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.

Vonnegut and Crab Season

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.