My Hair is Everywhere

Perspective

2010-03-29T01:37:00.003-04:00

I've never really wanted a lot, like in the sense of really yearned for a lot. I remember really wanting my dad to get through his surgery safe and sound. I remember really wanting my mom to always be as happy as she was during the period when I was a newborn to about four years of age. Of course, I also really wanted Joshua Jackson to be my one true love, and I really wanted to own this Hello Kitty pocket mirror and comb set, but those were poignant, short-lived yearnings; I eventually outgrew my crush at 17, after nine years, and Hello Kitty is just so 1989 for the '90s kid in me. The truly serious things in life, I've never really felt a deep yearning for. I've never felt like I needed to get into Harvard, or else. I've never felt like I must have this car, or that house, or those shoes, or any other piece of material possession. In retrospect, my childhood was not a wealthy one, but I had thought so, because I had everything I needed: great spaces to call my own (a reading cave with a contraband reading lamp, a big boulder in the woods of Lawrenceville where I wandered and napped), my own custom-made desk, a computer when I asked for one, an ergonomic chair because my dad was just that worried about my posture, all the money I wanted for books, great food, concern and support from parents...I never learned how to want, because I never felt a need to.

For awhile, I didn't really know how to deal with wanting stuff. When I came across something I wanted, and it was always something I wanted badly, it became my whole world, and failure to get it would have meant devastation. I've really wanted great friendships with some people, and cool sounding gigs, so these things became larger than life. They loomed so ominously over everything else I should have been concentrating on, I put so much weight on them, they ultimately disappointed. I lost perspective, and only after the fact, after everything had fallen, and I've calmed the fuck down, did I realize that wanting stuff so much made me ignorant and shortsighted.

I've learned a lot about perspective from Ian. Every time I dwell and obsess over something I consider out-of-this-world, one-of-a-kind extraordinary, it helps to have him remind me that there are plenty of other things out there just as extraordinary. And he is usually right. All the nerves wracked over wanting something, it's so much to ask of a person. So much energy is expended over worrying and coveting and second guessing; in the end, it feels like an ill-lived life. Ironically, Ian is one of the last things I remember really wanting. Not just his person, but I remember really wanting something great to come out of our time together, and I remember really wanting it be more lasting than just a few months. That was one of the few times when I had enough perspective to realize wanting something like that so much might actually ruin any possibility of a future, and so we just went with the flow, made logical decisions based on our limitations, and waited to see how things would work out.

I have a couple of things I really want right now. I'm working towards accomplishing them, and I've envisioned a future with and without them. It's not so bad in either scenario.

Sick, So Expect Randomness

2010-01-13T15:05:00.011-05:00

"I am very excited to apply for this position, because OMG, it’s AWESOME!" Ugh, kill myself. How does one express enthusiasm in eloquent terms? Enthusiasm is defined as a burst of excitement, of gladness for something that is personally moving, and so should not be reined in, or tamped. The writing in cover letters is generally dry and controlled, so any statement of excitement is taken as unprofessional, and the writer as some ditz who can't express herself "professionally". Looking back, I wonder if I would have taken a cover letter seriously, if I had come across one with such unbridled enthusiasm in it. I honestly don't know. I would write down my bones with every cover letter, if I didn’t feel like my bones were so silly.

Illness did not strike me for the first eight months I was in San Francisco, and now suddenly, I am having two bouts of super-sick within a month. There's really not much I can do, since I can't operate heavy machinery on the meds, so I peruse. I read through all the articles I missed, or dismissed perfunctorily in the past, then I stream some videos, go through my half-finished books, start to knit or draw, get dizzy from that, and then just collapse in a leaky pile on the sofa waiting for energy to come back to me. I have never done this before. All the previous times I have been sick (in adulthood), I've had to attend class, or be at work. I know it's a luxury to be able to spend a few days focusing on just the recovery, but damn, it is boring. How do perfectly healthy people spend their lives not working? Pack the days as densely as a cup of brown sugar: that's how it's done.

A booked jumped out at me at the library: All Over Coffee, by Paul Madonna. It's a collection of line drawings with ink washes of San Francisco, veritable love letters from the way they were drawn. I take it for granted that any artist who has a published collection, or has an exhibition, regardless of how small, "has it made". I mean, I know that before whatever art of theirs I first see, they must have struggled with self-doubt, and painful moments when nothing they create seems meaningful enough, or beautiful enough. But now they have it made! All those previous thoughts were silly, and in vain, and thankfully untrue. Reading the afterword in the book though, reading through all those years of worrying about money, about taking jobs that didn't quite fit, knowing only what you don't want to do, but not knowing how to make a living out of something you do want to do, these struggles are not confined to artists, and the doubts don't just end once you get a little exposure. It was reassuring to read that his drawings improved over time, and that he didn't start at some prodigious level, because that's what I tend to think about artists whose works are available for public viewing. It has always seemed to me that they just pick the best ones, but their body of work is pretty much on the same level. Patently untrue, of course, because no one is automatically great at what they choose to do, except perhaps da Vinci.

The first piece I ever knitted was a lace scarf; the first stroke I learned was the breaststroke, and I swam 1000 meters the same day I learned it; the first poem I wrote, I wrote in iambic pentameter, with rhyming; the first time I used chocolate in cooking, I made a soufflé. I have never been comfortable with baby steps. It is painful for me to go through the first steps of anything, because most of it seems so obvious, and anyone with common sense should be able to figure it out. I find that I give up on things, because I aim too high in the beginning, and when the result isn't as perfect as I want it to be, I take it as an utterly failed endeavor. That has been the case with drawing. I found old sketchbooks from grade school in some old boxes I never unpacked from my childhood home. At 11, 12, 13, I churned out stuff like an ink drawing of a Fire Island sunset, a bunch of lilies from memory, a reproduction of a still life painting by Luis Melendez in graphite, a laughably childish copy of Hokusai's Great Wave Off Kanagawa in pastels (the grace of ukiyo-e, raped by crayons, essentially), and many more. And none of it was good enough. And since drawing was just the basic first step to painting, no way was I going to be a painter. So I gave up, but I went back to it year after year, and then a couple of years after a couple of years, and each time I tried to take it up again, the fear of not perfecting even that first little step made me stop trying. If I could have done all those things when I was just a child, if I had kept up with it, I could have been painting for years now. None of the drawing books I've desperately looked through in the interim have made much sense; of course it starts with perspective and simple shapes and values. How do you go from that to actually drawing something that looks like it came from an artist? I finally found a book that approaches drawing in a different way: Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain, by Dr. Betty Edwards. It wasn't a question of how precise I was when I was drawing; I was thinking and going about it in a completely unnatural way. If I had ever thought about drawing in a right-brain sort of way, that ability had long rusted, and I know now that I will need to train myself to see things anew in order to put anything on paper that I am happy with. Perfection is no longer the goal. To be extremely trite, nothing is ever perfect, and it is the imperfections that make for interesting subjects. Being from New York, I generally don't like to look people in the face. I've been looking recently, and (god, this is going to be treacly, and I blame the medicine) faces are beautiful. Every wrinkle, pock, and blemish are just as they should be. Which just made me think about how different Heidi Montag looks with all her alterations, and that is a direction I do not want to take this session of rambling.

"Chi po dir com'egli arde, e 'n picciol foco."

And now, onward!

Work

2009-12-08T01:33:00.005-05:00

"You take the pieces of the dreams that you have
Because you don't like the way they seem to be going.
You cut them up and spread them out on the floor
You're full of hope as you being rearranging."

Recently, I reread an entry in my journal that I wrote a year and a half ago. I was so unhappy, I had to leave work early, and the only place I found solace was on the second floor of the now closed Donnell Library. I remember blindly walking there, taking out my journal, and writing out all that I could not say (at least without being reprimanded or fired) about how I felt regarding the whole operation. I no longer remember what made me so upset, because all those niggling details were, at the end of the day, extremely petty and not worth the turbulent emotions they elicited. Perspective is always sharper in the backward glance. Well, I reread that journal entry when I was sitting in my quiet little studio 3,500 miles away, right after I had finished printing my first job in San Francisco. The distance, physical and emotional, that has been traversed since was breathtaking. All I could do was feel happy for what has happened, and for what I've accomplished since leaving an undesirable situation.

"And so I tread the only road
The only road I know."

There have been idle days since leaving my old job. Those days were never truly leisurely, though. My mother never believed in idleness, and did her best to instill that belief in me. At the end of life, the only thing that remains is one's life's work. So beyond paying the bills, and gaining material possessions, the one fundamental lesson I learned wholeheartedly from unhappy work experiences is that I must feel that what I do is creative. I need something to be made by me. I can't live doing work that's all about money-pushing, sector-analyzing, meeting-attending, people-managing. I remember having to approach a colleague to question some pittance he charged for hand lotion somewhere in Asia, because it might or might not have been part of our expense policy. And while I know that that's not what most jobs are about, some singular moment of focus on an insignificant detail, that conversation summed up how utterly stupid my job was. I could not give an iota of a shit at that point, and looking back now, I am surprised at how composed I was dealing with a situation that was such a huge waste of life.

