HIFF stands for the Hawai'i International Film Festival. The Festival ran for a week-and-a-half and I managed to see four movies. Every year I tell myself I should take vacation during this time so I can see more movies!
The first movie I saw was called, Fruit Fly. It was a musical set in San Francisco. A performance artist comes to San Francisco via the Philippines (went looking for her birth parents) and Maryland (where she grew up with her adoptive parents). She moves in with a gay male set designer, a lesbian couple and a runaway teen. It was a fun, raunchy, tongue-in-cheek film that had songs like, "Public Transportation" and "Fag Hag." In one scene, one of the protagonist's friends says that she's not a fag hag (she sees it as a pejorative term), but more like a fruit fly. Hence the title. It was a fun way to start my HIFF experience.
The next movie I saw was Made in China. This was a film about a young creator of novelty items in Texas taking a trip to China to make a deal to produce his product. He is scammed by his "Chinese contact" (found on Craig's List) and finds himself befriending a successful business man in a neighborhood bar. Hilarity (sort of) ensues.
The earnestness of the main character really has you feeling for him, yet he seems so naive, you want to slap his head at the same time. Well, not really slap his head (since in general I am a pacifist), but grab him by the shoulders and shake him (in a verbal, non-violent way). It got a bit boring in the middle, but overall I enjoyed it. The actor was there for a Q&A after the movie. He said it was guerilla film making. All filming was done without Government permission and the city shots and scenes with "locals" were done on the fly...so one take only.
The third movie I saw was my favorite. It is called Flavor of Happiness. Except for having a Japanese actor play a Chinese chef, I loved this movie. I guess I can excuse this supposedly Chinese character's very Japanese ways on having lived in Japan for so long. This was a touching, funny and lovely story about a Chinese chef who cooks delicious, simple, quality dishes and the young single mother he takes on as an apprentice after he has a stroke. The relationship between the characters and their performances were so subtle and nuanced and beautiful. And the food looked awesome. You could tell the director loved food. I mean, that's the perfect way to describe it...the food shots were lovingly done. My friend called it "food porn," and while funny, the shots were a bit more...uh...refined(?) than that.
The movie reminded me a little of Ratatouille, where home cooking, done simply and well can evoke memories of the past. A time when the characters felt safe, comforted and loved...feelings that are all too scarce in their adult lives. In the Q&A with the Director and Producer after the movie, the Director said he's a foodie and always wanted to make a film about food. Chinese food is his favorite, and while filming (a different movie) in China, there was this one dish -- scrambled eggs with fresh tomatoes -- that he never tired of, since it reminded him of his childhood. This is the dish featured in the film.
Another great thing about HIFF is that the films shown here are sometimes their American debut. Some of the Asian films have been screened at European film festivals, but not in the United States. That is the case with the last HIFF film I saw, the Japanese remake of Sideways. I think I liked the American version better (I say "think" because it has been awhile since I saw it). Although it was fun to see the Japanese touches in the movie. For example, when the Paul Giamatti character arrives in Los Angeles to meet his friend who is getting married, he talks about some recent disappointment in his life and decided to come to America for the wedding (and this pre-wedding trip) hoping the western winds would help blow away his discontent.
The director of the film was there for a Q&A after the movie and he said that there is a rumor that an Indian version of Sideways will be in the works shortly. There is a trend in the international film industry to take a well-established American film and do the foreign country's version of it.
Although there were many more films I would have liked to see, I am happy with the four that I managed to view. HIFF, HIFF, Hooray!
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
Loss
It has been a tumultuous week. Yesterday, my heart was so heavy that all I wanted to do was wallow in my own sadness. There's a certain comfort in wallowing. Perhaps that's why pigs do it.
This week I went to my Uncle's funeral. I did not think it would be as emotional as it was for me...remains for me. I saw family that I usually only see at weddings and funerals. It was nice to see them. It was nice to be together, although I am virtually a stranger to some of them and them to me. Yet, I have known most of them for all our lives. There is some comfort in knowing that you share blood. Odd, isn't it, the power of familial bonds.
After the funeral, my Aunty (the widow) collapsed in the restroom and was taken to the hospital. Later that day, my mom informed me my cousin was recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and the outlook is rather grim.
I did not experience a tidal wave of sadness -- powerful and forceful. But more along the lines of feeling myself sinking slowly into the depths of the ocean. Overwhelming, not in a dramatic way, but rather, in a quiet, silent, sensory deprivation type of way. No wailing or sobbing, but as my chest tightens ever so slowly, tears silently seep out of my eyes.
I cried out to God. Asked for refuge. To hide in a cave. Wanted to continue wallowing. God is good. He allowed some time for wallowing, then He provided real comfort. Thanks, God.
Today is better. My heart is not as heavy and I have decided wallowing is for pigs. My Aunty is doing well and should be going home today. They believe she collapsed from dehydration, so she received fluids and is feeling better. My parents visited my cousin and said he looks well, although he has quite the battle ahead of him.
I miss my Uncle. He always had a ready smile and "hello," and would ask how I was doing. Even when his health began failing and he was weaker and had difficulty getting out of bed. He was soft-spoken and conveyed a gentleness that was welcoming and comforting at the same time. From family stories, I know he could be strict, but I never saw that side.
They showed a video at his funeral, of my Uncle in his wheelchair, singing "Jesus Loves Me" to his great-grandson. Singing in the halting way that older people sometimes do, as though they cannot get enough air into their lungs. But it was sweet and genuine...childlike in the loveliest, most respectful and complementary sense of that word.
I love you, Uncle. You will be missed.
This week I went to my Uncle's funeral. I did not think it would be as emotional as it was for me...remains for me. I saw family that I usually only see at weddings and funerals. It was nice to see them. It was nice to be together, although I am virtually a stranger to some of them and them to me. Yet, I have known most of them for all our lives. There is some comfort in knowing that you share blood. Odd, isn't it, the power of familial bonds.
After the funeral, my Aunty (the widow) collapsed in the restroom and was taken to the hospital. Later that day, my mom informed me my cousin was recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and the outlook is rather grim.
I did not experience a tidal wave of sadness -- powerful and forceful. But more along the lines of feeling myself sinking slowly into the depths of the ocean. Overwhelming, not in a dramatic way, but rather, in a quiet, silent, sensory deprivation type of way. No wailing or sobbing, but as my chest tightens ever so slowly, tears silently seep out of my eyes.
I cried out to God. Asked for refuge. To hide in a cave. Wanted to continue wallowing. God is good. He allowed some time for wallowing, then He provided real comfort. Thanks, God.
Today is better. My heart is not as heavy and I have decided wallowing is for pigs. My Aunty is doing well and should be going home today. They believe she collapsed from dehydration, so she received fluids and is feeling better. My parents visited my cousin and said he looks well, although he has quite the battle ahead of him.
I miss my Uncle. He always had a ready smile and "hello," and would ask how I was doing. Even when his health began failing and he was weaker and had difficulty getting out of bed. He was soft-spoken and conveyed a gentleness that was welcoming and comforting at the same time. From family stories, I know he could be strict, but I never saw that side.
They showed a video at his funeral, of my Uncle in his wheelchair, singing "Jesus Loves Me" to his great-grandson. Singing in the halting way that older people sometimes do, as though they cannot get enough air into their lungs. But it was sweet and genuine...childlike in the loveliest, most respectful and complementary sense of that word.
I love you, Uncle. You will be missed.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Achy Breaky Everything
I ache.
Pretty much all over my body.
Getting old sucks. Being out of shape sucks. Being old and out of shape really sucks.
I played tennis with some friends last night, hence my currently sorry state. I suppose getting older is not as bad as forgetting the reality of being older. I did not realize how much more effort is required when one is older. It means those balls you would chase down (and get to) on a regular basis take more effort. It means those knees you relied upon to spring into action are more rusty and creakey than springy. It means the supple wrist you relied upon to make last minute changes need extra support (sports tape) and feel the brunt of no longer being supple.
I realize I am whining and that whining is not attractive. I do not care right now. All I want to do is sit in a hot tub with super-powerful jets and soak my achy breaky body. Then I would like a full-body, therapeutic massage by someone with strong hands. *sigh* That would be awesome. My mouth is now slack and my eyes unfocused as I contemplate fantasy becoming reality. Excuse any spelling or grammatical errors as I drift off into my pain-induced haze.
Great, I'm back. Well, it was nice while it lasted.
I currently have many types of pain. Perhaps I will get some perverse pleasure out of identifying the different types. First, there is the sharp jab that startles you (my shoulder when I move it a certain way). Then there is the slow achy throb that just underlies daily life. There is also the pain in which your muscles are constantly tight (my neck). There is also the shooting pain that starts at one part of the body, but ends up at another, like when my lower back hurts, then shoots down to my butt, leaving a trail of wincing pain in its wake.
I'm walking funny, I'm wincing at odd times and must look somewhat odder than usual shuffling around. Although I looked a lot more awkward last night trying to get out of bed and use the bathroom (drank lots of water to avoid leg cramps). Quasimodo would've looked like Fred Astaire next to me. Not to mention what I must look like walking down stairs (note aforementioned creaky knees). Makes me walk bow-legged in an uneven gait clutching the handrail in case those knees decide to give out.
All right, even I am getting irritated with my whiney self. I could have avoided all this if I did not play tennis and spent the evening on my couch watching Project Runway like I had originally intended. Of course, the other option would be to exercise (at least a little) every day so I would not feel this intensity of pain. Maybe then, I wouldn't lumber to the ball and be huffing and puffing after every point. At one point during the set, I actually said, "lumber, lumber, lumber" aloud as I moved toward the ball. Nothing like creating your own disparaging commentary while on the court.
Pretty much all over my body.
Getting old sucks. Being out of shape sucks. Being old and out of shape really sucks.
I played tennis with some friends last night, hence my currently sorry state. I suppose getting older is not as bad as forgetting the reality of being older. I did not realize how much more effort is required when one is older. It means those balls you would chase down (and get to) on a regular basis take more effort. It means those knees you relied upon to spring into action are more rusty and creakey than springy. It means the supple wrist you relied upon to make last minute changes need extra support (sports tape) and feel the brunt of no longer being supple.
I realize I am whining and that whining is not attractive. I do not care right now. All I want to do is sit in a hot tub with super-powerful jets and soak my achy breaky body. Then I would like a full-body, therapeutic massage by someone with strong hands. *sigh* That would be awesome. My mouth is now slack and my eyes unfocused as I contemplate fantasy becoming reality. Excuse any spelling or grammatical errors as I drift off into my pain-induced haze.
Great, I'm back. Well, it was nice while it lasted.
I currently have many types of pain. Perhaps I will get some perverse pleasure out of identifying the different types. First, there is the sharp jab that startles you (my shoulder when I move it a certain way). Then there is the slow achy throb that just underlies daily life. There is also the pain in which your muscles are constantly tight (my neck). There is also the shooting pain that starts at one part of the body, but ends up at another, like when my lower back hurts, then shoots down to my butt, leaving a trail of wincing pain in its wake.
