Greener grass.

Every so often, I feel this urge to blog. And I am going to commit! Write insightful, interesting things! Every day! People will flock to read my wonderings, pontificatings, thinkings! I will feel the carthartic release and become a better, more balanced person, less likely to think mean thoughts about my co-workers! Oh yes! More exclamation points!!!!!

Except that doesn't last very long and I realize, gee, I'm really kind of boring, and wander away to look at this shiny object over here.

But this thought (thinking, if we're going by my first paragraph) keeps popping up and it bothers me. Even though I've gotten exactly what I've wanted, schemed, worked for, it's not what I want, I'm frustratingly disappointed and second-guessing my choices. And I don't want to be that girl, who doesn't know what she wants and can't be happy with what she has.

When do you know you've made the right choice? How do I acknowledge that this isn't the fairy-tale I'd planned on, let it go and be happy with what I do have? Because I should be happy. And while I can't say I'm miserable, I can't say that my questioning of whether this was the right choice isn't bugging the hell out of me.

Because what's the point of questioning it right now? I'm committed for at least a year. I've made this choice, I'm not miserable, people around me are delighted that I've chosen this.

I would tell any other loved one to stop thinking and accept it and be happy with what I've got and oh, yes, there are starving children and wars and incurable diseases, you selfish, overthinking wench-o! Plus, stop using so many exclamation points.

Also, adding -o at the end of insults sounds better in your head.

There's a corner, right? That I'm going to turn and the whole vista will open up and I will breathe that proverbial deep breath and there it is. And I shouldn't panic at the thought of What if there's no corner? There's only this?

Smack in the face.

I've spent the past month caring for my mother after her cardiac bypass surgery. It's been a rollicking good time, except, you know, not. Now I start internship on Monday at 7:45 am. Let me reiterate: SEVEN - forty -five in the frikkin' MORNING!!!

That's just so not okay with me. Not even a little bit.

What is also not okay is feeling weirdly weird about being back in the hometown again. I don't kid myself and suppose every one feels this way at one point or another. Where things are familiar and comforting and alien and terrifying all at once. But it sucks and I want it to be over and I want to feel like my brain is not atrophying and I want everyone to be done with having operations.

I am tired of being the ice-chip girl.

Coachy coach.

When did Coach become a huge brand? I remember it back in the day, when it wasn't terribly expensive, but still a good quality, recognizable company, a little bit dowdy.

I turn around and baboom! It's all about cache and fakes and so damn expensive it makes me vomit a little in my mouth.

And I have to have it.

The Coach outlet has become one of my favorite places and I seriously lust after several handbags.

But what happened?

Was there a cultural zeitgeist I was out of the loop on? Did the hats rappers wore somehow trickle down to accessories-mad women? Or did Coach just get a really great PR person on board?

I don't know. I just know it works.

I also know my toenails are a truly lovely hot-pinky-silver-gleam-y color and I look at my bookshelf with dread and fear of the packing still to happen.

I live such a glamorous life.

Restart.

I've started writing something three times now. And I get to about this point and think "This is beyond stupid." And then erase. Because while I could write lots about the wonders of Sephora and what kind of life J. Crew is trying to push, or why tiny bottles of water taste better than gigundo ones, what's really on my mind is my mom.

There's a whole lot roiling under the surface that I just have not cared to examine. I feel on the verge of tears when I peek under those covers and I do not want to peek. It's easier to think about the practical things, like what I'll take to the hospital that day, what my mom should pack, don't forget to bring a sweater because it's fucking cold in hospitals. I really can't think about what if there are complications, what if it takes her so long to recuperate, what if she can't handle not being active and strong? What will my dad do if my mom's

I can't even finish that.

I can't think about this.

Sigh.

Today my mother had a cardio cath. And the results were...not good. And while everyone is on the side of this is okay. We'll do what needs to be done. Nothing to worry about! I am, internally, crying like a baby.

I realize as my parents get older, they will have more health problems and eventually they will no longer be with me. And I am not ready for that on any level. And the brave face, the smiling and the joking and the distracting I put on for every other family member hides this scared little girl in a corner who wants to hug her Mommy and never let go. I'd very much like to take the fear and pain and looming dread of what's going to happen away because it hurts my own heart, right there, deep, pervasive, strong, when it's like this.