I definitely think about my work more now. And not in the paranoid "Did I fuck something up, even though I've triple-checked everything?" kind of way. Mostly, it's about how far I can take a pun in the form of a drawing, or how I can make image registration more precise, or how I can be more efficient using certain applications. Creative, utterly self-serving details, and boy does it feel fantastic! I don't ever want this to end, and funnily, I would do my old job again, if I knew that it would bring me back to this point.

Coming Home

2009-11-30T17:57:00.005-05:00

"Cold like some magnificent skyline,
Out of my reach but always in my eye line."

I went home to New York for Thanksgiving, and arrived at dawn in the city. Michelle picked me up from JFK after my redeye from San Francisco, and we embarked on four days of ritual and quality time together. We shopped in the Union Square Farmers' Market for veggies and herbs, in Whole Foods for the remaining ingredients, and then headed to our favorite neighborhood Chinese place Baby Buddha for a farewell lunch (they're closing after however many tens of years). Michelle had brined a 12-pound turkey for three days, spatchcocked it, and then grilled it. That's right. Grilled.

On Thanksgiving, I took advantage of the cloudy weather, and the lack of people on the West Side Highway – oh sorry, now it's the Chelsea Waterside Park ::eyeroll:: – to get in a run before the gorging.

After Junior High, I stopped running competitively, and completely. Even when I used to run, I was a sprinter, and rarely ran any race longer than the 200m. I started running again in San Francisco early one Sunday morning, just because I wanted to breathe in more of the city. At that time, the streets were still quiet, and empty: perfect for my loud wheezing, and lumbering pace. From that first run, I realized that 1) my boobs have grown since Junior High 2) the rest of my body is also very different from my prepubescent body, proportionally and 3) running is damn hard to take up again after a 15-year hiatus. I labored through three miles, walking when I couldn't stand the cramp near my right Achilles, and trundled home beat, but exhilarated. The next run felt easier, and slowly, I've built up my strength again.

Running on the West Side Highway's bike path was really nice. There's landscaping along the path now, and I ran up a platform to the tall grasses; I felt transported out of the city to some boardwalk above the sand dunes on Fire Island. Running downtown, I looked towards Stuyvesant and Battery Park City. There was construction for more park space, but it was out of the way of the path, and I only had shrubbery, river, sky, and skyline to focus on. Two tracks from Keane played on repeat, and I switched between pushing myself harder during the faster song, and gentler jogging to the slower song. There are some songs that are just so perfect to run to. When I used to jog on the treadmill at MIT's Zesiger Center during those Boston summers, I would run and run and run to songs I associated with certain people, and any confusing feelings about them would be forced out of my system. Running back uptown, I saw SoHo, the Meatpacking District, and Chelsea in all their sparkling glory. Luxury condos, luxury hotels, luxeluxeluxe shoved down my gasping throat, and yet, it was still beautiful, because I don't wish it to have stayed shitty and dangerous. I am just still shocked over the rapid change in these areas, and I miss my childhood when these neighborhoods were not overrun with chicks breaking their ankles in high heels walking on cobblestones, and with dudes drowning in eau de douche. Alas, money brought them here, and money also brought this beautiful path I was running on. It's a twisted feeling, this feeling about money.

I am glad I left. The past several months in San Francisco forced me to live a braver life, one where I had to relearn some basic skills that I had lost over the years mired in a demanding job. I wanted to spend a good chunk of my visit by myself, so I can traipse at my leisure through old stomping grounds. Even when I was alone, I found myself reaching out to strangers to chat, or to exchange random pleasantries. And I was comfortable with it. It was even easier in restaurants and bars to start chatting with the people around me. I remember when I used to think that that was one of the most difficult things to do, because it was always awkward for me, or because it always had felt unnatural. Now, poof! I also biked around Brooklyn with Michelle. She took me biking in traffic for the first time a couple of months before I moved, and it was a nerve-wracking experience. This time, I sped ahead, handled body and machine with aplomb, felt no fear, and reveled in the feeling of freedom on a bicycle speeding through the brownstoned streets of Carroll Gardens and Park Slope. I saw Brooklyn and New York through different eyes, and it would not have happened without my move to San Francisco. My old home has become even richer because of the experiences I had elsewhere.

After leaving my old job, I was averse to looking back at it. I looked it fully in the face today when I went back to visit old coworkers and old managers. After lunch and coffee with some old colleagues, I walked around the floors, saw some new spaces that were not part of the company before, and caught up briefly with people whose memories I had pushed out of my head for over a year. Going back into that building where so many strong feelings had coursed through me, I only remembered the positive ones. I know that I had cried, had yelled, had cursed there. I know that I had felt helpless, and angry there. Now, there's only gladness that I can sit down with the people who are still there, and laugh over past experiences. The past year has not been kind, and it shows in a lot of my old coworkers' faces. We still hugged, felt happy for a moment, and had good wishes for one another upon our farewells. Despite 70-hour work weeks there for two years, I had forgotten what floor my group is on. Riding the elevator all the way to the top, I only thought about all that I wanted to tell old friends of my new adventures, of my new life, outside of that little world we all used to inhabit.

I fly back to SF in a few hours...to my new home, and to this:

<3<3

Ramblings from San Francisco

2009-06-04T16:44:00.004-04:00

It takes a lot to know a city, to REALLY know it. During a late night beer with friends outside the neighborhood laundromat/café/bar, I felt no closer to San Francisco after a month of living here. Too soon. I imagined myself sitting in Union Square on a late spring evening, and the thought alone transported me back to a home I know and love. I would close my eyes, and send little feelers to all parts of the city, and know it, understand it. The sound of traffic would blend into these thoughts, flow with these little feelers, and travel to all the places I've ever been in New York to grab a piece of the memory for when I'm sitting outside the laundromat/café/bar listening to a live band play unfamiliar music in an unfamiliar city.

The move was uneventful. It rained early that morning we left New York, and I rode the car to the airport mostly in silence. The big moments never hit me as much as I expect them to. They never have as much of an impact as the movies, television, or the media tell me they should. When my dad first told me my grandmother had passed away when I was eight, I immediately burst into tears, not because I was overcome with grief and surprise, but because I thought that that would be the most appropriate response. With age, I realize that big occurrences don't elicit an explosion of emotion from me; they are more like a slow burn that finally becomes unbearable, so I let it out one way or another. Watching the neighborhood fly by in the rain, I only felt like I was going to come back someday. The tender memories of all the good times didn't flood (until now), and letting go at that moment seemed easy.

I recently read an article on solitary confinement that elucidated its effects and the amount of time it takes for these effects to manifest. People need social contact, a quality I did not appreciate or believe when I was young. At one point, I wanted to live in an oceanside cabin in Maine with cats, and books, by myself for the rest of my life as an ideal retirement scenario. I thought that that would be enough. Though I won't be confined, I wonder how long it would have taken me to become psychotic with just cats, trees, literature, and the ocean to keep me company. I find myself craving interaction here. On quiet days when the dog is just not enough of an eloquent companion, there is a palpable need to reach out and make contact with someone. Not that just anybody will do, no no. I'm a beggar, and yet, I'm still a chooser. I often crave communication with my old friends, old bosom friends who have remained bosomy, who provide manifold dimensions to their conversations, not just gossip and trivial shit. The time difference is a wrinkle I haven't yet ironed out, so for most of the days, I pine after friends I miss who aren't even available.

A good friend of mine suggested poetry during times when I'm lacking inspiration, and it's worked. A few years back, I would periodically take down The Treasury of English Poetry, or any collection of T. S. Eliot's, and go to the game room where there was the largest window, so I could sit looking out onto Massachusetts Avenue and read verses that I could never write. There was a calmness in the cadences, and even though I only whispered them, I felt a kinship with the words coming from my mouth, like with prayer (I don't pray), or meditation. There is beauty in feeling lost, and there is value in looking backwards, though I have been taught that those two things are fruitless and futile. It is precisely the ability to feel a wealth of emotions that produces art, and without that sensitivity to all the different facets of life, there would be no great art. Sometimes, it seems like a bad joke to be one who feels so keenly everything that passes through one's life, but other times, it seems like a blessing to be able to glean significant moments out of the pile of mundanities that keep on coming, day after day, month after month, year after year.

With a tome of sad verses (what good poetry is happy?) in my hands, I give myself full permission to indulge in a period of mourning. I mourn the life I left behind in New York: the crisp mornings, the lovely neighborhoods, the people whose distinct flavor and jadedness I miss terribly, the friendships, the apartment, my block, the trees, the parks, the subways, the life that could have been, the supermarkets, the restaurants, the sidewalks, the memories from all the nooks of benches once sat upon, and from all the crannies of places, people, and things that made up who I am. And I am here now, meeting generic people, because I giving away only my generic self. "Hello, how are you? Doing well, enjoying the weather." I mourn the friends whom I've known better elsewhere, but who are here now. The spectre of a better friendship, long dead, gives me hope at the same time it keeps me down. Wishing to resurrect a time in our lives that has already passed us all by is also futile, but the yearning is still in me. The changes that have come over us during the years apart, I am not ready to face theirs, or to reveal my own. This sudden reintroduction leaves me still trying to reconcile that things are different, not just on hiatus. I don't think I was ever done mourning what I had lost, so this second round of mourning is a lot. The poetry helps, though.