I'm walking funny, I'm wincing at odd times and must look somewhat odder than usual shuffling around. Although I looked a lot more awkward last night trying to get out of bed and use the bathroom (drank lots of water to avoid leg cramps). Quasimodo would've looked like Fred Astaire next to me. Not to mention what I must look like walking down stairs (note aforementioned creaky knees). Makes me walk bow-legged in an uneven gait clutching the handrail in case those knees decide to give out.
All right, even I am getting irritated with my whiney self. I could have avoided all this if I did not play tennis and spent the evening on my couch watching Project Runway like I had originally intended. Of course, the other option would be to exercise (at least a little) every day so I would not feel this intensity of pain. Maybe then, I wouldn't lumber to the ball and be huffing and puffing after every point. At one point during the set, I actually said, "lumber, lumber, lumber" aloud as I moved toward the ball. Nothing like creating your own disparaging commentary while on the court.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Hot Child In The City
Hot Child in the City.
That would be me. Except I'm not running wild or looking pretty. I may be smelling a bit funky, but that is always something that is difficult to determine objectively about oneself.
Anyway, about a week ago it was horribly humid and hatefully hot. I had the fan blowing full blast on me and I would still get up in the early morning (around 2 or 3 a.m.) and have to jump in the shower to make the sticky sweat go away and feel clean enough to go back to sleep. Several days last week I broke down and turned on the air conditioner in my living room and slept on the couch. I really need to start saving money to purchase an air conditioner for my bedroom.
Perhaps I should start a collection. Donations would be much appreciated. I should definitely hit up my co-workers and family first. My spiel would include how I will be less grouchy and more perky if I can get a great night's sleep. I will be even more of a joy to be around (if that is humanly possible) and more productive (definitely possible). I will also have to get approval of our apartment management board. I live in a building that has nothing sticking out of it. No lanais. No air conditioners. Nada. If I want an air conditioner in my room, I will have to purchase a special one that does not stick out of the wall and sends the water condensation somewhere it won't cause any damage. So, you can see it is not as easy as traipsing down to CostCo and picking up an air conditioner. I gotta get a special one specially installed. *sigh*
In the meantime, I have given up trying to use my air conditioner sparingly. I am all into comfort. Me, me, me. How easily I have given up my "green" principles in favor of relief in the form of cool air. I tell myself it is worth $40+ extra a month in electricity bills to have an uninterrupted night's sleep.
One would think that I would not have such an aversion to heat and humidity having grown up in Hawai'i. Yes, we generally have tradewinds that keep it cooler, but still, it's not the Arctic Circle here, either. That's why I love San Francisco. Even though the air may be "wet" at least it's a cool wet and not a steamy wet like it is here. You can always put more clothes on if you are cold. In fact, there are a lot of cute winter outfits. When you're hot, there is only so much you can take off and still be allowed to roam around in public. Even if you choose to remain at home, you can take off everything and still be hot. I'm just trying to make a point, not gross everyone out. In that spirit, I will move on...
So the weather has eased up a bit and it is not so horrifically hot and humid. I feel less grouchy. My temper is more easily leashed. I do not feel as aggravated or irritable. I bet there is a correlation between heat and acts of violence. I certainly feel more peaceful when cool and dry. Literally.
That would be me. Except I'm not running wild or looking pretty. I may be smelling a bit funky, but that is always something that is difficult to determine objectively about oneself.
Anyway, about a week ago it was horribly humid and hatefully hot. I had the fan blowing full blast on me and I would still get up in the early morning (around 2 or 3 a.m.) and have to jump in the shower to make the sticky sweat go away and feel clean enough to go back to sleep. Several days last week I broke down and turned on the air conditioner in my living room and slept on the couch. I really need to start saving money to purchase an air conditioner for my bedroom.
Perhaps I should start a collection. Donations would be much appreciated. I should definitely hit up my co-workers and family first. My spiel would include how I will be less grouchy and more perky if I can get a great night's sleep. I will be even more of a joy to be around (if that is humanly possible) and more productive (definitely possible). I will also have to get approval of our apartment management board. I live in a building that has nothing sticking out of it. No lanais. No air conditioners. Nada. If I want an air conditioner in my room, I will have to purchase a special one that does not stick out of the wall and sends the water condensation somewhere it won't cause any damage. So, you can see it is not as easy as traipsing down to CostCo and picking up an air conditioner. I gotta get a special one specially installed. *sigh*
In the meantime, I have given up trying to use my air conditioner sparingly. I am all into comfort. Me, me, me. How easily I have given up my "green" principles in favor of relief in the form of cool air. I tell myself it is worth $40+ extra a month in electricity bills to have an uninterrupted night's sleep.
One would think that I would not have such an aversion to heat and humidity having grown up in Hawai'i. Yes, we generally have tradewinds that keep it cooler, but still, it's not the Arctic Circle here, either. That's why I love San Francisco. Even though the air may be "wet" at least it's a cool wet and not a steamy wet like it is here. You can always put more clothes on if you are cold. In fact, there are a lot of cute winter outfits. When you're hot, there is only so much you can take off and still be allowed to roam around in public. Even if you choose to remain at home, you can take off everything and still be hot. I'm just trying to make a point, not gross everyone out. In that spirit, I will move on...
So the weather has eased up a bit and it is not so horrifically hot and humid. I feel less grouchy. My temper is more easily leashed. I do not feel as aggravated or irritable. I bet there is a correlation between heat and acts of violence. I certainly feel more peaceful when cool and dry. Literally.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Journalists Home
I missed my bus today.
Every morning as I get ready, I have the news on the television. I like to hear about the weather and I think the audible sounds help stimulate my bunny Blackberry. Of course, I have no proof that the noise is good for him, but I like to think I am doing my part to avoid bunny-brain atrophy.
Anyway, like I said, I like to hear the weather and other local news, so I usually watch the NBC or CBS affiliate. Today however, the most compelling stories were on ABC's Good Morning America. So compelling that I sat down to watch the news and finally left my apartment just in time to see my bus roar down the street as I waited on my floor for the elevator to arrive.
What was so compelling? GMC showed footage of the two young journalists who were imprisoned in North Korea coming off the plane and into the arms of their loving and relieved families.
Euna Lee and Laura Ling (younger sister of journalist and former "The View" co-host Lisa Ling) were safely back in the United States after 140 days of imprisonment. Tears ran down my cheeks as Euna hugged her 4-year-old daughter and husband. Wouldn't you know it, I had already put on my make-up, so I was trying to dab my eyes so I wouldn't get streaks down my face, but Bare Minerals (which I just recently began using) is actually quite forgiving and I just left my face the way it was.
Anyway, I digress. I do not know if it is because they are Asian or women or Asian women, but this story makes me choke up every time I hear or read about it. Maybe it is because I keep thinking about a little girl not knowing what was going on, but just that her mommy was not there. Maybe it is because North Korea's Kim Jong Il is so darn unpredictable and seemingly kind of crazy.
Ling did not focus on how scared they must have been. She did briefly mention worrying about being placed in a hard labor camp. I would think there were darker things I would have been afraid of imprisoned by myself (they kept both women separated). She said they were called into a "meeting" and were led into a conference room. I can imagine being so afraid of the unknown. After nearly 5 months, where are they taking me? What fate awaits? And then as the door opens, seeing President Clinton. I think I would have lost it. I probably would have collapsed in tears of relief and pent-up anxiety. Ling said as soon as they saw the former President, "We were shocked but we knew instantly in our hearts that the nightmare of our lives was finally coming to an end, and now we stand here, home and free."
President Clinton was the diplomatic envoy that got the two women out of North Korea. He looked good. Distinguished, proud, but suitably humble and very Statesman-esque as he followed the women off the plane and embraced his former Vice-President Al Gore and shook the hands of the family and well-wishers.
Of course now the media is buzzing about potential repercussions. Everyone has been very careful to separate this "humanitarian" mission from any sort of official diplomatic message or position from the current White House. Relations with North Korea are tenuous. Clinton went to Pyongyang at the behest of Kim Jong Il. Mix into that morass the three American hikers who were arrested in Iran, possibly for spying. How does Clinton's humanitarian trip influence Iran's perspective of America in these types of situations?
And of course, the other big story this morning was about George Sodini of Bridgeville, PA who shot up a gym leaving 3 dead, 15 wounded before committing suicide. Apparently he had written about his loneliness and killing plans in his on-line journal. I wonder if anyone had been reading it, and if so, did they think he was just blowing off steam? It is difficult to determine sometimes what is just "venting" and what may be a real cry for help. Ah...but that is fodder for another post.
There is so much to be concerned about...but for now I am going to be happy for Euna and Laura. That they are home, safe with their families. God bless.
Every morning as I get ready, I have the news on the television. I like to hear about the weather and I think the audible sounds help stimulate my bunny Blackberry. Of course, I have no proof that the noise is good for him, but I like to think I am doing my part to avoid bunny-brain atrophy.
Anyway, like I said, I like to hear the weather and other local news, so I usually watch the NBC or CBS affiliate. Today however, the most compelling stories were on ABC's Good Morning America. So compelling that I sat down to watch the news and finally left my apartment just in time to see my bus roar down the street as I waited on my floor for the elevator to arrive.
What was so compelling? GMC showed footage of the two young journalists who were imprisoned in North Korea coming off the plane and into the arms of their loving and relieved families.
Euna Lee and Laura Ling (younger sister of journalist and former "The View" co-host Lisa Ling) were safely back in the United States after 140 days of imprisonment. Tears ran down my cheeks as Euna hugged her 4-year-old daughter and husband. Wouldn't you know it, I had already put on my make-up, so I was trying to dab my eyes so I wouldn't get streaks down my face, but Bare Minerals (which I just recently began using) is actually quite forgiving and I just left my face the way it was.
Anyway, I digress. I do not know if it is because they are Asian or women or Asian women, but this story makes me choke up every time I hear or read about it. Maybe it is because I keep thinking about a little girl not knowing what was going on, but just that her mommy was not there. Maybe it is because North Korea's Kim Jong Il is so darn unpredictable and seemingly kind of crazy.
Ling did not focus on how scared they must have been. She did briefly mention worrying about being placed in a hard labor camp. I would think there were darker things I would have been afraid of imprisoned by myself (they kept both women separated). She said they were called into a "meeting" and were led into a conference room. I can imagine being so afraid of the unknown. After nearly 5 months, where are they taking me? What fate awaits? And then as the door opens, seeing President Clinton. I think I would have lost it. I probably would have collapsed in tears of relief and pent-up anxiety. Ling said as soon as they saw the former President, "We were shocked but we knew instantly in our hearts that the nightmare of our lives was finally coming to an end, and now we stand here, home and free."
President Clinton was the diplomatic envoy that got the two women out of North Korea. He looked good. Distinguished, proud, but suitably humble and very Statesman-esque as he followed the women off the plane and embraced his former Vice-President Al Gore and shook the hands of the family and well-wishers.
Of course now the media is buzzing about potential repercussions. Everyone has been very careful to separate this "humanitarian" mission from any sort of official diplomatic message or position from the current White House. Relations with North Korea are tenuous. Clinton went to Pyongyang at the behest of Kim Jong Il. Mix into that morass the three American hikers who were arrested in Iran, possibly for spying. How does Clinton's humanitarian trip influence Iran's perspective of America in these types of situations?
