I have been blessed to have best friends that have very similar senses of humor to my own. (And believe me, sometimes my sense of humor is quite twisted.) I had gotten this idea not only from www.textsfromlastnight.com but from several other fave blogs of mine.
Because my friends and I share a common marrow component in our funny bones, I usually get the most random and yet hilarious responses via text from them. Some of them I try to hold onto for as long as I can and have even resorted to placing some in a separate folder on my phone, hoping to preserve their funniness for my enjoyment on days like this past Saturday... where the snow had to barricaded in my house!
So instead, I'd like to put a few of the funnier ones up here before they get discarded for more phone memory. I have a feeling that a lot of them (if not all of them) insist on some sort of retardedly prepubescent inside joke my friends and I have cultivated from our conversations, but nonetheless, here they are:
"Hehe. I'm a gateway drug ...breakin down barriers everywhere!"
"Too much cat sexay goin on"
"Maybe he's on sushi driveby service?"
"I just overheard a lady telling another lady how she wishes she could wear a onesie. OMG."
"So its you and the crackheads. Must be quite entertaining!"
"Yeah, man. He's like a jelly-filled powered donut!"
Showing posts with label reflection. Show all posts
Showing posts with label reflection. Show all posts
Monday, February 1, 2010
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
A Day To Remember (or perhaps to forget)
There are four pages of a scribbled letter tucked inside my black and white marbled notebook. It was the beginnings of a future blog post for this blog - my annual letter to my birthmother - telling her the struggles and triumphs of my 23rd year of being alive.
For the past week and a half, I, for some reason, kept holding off actually sitting down and typing it out here, not because it was too personal or too gritty...honestly, if you had asked me why I wouldn't have been able to give you a straight answer. Maybe it was because I have been so consumed with the move from Dundalk. (Yes, I have finally LEFT Dumb-dalk for good...and will post pictures of the barren room once I find my camera in one of these boxes that are looming in my room.) Whatever the reason, it just never got done.
And maybe it was a sign that I was meant to read it to her in person...
I don't really know where to begin with the rest of this post. I was trying to think of some clever epithet that might transition into the whole point of the post - but at this point, my brain is too fried with an excess abundance of emotion and utter cluster-fuckery (I just made that word up.) to even be witty or even give a hoot whether I am witty or not.
December 23, 2008 @ around 1 AM will be forever seared in my brain. If and when I have children, and I reflect on this tale to fill bedtime story nights, I will probably still struggle to piece together just exactly what got seared into my brain: a cautionary tale or a Christmas miracle. It is too early yet to decide.
But whatever it will be - what it is right now, at the present, is the exact time that I was trying to get rid of a nasty migraine by sleeping it away... and my 2nd night sleeping on the mattress that is in what will eventually be my bedroom in my Aunt's house. It seems ordinary and simple enough, and started out as any other night ...except that 1 AM will also forever be seared into my brain as the time my mother came into my bedroom to wake me up with the news.
The news that my birthparents have been searching for me and want to meet me.
It is now 11:02 pm of the very same day and I think I must have written the above sentence or said variations of it to myself at least a hundred thousand times. And yet even with saying it a hundred thousand more, I do not think that the sentence's true meaning will ever fully sink itself into my brain and channel signals of acknowledgement to my being.
Even now, there is still detachment from that sentence - as if tomorrow that whole sequence: me sleeping, my mom rushing into my bedroom in her jacket, shaking me awake, her eyes lighting up, and me sleepily opening my eyes to watch her lips move to form the words of that very same sentence....that whole sequence will be nothing but a dream. An afterthought to another dream that I had had.
But a part of me knows that it wasn't. That it was real. But I am not ready to believe that part. All day long I have been trying to figure out how to sum up how I feel and I just can't...it is hard to explain how in one moment - everything has changed with nothing happening. How just words could change my entire world and turn it upside down with no action following.
I am, Blog, scared shitless. Today I have felt happy, annoyed, joyous, angry, resentful, sadness, fear and frustration in succession of each other and even at times, simultaneously.
I have so much to say and yet have no words to say it with.
I have so many questions and yet am not quite sure I want to know the answers.
I want...and yet wish it was easier just to walk away...at the exact same time.
And despite all these crazy feelings - the one thing I keep dwelling on is the revelation that they searched for me.
For the past week and a half, I, for some reason, kept holding off actually sitting down and typing it out here, not because it was too personal or too gritty...honestly, if you had asked me why I wouldn't have been able to give you a straight answer. Maybe it was because I have been so consumed with the move from Dundalk. (Yes, I have finally LEFT Dumb-dalk for good...and will post pictures of the barren room once I find my camera in one of these boxes that are looming in my room.) Whatever the reason, it just never got done.
And maybe it was a sign that I was meant to read it to her in person...
I don't really know where to begin with the rest of this post. I was trying to think of some clever epithet that might transition into the whole point of the post - but at this point, my brain is too fried with an excess abundance of emotion and utter cluster-fuckery (I just made that word up.) to even be witty or even give a hoot whether I am witty or not.
December 23, 2008 @ around 1 AM will be forever seared in my brain. If and when I have children, and I reflect on this tale to fill bedtime story nights, I will probably still struggle to piece together just exactly what got seared into my brain: a cautionary tale or a Christmas miracle. It is too early yet to decide.
But whatever it will be - what it is right now, at the present, is the exact time that I was trying to get rid of a nasty migraine by sleeping it away... and my 2nd night sleeping on the mattress that is in what will eventually be my bedroom in my Aunt's house. It seems ordinary and simple enough, and started out as any other night ...except that 1 AM will also forever be seared into my brain as the time my mother came into my bedroom to wake me up with the news.
The news that my birthparents have been searching for me and want to meet me.
It is now 11:02 pm of the very same day and I think I must have written the above sentence or said variations of it to myself at least a hundred thousand times. And yet even with saying it a hundred thousand more, I do not think that the sentence's true meaning will ever fully sink itself into my brain and channel signals of acknowledgement to my being.
Even now, there is still detachment from that sentence - as if tomorrow that whole sequence: me sleeping, my mom rushing into my bedroom in her jacket, shaking me awake, her eyes lighting up, and me sleepily opening my eyes to watch her lips move to form the words of that very same sentence....that whole sequence will be nothing but a dream. An afterthought to another dream that I had had.
But a part of me knows that it wasn't. That it was real. But I am not ready to believe that part. All day long I have been trying to figure out how to sum up how I feel and I just can't...it is hard to explain how in one moment - everything has changed with nothing happening. How just words could change my entire world and turn it upside down with no action following.
I am, Blog, scared shitless. Today I have felt happy, annoyed, joyous, angry, resentful, sadness, fear and frustration in succession of each other and even at times, simultaneously.
I have so much to say and yet have no words to say it with.
I have so many questions and yet am not quite sure I want to know the answers.
I want...and yet wish it was easier just to walk away...at the exact same time.
And despite all these crazy feelings - the one thing I keep dwelling on is the revelation that they searched for me.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
If God was on my doorstep this morning...
I would re-enact that scene from "Say Anything" and blare this song out of a 1980's boombox as loud as the volume dial would go. This is the new single from the highly-anticipated (for me and my best friend anyway) album from The Fray. It's is self-titled and although you might think it's too early for this yet -- this song has become my all-time life-anthem and will now replace that wretched smelling pink bookbag that I still have hung in my closet from my homeless days. Not only is this song more therapeutic, but I'm sure my room will stop smelling so bad now that the bookbag has had its proper burial in the trash.
I found God on the corner of First and Amistad
where the west was all but won
All alone, smoking his last cigarette
I said "where have you been?"
he said "ask anything"
"Where were you
When everything was falling apart?
All my days
Were spent by the telephone
It never rang
And all I needed was a voice
It never came
To the corner of First and Amistad"
Lost and insecure
you found me, you found me
lying on the floor
surrounded, surrounded
Why'd you have to wait?
Where were you, where were you?
Jst a little late
you found me, you found me
In the end everyone ends up alone
losing her,
the only one whose ever known
who i am, who im not, who i want to be
no way to know,
how lost you will be next to me
lost and insecure
you found me, you found me
lying on the floor
why'd you have to wait?
where were you where were you?
just a little late
you found me, you found me
early morning city wakes
I've been calling
for years and years and years and years
and you never left me no messages
you never send me no letters
you've got some kind of nerve
sticking all i want...
lost and insecure
you found me, you found me
lying on the floor
where were you where were you?
lost and insecure
you found me you found me
lying on the floor
surrounded, surrounded
why'd you have to wait?
where were you where were you?
just a little late
you found me, you found me
yeah yeah
Why'd you have to wait
to find me, to find me?
I found God on the corner of First and Amistad
where the west was all but won
All alone, smoking his last cigarette
I said "where have you been?"
he said "ask anything"
"Where were you
When everything was falling apart?
All my days
Were spent by the telephone
It never rang
And all I needed was a voice
It never came
To the corner of First and Amistad"
Lost and insecure
you found me, you found me
lying on the floor
surrounded, surrounded
Why'd you have to wait?
Where were you, where were you?
Jst a little late
you found me, you found me
In the end everyone ends up alone
losing her,
the only one whose ever known
who i am, who im not, who i want to be
no way to know,
how lost you will be next to me
lost and insecure
you found me, you found me
lying on the floor
why'd you have to wait?
where were you where were you?
just a little late
you found me, you found me
early morning city wakes
I've been calling
for years and years and years and years
and you never left me no messages
you never send me no letters
you've got some kind of nerve
sticking all i want...
lost and insecure
you found me, you found me
lying on the floor
where were you where were you?
lost and insecure
you found me you found me
lying on the floor
surrounded, surrounded
why'd you have to wait?
where were you where were you?
just a little late
you found me, you found me
yeah yeah
Why'd you have to wait
to find me, to find me?
Friday, November 21, 2008
99 Problems
This morning's Damage Control Report:
(1) semi-sore throat with a slight post-nasal drip.
(Probably a rebuttal from that region of my face for locking myself in my office during lunch and having an hour cry-fest.)
(10) completely bitten and torn up fingertips.
(Because when all shit hits the fan, my nail-biting habit ensues. And why worry about manicures when I still have my car payment to pay?)
(3) cups of coffee.
(The amount of caffeine it took to actually wake my ass up today.)
(2) hours of sleep.
(Why I needed the coffee)
On the up side, I did self-consciously reaffirm to myself last night within my 2 hours of sleep that I, in fact, have not lost my optimism.
In the dream there was this massive SUV that miraculously somehow held every single one of my friends along with me. We were just driving along with no particular direction when I felt this incredible shove out of no where to the right of me. I immediately felt my chest cave in, and my body get thrusted forwards. (Not only did it happen in the dream but I know that I definitely felt something.) I frantically began looking around the car for the safety of my friends, and it felt like we were transcending into this Matrix-like space in time where I could literally see the pieces of glass flying through the air in slow motion. I caught the faces of my friends - all of them fine, no blood, no cuts, no broken bones. And just like that - the car finally came to a screeching thud-pounding stop.
I realized that everything was okay. The car accident itself was a tragic and traumatic experience but in the wake of the aftermath - I had survived. Everyone had survived. I remember hearing my friend Andie's voice calling to me from the back seat as I quickly was dialing 911. "Everything is okay."
Everything is going to be okay. I just have to keep believing that. This is small, it's a little hill on my tumultuous journey through life. And I can survive it.
So I guess a big thanks to my self-conscious is definitely in order.