My Coney Island Stories

2009-03-26T01:01:00.000-04:00

Early in January, I read that the Astroland Rocket has been removed from Coney Island, and that the whole honky tonk area will be revamped into something, well, something completely un-Coney Island. Brooklyn Based calls it a "dismantl[ing] of Brooklyn's storied past" and it brings me back to all the times I've spent creating my own stories on its shore.

This photo was taken in 1988. By the very early 1990s, the graffiti was gone, and the trains were upgraded to the silver style trains that are still running on some lines. I used to take the B train from 20th Avenue in Brooklyn to Grand Street in Manhattan for elementary school. The ride took about 35 minutes door-to-door, and I would sleep with my legs dangling, and with my head on my mom's purse on her lap. The poles on the train were more elaborate then, and there were actual swiveling handles above the seats onto which passengers can hold. One detached from its pole one day and fell on my mother's thigh. The handles didn't look heavy, but the weight of it coupled with gravity gave my mother a nasty bruise. She always told me that if my head had been there, I would have died from the head trauma.

The trains frequently were rerouted on the weekends, so in order to go into Manhattan, or to get home from Manhattan, we would have to go all the way to the last stop, Stillwell Avenue/Coney Island, before we were on our way to the destination. Most of the train would empty out during the summer when all the families exited to go the the beach. Generally, I was more freaked out than not by the station, because the trains always had to release pressure with a huge WHOOSH!, and because the people looked sketchy/dirty/violent/drunk. There were always cops around, though.

My dad had surgery to retrieve a large kidney stone when I was 7. He spent a month recuperating, and we hung out a lot after I came home from school and on the weekends when my mom had to work. We went to the Coney Island beach one weekend, and as we were walking on the sand, he dared me to outrun him. He told me he still felt weak from the surgery, but wanted to prove to himself that he can sprint like a perfectly healthy man. I ran off on the sand, but he soon caught up with me. I stopped, grinning at his victory, when he suddenly keeled over and dropped down to the sand groaning. I thought I had played a part in killing my dad, and started to panic. He then looked up at me and smiled. He looked so proud. I started bawling, of course.

I remember another time at Coney Island when he took me to the aquarium. My dad got up one day and told me he felt really bored, let's do something. We ended up staring at the penguins, breathing in the fishy aquarium smell all afternoon. I translated the info plaques next to all the tanks for him, and we traipsed around the rooms looking at species of fish even Chinese people would not eat willingly. He didn't let me touch the stingrays, though, because he said that the tank water was too dirty. To this day, my one and only stingray-fondle was at the Mote Marine Aquarium in Sarasota, to which Ian took me only a few years ago. I mean, this wasn't just a random day with dad. This was something seemingly casual, but which was actually rife with significance, because it was something I did with him on some off-chance, not knowing that I would retain the memories of that day until I die. Such is the story with my dad. And with Coney Island.

Junior High was really hard for me. I didn't know what sarcasm was, and had the hardest time trying to get my classmates to explain what "alternative" music meant to a girl who's only listened to Canto-pop for the last 11 years of her life. I went from being one the brightest, most outgoing kids in my elementary school to being one of the shyest, most awkward kids in Junior High. In retrospect, it wasn't easy for many people, but when I was mired in it, I only looked for a way to avoid it, or to get through it unscathed.

I played hooky several times, mostly on days when I didn't want to see any of the kids, or deal with any of the teachers. I always did my homework, but shunned "collaborative efforts" with other students, because I was just too unsure of what they thought of me, and because deep down, I knew I liked few of them. It mattered so much that I was liked, that it didn't matter who the person doing the liking was. "Being liked" was an entity unto itself; the doer was meaningless to me; the quality of being popular was the drug. But I didn't ever DO anything to make myself more likeable. I never spoke to the kids who seemed to have it easy, never dressed or acted any differently. I was some strange hybrid of a child who was all egoism and insecurity. It frightens and amuses me now to look back on how myopic I was about everything. If I can name even five people I give two shits about today from Junior High, I would be floored. But back to the hooky: I would take the train all the way into the Bronx, wait at the last stop there, and then ride the train all the way back to Coney Island. No one questioned my presence on the train, even though I was an 11 year-old huddled in the corner reading my book at 10am on a schoolday. I finished Through the Looking Glass on one of those hooky, train-riding days. At Coney Island, I would wander around the platforms for awhile, and then I would board another train, the F most of the time, and ride that to the last stop going uptown, before taking it all the way back to Coney Island again. By the third train switch, it was almost time to go home. I also finished One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and To Kill a Mockingbird on those hooky days.

In some meta way, I watched "Requiem for a Dream" the year I took off from college, and saw Coney Island through the eyes of all the lurking, addicted souls I tried to ignore when I went there during the light of day. I also saw remnants of my then-boyfriend in those characters. There was that same hopeful, unrealistic look of the addict who didn't know he was in deeper than he wants to believe. The American Dream was quickly disintegrating, and I no longer saw Coney Island as the gaudy, harmless place of my childhood. It became the place where a hit could be taken under the unlit boardwalk, where dealers met with druggies outside Astroland, where the elderly pawned their belongings on Mermaid Avenue to feed their grandchildren's addictions. No good came of it, and from that period, I realized that just love was not enough to hold anything together.

There are stories about Coney Island for a lot of people. It's tough to look into the future and to try to envision that whatever tacky crap Thor Equities thinks up, there will still be that magic of history and faded glory.

Riiight.

The Hektorious One

2009-03-02T12:15:00.003-05:00

Yet another month, yet another couple of inches. Here are Hektor's new measurements after only one month of growth:

As of March 1, 2009, four weeks since his last measuring:
- Neck: 16.25" behind the ears (+1.5"), 16.75" on the lower neck above the shoulders (+2.5")
- From nose to tail along his back, 26" (+2.5")
- Withers: 15" (stayed the same)
- Chest circumference, 23" (+1")

We didn't get his weight this time, and were unsuccessful at trying to measure the width of his face, since he tried to eat his measuring apparatus every time we held it up to his face. Suffice to say, he is hefty to hold, and his head is growing nicely, but still considerably slower than the rest of his freakishly large body. Seeing other Frenchies in the neighborhood, seemingly large ones a few months ago are now dwarfed by our monster. Hektor is longer, taller, but not yet thicker than almost all of the other Frenchies in the area. What have we gotten ourselves into?!

That's his sheep pelt bed. I found the pelt, which was a gift from an aunt in New Zealand, in my childhood home, so now it's his makeshift bed around the apartment. He loves it, and sometimes feels so strongly about it that he must eat some of the fuzz. In this photo, he clawed and pulled at the pelt until a ridge formed, and then he used that has his pillow.

Hektor is an experienced walker now. He knows to wait for me at a crosswalk, and rarely tries to drag me anymore. When crazy dogs bark at him and scramble to get at him on their leashes, he just stands there and looks at them, but neither shies away frightened, nor barks back to match their aggressiveness. He seems well-balanced and happy, and he trusts that I will protect him when any dog or person threatens him. We are companions, and little extensions of one another. Ian and I try to leave him alone at least once a day to get him accustomed to abandonment. Aside from a yip now and then, he is fine in a crate.

He's sleeping on the pelt at my feet right now. Soon, we'll go for another little sprint in the new snow, and he'll hopefully be sawing logs again in no time.

Long Walks With Hektor in Cobble Hill

2009-02-04T00:53:00.008-05:00

Ce soir, le vent qui frappe à ma porte,
Me parle des amours mortes,
Devant le feu qui s' éteint.
Ce soir, c'est une chanson d' automne,
Dans la maison qui frissonne,
Et je pense aux jours lointains.

Que reste-t-il de nos amours?
Que reste-t-il de ces beaux jours?
Une photo, vieille photo,
De ma jeunesse.

Que reste-t-il des billets doux?
Des mois d' avril, des rendez-vous?
Un souvenir qui me poursuit,
Sans cesse.

Bonheur fané, cheveux au vent,
Baisers volés, rêves mouvants.
Que reste-t-il de tout cela?
Dites-le-moi.

Un petit village, un vieux clocher,
Un paysage si bien caché,
Et dans un nuage le cher visage,
De mon passé.

Les mots, les mots tendres qu'on murmure.
Les caresses, les plus pures.
Les serments au fond des bois.
Les fleurs qu'on retrouve dans un livre,
Dont le parfum vous enivre,
Se sont envolés pourquoi?

