Rossi ( http://www.nj1015.com )
New Jersey 101.5 FM Radio PO Box 5698 Trenton, NJ 08638
[Continued]
Craig Carton: "Would you really vote for someone named Jun Choi [said in fast-paced, high-pitched, squeaky voice]?"
[Continued]
Craig Carton: I’m using Jun Choi [said in fast-paced, high-pitched, squeaky voice] as an example of a larger problem.
Ray Rossi: and you know…
Carton: We’re forgetting the fact that we’re Americans.
Rossi : You know that he’s going to get the… whatever that vote is
Carton : And here’s the bottom line... no specific minority group or foreign group should ever ever dictate the outcome of an American election. I don’t care if the Chinese population in Edison has quadrupled in the last year, Chinese should never dictate the outcome of an election, Americans should.
Rossi: Americans should, exactly
Craig : And it’s offensive to me… not that I have anything against uh Asians…I really don’t… i don’t like the fact that they crowd the goddamn black jack tables in Atlantic City with their little chain smoking and little pocket protectors..
Rossi: Now now now..that’s an issue with me..
Carton: I’m just saying, now that’s all Asians, not just Koreans…you know… you got Pai-Gaw poker playing.
Carton: My point is on a much larger stand..
Rossi: I understand… but you see you had to put that out there…
Carton: We’re bending over backwards to cater to fringe groups of people and I don’t like it!
Rossi: As long as we understand where you’re coming from… with the, uh poker table group...
Carton: Well go to AC for one week and try and get a table… ‘ching chong, ching chong, ching chong [Mimics Chinese accent..] hehe you hit it on 17 you stupid bitch… the dealer’s got a 5..im holding an 18…what’re you hitting for… you know? They do it all day and night…they got their little beady pocketbooks with the little beads on it… they take out wads of 100s… ching chong ching chong [accent] they don’t know how to play the game… eh, honey i got a 13 and I’m playing against a 6…
Rossi: Hehe, their money is green too!
[Laughter]
Carton: There should be like Asian-only rooms in casinos… but just to be fair, I have nothing against them…
Rossi: No, of course not
[laughter]
Carton: Very good people… very nice people...
[Commercial Break]
Carton: Asian Americans factoring in the Edison race, Korean native and mayor both court the growing segment… uh I’ve said it about the Arabs about 4 months ago, I’ve said it about uh… you name a group that’s suddenly important in politics, other than Americans as a whole and I got a problem with it… I’m not nitpicking any one specific group... I don’t like… like when Corzine came out and said…I’m counting on the Arab community to get me elected… right then and there you lost my vote!
Rossi: Well, but… you see what it is…
Carton: He was over at the Nordic lodge of Rhode Island… cuz I go to this place where its like 60 bucks for all you can eat… and I thought he was lying to me
[Unrelated Topic]
Caller: Good, hi are you guys?
Carton: Doing good, babe.
Caller: It’s government for the people of the people and by the people and as long as you guys became American citizens and now have the right to vote, why not have them vote for someone who they feel comfortable with and will take care of their issues…
Carton: Well… I’m glad you called with that… god-forsaken disgusting liberal viewpoint, uh mickey…
Caller: I’m not a liberal at all… it’s by the constitution of New Jersey…
Carton: Well, you are a liberal by definition… by definition you are a liberal….if they’re here legally and they’re Americans, I think they ought to vote for… [mocking falsetto voice] no no no…that’s liberal by definition… so let me explain to you what the problem is with it mickey so you can be a little bit brighter at the dinner table tonight, ok?
Caller: Ok
Carton: They are Americans, they have every right to vote. I will never deny them that, you know my grandparents came over here, they wound up with the right to vote and they’re very proud of it… same with Ray’s and most of our listeners’… they also have the right to run once they become Americans, and I don’t begrudge them that either, my problem is this: when we start focusing our campaigns on the minority of people and not the majority of people, I find that to be problematic… anybody running for office, whether it’s the Mayor of Edison or the Governor of New jersey, the focus should be what’s good for the breadth of people, what’s good for everybody, and its obnoxious to me, although I understand it’s a business, and its how you can get elected, if you say out loud, well if I can simply get the Asian vote I can win the election..
Rossi: Now that’s what it is…
Carton: And that’s what problematic to me… much as like we give DMV exams in Spanish, and French, and in Swahili, we’re getting away from what our core is and that is America..
Rossi: Which is true…
Carton: And I’m troubled by it… and I don’t wanna hear a candidate, whether they’re Chinese, or white, or black, saying oh if I can only get the Chinese vote I can win… well what about me? I’m… see… I’m the average guy, that’s why we’re successful, Ray and I represent the average guy in NJ, blue collar white people…
Rossi: There you go.
Carton: And no one gives a damn about us anymore…
Rossi: That’s right.
Carton: And if we cry about it… you know what’s brought up? Slavery... or if we cry about it… well you know, ching chong, ching chong [Mimics Chinese accent] you bombed us [Chinese accent] you know? The fact is, I don’t care if whites are a minority, it doesn’t matter to me, there’s no voice of the average blue collar white guy anymore, cuz all these politicians are worried about the fringe groups.
Rossi: Well that’s the thing…
Carton: God forbid you offend an Asian, really! And I hate it… god forbid that a politician was out here and offends Asians, or blacks, or old people… but at the end of the day, I’m the guy that’s gonna get them elected…
Rossi: There you go.
Carton: And they don’t give a damn about me!
Rossi: Nope.
Carton: Well the second Thursday in May they will… cuz Ray and I are hosting the only in-state debate amongst at least the Republican candidates…
Rossi: That’s right
Carton: Almost all of them confirmed, is that right, C-dog?
C-Dog: That’s right.
Carton: It’ll be myself, Ray Rossi and Bob Ingle of the Gannet newspaper chain and every guy running for uh... governor on the Republican side will be here in studio because you know… we care! And were not gonna let these guys cater to minority groups simply cuz it makes them look good.
Rossi: Exactly
Carton: You have to cater to me, bitches.
Rossi: Hmmm, that’s it.
Carton: I’m the rain maker.
Rossi: Look at that, the rainmaker
Carton: Well, that’s a little cocky though
Rossi: Well, no, that’s a tad on the cocky tip but that’s alright, that’s okay.
Carton: It’s May 12th by the way, 4pm… If you’re running for governor, you’re invited but you have to go through C-dog cuz I don’t know want weedman showing up… ‘No, you guys said I was invited, I’m running… Typical keeping it brother… No he’ll wanna ask some of the questions… [Mimics voice]
Rossi: Right
[Laughter]
Carton: All right… here’s Sharon in Edison NJ on 101.5. How you doin’ Sharon?
Caller: Hi, I love you
Carton: Thank you.
Caller: You just said it all, the last couple of … callers, I guess they don’t know that they live in America and we’re being overrun. I had just moved out of Edison because of what has happened in the past 10 years… Orientals are all along, the whole complete route 27. And Indians have taken over Edison in north and all over.
Carton: Damn Orientals and Indians.
Caller: I..i moved out..36 years I’ve lived in Edison
Carton: And what was the biggest problem you had with the Orientals and the Indians ?
Caller: I can’t handle them! There’s no American people anymore.
Carton: Eh..
Caller: There shoving us the hell out!
Carton: It’s like you’re a foreigner in your own country isn’t it?
Caller: You go to own store and you can’t even see American people, you don’t see our own kids, American kids, working in stores anymore…
Carton: Like the next time you see an American, you think you’ll probably hug him or high five him or something?
Caller: Oh, that’s why where I moved too, that’s all I have, thank god for now anyways.
Carton: Yeah I’m with you… Sharon, we’re just the voice of the people, and I appreciate your call.
Caller: Keep up the good work.
Carton: All right, you got it baby… I think the quote was damn ‘Orientals and Indians.’
[Child rendition of American anthem on and fades into background]
Carton: That’s right baby, who wrote this, a white guy did!
Carton: By the way, did you see the girl singing the national anthem in the Canadian/US hockey game over the weekend?
[Unrelated Topic]
Carton: Listen I love my country, I’ll never make any excuses for that… and I think the majority should be catered to, not the minority
Rossi: Correct That’s how I feel… ["America, The Beautiful" song on and fades into background]
[Commercial Break]
Carton: Alright, in Edison, this is just another example of us losing our own country…the uh… Asian American candidate "Jun Choi" [said in fast-paced, high-pitched, squeaky voice] and uh… he’s capitalizing on the rapid growth of the Asian community in Edison, but so is his uh… I guess so is his competitor…
Rossi: Well, his competitor is doing the same thing.
Carton: Spadoro says " I’ve got the Asians on lockdown."
Rossi: Right exactly
Carton: Now if I was an Asian I guess I don’t know I’d vote for the Asian. Well I mean haven’t you done that before?
Rossi: Who knows my needs better than…
Carton: Haven’t you?
Rossi: Yeah, I used to vote for the Italian…
Carton: You know what?
Carton: Yeah, thinking that his corrupt ways would benefit me in the long way run.
Rossi: So did I, when I didn’t know what the hell they stood for I just say (phh) go Italian.
Carton: Look how good that did us. Look at the hole we’re in now. Nice move jack ass thanks.
Rossi: Well what do you want me to tell ya, I tried.
Carton: You da one responsible for Florio
[Continued]
***
MY COMPASSIONLESS RESPONSE . . .