(1) semi-sore throat with a slight post-nasal drip.
(Probably a rebuttal from that region of my face for locking myself in my office during lunch and having an hour cry-fest.)
(10) completely bitten and torn up fingertips.
(Because when all shit hits the fan, my nail-biting habit ensues. And why worry about manicures when I still have my car payment to pay?)
(3) cups of coffee.
(The amount of caffeine it took to actually wake my ass up today.)
(2) hours of sleep.
(Why I needed the coffee)
On the up side, I did self-consciously reaffirm to myself last night within my 2 hours of sleep that I, in fact, have not lost my optimism.
In the dream there was this massive SUV that miraculously somehow held every single one of my friends along with me. We were just driving along with no particular direction when I felt this incredible shove out of no where to the right of me. I immediately felt my chest cave in, and my body get thrusted forwards. (Not only did it happen in the dream but I know that I definitely felt something.) I frantically began looking around the car for the safety of my friends, and it felt like we were transcending into this Matrix-like space in time where I could literally see the pieces of glass flying through the air in slow motion. I caught the faces of my friends - all of them fine, no blood, no cuts, no broken bones. And just like that - the car finally came to a screeching thud-pounding stop.
I realized that everything was okay. The car accident itself was a tragic and traumatic experience but in the wake of the aftermath - I had survived. Everyone had survived. I remember hearing my friend Andie's voice calling to me from the back seat as I quickly was dialing 911. "Everything is okay."
Everything is going to be okay. I just have to keep believing that. This is small, it's a little hill on my tumultuous journey through life. And I can survive it.
So I guess a big thanks to my self-conscious is definitely in order.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Kimchi Weekend #2 2008 (In order to fulfill my curiousity in how men go to the bathroom)
Okay, so the hose is nowhere near my crotch...but somewhere in my deranged, off-center thought process, I could envision while standing there for about 30-45 minutes holding that hose in my hand in a slightly downward position that this would be, in fact, the closest thing to being a man standing at a urinal. That is, if that said man were 300 lbs and had a bladder the size of the Lochness monster. Ahh, a girl can wonder, can't she?The past weekend marked the 2nd "Kimchi Weekend" at Laura unni's house and proved to be just as fun, and even more rewarding than the first time I went. There is definitely something to be said about cooking collectively that brings a group of people together in an amazing and surreal way. It seems so subtle and sort of ridiculous - the idea of standing in a kitchen together, slaving over the stove, peeling and cutting vegetables, filling big tubs of cabbage up with water - but I have never felt more connected with four women in my entire life, almost as close as the first time that I ever learned how to cook any Korean dish in a Korean kitchen.
See all those bottle tops there? Awww yeah, you're not seeing things - that is all alcohol, baby. Let's just say the first night was our attempt at making mandu that ended in four or five drinks later, a girl pow-wow outside on the porch curled up together chattering until 6 AM and absolutely no mandu made at all.
Every time I go to Laura's house, I feel like I get closer to a part of myself that I had never exposed before. Sometimes a part of myself that I didn't even know existed. It's a comforting and blessed thing to be able to have a place to go with nothing holding you back from being completely yourself and to be surrounded by people who only encourage and facilitate your inner soul to grow and emerge as a stronger person.
As horribly stereotypical as this is going to sound, I felt like I was in a scene of the Joy Luck Club. Or Soul Food. Or The Ice Storm. Five women in a kitchen until 5 AM, talking of life, love, loss, pain, perseverance, courage, bravery and being scared shitless sometimes. It was like the scene of a movie where you know this is the pivotal point, this is where the epitome of the movie is coming from. This wholly collective togetherness that is encasing around these five individuals.
I was left with a lot of wonderful, somewhat scary, and yet poignant thoughts to ponder when leaving Laura's house. And I also took away with me some amazing new friendships.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
If I take my heart's advice, you can be sure, I'm still unsteady...
This past weekend's events have become an entire blur with only bits and pieces electrifying through the nerves in my brain to communicate that yes, you did do things this weekend.
For starters on Friday, I was reunited, if only for one night, with my friend Y, who was on her way to Staten Island where she will reside indefinitely (hopefully, for her sake). It was a nice reunion, filled with a night of endless driving, (If anyone were to ever ask me how to get anywhere in the state of Virginia, please do not be offended when I laugh maniacally in your face. Short Code: Virginia's roads are definitely not for lovers, and more explicitly, not for me) girl-talk until the wee hours, several hours of partying and dancing to the sounds of Noel Sanger (who I coincidentally had an impromptu "heart-to-heart" talk with at the end of the night that was pretty cool) and then a very near-crazy 58-mile drive home for myself, alone.
I spent most of the beautiful weather on Saturday inside the confines of my room. Not because I was broke or because there were no plans (And here is where I input yet another apology to K.Hyon for missing out on hanging out in the rays of daylight!), but because my partied-out, old-fart ass was complacently passed out in the thrawls of slumber for several hours - hours only intermittently disturbed by my addiction to YouTube videos and watching reruns of Clean House on the Style Network (Don't deny the powers of Ms. Niecy...seriously).
I was abruptly pulled from this spell by numerous phone calls, one of which was Darren (aka Bathroom Boy) which went as follows:
Me: (sleepily) He...hello?
Bathroom Boy: Dude, what happened to you last night? What are you doing?
Me: (pulling a potato chip out of the bag lying in front of me on top of my comforter) Nothing, I was just lying around, catching up on sleep from last night. And what do you mean what happened to me last night? I was at Snatch. Where were you?
Bathroom Boy: I looked for you - everywhere.
(Note: I hardly believe that he looked EVERYWHERE. Because if he had, in fact, looked EVERYWHERE then he would have inevitably found ME.)
Last night was Christian's birthday, and I stopped by to say hi before heading to Buzz.
Me: Ohh...was that you? I saw some tall black dude with glasses on walking out the door but I figured you'd be at Buzz, so I knew it wouldn't be you.
Bathroom Boy: Well it was, and you missed out. Anyway, so I'll see you tonight.
(Note: That was not a question.)
Me: Wait - what do you mean? See me tonight? Who said I was going anywhere?
Bathroom Boy: No one did. But you're on the guestlist, and it's free before 11...so be there.
Me: Wow, that's very direct and bossy of you. What if I don't want to go?
Bathroom Boy: You don't have to want to go - but you must be there.
Me: Peer pressure, much?
Bathroom Boy: Peer pressure all the way. See you tonight. [Click.]
Five hours later, a trip to downtown Baltimore's Sutton Place to pick up three tag-a-longs and off on 295 I went. I wrangled up enough energy to drive myself to DC, yet again and parked the car.
Ten minutes later, after meeting J.Lo and Ciconte and Dane at the door - we were inside, and down to the main room.
Several hours of dancing, partying, laughing and [will insert another story at a later date here], I was ready to go home, and so were my tag-a-longs. However, my friends had a different plan in mind and within 20 minutes of coersive speech on their part - I found myself in the car, with R and the tag-a-longs driving back to Baltimore to do a drop-off and head my ass as well as R's back to Virginia for a further partying fiasco.
In the end, this weekend was altogether fun, and I am ultimately proud of myself for the way that I held myself this weekend, with all things considered.
This weekend is going to bring lots more pictures, I promise - as I take on the road again towards Pennsylvania to stay with L unni and the Korean sistas for our now monthly "Kimchi Weekend". I can't wait. It'll be really relaxing, and peaceful to just be around people who completely and utterly get you. Plus, throwing a few martinis and a shitload of delicious kimchi and mandu in the mix doesn't hurt either.
For starters on Friday, I was reunited, if only for one night, with my friend Y, who was on her way to Staten Island where she will reside indefinitely (hopefully, for her sake). It was a nice reunion, filled with a night of endless driving, (If anyone were to ever ask me how to get anywhere in the state of Virginia, please do not be offended when I laugh maniacally in your face. Short Code: Virginia's roads are definitely not for lovers, and more explicitly, not for me) girl-talk until the wee hours, several hours of partying and dancing to the sounds of Noel Sanger (who I coincidentally had an impromptu "heart-to-heart" talk with at the end of the night that was pretty cool) and then a very near-crazy 58-mile drive home for myself, alone.
I spent most of the beautiful weather on Saturday inside the confines of my room. Not because I was broke or because there were no plans (And here is where I input yet another apology to K.Hyon for missing out on hanging out in the rays of daylight!), but because my partied-out, old-fart ass was complacently passed out in the thrawls of slumber for several hours - hours only intermittently disturbed by my addiction to YouTube videos and watching reruns of Clean House on the Style Network (Don't deny the powers of Ms. Niecy...seriously).
I was abruptly pulled from this spell by numerous phone calls, one of which was Darren (aka Bathroom Boy) which went as follows:
Me: (sleepily) He...hello?
Bathroom Boy: Dude, what happened to you last night? What are you doing?
Me: (pulling a potato chip out of the bag lying in front of me on top of my comforter) Nothing, I was just lying around, catching up on sleep from last night. And what do you mean what happened to me last night? I was at Snatch. Where were you?
Bathroom Boy: I looked for you - everywhere.
(Note: I hardly believe that he looked EVERYWHERE. Because if he had, in fact, looked EVERYWHERE then he would have inevitably found ME.)
Last night was Christian's birthday, and I stopped by to say hi before heading to Buzz.
Me: Ohh...was that you? I saw some tall black dude with glasses on walking out the door but I figured you'd be at Buzz, so I knew it wouldn't be you.
Bathroom Boy: Well it was, and you missed out. Anyway, so I'll see you tonight.
(Note: That was not a question.)
Me: Wait - what do you mean? See me tonight? Who said I was going anywhere?
Bathroom Boy: No one did. But you're on the guestlist, and it's free before 11...so be there.
Me: Wow, that's very direct and bossy of you. What if I don't want to go?
Bathroom Boy: You don't have to want to go - but you must be there.
Me: Peer pressure, much?
Bathroom Boy: Peer pressure all the way. See you tonight. [Click.]
Five hours later, a trip to downtown Baltimore's Sutton Place to pick up three tag-a-longs and off on 295 I went. I wrangled up enough energy to drive myself to DC, yet again and parked the car.
Ten minutes later, after meeting J.Lo and Ciconte and Dane at the door - we were inside, and down to the main room.
Several hours of dancing, partying, laughing and [will insert another story at a later date here], I was ready to go home, and so were my tag-a-longs. However, my friends had a different plan in mind and within 20 minutes of coersive speech on their part - I found myself in the car, with R and the tag-a-longs driving back to Baltimore to do a drop-off and head my ass as well as R's back to Virginia for a further partying fiasco.
In the end, this weekend was altogether fun, and I am ultimately proud of myself for the way that I held myself this weekend, with all things considered.
This weekend is going to bring lots more pictures, I promise - as I take on the road again towards Pennsylvania to stay with L unni and the Korean sistas for our now monthly "Kimchi Weekend". I can't wait. It'll be really relaxing, and peaceful to just be around people who completely and utterly get you. Plus, throwing a few martinis and a shitload of delicious kimchi and mandu in the mix doesn't hurt either.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Just for the record...
I will probably never be okay with how it all went down. And it will probably always leave this bitter taste in my mouth whenever I think about it - and me always wondering, what exactly it was that made the final taste so bitter?