One of my favorite activities is to take Hektor out for a long walk around the neighborhood. I walk with an iPod mini in my lefthand jacket pocket, Hektor's leash handle in my righthand pocket, and we stroll from one pretty brownstone-lined street to another, in search for adventure, or just the random lovely scene.

Recently, my iPod has been playing Charles Trenet's Greatest Hits album on repeat. There is a distinctly magical air about walking around this neighborhood with big band French music playing in my ears; the music transforms everything. I find myself ignoring the parked cars and seeing these old streets in soft focus. Anytime now, a horse-drawn carriage will be rolling around the corner, and stopping in front of a gas lamp. The wrought iron balustrades leading up to the homes grow and swirl into a wall of metal vines and flowers. It is fin-de-siècle, only not of this past century, but of the one before that.

I still go through bouts of ennui in the middle of this seemingly unending winter, but there are bright lights on the horizon: my friend and I are starting a letterpress business; I have finally gathered enough courage to indulge myself in penniless, artful pursuits; life without the 9-to-5 is gloriously thrilling, and my soul is fed by this freedom. I never want to go back.

Pigface Killah

2009-02-01T13:36:00.000-05:00

As of January 31, 2009, six weeks since his last measuring, these are Hektor's measurements:
- Neck: 14.75" behind the ears (+1.5"), 14" on the lower neck above the shoulders (+1")
- From nose to tail along his back, 23.5" (+0.5")
- Withers: 15" (+2")
- Chest circumference, 22" (+0.5")
- Weight, 23 lbs (+4 pounds)
- Width of face at widest part, 6.5" (+1.75")

Hektor is officially six months old! The little rascal has learned to sit by the door when he needs us to take him out, so we've been doing considerably less mopping, thank goodness. We've also been teaching him "Drop it" to prevent all the mouthy tussling that generally accompanies any game of Fetch. He's still not that good at it, but he loves treats, and so learns quickly.

I find myself missing him when I'm away from him for most of the day. Hektor is always glad to have us come home, and wiggles his butt into our arms. He's a lot less nippy now that his adult teeth are all almost in, so most of the excitement translates into frantic licks at my fingers, knees, and toes. I am followed everywhere I go in the house, and can hardly get a pee in without having him hang out on the bath rug with me. I was forewarned by the breeder that this is the case with Frenchies, but I am happy that he is my constant companion.

His current leash is not a quick release type leash, and so since his head has grown too large for us to remove it, we'll have to cut the leash off soon. His head is finally catching up to the rest of his body, so he doesn't look like a pinhead anymore. I'm also used to his heft, and no longer groan when I hoist him into my arms when I go up and down the stairs. It's amazing that he is the size he is already, since I see other Frenchies in the neighborhood who were considerably larger than Hektor only a couple of months ago, and now, Hektor has outgrown them. He used to crawl through some wrought iron fencing to get to a tree where he had his usual pee spot, but the arches in the fencing are now too small for him to fit his head through, nevermind his body. They grow up so fast ::tear::.

Hektor has his first playdate with a 1.5 year-old Golden Retriever, Sebastien. I hope Hektor plays nice and isn't an asshole. I would think the same if I were bringing my kid to his/her first playdate, because you never want the being whom you are raising to ever be considered an asshole.

Please Bite Right Here

2008-12-22T22:40:00.001-05:00

"Isn't it enough to live a long, beautiful life with me?"
- Edward Cullen

In the spirit of the holiday season, I'm granting myself this time to be a 13 year-old again. I watched Twilight with my boyfriend's little step-sister, who is officially a teenager now, and her friend in Florida a few weeks ago. I made sure to read the book first, in a confused attempt to ruin forever either the book, or the movie. Neither happened, and the whole experience was oddly invigorating in the way wearing galoshes in the rain is invigorating, or in the way buying new notebooks for the school year was invigorating. Part of me thought, "I am too OLD for this shit." The other part of me squealed in delight every time Stephanie Meyers went into her rant of how beautiful Edward Cullen looks, and how mesmerizing his everythingness is to the guileless Bella.

The book was okay. I believe that I've read worse schlock, but the only example I can think of is the copy in US Weekly. The plot is, in hindsight, not the worse plot I've ever encountered, but during the reading, I wanted to know what happens badly enough to keep on turning the pages. And it was a hefty number of pages: somewhere in the 400s. The dialogue was stilted, but sort of fitting for awkward teenagers to utter. The descriptions were weak, and repetitive, but I'm assuming young female readers have ample imaginations to fashion an impossibly handsome vampire in their heads upon the first millionth time his looks are mentioned, so as to make the blundering adjectives moot. And wow, upon rereading this last paragraph, I don't sound like I enjoyed the book at all, but that's not true. I liked the book, only...I'm not sure why. Perhaps I still haven't matured beyond the tween-Sarah of yore, and still yearn deeply for some invincible mutant-hero to come rescue me from this mundane, human life. Or perhaps I am still enthralled by vampires, by their fabled strength and abilities, and by their unavoidable curse. Perhaps, I was just bored and wanted to leech some exuberance from the young, supple fans of this phenomenon known as Twilight.

The movie was okay, too. Even as I sat in the theater, I was thinking that the scriptwriter needs to be murdered, so as to prevent her from ever writing again. But then I realized that she didn't have much good stock with which to work; the writing in the book was quite atrocious, so what was I expecting? The actors did what they could with their halting, unnatural lines. Visually, the female protagonist, Bella, was pretty on point. Her acting was a bit wooden, but I guess that can be misconstrued as ennui, and ennui can be considered sexy. There was one point where I wanted to rip my ears off -- when she was in the hospital freaking out about Edward possibly leaving her to protect her from himselfyaddayadda -- because of the absolute BADNESS of her acting, but aside from that one part, her screaming was convincing, and I kind of like actresses who don't give a shit. The male protagonist, Edward Cullen, was terribly written. Robert Pattinson delivered a performance that was intriguing, but his lines made him seem like some A.D.D.-ridden manic depressive. I've dated people like his character; it wasn't fun then, and it wasn't fun to watch it on the big screen now. There were moments when Pattinson shone, all the times when he smiled brilliantly and unguardedly, but most of the time, the character was just a scowling mess. There were no scenes that showcased his dangerousness successfully; there was no magic. I'm almost petulant about this, because the whole damn book is about how extraordinary he is, only the movie failed miserably at making it into a reality. Still, he's now a certified heartthrob, from all the reports of fans asking him to bite them. If broken skin, infection, and unfortunate scarring don't deter the fans, his stardom is set.

The one redeeming line in the entire movie, which was not in the book, is the one quoted at the beginning of this post. The issues of mortality, of living a meaningful and natural life, and of submitting to fate can play heavily into the plot, but it doesn't really. In a world of immediate gratification, Bella's wish to live forever with Edward seems fair, and almost expected. He doesn't comply, and that makes this love tender. Isn't it enough to live a long, and beautiful life? The one precious thing about life is that it ends. But that's getting too deep into that internal struggle of Edward's. He's hot, and he glitters. It's awesome.

Hannibal Hektor

2008-12-21T23:44:00.000-05:00

As of December 16, 2008, a month and four days after we first took his measurements, these are his new numbers:
- Neck: 13.25 behind the ears (+2.25") , 13" on the lower neck, above the shoulders (+1.25")
- From nose to tail along his back, 23" (+1.5")
- From upper back down his front legs, 13" (+1")
- Chest circumference, 21.5 (+3.5")
- Weight, 19 pounds (+3.8 pounds)

I almost couldn't believe that his chest is three and half inches thicker in just one month. He's like the Incredible Hulk, only not green, and kind of farty. He's also not very angry, but mostly cuddly and snorty.

We went with him to see the manatees gather at Blue Springs in Deland, Florida during Thanksgiving. The gentle giants were peacefully bobbing, and the count for that day was already at 175 by the time we showed up at 11am. Hektor kind of reminds me of a manatee in that he's lumpy and round, and when he's sleepy, he just lolls around like a beached sea mammal. What a sweetie.

To date, his head is the last part of his body to go through a growth spurt. Ideally, it should square out, and be about twice the size. Some days, I fear that we'll have a normal looking bully with a pinhead, but that's kind of like a mother worrying that her child will never grow out of the awkward phase. Even in the most recent photos, I can see that his head has grown, but just not as noticeably as his other body parts.

He has brindled quite nicely. When we first got him, he was mostly dark dark brown, and had only a few strands of blond. Now, there are entire patches of blond hair, and in the sunlight, he is a wonderfully glowy pooch. Here's Hektor at five weeks:

What's a Better Word for "Dong"?

2008-12-06T20:29:00.000-05:00

What attracts me to it, other than serendipity, is the purity of its awfulness… coupled with its naked, flailing whorish ambition to seduce. It is working so very hard, and so very transparently, to solicit readerly enthusiasm that one can only love it for how earnest it is in its hapless badness.