I still have some of that hero-worship going on, with both of my parents that young children have. Part of me still wants to believe that my parents are the strongest, wisest, going to live forever, always. I think that never goes away, no matter how much evidence to the contrary.

I haven't cried yet. I feel like there's no point.

And I also feel like that little girl in the corner is doing my crying for me. She'd like to stop now.

Ahem!

And I'm not living with my parents when I do move.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

I'm not judging you.

Not a bit.

Well, maybe a little bit.

F-r-e-a-k-i-n-g out.

Am in my childhood bed, in my childhood room, in my childhood house, in my childhood neighborhood, in my childhood town, in my....this isn't going to end up anywhere pretty.

Have I mentioned how freaked I am about moving home to Pittsburgh? Well, I am.


This is a good decision. A thought out, contemplated, pondered upon decision (pondered, motherfuckers). An opportunity I wanted, strived, schemed, pined, achieved for. This is good.

And yet I am freaking the fuck out six ways from Sunday.

What am I afraid of? Besides small, furry creatures that skitter when the lights turn on? And papaya seeds (don't ask. It's not reasonable. It just is.)? And becoming absorbed back into my family as if I never left, am not a separate entity with a life of my own, am just a member of my FUF? And realizing that maybe it's not so good but being trapped. Trapped. Traaaapped (I am a super fantastic drama queen).

And besides being surrounded by every single person I went to high school with who has moved out of Pittsburgh and merely visits to laugh at me.

Oh, I am completely and utterly reasonable. Oh yes, oh yes.

Rules of Parking

I think a man in a little yellow VW bug wanted to cut me tonight.

To explain.

Parking is competitive in this city. Like, ridiculous competitive. And people are assholes. You see where I'm going.

So we're waiting in a line of cars in this parking lot. Stalled, because someone ahead is waiting for a space and there's only one enter and one exit. This is after circling the block multiple times and going through that particular parking lot multiple times x a lot. A couple walk to their car and are going to pull out. In front of me. Little yellow bug has clearly passed the spot. Little yellow bug has almost passed the bumper of the car, at least halfway past the bumper or the car pulling out. No way little yellow bug can back up enough to get the space and I am not all up in the little yellow bug's ass. Ahem.

I didn't pull forward to clearly trap them, nor did I back up to give them the space. Ain't that stoopeed, thanks much. And they kept looking at me and trying to back up more and more, when there was just not the space for the backing out car to perform its function. Waiting for me to back up until someone pulled in back of me and took away that option. And kept looking at me.

So I was pretty sure they were going to come back and key my car.

And I feel just a little exhilarated by my parking boldness and daring-do. But still...a little like an asshole. Because, you know, parking is competitive. And they kept looking at me.

Asshole? Or follower of the Sacred Rules of Parking and therefore totally justified?

Or maybe just insane that I've written a post about this.

My life in haiku.

Got an internship.
One I wanted very much.
Am going home soon.

FREAKING THE FUCK OUT.
So we are back to blogging.
My brain hurts. A lot.

(Yes, I could be more pretentious.)

Dateline.

Tonight I had dinner at a Thai restaurant in Dupont Circle with D and her kid. I've written before about how people tend to assume we're a bi-racial lesbian couple. We've only gotten confirmation on this a few times, but is kind of amusing.

So at this restaurant, when we walk in, there' s just a few people. There is a couple. The man is wearing a very large cowboy hat and a shirt I associate with George Strait. Or Garth Brooks. You know what I'm talking about. Long-sleeved, some vaguely loud design and buttoned all the way up to the very, very top button.
The woman he was with didn't really register. To be honest, the man didn't really register either, aside from thinking "That's a really big hat" and "Yay for you, eating Thai food with your very big hat."

But then...he opened his mouth.

And it was appalling. It was every Southern redneck cliche stereotype right there. Was unhappy with the food. Kept telling the waitress he couldn't understand her (though her English was fine, she was a soft-talker). Then repeated the numbers for the items he wanted over and over, increasingly loud and slowly. And when she would reiterate, he would say "No!" and then repeat what she had just reiterated. It was painful to watch and listen to. Just...painful.