And of course, the other big story this morning was about George Sodini of Bridgeville, PA who shot up a gym leaving 3 dead, 15 wounded before committing suicide. Apparently he had written about his loneliness and killing plans in his on-line journal. I wonder if anyone had been reading it, and if so, did they think he was just blowing off steam? It is difficult to determine sometimes what is just "venting" and what may be a real cry for help. Ah...but that is fodder for another post.
There is so much to be concerned about...but for now I am going to be happy for Euna and Laura. That they are home, safe with their families. God bless.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Weird Dream
I had this weird dream two nights ago. It is unusual for me to remember my dreams. Often I remember how I felt while dreaming (intense sadness, anger, joy, contentment, etc.) but not the details of the dream itself.
In my dream, I knew I had to help a group of children. I do not know whose children they were, or why they needed help, but I was utterly convinced I had to help them. Part of helping them involved stepping in what looked like run-off water. The water was dirty, but it was moving, like a river runs downstream, but it was very shallow...not even half an inch high. For some reason I had to get the kids away from the water. When we "crossed" the water, the kids got their feet wet, but nothing happened to them. When I stepped in the water, immediately these spore-like substances in blue and green started traveling up my feet, then my legs, and soon engulfed my whole body and entered into my pores. It did not hurt, but I knew it was bad for me.
I felt infested with millions these spore-like creatures moving inside my body. Then, someone gave me a liquid to pour over myself. When I poured the liquid on my arm, one tiny area of my upper arm experienced a sharp pain. I saw a little object coming out of my arm, just barely revealing itself. It looked very small, but as I plucked it out of my arm, it was actually a huge geometric object that somehow I knew was organic and the stuff infesting me. (((shudder))).
I kept pouring the liquid on me and as soon as the little spot of something would appear through my skin, I would pull out this large blue and green object out. Like snowflakes, no two were identical, but they were all similar. The pain was sharp and isolated to whatever area the object came out of...it was not a burning, continuous pain.
Somehow I sensed that I needed to get all the yucky stuff out of me or something bad would happen. As soon as I began pouring the liquid on my skin and pulling these odd objects out, the kids disappeared from my dream. They were not there and they did not seem important anymore. But not because I was preoccupied pulling disgusting geometric objects out of my skin, but as if the role they were meant to play in this story had completed.
And that is when I woke up. I had not finished pulling the invasive species out of my skin and my upper arm hurt in one spot, then quickly faded as I became more conscious.What does this dream mean? At first I thought it may be because I was getting over a cold and felt like it was the virus infesting my body and me (trying to get well), pulling it out of my body.
Then I thought, maybe the application is more spiritual. Is there sin in my life that I have been infested with and am trying to pull out? Something that may bring momentary pain removing, and may seem small and insignificant at first, but once removed was found to be quite large?It was strange because the objects I pulled out of me were not gross. They were not putrid or gelatinous or slimy or ugly. They were sky blue and mint green and were angular with straight lines.
I knew they were bad, but they were not disgusting to pull out. The only thing that was kind of gross was realizing how big they were as I pulled them out from such a tiny pore. And I still definitely felt infested when I woke up. I felt like I needed to scrub myself clean. Just thinking about it again is making me feel itchy.
Perhaps it was an anxiety dream. My job is in limbo and I think it is bothering me more than my conscious self is willing to admit.Why can't I remember the happy dreams? The sweet dreams? I want to dwell on those for awhile.
In my dream, I knew I had to help a group of children. I do not know whose children they were, or why they needed help, but I was utterly convinced I had to help them. Part of helping them involved stepping in what looked like run-off water. The water was dirty, but it was moving, like a river runs downstream, but it was very shallow...not even half an inch high. For some reason I had to get the kids away from the water. When we "crossed" the water, the kids got their feet wet, but nothing happened to them. When I stepped in the water, immediately these spore-like substances in blue and green started traveling up my feet, then my legs, and soon engulfed my whole body and entered into my pores. It did not hurt, but I knew it was bad for me.
I felt infested with millions these spore-like creatures moving inside my body. Then, someone gave me a liquid to pour over myself. When I poured the liquid on my arm, one tiny area of my upper arm experienced a sharp pain. I saw a little object coming out of my arm, just barely revealing itself. It looked very small, but as I plucked it out of my arm, it was actually a huge geometric object that somehow I knew was organic and the stuff infesting me. (((shudder))).
I kept pouring the liquid on me and as soon as the little spot of something would appear through my skin, I would pull out this large blue and green object out. Like snowflakes, no two were identical, but they were all similar. The pain was sharp and isolated to whatever area the object came out of...it was not a burning, continuous pain.
Somehow I sensed that I needed to get all the yucky stuff out of me or something bad would happen. As soon as I began pouring the liquid on my skin and pulling these odd objects out, the kids disappeared from my dream. They were not there and they did not seem important anymore. But not because I was preoccupied pulling disgusting geometric objects out of my skin, but as if the role they were meant to play in this story had completed.
And that is when I woke up. I had not finished pulling the invasive species out of my skin and my upper arm hurt in one spot, then quickly faded as I became more conscious.What does this dream mean? At first I thought it may be because I was getting over a cold and felt like it was the virus infesting my body and me (trying to get well), pulling it out of my body.
Then I thought, maybe the application is more spiritual. Is there sin in my life that I have been infested with and am trying to pull out? Something that may bring momentary pain removing, and may seem small and insignificant at first, but once removed was found to be quite large?It was strange because the objects I pulled out of me were not gross. They were not putrid or gelatinous or slimy or ugly. They were sky blue and mint green and were angular with straight lines.
I knew they were bad, but they were not disgusting to pull out. The only thing that was kind of gross was realizing how big they were as I pulled them out from such a tiny pore. And I still definitely felt infested when I woke up. I felt like I needed to scrub myself clean. Just thinking about it again is making me feel itchy.
Perhaps it was an anxiety dream. My job is in limbo and I think it is bothering me more than my conscious self is willing to admit.Why can't I remember the happy dreams? The sweet dreams? I want to dwell on those for awhile.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Mutual Hate Society
I hate going to the dentist. And I am sure the feeling is mutual. When my dentist sees my name in his appointment book, I am sure he groans inwardly, as he is too much of a professional to outwardly groan.
My intense dislike has nothing to do with my dentist as a person. He is a nice guy and thoughtfully asks about how my parents are doing and if I have been on any trips lately. I, too, am a nice enough person. I politely answer his questions and ask after his health. It is when I sit in that dental chair and he puts on his mask and eye shield that the mutual hate society begins.
It stems from the fact that I have a small mouth. (Hey, no snickers or nasty comments from the peanut gallery!) I do! My jaw can only open so wide and my teeth are all sort of close together. Suffice it to say, it is not only my sensitive gag reflex that would prevent me from being a successful gay guy. Anyway, I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, small mouth.
Many times I wish I could unhinge my jaw, leave it there for the dentist work on and come back later and pick it up. At the very least, I wish the dentist would knock me out with some high-grade anesthesia. I think it would make life easier for both of us.
I understand that his goal is to get in there and get his work done; however, I cannot keep my mouth open or wide enough for him to accomplish that. It's neither of our faults, but it leads to a frustrating situation. The pain gets so bad if I try to keep my mouth open "wide" that tears seep out of my eyes, I get a monster headache and it takes everything that is within me not to leap out of that chair.
Luckily I have not had a cavity for several years...until my last visit. I had two small cavities in my molar. One word: excruciating.
At the end of the ordeal, my dentist pats me on the shoulder and says, "Good job." (See, he is nice.) I respond feelingly, "You, too." He laughed and said, "Good team work."
We are both glad that we won't have to see each other for another six months.
My intense dislike has nothing to do with my dentist as a person. He is a nice guy and thoughtfully asks about how my parents are doing and if I have been on any trips lately. I, too, am a nice enough person. I politely answer his questions and ask after his health. It is when I sit in that dental chair and he puts on his mask and eye shield that the mutual hate society begins.
It stems from the fact that I have a small mouth. (Hey, no snickers or nasty comments from the peanut gallery!) I do! My jaw can only open so wide and my teeth are all sort of close together. Suffice it to say, it is not only my sensitive gag reflex that would prevent me from being a successful gay guy. Anyway, I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, small mouth.
Many times I wish I could unhinge my jaw, leave it there for the dentist work on and come back later and pick it up. At the very least, I wish the dentist would knock me out with some high-grade anesthesia. I think it would make life easier for both of us.
I understand that his goal is to get in there and get his work done; however, I cannot keep my mouth open or wide enough for him to accomplish that. It's neither of our faults, but it leads to a frustrating situation. The pain gets so bad if I try to keep my mouth open "wide" that tears seep out of my eyes, I get a monster headache and it takes everything that is within me not to leap out of that chair.
Luckily I have not had a cavity for several years...until my last visit. I had two small cavities in my molar. One word: excruciating.
At the end of the ordeal, my dentist pats me on the shoulder and says, "Good job." (See, he is nice.) I respond feelingly, "You, too." He laughed and said, "Good team work."
We are both glad that we won't have to see each other for another six months.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Rollercoaster Ride
Well, it has been a tumultuous week. Actually, this has been going on for longer than a week. I am just so exhausted by it all. I feel like an insignificant pawn in the Governor's chess match with the Union.
I work for the State. My classification is temporary civil service. This basically means I have a contract that ends every two years. In the regular course of business, even if your contract is not renewed, you are expected to go to work and will get paid. If the State plans not to renew your contract, they give you notice that they will let your contract lapse.
We have not had any notice. One day they say our positions are safe. The next day my boss tells us that if we do not hear differently, do not come to work on July 1. *sigh* Yo-yo action at its cruelest. Actually, it is not as bad for me as it was for my co-workers. Both have about 8 years in with the State. You need 10 years to vest in your health insurance. If they had a break in service, even for one day, they would have to start at Year 1 again. Plus, they would lose all their sick leave...some of them have over 3 months worth of sick leave. As I have been here less than 2 years, all those extra considerations did not really apply to me.
I was worried about health insurance, though. As of yesterday, the staff in the benefits office said that July 1 we would be considered unemployed and would have no insurance until we could apply for COBRA if we chose. My co-workers had to go to the pharmacy on their way home to fill their regular, long-term prescriptions (high blood pressure medicine, and the like) before they didn't have health coverage anymore. I was hoping not to get sick or hurt or need any kind of hospitalization.
So, yesterday we packed up our stuff, took down our pictures and other personal items and drove home after a rather glum day at work. My boss promised to call if the Governor signed our contracts to extend them.
No call last night...
Except my friend wanting to know how I was doing and if I wanted to go out and drown my sorrows. Very sweet offer. Very nice friend. But I told her I was okay and that if I felt worse later (I figured it would hit me in a week...when it wouldn't feel like vacation anymore, or when I applied for unemployment), I would call her and take her up on her offer.
When I woke up this morning, I checked for messages. "You have no messages." *Sigh*
So, I rolled out of bed and started a load of laundry. The water is still filling the machine when our office secretary calls. She found out this morning the Governor signed a 3-month extension for us and I should come into work today.
