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.
This and Other Novembers to Come
I decided yesterday that I liked November. The sound of it, the look of it, the events that surround it. This and the past November revolved around my exam (and no, Matthieu, I have not heard yet), and who knows if that will persist? But I've decided not to let that circumstance, which eventually will just be a thorny memory, cloud over the decision that I will like many Novembers to come.
I also noticed this morning that I don't dot my I's. This brought me back to the memory of sometime in the third grade when I decided to stop dotting them. I had a teacher then whose penmanship was, well,
awesome. Neat, straight, orderly, gender-neutral. You know how, at that age, you fall in love with so many things, even handwriting. I practiced emulating her penmanship and eventually the dotted i's were phased out. But this may not translate well into the adult working world, even if I made it past many years of handwriting-scrutinizing teachers. As recently as a few months ago, I was asked in a work setting to please dot my I's.
So if you ever see some threatening note, some ransom note, something handwritten and no i's are dotted -- well, now you know its likely source.
Have spent much of the week at work researching local, state, and federal funding opportunities for city redevelopment. I'm becoming increasingly well-versed in this body of literature -- knowing the acronyms of these agencies, even loan terms. A small part of me actually enjoys it because it is a real life SimCity or Civilization. It's not too different than consulting my Treasury Advisory about how many shields are left so I can build an aqueduct in Athens.
OK, it's totally different. But revisiting the same principles somehow adds credence to my days as a greasy computer dork.
I'm going to the
Brewery Artwalk tomorrow, then jetting to my Italian lesson. I skipped Italian for the past two weeks because of New York City and because I got lazy after partying out in Santa Monica. Would be nice to have a weekend for once where I don't have to recover from anything.
New York Memory of the Day: Crossing the street and seeing a full-blown Mary-Kate copycat. (Or was she "channeling" MK? It was far more intense than that.) She had the oversized sweater, the large boho jewelry, the too-big sunglasses, and the Balenciaga-like bag with tassles. She also had tousled reddish hair, just ratty enough to look perfectly windswept. I took all of this in when we passed by one another crossing the street. The kicker? She was easily three times MK's size. Close, but no cigar.
Anyway, it's just amazing to see that little Michelle Tanner is a New York style muse. Practically an icon. Cue sentimental music here.
Roam Sweet Roam
What is it about a song, that makes me at once happy and sad, and urges me to start writing (or blogging)? Every time I put the headphones in, my hands itch to start typing.
I have been hesitant to blog the weekend in New York -- and the events shortly before and after -- because I just don't know where it begins and ends. There is so much to tell. Things that revolve around frustration, happiness, freneticism, longing, excitement. I started and ended the trip feeling overwrought. But everything in between made me feel very alive. As is always the case, when the plane landed, I got the usual sweeping calm. Back in LA.
It'll all come out in bits and pieces, as most of my stories do. Today I remembered Janet and myself walking back to the East Village after the compulsory visit to the Marc Jacobs on Bleecker. I had a Gray's Papaya hot dog in my hand and was chomping down on it. A man began following us, softly singing.
Why are Asian women so beautiful?
Do you believe in interracial love?
I'll be John, and you can be Yoko.We were stifling laughter while quickening our pace. And then when we rounded the corner, laughed much more heartily, singing it over and over again. That's New York poetry.
Bridge to Nowhere
Me being happy and missing somebody are two different things.
Had a good night last night with someone I consider fascinating, which has been the case for a long time despite my own efforts to make him just ordinary in my mind. He was frank with me about my shortcomings. It was low-key and amusing. I didn't laugh as loudly or as obnoxiously as I usually do, because I had the feeling that it would bug him.
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.