And it hurts me a little bit when people live down to the stereotype. Because someone in the restaurant spoke with the couple and we learned he was visiting from Oklahoma. And he had never had Thai food before.

And that's fine.

But please don't be condescending to your waitress. Please don't think it's okay to abuse someone from a different country who lives on the tips you give her. Please don't expect honey mustard sauce with your chicken satay. Please don't think talking louder makes what you say more understandable. Please take a minute to listen instead of just shouting. Please?

I celebrate Southern culture. I think there are some amazing things about it and I would have minored in Southern literature, if I weren't deeply and passionately devoted to Shakespeare. I have no problems with the American South, as an amazing culture.

But then this is witnessed. And it becomes all Ku Klux Klan, Nascar and people still calling me "Oriental" and using the word "colored."

D and I kept looking around looking for the Dateline camera, with Stone Phillips (or whoever's in charge of exposes now) documenting people's reactions to stereotypical characters. Because I don't want to believe that's where we're at (even though my cynical heart knows it's true).

However, I think Mr. Oklahoma was also thinking D and I were going to start making out at the table in front of her son at some point.

Yay for cultural diversity.

Irresistible.

So...I'm back to posting again. I just can't get enough of myself.

I thought I would stop writing this because it was mainly to document the lead up to my thirtieth birthday, which I was convinced would be fraught with tears and craziness and rending of the garments and tearing of the hair. But...aside from general craziness, it wasn't. Am feeling quite zen and "Oh, okay." about the whole thing.

Is odd.

Do not know what to make of it.

So thought once that hoopla was over, I would stop this. Look back on it to go "huh." That is when I went absolutely batshit.

But...

I don't know.

There's a but in there. With many ellipses.

So I'm back to writing this.

Yay for inner narcissism!

Here, kitty-kitty.

Conversation with D at Barnes & Noble:

Me: I think I could have a Siamese cat...

D: (raised eyebrow, awaiting pearls of wisdom dancing off my tongue)

Me: ...because I'm Siamese, too!

D: (stupefaction at my astounding deductive logic)

Me: It would totally work.

D: That is so not what I thought you were going to say.

Nesting.

I think I'm nesting. Maybe it's the weather? I find myself buying home products lately and I wonder if this is feathering my nest to invite good people (person?) in, or if I am just that much closer to becoming the crazy cat lady who never leaves her apartment except to stock up on cat food and room deoderizor (which would be especially tragic as cats make my respiratory system seize up).

To wit, in the past month I have purchased:

And I am very much lusting after:

But what I really crave, crave:

I think I should probably embrace those Buddhist values more.

Eyeshadow.

Spent the early afternoon at Montgomery Mall today. My mother is giving my 10-year old niece a pair of high Uggs with dolphins painted on the sides for Christmas.

Because my niece has a reputation as the best dressed 10-year old at her school to maintain (though, honestly, I do not know why grown women buy these shoes. I have a pair that I wear at the beach during the fall and to walk the dogs. Other than that, why? I am all about function and comfortable feet, but Jesus Christ. There are limits).

Then I went looking for eyeshadow. Why is there an inundation of shimmer and glitter in eyeshadow? I want a simple compact with at least two colors in it (because I am not coherent enough in the morning to open two different palettes and decide which go together). I want the colors to be matte because I have enough "dressy" makeup. It was like a holy quest. A salesperson went to almost every different counter to find this for me (I now love her) and found one at Chanel. There were lovely colors, but of the four packaged, I would have used two and it seemed a waste to spend $55 for two colors with two going to waste.

Then...Trish McEvoy opened her (expensive) benevolent arms and voila! I am pleased. You buy a compact and then fill it with the exact colors you want. I feel so powerful and in control. So precise. Now let's see if I actually like the shadows, picky wench I am.

This made up for the fact that I was looking for a pair of utterly impractical birthday boots and could not find a single pair I liked. Booties? Why?

I blame Kate Moss and (stupid, yucky, Pittsburgh-hating) Sienna Miller. I also blame them for leggings.

Evil, evil leggings.

Ticket.

Got a fucking parking ticket today. For parking in a spot that turns into a no standing lane at (apparently) 4pm exactly. This pisses me off tremendously. Mostly because I arrived at my car at 4:02 and thirty seconds and the ticket was written out for 4:02.