Alright. I must disclaim that I'm doubly fired up because I just started reading "Arc of Justice," a true story about a black family who moved into an all-white neighborhood in Detroit in the mid-1920s and whose lives were turned upside-down by the sheer hatred and ignorance that greeted their arrival. I am amazed that humanity was so depraved and idiotic back then, and I'm amazed and -- even more than that, so, so, so, so saddened and discouraged -- that such depravity and idiocy still runs deep within us. Even the fact that I just got a haircut and feel like a hot mama does nothing to dispell the rage and feelings of hopelessness that well up in me over and over in dismaying waves.
So now, she rants.
First of all, if you're opposed to foul language, don't continue. Because these guys, Carton and Rossi, are total assholes.
Secondly, why do they distinguish between the Asians they're so derogatorily referring to and "Americans"? Why don't they just say what they mean: WHITE PEOPLE. Gawd, they're not even smart enough to pick the right terminology for the stupid ideas they are trying to express.
Thirdly, they refer to Asians as "fringe groups of people." Nuh-uh. Do your math, assholes.
Fourthly, they insist that the Chinese should not determine the outcome of American elections. The Chinese are doing no such thing, assholes. American citizens are. Dumbasses.
Fifthly, the languages and dialects spoken by Korean and Chinese people do NOT sound like "ching-chong, ching-chong," assholes. What, your brain is too dense for even sound to travel accurately through it?
Sixthly, they launch into a discussion of the definition of "liberal," and how politicians should run their campaigns. Assholes. They don't know anything. And you know what? If politicians are campaigning to attract the vote of members of minority populations (NOT fringe groups, you assholes) because those minorities happen to make up the majority of their constituency, that is called SMART POLITICKING, not CATERING. Assholes.
Seventhly, Sharon, you asshole, Oriental is an outdated term. Get into the 21st century and stop acting like an 18th-century "Western" imperialist. Asshole. And stop saying stupid things like "there's no American people anymore." Oh. My. Gawd. That is just too stupid for me to even address.
Eighthly, they kept saying that the "majority" should be catered to. Heads up, assholes, WHITE PEOPLE are no longer the majority in the United States. Not only should you stop equating "American" with being WHITE or ARYAN (which you two aren't EVEN, and any analysis of your BACKGROUNDS and LAST NAMES should TELL you that, assholes), you really should stop calling yourselves the majority. Ain't no such thing anymore, assholes.
Ninthly, at the end of the transcript excerpt, they suggest that when they don't know what the heck the politicians are talking about (not surprising, given their apparent IQ levels), they just "go Italian" because that's what they are. Gee, assholes. Why aren't you voting AMERICAN? Assholes.
Tenthly, Eric Johnson, the assholes' station manager, defended the show, saying that these assholes do other ethnic accents too. IT'S NOT ABOUT THE ACCENTS, ASSHOLE. Get a clue.
Eleventhly, this is the same station that got in trouble a few months ago for making on-air jokes about the governor's wife's battle with postpartum depression. Yeah, real funny, assholes.
Lord, what a bunch of assholes. Please, won't You have compassion on them and don't be TOO mean to them when You send them to hell, because if I were You, I'd drop-kick them into eternity.
Look, two more people in the world I simply cannot bring myself to have compassion for, even if they are victims of their own stupidity and ignorance:
Transcript of "The Jersey Guys" on the Edison Mayoral race on NJ 101.5
Below is a partial transcript of "The Jersey Guys" Radio show on April 25, 2005
Craig Carton and Ray Rossi ( http://www.nj1015.com )
New Jersey 101.5 FM Radio PO Box 5698 Trenton, NJ 08638
[Continued]
Craig Carton: "Would you really vote for someone named Jun Choi [said in fast-paced, high-pitched, squeaky voice]?"
[Continued]
Craig Carton: I’m using Jun Choi [said in fast-paced, high-pitched, squeaky voice] as an example of a larger problem.
Ray Rossi: and you know…
Carton: We’re forgetting the fact that we’re Americans.
Rossi : You know that he’s going to get the… whatever that vote is
Carton : And here’s the bottom line... no specific minority group or foreign group should ever ever dictate the outcome of an American election. I don’t care if the Chinese population in Edison has quadrupled in the last year, Chinese should never dictate the outcome of an election, Americans should.
Rossi: Americans should, exactly
Craig : And it’s offensive to me… not that I have anything against uh Asians…I really don’t… i don’t like the fact that they crowd the goddamn black jack tables in Atlantic City with their little chain smoking and little pocket protectors..
Rossi: Now now now..that’s an issue with me..
Carton: I’m just saying, now that’s all Asians, not just Koreans…you know… you got Pai-Gaw poker playing.
Carton: My point is on a much larger stand..
Rossi: I understand… but you see you had to put that out there…
Carton: We’re bending over backwards to cater to fringe groups of people and I don’t like it!
Rossi: As long as we understand where you’re coming from… with the, uh poker table group...
Carton: Well go to AC for one week and try and get a table… ‘ching chong, ching chong, ching chong [Mimics Chinese accent..] hehe you hit it on 17 you stupid bitch… the dealer’s got a 5..im holding an 18…what’re you hitting for… you know? They do it all day and night…they got their little beady pocketbooks with the little beads on it… they take out wads of 100s… ching chong ching chong [accent] they don’t know how to play the game… eh, honey i got a 13 and I’m playing against a 6…
Rossi: Hehe, their money is green too!
[Laughter]
Carton: There should be like Asian-only rooms in casinos… but just to be fair, I have nothing against them…
Rossi: No, of course not
[laughter]
Carton: Very good people… very nice people...
[Commercial Break]
Carton: Asian Americans factoring in the Edison race, Korean native and mayor both court the growing segment… uh I’ve said it about the Arabs about 4 months ago, I’ve said it about uh… you name a group that’s suddenly important in politics, other than Americans as a whole and I got a problem with it… I’m not nitpicking any one specific group... I don’t like… like when Corzine came out and said…I’m counting on the Arab community to get me elected… right then and there you lost my vote!
Rossi: Well, but… you see what it is…
Carton: He was over at the Nordic lodge of Rhode Island… cuz I go to this place where its like 60 bucks for all you can eat… and I thought he was lying to me
[Unrelated Topic]
Caller: Good, hi are you guys?
Carton: Doing good, babe.
Caller: It’s government for the people of the people and by the people and as long as you guys became American citizens and now have the right to vote, why not have them vote for someone who they feel comfortable with and will take care of their issues…
Carton: Well… I’m glad you called with that… god-forsaken disgusting liberal viewpoint, uh mickey…
Caller: I’m not a liberal at all… it’s by the constitution of New Jersey…
Carton: Well, you are a liberal by definition… by definition you are a liberal….if they’re here legally and they’re Americans, I think they ought to vote for… [mocking falsetto voice] no no no…that’s liberal by definition… so let me explain to you what the problem is with it mickey so you can be a little bit brighter at the dinner table tonight, ok?
Caller: Ok
Carton: They are Americans, they have every right to vote. I will never deny them that, you know my grandparents came over here, they wound up with the right to vote and they’re very proud of it… same with Ray’s and most of our listeners’… they also have the right to run once they become Americans, and I don’t begrudge them that either, my problem is this: when we start focusing our campaigns on the minority of people and not the majority of people, I find that to be problematic… anybody running for office, whether it’s the Mayor of Edison or the Governor of New jersey, the focus should be what’s good for the breadth of people, what’s good for everybody, and its obnoxious to me, although I understand it’s a business, and its how you can get elected, if you say out loud, well if I can simply get the Asian vote I can win the election..
Rossi: Now that’s what it is…
Carton: And that’s what problematic to me… much as like we give DMV exams in Spanish, and French, and in Swahili, we’re getting away from what our core is and that is America..
Rossi: Which is true…
Carton: And I’m troubled by it… and I don’t wanna hear a candidate, whether they’re Chinese, or white, or black, saying oh if I can only get the Chinese vote I can win… well what about me? I’m… see… I’m the average guy, that’s why we’re successful, Ray and I represent the average guy in NJ, blue collar white people…
Rossi: There you go.
Carton: And no one gives a damn about us anymore…
Rossi: That’s right.
Carton: And if we cry about it… you know what’s brought up? Slavery... or if we cry about it… well you know, ching chong, ching chong [Mimics Chinese accent] you bombed us [Chinese accent] you know? The fact is, I don’t care if whites are a minority, it doesn’t matter to me, there’s no voice of the average blue collar white guy anymore, cuz all these politicians are worried about the fringe groups.
Rossi: Well that’s the thing…
Carton: God forbid you offend an Asian, really! And I hate it… god forbid that a politician was out here and offends Asians, or blacks, or old people… but at the end of the day, I’m the guy that’s gonna get them elected…
Rossi: There you go.
Carton: And they don’t give a damn about me!
Rossi: Nope.
Carton: Well the second Thursday in May they will… cuz Ray and I are hosting the only in-state debate amongst at least the Republican candidates…
Rossi: That’s right
Carton: Almost all of them confirmed, is that right, C-dog?
C-Dog: That’s right.
Carton: It’ll be myself, Ray Rossi and Bob Ingle of the Gannet newspaper chain and every guy running for uh... governor on the Republican side will be here in studio because you know… we care! And were not gonna let these guys cater to minority groups simply cuz it makes them look good.