There are so much of my feelings that I want to exert upon - and so many of my thoughts that I have kept to myself, mostly because I really haven't found a way to make them make sense outside my mind, but maybe one day: I'll be sitting in my house reading a book or out on the beach with the waves crashing in and I will be able to grab my journal and write down everything I feel and think at this exact moment in ways I never thought I'd be able to express. This is the act of composting. This is my way of spring cleaning for my soul.
There are so much of my feelings that I want to exert upon - and so many of my thoughts that I have kept to myself, mostly because I really haven't found a way to make them make sense outside my mind, but maybe one day: I'll be sitting in my house reading a book or out on the beach with the waves crashing in and I will be able to grab my journal and write down everything I feel and think at this exact moment in ways I never thought I'd be able to express. This is the act of composting. This is my way of spring cleaning for my soul.
Friday, March 21, 2008
My Coming to America
When I was around 10 or 11 years old, I used to feel really uncomfortable and uneasy when it came to my friends and the conversation of birthdays. I'm not sure if your peers at that age were anything like mine, but it became some one's novelty idea to state not only their date of birth but the exact time stamp as well. You would be in the middle of 5th grade English class, and it'd be Mary Sue's birthday and when asked if it was, indeed, her birthday, Mary Sue would reply: "Yes! But my Mom says I wasn't born until 1:45 pm exactly!"
At that age, the fact that I couldn't give you the exact time of my birth unsettled me in some way. I don't know if I can dig that far back into my past to precisely explain to you why I felt the way that I did, and I'm not even sure that if you could talk to the 10-year old me that I would be able to explain it any better. I just did.
I felt embarrassed, and overwhelmed with just how embarrassed I felt over some minute detail that in the grand scheme of things, held little to no consequence if not to just be some sentimental value to throw into the pages of a baby book. But God, no matter how lame you might have tried to twist it to be, I would have wanted nothing more than to tell you what time I was born.
When I think back at the significance of my feelings as a kid, I guess I could self-analyze and tell you that this obsession and immense feeling of hurt/embarrassment that came with not knowing the time of day I was brought into this world would probably stem from the deeper-rooted problem of just not knowing anything. It could be, but I can't exactly be sure. Perhaps you could just chalk it up to pure peer pressure and peer anxiety of wanting to fit in. I guess maybe essentially that's all my adoption issues were - this identity confusion and overwhelming sense of wanting to find a place to belong. Who knows. (I sure as hell don't, even after all these years.)
Today, though, today is my redemption. Today would eventually become the counter-attack for my self-esteem during the early years when I would battle with my adoption demons over what made me feel more "whole". And as I grew older, and into my now early twenties, I have been able to remember this day with a tainted bittersweetness. The kind of bittersweetness you feel when speaking of a loved one: can't live with it, can't live without it.
Today is my "Gotcha' Day". The day that I arrived off the plane from South Korea into BWI at around 11:45 pm at night. The flight was long and I was actually part of a group of seven or eight children that were being flown into the airport from Korea with my parents being one of the adoptive couples. I hear stories, and I see pictures - a picture of my tiny, frail premature body being carried off the plane by one of my mother's closest friends - another picture of an anonymous Korean woman standing at the edge of the airflight gate, looking on with tears in her eyes. I had later learned that this woman was one of the young Korean women who volunteer to be "baby escorts" or pseudo-mothers for at least the long journey over to America. This was my "birth", so to speak. This was my coming into my life as an Asian-American. As the person that I am now.
At the peak of my teen angst years, I looked at this day with disdain. In my eyes, I was brought here against my will, I had no say in the matter - and it especially hit me harder whenever my parents would say things like, "We didn't bring you here to screw up your life." or "We adopted you to save you. You wouldn't have survived at all in that orphanage."
Nowadays, it's just a day. A day to remember, of course, but just a day nonetheless. Without it, I probably wouldn't be here writing in this blog, in this chair, thinking about how my Spanish midterm is due by midnight tonight. With it, I have faced a lot of turmoil, identity confusion, frustration and hurt. But I wouldn't be me without all of those things.
So maybe, just maybe, I'll break out the vodka and orange juice tonight to celebrate. And more than likely, I might even throw on "Coming to America" to heighten the celebration festivities. =)
At that age, the fact that I couldn't give you the exact time of my birth unsettled me in some way. I don't know if I can dig that far back into my past to precisely explain to you why I felt the way that I did, and I'm not even sure that if you could talk to the 10-year old me that I would be able to explain it any better. I just did.
I felt embarrassed, and overwhelmed with just how embarrassed I felt over some minute detail that in the grand scheme of things, held little to no consequence if not to just be some sentimental value to throw into the pages of a baby book. But God, no matter how lame you might have tried to twist it to be, I would have wanted nothing more than to tell you what time I was born.
When I think back at the significance of my feelings as a kid, I guess I could self-analyze and tell you that this obsession and immense feeling of hurt/embarrassment that came with not knowing the time of day I was brought into this world would probably stem from the deeper-rooted problem of just not knowing anything. It could be, but I can't exactly be sure. Perhaps you could just chalk it up to pure peer pressure and peer anxiety of wanting to fit in. I guess maybe essentially that's all my adoption issues were - this identity confusion and overwhelming sense of wanting to find a place to belong. Who knows. (I sure as hell don't, even after all these years.)
Today, though, today is my redemption. Today would eventually become the counter-attack for my self-esteem during the early years when I would battle with my adoption demons over what made me feel more "whole". And as I grew older, and into my now early twenties, I have been able to remember this day with a tainted bittersweetness. The kind of bittersweetness you feel when speaking of a loved one: can't live with it, can't live without it.
Today is my "Gotcha' Day". The day that I arrived off the plane from South Korea into BWI at around 11:45 pm at night. The flight was long and I was actually part of a group of seven or eight children that were being flown into the airport from Korea with my parents being one of the adoptive couples. I hear stories, and I see pictures - a picture of my tiny, frail premature body being carried off the plane by one of my mother's closest friends - another picture of an anonymous Korean woman standing at the edge of the airflight gate, looking on with tears in her eyes. I had later learned that this woman was one of the young Korean women who volunteer to be "baby escorts" or pseudo-mothers for at least the long journey over to America. This was my "birth", so to speak. This was my coming into my life as an Asian-American. As the person that I am now.
At the peak of my teen angst years, I looked at this day with disdain. In my eyes, I was brought here against my will, I had no say in the matter - and it especially hit me harder whenever my parents would say things like, "We didn't bring you here to screw up your life." or "We adopted you to save you. You wouldn't have survived at all in that orphanage."
Nowadays, it's just a day. A day to remember, of course, but just a day nonetheless. Without it, I probably wouldn't be here writing in this blog, in this chair, thinking about how my Spanish midterm is due by midnight tonight. With it, I have faced a lot of turmoil, identity confusion, frustration and hurt. But I wouldn't be me without all of those things.
So maybe, just maybe, I'll break out the vodka and orange juice tonight to celebrate. And more than likely, I might even throw on "Coming to America" to heighten the celebration festivities. =)
Monday, March 3, 2008
Meet me at the crossroads (Echo & Fade: crossroads...crossroads)
There is no better way to explain how I feel at this precise moment than to tell you that I am at a definite and indefinite crossroads.
For the most part 2008 has become synonymous with the word "change" for me. A transition of sorts that keeps spiraling me further and further into a point where I realize - I just need to let go. There comes a point in a person's life when you just cannot have control over any thing.
I got offered a position as an M.A. for a doctor's office close-by. I had gotten a call sometime last week from my old Biology teacher who had recommended me for the position. Believe me, I was excited - but at the same time, I am really frightened. And I don't know why.
I always keep telling myself that I need a change - and yet, when one comes, I shy away. In all things. I am such a weirdo like that.
The doctor's office would train me. I don't have to know a damned thing. I was scared they wouldn't want to hire me, partially because I am so young in my educational career - with only a few science credits under my belt, and no challenging lab experiences - let alone real-time patient interaction.
But now they want to offer me the job. And I'm scared. Why? Why am I so frightened of something that would really be beneficial for me in the long run?
Well, for one thing, I'd be making significantly less. But the hours are flexible and all over the place. That has its good and bad points. Good: I'd be able to space my classes farther apart, and attend more classes and be able to have more study time (because I am currently WAY behind in my Spanish Web class. I don't know how I am going to catch up, EVER. But I have to get an A!). Bad: I probably wouldn't have consistent times off. Not that that is really bad- it's just something to think about.
Also, with such a cut in pay, I would have to take on a second job. Most likely a retail one - because no corporate job (unless I worked as a secretary or something) would be able to let me work part time with some goofy-ass hours.
This is what I want- isn't it? This is the start of my new chapter/phase in my life, right? A start towards my future, and what I've been working my ass off for the past couple of months for.
So why do I feel like such a chicken shit ready to piss my pants?
For the most part 2008 has become synonymous with the word "change" for me. A transition of sorts that keeps spiraling me further and further into a point where I realize - I just need to let go. There comes a point in a person's life when you just cannot have control over any thing.
I got offered a position as an M.A. for a doctor's office close-by. I had gotten a call sometime last week from my old Biology teacher who had recommended me for the position. Believe me, I was excited - but at the same time, I am really frightened. And I don't know why.
I always keep telling myself that I need a change - and yet, when one comes, I shy away. In all things. I am such a weirdo like that.
The doctor's office would train me. I don't have to know a damned thing. I was scared they wouldn't want to hire me, partially because I am so young in my educational career - with only a few science credits under my belt, and no challenging lab experiences - let alone real-time patient interaction.
But now they want to offer me the job. And I'm scared. Why? Why am I so frightened of something that would really be beneficial for me in the long run?
Well, for one thing, I'd be making significantly less. But the hours are flexible and all over the place. That has its good and bad points. Good: I'd be able to space my classes farther apart, and attend more classes and be able to have more study time (because I am currently WAY behind in my Spanish Web class. I don't know how I am going to catch up, EVER. But I have to get an A!). Bad: I probably wouldn't have consistent times off. Not that that is really bad- it's just something to think about.
Also, with such a cut in pay, I would have to take on a second job. Most likely a retail one - because no corporate job (unless I worked as a secretary or something) would be able to let me work part time with some goofy-ass hours.
This is what I want- isn't it? This is the start of my new chapter/phase in my life, right? A start towards my future, and what I've been working my ass off for the past couple of months for.
So why do I feel like such a chicken shit ready to piss my pants?
Monday, February 4, 2008
My Love Note To Always Half-Asleep
This is my love note to the author of "Always Half-Asleep.
I know that I promised earlier that I would write further about the CDs that you sent me, and about how I'd been listening to each CD over and over again but I just hadn't gotten to it yet. Mainly because I haven't been able to really listen to all of them in their entireties yet.
And I still haven't.
I have only gone through maybe three or four of your mixes, but I just had to finally write something to you today.
Why? Because I love you, seriously. It's like we're kindred music spirits, or long-lost music Wonder Twins that just needed to finally come together. Okay, let me elaborate on my gooberness:
When you first sent me the said CDs, I was going through my hair loss and a lot of self-esteem changes. I was so excited to receive your package thinking I was only going to get two CDs of your music, when lo and behold, there were like ten or so! The first CD that I popped into my player was "Light of the Moon" I believe. And then came "Sunrise" and then "Dying". I listened to them, and initially gravitated towards the songs that at first listen, caught my attention. And I'd play them over and over again. I uploaded them into my iPod so I could keep listening to them over and over again at work.