And I suppose I can only be grateful because "Towing Requested" was ticked and if I had to go liberate my car from a tow lot...let's just say that there would have been an angry little Asian woman hopping up and down in Friendship Heights on Wisconsin Avenue today. Spewing obscenities. And maybe crying a little.

Because I had just come out of therapy. And I turn into this leaky, teary, emotional person and I hate that. Blah, blah, good for me, blah blah. Sucks. Don't like it. Except...I really kind of do. There's something strangely addictive about talking about me. Me. ME. ME!!!!!!!

Ahem.

I wonder if cops wear those high boots because they get kicked in the shins frequently. By angry Asian women jumping up and down and spewing obscenities.

I'm sure.

Pillowy lips.

That's been the topic of an email exchange between D and I. It is probably displacement that I have recently been obsessed with pillowy lips. Not so much as D, as I am going with her to get Restylane put in her lips (!).

I am a little terrified of D.

But I did buy Lip Fusion XL. For a ridiculous fifty bucks. I have become preoccupied with having smoother lips. I'm quite satisfied with the shape and general pillow-y-ness, but am not happy because they are quite ridgy and require massive amounts of lip balm/gloss. So heard the Lip Fusion was good for filling out the ridges, making lips smoother and you only have to apply once before bed! Even I can do that.

Except....

Not a whole lot of smoothing going on. I have two theories.

1. My skin is so ridiculously dry that there is no "body's natural water" for the "Patented dehydrated marine collagen-filling spheres™" to seek out and use to smooth. Therefore have started sleeping with a humidifier (which makes this ever so fun noise when it starts running dry. Yay for beauty!)
2. I totally got snookered into paying fifty bucks for a so-so lip gloss.

D thinks it's the second theory.

I soldier on.

Lame.

Have not posted. Because life has been taken over with applications. Because life has ceased to exist beyond me, my advisor, the UPS person and my computer screen. But not in the fun, checking-celebrity-gossip-sites-and-lots-and-lots-of-beauty-blog sites (except, you know...that's what 77.8% of my time is spent doing).

Have I mentioned I hate applications? Hate the whole process? Hate the whole dodgeball, please, please, puuuuuhleeeeeaase pick me aspect of it. Am I an adorable puppy with my nose up against the glass, knowing even a crap home/internship is better than being "disposed of" (and thus humiliated because I was not picked for internship dodgeball).

But since this online journal-y/blog-y type thing is for me, since no one reads it (oh, woooooooooooooooe is meeeeeeeeeeeeee), I'm just letting myself down, and that's kind of sad, no? Kind of sad, yes.

However, am in love with Biolage moisturizing shampoo and conditioner.


And that's what really counts, no?

Yes.

Four weeks.

One entire month of therapy and this is what I've gotten for the money:

Boy, have your parents fucked you up.

(Except much more therapeutically and all that. But as a therapist, it's all distilled down to:

Boy, have your parents fucked you up.)

Friday night lights.

I bought a new denim jacket (I just did a google image search for "denim jacket" and there is a whole lot of serious ugly out there (thanks, PR Laura!).

Why? Because it was $21.99 at Target and I found myself at Target at eight at night on a Friday (when I have massive piles of -stuff- to get done). D and her kid stopped by and very cleverly got me out of the apartment and into her car and to Target. What cunning strategy did she use, you may ask. What Machiavellian mind control?

"Hey, come to Target with us."

And so, this is how I end up with another denim jacket in my closet (to be fair, the other one is a very dark denim, with this interesting faded spot on it from, I think, leaving it in the backseat of my car for the entire summer. Looks cool. That's what I keep telling myself. The other-other one is a biker-style that, let's face it, I'm not cool-urban-confident enough to pull off 75% of the time). It's a very good, versatile piece for me, especially as the leaves turn, the air cools and Halloween (!) approaches.

My jacket makes me happy and and that's all I need right now. I firmly believe in retail therapy, though my therapist had never heard of it before. Which made me think, during our session, "Have you ever talked to a girl before? Or a gay man?"

Hydrozoa.