At this point, I am so numbed and de-sensitized, I wonder if I even want to go back to work. But the practical (mortgage-owing, bill-paying) side of me wakes up and says, "Go to work!" So I hustle out as soon as I can, happy that I did not unload my junk from my car yesterday, so it is all still in my trunk. I leave my clothes in the washing machine (I hope they aren't too gross by the time I get home) and set off for work.
So, like my co-worker said, it's like getting 3 months notice. After all that I have gone through, I really feel lousy about working for the State, and in particular, this Governor. I do not know what her agenda is, but she put a lot of good, hard-working people thorough a whole bunch of stress. I have a mortgage, but I don't have kids...in private school or college. I don't have to take care of my parents. It's just me, and I am lucky enough to have family here, so I won't be homeless. There's always someone's couch to sleep on, if worse came to worse. Other people in my position may not be as lucky. I know in the Department of Health alone, there were over 500 people waiting to hear whether they would have a job or not.
Through it all, I knew that it was in God's hands. That helped with the stress part. It didn't really help for the "I'm just a pawn" part. Frankly, I would rather have them tell me a month ago that the contract would not be renewed. It was the uncertainty and the daily good news/bad news dynamic that was really getting to me. I felt like an expendable bargaining chip for the Governor.
One good thing that came from all this is that people have been incredibly supportive. One lady from the Division across the hall gave me a hug today, because of the turmoil she felt I was put through. People that I generally just see in the hallway or have the occasional chat with have made a point to drop by my cubicle to say how unfair they thought this all was and how glad they are that our contracts were renewed. That makes me feel better about working for the State. The people are cool.
I work for the State. My classification is temporary civil service. This basically means I have a contract that ends every two years. In the regular course of business, even if your contract is not renewed, you are expected to go to work and will get paid. If the State plans not to renew your contract, they give you notice that they will let your contract lapse.
We have not had any notice. One day they say our positions are safe. The next day my boss tells us that if we do not hear differently, do not come to work on July 1. *sigh* Yo-yo action at its cruelest. Actually, it is not as bad for me as it was for my co-workers. Both have about 8 years in with the State. You need 10 years to vest in your health insurance. If they had a break in service, even for one day, they would have to start at Year 1 again. Plus, they would lose all their sick leave...some of them have over 3 months worth of sick leave. As I have been here less than 2 years, all those extra considerations did not really apply to me.
I was worried about health insurance, though. As of yesterday, the staff in the benefits office said that July 1 we would be considered unemployed and would have no insurance until we could apply for COBRA if we chose. My co-workers had to go to the pharmacy on their way home to fill their regular, long-term prescriptions (high blood pressure medicine, and the like) before they didn't have health coverage anymore. I was hoping not to get sick or hurt or need any kind of hospitalization.
So, yesterday we packed up our stuff, took down our pictures and other personal items and drove home after a rather glum day at work. My boss promised to call if the Governor signed our contracts to extend them.
No call last night...
Except my friend wanting to know how I was doing and if I wanted to go out and drown my sorrows. Very sweet offer. Very nice friend. But I told her I was okay and that if I felt worse later (I figured it would hit me in a week...when it wouldn't feel like vacation anymore, or when I applied for unemployment), I would call her and take her up on her offer.
When I woke up this morning, I checked for messages. "You have no messages." *Sigh*
So, I rolled out of bed and started a load of laundry. The water is still filling the machine when our office secretary calls. She found out this morning the Governor signed a 3-month extension for us and I should come into work today.
At this point, I am so numbed and de-sensitized, I wonder if I even want to go back to work. But the practical (mortgage-owing, bill-paying) side of me wakes up and says, "Go to work!" So I hustle out as soon as I can, happy that I did not unload my junk from my car yesterday, so it is all still in my trunk. I leave my clothes in the washing machine (I hope they aren't too gross by the time I get home) and set off for work.
So, like my co-worker said, it's like getting 3 months notice. After all that I have gone through, I really feel lousy about working for the State, and in particular, this Governor. I do not know what her agenda is, but she put a lot of good, hard-working people thorough a whole bunch of stress. I have a mortgage, but I don't have kids...in private school or college. I don't have to take care of my parents. It's just me, and I am lucky enough to have family here, so I won't be homeless. There's always someone's couch to sleep on, if worse came to worse. Other people in my position may not be as lucky. I know in the Department of Health alone, there were over 500 people waiting to hear whether they would have a job or not.
Through it all, I knew that it was in God's hands. That helped with the stress part. It didn't really help for the "I'm just a pawn" part. Frankly, I would rather have them tell me a month ago that the contract would not be renewed. It was the uncertainty and the daily good news/bad news dynamic that was really getting to me. I felt like an expendable bargaining chip for the Governor.
One good thing that came from all this is that people have been incredibly supportive. One lady from the Division across the hall gave me a hug today, because of the turmoil she felt I was put through. People that I generally just see in the hallway or have the occasional chat with have made a point to drop by my cubicle to say how unfair they thought this all was and how glad they are that our contracts were renewed. That makes me feel better about working for the State. The people are cool.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Happy Father's Day
To all the men who:
Sacrifice for others,
Stuck around through thick and thin,
Tried to rectify your mistakes,
Walk in faith,
Want more for another human being than what you had . . .
Happy Father's Day.
For all the men who:
Tried and keep trying,
Mentored and keep mentoring,
Encouraged and keep encouraging,
Hoped and keep hoping,
Loved and keep loving . . .
Happy Father's Day.
Happy Father's Day to my Dad. A man who embodies all of the above and so much more. I am so lucky to have you as my earthly Father. I love you.
Sacrifice for others,
Stuck around through thick and thin,
Tried to rectify your mistakes,
Walk in faith,
Want more for another human being than what you had . . .
Happy Father's Day.
For all the men who:
Tried and keep trying,
Mentored and keep mentoring,
Encouraged and keep encouraging,
Hoped and keep hoping,
Loved and keep loving . . .
Happy Father's Day.
Happy Father's Day to my Dad. A man who embodies all of the above and so much more. I am so lucky to have you as my earthly Father. I love you.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Head Sweating
I am a head-sweater.
TMI?
I don't know why I am a head-sweater. I do not think my parents are head-sweaters, but I should ask and find out for sure. I mean, maybe it's genetic.
For those unfamiliar with the term head-sweater, it simply means that I sweat from my head. It always begins with the head. Perhaps this makes sense because heat is supposed to rise upwards and people are always talking about the importance of keeping your head warm.
Some people sweat from their feet. Others may have damp palms. Some people sweat from their underarms or elsewhere. For me, it is my head.
I do not even need to be particularly hot, when I notice a little drip maneuvering its way from my scalp, past my hairline, down my brow, and into my eye. (Ouch, it stings!) Or perhaps if I tip my head just so, gravity will work her magic and it will slide down my cheek. A meandering tear. If I'm hot, eating spicy food, etc. hand me a towel to apply to my fevered brow (or wet head).
At its most innocuous, it is inconvenient. At its worst, quite embarrassing. You see, when my head sweats, I do not only have to worry about combating the actual sweat coming down my head (rivulets), but my head gets hot, too. (It looks like I'm blushing or have a bad case of rosaca). And I wear glasses. The result? My glasses fog up. And if the unobservant (or forgiving) of you may not notice the sweat, you will definitely notice my glasses fogging up when you can no longer see my eyes. Like walking out of Ice Palace on a humid day. Voosh! Instant fog.
So, not only do I have to worry about discretely sopping up the immense amount of liquid pouring off of my head (is this the price I pay for being well-hydrated?), but I also need to be cognizant of wiping my glasses so I can actually see. Sometimes I just take off my glasses and squint. I prefer semi-blindness over having to wipe my glasses and my forehead every 5 seconds or so. This way I can focus on my sweat and I get the bonus of not being able to see clearly the expressions of those around me...or where they may be focusing their attention (perhaps on the girl who is sweatting profusely from her head and has the foggy glasses?)
You will rarely see me wearing a hat. Perhaps a visor on occasion, but not a hat or cap. Not just because I tend to look silly in hats, but they also trap all the heat in, which creates a sauna-effect on my head. Not pleasant.
I do not tend to sweat profusely from anywhere else (except if I'm really hot or exerting myself like a challenging doubles game at noon). It makes me wonder, are there other head-sweaters out there? Are you the bandana or sweat-band wearing among us? Do we have our own support group? Does someone out there understand why I can be completely dry everywhere else, but my head will be raining sweat down like I was hanging out on deck with Noah on day 20?
I can go about my business, then suddenly I feel the tell-tale trickle along my hairline before even registering that I may be hot. Perhaps I should carry a hankie around with me like the Southern Belles did (or do...I don't know much about Southern Belles). A perfumed handkerchief which I can use to delicately daub my glistening forehead, in the most demurest of fashions, of course! Yup, that's me. I'm not in the corner, but maybe if the spotlight is on me, you will see a hanky (or more likely my sleeve) lift gingerly to my temple to absorb my head sweat. Ahh...so lovely!
TMI?
I don't know why I am a head-sweater. I do not think my parents are head-sweaters, but I should ask and find out for sure. I mean, maybe it's genetic.
For those unfamiliar with the term head-sweater, it simply means that I sweat from my head. It always begins with the head. Perhaps this makes sense because heat is supposed to rise upwards and people are always talking about the importance of keeping your head warm.
Some people sweat from their feet. Others may have damp palms. Some people sweat from their underarms or elsewhere. For me, it is my head.
I do not even need to be particularly hot, when I notice a little drip maneuvering its way from my scalp, past my hairline, down my brow, and into my eye. (Ouch, it stings!) Or perhaps if I tip my head just so, gravity will work her magic and it will slide down my cheek. A meandering tear. If I'm hot, eating spicy food, etc. hand me a towel to apply to my fevered brow (or wet head).
At its most innocuous, it is inconvenient. At its worst, quite embarrassing. You see, when my head sweats, I do not only have to worry about combating the actual sweat coming down my head (rivulets), but my head gets hot, too. (It looks like I'm blushing or have a bad case of rosaca). And I wear glasses. The result? My glasses fog up. And if the unobservant (or forgiving) of you may not notice the sweat, you will definitely notice my glasses fogging up when you can no longer see my eyes. Like walking out of Ice Palace on a humid day. Voosh! Instant fog.
So, not only do I have to worry about discretely sopping up the immense amount of liquid pouring off of my head (is this the price I pay for being well-hydrated?), but I also need to be cognizant of wiping my glasses so I can actually see. Sometimes I just take off my glasses and squint. I prefer semi-blindness over having to wipe my glasses and my forehead every 5 seconds or so. This way I can focus on my sweat and I get the bonus of not being able to see clearly the expressions of those around me...or where they may be focusing their attention (perhaps on the girl who is sweatting profusely from her head and has the foggy glasses?)
You will rarely see me wearing a hat. Perhaps a visor on occasion, but not a hat or cap. Not just because I tend to look silly in hats, but they also trap all the heat in, which creates a sauna-effect on my head. Not pleasant.
I do not tend to sweat profusely from anywhere else (except if I'm really hot or exerting myself like a challenging doubles game at noon). It makes me wonder, are there other head-sweaters out there? Are you the bandana or sweat-band wearing among us? Do we have our own support group? Does someone out there understand why I can be completely dry everywhere else, but my head will be raining sweat down like I was hanging out on deck with Noah on day 20?