There were songs on the first three or so CDs that made me cry, made me laugh, and made me feel whole again. I am not kidding. Your CDs in every way imaginable, all the music, it just moved me, got me feeling happier, wanting to keep listening to the song over and over again like an addict, hoping to keep getting the happy feeling each time I listened to it, and I did.
Then I popped in more. I can't even remember some of the names of the CDs that you labeled, but I would just pop them into my CD player in my car and listen to them as I drove. That's when my love for you and your freakin' amazing music taste really blossomed.
Whether I was driving to something happy, or driving from something incredibly sad, or just plain confused and driving to no particular place at all, somehow, the music just...said whatever I felt. How retarded it must sound now to admit that I would be on 95 at 3 AM in the morning, with tears in my eyes, singing along to a song that just said everything that I wasn't able to say and more.
Last night was no different. I was just headed over to my parents' place to cook them dinner (I have been in the practice of making some bomb-ass spring rolls) and listening to one of your CDs (I don't even know what the label was) and two songs came on during my drive that just hit me precisely where I was at this point, and how I felt.
I had tears in my eyes as I kept listening to those two songs over and over again to my ride there, and my ride back home later in the evening. And as much as the reason for them making me cry and what it reminded me of is sad, and somewhat depressing, being able to have something facilitate the tears and let them flow was an amazing release for me. The songs didn't make all the pain go away, or make all of the problems disappear, but they certainly helped therapeutically in letting me release a lot of emotions I didn't even realize I had pent up inside.
So here is to you, Always Half-Asleep, for helping me find a deeper love and appreciation for music again, and for encouraging me (even though you probably didn't mean to) to remember that it's totally healthy and okay to let go of some tears once in a while. XOXO
I know that I promised earlier that I would write further about the CDs that you sent me, and about how I'd been listening to each CD over and over again but I just hadn't gotten to it yet. Mainly because I haven't been able to really listen to all of them in their entireties yet.
And I still haven't.
I have only gone through maybe three or four of your mixes, but I just had to finally write something to you today.
Why? Because I love you, seriously. It's like we're kindred music spirits, or long-lost music Wonder Twins that just needed to finally come together. Okay, let me elaborate on my gooberness:
When you first sent me the said CDs, I was going through my hair loss and a lot of self-esteem changes. I was so excited to receive your package thinking I was only going to get two CDs of your music, when lo and behold, there were like ten or so! The first CD that I popped into my player was "Light of the Moon" I believe. And then came "Sunrise" and then "Dying". I listened to them, and initially gravitated towards the songs that at first listen, caught my attention. And I'd play them over and over again. I uploaded them into my iPod so I could keep listening to them over and over again at work.
There were songs on the first three or so CDs that made me cry, made me laugh, and made me feel whole again. I am not kidding. Your CDs in every way imaginable, all the music, it just moved me, got me feeling happier, wanting to keep listening to the song over and over again like an addict, hoping to keep getting the happy feeling each time I listened to it, and I did.
Then I popped in more. I can't even remember some of the names of the CDs that you labeled, but I would just pop them into my CD player in my car and listen to them as I drove. That's when my love for you and your freakin' amazing music taste really blossomed.
Whether I was driving to something happy, or driving from something incredibly sad, or just plain confused and driving to no particular place at all, somehow, the music just...said whatever I felt. How retarded it must sound now to admit that I would be on 95 at 3 AM in the morning, with tears in my eyes, singing along to a song that just said everything that I wasn't able to say and more.
Last night was no different. I was just headed over to my parents' place to cook them dinner (I have been in the practice of making some bomb-ass spring rolls) and listening to one of your CDs (I don't even know what the label was) and two songs came on during my drive that just hit me precisely where I was at this point, and how I felt.
I had tears in my eyes as I kept listening to those two songs over and over again to my ride there, and my ride back home later in the evening. And as much as the reason for them making me cry and what it reminded me of is sad, and somewhat depressing, being able to have something facilitate the tears and let them flow was an amazing release for me. The songs didn't make all the pain go away, or make all of the problems disappear, but they certainly helped therapeutically in letting me release a lot of emotions I didn't even realize I had pent up inside.
So here is to you, Always Half-Asleep, for helping me find a deeper love and appreciation for music again, and for encouraging me (even though you probably didn't mean to) to remember that it's totally healthy and okay to let go of some tears once in a while. XOXO
Friday, February 1, 2008
I'd like to thank the Pre-Med student who came up with the "red-eye" coffee...
I know, I know... I first off want to go ahead and apologize for not being as diligent with this blog as I used to be, or how I'd like to be - this being partly because A. I am slightly lazy whenever I am home and B. I am rarely ever home after doing school/work/homework/workout/craziness and when I am home, I'd like some peace and quiet, plop myself in front of the television and have guilt-free junk food snacking for hours on end. If I start to feel guilty about the horrible things I am shoving into my digestive system and by digestive system I mean my clogged arteries, I do Sudoku puzzles in order to fulfill what I think of as "brain enhancement exercises".
Life has been incredibly on-going in the past few weeks. I can't collectively say that I've been "stressed", possibly because all of it has been "good" stress, whatever the hell that is. I think that just means that even though you're pressured to do 9,999,999 million things in a millisecond and you're perspiring hotter than a 500 T man, well...at the end of the day, you wouldn't have it any other way.
And right now, that's exactly where I am. Save for a few things here and there. Between work and school, I have little room for anything else, but I am super driven. And I love that that part of me has kicked in again. I always felt like I was able to accomplish a hell of a lot more as a high schooler because I was so completely driven by my future, but then I hit a few bumps in the road (Okay, who am I kidding? What I hit were more like gargantuan super-glaciers that had huge pointy icicles hanging off of them, all ironically aimed at me and artfully poised and ready for my demise.) and life began really really sucking.
I don't know what happened to tell you the truth. To this day, when I look back and I think about how I was, my thought process was, and then all the events that have happened between then and now, I have no particular one thing that I can look back at with a stern pointed finger and go: "AH HA! You ARE the WEAKEST LINK!" Because I think in the end, it all played a part, and it all made a difference in the successes and short-comings that have led me to the place that I am now.
But in the past few weeks, what with the new promotion at work (which I never saw coming) and school starting, my focus has been completely and utterly intent on actually succeeding in all the goals I was afraid of before (for whatever reasons). Does that mean I am not still afraid? Hell fucking no. I am readily prepared with plenty of adult diapers for the numerous times I feel the urgent need to pee myself out of sheer fear of all the choices, decisions and life paths I have to make. But what has changed is that I feel I am better equipped to just dry myself off, put on another adult diaper, and keep on trucking. I don't think I'll ever stop being scared shitless or be able to say I don't feel crappy every once in awhile, I am just better prepared for the aftermath that comes with it.
I am really getting down the nitty gritty this year. I'm not just trying to bullshit my way out of this one - I know my ass better work hard to get to where I need to go to be where I want to be. And I figure there have been so many amazing people that I have met in my (short) lifetime thus far that have seemed to have the confidence in me that I could accomplish whatever I set my mind to, so it's about damned time I have confidence in myself.
Life has been incredibly on-going in the past few weeks. I can't collectively say that I've been "stressed", possibly because all of it has been "good" stress, whatever the hell that is. I think that just means that even though you're pressured to do 9,999,999 million things in a millisecond and you're perspiring hotter than a 500 T man, well...at the end of the day, you wouldn't have it any other way.
And right now, that's exactly where I am. Save for a few things here and there. Between work and school, I have little room for anything else, but I am super driven. And I love that that part of me has kicked in again. I always felt like I was able to accomplish a hell of a lot more as a high schooler because I was so completely driven by my future, but then I hit a few bumps in the road (Okay, who am I kidding? What I hit were more like gargantuan super-glaciers that had huge pointy icicles hanging off of them, all ironically aimed at me and artfully poised and ready for my demise.) and life began really really sucking.
I don't know what happened to tell you the truth. To this day, when I look back and I think about how I was, my thought process was, and then all the events that have happened between then and now, I have no particular one thing that I can look back at with a stern pointed finger and go: "AH HA! You ARE the WEAKEST LINK!" Because I think in the end, it all played a part, and it all made a difference in the successes and short-comings that have led me to the place that I am now.
But in the past few weeks, what with the new promotion at work (which I never saw coming) and school starting, my focus has been completely and utterly intent on actually succeeding in all the goals I was afraid of before (for whatever reasons). Does that mean I am not still afraid? Hell fucking no. I am readily prepared with plenty of adult diapers for the numerous times I feel the urgent need to pee myself out of sheer fear of all the choices, decisions and life paths I have to make. But what has changed is that I feel I am better equipped to just dry myself off, put on another adult diaper, and keep on trucking. I don't think I'll ever stop being scared shitless or be able to say I don't feel crappy every once in awhile, I am just better prepared for the aftermath that comes with it.
I am really getting down the nitty gritty this year. I'm not just trying to bullshit my way out of this one - I know my ass better work hard to get to where I need to go to be where I want to be. And I figure there have been so many amazing people that I have met in my (short) lifetime thus far that have seemed to have the confidence in me that I could accomplish whatever I set my mind to, so it's about damned time I have confidence in myself.
Friday, December 28, 2007
I'm a spaz and not ashamed to say it.
This year has been one of the most interesting years for me yet. Personally, speaking, that is. I feel like I have a done a lot of spiritual and emotional growth in 2007, and have come to terms with who I am a helluva lot better than I have in past years.
For instance, I am a complete spaz. How do I know this? Because secretly, I have begun to stress over everything. And when I say secretly, I mean that I am a closet spaz. The kind of person that looks cool as a cucumber from the outside - the girl who says things like, "ohh, I am not worried one bit!" with a reassuring laugh, or "I don't give a damn!" with defiance and consternation when really inside I am like a Jenga game missing a dozen or so of my sturdy pieces and about ready to collapse at any time.
Does it mean I am crazy? I don't know, for sure. I think it makes me a lot more sane, to be quite honest. I think anyone who says they don't care about something is probably trying to hide the fact that they are deathly worried about something else. I just admitted to myself this year that I most definitely worry about way too much.
And this isn't zoned to any particular thing, or part of my life. My spazziness holds no boundaries and no prejudice. And it's not that I worry every single second of my life because then I would definitely go insane, but I guess I am talking about those specific times where I find myself feeling trapped, and with an acute case of butterflies fluttering wildly in my stomach. Those are the times that I wish I was more like my high school teenage self. I think I handled stress a lot better when I was younger, which is unusually the opposite of what most people say. I have heard that stress management gets better as you get older but for me, I've become a lot more lop-sided on this issue of "stress management".
I think because I found the definition of "worthiness" to have a lot more credibility than when I was younger. I didn't really have people I cared about or who cared about me in my nearest surroundings like I do now. There's more at risk if something goes wrong, or if I don't feel like I am measuring up to my own standards.
Anyways, for New Year's, resolution #1 is to not be such a spaz. This is a tricky one. I don't want to QUIT worrying completely because then I run the risk of becoming a complete asshole. (Who wants that?) I think the resolution more specifically is that I just want to learn how to pick my worrying battles. Pick the ones I know are worth the worry, and shed the other ones away. Stress is great, and an awesome character builder and I don't ever want to push it out of my way - just shave a little bit off of the sides here and there. That's Resolution #1, so far. The rest are more to come as I think of them.