Some friends are like jellyfish (thanks Helen Fielding) and they piss me off. I feel that I'm too old for this, that it's very high school, possibly very sorority, but having never belonged to one, I hesitate to generalize (except I went to a very Greek school and lots of (perfectly respectable) friends were sorority sisters and even though Ultimate-Sorority Sister Sam liked to regale me with tales of leaving the guy she had hooked up with passed out on the lawn of the Cathedral of Learning after a hard night of drinking...I've lost my train of thought).

Is there a reason that in order to feel good about our own lives we need make other people, other friends feel small and uninteresting, uncool, if we're following through with that high school metaphor? My friendships are very important to me and I dislike feeling that I haven't progressed beyond the time I taped a picture of Michael Jackson to Renee's face (it was scotch tape, not duct tape, though duct tape....).

So let's stop, okay? Let's stop feeling like we need to emphasize how very ultra-interesting our lives are to make those around us feel just a little bit bad about their own lives. Let's let that go. Because when you do that, it makes me want to regress to the bitchy girl in high school who knows the soft, tender, easily injured spots, even though I want to believe, have to believe, that I've overcome at least some of my demons and can act with maturity, be mature and show regret and shame and empathy and compassion without needing a hard carapace of bravado.

And I can play that game better than you.

Pictures of Michael Jackson are much scarier now and I have duct tape.

I may not survive this.

Yes. Drama queen. Pass me my sceptor.

I (heart) Philip Pullman.

I'm reading The Ruby in the Smoke right now and I'm reminded how much I adore Philip Pullman and his writing and his worlds and his words and his characters and his plots and everything else.

I read the His Dark Materials trilogy over the holiday season two years ago and (I do not say this lightly. Or at all, really, for other things) changed my life. Made me remember that there is magic and there is pure love and there is sacrifice and sometimes the happy endings don't happen, but you don't always need happy endings and there's nobility and no matter what, always there is someone who loves you, even if it's your daemon.

I am such a nerd, it hurts.

I stayed up nights to finish the books and at a certain place in Book Three (and people who have read the series know what I'm talking about) I bawled like a baby. For literally hours. And my heart hurt and I would not trade that for anything. Kate Beckinsale said she was jealous of people who hadn't read these books and I thought "Kate Beckinsale is a dork." Except...I know exactly what she's talking about.

I don't know why I felt this very boring post was worth it, but with the hoopla about the movie... I don't know. I want everyone to read the books. I remain skeptical about a movie being able to capture Pullman. And taking out parts (as they will necessarily have to do)...that makes me nervous just thinking about it.

I also am skeptical and nervous about Chanel Black Satin, but that's something else entirely.

Comatose.

There seems to be a virus sweeping the nation. Well, DC and Pennsylvania. Bunches and bunches of people are sick and sound crappy and I want them to stay far, far away from me.

I spent this weekend asleep. Literally. I was upright and awake on Saturday for maybe six hours (I am so.not.ready.for.children). I kept thinking: "If I take a nap now, I'll never be able to sleep later." And then I would need to test out this hypothesis. And found the null hypothesis to be true. And thus I am a geek and need to be put out of my misery.

But I feel better. Less crazed, less ready to burst into emotional spurts. Sleep...wonderful bastard.

With the scandal currently titillating DC, I wonder if the internets were really invented for sex.

If so, hasn't done a damn thing for me.

Did that sound bitter? Or grateful?

Trannie.

Went grocery shopping today. Didn't buy a tremendous amount, but substantial (this gets better, I promise). Had quite a few bags, but weren't so heavy. Bulky more than weighty.

So I hoisted them all up out of the cart and went to my car. One of the parking lot-cart guys asked me while I was hoisting (I think. I'm not actually sure) if I wanted some help. But since bags not tremendously heavy and it was pouring down rain (tornados! Reported touchdown!), I lugged them myself.

And so with the lugging one of the parking lot-cart guys murmured "Whoa!"

Which I took to mean that instead of strong, self-sufficient woman who is sparing parking lot-cart guys getting soaked in the torrential downpour, they instead thought "Dude. That is so a trannie."

Yup. I've got a positive outlook on life.

Rumination.

Can't think anymore about the badness. Am driving myself batshit crazy.