- Wyatt Mason, "Gilded Loins" post on Sentences, 19 November 2008

In a moment of cabin-fever delirium, my boyfriend and I decided to write a romance novel. The idea is so awful that it just might work. Apparently, about 50% of all paperbacks sold are romance novels, and many mediocre writers have dove into this genre in hopes of making a meager buck or two. There is an idea to pitch together a Victorian era woman with an exotically lineaged man, but seeing how most of the readers are women, and they are the ones fantasizing about the male protagonist, I need to make this male character more enticing than, say, a random Chinese man in turn-of-the-century Shanghai, whose life I am well adept at recreating. Apparently.

But I am a big fan of Wyatt Mason's, and if I end up writing this and getting it published, I hope to elicit equally acerbic criticism for a work that is at least much more honest than most of the other stuff out there.

If not, at least I would have had the chance to look up from my notes and asked Ian, "Hey, what's a better word for 'dong'?"

Hek-Potato

2008-11-29T16:28:00.000-05:00

As of November 12, 2008, these are Hektor's measurements:
- Neck: 11" behind the ears, 11.75" on the lower neck, above the shoulders
- From nose to tail along his back, 21.5"
- From upper back down his front legs, 12"
- Chest circumference, 18"
- Width of face, 4.75"
- Weight, 15.2 pounds

He's going to weigh about 25 pounds when he's full grown with a 15" neck. The rest of his measurements are off only by a few inches except for his chest, which should grow for several more inches.

Hektor has been sleeping with us for the past few nights because we're visiting family for Thanksgiving. He has very good bed etiquette: he doesn't come towards our faces to harass us, he doesn't hog the bed, he goes to the foot of the bed and only requires an ankle or a calf on which to prop his head. During the early morning, even when his little bladder is filled to the brim (I can only guess), he only paces a little to ease his discomfort; he does not come up to our heads to wake us.

Change doesn't settle well with him and we want to make him as calm as possible after his first airplane ride by having him sleep with us. We didn't have to drug him, and he slept for most of the way, so it was easier than we had anticipated. I wasn't sure I wanted to put Benadryl in his system at such a young age, but it was unnecessary anyway.

He is still peeing indoors occasionally, and actually pooped once on my boyfriend's mother's new rug, so we still have to work on those aspects of his training. He's been a good pup and companion to us, though. It's been well worth it.

"Why Is It That You Broads Want All Or Nothing?"

2008-11-20T13:04:00.006-05:00

Erica Barry: Ever been married, Harry?

Harry Sanborn: No. No, I haven't.

Erica: Wow. Now, why do you think that is?

Harry: Well, some people just don't fit the mold, and so far, you know...

Erica: Hey, if it ain't broke...

Harry: Exactly.

I'm turning 25 this year. I've been in a relationship with the same person for four years now, and the indelicate questions from families and friends have started to arrive. "So...when are you guys gonna get married?" "Hey, wow, four years. About time to get the show on the road, huh?" "You think you guys are going to be engaged soon?" Similar questions plague my friends who are in similar situations, but the difference between us is that they actually want to be married, to go through the whole ritual rigamarole, to endure the preceding hubbub and the subsequent tedium of thanking people, etc. For the most part, my friends have a tentative timeline for this whole process. For myself, I have no problem with the status quo, and hey, if it ain't broke...

The problem I'm anticipating is the reactions from all the nosy, but well-meaning, people who ask me about my non-existent marriage plans. I'm 24 and get the understanding nods when I tell people that I want to wait. They think that I'm wise and not impetuous. This situation will be drastically different when I'm in my late 20s and my relationship is close to a decade old ::knocking on wood::. People just can't seem to wrap their minds around a functional couple who do not want to be married. It is part of the natural progression, they argue. It makes it official, they say. Well, I don't know what they think I've been doing with this dude, but everything so far has felt damn official and in a progressing manner to me. We met, we liked each other, we started dating, and eventually we moved in together. We now share a life, a dog, some of the same dreams, most of the same hopes, and our days are wonderful.

I had a guy recently lecture me on the marriage subject. He told me to cut it and leave if I don't want to be married to a guy I've been dating for four years, because according to him, "What's the point?"

The point, ah, actually comes in the form of a fork. One prong of it is that marriage is not the end-all-be-all of relationships. Particularly nowadays, the idea of marriage, for many women in my generation, is wrapped around the concept of the wedding. Coming from a relatively privileged background, my friends think about couture wedding gowns, a classy and understatedly fancy venue, dressing the entourage, and honeymoons at international destinations. I don't think my mother even had a wedding dress, and I know she definitely did not get an engagement ring. My boyfriend's mother made her own wedding dress. The day of the wedding is anticlimatic, because from what I can see at weddings I've attended, the bride and groom are usually worrying about logistics or how other people are enjoying themselves; they seem to have fun, but in a removed sort of way, and they are definitely not having as much fun as some other people at their wedding.

The second prong is that his argument places the highest worth on the actual sealing of the deal, but not the deal itself. It is a bigger deal to me that two people are in a healthy, functional relationship, than two people who are married, but not happy. To think that being with someone for four years and not constantly have marriage on the brain, or have marriage be an end, is pointless is incredibly shortsighted, and these are the numbnuts who are creating the glowing statistic of a 50% divorce rate.

The third prong is that life is a journey via many different routes. Who is to say that convention is key? If we all live to be happy, and happiness for some is to carry on a loving relationship with someone, with or without legal sanction, why make it a point to have to be married? I'd like to think that a relationship expires in its tenth year, so when I'm 30, I hope to be on my second partner, who I also don't want to marry. By the time I'm 60, I'll be on partner number 5, and in my estimation, I will have lived quite a broad and fulfilling life.

This is not to say that people who are married now, or people who wish to be married, are narrowminded halfwits who should expend their energies on something more worthy. I have been moved to tears at more than one wedding, because the two people pledging their love and lives to each other were so RIGHT for one another. I couldn't place my finger on why else I was blubbering like an idiot, all runny-nosed and puffy-eyed, if the situations hadn't been so...inevitably right. So, if it's right for you, get married! Have a ball! But know that it might not be right for others, so stop asking inane, nosy questions just to satisfy your petty curiosity. That's what dlisted.com and other gossip blogs are for.

Better Than A Woman

2008-11-11T14:21:00.007-05:00

“It’s lost its mom-and-pop home-away-from-home feel,” said Aga Machauf, a 26-year-old event planner, while sipping a grandé caramel macchiato. “It feels more corporate now.”
- Michael Barbaro and Andrew Martin's "Overhaul, Make It a Venti" about Starbucks, NYT

I first had Starbucks's when I was 13, in 1997, after school one day at the store on Union Square East. I had a Tall Frappuccino, because I wanted the smallest size, and because all my friends were having some other version of the Frappuccino, either with mocha or with caramel or with crack. My friends and I liked the upholstered chairs there, and we would play card games while we sipped away at our drinks ladened with sugar and caffeine. The barista, or rude asshole, as we knew him, would make snide comments like, "Don't you kids have homework or something?" because we required him to rinse out the blender for every single one of our drinks, since no two were the same. We were kids; we didn't want to have the same kind of Frappuccino as the next person. That would have been lame.

The thing is, I don't think we ever felt like it was a mom-and-pop home-away-from-home kind of place. It was a place where we paid for drinks that were expensive, and it was a place that provided us with a table and seats until it was late enough to go home and do homework. For $3.42 or however much it was to get a Tall Frappuccino those days, it was a cheap babysitter, if anything. While there, we didn't smoke pot, or have unprotected sex, or steal, so I guess ingesting a whole bunch of caffeine was the lesser evil. No, but it didn't make us feel like this was a warm place where we could have enjoy our beverages uninterrupted, and at anytime, could have wrapped ourselves up in throws, curled up with a good book, and quietly dozed off. It was a freaking Starbucks, and the reason we were there was because it was better than the MacDonald's across the street where the janitor yelled at us for sitting crosslegged in the booths. From the green aprons to the printed napkins to the interior design theme, it felt damn corporate from the first step in to the last sip before we stepped out to head home.

Geoff Vuleta, chief executive of Fahrenheit 212, an innovation consultancy in New York, said Starbucks had lost focus on the experience that drew customers in the first place by neutering the baristas and by crowding the stores with merchandise, or as he put it, “replacing mystique with relentless commerce.”

“We all remember our initial encounters with Starbucks: the exoticism of new language, space, sounds and smells,” Mr. Vuleta said in an e-mail message. “Fast-forward a decade, and the first thing that jumps out is that the mystique that so thoroughly defined the initial experience is conspicuously absent — trampled in the stampede of proliferation.”

Where did the NYT find these people? When you go to France, you are bombarded with "the exoticism of new language, space, sounds and smells". When you step into Starbucks for the first time, it smells like COFFEE. The exoticism of its language is broken down into three words denoting size, one of which means BIG, and the rest is just espresso and its few dilutions. From memory, our "barista" from the get-go was already a eunuch, and the music was never more than innocuous, immemorable tunes. I have such a problem with people who try to be bleeding hearts and who try to lament every damn thing that's "not as good as it used to be". Starbucks was never that good. At least not by the time it was common enough that we found one in every neighborhood we lived.