For instance, I am a complete spaz. How do I know this? Because secretly, I have begun to stress over everything. And when I say secretly, I mean that I am a closet spaz. The kind of person that looks cool as a cucumber from the outside - the girl who says things like, "ohh, I am not worried one bit!" with a reassuring laugh, or "I don't give a damn!" with defiance and consternation when really inside I am like a Jenga game missing a dozen or so of my sturdy pieces and about ready to collapse at any time.
Does it mean I am crazy? I don't know, for sure. I think it makes me a lot more sane, to be quite honest. I think anyone who says they don't care about something is probably trying to hide the fact that they are deathly worried about something else. I just admitted to myself this year that I most definitely worry about way too much.
And this isn't zoned to any particular thing, or part of my life. My spazziness holds no boundaries and no prejudice. And it's not that I worry every single second of my life because then I would definitely go insane, but I guess I am talking about those specific times where I find myself feeling trapped, and with an acute case of butterflies fluttering wildly in my stomach. Those are the times that I wish I was more like my high school teenage self. I think I handled stress a lot better when I was younger, which is unusually the opposite of what most people say. I have heard that stress management gets better as you get older but for me, I've become a lot more lop-sided on this issue of "stress management".
I think because I found the definition of "worthiness" to have a lot more credibility than when I was younger. I didn't really have people I cared about or who cared about me in my nearest surroundings like I do now. There's more at risk if something goes wrong, or if I don't feel like I am measuring up to my own standards.
Anyways, for New Year's, resolution #1 is to not be such a spaz. This is a tricky one. I don't want to QUIT worrying completely because then I run the risk of becoming a complete asshole. (Who wants that?) I think the resolution more specifically is that I just want to learn how to pick my worrying battles. Pick the ones I know are worth the worry, and shed the other ones away. Stress is great, and an awesome character builder and I don't ever want to push it out of my way - just shave a little bit off of the sides here and there. That's Resolution #1, so far. The rest are more to come as I think of them.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
The Most Beautiful View In The World
This has been my view of the world for the past week and a half. And what a gorgeous sight it is -- the dashboard of my 2008 Toyota Corolla.For this Thanksgiving, I have been most thankful more than anything for the most amazing people that I have been blessed to have in my life. Friends who love me, care for me, and make sure that I am taken care of....Friends who made this possible this year:
So thank You for friends (family):
for cars, for left foot accelerators, for poetry, for blogs, for freedom, for crummy jobs that help pay the rent and put food on the table, and for sunsets:
Monday, November 5, 2007
It's tragedy that brings back reality
It was Friday night and I had just finally gotten my phone back. Six voice mails, a couple of unseen texts...nice to know that even without my phone I am still loved.
I grabbed a taxi home again since my Dad wasn't going to be home until close to midnight. I got another fantastic taxi driver whom I've decided to wait until a later blog post to write about. (Because I have been keeping a journal of all the taxi drivers that I have met over the past few years of using their transportation services. And since my use of them is coming to an end shortly, I decided to blog about my experiences, each and every one of them, in order to make my Ode to the Taxi Driver: My Long Lost Salvation)
Once I got home, my roommate was already up and in the kitchen with one of her friends making a "penis cake", that is, a cake shaped like a penis. Along with chocolate "penis pops", that is, chocolate molded in the shapes of penises on sticks. You know, to suck. (Okay, okay, enough of the sexual innuendo.) She was preparing these little "fun treats" for the bachelorette party the next night for one of her friends who is to get married in the next couple of weeks.
Gen-gen gave me a holla on my phone and said that he and Alex were set for a night out on the town. One, because her parents were out of town and two, because Gen-gen got his parents to watch the dog for a weekend. So he could party, of course. It was not my intention to really PAR-TAY, but I would be stupid if I didn't admit that every single time Gen-gen and I go out, insanity ensues. Craziness.
Well, Gen-gen headed over to my place. I excused the mess, because just like Goosey, I am not particularly a slob or messy persay, it's just that I tend to lay things here and there throughout the week because I am too exhausted to put them away in their place. So I wait until Friday night to put everything away to let the week start out nice and clean. Except that when Gen-gen came over, I hadn't gotten a chance to motivate myself yet.
He fell onto my bed and then lay there as I walked around trying to get ready. He asked me how my week went - which led to another conversation, that led to a delightfully wonderful conversation and revelation (which will end up being the next post).
We head out to Mosaic with Alex and two of her friends. This Filipina girl whose name I didn't catch and her boyfriend, I (To keep anonymity). Let me talk about I for a second - this man had to be double the age of the Filipina girl (who looked like she couldn't be any older than 24 or 25). Not only was I older than the hills in age, but he was older than the hills in dress, mannerisms and...well, absolutely everything. There's a difference between a person's age and then a person acting and dressing, and being consumed by that number. I was one of these people, evidently.
He is Russian (of course, right? Gen-gen and Alex are.) and he has this very creepy look about him. The kind of perv, I would take girls into dark alleys that are half my age look. The "I am Soviet, hear me roar!" kind of look. Not only that, but he began dancing, if that's what you would want to call it. I don't even think all the dictionary knowledge in the word could help me describe to you how terribly horrible this man was at dancing. Think about the stiffest dance you could possibly think of - add in a little bit of attempt to roll your hips - except instead of rolling them in a sexy way, you're literally plummetting them into the side of your dance partner awkwardly. All the while your right arm is pressed in the air bent at the elbow while your right leg is up and you're trying to do some half-Funky chicken dance. Except that "The Chicken Dance" isn't playing: "This Is Why I'm Hot" by Mims is. Yes, it was that bad, people.
Okay, now that I've gotten that out of my system...
After the club, Alex and Gen-gen and I headed back to his place. I noticed a missed call around 11:30 from my mom. She never calls that late. She's never up that late. So I called my VM and listened to the message.
My Dad had come home from work at Nordstrom's with a horrible pain in his side, puking all over the place and just feeling incredibly lousy. He had decided to head to the ER at St. Joe's and my aunt had agreed to take him. They had found a kidney stone about 3 milimeters inside of his kidney. She wanted to let me know that we weren't going to be going to my nephew's birthday party the next day.
Since it was so late, Gen-gen let me crash in his guest room. I had passed out on his couch a few hours before and woke up around 4:30 AM, and walked up to the guest room and collapsed out on the bed.
Around 7:00 AM my phone goes off. I wake up and with sleepy eyes gloss over the screen of my cell while hanging out of the bed. I can barely make out the numbers but they look like my parents' house number. I picked up the phone.
"Hello?" I attempted to force myself awake but sitting all the way up and rubbing my free hand against my eyes.
"Em, your father is missing," came the clear, yet shaking voice of my Mom.
"What the f$%k?" was the first thing that came out of my mouth. I was wide awake now. "What are you talking about, Mom?"
"Your father is gone, he's missing. I called over at the hospital just two minutes ago and the nurses station said he was discharged at 4:20 AM this morning. But he never came home," came my mother's voice from the other side of the line. It came over with an eerie calmness, the kind that let you know that she hadn't let the news sink in yet - but that she was overwhelmed enough to know she needed someone to talk to.
"Well, wait - he never called you or anything? He couldn't have left the hospital by himself," my mind was racing to try to find some logical explanation as I tried to stay calm for my mother's sake.
"No...he never called. He never said anything. In fact, I had talked to him right before I left you that voice message last night and he said he was going to have to stay overnight there to try to get the kidney stone out. That was the last I heard of him. I don't know what else to do," she said.
"Have you called C?" C is my oldest brother whose a cop in Harford County.
"No but I am going to, he'll know what to do about these things." My Mom is the kind of person who thinks that a person's occupation makes them the Einstein-know-it-all of anything and everything related to that occupation. Since my brother is a cop, my mother felt that there had to have been some special "way" of talking to police officers for missing persons, so she enlisted my brother's "expertise".
Two minutes later, I get another call.
"C is out calling the police, looking for your father," she said.
"That's great. They'll find him, I know they will Mom."
"...I think he might have committed suicide."
I didn't know what to say. I don't even know whether I was quite awake enough right before she said it - but I certainly fully awake after it was said. I had been so calm, so collected just several miliseconds before and now, in an instant, I felt the lump of fear clump itself into the back of my throat, forcing me to forget to breathe and let all the effort of breathing go into creating hot stingy tears that wasted no time occupying my eyes.
"I really think that's what he did," she said, "He's been just so happy recently. Even your sister has noticed."
I couldn't tell you what I thought of that comment because I was too caught on what she had said prior to that. Suicide? My Dad had been extremely happy recently - but I figured it was due to what he kept saying - that he had finally found a decent medication that helped to keep a constant and steady control on his once fluctuating moods. He didn't feel so up and so down anymore. He felt like he had a better control over his daily situations that would have normally caught him in a frenzy in the past. I had been so happy for him - why couldn't she be? Why did that have to be a "sign" that he would take his life?
And suddenly, like a flashback from a movie, I was taken back to middle school, and even just two years ago. Saw the vision of my father collapsing onto his knees in the bedroom, my mother standing over him with a menacing glare, his body so limp, so lifeless...and then the look on his face - so incredibly draining just to look at the expression on his face. I remember feeling my heart sink into the pit of my stomach to the point that I felt the thump as it hit the inner foremost wall of my stomach cavity. And yet even with my belly full, I felt so empty and helpless at the sight of my father so weak like that. Weak beyond anything anyone should ever feel at anytime. I could hear his voice just as I did two years ago, "I can't do this anymore...I can't do this anymore. I just don't want to live anymore..."
I choked back the tears and caught myself from sinking deeper into the past.
"No, Mom. He was fine, he is fine. He was so happy the last time I saw him. We'll find him. I am coming home now. Just relax. Do not scare the kids," I said, pulling the covers off and stepping into the chill of the guest room.
That man who was the man I saw two years ago was not the same man I saw a few days ago singing along to Carrie Underwood on the radio, I kept thinking.
Despite my best efforts, once I hung up the phone with my Mom I felt the tears start to flow and just let them flow. If there is anything that I have learned in the past few months it is to let the emotions I have out when I have them - holding them in is only going to prolong and worsen the pain later on.
I text J, a little freaked out still. J agreed with me - that my Dad would be found, that he wouldn't do something like that, and that my Mom was probably just overreacting as always. For Dad's sake, I hoped to God she was just being overdramatic like always.
I woke up Gen-gen and he took me over to my parents' house, all the way supporting me as I kept talking out loud to myself about my parents, about how much they have always been flitty in the past but no matter what, even if it was against my better judgement, I was always there for them. I have always been there when they needed me...even if it wasn't reciprocated.
We drove up to my parents' house and Gen-gen offered to come in with me but I told him that he didn't have to worry about it - and could just go home and get some rest for the both of us. As we were pulling into the neighborhood, we past a police car exiting as we were entering.
Once I got to the front door, my brother called me to tell me they had found him. He was already at the house down in the basement, and my Mom was sitting in the kitchen.
I suddenly let out a deep breath. It felt like I had been holding my breath that entire time and just at that moment had finally let it all out.
Standing in that kitchen, I stood there looking from my Mom, to my older brother, and then all around at my little brothers and my younger sister and realized then that sometimes it's tragedy that brings us back to reality.
As the police escort arrived to at the front door, I didn't hesitate in giving my Dad the biggest never-ending hug I had ever given him, never wanting to let go.