Slept two hours (maybe less?) last night and my eyes are itchy and I feel like I'm watching people and I kept kind of winking at P tonight. Kind of squishing one of my eyes when I was talking. Found myself doing it and thought "P is going to think I'm coming onto her or that I have a twitch."

So am going to stop worrying/fretting/freaking out and deal with the fall-out and what happens, happens. I can deal with it. Can face what has to be faced and will also have my face on. (Hah! That was awful. That was really, really awful. But is still making me giggle like a unicorn on ecstasy. ) (I don't know what that means.)

I think it would probably be best for me to go to sleep, deal with tomorrow with my head together and stop talking about mythological creatures on hallucinogenic drugs, and not finish off the carton of ice-cream slyly beckoning me from the depths of the freezer.

It's like I'm almost an adult. See above picture.

Panic and poll.

I've figured out my coping style. In times of crisis and upset, I 1) panic like crazy. I'm very tranquil on the surface, internally freaking out. And then 2) I poll everyone I can get my hands on to see what they think of the situation.

This is probably not the best way to handle my affairs, but it's like I need the group think to make me feel better. I need everyone to soothe me and tell me that I'm right. And the more people the better. It's like dissemination of responsibility. Except it's dissemination of the bad feeling I have built up inside of me.

Something happened today. Crappy-ness abounds.

This is why I'm starting therapy this week.

Fortitude.

I think I deserve a cookie for walking out of Sephora without buying a single thing today. Was a feat of amazing strength. Truly. There should have been trumpets as I walked out without opening my wallet.

Though I did buy two lipglosses from Victoria's Secret and Nordstrom's.

Was trying to step outside my comfort zone, in terms of berry lipglosses. Sooo...I've gone all the way around to this electric red color. Specifically, DuWop Venom Gloss in Tulip. Is nice, so far. More tingly, I think, than the original Venom. Don't know why I feel the need to use plumping products, as lips are already ginormous, but: Bandwagon! Hi! Got any room?

Then bought a red-ish, bright pink lipgloss from Victoria's Secret Very Sexy collection (that I can't seem to find a picture of), which is...different...I guess. I'm not sold. Do not like stepping into my zone of discomfort. Makes me...uncomfortable.

Am brain dead. Is obvious. Only want to talk about lip gloss and heroic strength in not buying a single thing from Sephora and not stopping in any shoe stores or shoe departments during my trip to Montgomery Mall.

Am veritable pillar of intrepitude. That's a word.

Also: if a friend asks you if the picture she's posting is too slutty/desperate and you say yes OH MY GOD YES and then she leaves said picture up, what does this mean? I'm just saying.

Insomnia.

I will not be sleeping for the next month. At least that's what I've been telling everyone who will listen. Too much to do, too little time, too much procrastination, too many hoops to jump through.

What a pain in the ass.

Is it insomnia if it's self-imposed insomnia? Or is it just insanity? Insomnity? That would be a fantastic name for a drug. I would buy stock.

If I had any money to buy stock with, but that's an entirely other story. A boring one at that.

But I will not sleep for the next month until the bulk of my applications are in the mail, shipped off safely to its destination and waiting to be reviewed, picked apart, sneered at and derided. Until my dissertation proposal is signed off on, good enough, done, finally.

My outlook is not, shall we say, sunny right now.


Instead I will eat a Peppermint Patty and think about how delicious it is, just a little bit paralyzed with anxiety.

Huh.

I have a MySpace account. I find this suspiciously bizarre. I never signed up for a MySpace account. I never filled in the forms, never submitted my information. And yet...there it is. Blinking out at me. Hello! You've joined the network of adolescents and perverts! Hello!

Because this is my die-hard belief that this is what the essence of MySpace is. Teenagers and perverts, no matter how many of my twenty/thirty something friends have them. Don't care. I have been converted by MSNBC and Stone Phillips. And now...I am one of them.

Even more bizarrely, one of my actual friends is in my network. Well, is the only one in my network (Though I suppose those invitations from other people I've gotten and automatically deleted make more sense now). When did I add her? Can anyone just join networks, because it is a loose and breezy and casual and network-y type of thing those young kids are doing these days? I feel all at sea (Because I am so very old. Hear my bones creak and my hair turn white. Cannot keep up with this youth culture. Don't mind me....Fa la la la lala).

