Please Bite Right *Here*

"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

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"?

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

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?"

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

“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"

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

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"

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

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

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.