I grabbed a taxi home again since my Dad wasn't going to be home until close to midnight. I got another fantastic taxi driver whom I've decided to wait until a later blog post to write about. (Because I have been keeping a journal of all the taxi drivers that I have met over the past few years of using their transportation services. And since my use of them is coming to an end shortly, I decided to blog about my experiences, each and every one of them, in order to make my Ode to the Taxi Driver: My Long Lost Salvation)
Once I got home, my roommate was already up and in the kitchen with one of her friends making a "penis cake", that is, a cake shaped like a penis. Along with chocolate "penis pops", that is, chocolate molded in the shapes of penises on sticks. You know, to suck. (Okay, okay, enough of the sexual innuendo.) She was preparing these little "fun treats" for the bachelorette party the next night for one of her friends who is to get married in the next couple of weeks.
Gen-gen gave me a holla on my phone and said that he and Alex were set for a night out on the town. One, because her parents were out of town and two, because Gen-gen got his parents to watch the dog for a weekend. So he could party, of course. It was not my intention to really PAR-TAY, but I would be stupid if I didn't admit that every single time Gen-gen and I go out, insanity ensues. Craziness.
Well, Gen-gen headed over to my place. I excused the mess, because just like Goosey, I am not particularly a slob or messy persay, it's just that I tend to lay things here and there throughout the week because I am too exhausted to put them away in their place. So I wait until Friday night to put everything away to let the week start out nice and clean. Except that when Gen-gen came over, I hadn't gotten a chance to motivate myself yet.
He fell onto my bed and then lay there as I walked around trying to get ready. He asked me how my week went - which led to another conversation, that led to a delightfully wonderful conversation and revelation (which will end up being the next post).
We head out to Mosaic with Alex and two of her friends. This Filipina girl whose name I didn't catch and her boyfriend, I (To keep anonymity). Let me talk about I for a second - this man had to be double the age of the Filipina girl (who looked like she couldn't be any older than 24 or 25). Not only was I older than the hills in age, but he was older than the hills in dress, mannerisms and...well, absolutely everything. There's a difference between a person's age and then a person acting and dressing, and being consumed by that number. I was one of these people, evidently.
He is Russian (of course, right? Gen-gen and Alex are.) and he has this very creepy look about him. The kind of perv, I would take girls into dark alleys that are half my age look. The "I am Soviet, hear me roar!" kind of look. Not only that, but he began dancing, if that's what you would want to call it. I don't even think all the dictionary knowledge in the word could help me describe to you how terribly horrible this man was at dancing. Think about the stiffest dance you could possibly think of - add in a little bit of attempt to roll your hips - except instead of rolling them in a sexy way, you're literally plummetting them into the side of your dance partner awkwardly. All the while your right arm is pressed in the air bent at the elbow while your right leg is up and you're trying to do some half-Funky chicken dance. Except that "The Chicken Dance" isn't playing: "This Is Why I'm Hot" by Mims is. Yes, it was that bad, people.
Okay, now that I've gotten that out of my system...
After the club, Alex and Gen-gen and I headed back to his place. I noticed a missed call around 11:30 from my mom. She never calls that late. She's never up that late. So I called my VM and listened to the message.
My Dad had come home from work at Nordstrom's with a horrible pain in his side, puking all over the place and just feeling incredibly lousy. He had decided to head to the ER at St. Joe's and my aunt had agreed to take him. They had found a kidney stone about 3 milimeters inside of his kidney. She wanted to let me know that we weren't going to be going to my nephew's birthday party the next day.
Since it was so late, Gen-gen let me crash in his guest room. I had passed out on his couch a few hours before and woke up around 4:30 AM, and walked up to the guest room and collapsed out on the bed.
Around 7:00 AM my phone goes off. I wake up and with sleepy eyes gloss over the screen of my cell while hanging out of the bed. I can barely make out the numbers but they look like my parents' house number. I picked up the phone.
"Hello?" I attempted to force myself awake but sitting all the way up and rubbing my free hand against my eyes.
"Em, your father is missing," came the clear, yet shaking voice of my Mom.
"What the f$%k?" was the first thing that came out of my mouth. I was wide awake now. "What are you talking about, Mom?"
"Your father is gone, he's missing. I called over at the hospital just two minutes ago and the nurses station said he was discharged at 4:20 AM this morning. But he never came home," came my mother's voice from the other side of the line. It came over with an eerie calmness, the kind that let you know that she hadn't let the news sink in yet - but that she was overwhelmed enough to know she needed someone to talk to.
"Well, wait - he never called you or anything? He couldn't have left the hospital by himself," my mind was racing to try to find some logical explanation as I tried to stay calm for my mother's sake.
"No...he never called. He never said anything. In fact, I had talked to him right before I left you that voice message last night and he said he was going to have to stay overnight there to try to get the kidney stone out. That was the last I heard of him. I don't know what else to do," she said.
"Have you called C?" C is my oldest brother whose a cop in Harford County.
"No but I am going to, he'll know what to do about these things." My Mom is the kind of person who thinks that a person's occupation makes them the Einstein-know-it-all of anything and everything related to that occupation. Since my brother is a cop, my mother felt that there had to have been some special "way" of talking to police officers for missing persons, so she enlisted my brother's "expertise".
Two minutes later, I get another call.
"C is out calling the police, looking for your father," she said.
"That's great. They'll find him, I know they will Mom."
"...I think he might have committed suicide."
I didn't know what to say. I don't even know whether I was quite awake enough right before she said it - but I certainly fully awake after it was said. I had been so calm, so collected just several miliseconds before and now, in an instant, I felt the lump of fear clump itself into the back of my throat, forcing me to forget to breathe and let all the effort of breathing go into creating hot stingy tears that wasted no time occupying my eyes.
"I really think that's what he did," she said, "He's been just so happy recently. Even your sister has noticed."
I couldn't tell you what I thought of that comment because I was too caught on what she had said prior to that. Suicide? My Dad had been extremely happy recently - but I figured it was due to what he kept saying - that he had finally found a decent medication that helped to keep a constant and steady control on his once fluctuating moods. He didn't feel so up and so down anymore. He felt like he had a better control over his daily situations that would have normally caught him in a frenzy in the past. I had been so happy for him - why couldn't she be? Why did that have to be a "sign" that he would take his life?
And suddenly, like a flashback from a movie, I was taken back to middle school, and even just two years ago. Saw the vision of my father collapsing onto his knees in the bedroom, my mother standing over him with a menacing glare, his body so limp, so lifeless...and then the look on his face - so incredibly draining just to look at the expression on his face. I remember feeling my heart sink into the pit of my stomach to the point that I felt the thump as it hit the inner foremost wall of my stomach cavity. And yet even with my belly full, I felt so empty and helpless at the sight of my father so weak like that. Weak beyond anything anyone should ever feel at anytime. I could hear his voice just as I did two years ago, "I can't do this anymore...I can't do this anymore. I just don't want to live anymore..."
I choked back the tears and caught myself from sinking deeper into the past.
"No, Mom. He was fine, he is fine. He was so happy the last time I saw him. We'll find him. I am coming home now. Just relax. Do not scare the kids," I said, pulling the covers off and stepping into the chill of the guest room.
That man who was the man I saw two years ago was not the same man I saw a few days ago singing along to Carrie Underwood on the radio, I kept thinking.
Despite my best efforts, once I hung up the phone with my Mom I felt the tears start to flow and just let them flow. If there is anything that I have learned in the past few months it is to let the emotions I have out when I have them - holding them in is only going to prolong and worsen the pain later on.
I text J, a little freaked out still. J agreed with me - that my Dad would be found, that he wouldn't do something like that, and that my Mom was probably just overreacting as always. For Dad's sake, I hoped to God she was just being overdramatic like always.
I woke up Gen-gen and he took me over to my parents' house, all the way supporting me as I kept talking out loud to myself about my parents, about how much they have always been flitty in the past but no matter what, even if it was against my better judgement, I was always there for them. I have always been there when they needed me...even if it wasn't reciprocated.
We drove up to my parents' house and Gen-gen offered to come in with me but I told him that he didn't have to worry about it - and could just go home and get some rest for the both of us. As we were pulling into the neighborhood, we past a police car exiting as we were entering.
Once I got to the front door, my brother called me to tell me they had found him. He was already at the house down in the basement, and my Mom was sitting in the kitchen.
I suddenly let out a deep breath. It felt like I had been holding my breath that entire time and just at that moment had finally let it all out.
Standing in that kitchen, I stood there looking from my Mom, to my older brother, and then all around at my little brothers and my younger sister and realized then that sometimes it's tragedy that brings us back to reality.
As the police escort arrived to at the front door, I didn't hesitate in giving my Dad the biggest never-ending hug I had ever given him, never wanting to let go.
Friday, October 26, 2007
W.W.S.O'.C.W.?
Since my entrance into the world of 15-minute showers and Chia-pet fuzz, life has been fantastic.
Despite my initial disappointment that the shaved head didn't increase my walking speed just by sheer removal of weight, (hey, you know, hair can be heavy. Weight transfer applies to cars - why can't it apply to humans?) I have had this sudden boost of self-confidence, and feel so incredibly lifted and at ease. At this point, I don't think it will make a huge difference with me whether my hair continues to grow or whether the growth stops here. I feel like I've gained my old-self back and it's such a f*cking amazing feeling.
When I look back at just a few months ago, sitting up at T & S's till the early morning, and being so terribly frightened of losing all my hair, and then I look at the me now, it's like a huge transformation. The thing I was scared of the most in the beginning ended up being the one thing that has placed me back on the high self-esteem map!
So I got this new look, and along with it this encouragement to wear make-up every day. (Where before when I left the house and was feeling lazy I would throw my hair into a ponytail and not worry about my face at all. Maybe if you were lucky you'd see me at around noon taking out my eyeliner and smudging a line in my cubicle mirror with an added finish of lip gloss.)
In addition to the added interest in make-up and experimenting with funky colors, I suddenly realized that my old wardrobe of T-shirts and jeans doesn't jive with this haircut at all.
At this revelation, I find myself asking the age old question:
Despite my initial disappointment that the shaved head didn't increase my walking speed just by sheer removal of weight, (hey, you know, hair can be heavy. Weight transfer applies to cars - why can't it apply to humans?) I have had this sudden boost of self-confidence, and feel so incredibly lifted and at ease. At this point, I don't think it will make a huge difference with me whether my hair continues to grow or whether the growth stops here. I feel like I've gained my old-self back and it's such a f*cking amazing feeling.
When I look back at just a few months ago, sitting up at T & S's till the early morning, and being so terribly frightened of losing all my hair, and then I look at the me now, it's like a huge transformation. The thing I was scared of the most in the beginning ended up being the one thing that has placed me back on the high self-esteem map!
So I got this new look, and along with it this encouragement to wear make-up every day. (Where before when I left the house and was feeling lazy I would throw my hair into a ponytail and not worry about my face at all. Maybe if you were lucky you'd see me at around noon taking out my eyeliner and smudging a line in my cubicle mirror with an added finish of lip gloss.)
In addition to the added interest in make-up and experimenting with funky colors, I suddenly realized that my old wardrobe of T-shirts and jeans doesn't jive with this haircut at all.
At this revelation, I find myself asking the age old question:
W.hat W.ould S.inead O'. C.onnor W.ear?
This T-shirt and jeans thing just isn't cutting it. Or perhaps I am just coming up with the best damn excuse ever to reward myself with a shopping spree for new clothes for the new 'do.
I feel like my Chia-pet fuzz is whispering fashionista advice in my ear in the morning.