Rossi: Exactly
Carton: You have to cater to me, bitches.
Rossi: Hmmm, that’s it.
Carton: I’m the rain maker.
Rossi: Look at that, the rainmaker
Carton: Well, that’s a little cocky though
Rossi: Well, no, that’s a tad on the cocky tip but that’s alright, that’s okay.
Carton: It’s May 12th by the way, 4pm… If you’re running for governor, you’re invited but you have to go through C-dog cuz I don’t know want weedman showing up… ‘No, you guys said I was invited, I’m running… Typical keeping it brother… No he’ll wanna ask some of the questions… [Mimics voice]
Rossi: Right
[Laughter]
Carton: All right… here’s Sharon in Edison NJ on 101.5. How you doin’ Sharon?
Caller: Hi, I love you
Carton: Thank you.
Caller: You just said it all, the last couple of … callers, I guess they don’t know that they live in America and we’re being overrun. I had just moved out of Edison because of what has happened in the past 10 years… Orientals are all along, the whole complete route 27. And Indians have taken over Edison in north and all over.
Carton: Damn Orientals and Indians.
Caller: I..i moved out..36 years I’ve lived in Edison
Carton: And what was the biggest problem you had with the Orientals and the Indians ?
Caller: I can’t handle them! There’s no American people anymore.
Carton: Eh..
Caller: There shoving us the hell out!
Carton: It’s like you’re a foreigner in your own country isn’t it?
Caller: You go to own store and you can’t even see American people, you don’t see our own kids, American kids, working in stores anymore…
Carton: Like the next time you see an American, you think you’ll probably hug him or high five him or something?
Caller: Oh, that’s why where I moved too, that’s all I have, thank god for now anyways.
Carton: Yeah I’m with you… Sharon, we’re just the voice of the people, and I appreciate your call.
Caller: Keep up the good work.
Carton: All right, you got it baby… I think the quote was damn ‘Orientals and Indians.’
[Child rendition of American anthem on and fades into background]
Carton: That’s right baby, who wrote this, a white guy did!
Carton: By the way, did you see the girl singing the national anthem in the Canadian/US hockey game over the weekend?
[Unrelated Topic]
Carton: Listen I love my country, I’ll never make any excuses for that… and I think the majority should be catered to, not the minority
Rossi: Correct That’s how I feel… ["America, The Beautiful" song on and fades into background]
[Commercial Break]
Carton: Alright, in Edison, this is just another example of us losing our own country…the uh… Asian American candidate "Jun Choi" [said in fast-paced, high-pitched, squeaky voice] and uh… he’s capitalizing on the rapid growth of the Asian community in Edison, but so is his uh… I guess so is his competitor…
Rossi: Well, his competitor is doing the same thing.
Carton: Spadoro says " I’ve got the Asians on lockdown."
Rossi: Right exactly
Carton: Now if I was an Asian I guess I don’t know I’d vote for the Asian. Well I mean haven’t you done that before?
Rossi: Who knows my needs better than…
Carton: Haven’t you?
Rossi: Yeah, I used to vote for the Italian…
Carton: You know what?
Carton: Yeah, thinking that his corrupt ways would benefit me in the long way run.
Rossi: So did I, when I didn’t know what the hell they stood for I just say (phh) go Italian.
Carton: Look how good that did us. Look at the hole we’re in now. Nice move jack ass thanks.
Rossi: Well what do you want me to tell ya, I tried.
Carton: You da one responsible for Florio
[Continued]
***
MY COMPASSIONLESS RESPONSE . . .
Alright. I must disclaim that I'm doubly fired up because I just started reading "Arc of Justice," a true story about a black family who moved into an all-white neighborhood in Detroit in the mid-1920s and whose lives were turned upside-down by the sheer hatred and ignorance that greeted their arrival. I am amazed that humanity was so depraved and idiotic back then, and I'm amazed and -- even more than that, so, so, so, so saddened and discouraged -- that such depravity and idiocy still runs deep within us. Even the fact that I just got a haircut and feel like a hot mama does nothing to dispell the rage and feelings of hopelessness that well up in me over and over in dismaying waves.
So now, she rants.
First of all, if you're opposed to foul language, don't continue. Because these guys, Carton and Rossi, are total assholes.
Secondly, why do they distinguish between the Asians they're so derogatorily referring to and "Americans"? Why don't they just say what they mean: WHITE PEOPLE. Gawd, they're not even smart enough to pick the right terminology for the stupid ideas they are trying to express.
Thirdly, they refer to Asians as "fringe groups of people." Nuh-uh. Do your math, assholes.
Fourthly, they insist that the Chinese should not determine the outcome of American elections. The Chinese are doing no such thing, assholes. American citizens are. Dumbasses.
Fifthly, the languages and dialects spoken by Korean and Chinese people do NOT sound like "ching-chong, ching-chong," assholes. What, your brain is too dense for even sound to travel accurately through it?
Sixthly, they launch into a discussion of the definition of "liberal," and how politicians should run their campaigns. Assholes. They don't know anything. And you know what? If politicians are campaigning to attract the vote of members of minority populations (NOT fringe groups, you assholes) because those minorities happen to make up the majority of their constituency, that is called SMART POLITICKING, not CATERING. Assholes.
Seventhly, Sharon, you asshole, Oriental is an outdated term. Get into the 21st century and stop acting like an 18th-century "Western" imperialist. Asshole. And stop saying stupid things like "there's no American people anymore." Oh. My. Gawd. That is just too stupid for me to even address.
Eighthly, they kept saying that the "majority" should be catered to. Heads up, assholes, WHITE PEOPLE are no longer the majority in the United States. Not only should you stop equating "American" with being WHITE or ARYAN (which you two aren't EVEN, and any analysis of your BACKGROUNDS and LAST NAMES should TELL you that, assholes), you really should stop calling yourselves the majority. Ain't no such thing anymore, assholes.
Ninthly, at the end of the transcript excerpt, they suggest that when they don't know what the heck the politicians are talking about (not surprising, given their apparent IQ levels), they just "go Italian" because that's what they are. Gee, assholes. Why aren't you voting AMERICAN? Assholes.
Tenthly, Eric Johnson, the assholes' station manager, defended the show, saying that these assholes do other ethnic accents too. IT'S NOT ABOUT THE ACCENTS, ASSHOLE. Get a clue.
Eleventhly, this is the same station that got in trouble a few months ago for making on-air jokes about the governor's wife's battle with postpartum depression. Yeah, real funny, assholes.
Lord, what a bunch of assholes. Please, won't You have compassion on them and don't be TOO mean to them when You send them to hell, because if I were You, I'd drop-kick them into eternity.
HOME RUN . . .
Dr.J is about to propose to his Dollface soon ... and all the guys I know are (jokingly, I think ... I hope) egging him on to do it via the JumboTron at Continental Arena during a Nets game. When we ladies protest the sheer stupidity of that idea, they concede ... and suggest he do it during a Lakers game instead.
In response to my total vehemence against the JumboTron proposal, this is the counter-attack I get: "what if your dream man, Mr. Perfect, Mr. Ever-So-Right-For-You, proposed to you via the announcer-guy at YANKEE STADIUM?"
Alright, I confess, I had to pause for a moment.
Yankee Stadium.
Now that is totally different from Continental Arena.
Hmmm ....
But the point is: I'm me and Dollface is Dollface, and who knows what would move her heart to say "yes"? Dr.J says it would be a day she'll never forget. Still ... I say it will be a day she'll never let him forget.
***
ICK . . .
Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes are dating. I suppose this doesn't matter anymore in this day and age, but he's 42 and she's 26. That's like ... a lot of years' difference.
TWENTY-SIX. Do I even remember being 26?
Ew.
But aside from that ... I am so NOT a Tom Cruise fan. He's trite, trite and trite, and squints far too much. And all I know about Katie Holmes, other than tidbits from her "Dawson's Creek" days, is that every single Korean-American man/boy I know thinks she's simply the cat's meow. Oh, that and the fact that C.o.S. looks like her.
What an odd couple. Odd and icky.
***
ONCE MORE, WITH FEELING . . .
(By the way, I think that's the title of a "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" episode.)
Last night during our care group meeting, the question arose: why does Jesus act with compassion so many times during the Gospels, as opposed to any other emotion, such as love, or mercy, or kindness, or generosity? Why, of the entire gamut of nice, apparently godly emotions, do the Scriptures seem to emphasize His compassion the most?
I've never studied this, and I have no idea what the original Greek or Hebrew or whatever says on the issue, but I suspect it's because He is He and we are we. Jesus was and is the epitome of everything we are not, and I think this is especially the case when it comes to having compassion for people. We humans are awfully good at saying (and actually following through with the idea) that we love people. We're also good at being nice to people and feeling bad for them when they suffer tragedies. We as a human race are particularly good at being angry with others. Humanity is good at feeling and exhibiting almost every emotion that exists.
But we as a whole are not particularly good at feeling compassion for people -- as Ed defined it, "with passion," feeling with the other person.
