Fin
As the year comes to a close, so I also announce that I will no longer be posting here. I haven't decided what I will do about taking it down or not -- will take awhile, and some elusive free time, to save up the archives.
I was writing here for almost 4 years, for mostly better, sometimes worse. As much as blogging is stroking your own ego in glorious HTML, it's also an odd little diary that you are willing to open up to others. I think I have created and maintained many friendships from all of this.
I'm not exactly sure who reads this anymore. At one time, I knew the 3 very people who came by. I dug my own grave in making this Googleable and Yahooable, and I rue the day that caching became a feature of the World Wide Web. But I'd be lying if I said I did it all with no hope for your continued curiosity.
I do think a story is best told in print. Just so much more subtlety there, with the permanence, finality, and artistry of words. These little stories I've told, all chronologized by this neat little program, I click back to often to trigger a beautiful memory or a profound sadness I masked behind the text.
Life is best lived as storytelling.
Streetgirl: And then? What happens after?
Emma: There is no "then," there is no "after."
- That Hamilton Woman
Squeaky Clean
I miss baths. I haven't had a bathtub in over a year now. I haven't lost any sleep over not being able to take a bubble bath. But I do occasionally long for a Calgon moment.
"Just like the Calgon commercial, I really gotta get up outta here." Cute, basic concept.
I tried my best this weekend to not mourn too much. Tracy said all of this is just psychological warfare. I will get past it, someday soon. I have taken a lot of comfort lately in the idea that most things in life are necessarily transient. Places. Pursuits. Exams, and the like.
What isn't transient, thank God, are the people in my life, and the friendships I have crafted. That I admire every person I call my friend, and look also to their good examples as a measuring stick of my own integrity, is the balancing force in a life full of unexpected turns.
Things may be a little wavy in days to come, but I think I'm ready.
The Plunge
Zeroing in on 6:00 pm, one painfully drawn-out hour at a time. Actually, it's not that bad. I'm not exactly blase, but I am prepared for anything now.
However, that controlled attitude did not stop me from being testy to my mom in one of her routine "did you hear yet" calls. A couple of months ago, she tried to use my little 92-year-old grandma in Taiwan as a vehicle of guilt.
My grandmother is like a Ming vase -- Chinese, precious, and super old. She has indomitable health, is lovable and sharp. She's also pretty down with Buddha. So my mom had said to me, "Granny prays for you. She goes to her chapel every day and repeats Buddhist prayers so you'll pass your exam. She also makes the trip to the temple on the hill and prays that you'll pass. It's a long trip for her."
That's just what I need. The image of my tiny raisin-of-a-grandma, in those black kung-fu shoes she likes to wear, in her warmly padded Mao jacket that buttons up to her chin, trekking up rocky Taiwanese terrain to light some incense for her underachieving Chinese-American granddaughter.
This morning, my mom tried to work the same shpiel. "I have a good feeling about it," she said, "And Granny does, too. She said many prayers for you. She said she thinks you passed this time."
"Oh really," I said, "Did Grandma take the exam too?"
"What?" My mom didn't get it.
"Nothing."
Anyway, I hope Grandma and Buddha got some good convos out of all this.
Note to Self
You have to keep your head up! It's not easy, and that's why you're doing it! You can handle it! You always have.
Yesterday, I heard a familiar melody on K-Mozart. Instantly, my mind thought, "Rimsky Korsakov... Scheherezade!" Classical music hodge podge, an unexpected (and useless) by-product of watching too much ice skating.
Nicoise a la Chocolat
Reyna asked me, "So, are you going to live in LA forever?"
I nodded automatically. Then, I looked down at my Nicoise for what felt like a very long time. Really? That can't be true. Every time I see a man wearing a well-fitted shirt with a wide collar. Every time I see bresaola or speck on a menu. Every time I see a bazaar of delicacies that remotely resembles Selfridge's Food Halls. I think of my favorite places, that I have long since buried while traipsing through the daily grind of the urban sprawl.