"No, no, don't wear that God awful two-year old blouse from the Gap...who wears that now? I refuse to look good with that shirt. How bout you try that nice brand new Benetton fuschia cashmere sweater you bought last week? You know I look fabulous in cashmere."
Damn, never knew my Chia-pet fuzz was going to have such great taste in fashion.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
My Life as G.I. Jane
I shaved my head on Saturday morning/Friday night. It was one of the most exhilarating things I have done thus far in this past year, so exhilarating that even I was surprised at what an impact it has had on me.
I know that if I had waited to cut it any longer that I probably wouldn't have - or at least I would have put up a good fight. But the fact that it was 3:30 AM or so, and J and I had just gotten home from Fur, and the fact that I was feeling particularly "happy", he just caught me like a deer in headlights.
No sooner had I taken off my "club clothes" and hopped into my PJs was J romping into my room and grabbing his duffel bag.
"You want to cut your hair now?" he asked, holding the bag for his razor in one hand and standing there in my doorway, giving me the look that said he was asking, but knowing full well he was going to cut it anyway regardless of my answer.
"Now? Like, right now?" I asked.
"Yeah, it's best anyways. You can take a shower afterwards since you've been out all night, and then it'll be easier to clean up the hair."
An exasperated sigh ensued, "Okay, I guess you're right."
No sooner had I said okay, J was in the bathroom unzipping and making a lot of racket.
By the time I walked into the hallway and towards the bathroom door, he already had his hair trimmer plugged in and ready to go, all set up nice and neat like a mini barber shop.
He opened up the toilet seat and had me hang my head over the bowl, and I stared at the clear toilet water with suspense as I heard the constant buzz of the hair trimmer in his hand once he clicked it on.
And then it was done. I remember standing up and staring into the bathroom mirror, rubbing my hand over the top, and turning my head left and right to admire his handywork.
Since I have been "G.I. Jane-d" it is like a huge weight has been lifted off of my shoulders. I have found this sense of freedom that I never thought imaginable. Weird, I know - that it would all come from just shaving a bit of hair off, but truly, honestly, it really has opened up this whole new source of positive energy for me.
I guess I never realized (until I shaved it off) how much the remnants of my "old" hair was really weighing me down. It was forcing me to be critical of myself, and forcing me to be judgmental because every time I looked in the mirror, those pieces were a constant reminder of what I used to have.
Plus, the long hair in those random areas matched with the patches of Chia-pet fuzz (that's what I call the little baby hairs that are slowly growing in my bald spots) everywhere was just daunting to look at.
And what's awesome about this haircut? 15-minute showers. 10 minutes to get dressed. I love it. No fuss with the hair, no curling irons, no blow dryers. Me, my fuzzball of a head and a nice outfit. Boom. Done.
I know that if I had waited to cut it any longer that I probably wouldn't have - or at least I would have put up a good fight. But the fact that it was 3:30 AM or so, and J and I had just gotten home from Fur, and the fact that I was feeling particularly "happy", he just caught me like a deer in headlights.
No sooner had I taken off my "club clothes" and hopped into my PJs was J romping into my room and grabbing his duffel bag.
"You want to cut your hair now?" he asked, holding the bag for his razor in one hand and standing there in my doorway, giving me the look that said he was asking, but knowing full well he was going to cut it anyway regardless of my answer.
"Now? Like, right now?" I asked.
"Yeah, it's best anyways. You can take a shower afterwards since you've been out all night, and then it'll be easier to clean up the hair."
An exasperated sigh ensued, "Okay, I guess you're right."
No sooner had I said okay, J was in the bathroom unzipping and making a lot of racket.
By the time I walked into the hallway and towards the bathroom door, he already had his hair trimmer plugged in and ready to go, all set up nice and neat like a mini barber shop.
He opened up the toilet seat and had me hang my head over the bowl, and I stared at the clear toilet water with suspense as I heard the constant buzz of the hair trimmer in his hand once he clicked it on.
And then it was done. I remember standing up and staring into the bathroom mirror, rubbing my hand over the top, and turning my head left and right to admire his handywork.
Since I have been "G.I. Jane-d" it is like a huge weight has been lifted off of my shoulders. I have found this sense of freedom that I never thought imaginable. Weird, I know - that it would all come from just shaving a bit of hair off, but truly, honestly, it really has opened up this whole new source of positive energy for me.
I guess I never realized (until I shaved it off) how much the remnants of my "old" hair was really weighing me down. It was forcing me to be critical of myself, and forcing me to be judgmental because every time I looked in the mirror, those pieces were a constant reminder of what I used to have.
Plus, the long hair in those random areas matched with the patches of Chia-pet fuzz (that's what I call the little baby hairs that are slowly growing in my bald spots) everywhere was just daunting to look at.
And what's awesome about this haircut? 15-minute showers. 10 minutes to get dressed. I love it. No fuss with the hair, no curling irons, no blow dryers. Me, my fuzzball of a head and a nice outfit. Boom. Done.
Friday, September 21, 2007
A little John Mayer does a heart good...
"I believe/that my life's gonna see/the love I give/returned to me." - from Wheel
I'm not going to let anything stop me from being who I am. Once I start questioning why I do the things I do - they would stop being a part of what makes me unique.
I love that I'm a goober. I love that I wear my heart on my sleeve. I love that I am honest, even when it's really tough to be.
I love that life gives me the chance to experience the pain and the hurt in order to become a stronger person... but I also find it crummy.
I'm only human, and that's the best I can do.
Let me start where I feel comfortable.
I have this diamond. It's like this amazing gift that I came upon one day... it was in the disguise of a rock - but that's how all diamonds begin, isn't it? To appear as something mediocre and unusual... only to later find out that it is something precious, amazing, and beyond value.
I keep that diamond with me everywhere because it reminds me of everything good in my life with how beautiful it is to look at. It reminds me of everything complex in my life because of the cut, the prisms that connect, soak in the light and dispurse it in reflecting and refracting rays of colored rainbows. It reminds me of every single portion of my life that I treasure, the good and the bad, because no matter what happens to this diamond - its value will always hold true. Maybe not to an appraiser with his magnifying glasses pressed against his eyes - but if only to the diamond's owner: me.
This diamond that I have has scratches and nicks... but even those scratches and nicks have strong meaning to me. They allow me to keep all those memories to myself, every single scratch and nick on that diamond represents a time that I never want to forget.
And who am I to throw away the most valuable thing I own just because it has a few scratches on it? In the end, it's still a diamond, it's still gorgeous. I would be stupid to throw it away.
Most people do not understand this logic - but that doesn't matter to me. What matters to me is the relationship I have between myself and what I own - whether that be family, friends, my health... my hair. Regardless of what that diamond represents, no, especially of what that diamond represents is the reason why I keep it. The reason why it will always be something I treasure, I love, I give my heart to. And I don't regret that. It's taken me a crapload of drama, a lifetime of craziness happening in just a month - in just a collective amount of four years - to realize this.
I'm not going to let anything stop me from being who I am. Once I start questioning why I do the things I do - they would stop being a part of what makes me unique.
I love that I'm a goober. I love that I wear my heart on my sleeve. I love that I am honest, even when it's really tough to be.
I love that life gives me the chance to experience the pain and the hurt in order to become a stronger person... but I also find it crummy.
I'm only human, and that's the best I can do.
Let me start where I feel comfortable.
I have this diamond. It's like this amazing gift that I came upon one day... it was in the disguise of a rock - but that's how all diamonds begin, isn't it? To appear as something mediocre and unusual... only to later find out that it is something precious, amazing, and beyond value.
I keep that diamond with me everywhere because it reminds me of everything good in my life with how beautiful it is to look at. It reminds me of everything complex in my life because of the cut, the prisms that connect, soak in the light and dispurse it in reflecting and refracting rays of colored rainbows. It reminds me of every single portion of my life that I treasure, the good and the bad, because no matter what happens to this diamond - its value will always hold true. Maybe not to an appraiser with his magnifying glasses pressed against his eyes - but if only to the diamond's owner: me.
This diamond that I have has scratches and nicks... but even those scratches and nicks have strong meaning to me. They allow me to keep all those memories to myself, every single scratch and nick on that diamond represents a time that I never want to forget.
And who am I to throw away the most valuable thing I own just because it has a few scratches on it? In the end, it's still a diamond, it's still gorgeous. I would be stupid to throw it away.
Most people do not understand this logic - but that doesn't matter to me. What matters to me is the relationship I have between myself and what I own - whether that be family, friends, my health... my hair. Regardless of what that diamond represents, no, especially of what that diamond represents is the reason why I keep it. The reason why it will always be something I treasure, I love, I give my heart to. And I don't regret that. It's taken me a crapload of drama, a lifetime of craziness happening in just a month - in just a collective amount of four years - to realize this.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Today is the big day...
I get my haircut today. And the past day and a half have not been the best way to lead up to this nerve-racking event.
I have all these mixed emotions inside. I have been crying and thinking (alternating each at every hour it seems) over what happened on Monday night. But I have also been so completely nervous and excited for today. At first, I was so happy and so excited thinking that this would be something new, something exciting. A way to jump into a fashion extreme makeover head first.
But then I started thinking about what I had to work with - and I started to worry. Right about now, at this very second, I have this emptiness in my stomach that keeps churning around in my insides. I kept looking last night at that one small bald spot in the very front, where my middle part would land (and has landed since I've been wearing my ponytail). What is Tiki going to be able to do with that?
And last night, when I was putting on the steroid cream, (I always have one hand ungloved to feel for the bald spots in the back, and the other one to administer the cream) I felt three bald spots in the back of my head. To my fingers, they felt huge. I don't know how big they are in real life. I just wish they would grow back in the next 8 hours before I have to go to my haircut.
Because with all those bald spots, how is it going to be feasible to have a nice haircut? Am I risking looking even more like a freak for going today? I already feel like a freak as it is.
I know he says he didn't mean the things he said to me, but God, I really took it to heart. I felt my heart sinking into the pit of my stomach while on the phone with him. I suddenly felt like the biggest freak in the world. It's a bittersweet thing when you allow someone that close into your life that they have that kind of impact on you.
So yes, I am still very mad at him. But I still need a best friend. Especially today of all days. The day when I am scared shitless out of my mind.
Will I still be able to look into the mirror and see the same person staring back at me that I have known for 21 years?
At this point, I don't think I ever will be able to. But one can only continue to hope.
-=EDIT=-
***I did not forget about all of you and that article. For the past few nights, the emotional rollercoaster that I have taken myself on has kind of taken away time from my saved Word document. But I have been working on it. It's probably going to be my longest blog EVER but then again, you guys like having something to read when you're bored, right? :-) ***
I have all these mixed emotions inside. I have been crying and thinking (alternating each at every hour it seems) over what happened on Monday night. But I have also been so completely nervous and excited for today. At first, I was so happy and so excited thinking that this would be something new, something exciting. A way to jump into a fashion extreme makeover head first.
But then I started thinking about what I had to work with - and I started to worry. Right about now, at this very second, I have this emptiness in my stomach that keeps churning around in my insides. I kept looking last night at that one small bald spot in the very front, where my middle part would land (and has landed since I've been wearing my ponytail). What is Tiki going to be able to do with that?
And last night, when I was putting on the steroid cream, (I always have one hand ungloved to feel for the bald spots in the back, and the other one to administer the cream) I felt three bald spots in the back of my head. To my fingers, they felt huge. I don't know how big they are in real life. I just wish they would grow back in the next 8 hours before I have to go to my haircut.