I can go about my business, then suddenly I feel the tell-tale trickle along my hairline before even registering that I may be hot. Perhaps I should carry a hankie around with me like the Southern Belles did (or do...I don't know much about Southern Belles). A perfumed handkerchief which I can use to delicately daub my glistening forehead, in the most demurest of fashions, of course! Yup, that's me. I'm not in the corner, but maybe if the spotlight is on me, you will see a hanky (or more likely my sleeve) lift gingerly to my temple to absorb my head sweat. Ahh...so lovely!
Friday, April 17, 2009
Drips and Dribbles and Spills, Oh My!
I have a problem. Well technically, I have several problems, I suppose, but there is one in particular I wish to discuss. For some unfathomable reason, I am unable to remain clean while I eat. I could understand this if I was careless or lacked decorum, but I am generally a polite and conscientious eater. All right, in full disclosure, I may occasionally talk with food in my mouth. Oh, and I also eat off of other people’s plates, but only with an invitation and just to steal a couple of french fries or something like that.
But other than that, very polite and conscientious. I mean, I do not chew with my mouth open. I ask my fellow diners to pass me things rather than reaching over them. I do my best to avoid drips and dribbles. I tend to use the correct silverware for its intended purpose. Most people would find me a decorous, non-embarrassing dining partner.
Despite all this, I almost always manage to get food on me. Usually my blouse and/or my hair. Of course, if I drip sauce on my hair, it eventually touches my blouse leaving a stain. I am baffled, because I honestly make a conscientious effort to eat neatly (ever since I noticed my propensity to stain my blouses). I try not to splatter sauce if eating noodles; I endeavor not to drip soup or some ooey, gooey dip; and I am focused when eating salad with dressing.
It has made me paranoid and distracted. When eating out, I continually look at my shirt and hair to see if I made a mess. One minute I am fine, clean and pristine. The next minute . . . glop. Pass me a napkin and an individually packaged “Shout” towelette. So, if we ever happen to eat together, please do not be offended if I seem to be looking down my shirt rather than listening to your scintillating conversation. It’s me, not you.
I saw a Japanese movie recently called, “Gu-Gu the Cat.” The main character kept getting rice in her hair. I could totally relate. I remember eating a teishoku meal at Sushi King (teri chicken and shrimp tempura with sauce, of course). I had to ask my friend to drop me off at home before going to the movie so I could change my shirt! I had speckles of sauce and other debris on me and did not want to go to the movie theatre (aka out in public) like that. Yesterday, as I was hanging up my blouse I noticed some red/pinkish dust near my top button and lapels. It was remnants of my lunch which included Flaming Hot Cheetos.
So what is wrong with me? I could understand if I was a total slob or unconscious of any of the social graces related to eating. (Makes me think of the Friends episode in which Ross is dating a well-put together woman whose apartment is disgustingly slovenly). It is to the point where I am putting off cutting my hair (to donate it), because a part of me fears losing my ability to cover my uncomely splotches and splooches.
I am seriously thinking of creating some kind of quasi-fashionable bib to wear when I go out to eat. It’s either that or only eat at lobster shaks. Of course, I have no idea what this quasi-fashionable bib would look like. I am even calling it quasi-fashionable, because I already recognize the impossibility of wearing any type of bib while I eat and calling it fashionable.
Has it come to this? A plastic parka as my signature fashion statement? *Sigh* Guess I better go to Longs and stock up on Shout towelettes.
But other than that, very polite and conscientious. I mean, I do not chew with my mouth open. I ask my fellow diners to pass me things rather than reaching over them. I do my best to avoid drips and dribbles. I tend to use the correct silverware for its intended purpose. Most people would find me a decorous, non-embarrassing dining partner.
Despite all this, I almost always manage to get food on me. Usually my blouse and/or my hair. Of course, if I drip sauce on my hair, it eventually touches my blouse leaving a stain. I am baffled, because I honestly make a conscientious effort to eat neatly (ever since I noticed my propensity to stain my blouses). I try not to splatter sauce if eating noodles; I endeavor not to drip soup or some ooey, gooey dip; and I am focused when eating salad with dressing.
It has made me paranoid and distracted. When eating out, I continually look at my shirt and hair to see if I made a mess. One minute I am fine, clean and pristine. The next minute . . . glop. Pass me a napkin and an individually packaged “Shout” towelette. So, if we ever happen to eat together, please do not be offended if I seem to be looking down my shirt rather than listening to your scintillating conversation. It’s me, not you.
I saw a Japanese movie recently called, “Gu-Gu the Cat.” The main character kept getting rice in her hair. I could totally relate. I remember eating a teishoku meal at Sushi King (teri chicken and shrimp tempura with sauce, of course). I had to ask my friend to drop me off at home before going to the movie so I could change my shirt! I had speckles of sauce and other debris on me and did not want to go to the movie theatre (aka out in public) like that. Yesterday, as I was hanging up my blouse I noticed some red/pinkish dust near my top button and lapels. It was remnants of my lunch which included Flaming Hot Cheetos.
So what is wrong with me? I could understand if I was a total slob or unconscious of any of the social graces related to eating. (Makes me think of the Friends episode in which Ross is dating a well-put together woman whose apartment is disgustingly slovenly). It is to the point where I am putting off cutting my hair (to donate it), because a part of me fears losing my ability to cover my uncomely splotches and splooches.
I am seriously thinking of creating some kind of quasi-fashionable bib to wear when I go out to eat. It’s either that or only eat at lobster shaks. Of course, I have no idea what this quasi-fashionable bib would look like. I am even calling it quasi-fashionable, because I already recognize the impossibility of wearing any type of bib while I eat and calling it fashionable.
Has it come to this? A plastic parka as my signature fashion statement? *Sigh* Guess I better go to Longs and stock up on Shout towelettes.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Movie Popcorn Amnesia
Like a siren’s call to unsuspecting sailors, so is movie popcorn to me. That roasty, toasty smell of freshly popped corn. The bag, overflowing in its bounty. The “butter” coating each kernel so it catches and reflects the light just so. The satisfying crunchy texture. The salty goodness tantalizing my taste buds. Yes, it is difficult to resist movie popcorn.
So I eat it. I munch and I devour. My fingers become slick with oil, with a touch of traction provided by the salt. My lips glossy with butter-flavored goodness. Somehow it is easy to lose track of how much I am eating while I am being entertained by the action and dialog on the big screen in front of me. Watch, grab, chew, swallow . . . repeat.
Unfortunately, by the time the credits are rolling, so is my previously happy belly. Somehow, the light, fluffy kernels have turned into rusty lead pellets working their way through my intestines – and not in a nice, orderly way, but in a not nice, disorderly way. The unholy combination of fibrous popcorn absorbing liquid and butter-flavored product greasing my insides serve to disrupt the delicate balance of my gastro-intestinal tract.
I will groan tonight. I shall toss and turn, in a vain attempt to find some comfortable position. A position that will quiet the quite-irritated-on-the-verge-of-being-quite-angry stomach of mine that is rebelling against my movie popcorn indulgence. But alas, alack! No position exists and as I lie curled in a fetal position at the mercy of my aging innards, I will ponder how they no longer possess the ability to take the abuse it would literally have sucked up in its younger years. That is, if I am able to ponder anything at all.
One would think that an intelligent, well-educated individual such as myself would spare myself the agony and skip the movie popcorn. But no, like the true siren’s call, it bids me to chomp anew. Each time, like the first time, I am compelled to answer the call. I settle into my seat in the cool, dark room, snuggling my bag of popcorn close to my heart. I smell the familiar smell and I happily begin stuffing my face . . . four, even five kernels at a time. Like movie popcorn had never upset my stomach before. Movie popcorn amnesia. I’ve got it. I’ve got it bad.
So I eat it. I munch and I devour. My fingers become slick with oil, with a touch of traction provided by the salt. My lips glossy with butter-flavored goodness. Somehow it is easy to lose track of how much I am eating while I am being entertained by the action and dialog on the big screen in front of me. Watch, grab, chew, swallow . . . repeat.
Unfortunately, by the time the credits are rolling, so is my previously happy belly. Somehow, the light, fluffy kernels have turned into rusty lead pellets working their way through my intestines – and not in a nice, orderly way, but in a not nice, disorderly way. The unholy combination of fibrous popcorn absorbing liquid and butter-flavored product greasing my insides serve to disrupt the delicate balance of my gastro-intestinal tract.
I will groan tonight. I shall toss and turn, in a vain attempt to find some comfortable position. A position that will quiet the quite-irritated-on-the-verge-of-being-quite-angry stomach of mine that is rebelling against my movie popcorn indulgence. But alas, alack! No position exists and as I lie curled in a fetal position at the mercy of my aging innards, I will ponder how they no longer possess the ability to take the abuse it would literally have sucked up in its younger years. That is, if I am able to ponder anything at all.
One would think that an intelligent, well-educated individual such as myself would spare myself the agony and skip the movie popcorn. But no, like the true siren’s call, it bids me to chomp anew. Each time, like the first time, I am compelled to answer the call. I settle into my seat in the cool, dark room, snuggling my bag of popcorn close to my heart. I smell the familiar smell and I happily begin stuffing my face . . . four, even five kernels at a time. Like movie popcorn had never upset my stomach before. Movie popcorn amnesia. I’ve got it. I’ve got it bad.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Sick of Being Sick
I hate being sick.
There is nothing good about being sick, except perhaps being able to better appreciate one’s health. Other than that, nothing.
My usual cold progresses like this:
Day 1: A very sore throat. Other than that, I usually feel fine. Well, perhaps a little tired. But my throat is so sore, swallowing is difficult and the thought of talking is painful. So I sit in silence trying not to swallow, which is next to impossible (the trying not to swallow part, not the sitting in silence). Somehow you swallow more often when you are consciously trying not to swallow. Coupled with my sore throat is the sinking realization that I am going to be sick for the next week or so. All in all, Day 1 is quite depressing.
Day 2: My incredibly sore throat is gone; however, sinus congestion settles in for the long haul and I begin running a low-grade fever. Just enough to make me loopy. This is the time I do not like to get out of bed. Watching television or reading is too much of an effort. The few times I am conscious, my Brain will argue with my Body.
Brain: Get up and drink some fluid.
Body: I don’t want to.
Brain: You will get dehydrated and feel even worse.
Body: I can’t feel worse than this.
Brain: Yes you can. Get up and drink!
Body: You get up and drink. I’m staying in bed. Bed comfy . . . bed good.
Brain: You’ll regret this tomorrow.
Body: I just want to die already (goes back to sleep and is non-responsive).
Sometimes the brain wins, but not too often. Sometimes I do not even manage to take any medicine, because I can’t drag my sorry carcass out of bed to do that.
Day 3: Fever is gone (hurray!), but is replaced by body aches (boo!) Day 3 is very uncomfortable because of the body aches. No position feels comfortable for more than a few minutes. Sinus congestion is in full stop-up mode (worse than LA traffic during “rush” hour) and makes me continuously blow my nose and breathe through my mouth. Breathing through my mouth makes my throat mildly sore (but nothing like Day 1).