"I'd like to be in London, of course," I decided. I announced it to her as if I was announcing it to myself for the first time.
"Well, I suppose with your job... it makes sense to stay here."
More than a job, of course. It's a job that becomes a career that becomes a lifestyle. And it all starts, of course, with this exam.
Today Cirrus said, "What do you call the person that has the lowest grade in our law school class?"
"I don't know," I bemoaned.
"A lawyer," she said.
Final note, for Angelenos on Melrose, you know, near Marc Jacobs or Miu Miu, probably best to stay away from Chocolat. It's a new restaurant, the old Moustache, so new that the walls aren't even painted yet. I thought that added a certain postmodern charm. But, I expected more out of the food and service. I thought I'd see seared ahi in my Nicoise but it was actually a can of Starkist tuna dumped on top of a limp pile of greens, with two slithery anchovies hastily dangling on top. And the souffle, their specialty, was overcooked and better served a la mode than with a gravy boat of Reddi-Whip. Then, issues with the service, leading me to bitch to the manager. Having a couple of things comped didn't help that much.
Anyway, it's been a long day. I'm tired.
Guilt Season
Going on very little today. A bit of sleep, caffeine, food -- not enough of my usual intake. Conversations from the weekend swirling in my mind. I'm very uneasy this week.
Yesterday, I devoted at least a couple of hours to the search for spam musubi. I was dogged in my pursuit, endlessly circling the block for parking but never giving up. It was a dumb effort, but I was satisfied with the pay-off.
At dinner, my sister said something to me about test scores. It reminded me that what's done is done. There is a score out there that at least counts for something.
I gave my dad a really tight hug before driving home.
At King's Head, I hollered and sang. My closer of the night, "Like A Virgin," was horribly warbled. I cannot mix song and drink.
I talked talked talked, last night and into early morning. We had baklava and tea, watched Madonna's new video, revisited old topics, opened up new ones, laughed a lot.
Anyway, I have wasted a lot of time feeling bad about all the time I've wasted. I've wasted a lot of time feeling bad about a lot of things. I don't know how one gets wired that way. Damned Chinese circuitry.
- Mary Forrest My cousin, she's brilliant.
Snapshots from the Apple
I'm doing that thing where I'm asking myself, this time last week, where was I? I do miss New York. Well, I add three hours ahead, and... Usually, the answer involves inebriation and a dark bar. I know how to have a good time.
This particular moment captures our early evening visit to the top of Janet's building. She lives in some serious digs. I mean, her monthly mortgage is
six times my monthly rent. In the words of my co-worker, "Do the math!" I appraise all geography in New York in terms of its relativity to Marc Jacobs, and Janet's is therefore prime real estate not only for New York in general, but also for my shoddy values.
Anyway, I couldn't ever stop singing this girl's praises. Every time we get together we talk about how when we first met, we didn't like each other. We instantly identified that we were too alike. But when you genuinely have things in common, you can't dislike each other for too long. For us, it maybe lasted ten minutes.
I was really pleased with how much more approachable New York dudes are compared to LA ones. Jan's friend Kate pointed out that -- sweeping generalization to come -- NYC men wax on about power and money, whereas LA men schmooze about their looks and their connections. In the end, it's all so silly. And so, San Diego wins.
I had a horrific time getting home, which involved a Saudi Arabian pilot badgering me about whether I intended to marry an American man; attaching myself to an Austrian couple from Manhattan to JFK because I had no idea where I was going; playing interactive trivia with other passengers on the plane, WINNING (twice), and receiving a can of Pringles as my spoils; having to endure the torturously dumb conversations of passengers around me for nine hours, one of them being Joss Stone's manager; and in a fit of desperation, watching "Must Love Dogs" to combat my stir-crazy boredom. We all cope in different ways.
But you know what they say. I Heart NY.
As the year comes to a close, so I also announce that I will no longer be posting here. I haven't decided what I will do about taking it down or not -- will take awhile, and some elusive free time, to save up the archives.