Because with all those bald spots, how is it going to be feasible to have a nice haircut? Am I risking looking even more like a freak for going today? I already feel like a freak as it is.
I know he says he didn't mean the things he said to me, but God, I really took it to heart. I felt my heart sinking into the pit of my stomach while on the phone with him. I suddenly felt like the biggest freak in the world. It's a bittersweet thing when you allow someone that close into your life that they have that kind of impact on you.
So yes, I am still very mad at him. But I still need a best friend. Especially today of all days. The day when I am scared shitless out of my mind.
Will I still be able to look into the mirror and see the same person staring back at me that I have known for 21 years?
At this point, I don't think I ever will be able to. But one can only continue to hope.
-=EDIT=-
***I did not forget about all of you and that article. For the past few nights, the emotional rollercoaster that I have taken myself on has kind of taken away time from my saved Word document. But I have been working on it. It's probably going to be my longest blog EVER but then again, you guys like having something to read when you're bored, right? :-) ***
Friday, August 10, 2007
Aiming to brave that Arirang...
I wrote a post on the forum last night after I wrote my blog. I just had to get it out, had to share my story, had to tell them that I felt just as damn frightened as all of them, and that my fear was fresh and the wound was still bleeding.
It actually was truly relaxing, and therapeutic. I don't know why I keep surprising myself every time I write and find a therapeutic calmness about it - this used to be the way that I got myself through the dark nights before. Just me, a pen and my journal. Didn't even have to be just us either, I'd crouch in a soft couch at a lame house party, a beer in hand or I'd slip into the depths of the study halls at the library and nestle my face into the blank pages of my journals that begged to hear about all my tears and all my struggles.
But regardless, it was a lot more helpful than I thought it'd be. And the people of the group actually responded. One of the women said that I was wise beyond my years, especially for being diagnosed with AA pretty young. They totally understood how I felt, and what I was going through. The denial, the separation anxiety from each and every strand of hair. It's agonizing...they know, they watched every strand of their hair fall out, too. Over the couch, onto the carpet, all over my pillow in the morning, at the bottom of my feet in the shower stall, all across the bathroom. It's like watching your dirty secrets follow you around your house, devastating you at every corner. Letting you know that there is no escape, there is only a time of recognition and submission.
They told me that over the mountain, there is hope. Over the angry slopes - there is a peace, there is a calmness that slips over you in the night - an ability to let your hair slip away, and your ability and strength to say goodbye, and never look back. So I guess that's where I am headed. Over those mountains in the distance...do you see them as clear as I do? Do they glare at you, too?
Your mountain may not be AA, it could be something else. It could be as small as that term paper that is due the first day of school in about two weeks, or it could be simple as that ugly truth that is hanging at the tip of your tongue that you have to say, or it could be as big as deciding what next road you need (want, desire, crave, depend on) to take when you hit that fork ---
Regardless, we're all on that journey. And I know that we're on it together. I am lucky to have such great friends who have encouraged and inspired me to keep writing, to keep on trekking - the journey is hardly over yet, in fact, I have yet to really get started.
So thank you so much from the bottom of my heart for your kind words and your support. I know that someday I will get to that point where I can be the strongest that I can be, and be accepting of it all. I just know that right now it's all so fresh. It just happened less than a month ago - and I am still in this state of bewilderment not knowing really if it has all sunk in yet. I know that one day in the next few months, I will probably be on the DC metro, or in the car with my friends and just break down to the realization of it all. Because that's when the reality hits me the most - when I am not really dwelling on it. But that day will come, and I know that when it does, even though I may or may not be ready for it, it will be ready for me.
I can't imagine yet what life will be like completely bald - it's still such an astonishing thing that I have all these bald spots rearing their shininess in my face every morning.
My boss told me today that her "patience is wearing thin" because yesterday I was having side effects from the steroids (it's only been a week and I suspected that I might get headaches or something of the like, because that's what the doctor assured me might occur) and had to leave work an hour early. It's almost like people like her believe that I woke up one day and thought that I would just make my hair fall out for no reason at all. She kept telling me when it first started that it really wasn't that bad, and that I should just get over it because it's just hair - how easy is it for her to say that when she has a full head of hair on her head? What if it were her? She doesn't come home with me every night - she doesn't stare into the mirror after I take a shower and see the clumps of hair that are falling all over my shoulders. She doesn't hear my heart crumbling every time I find another bald spot.
I am so glad that you guys have been so supportive and such a big help -you just don't even know. I know that I have struggled through a lot of things in my life, and this is just one more thing to add to the list. It's just the initial shock that is always the killer.
But there are still those mountains to climb. There are still those steeps slopes to conquer. I'm still on my way to braving this Arirang.
It actually was truly relaxing, and therapeutic. I don't know why I keep surprising myself every time I write and find a therapeutic calmness about it - this used to be the way that I got myself through the dark nights before. Just me, a pen and my journal. Didn't even have to be just us either, I'd crouch in a soft couch at a lame house party, a beer in hand or I'd slip into the depths of the study halls at the library and nestle my face into the blank pages of my journals that begged to hear about all my tears and all my struggles.
But regardless, it was a lot more helpful than I thought it'd be. And the people of the group actually responded. One of the women said that I was wise beyond my years, especially for being diagnosed with AA pretty young. They totally understood how I felt, and what I was going through. The denial, the separation anxiety from each and every strand of hair. It's agonizing...they know, they watched every strand of their hair fall out, too. Over the couch, onto the carpet, all over my pillow in the morning, at the bottom of my feet in the shower stall, all across the bathroom. It's like watching your dirty secrets follow you around your house, devastating you at every corner. Letting you know that there is no escape, there is only a time of recognition and submission.
They told me that over the mountain, there is hope. Over the angry slopes - there is a peace, there is a calmness that slips over you in the night - an ability to let your hair slip away, and your ability and strength to say goodbye, and never look back. So I guess that's where I am headed. Over those mountains in the distance...do you see them as clear as I do? Do they glare at you, too?
Your mountain may not be AA, it could be something else. It could be as small as that term paper that is due the first day of school in about two weeks, or it could be simple as that ugly truth that is hanging at the tip of your tongue that you have to say, or it could be as big as deciding what next road you need (want, desire, crave, depend on) to take when you hit that fork ---
Regardless, we're all on that journey. And I know that we're on it together. I am lucky to have such great friends who have encouraged and inspired me to keep writing, to keep on trekking - the journey is hardly over yet, in fact, I have yet to really get started.
So thank you so much from the bottom of my heart for your kind words and your support. I know that someday I will get to that point where I can be the strongest that I can be, and be accepting of it all. I just know that right now it's all so fresh. It just happened less than a month ago - and I am still in this state of bewilderment not knowing really if it has all sunk in yet. I know that one day in the next few months, I will probably be on the DC metro, or in the car with my friends and just break down to the realization of it all. Because that's when the reality hits me the most - when I am not really dwelling on it. But that day will come, and I know that when it does, even though I may or may not be ready for it, it will be ready for me.
I can't imagine yet what life will be like completely bald - it's still such an astonishing thing that I have all these bald spots rearing their shininess in my face every morning.
My boss told me today that her "patience is wearing thin" because yesterday I was having side effects from the steroids (it's only been a week and I suspected that I might get headaches or something of the like, because that's what the doctor assured me might occur) and had to leave work an hour early. It's almost like people like her believe that I woke up one day and thought that I would just make my hair fall out for no reason at all. She kept telling me when it first started that it really wasn't that bad, and that I should just get over it because it's just hair - how easy is it for her to say that when she has a full head of hair on her head? What if it were her? She doesn't come home with me every night - she doesn't stare into the mirror after I take a shower and see the clumps of hair that are falling all over my shoulders. She doesn't hear my heart crumbling every time I find another bald spot.
I am so glad that you guys have been so supportive and such a big help -you just don't even know. I know that I have struggled through a lot of things in my life, and this is just one more thing to add to the list. It's just the initial shock that is always the killer.
But there are still those mountains to climb. There are still those steeps slopes to conquer. I'm still on my way to braving this Arirang.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Beauty in the Eye of the Surgeon
"A plastic surgeon has published a composite image of the ideal male Korean face. Rhee Seung-chul, the head of plastic surgery at Hanil General Hospital, made the image from the faces of 16 Korean Wave stars. Rhee had earlier done the same thing for women by making a composite image of 19 female stars."
Apparently, this computer-generated man to my left here is Korean male perfection in a nutshell. Personally, I think he looks a bit too effeminate but then so do most Korean male movie stars, IMHO. 
I remember when I first saw "My Sassy Girl" when I was 10 or 11 years old; it was my first time watching Korean cinema. ---->
It was during my "Quest for Identity" stage where I was obsessed with buying Asian babydolls, Asian clothes, and random Korean commodities like some crazy American tourist. (which I guess, essentially, I am) So it was only fitting that I would be wanting of some sort of solid cultural evidence of the Korea that I had grown to love through picture books, tourists' pamphlets, and those bags of Shrimp Chips (I can't get enough of those things!) with the little dancing pink shrimp illustrated on the front that I would buy in bulk at Lotte.
So what kind of awesome cultural experience would I have while watching a movie that I envisioned thousands and thousands of my fellow Korean peers rushing to the movie theaters to see? The credits began to roll, and the title flashed across the screen.
Then a close-up of a pale Asian face comes into the camera view, and they zoom out. I notice how flat her face looks, how high her cheekbones are, how pale her face looks, how wide her eyes appear, and how thin her lips seem. Is this the image of utter beauty in Korea?
Another scene, I am patient. Here comes the dude. His face is fuller, but still flat, he has thin lips as well but his skin color seems to have a bit more pigment. His eyes are just as big as hers...but the way he presents himself is sort of feminine, and submissive. Is this the image of the perfect male in Korea?
I know that America isn't perfect. We have our own visions of beauty, and what is desirable and what isn't. We have coke-addicted models who starve themselves and live half their lives in toilet rooms, and we have rockstars who tattoo their bodies from head to toe and then go shoot some crack in the back corner to stay "heavy rock thin". But for some reason, these two characters that were presented to me in "My Sassy Girl" made it seem like they were more like cartoons than they were people.
But alas, at 10, I was young, foolish, and impressionable. I suddenly saw this picture of a seemingly "gorgeous, perfect" Korean woman and wanted nothing more than to be her. I started going to the Korean beauty parlor down the street, wanting long black hair, extra straight. I wanted to have pale skin like all of my other friends did (but was too chicken-sh-t to buy the bleaching lotion at the Lotte beauty counter) and would hide for hours from the summer sun because I tanned too easily. I wanted wider eyes (and alas, I have to admit, I still to this day kind of wish that I still did have sangkapul...) so I would allow my Joann-unni to tape my eyelids with cosmetic tape to create the 'illusion' that I had a second fold before church service started.
I look back at those days and think of how silly I was. And how comfortable I am finally in the skin that I am in now. It took me forever... and I think I am still learning to accept things - because there will always be obstacles in life where you're faced to question what you believe in yourself, and how you view yourself. Especially for the first half of this year, for me.
I hope that this next younger Korean generation will not be so easily swayed by this ridiculousness. Computer-generated people are not REAL people. They are mounds and mounds of Botox injections. They are threads and threads of mini stitches in their faces, their chins, their necks, their stomachs. They are artificial in every sense of the word.
And eventually, the more plastic you become on the outside - the more plastic you're bound to become on the inside.
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