At least during Day 3 I am able to watch television and read, but only a little, because I am exhausted. Still, my Brain begins to win more arguments, so I drink more liquids, take medicine and eat. Speaking of eating, I noticed that while I was sick I ate more quickly than normal. I mean, I was like a steam shovel going at it. Then, I realized my chest would get really tight so I would stop eating and inhale.
Ahh…the realization hit me: I cannot eat and breathe at the same time, since I can only breathe through my mouth! And since for me “eating” includes biting, chewing and swallowing, that’s a long time to go without breathing.
So, I end up hurriedly shoving food in my mouth, chewing, then gasping for air. Shovel food, chew, gasp; shovel food, chew, gasp in a bizarre rhythm. I swear, one time I was so hungry (shovel food, chew-chew, shovel more food, chew-chew-chew, big gasp, shovel food, chew-chew, shovel more food chew-chew-chew. . . well, you get the picture) that I found myself light-headed in the middle of my meal due to lack of oxygen. I am sure that is true and not just my imagination.
Day 4: Most of my body aches are gone (yay!), but the cough arrives. The congestion in my sinus insidiously begins moving to my chest. Coughing jags cause my chest to hurt and I am grouchy because I have not been able to breathe properly in three days. I mean, it’s difficult to sleep or do anything when one cannot breathe. No position or inventive pillow construction can truly help. Many times a good nose spray will help, but you have to use it sparingly and only for a few days or else it will begin constricting the sinus passages, having the exact opposite effect of what you’re using it for.
Also, by Day 4, that’s four days of not having a good, restful sleep. I am too sick to do anything except the most sedentary of activities; and my cough is the type that makes people shift away, because you sound contagious. Also, the nose-blowing/dripping and congestion has not stopped since Day 2. This means that I feel like I have been operating underwater during all this time and the tender skin under my nose is raw. See if you’re not irritable after all that.
Day 5 and 6: Congestion is not as bad, but still definitely sticking around, so to speak. Coughing comes in jags. Usually if I do not talk, I barely cough. Once I start coughing, I will continue coughing until a lung is about to pop out. It’s more of a cough that turns into a vicious hack. I am pretty sure I do not have TB, though.
One of the worst things about this time in my cold progression is that I have an appetite, but eating chocolate and cheese and other items of creamy goodness make me feel terrible. They make my throat itch and increase my already overwhelming amount of . . . er, mucus. Not good.
Also by this time I begin getting quite restless. When I was younger, I would go out at this point and do something. When I was younger, I also relapsed more often than I do now. Hopefully this means I have matured – I am able to show more restraint, more impulse control and the ability to defer gratification . . . to some degree. Not perfect, but definitely a higher degree.
Day 7+: Getting ready to join the real world, even though I have picked up an upper repertory infection in the last couple of days. Somehow, overwhelming fatigue kicks in while I’m getting ready to go back to school or back to work, despite my desire to once again dwell in the land of the living. Coughing and blowing my nose slowly tapers off (hopefully).
Still, it may be a good idea to buy stocks in Ricola and Kleenex.
There is nothing good about being sick, except perhaps being able to better appreciate one’s health. Other than that, nothing.
My usual cold progresses like this:
Day 1: A very sore throat. Other than that, I usually feel fine. Well, perhaps a little tired. But my throat is so sore, swallowing is difficult and the thought of talking is painful. So I sit in silence trying not to swallow, which is next to impossible (the trying not to swallow part, not the sitting in silence). Somehow you swallow more often when you are consciously trying not to swallow. Coupled with my sore throat is the sinking realization that I am going to be sick for the next week or so. All in all, Day 1 is quite depressing.
Day 2: My incredibly sore throat is gone; however, sinus congestion settles in for the long haul and I begin running a low-grade fever. Just enough to make me loopy. This is the time I do not like to get out of bed. Watching television or reading is too much of an effort. The few times I am conscious, my Brain will argue with my Body.
Brain: Get up and drink some fluid.
Body: I don’t want to.
Brain: You will get dehydrated and feel even worse.
Body: I can’t feel worse than this.
Brain: Yes you can. Get up and drink!
Body: You get up and drink. I’m staying in bed. Bed comfy . . . bed good.
Brain: You’ll regret this tomorrow.
Body: I just want to die already (goes back to sleep and is non-responsive).
Sometimes the brain wins, but not too often. Sometimes I do not even manage to take any medicine, because I can’t drag my sorry carcass out of bed to do that.
Day 3: Fever is gone (hurray!), but is replaced by body aches (boo!) Day 3 is very uncomfortable because of the body aches. No position feels comfortable for more than a few minutes. Sinus congestion is in full stop-up mode (worse than LA traffic during “rush” hour) and makes me continuously blow my nose and breathe through my mouth. Breathing through my mouth makes my throat mildly sore (but nothing like Day 1).
At least during Day 3 I am able to watch television and read, but only a little, because I am exhausted. Still, my Brain begins to win more arguments, so I drink more liquids, take medicine and eat. Speaking of eating, I noticed that while I was sick I ate more quickly than normal. I mean, I was like a steam shovel going at it. Then, I realized my chest would get really tight so I would stop eating and inhale.
Ahh…the realization hit me: I cannot eat and breathe at the same time, since I can only breathe through my mouth! And since for me “eating” includes biting, chewing and swallowing, that’s a long time to go without breathing.
So, I end up hurriedly shoving food in my mouth, chewing, then gasping for air. Shovel food, chew, gasp; shovel food, chew, gasp in a bizarre rhythm. I swear, one time I was so hungry (shovel food, chew-chew, shovel more food, chew-chew-chew, big gasp, shovel food, chew-chew, shovel more food chew-chew-chew. . . well, you get the picture) that I found myself light-headed in the middle of my meal due to lack of oxygen. I am sure that is true and not just my imagination.
Day 4: Most of my body aches are gone (yay!), but the cough arrives. The congestion in my sinus insidiously begins moving to my chest. Coughing jags cause my chest to hurt and I am grouchy because I have not been able to breathe properly in three days. I mean, it’s difficult to sleep or do anything when one cannot breathe. No position or inventive pillow construction can truly help. Many times a good nose spray will help, but you have to use it sparingly and only for a few days or else it will begin constricting the sinus passages, having the exact opposite effect of what you’re using it for.
Also, by Day 4, that’s four days of not having a good, restful sleep. I am too sick to do anything except the most sedentary of activities; and my cough is the type that makes people shift away, because you sound contagious. Also, the nose-blowing/dripping and congestion has not stopped since Day 2. This means that I feel like I have been operating underwater during all this time and the tender skin under my nose is raw. See if you’re not irritable after all that.
Day 5 and 6: Congestion is not as bad, but still definitely sticking around, so to speak. Coughing comes in jags. Usually if I do not talk, I barely cough. Once I start coughing, I will continue coughing until a lung is about to pop out. It’s more of a cough that turns into a vicious hack. I am pretty sure I do not have TB, though.
One of the worst things about this time in my cold progression is that I have an appetite, but eating chocolate and cheese and other items of creamy goodness make me feel terrible. They make my throat itch and increase my already overwhelming amount of . . . er, mucus. Not good.
Also by this time I begin getting quite restless. When I was younger, I would go out at this point and do something. When I was younger, I also relapsed more often than I do now. Hopefully this means I have matured – I am able to show more restraint, more impulse control and the ability to defer gratification . . . to some degree. Not perfect, but definitely a higher degree.
Day 7+: Getting ready to join the real world, even though I have picked up an upper repertory infection in the last couple of days. Somehow, overwhelming fatigue kicks in while I’m getting ready to go back to school or back to work, despite my desire to once again dwell in the land of the living. Coughing and blowing my nose slowly tapers off (hopefully).
Still, it may be a good idea to buy stocks in Ricola and Kleenex.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Chris Brown and Rihanna
This whole Chris Brown and Rihanna abuse incident is disturbing on several levels. Since the story broke, Oprah, Tyra and others have dedicated air time to discuss the serious issue of domestic violence. That is not what is disturbing me. From watching snipets of these shows, it seems the American public thinks that if the abuse is not physical, then it is not really abuse . . . or somehow it is not as bad.
Well, I posit that in general, the bruises, hurts and cuts we carry on the inside heal a lot slower and cause a lot more anguish than the buises, hurts and cuts we experience on the outside. I am by no means minimizing physical abuse, but rather trying to get others not to minimize abuse that is not physical.
Verbal, psychological, economic, emotional, sexual and financial abuse can be just as harmful as physical abuse. Many times an abuser will be abusive in more than one area. It is difficult to find physical abuse without verbal and emotional abuse accompanying it. Abuse is abuse and it should always be condemned, no matter what form it may take.
I think it was the Tyra Banks show that showed a clip of a teenaged couple (actors). The boyfriend called the girlfriend fat and said she was too stupid to stick to a simple diet; and in fact, he knew she was stupid when he met her. The women in the Tyra audience did not label that abuse: "What he said might have been mean, but at least he did not hit her or anything."
Aaaauuuuugggghhhh! That type of attitude makes me weep. He was breaking down her self-esteem, making her feel belittled and worthless. Less than. And he is supposed to be her boyfriend?
And people wonder why abused women do not simply leave their abuser!
Can you imagine being made to feel like you are worthless? That you are unable to accomplish anything on your own because you are too dumb and unskilled? In addition you may have (or at least felt like you have) burned all your relationship bridges, because abusers tend to isolate their partners so they must depend solely on the abuser and have no other avenue of support or escape. On top of that, you may have no money of your own. What would you do? Especially if you have children. If you leave, will you be able to take care of your kids, or will you be homeless? Will the State declare you unfit and take your kids away, or worse, give custody to the abuser? Not to mention that studies have shown the most dangerous time for a victim of abuse is after s/he leaves the relationship. That's when most of the deaths/physical harm occurs.
Another bothersome part to this story is that men (especially men in the music/rap industry) have not come out and boldly stated how that kind of behavior is unacceptable. I have heard comments like, "Well, we do not really know what went on between them" and "Even Rihanna's brother said she throws down hard." SO WHAT?
It does not matter if she was in his face or not. He had no right to beat her up. Until men start putting pressure on other men by stating (and believing and acting upon the fact that) abuse is uniquivocally unacceptable; there will be no real revolution in this area. It is not enough to not be an abuser. Men need to actively advocate for non-violence in relationships.
And if she is full of drama? Throwing things and hitting her man? Well, then she's the abuser and she is in the wrong and needs help. Or if she just loves pulling your strings, continually trying to evoke a reaction? Get out of that relationship! It's not an excuse to abuse.
Chris Brown needs help and support. He also needs to understand what he did was wrong and unacceptable and that ultimately the blame rests with him. The abusers in our community (male and female) need the same. If someone is supposed to love and support you, have your back, cherish you, then they should not systematically act in such a manner as to accomplish the exact opposite of all that. Whether it be a relationship between elder and caretaker, parent and child, husband and wife or any other combination.
Abuse is abuse, no matter in which form it may appear. And it is always wrong.
Well, I posit that in general, the bruises, hurts and cuts we carry on the inside heal a lot slower and cause a lot more anguish than the buises, hurts and cuts we experience on the outside. I am by no means minimizing physical abuse, but rather trying to get others not to minimize abuse that is not physical.