I had my first espresso when I was in eighth grade, in 1996, and it was bitter, but fragrant and nutty. I had no idea how much better it can taste until years later, but the flavor of espresso is something I distinctly did not associate with any of Starbucks's drinks. I was a freshman in college before I saw that my Grande Skim Latte was actually a drink with two shots of espresso and a messy pour of skim milk topped with that anemic, stiff looking foam. It was a matter of ritual that my friends and I went to Starbucks in college, since there was one right in the building next to our classes, and since it took our electronic meal points. Once we grew beyond having meal points on our ID cards, most of us stopped going there and opted for other better cafés.

As we all grew up and grew out of Starbucks, I attached myself to two espresso joints: Zibetto on 6th and 56th, and Ninth Street Espresso. They served more potent and flavorful brews, and each espresso drink came out like its own little dream. The milk was not milk, nor was it foam. It was some viscous, molten solid that neither splashed nor sloshed in the cup. When the baristas poured, the steamed milk joined the espresso and lolled around until the mixture reached the brim. Will I get a rosetta leaf today, or a heart? Even if it's just a random squiggle, I would be happy. From the first heady sip, to the last lick of espresso foam, as Martin Crane on Frasier said in the episode where he accidentally eats a pot brownie and gets the munchies, "you taste that and tell me that’s not better than a woman."

"Phantom Ships, Lost at Sea"

2008-10-27T15:05:00.005-04:00

In 2001, I traveled to Philadelphia with my two good friends to see the sold out 'NSYNC "Celebrity" concert tour. We somehow won tickets to the backstage soundcheck, and were able to stalk our pop idols upclose. Looking back now, the highlight was really having BBMak as the opening act. The front man wore a tight, slightly translucent, patterned purple shirt, and that's about all I remember. The magic lay in the combination of these two boy groups. They were young and handsome, and there's always that girlish dream to win one or more of their hearts to incur the jealousy of millions of other girls around the world.

The show was loud, and we were seated far, but we still had a lot of fun. They sang their timeless tunes, "Back Here," then "Still on Your Side," and my personal favorite, "Ghost of You and Me". Haunting. I think I might have cried to that at several points in my life. Don't judge; I was 17 and imbued with violent emotions. The stadium was filled with tweens and their unfortunate parents, so we were playing the part of the tweens by screaming our heads off. There aren't a lot of places where we could have acted with such abandon and with minimal judgment.

A few months later, right before we left for college, my friend and I decided to get on line at the Union Square Virgin Megastore to get our BBMak CDs signed by the band. At that point, I had never been in such close proximity to anyone from whom I'd want an autograph. At the table, I breezed past the blond one, then past the frontman, and lastly paused at the third, brunette one: Ste McNally. He took his time with the autograph and asked me to repeat my name. There was a shyness and a sincerity about him that his other two bandmates did not seem to possess. And of course, there was the British accent. AND, his name was the longer part of the name of their band, without which, they would be known as "BBM: Bowel Bowel Movements". AND AND, he sings most of the difficult, high-pitched parts of the songs. Somehow, all this made a deep enough impression on me to have some lasting effects.

I didn't consider him conventionally handsome, but it's amazing how a combination of qualities can conquer any initial judgment on aesthetics. When I was young, sweetness of personality and intelligence went far beyond the mediocrity of someone's looks. As I grew older, just being sweet wasn't enough anymore; there had to be charisma, or what passed as charisma in college. Wit, sarcasm, unconventional pranks-pulling all worked to make someone who's a potential 0 become a 1, so to speak. A good example is Jack Nicholson. So sexy, and yet, how?

Exhibit A:

Boooooo. He's physically symmetric (when his mouth is closed; his teeth are not centered), and should trigger all sorts of coos and purrs, but no. NO. He is batshit crazy, and that erases any potential to see him as a viable male with whom to do sexytime.

Exhibit B:

Huzzah. Look at that devilish grin, that cigarette dangling raffishly off his lips, those teasing eyes. No, it doesn't take youth, or abs of steel, or a full head of hair to be attractive. I once thought that it was because of a certain je ne sais quoi that attracted me to J. Nich, but actually, I can point out the exact reasons: he's his own man, his own brand of crazy, he is successful at being his own brand of crazy, he seems naughty, he seems like a LOT of fun, and most of all, at the end of life, when all the dalliances flash before your eyes, he seems like he would stand out like no other. But of course, he's not the kind of person with whom I would consider spending my life. There's consequence-free fun, and then there's meaningful living.

Exhibit C:

Ah, c'est parfait.

Tabulae Rasae: Teens, a Pup, and Life

2008-10-22T12:45:00.004-04:00

Ah, a blank slate.

I subbed for two beginners' Latin classes last Friday at my old High School. The students' ages ranged from 13-17. Being 24, some of my friends and old colleagues have expressed concern that I might not be able to maintain control over kids so close to my own age. Fortunately, I went to a geek-school, so the students were all civil and did not resemble the drooling, snarling masses that most people picture. There were your stock Kiss-ups, your I-don't-give-a-damn Smirkers, your Extremely Bright But Emotionally Stunted Ones, your Outgoing Social Butterflies, and your Fillers whom you forget once they leave the classroom. The surprising thing about being back in High School, albeit in the role of a teacher, is how easy it seems compared to when I was there as a student. I could smell the fear in the halls, and I could point out the pitifully nervous ones as well as the confidently insecure ones. Basically, High School is one big ball of insecurity. I am thankful that I realize that now, and can say that I am finally beyond it.

I am also thankful for my puppy, Hektor. I am NOT, however, thankful for pee and poo all day long. No matter how much you prepare yourself for the immense amounts of excrement, and the impossibly frequent appearance of it, it will not be enough. I have been dreaming about Hektor for years now, and have read most of what is online and in bookstores about French Bulldogs. My boyfriend, with whom I live, is my partner in this undertaking and successfully splits my responsibilities in half. Still, in retrospect of this past week, I think that we were ill-prepared in regards to our expectations. There was no way we could have been warned of our quads getting sore from all the squatting and mopping. There was no way we could have been warned of the constant worry about this little being's health and safety. There is no good way to warn anyone of the exact meaning of "constant vigilance". We understand that it is a great responsibility to take the life of an animal into our hands, but the palpable reality of it is something unimaginable.

Currently, we are still trying to house train Hektor. He is still frequently relieving himself on our floor, but there are good days mixed in with the ones where we are seemingly never free of the mop and bucket. He was also diagnosed with Giardia, so he's on a 5-day dose of Panacur. We are hoping that this intestinal parasite is the main contributor to his AWFUL gas. It is room-clearing gas. There is something so amusing about a 10-pound thing producing such gargantuan stink. Wow. Suffice to say, we have a box of large kitchen matches lying around in the open all the time.

I have left work two and a half weeks now, but it has felt like months. I can't be idle and unproductive for long, so it's only a matter of time before I either find something lucrative to fill my days or learn another craft (the first craft I learned during my last bout of free time was knitting). I've been bent on leading a more bohemian life after my Institutional Equities job. A person can only be materialistic for so long, and my limit is 20 months. It was absolutely lovely to acquire all those nice things that a contemporary, American girl desires: bags, shoes, jewelry, dinners, trips. It was super to waltz into the trendiest venues of one of the greatest cities on earth, and be able to afford them. It was more than I had hoped for to have enough money to take care of all the tedious fees of life: rent, loans, utilities bills. But the enjoyment of all that has a limit, and I reached it when I finally accepted that I am wasting my days doing something I do not like. Life, youth, is more than paying fees and loans. I am aching with the energy to do something that is part of the uncharted region of life. No more "two years until your next promotion and raise, ten years minimum until a directorship," etc. I need to be my own boss, because this life is my own, and I am not okay with someone else calling the shots anymore. Life is so much more glorious than that.

Anyway, I'm sleepy and rambling. Until next time, I will have seen at least 15 puddles of pee.

"Still I Think You're Rather Tasty"

2008-10-09T02:03:00.007-04:00

We have a new neighborhood: Boerum Hill cum Cobble Hill cum Carroll Gardens cum cum cum cum. The walk home from the nearest subway station is tree-lined and quiet, with nary a pool of vomit along the way, unlike our old neighborhood of Chelsea. There is a newly opened Trader Joe's, boutiques galore, and plenty of eateries full of goodness with which to fill our bellies. Plenty of dogs, too (how's that for juxtaposition; I am Chinese). And baby strollers. My, aren't there loads of baby strollers. I counted 14 one morning during my stroll around my 'hood, with the majority of them being Bugaboos, and then McLarens. From a random eavesdropped conversation in the couch department of Ikea, I learned that Bugaboos, particularly the super tricked out design with the all-terrain wheels, and the elevated seat, cost about a grand. One thousand dollars to hold your mini-me. This type of decadence falls right alongside my coworker buying a space heater to put underneath her desk in the summertime, because the company air conditioning is turned up too high. Aaand, that is why America and its economy are going to hell right now.