I think of myself and the people for whom I am, in my own pathetically limited way, able to feel with passion. I feel with passion when Hooch is hacking up a lung. I feel with passion when JKA is exhausted. I feel with passion when C is stressed out. I feel with passion when Soybean's eyes are swollen nearly shut from allergies. I feel with passion when Cheech has to pull an all-nighter. I feel with passion when my gran is injured. I feel with passion when Ed's gran passes away. I feel with passion when Omma and Appa are burdened. I feel with passion when Nan worries for her son. And as I think over the people for whom I feel with passion, it occurs to me that these are all people whom I love with my whole heart.
It also occurs to me that for those whom I do not love with my whole heart, I do not and cannot feel with passion. The shrill and annoying one I see too often for my own comfort and who makes me see red every moment because she is so annoying ... the loud and obnoxious one who always seems to butt in even as I move further away ... the emotionally fragile one who subjects everyone around her to her unstable fragility ... the repeat offenders who walk through our courtrooms ... the oblivious one on the cell phone in the car in front of me clearly having a fight with someone while driving, creating a hazard for every other commuter on the road ... I feel no compassion for these. Any I manage to muster up during particularly harmonious times seems fake and contrived, and is far too short-lived.
Compassion is hard. It's nearly impossible to have and to give. I suspect that's why, or that's one of the reasons why, God-breathed Scripture speaks of compassion so often. The depth of Christ's compassion speaks volumes of the difference between Him and us, and how far we must crawl on our hands and knees to overcome this vastness and to even approach the state of being like Him in heart and soul. That's why only Jesus could offer compassion, because He was and is He, and we, sadly, are simply us.
***
LORD OF THE DANCE . . .
The cult of "Napoleon Dynamite" is slowly and steadily putting down deep roots at NHF. Bomma-lomma-ding-dong and I have made quotes from the film part of our everyday dialogue. More and more people have been exposed to The Dance Sequence, and I suspect many of them are secretly practicing it in the privacy of their own homes, as of course, I am.
But the icing on the cake really came last night, when Ed showed me this: The Napoleon Dynamite Bible Study for Teens.
He claims it was for my amusement, but I know in my heart of hearts that he really wants to do the Bible study. I just know it. Why else would he have even gone through the effort of locating this awesome product on the Web anyway? I know he's one of the legions already practicing The Dance Sequence. The Bible study can't possibly be far behind ...
(By the way, I love the disclaimer: "This Bible study is not an endorsement of the movie by Christianity Today International. Before watching this film, please get advice and guidance from your parents or youth pastor.")
***
THREE AND COUNTING . . .
Sooooo ... it's been three days since my marathon interview. At what point do I start getting ants in my pants?
***
THIRTY-TWO AND COUNTING . . .
Omma and Appa just keep on going. Dang.
***
Finished: In the Absence of Sun ..., by Helie Lee
Reading: Eating My Words, by Mimi Sheraton and Arc of Justice, by Kevin Boyle
Dr.J is about to propose to his Dollface soon ... and all the guys I know are (jokingly, I think ... I hope) egging him on to do it via the JumboTron at Continental Arena during a Nets game. When we ladies protest the sheer stupidity of that idea, they concede ... and suggest he do it during a Lakers game instead.
In response to my total vehemence against the JumboTron proposal, this is the counter-attack I get: "what if your dream man, Mr. Perfect, Mr. Ever-So-Right-For-You, proposed to you via the announcer-guy at YANKEE STADIUM?"
Alright, I confess, I had to pause for a moment.
Yankee Stadium.
Now that is totally different from Continental Arena.
Hmmm ....
But the point is: I'm me and Dollface is Dollface, and who knows what would move her heart to say "yes"? Dr.J says it would be a day she'll never forget. Still ... I say it will be a day she'll never let him forget.
***
ICK . . .
Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes are dating. I suppose this doesn't matter anymore in this day and age, but he's 42 and she's 26. That's like ... a lot of years' difference.
TWENTY-SIX. Do I even remember being 26?
Ew.
But aside from that ... I am so NOT a Tom Cruise fan. He's trite, trite and trite, and squints far too much. And all I know about Katie Holmes, other than tidbits from her "Dawson's Creek" days, is that every single Korean-American man/boy I know thinks she's simply the cat's meow. Oh, that and the fact that C.o.S. looks like her.
What an odd couple. Odd and icky.
***
ONCE MORE, WITH FEELING . . .
(By the way, I think that's the title of a "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" episode.)
Last night during our care group meeting, the question arose: why does Jesus act with compassion so many times during the Gospels, as opposed to any other emotion, such as love, or mercy, or kindness, or generosity? Why, of the entire gamut of nice, apparently godly emotions, do the Scriptures seem to emphasize His compassion the most?
I've never studied this, and I have no idea what the original Greek or Hebrew or whatever says on the issue, but I suspect it's because He is He and we are we. Jesus was and is the epitome of everything we are not, and I think this is especially the case when it comes to having compassion for people. We humans are awfully good at saying (and actually following through with the idea) that we love people. We're also good at being nice to people and feeling bad for them when they suffer tragedies. We as a human race are particularly good at being angry with others. Humanity is good at feeling and exhibiting almost every emotion that exists.
But we as a whole are not particularly good at feeling compassion for people -- as Ed defined it, "with passion," feeling with the other person.
I think of myself and the people for whom I am, in my own pathetically limited way, able to feel with passion. I feel with passion when Hooch is hacking up a lung. I feel with passion when JKA is exhausted. I feel with passion when C is stressed out. I feel with passion when Soybean's eyes are swollen nearly shut from allergies. I feel with passion when Cheech has to pull an all-nighter. I feel with passion when my gran is injured. I feel with passion when Ed's gran passes away. I feel with passion when Omma and Appa are burdened. I feel with passion when Nan worries for her son. And as I think over the people for whom I feel with passion, it occurs to me that these are all people whom I love with my whole heart.
It also occurs to me that for those whom I do not love with my whole heart, I do not and cannot feel with passion. The shrill and annoying one I see too often for my own comfort and who makes me see red every moment because she is so annoying ... the loud and obnoxious one who always seems to butt in even as I move further away ... the emotionally fragile one who subjects everyone around her to her unstable fragility ... the repeat offenders who walk through our courtrooms ... the oblivious one on the cell phone in the car in front of me clearly having a fight with someone while driving, creating a hazard for every other commuter on the road ... I feel no compassion for these. Any I manage to muster up during particularly harmonious times seems fake and contrived, and is far too short-lived.
Compassion is hard. It's nearly impossible to have and to give. I suspect that's why, or that's one of the reasons why, God-breathed Scripture speaks of compassion so often. The depth of Christ's compassion speaks volumes of the difference between Him and us, and how far we must crawl on our hands and knees to overcome this vastness and to even approach the state of being like Him in heart and soul. That's why only Jesus could offer compassion, because He was and is He, and we, sadly, are simply us.
***
LORD OF THE DANCE . . .
The cult of "Napoleon Dynamite" is slowly and steadily putting down deep roots at NHF. Bomma-lomma-ding-dong and I have made quotes from the film part of our everyday dialogue. More and more people have been exposed to The Dance Sequence, and I suspect many of them are secretly practicing it in the privacy of their own homes, as of course, I am.
But the icing on the cake really came last night, when Ed showed me this: The Napoleon Dynamite Bible Study for Teens.
He claims it was for my amusement, but I know in my heart of hearts that he really wants to do the Bible study. I just know it. Why else would he have even gone through the effort of locating this awesome product on the Web anyway? I know he's one of the legions already practicing The Dance Sequence. The Bible study can't possibly be far behind ...
(By the way, I love the disclaimer: "This Bible study is not an endorsement of the movie by Christianity Today International. Before watching this film, please get advice and guidance from your parents or youth pastor.")
***
THREE AND COUNTING . . .
Sooooo ... it's been three days since my marathon interview. At what point do I start getting ants in my pants?
***
THIRTY-TWO AND COUNTING . . .
Omma and Appa just keep on going. Dang.
***
Finished: In the Absence of Sun ..., by Helie Lee
Reading: Eating My Words, by Mimi Sheraton and Arc of Justice, by Kevin Boyle
Wednesday, April 27
THREE RAINY DAYS TO GO . . .
Rain or shine (or damp miserable chill), we're doing it!
Support us in the Revlon 5k Run/Walk for Women, happening this Saturday morning, no matter what.
I and my team thank you in advance for caring.
***
CULTURAL BAGGAGE . . .
What a terrible occurrence, a commuter train jumping the tracks as it speeds around a curve, ramming directly into a residential apartment complex. Frankly, I can't imagine it, much like I can't imagine war and mass devastation and entire countries being wiped out by waves of ocean water. (Ironical, given all the other unimaginable things that I imagine all the time.) Over seventy people dead, over four hundred people injured, an expensive infrastructure damaged, citizens rendered homeless, families and friends in mourning.
Events like this often cause a sudden wave of soul-searching. In this case, the result is this statement: "There is no flexibility in our society; people are not flexible, either." The driver of the train is to blame, certainly. Why in the world would you take a train full of people and take a 44 m.p.h. curve at an excruciating 62 m.p.h., just to make up for a sixty-second delay from a prior station stop? But the Japanese people -- or at least some of them -- seem to also be blaming themselves. For being obsessed with punctuality. For being inflexible. For striving for unattainable perfection. All at the expense of safety, and mental and social health.