Verbal, psychological, economic, emotional, sexual and financial abuse can be just as harmful as physical abuse. Many times an abuser will be abusive in more than one area. It is difficult to find physical abuse without verbal and emotional abuse accompanying it. Abuse is abuse and it should always be condemned, no matter what form it may take.
I think it was the Tyra Banks show that showed a clip of a teenaged couple (actors). The boyfriend called the girlfriend fat and said she was too stupid to stick to a simple diet; and in fact, he knew she was stupid when he met her. The women in the Tyra audience did not label that abuse: "What he said might have been mean, but at least he did not hit her or anything."
Aaaauuuuugggghhhh! That type of attitude makes me weep. He was breaking down her self-esteem, making her feel belittled and worthless. Less than. And he is supposed to be her boyfriend?
And people wonder why abused women do not simply leave their abuser!
Can you imagine being made to feel like you are worthless? That you are unable to accomplish anything on your own because you are too dumb and unskilled? In addition you may have (or at least felt like you have) burned all your relationship bridges, because abusers tend to isolate their partners so they must depend solely on the abuser and have no other avenue of support or escape. On top of that, you may have no money of your own. What would you do? Especially if you have children. If you leave, will you be able to take care of your kids, or will you be homeless? Will the State declare you unfit and take your kids away, or worse, give custody to the abuser? Not to mention that studies have shown the most dangerous time for a victim of abuse is after s/he leaves the relationship. That's when most of the deaths/physical harm occurs.
Another bothersome part to this story is that men (especially men in the music/rap industry) have not come out and boldly stated how that kind of behavior is unacceptable. I have heard comments like, "Well, we do not really know what went on between them" and "Even Rihanna's brother said she throws down hard." SO WHAT?
It does not matter if she was in his face or not. He had no right to beat her up. Until men start putting pressure on other men by stating (and believing and acting upon the fact that) abuse is uniquivocally unacceptable; there will be no real revolution in this area. It is not enough to not be an abuser. Men need to actively advocate for non-violence in relationships.
And if she is full of drama? Throwing things and hitting her man? Well, then she's the abuser and she is in the wrong and needs help. Or if she just loves pulling your strings, continually trying to evoke a reaction? Get out of that relationship! It's not an excuse to abuse.
Chris Brown needs help and support. He also needs to understand what he did was wrong and unacceptable and that ultimately the blame rests with him. The abusers in our community (male and female) need the same. If someone is supposed to love and support you, have your back, cherish you, then they should not systematically act in such a manner as to accomplish the exact opposite of all that. Whether it be a relationship between elder and caretaker, parent and child, husband and wife or any other combination.
Abuse is abuse, no matter in which form it may appear. And it is always wrong.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
INFJ
Some friends and I were having a chat and the Myers-Briggs personality test came up. The real Myers-Briggs test is an extensive questionnaire, but there are shorter versions on the internet that you can take for free (http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/JTypes1.htm). I am not sure how accurate these tests are, but it’s fun to take them and read about one of my favorite subjects…me.
I do not think that I am alone in this. I mean, isn’t everyone interested in the inner workings of me? Yeah. Seriously though, everyone likes to read about themselves (except for famous people when they get bad press, and even in those cases, there are some from the no-press-is-bad-press school of thought, but I digress). I feel like I am pretty self-aware. I know myself well; and am committed to being honest with myself, even when it would be less painful or easier to believe a little white lie. Still, I enjoy taking these tests and seeing if I concur with the results.
The Myers-Briggs test measures you in 4 areas:
How you relate to others: (I)ntrovert vs. (E)xtrovert
How you take in information: I(N)tuitive vs. (S)ensing
How you make decisions: (T)hinking vs. (F)eeling
How you put your life in order: (J)udging vs. (P)erceiving
Taking a closer look at my score, I notice I am very close on the E/I line, which I think is accurate. It’s also accurate that I fall on the “I” side of that line, because I really do need to re-charge internally and not with a bunch of people. I get my energy from within and not from without. While my E/I score was close, I am definitely an “N.” I am way on the “N” side and very far from the “S.” My friend commented that I am the opposite of a lawyer’s profile. I guess that’s why I do not practice anymore, although there is still a small part of me that may want to practice again one day.
According to the on-line test, I register as an INFJ. Apparently, there are not too many of us INFJs around…only about 1% of the population. My immediate reaction? “A-ha! My Mom always said I was a unique and special child. This proves it!” Which was quickly followed by, “Geez, I hope that does not mean I have the propensity to be a serial killer or something awful like that.”
INFJs are labeled “Protectors” “Dreamers” “Mystics” “Healers” or “Idealists,” depending on which site you favor (http://www.geocities.com/lifexplore/infj.htm).
Of course, all the good stuff is right and all the bad stuff is rubbish! Ha! Seriously though, they mention something about desiring harmony above all, and that is something I have been working on…sacrificing a little bit of harmony to advocate or present another point of view. The cliché “a work in progress” is definitely apt!
I do not think that I am alone in this. I mean, isn’t everyone interested in the inner workings of me? Yeah. Seriously though, everyone likes to read about themselves (except for famous people when they get bad press, and even in those cases, there are some from the no-press-is-bad-press school of thought, but I digress). I feel like I am pretty self-aware. I know myself well; and am committed to being honest with myself, even when it would be less painful or easier to believe a little white lie. Still, I enjoy taking these tests and seeing if I concur with the results.
The Myers-Briggs test measures you in 4 areas:
How you relate to others: (I)ntrovert vs. (E)xtrovert
How you take in information: I(N)tuitive vs. (S)ensing
How you make decisions: (T)hinking vs. (F)eeling
How you put your life in order: (J)udging vs. (P)erceiving
Taking a closer look at my score, I notice I am very close on the E/I line, which I think is accurate. It’s also accurate that I fall on the “I” side of that line, because I really do need to re-charge internally and not with a bunch of people. I get my energy from within and not from without. While my E/I score was close, I am definitely an “N.” I am way on the “N” side and very far from the “S.” My friend commented that I am the opposite of a lawyer’s profile. I guess that’s why I do not practice anymore, although there is still a small part of me that may want to practice again one day.
According to the on-line test, I register as an INFJ. Apparently, there are not too many of us INFJs around…only about 1% of the population. My immediate reaction? “A-ha! My Mom always said I was a unique and special child. This proves it!” Which was quickly followed by, “Geez, I hope that does not mean I have the propensity to be a serial killer or something awful like that.”
INFJs are labeled “Protectors” “Dreamers” “Mystics” “Healers” or “Idealists,” depending on which site you favor (http://www.geocities.com/lifexplore/infj.htm).
Of course, all the good stuff is right and all the bad stuff is rubbish! Ha! Seriously though, they mention something about desiring harmony above all, and that is something I have been working on…sacrificing a little bit of harmony to advocate or present another point of view. The cliché “a work in progress” is definitely apt!
Friday, February 20, 2009
Medusa's Got Nothing on Me
My hair is getting to the point where it is difficult to manage. It is almost to my waist and that is long enough. My cousin’s hair is to her knees! I cannot imagine having to take care of hair that long. I would constantly worry if my hair was going somewhere it should not…for example, in the toilet or in my food or hanging out in the next room and picking fights with lesser hair.
My hair is thick and has a little wave in it (thanks, Dad); therefore, when my hair gets long, it does not fall straight and silky down my back. Nope, it twists and turns whichever way it wants at the moment, not taking into consideration that some of its neighbors are going in a completely different direction. It looks quasi-bushy because of all the fly-aways (as if I were a repository for static electricity…not quite as bad as the Bride of Frankenstein, but you get the idea). And it does not matter how often I brush my hair, it looks the same…messy.
Once, a stylist flat-ironed my hair after cutting it. I am sure it was because she saw how unwieldy it was when it was long. While my newly perfectly straight hair felt great, (silky soft as I easily ran my fingers through it, as opposed to getting my fingers stuck in snarls every few inches); unfortunately, it was not a good look for me. I looked like Professor Snape from the Harry Potter movies. I remember the stylist asking the requisite question, “Well, how do you like it?” I believe I smiled and made all the right noises, then as I walked back to my car, I began frantically shaking my hair out…desperately trying to create some kind of body so my hair would not look like it was crazy glued to my scalp.
Anyway, I know it is time to cut my hair for three main reasons: it is getting noticeably heavy; I am frequently slamming it in the car door and other inconvenient places (like while capping my highlighter!); and it is becoming more difficult to sling my bag over my shoulder, because my hair gets awkwardly stuck. Plus (okay, four reasons), when it sheds (as it is wont to do) it seems like there is a huge amount of hair in the tub, on the carpet, etc., simply due to its length. Kinda yucky, even for someone with as high a tolerance for messiness as I possess.
Of course, when I actually cut my hair I will miss it. Not the messiness or the heaviness or the way it would get stuck in things and yank and hurt; but rather, the protection it gave (for blouses with food drips on them), the ease of putting it up in a twist (once it’s shoulder length it will be too short to put up with a chopstick), and the security it provided (like a blanket, but less obvious).
My hair is thick and has a little wave in it (thanks, Dad); therefore, when my hair gets long, it does not fall straight and silky down my back. Nope, it twists and turns whichever way it wants at the moment, not taking into consideration that some of its neighbors are going in a completely different direction. It looks quasi-bushy because of all the fly-aways (as if I were a repository for static electricity…not quite as bad as the Bride of Frankenstein, but you get the idea). And it does not matter how often I brush my hair, it looks the same…messy.
Once, a stylist flat-ironed my hair after cutting it. I am sure it was because she saw how unwieldy it was when it was long. While my newly perfectly straight hair felt great, (silky soft as I easily ran my fingers through it, as opposed to getting my fingers stuck in snarls every few inches); unfortunately, it was not a good look for me. I looked like Professor Snape from the Harry Potter movies. I remember the stylist asking the requisite question, “Well, how do you like it?” I believe I smiled and made all the right noises, then as I walked back to my car, I began frantically shaking my hair out…desperately trying to create some kind of body so my hair would not look like it was crazy glued to my scalp.
Anyway, I know it is time to cut my hair for three main reasons: it is getting noticeably heavy; I am frequently slamming it in the car door and other inconvenient places (like while capping my highlighter!); and it is becoming more difficult to sling my bag over my shoulder, because my hair gets awkwardly stuck. Plus (okay, four reasons), when it sheds (as it is wont to do) it seems like there is a huge amount of hair in the tub, on the carpet, etc., simply due to its length. Kinda yucky, even for someone with as high a tolerance for messiness as I possess.
Of course, when I actually cut my hair I will miss it. Not the messiness or the heaviness or the way it would get stuck in things and yank and hurt; but rather, the protection it gave (for blouses with food drips on them), the ease of putting it up in a twist (once it’s shoulder length it will be too short to put up with a chopstick), and the security it provided (like a blanket, but less obvious).
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Mourning Days
The past few days I was in mourning. Kind of.
Let me explain. Earlier in the week, a friend sent me an e-mail asking how I was coping due to recent events. Confused much? Absolutely! I quickly shot back an e-mail with one word: “Huh?” He replied: “Didn’t know? Haven’t you seen the newspaper or read your tennis magazine? mc got married.”