With more free time, I've been exploring hulu.com, and have unfortunately, and inescapably, become addicted to a few shows. I now love Lipstick Jungle and Fringe. The choices of full length movies run the gamut, but I think for the time being, I'll be entertained by the crappy/fun movies first, like The Scorpion King, and Bring It On. As for the TV shows, since I've already blazed through the full seasons of these two shows, I'll probably go to Family Guy for most of my stock entertainment. I have cable, don't misunderstand. I just like that I have full shows at my fingertips whenever I want them. It is a powerful feeling.

The women on Lipstick Jungle, by and large, irritate me, with the exception of Kim Raver as Nico Reilly. Her name is intriguing (German like Nico Rosberg? Philippino like that annoying kid in my High School technical drawing class? But she's supposed to be a Greek girl from Queens! Ohhh, Nico like Nikos? I's get it!), and when I first saw her, was led to distraction by how utterly unattractive I found her. Her facial shape reminded me of a slew of cartoon characters, so made it hard for me to watch her in a drama with any seriousness. I stopped watching 24 after Season Three, missing her appearance on it completely. I also did not follow Third Watch, so her presence on the silver screen has until now, been completely unnoticed by me.

Nico's storyline is the more intriguing of the three, despite the writers' darnedest to write in a coy billionaire beau for the Eurasiannoying Lindsay Price as Victory Ford (VF, where's the D?). Having unwittingly wasted her youth by marrying her college professor in her twenties, Nico's caught up in an affair with a 26 year-old aspiring photographer, Kirby. Unlike most other illicit affairs on women-oriented shows, there's no grating dialogue about how horrible she feels, or how she's betraying her husband, or how she's so grateful that she's tapping some tight young ass even though she's a melty, desperate 30-something woman. Sweet Zeus, her husband won't have sex with her! Let the woman find another way to feel alive! Seriously though, I do believe that cheating is wrong, but since I've been slammed by bouts of crippling fear of death and not living life to the fullest, if I were ever in Nico's situation where I've been married for 17 years and I still look as good as she does, with a husband who doesn't even notice, and a 26 year-old were showing me that life is most worth living between the sheets with him, it is a great possibility that I would say, "Yes, please."

What I like most about this actress are her husky voice, and her eyes, which first seemed buggy, but have now become "soulful". Nico's been pressed into some tight corners, what with her best friend thanking the Lord that she's not a mother, because an indiscreet woman is clearly unfit to be one, and what with her slimeball coworker, Mike Harness, itching to usurp her place on the totem pole. During each exchange, no matter how harsh the things spoken against her, she keeps her cool, looks at her attacker unbelievably, and actually musters up the self-control to just walk away. I would like to think that I'm much more of a spitfire than her, and would in her situations cause such a verbal ruckus as to render my attacker to tears, or to violence. The reality of it would probably be me, reduced to tears, and remembering the hurtfulness of the situation for years to come. Her calmness and control escape me. I never said I am a strong person. Anyway, I have developed a major girl-crush on her.

Speaking of crushes, I cannot exclaim loudly enough that Joshua Jackson is back and better than ever! I've never been a serial watcher of sci-fi shows, so I can't judge the quality of Fringe in that respect, but as entertainment, it is topnotch! You have your quintessential crazy old man as knowledgeable authority figure on all things sci-fi-ey. You have your blond tough girl who's been through her fair share of emotional trauma. You have your quick-talking, smart-alecky young guy who walks around spreading his jaded wisdom with a twinkle in his eye (this is Joshua Jackson), and a sideways grin on his face (so charming this grin). And of course, you have your slew of absolutely fucked up cases that might or might not be caused by the above kook and some omniscient all-powerful corporation. It's so good.

I've had a crush on Joshua Jackson since I was eight years old, when I first watched The Mighty Ducks on the big screen as part of an after school activity. Movies were pretty special to me, because I didn't see many in the theaters, and because this movie in particular contained that magical Disney oomph to embed it in my heart to this day. Charlie was shy, but resilient and strong. The character eventually became quite feisty and prone to teenage troubles, but he never lost his charm for me. The one scene in The Might Ducks III when a grown Charlie looks at the camera as he's zooming past on his skates, and then nods his head to bring his faceguard down: the stuff of dreams. It's been 17 years since that first sighting, but still I think he's rather tasty. I leave you with this:

Rainy Sunday in a Café

2008-08-10T21:04:00.003-04:00

6.55pm 10 August 2008, @ Café Grumpy

Try as I do, I cannot write something meant for public eyes and still remain detached enough in my writing to be like some of my friends who are better and more successful writers. They state their realities, discuss their actions, and accept the outcomes, whether these please them or not. Topics I consider too personal for publication are presented with no more than a shrug of their shoulders: c'est la vie. I envy the ease with which they allow the words to flow, and the freedom from fear of criticism. Whoever is spending enough time to read through these blocks of text obviously has a reason to, so if he finds it to be a waste of time, he can readily leave the page. Yet, understanding all this, I cannot write without backspacing, without hemming and hawing over each word and its delicate connotations. Rustiness. I can punch out dozens of unfriendly work-related emails within an hour, yet I cannot write what I am feeling and why I am feeling it half as easily.

Perhaps, it is because I do not know myself that well anymore. In the years after college, time has become so precious that none of it is spent on self-reflection anymore. The more important things suck it all up: proving myself at work, finding snippets of the day to spend with my boyfriend, sleeping. It's not hard to find myself greatly changed, but it was surprising. The things that once consumed my days do not once make an appearance in my days now. During finals, I used to dream in Latin, and depending on the testing schedule, in Chinese. It was crucial to know why this tense, this voice, this mood were used in this ode, and now, it is similarly crucial to understand why this tone, this manner, these words were used by a work colleague. Transferred into real life, what was once grand and poetically nuanced becomes petty.

So as I pull down all that I had once elevated to such great heights, something inside me is increasingly frantic to find a way out.

Bad Luck with the Blind

2008-08-03T18:45:00.002-04:00

As a dog lover, I am drawn to dogs of all sorts, old and young, pure and mutt. Except for Whippets. During a recent visit to Zibetto, the neighborhood espresso bar around the corner from my office, I encountered a seeing-eye dog attached to his companion. He was a full-grown male German Shepherd, all fur and panting virulence. His human counterpart was sipping a Pellegrino Limonata, my favorite soda, ankle anchoring the leash of his bodyguard. With the sun shining gloriously through the shop window, it seemed like the right time for me to ask to be acquainted. To the dog, of course. Fellow coffee drinkers have already fondled, cooed, and departed, without so much as a Hello to the Man; I am not so ill-mannered. I approach Mr. Limonata and ask, "Hi, may I say Hello to your dog?" Finishing his sip, he stonily replies, "No. He's working."

Stunned, I turned back to my own companion, and furiously whispered, "I am mortified! He said no to me!" My logical companion inquires, "If you were not prepared for the answer to be no, why did you ask? Why didn't you just go and pet the dog?" "Because I extended the question as a matter of courtesy. I didn't ever expect his answer to be no! Surely, I wouldn't pet a child without asking his parents for permission. Why should petting a dog be any different?" I muttered.

My mind reeled and memories swirled to try to find some relevance to my current situation. I took myself back to a few summers ago, to Cambridge, Massachusetts. It was a hot summer day, made hotter after my fifteen minute stroll across the Mass Ave. Bridge, blazing, uncovered under the summer sun. At the crosswalk of Mass Ave. and Vassar, a Blind Dude (I'm done walking on eggshells, goddamn it), was trying to cross, and the volume of the chirping Walk signal proved no match for the trucks rumbling past. I approached him, and asked, "Excuse me, are you trying to cross?" Apparently, my naturally low speaking voice was also no match for the trucks, so I made a second attempt. I placed my hand gingerly on his forearm and reiterated, "Excuse me, are you trying to cross?" My hand was flung off as he yelled, "Please, DON'T touch me!" At that, he rushed across the thankfully empty street, and walked briskly away. I stood and looked around furtively to make sure no witness misunderstood my intentions and assumed from this outburst that I was molesting a blind person. Upset, I walked on and took myself home, vowing never to offer assistance unless it was begged from me.

Perhaps my voice is grating to the ears of the blind? My tone too plaintive, my actions too bold and violating? Why do blind people hate me?! Silly egoist, I know. But this has spurred me to apply to Lighthouse International to be a reading companion for the visually impaired. If chosen, I would spend a few hours a week reading to whomever would enjoy it. I can't think of a better way to improve my blind-person-karma. And maybe, he'll even have a dog.

Vonnegut and Crab Season

2006-08-08T13:22:00.000-04:00

I recently stumbled upon a clip of The Daily Show on YouTube when Kurt Vonnegut was a guest. I have Slaughterhouse-Five somewhere in my childhood home, so when I went home to have dinner with my parents, I grabbed it off the shelf and flipped through it again. "Eheu, fugaces labuntur anni." I certainly felt that pathos during my searches for a job. But the despair is fleeting. If Postumus were to have answered that ode, he surely would have countered Horace with words of hope, and with scenes that matched the dearth with light. It's nice to see that Mr. Vonnegut has some light to shine on the darkest subjects: "Evolution is being controlled by some divine engineer. And this engineer knows exactly what he or she is doing. And why and where evolution is headed. That's why we've got giraffes and hippopotami and the Clap." The conversation leads to Iraq, and the problems with democracy, so the dark subjects keep on coming.