I wonder at these cultural characteristics. Japanese citizens point to the United States and nations in Europe where being late really is late: six minutes or more. Sixty seconds is ... well, it's cake. It's a blessing, really. You don't see any American subway drivers beating themselves up for being sixty seconds late to the next station. As IF, right? But I wonder if we don't have our own forms of national emotional and mental baggage. What about the focus on the American dream? JKA and I were just talking the other day about The Ultimate Goal: home ownership. Why do people drive themselves into poverty and extreme debt, just so they can say they own a home? Or what about the fact that some American families can barely feed themselves, but by God, there's a television set in every room of their ramshackle rental? Or the obsession with money? When you die, you can't take it with you, but everyone wants more of it anyway, and what we have is never, ever enough. Jaime told me a few weeks ago that when I start making the big bucks, I'll unconsciously adjust my life accordingly. Lord, will that be true? And what about the American sense of individuality and independence? Is this not just a little bit overrated, and creating an entire land of people who do not know how to depend on each other, who do not know how to care about others, who are not able to be sensitive and open and moved by the plights of those less fortunate, who are not able to ask for and receive needed help or support or even friendship?
I wonder at my blood people, from The Motherland. For most of recent history, South Korea has been at the mercy of one colonial power or another. Has this not created some deeply-rooted sense of insecurity and inferiority among my people? Do we immigrant families not exhibit these feelings in different ways, by being passive-aggressive, by feeling constantly torn about how to reconcile the traditional Confucian way with the modern American way? And why are we still so lagging in public service, in law schools, in government positions, in political and social activity? Do we simply not care yet, or is it more nefarious: do we not think we are able to be strong and loud in these venues? Have 21st-century Ko-REAN Koreans not advanced economically and technologically in leaps and bounds, leaving cultural and social advancements confused and lagging in the dust?
I don't know. I'm just speculating and doing some multi-cultural soul-searching of my own. You know, just thinking about what forces I am allowing to affect me, what kind of legacy I am building for myself, what sorts of values will become so much a part of me that I will willingly or not pass them on to my next generations ...
***
JUMPER . . .
The other afternoon, a man climbed up the Tappan Zee Bridge, which spans a major commuter thoroughfare, and threatened to jump. He hung out up there for about three hours, and thankfully, local authorities eventually talked him down, preventing yet another tragedy. Unfortunately for everyone else, this man bent on suicide closed Bridge traffic for three hours, pretty much destroying the evening rush hour.
That sucks, but I think what sucks more is that people wanted him to jump. MORE people wished he had jumped after learning he was a convicted sex offender. First question: why would anyone in their right mind encourage someone else to commit suicide?!?!?!
Second question: if this man had jumped, would a commuter's life have been made that much easier? NO. The answer is NO. For then, emergency crews would have had to come onto the bridge to fish the man out of the water; police would have had to come and do a complete workup of the scene; and the ensuing rubbernecking would have been a MUCH bigger pain in the rear than that which already existed.
Yet some people persist. Some people joke: "Jump! Jump!" My God, how wretched, encouraging someone to jump. I wonder why they do that? Is it because it's a juicy story? "Mom, on the way home from work today, I saw a guy jump to his death from the Bridge and it was AMAZING!" Is it because we really get SO mad that we are late getting to wherever we need to go that we would prefer that the cause of our delay just eliminate himself? "Selfish jerk, he should know better than to try to kill himself right before the evening rush hour!" Is it because we think a sex offender doesn't deserve to live? "Dirty bastard, he deserves to die anyway, the pervert!" Is it that we as a society are so inured to the seriousness and gravity of violence and death and tragic events that some dude jumping off a bridge is less a cause of concern and sadness for his soul, and more of a spectacle to be enjoyed, and if not enjoyed, then heckled?
Yeah, I would have been ticked off too, if I were languishing on that bridge, stomach rumbling in anticipation of dinner, wanting nothing more than to go home, change out of my work clothes and lounge the evening away. I probably would have also craned my neck up to see exactly what was going on, to see if I could catch a glimpse of the man high above me. I probably would have thought, "what the HECK is this guy DOING?" But would I have wanted him to jump just to make my own life easier? God, I hope not ...
***
THE WHITEHEAD DIET . . .
I thought I was long past this stage of my life, but NO. I have an ENORMOUS and enormously PAINFUL pimple near the corner of my mouth. It makes opening my mouth to eat extremely painful; flossing is downright torturous. This is NOT my idea of an ideal weight-maintenance regimen.
Rain or shine (or damp miserable chill), we're doing it!
Support us in the Revlon 5k Run/Walk for Women, happening this Saturday morning, no matter what.
I and my team thank you in advance for caring.
***
CULTURAL BAGGAGE . . .
What a terrible occurrence, a commuter train jumping the tracks as it speeds around a curve, ramming directly into a residential apartment complex. Frankly, I can't imagine it, much like I can't imagine war and mass devastation and entire countries being wiped out by waves of ocean water. (Ironical, given all the other unimaginable things that I imagine all the time.) Over seventy people dead, over four hundred people injured, an expensive infrastructure damaged, citizens rendered homeless, families and friends in mourning.
Events like this often cause a sudden wave of soul-searching. In this case, the result is this statement: "There is no flexibility in our society; people are not flexible, either." The driver of the train is to blame, certainly. Why in the world would you take a train full of people and take a 44 m.p.h. curve at an excruciating 62 m.p.h., just to make up for a sixty-second delay from a prior station stop? But the Japanese people -- or at least some of them -- seem to also be blaming themselves. For being obsessed with punctuality. For being inflexible. For striving for unattainable perfection. All at the expense of safety, and mental and social health.
I wonder at these cultural characteristics. Japanese citizens point to the United States and nations in Europe where being late really is late: six minutes or more. Sixty seconds is ... well, it's cake. It's a blessing, really. You don't see any American subway drivers beating themselves up for being sixty seconds late to the next station. As IF, right? But I wonder if we don't have our own forms of national emotional and mental baggage. What about the focus on the American dream? JKA and I were just talking the other day about The Ultimate Goal: home ownership. Why do people drive themselves into poverty and extreme debt, just so they can say they own a home? Or what about the fact that some American families can barely feed themselves, but by God, there's a television set in every room of their ramshackle rental? Or the obsession with money? When you die, you can't take it with you, but everyone wants more of it anyway, and what we have is never, ever enough. Jaime told me a few weeks ago that when I start making the big bucks, I'll unconsciously adjust my life accordingly. Lord, will that be true? And what about the American sense of individuality and independence? Is this not just a little bit overrated, and creating an entire land of people who do not know how to depend on each other, who do not know how to care about others, who are not able to be sensitive and open and moved by the plights of those less fortunate, who are not able to ask for and receive needed help or support or even friendship?
I wonder at my blood people, from The Motherland. For most of recent history, South Korea has been at the mercy of one colonial power or another. Has this not created some deeply-rooted sense of insecurity and inferiority among my people? Do we immigrant families not exhibit these feelings in different ways, by being passive-aggressive, by feeling constantly torn about how to reconcile the traditional Confucian way with the modern American way? And why are we still so lagging in public service, in law schools, in government positions, in political and social activity? Do we simply not care yet, or is it more nefarious: do we not think we are able to be strong and loud in these venues? Have 21st-century Ko-REAN Koreans not advanced economically and technologically in leaps and bounds, leaving cultural and social advancements confused and lagging in the dust?
I don't know. I'm just speculating and doing some multi-cultural soul-searching of my own. You know, just thinking about what forces I am allowing to affect me, what kind of legacy I am building for myself, what sorts of values will become so much a part of me that I will willingly or not pass them on to my next generations ...
***
JUMPER . . .
The other afternoon, a man climbed up the Tappan Zee Bridge, which spans a major commuter thoroughfare, and threatened to jump. He hung out up there for about three hours, and thankfully, local authorities eventually talked him down, preventing yet another tragedy. Unfortunately for everyone else, this man bent on suicide closed Bridge traffic for three hours, pretty much destroying the evening rush hour.
That sucks, but I think what sucks more is that people wanted him to jump. MORE people wished he had jumped after learning he was a convicted sex offender. First question: why would anyone in their right mind encourage someone else to commit suicide?!?!?!
Second question: if this man had jumped, would a commuter's life have been made that much easier? NO. The answer is NO. For then, emergency crews would have had to come onto the bridge to fish the man out of the water; police would have had to come and do a complete workup of the scene; and the ensuing rubbernecking would have been a MUCH bigger pain in the rear than that which already existed.
Yet some people persist. Some people joke: "Jump! Jump!" My God, how wretched, encouraging someone to jump. I wonder why they do that? Is it because it's a juicy story? "Mom, on the way home from work today, I saw a guy jump to his death from the Bridge and it was AMAZING!" Is it because we really get SO mad that we are late getting to wherever we need to go that we would prefer that the cause of our delay just eliminate himself? "Selfish jerk, he should know better than to try to kill himself right before the evening rush hour!" Is it because we think a sex offender doesn't deserve to live? "Dirty bastard, he deserves to die anyway, the pervert!" Is it that we as a society are so inured to the seriousness and gravity of violence and death and tragic events that some dude jumping off a bridge is less a cause of concern and sadness for his soul, and more of a spectacle to be enjoyed, and if not enjoyed, then heckled?
Yeah, I would have been ticked off too, if I were languishing on that bridge, stomach rumbling in anticipation of dinner, wanting nothing more than to go home, change out of my work clothes and lounge the evening away. I probably would have also craned my neck up to see exactly what was going on, to see if I could catch a glimpse of the man high above me. I probably would have thought, "what the HECK is this guy DOING?" But would I have wanted him to jump just to make my own life easier? God, I hope not ...