“Wha-a-a-a?” Dah-duh-dum…and there it was. The death knell on nearly two decades of on-again-off-again crushing. Michael Chang is married. And it’s not to me.
I had to pause to let the reality sink in, then I googled it. Sure enough…married. To someone with Hawaii roots! Seriously?!
(For more of my past feelings for Michael Chang, see my post dated, July 29, 2008, infra.)
The next two days I wore predominantly black dress in keeping with my mourning…the death of what could have been. As I spoke with friends that weekend, it seems a great many people knew about the wedding and did not tell me. They either assumed I knew or did not want to be the bearer of bad news.
I read a few of the articles about Michael tying the knot and I discovered I never stood a chance. First of all, he (and his mother!) were looking exclusively for a Chinese girl. My response: diversify and strengthen the gene pool! Add some Japanese into the mix. It could only be good for the families. Could I convince him to abandon this “qualification” in a bride? I guess we’ll never know.
Also, the woman he married is quite young. About 9 years younger than him. I think maturity has a lot to recommend it. I am definitely more grounded, more insightful and a tiny bit more patient than I was when I was in my twenties.
I was bemoaning the unfairness of it all to a friend while we were in the movie theatre watching previews for upcoming television shows. One preview came on for a new show called “Castle” starring Nathan Fillion. He was great in the movie “Waitress” as well as the cumbersomely named sitcom “Two Guys a Girl and a Pizza Parlor.” But I loved him as Captain Malcolm Reynolds in “Firefly.” (See previous entry dated: June 29, 2007, infra.)
In mid-whine, I said, “Wow, he is still hot!”
My friend (quick to follow my tangent) commented, “It looks like he’s gained some weight. His face looks fuller.”
I replied, “Yeah, I like it!”
And thus, the mourning period was over.
So congratulations and best wishes to Michael Chang and his young Chinese bride. May you both have many years of happiness and prosperity.
And Nathan, if you’re reading this…I’m available.
Let me explain. Earlier in the week, a friend sent me an e-mail asking how I was coping due to recent events. Confused much? Absolutely! I quickly shot back an e-mail with one word: “Huh?” He replied: “Didn’t know? Haven’t you seen the newspaper or read your tennis magazine? mc got married.”
“Wha-a-a-a?” Dah-duh-dum…and there it was. The death knell on nearly two decades of on-again-off-again crushing. Michael Chang is married. And it’s not to me.
I had to pause to let the reality sink in, then I googled it. Sure enough…married. To someone with Hawaii roots! Seriously?!
(For more of my past feelings for Michael Chang, see my post dated, July 29, 2008, infra.)
The next two days I wore predominantly black dress in keeping with my mourning…the death of what could have been. As I spoke with friends that weekend, it seems a great many people knew about the wedding and did not tell me. They either assumed I knew or did not want to be the bearer of bad news.
I read a few of the articles about Michael tying the knot and I discovered I never stood a chance. First of all, he (and his mother!) were looking exclusively for a Chinese girl. My response: diversify and strengthen the gene pool! Add some Japanese into the mix. It could only be good for the families. Could I convince him to abandon this “qualification” in a bride? I guess we’ll never know.
Also, the woman he married is quite young. About 9 years younger than him. I think maturity has a lot to recommend it. I am definitely more grounded, more insightful and a tiny bit more patient than I was when I was in my twenties.
I was bemoaning the unfairness of it all to a friend while we were in the movie theatre watching previews for upcoming television shows. One preview came on for a new show called “Castle” starring Nathan Fillion. He was great in the movie “Waitress” as well as the cumbersomely named sitcom “Two Guys a Girl and a Pizza Parlor.” But I loved him as Captain Malcolm Reynolds in “Firefly.” (See previous entry dated: June 29, 2007, infra.)
In mid-whine, I said, “Wow, he is still hot!”
My friend (quick to follow my tangent) commented, “It looks like he’s gained some weight. His face looks fuller.”
I replied, “Yeah, I like it!”
And thus, the mourning period was over.
So congratulations and best wishes to Michael Chang and his young Chinese bride. May you both have many years of happiness and prosperity.
And Nathan, if you’re reading this…I’m available.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
40 Year Old Christmas Tree
I finally did it. I took my Christmas tree down to the curb.
Now, this is a major accomplishment. I convinced myself (rather easily) that keeping my Christmas tree up past Christmas was whimsical as well as practical. I mean, it still smelled good…why shouldn’t I enjoy it past December 25? But it became more and more difficult to convince myself that keeping the tree up past January 25 was more whimsical than pathetic and downright lazy. So, on January 23, in the dead of night (so my fellow apartment dwellers wouldn’t see), I unscrewed my tree from its stand, awkwardly wrapped it up in an old bed sheet and winded and wielded my way down the hall, down the elevator, through the lobby, across the parking structure, then out to the curb.
Despite my efforts, those dry needles were everywhere. They provided a trail (better than breadcrumbs) of my midnight antics...right to my front door. I used the sheet in the lobby to “sweep” out as many needles as possible; however, I couldn’t run my vacuum at midnight. That would get my neighbors even more upset. Unfortunately, I had to leave home early the next day and was busy all day, so proof of my laziness languished there, mocking me of my laziness for at least 24-hours. Finally, on the following day I hauled out my vacuum and vacuumed the hallway and waiting area in front of the elevators as best as I could. I had to call the elevator three times in order to get the one I had used that night to come to my floor (we have two elevators in my building), so I could take a couple swipes inside with my vacuum.
If one cared to look carefully, one would find needles here and there. A prickly cluster in the corner of my kitchen, a bent one in my front doorjamb, and along the building hallway some crispy brown needles stick out irreverently where the wall meets the carpet. A reminder of my strength of procrastination…er, whimsy.
Well, the New Year is well underway and I feel like time is beginning to fly. I mean, seriously, can it be February already? While the days and weeks seem to inch along, why is it when I look at the calendar, I am so surprised to see the month of January is already gone? Perhaps one reason is because I turn 40 this year. Yikes. It’s such a mile-stone type of year. Forty is supposed to mean stability and accomplishment and strength in sense of self. Well, at least that’s what Oprah said. Or was it Hallmark? I forget. In any case, there is meaning in attaining your 40th year.
When did I start to get old? Last week, someone wanted to pass me on the sidewalk and he said, “excuse me, ma’am.” Ugh. In the last few years I have noticed that the number of salespeople and wait staff have been calling me “ma’am” have steadily increased. I have caught myself using terms such as, “…kids nowadays…” and “back in the day…” My oh my. I am thinking old as well as getting physically older. Bleh.
This is difficult to wrap my mind around, because I have always been the youngest. I am the youngest sibling in my family, by far (the next sibling is 11 years older). When I would hang out with them or their friends, I was always the youngest. I am born in October, so even amongst my schoolmates; I was one of the younger ones. One of the last to get my driver’s license or go to a “real” bar. Even in work, (except for my previous job) I have always been one of the younger staff. Currently, I am the youngest in my office of 5 people).
It is even worse to think of it as mid-life. For some reason, “forty” sounds better than “mid-life,” probably because mid-life intimates that you are in the second half of your life. The sun is no longer rising in your life; it is setting.
Age may just be a number, but numbers do hold some significance. I do not like to think of myself as almost 40, because “almost 40” sounds old. I do not think of myself as old. If anything, I very much have a child-like spirit. My inner child gets free reign, probably too much of the time. I guess I face 40 with some trepidation because of social convention. I will act as I normally do and people will say, “oh my gosh, isn’t she 40?” which would be fine if they said it in an admiring, amazed way rather than in a scandalized, she’s-old-enough-to-know-better kind of way. Oh well, I guess time shall tell…
Now, this is a major accomplishment. I convinced myself (rather easily) that keeping my Christmas tree up past Christmas was whimsical as well as practical. I mean, it still smelled good…why shouldn’t I enjoy it past December 25? But it became more and more difficult to convince myself that keeping the tree up past January 25 was more whimsical than pathetic and downright lazy. So, on January 23, in the dead of night (so my fellow apartment dwellers wouldn’t see), I unscrewed my tree from its stand, awkwardly wrapped it up in an old bed sheet and winded and wielded my way down the hall, down the elevator, through the lobby, across the parking structure, then out to the curb.
Despite my efforts, those dry needles were everywhere. They provided a trail (better than breadcrumbs) of my midnight antics...right to my front door. I used the sheet in the lobby to “sweep” out as many needles as possible; however, I couldn’t run my vacuum at midnight. That would get my neighbors even more upset. Unfortunately, I had to leave home early the next day and was busy all day, so proof of my laziness languished there, mocking me of my laziness for at least 24-hours. Finally, on the following day I hauled out my vacuum and vacuumed the hallway and waiting area in front of the elevators as best as I could. I had to call the elevator three times in order to get the one I had used that night to come to my floor (we have two elevators in my building), so I could take a couple swipes inside with my vacuum.
If one cared to look carefully, one would find needles here and there. A prickly cluster in the corner of my kitchen, a bent one in my front doorjamb, and along the building hallway some crispy brown needles stick out irreverently where the wall meets the carpet. A reminder of my strength of procrastination…er, whimsy.
Well, the New Year is well underway and I feel like time is beginning to fly. I mean, seriously, can it be February already? While the days and weeks seem to inch along, why is it when I look at the calendar, I am so surprised to see the month of January is already gone? Perhaps one reason is because I turn 40 this year. Yikes. It’s such a mile-stone type of year. Forty is supposed to mean stability and accomplishment and strength in sense of self. Well, at least that’s what Oprah said. Or was it Hallmark? I forget. In any case, there is meaning in attaining your 40th year.
When did I start to get old? Last week, someone wanted to pass me on the sidewalk and he said, “excuse me, ma’am.” Ugh. In the last few years I have noticed that the number of salespeople and wait staff have been calling me “ma’am” have steadily increased. I have caught myself using terms such as, “…kids nowadays…” and “back in the day…” My oh my. I am thinking old as well as getting physically older. Bleh.
This is difficult to wrap my mind around, because I have always been the youngest. I am the youngest sibling in my family, by far (the next sibling is 11 years older). When I would hang out with them or their friends, I was always the youngest. I am born in October, so even amongst my schoolmates; I was one of the younger ones. One of the last to get my driver’s license or go to a “real” bar. Even in work, (except for my previous job) I have always been one of the younger staff. Currently, I am the youngest in my office of 5 people).
It is even worse to think of it as mid-life. For some reason, “forty” sounds better than “mid-life,” probably because mid-life intimates that you are in the second half of your life. The sun is no longer rising in your life; it is setting.
Age may just be a number, but numbers do hold some significance. I do not like to think of myself as almost 40, because “almost 40” sounds old. I do not think of myself as old. If anything, I very much have a child-like spirit. My inner child gets free reign, probably too much of the time. I guess I face 40 with some trepidation because of social convention. I will act as I normally do and people will say, “oh my gosh, isn’t she 40?” which would be fine if they said it in an admiring, amazed way rather than in a scandalized, she’s-old-enough-to-know-better kind of way. Oh well, I guess time shall tell…
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