Chlamydia made me think about other STIs, and since I was also hungry at the time, my mind naturally wandered to crabs. It's August, and the blue crabs are starting to look mighty fat in the Chinese seafood markets. I know that most non-Chinese stay away from the hepatopancreas, but those fatty sacks are so savory and rich when cooked right. Our petite kitchen will be pushed to the max with half a dozen live blue crabs, but just thinking about the scallions, the ginger, the sizzle and the fragrance of rice wine...mmm! I guess the funnest step of preparing that dinner will be to convince Ian to hold the chopstick still, while I open up the tasty crustaceans.

I would never eat dog, though. I yearn for a pup, but I will not have nearly enough time to care for one. For the time being, I've taken up the task of disciplining my weird little cockatiel, Twinkie. He's not too friendly towards strangers, or even my mother, so it's about time to engage in some training sessions with a hardy glove and some yummy seeds. He's a hoppy little fellow who likes to whistle and trill, mixed with an abundance of "tsks tsks tsks." I see the potential of a truely loving friend in him, especially when he coos as I scratch his neck, or when he nibbles at my necklace while he stands on my shoulder, or even when he trusts that my finger will be there to guide him off the top of the window blinds and feels around with his little foot before stepping down to safety. Now if the brat will just stop hissing and biting...

I settled on an entree. Publishing turned out to be hard to break into, and from experiences, a road paved with crazies. I am not a picky eater, though, so I have settled on another option. If the duck confit weren't available as a special at my favorite restaurant, I would have the entrecote au poivre. I start on my meal next Monday. Wish me happy digestion.

Confiscated Nail Clippers Make Me a Crackwhore

2005-03-20T07:02:00.000-05:00

Aside from the harrowing bus ride from Boston to New York, the aneurysm-inducing hailing of cabs/taking of subways, and the painful lugging of an overpacked suitcase through all these events, my confiscated nail clippers tear at my insides, or rather, my outsides. But let me begin at the beginning...

Giving myself the buffer of seven hours to get from Boston to JFK Airport, I encountered three accidents on the way there by bus. The first one involved an eighteeen wheeler halfway down the slope of the hill, successfully blocking the middle and right lanes. Inefficient clean-up crews and sluggish police/firemen did nothing to help the situation along, thus, an hour and fifteen minutes of bumper to bumper loveliness. A second accident happened when a suicidal decided to speed on the fast lane, yanked his parking brake in an attempt to fishtail into oncoming traffic, so that he may take out a few other innocents along with him. He over-fishtailed and slammed into the separator headfirst, causing all traffic to go from the one left lane to the one right lane; another 45 minutes. By the traffic of the third wreck, I was also one.

Frustrated and sure that I would miss my flight, I asked the Chinese driver for a solution. He told me to run to JFK. I choked on a breath and then he started to get serious. By serious, I mean, he thought up a plan for me to get to the airport in time, a plan which involved trying to hail an empty cab on the Triborough, so that I could jump off my bus, grab my luggage from the storage, and then jump on the cab...in the middle of traffic, on the Triborough. Hell-bent on helping me, he sped up fifteen feet, stopped six inches away from the car in front and flailed his arm wildly to catch the cabbie's attention. All was in vain, however. After engaging in this insanity for a few lurch-and-halts, I convinced him that causing another accident was not worth a flight. Enter second brilliant plan: he left the highway at the next exit and dropped me off in the middle of Queens to catch one of the many cabs there. In the middle of the Burger King parking lot, I looked around to see which empty cab to solicit, hoping all the while that the driver would be full and jolly. No such luck, so I look to the streets. Amidst all the regretful head shakings and the "No, I go only to LaGuardias," I threw my head back in frustration and worry, only to see my answer. My darling MTA.

From the N/W, I needed to catch the local E, and then the AirTrain. Seemed simple, but silliness that is me, it is never that simple. I ran up some flights to catch the closing doors of the E, and yelled, "Is this local?!" A friendly Indian man cheerily answered, "Yes!" A short exchange later, I realized that he spoke a handful of English, but contained a worldful of kindness. Because of that, I supressed my anger as I watched my designated stop go flying by, since the E was an Express, and not a Local, as Mr. Grinny Indian here had affirmed. Getting off at the next stop, I quickly hopped on the Local E going back, flew to the AirTrain station, got on, got off (met a nice man going to Florida on it), checked in and made it on the plane with eight minutes to spare.

As senselessly frustrating as that all seemed, I met many more kind strangers than I had expected. Most were willing to help, despite the proficiency level. Although, there were those who referred to me as "Mamasita," and those who, by the inflection of their voices, thought that they were being hilarious by saying, "Hey sweetie, don't run so fast now. Don't wanna hurt yourself." Pilots, by the way, that second group. Granted, I was in high-heeled sandals and my hurried steps could hardly have counted as "running," as much as "wobbling precariously." Regardless, I made it, with eight minutes to collect the scattered pieces of my nerves; I was well on my way.

Now, at the carry-on checkpoints, looking beyond the boob/crotch fondling frisks, I was asked to remove the contents of my little brown make-up bag. Hello, OB tampons, eyeshadow, atomizer, tweezers, nail clippers and condoms. The guard gingerly picked up the nail clippers and slid out the one inch long nail file. She pointed at it and informed me that it was not allowed on the plane. Perplexed, I took the clippers from her, with nail file protruding, stared at the teeny thing and then said, "THIS?!" while making a slight jabbing motion. Apparently, all the uniformed gentlemen and gentleladies were very much on their guards, whereby my little jabbing motion of the gerkin nail file induced them all to jump backwards and immediately reach for their holstered, yet lethal, buddies of steel. I quickly placed the clippers on the table, "Ok, you can have it." I passed through, frazzled and sneering slightly.

The repercussions of that loss, however, are felt keenly now. Upon my return, the dry Boston air has ravaged my cuticles. Hangnails are caught on sweaters, knits, gloves, etc. Upon closer inspection, the unkempt quality of my cuticles lend an air of crackwhorishness to my hands. I have always taken for granted my well-moisturized, well-kept cuticles. And now, the dryness, coupled with hangnails and a general air of painful untidiness, my hands are the hands of a drugged-up degenerate in the heroine dens.

Why not buy a new pair of nail clippers, or borrow someone else's, you might wonder. Well...I wouldn't have had this tale to tell, then, would I? No, I still could have told the travelling parts, but I would have had to think up some other title, like, "My Crappy Commute," or "Traffic is Shitty McShit When I Need To Get Somewhere Quick," or "Whine Whine Whine."

I'll get new nail clippers tomorrow.

Me and My Big Mouth

2005-03-17T18:18:00.000-05:00

Walking to my Visual Arts class in the College of Fine Arts, there was a girl a bit ahead of me. She was pretty nondescript; she wore a black scarf, Converse-esque sneakers, a short outerjacket and carried some tote/bookbag/handbag of sorts that all college girls carry. Then suddenly, a wave of surprise came over me. That poor girl's pair of tight jeans was busted! Horizontally, right below her left ass cheek! I must go to her rescue and save her from public ridicule! I hurried and ran up to her, "Hi, excuse me, but your jeans are ripped...right below your ass on the left side." She stared at me for a few seconds, in that vapid BU girl way, as though she saw me, but didn't quite understand that I was alive and standing in front of her, when she said, "Yeah, I know. I did that on purpose. I cut up all my jeans around the crotch area. It's really sexy." I could only utter an, "Oh."

I have seen crotchless panties before. I have seen and cackled at my friend trying on a pair of pants with zippers up the inseam, right into the crotch. Those two other articles were much less offensive, seeing how they were not worn by a bratty little Scene-ster with a pickle butt, heading into CFA aka Bumdom, as she condescendingly sneered at my preppy sweater/clean, hole-free jeans/boots ensemble.

Next time I see a conspicuous tear, hole, exposed nipple and/or nether regions, I am keeping my mouth shut. I will only stare and perhaps take a picture. This was the wardrobe equivalent of asking a big woman when the baby is due, when she clearly only has a case of the fats. ::grumble::

Perhaps, I Shall Use This Once

2005-03-15T22:00:00.000-05:00

After reading "The Princess and the Pea," when I was six, I was intrigued by the princess's sensitivity, which represented the mark of true royalty. To my little heart, her delicate constitution in regards to slumber also represented her preciousness. Not long afterwards, I rolled off my bed during the night and did not even wake up from the fall. When my mother discovered my snoring form the next morning, she proceeded to wake me up and greeted me with, "I see YOU'RE no princess." And thus, I am the way I am.

P.S. How do you say "nursing home" in Chinese, mommy dearest? I'm kidding. I'm so kidding.