***
THE WHITEHEAD DIET . . .
I thought I was long past this stage of my life, but NO. I have an ENORMOUS and enormously PAINFUL pimple near the corner of my mouth. It makes opening my mouth to eat extremely painful; flossing is downright torturous. This is NOT my idea of an ideal weight-maintenance regimen.
Tuesday, April 26
MIDMORNING FUN . . .
Still recovering from my THREE-HOUR interview (a three-hour tour, a three-hour tour) yesterday afternoon/evening ... by all accounts, I should be pleased that three high-level partners each wanted to spend one long unbillable hour with me. But they were all such great story-tellers, I can't tell if their willingness to talk with me was due to my impressive resume and magnetic personality or their own congenial natures. Time will tell ...
But for now, thanks to The Unlimited Mood, a distraction:
***
ABOOT ME . . .
Which brings up an interesting point. I don't think I speak English like anyone else I know. Having grown up in an only-Korean-speaking home, possessing a particular ear for foreign languages, having the ability to absorb other people's accents as if they were my own, and having lived in the 'burbs, New York City and Boston for extended periods of time has made my speech into one weird amalgamation of all sorts of verbal and aural oddities.
I say "y'all" a lot because of Jack, from North Carolina, whom I met during a summer trip to The Motherland in 1992. A Korean-American boy with a Southern drawl = WEIRD.
I say "aboot" instead of "about" and "oat" instead of "out" because ... I don't really know why. That's just how my mouth shapes itself when forming that word and words like it.
I say "air-con" instead of "air conditioner" because that's how my Konglish-speaking parents say it and some habits are just too hard to break.
I say "cay-unt" and "stay-und" and the like instead of "can't" and "stand" because of Debbie, a sweet girl from WisCAHNsin who was really too nice to be in law school but tolerated the rest of us anyway.
I say "word" instead of "yes" because Cheech and I sometimes like to pretend that we're not from the leafy-green upper-middle-class suburb from which we actually hail.
I say "Mos-coe" instead of "Mahs-cow" because my Russian teacher told me the latter is totally incorrect, and now it makes me cringe to hear newscasters, especially the nasally ones, say it wrong.
I say "ttaccosssss" instead of "tah-coes" because that's how Sr. McKenney drummed it into me at a very young and impressionable age, and the latent Spanish woman inside me won't allow otherwise.
I say a lot of archaic words I find in 19th-century British novels because I think it's a shame that no one uses those cool, meaningful, emotion-laden words anymore. But then no one knows what I'm saying and they all think I'm being pretentious, which I'm not. I just wish I was Jane Austen.
I say a lot of other weirdly-pronounced things that make many people believe I'm from California. Southern California, to be exact. Alright, alright, I've been called a Valley Girl multiple times. AS IF!
I also add -al onto words that end in -ic, because those words tend to sound too short when spoken as they were meant to be pronounced. Something is not nearly "dramatic" enough until it is "dramaticAL." "Ironic" doesn't begin to describe the situation as well as "ironical" does. We've got "heretical," "magical," and "fantastical" -- so why not "genetical"?
Still recovering from my THREE-HOUR interview (a three-hour tour, a three-hour tour) yesterday afternoon/evening ... by all accounts, I should be pleased that three high-level partners each wanted to spend one long unbillable hour with me. But they were all such great story-tellers, I can't tell if their willingness to talk with me was due to my impressive resume and magnetic personality or their own congenial natures. Time will tell ...
But for now, thanks to The Unlimited Mood, a distraction:
Your Linguistic Profile: |
50% General American English |
35% Yankee |
15% Dixie |
0% Midwestern |
0% Upper Midwestern |
***
ABOOT ME . . .
Which brings up an interesting point. I don't think I speak English like anyone else I know. Having grown up in an only-Korean-speaking home, possessing a particular ear for foreign languages, having the ability to absorb other people's accents as if they were my own, and having lived in the 'burbs, New York City and Boston for extended periods of time has made my speech into one weird amalgamation of all sorts of verbal and aural oddities.
I say "y'all" a lot because of Jack, from North Carolina, whom I met during a summer trip to The Motherland in 1992. A Korean-American boy with a Southern drawl = WEIRD.
I say "aboot" instead of "about" and "oat" instead of "out" because ... I don't really know why. That's just how my mouth shapes itself when forming that word and words like it.
I say "air-con" instead of "air conditioner" because that's how my Konglish-speaking parents say it and some habits are just too hard to break.
I say "cay-unt" and "stay-und" and the like instead of "can't" and "stand" because of Debbie, a sweet girl from WisCAHNsin who was really too nice to be in law school but tolerated the rest of us anyway.
I say "word" instead of "yes" because Cheech and I sometimes like to pretend that we're not from the leafy-green upper-middle-class suburb from which we actually hail.
I say "Mos-coe" instead of "Mahs-cow" because my Russian teacher told me the latter is totally incorrect, and now it makes me cringe to hear newscasters, especially the nasally ones, say it wrong.
I say "ttaccosssss" instead of "tah-coes" because that's how Sr. McKenney drummed it into me at a very young and impressionable age, and the latent Spanish woman inside me won't allow otherwise.
I say a lot of archaic words I find in 19th-century British novels because I think it's a shame that no one uses those cool, meaningful, emotion-laden words anymore. But then no one knows what I'm saying and they all think I'm being pretentious, which I'm not. I just wish I was Jane Austen.
I say a lot of other weirdly-pronounced things that make many people believe I'm from California. Southern California, to be exact. Alright, alright, I've been called a Valley Girl multiple times. AS IF!
I also add -al onto words that end in -ic, because those words tend to sound too short when spoken as they were meant to be pronounced. Something is not nearly "dramatic" enough until it is "dramaticAL." "Ironic" doesn't begin to describe the situation as well as "ironical" does. We've got "heretical," "magical," and "fantastical" -- so why not "genetical"?
Saturday, April 23
SPATIAL RELATIONS . . .
I bought new bedsheets the other day. Awesome high thread-count, slightly damask-patterned bedsheets. I washed them tonight, to prepare them and soften them up enough to sleep upon for the first time. I was very excited, for I am currently seeking anything that will help me sleep better and more comfortably at night.
I pulled the warm, fresh-smelling sheets out of the dryer. I shook them out, and carried them into the bedroom to place upon my naked bed. I was very excited for I love the way newly washed bedsheets stretch across the mattress and fit so snugly and cutely on the bed. No bunching, no loose wrinkles. Just pristine smoothness worthy of a military academy. Goodness, I love a neat bed.
It normally only takes me one try to figure out how to lay the bedsheet, but tonight, it took me a couple of tries. The pockets seemed equidistant from each other, but "no," I thought to myself. "I must just be tired and unable to gauge distance correctly." So I proceeded to stretch my beautiful, soft new sheets across my queen-sized mattress.
After a couple of tries, placing the pockets here, then there, then back here again, I had to check the packaging. QUEEN, it read. How odd. I went back to the bed and tried again. Something was wrong.
The fitted bedsheet is a PERFECT SQUARE. I am not joking. No matter which way I attempt to fit the fitted bedsheet, there is about a foot and a half leftover on one side. I turn the sheet 90-degrees. Same foot-and-a-half overhang. And around and around I go, until I have come full-square.
But it gets better, for just as I tuck the extra hang of the bedsheets further under my mattress (doing my best to ignore the oddly placed sheet-pocket nipples -- yeah, you know what I'm talking about and it annoys you just as much as it annoys me), and turn my attention to my beloved pillows, the unthinkable happens. The pillowcases are TOO SMALL for my pillows. Shoving the pillows into these suddenly-miniaturized pillowcases takes me back to freshman year in college, when I insisted on squeezing myself into jeans that were two sizes too small, and looked at my reflection in the mirror and tried to ignore the odd and inappropriate bulges staring back at me. I shove and shove and flap and flap and smoosh and smoosh. Fluffing the pillows afterwards is nonsensical -- they are too tightly packed to fluff. I fear the pillows will turn into diamonds overnight, they are being squeezed so hard.
What can I do? I am far too lazy to go back to the store to return the sheets, complaining that they form a perfect square unfit to fit snugly upon my non-square mattress, and that the pillowcases are about a half size too small for my standard-sized pillows. Far, far too lazy.
So I pray to God that the extra, tucked-in bedsheet won't come loose during the night and make me wake up in a tangle of sweaty cotton. Lord, I despise that sensation. And I pray that I won't injure myself tossing my head on my rock-hard pillows. And I pray that the next time I buy bedsheets -- it might be a while, for this experience, while mildly amusing simply because of its sheer stupidity, has traumatized me a bit -- they won't be perfectly and ridiculously square.
I bought new bedsheets the other day. Awesome high thread-count, slightly damask-patterned bedsheets. I washed them tonight, to prepare them and soften them up enough to sleep upon for the first time. I was very excited, for I am currently seeking anything that will help me sleep better and more comfortably at night.
I pulled the warm, fresh-smelling sheets out of the dryer. I shook them out, and carried them into the bedroom to place upon my naked bed. I was very excited for I love the way newly washed bedsheets stretch across the mattress and fit so snugly and cutely on the bed. No bunching, no loose wrinkles. Just pristine smoothness worthy of a military academy. Goodness, I love a neat bed.
It normally only takes me one try to figure out how to lay the bedsheet, but tonight, it took me a couple of tries. The pockets seemed equidistant from each other, but "no," I thought to myself. "I must just be tired and unable to gauge distance correctly." So I proceeded to stretch my beautiful, soft new sheets across my queen-sized mattress.
After a couple of tries, placing the pockets here, then there, then back here again, I had to check the packaging. QUEEN, it read. How odd. I went back to the bed and tried again. Something was wrong.
The fitted bedsheet is a PERFECT SQUARE. I am not joking. No matter which way I attempt to fit the fitted bedsheet, there is about a foot and a half leftover on one side. I turn the sheet 90-degrees. Same foot-and-a-half overhang. And around and around I go, until I have come full-square.
But it gets better, for just as I tuck the extra hang of the bedsheets further under my mattress (doing my best to ignore the oddly placed sheet-pocket nipples -- yeah, you know what I'm talking about and it annoys you just as much as it annoys me), and turn my attention to my beloved pillows, the unthinkable happens. The pillowcases are TOO SMALL for my pillows. Shoving the pillows into these suddenly-miniaturized pillowcases takes me back to freshman year in college, when I insisted on squeezing myself into jeans that were two sizes too small, and looked at my reflection in the mirror and tried to ignore the odd and inappropriate bulges staring back at me. I shove and shove and flap and flap and smoosh and smoosh. Fluffing the pillows afterwards is nonsensical -- they are too tightly packed to fluff. I fear the pillows will turn into diamonds overnight, they are being squeezed so hard.
What can I do? I am far too lazy to go back to the store to return the sheets, complaining that they form a perfect square unfit to fit snugly upon my non-square mattress, and that the pillowcases are about a half size too small for my standard-sized pillows. Far, far too lazy.
So I pray to God that the extra, tucked-in bedsheet won't come loose during the night and make me wake up in a tangle of sweaty cotton. Lord, I despise that sensation. And I pray that I won't injure myself tossing my head on my rock-hard pillows. And I pray that the next time I buy bedsheets -- it might be a while, for this experience, while mildly amusing simply because of its sheer stupidity, has traumatized me a bit -- they won't be perfectly and ridiculously square.
Friday, April 22
RUMINATIONS ON THE PEOPLE OF FAITH . . .
"Elected officials shouold not be portraying public policies as being for or against a people of faith," saith the Reverend Clifton Kirkpatrick, a top official of the Presbyterian Church, U.S.A.
Senator Bill Frist, Senate Republican leader, is a member of the Presbyterian Church, U.S.A., and Rev. Kirkpatrick doesn't like his shenanigans -- trying to eliminate the filibuster of judicial nominees by claiming that those who opt to filibuster conservative judicial candidates are against the people of faith. Rev. Kirkpatrick thinks it's entirely inappropriate for Senator Frist to be submitting a videotaped statement for "The Filibuster Against People of Faith," a telecast sponsored by conservative Christian groups to be shown this Sunday -- a day weirdly labeled "Justice Sunday." (The funniest thing about the premise behind Justice Sunday is that Republicans and Christian conservatives are saying that Democrats who want to block judicial nominees who oppose abortion rights on moral and religious grounds are discriminating against those nominees. Oh please. Don't you talk to me about discrimination.)
Dr. Bob Edgar, who is the general secretary of the National Council of Churches, further states that "[t]o say that some group of Christians has a monopoly on the ear of God is especially an outrage to Presbyterians." Well, I don't know what Presbyterians as a group have to say about that, but I would certainly personally agree. The hubris that some believers exhibit ... dang, have we learned nothing of humility from Jesus?
Tony Perkins, president of the Family Research Council and the organizer of "The Filibuster Against People of Faith," says if people are going to be offended, they don't have to watch the telecast. (Don't worry, I won't, and thanks for the permission to ignore it, Mr. Perkins.) He also says that when it comes to judicial activism, "we are talking about issues that people of faith care about deeply." Well, in that one point, I have to agree with him. I, as a person of faith, DO care deeply about the issues that come before our nation's courts. I just happen to not close my mind against the reality that 'conservative' judges are JUST AS ACTIVIST as 'liberal' ones. DUH.
***
TAKE ME . . .
I want to see "The Interpreter", starring Nicole Kidman and Sean Penn.
The United Nations, Secret Service agents, international intrigue. This movie is my latent dream come true.
***
IS THIS WEIRD? . . .
Remember back a few years ago when little kids in Japan were having seizures while watching some kiddie cartoon on television because of all the flashing lights and stuff? (I have to confess, I laughed and laughed when I heard the story, imagining vacant-eyed children, mouths hanging open, staring stupidly at the boob tube, then falling over with the shakes because of some brightly-lit animated action sequence.)
Well, I just heard something even more bizarre, and am wondering if it's ever going to happen to me. Apparently, somewhere in France, a whole host of people fell over in similar seizures, and no one knew why. After some amount of investigation, officials determined that a most unusual occurrence had transpired: these people had all been exposed to particular rooms (conference or other common rooms, if I remember correctly) where the rays emitted from some halogen-type bulb had interacted with the pigmentation in the particular color of paint on the walls, and triggered some weirdo brain activity that caused the seizures.
What the ... and the best part is, they named this bizarre interaction, and decreed that those people had suffered from (or are suffering from) Fluoro-Chroma Syndrome, a/k/a FCS.
Seriously. What will they think of next?
"Elected officials shouold not be portraying public policies as being for or against a people of faith," saith the Reverend Clifton Kirkpatrick, a top official of the Presbyterian Church, U.S.A.
Senator Bill Frist, Senate Republican leader, is a member of the Presbyterian Church, U.S.A., and Rev. Kirkpatrick doesn't like his shenanigans -- trying to eliminate the filibuster of judicial nominees by claiming that those who opt to filibuster conservative judicial candidates are against the people of faith. Rev. Kirkpatrick thinks it's entirely inappropriate for Senator Frist to be submitting a videotaped statement for "The Filibuster Against People of Faith," a telecast sponsored by conservative Christian groups to be shown this Sunday -- a day weirdly labeled "Justice Sunday." (The funniest thing about the premise behind Justice Sunday is that Republicans and Christian conservatives are saying that Democrats who want to block judicial nominees who oppose abortion rights on moral and religious grounds are discriminating against those nominees. Oh please. Don't you talk to me about discrimination.)
Dr. Bob Edgar, who is the general secretary of the National Council of Churches, further states that "[t]o say that some group of Christians has a monopoly on the ear of God is especially an outrage to Presbyterians." Well, I don't know what Presbyterians as a group have to say about that, but I would certainly personally agree. The hubris that some believers exhibit ... dang, have we learned nothing of humility from Jesus?
Tony Perkins, president of the Family Research Council and the organizer of "The Filibuster Against People of Faith," says if people are going to be offended, they don't have to watch the telecast. (Don't worry, I won't, and thanks for the permission to ignore it, Mr. Perkins.) He also says that when it comes to judicial activism, "we are talking about issues that people of faith care about deeply." Well, in that one point, I have to agree with him. I, as a person of faith, DO care deeply about the issues that come before our nation's courts. I just happen to not close my mind against the reality that 'conservative' judges are JUST AS ACTIVIST as 'liberal' ones. DUH.
***
TAKE ME . . .
I want to see "The Interpreter", starring Nicole Kidman and Sean Penn.
The United Nations, Secret Service agents, international intrigue. This movie is my latent dream come true.
***
IS THIS WEIRD? . . .
Remember back a few years ago when little kids in Japan were having seizures while watching some kiddie cartoon on television because of all the flashing lights and stuff? (I have to confess, I laughed and laughed when I heard the story, imagining vacant-eyed children, mouths hanging open, staring stupidly at the boob tube, then falling over with the shakes because of some brightly-lit animated action sequence.)
Well, I just heard something even more bizarre, and am wondering if it's ever going to happen to me. Apparently, somewhere in France, a whole host of people fell over in similar seizures, and no one knew why. After some amount of investigation, officials determined that a most unusual occurrence had transpired: these people had all been exposed to particular rooms (conference or other common rooms, if I remember correctly) where the rays emitted from some halogen-type bulb had interacted with the pigmentation in the particular color of paint on the walls, and triggered some weirdo brain activity that caused the seizures.
What the ... and the best part is, they named this bizarre interaction, and decreed that those people had suffered from (or are suffering from) Fluoro-Chroma Syndrome, a/k/a FCS.
Seriously. What will they think of next?
Thursday, April 21
YUM . . .
Even in the middle of mourning, my stomach growls. Oh, how my body betrays me! Red velvet cake: who am I to say no? And an opportune reminder as well ... it's next up on my list of Cakes to Attempt.
Yummy.
***
NINE DAYS . . .
Nine days left until Team NHF Fights Cancer pounds the pavement to raise funds for cancer research. Support me or my team.
***
DANG . . .
I wish it was Friday already.
***
TWO YOOTS . . .
Running in my head, nonstop, for the last two days: "Pass the Dutchie," by Musical Youth.
Pass the dutchie on the left-hand side.
ARGH!
***
READING . . .
"In the Absence of Sun: A Korean American Woman's Promise to Reunite Three Lost Generations of Her Family," by Helie Lee.
It makes me cry. It makes my heart clench. It makes me think of my family, my aunt, my dad, my grandmother, my deepest, darkest wish to venture out and glue my family back together again and fill in the big gaping hole upon whose precipitous edge we constantly stand ...
Even in the middle of mourning, my stomach growls. Oh, how my body betrays me! Red velvet cake: who am I to say no? And an opportune reminder as well ... it's next up on my list of Cakes to Attempt.
Yummy.
***
NINE DAYS . . .
Nine days left until Team NHF Fights Cancer pounds the pavement to raise funds for cancer research. Support me or my team.
***
DANG . . .
I wish it was Friday already.
***
TWO YOOTS . . .
Running in my head, nonstop, for the last two days: "Pass the Dutchie," by Musical Youth.
Pass the dutchie on the left-hand side.
ARGH!
***
READING . . .
"In the Absence of Sun: A Korean American Woman's Promise to Reunite Three Lost Generations of Her Family," by Helie Lee.
It makes me cry. It makes my heart clench. It makes me think of my family, my aunt, my dad, my grandmother, my deepest, darkest wish to venture out and glue my family back together again and fill in the big gaping hole upon whose precipitous edge we constantly stand ...
Wednesday, April 20
CARE GROUP, INDEED . . .
And this is how we mourn together ...
Psalm 23
A psalm of David.
The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
he restores my soul.
He guides me in paths of righteousness
for his name's sake.
Even though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and love will follow me
all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the LORD
forever.
***
And ...
Romans 8: 31-39
What, then, shall we say in response to this?
If God is for us, who can be against us?
He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all - how will he not also, along with him, graciously give us all things?
Who will bring any charge against those whom God has chosen?
It is God who justifies.
Who is he that condemns?
Christ Jesus, who died - more than that, who was raised to life -
is at the right hand of God and is also interceding for us.
Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?
Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine
or nakedness or danger or sword?
As it is written: “For your sake we face death all day long;
we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered.”
No, in all these things we are
more than conquerors through him who loved us.
For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
And this is how we mourn together ...
A psalm of David.
The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
he restores my soul.
He guides me in paths of righteousness
for his name's sake.
Even though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and love will follow me
all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the LORD
forever.
***
And ...
What, then, shall we say in response to this?
If God is for us, who can be against us?
He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all - how will he not also, along with him, graciously give us all things?
Who will bring any charge against those whom God has chosen?
It is God who justifies.
Who is he that condemns?
Christ Jesus, who died - more than that, who was raised to life -
is at the right hand of God and is also interceding for us.
Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?
Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine
or nakedness or danger or sword?
As it is written: “For your sake we face death all day long;
we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered.”
No, in all these things we are
more than conquerors through him who loved us.
For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Tuesday, April 19
MYSTERIOUS . . .
Why, in all the newspaper articles I've read about the new pope, Joseph Ratzinger, now Pope Benedictus XVI, has no one mentioned the fact that Ratzinger, in his early years, was a member of the Nazi Youth Party?
Sure, he renounced his membership and participation -- I suppose one would have to if one were to lead Christians with any credibility -- but still ... if you're talking about the upbringing and past and context of the next powerful leader of the world Catholic church, I would think that would be worth a mention or two.
Why, in all the newspaper articles I've read about the new pope, Joseph Ratzinger, now Pope Benedictus XVI, has no one mentioned the fact that Ratzinger, in his early years, was a member of the Nazi Youth Party?
Sure, he renounced his membership and participation -- I suppose one would have to if one were to lead Christians with any credibility -- but still ... if you're talking about the upbringing and past and context of the next powerful leader of the world Catholic church, I would think that would be worth a mention or two.
DUELING PERSONALITIES . . .
Sometimes, I have a really difficult time feeling sympathy, or even pity, for others. The people so needy that they need to repeat story about themselves after story about themselves so that they can hear continued affirmation and praise. The people so insecure that they need to scream virtually every comment and question so as to ascertain that people are hearing them. The people so afraid of being invisible that they lose all concept of personal space and invade everyone else's so as to make sure that they are seen and noticed. The people so hating the possibility that someone else might be smarter than them that they use big vague vocabulary words to convey concepts that they think are lofty and intelligent, and will be viewed as such.
My wall goes up and my heart hardens against these people, probably because I recognize seeds of these characteristics in myself and wish I could build a wall against myself too. It exhausts me to plumb my mind for one kind thought to think of these folks.
But other times, my heart melts for others, and I melt along with it until I'm a big puddle o' sympathy on the floor, mixing in with my own tears. The people so faithful but who have yet to see with human eyes the fruits of their faith. The people so heartbreakingly prayerful but to whom the Lord says "wait on Me ... no matter how long." The people so devoted to their children but who must suddenly prepare for long days away from them. The people so honest and trusting but who must suddenly deal with betrayal and disillusionment. The people so pulled and frayed already but who must take on added responsibilities with no bonus rewards. The people who speak plainly and speak truth but who just can't get through to their loved ones for whom they simply desire boundless joy. The people who give and give of all that they are, but who never seem to catch a break in return.
I get so embroiled in the maze of these people's lives that sometimes, it's all I can think about. My dreams consist solely of worry, anxiety, hope, anger, longing, and wishful thoughts for them. I wish I was a magical FEMA fairy, able to put out fires, heal wounds, build shelters, hand out low-interest loans, perform miracles of the body and soul, restore trust and faith. Or, in the alternative, I wish I was at least eloquent enough to say exactly the right thing at exactly the right time, and bring a smile to someone's face and a touch of comfort to someone's aching and burdened heart.
But lo, I am merely human, and worse than that, I'm just me. Siiiiiigggggggghhhhhh. What's a girl to do.
Sometimes, I have a really difficult time feeling sympathy, or even pity, for others. The people so needy that they need to repeat story about themselves after story about themselves so that they can hear continued affirmation and praise. The people so insecure that they need to scream virtually every comment and question so as to ascertain that people are hearing them. The people so afraid of being invisible that they lose all concept of personal space and invade everyone else's so as to make sure that they are seen and noticed. The people so hating the possibility that someone else might be smarter than them that they use big vague vocabulary words to convey concepts that they think are lofty and intelligent, and will be viewed as such.
My wall goes up and my heart hardens against these people, probably because I recognize seeds of these characteristics in myself and wish I could build a wall against myself too. It exhausts me to plumb my mind for one kind thought to think of these folks.
But other times, my heart melts for others, and I melt along with it until I'm a big puddle o' sympathy on the floor, mixing in with my own tears. The people so faithful but who have yet to see with human eyes the fruits of their faith. The people so heartbreakingly prayerful but to whom the Lord says "wait on Me ... no matter how long." The people so devoted to their children but who must suddenly prepare for long days away from them. The people so honest and trusting but who must suddenly deal with betrayal and disillusionment. The people so pulled and frayed already but who must take on added responsibilities with no bonus rewards. The people who speak plainly and speak truth but who just can't get through to their loved ones for whom they simply desire boundless joy. The people who give and give of all that they are, but who never seem to catch a break in return.
I get so embroiled in the maze of these people's lives that sometimes, it's all I can think about. My dreams consist solely of worry, anxiety, hope, anger, longing, and wishful thoughts for them. I wish I was a magical FEMA fairy, able to put out fires, heal wounds, build shelters, hand out low-interest loans, perform miracles of the body and soul, restore trust and faith. Or, in the alternative, I wish I was at least eloquent enough to say exactly the right thing at exactly the right time, and bring a smile to someone's face and a touch of comfort to someone's aching and burdened heart.
But lo, I am merely human, and worse than that, I'm just me. Siiiiiigggggggghhhhhh. What's a girl to do.
9:03 A.M. . . .
168 seconds for those who died in the Oklahoma City bombing ten years ago.
Wow. Ten years ago.
168 seconds for those who died in the Oklahoma City bombing ten years ago.
Wow. Ten years ago.
Sunday, April 17
A NOT SO STILL EVE . . .
How can I be so bothered by one person? How can one person be so incredibly annoying? How can one person be such a broken record? How can I just not show grace to one person? How can one person encompass all that is shrill and bothersome? How can I simply not overlook the shrillness? How can I protect my ears? How can one person just not get a clue? How can I remove myself from the situation? How can one person make me want to tear all my hair out? How can I just not DEAL?
No, seriously. HOW?
Forgive me, because I can't forgive.
***
MY BRAIN EXPLODES . . .
There's nothing left to do tonight.
I just have to take, like, eight Tylenol and try to lull myself to sleep, being thankful for those who remind me to be patient and remind me to show grace and on whom I can rely when I'm about to go out of my mind.
How can I be so bothered by one person? How can one person be so incredibly annoying? How can one person be such a broken record? How can I just not show grace to one person? How can one person encompass all that is shrill and bothersome? How can I simply not overlook the shrillness? How can I protect my ears? How can one person just not get a clue? How can I remove myself from the situation? How can one person make me want to tear all my hair out? How can I just not DEAL?
No, seriously. HOW?
Forgive me, because I can't forgive.
***
MY BRAIN EXPLODES . . .
There's nothing left to do tonight.
I just have to take, like, eight Tylenol and try to lull myself to sleep, being thankful for those who remind me to be patient and remind me to show grace and on whom I can rely when I'm about to go out of my mind.