But anyway, I have a MySpace account. And now have the almost uncontrollable urge to use it to look up people from high school.

And you know, perverts.

There is that girl.

That you know and she's perfect. She really wants you to believe that she's perfect and her life is perfection and her boyfriend/husband is the most perfect specimen of masculine perfection ever, and her clothes are perfectly magical and her perfect body is because she does the perfect amount of exercise, not that she has to work at it, but she does it so she remains perfectly healthy and her friends are the most perfectly fascinating people on earth and her life choices make perfect sense.

And you so want to go shave a strip down the middle of her head.

I know of such a girl and for some reason this girl thinks we are the best of friends (instead I write mean posts about her). And she likes to confide in me about what's wrong, waits for the resultant sympathy/empathy and then pulls back, oh no, she's got it all under control and have you heard that she's going to Borneo for a week next week, just because her husband wants to?

So I phone K and we giggle, because there's no such thing as perfection and the more you try to distance yourself from the neuroses and anxiety and every bad thing, the more they will fuck with you just to. I'm a mental health professional (sort of). I know of what I speak.

Embrace it. Perfection is boring.

I mean, except for me, utterly perfect person that I am.

Tell me about you.

I hate writing about myself.

(Ha. Blog to the contrary. Ha.)

I'm starting personal essays for The Applications (now imagine me screaming in horror, cowering in the corner, pulling out hair, general unhappiness and dismay). And each one is just slightly different. But each one is basically "Tell us why you're awesome and why we should pick you." How the hell should I know?

I think making those with self-esteem issues (I said issues! Issues! That could mean anything.) (Ha.) is cruel and unusual and should be prosecuted to the highest (highest? Fullest? Fullest.) fullest extent of the law. Plus I'm Asian! Ha. Unbeatable argument. Was raised to be self-effacing and self-denigrating and full of...modesty? Yargh. I grossed myself out there.

Still. Don't want to write these. Want to have the happy elves that live inside my walls write them and say sparkling, witty, just a little bit moving things about me that highlight my intelligence, skills, experience and eminent suitability for the next thirteen internships I'm applying for. Why I'm uniquely qualified for each unique site and why no one else could possibly do except me.

ME! MEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!! Yup, sign me up for that.

Unrest.

Today's big news is the ousting of the Thai prime minister by the Thai armed forces. With tanks. Tanks. Motherfucking tanks.

I watch this with a certain amount of detachment, a certain amount of horrified speculation. I consider Thailand home, though I was born in Pennsylvania. I consider myself Thai, though I can't speak it, have been there a dozen times at most. But I guess it's the motherland? I don't know. Mixed feelings.

I suppose every child of immigrants has this feeling. Being connected, feeling a sense of immediacy and knowledge with your ethnic country, but being almost wholly American. I've written reams and reams of papers about the "caught between two worlds" phenomena. It's boring. It's nothing new. It's well documented.

But...on days like today, it comes home.

My uncle is a high up in the army. And for me, this mostly involves seeing him in his uniform and having a soldier living at the family compound to drive us around places. Plus people are afraid of him (and so he can bargain at shopping stalls like no one else. The vendor says the price. He says a price. The vendor counters, smiling nervously. My uncle throws some money down, picks up the item and leaves. The vendor continues to smile nervously. It's kind of awesome). But is he now out driving one of those tanks? (Okay, I'm a little insane and perseverative, but tanks! Is this Tian'anmen Square or something? Oooh! I also have a story about tanks and Tian'anmen Square! Exclamation points for everybody!!!...!!!) More importantly, is my grandmother worried? Is she concerned, staying up late, is her fragile heart straining a little?

I don't know.

In this age of instant telecommunication, when I keep in touch with friends halfway around the world regularly, we rarely hear from the relatives in Thailand. My mother was on the phone with another uncle last night, at about the time everything started happening. His other phone started ringing insistently and he said he had to pick that up, that he would call her back, but never did.

So now we know what CNN knows and I wonder, with a certain amount of detachment, what my relatives are thinking, are expecting, are hoping. Though my father has Thai Global Network and next to my nephew, it's what he loves the very most in the whole world.

Is a weird day. My shiny pink toes make it better.

Tootsies.

I had this terribly interesting post. Where I solved world hunger, the global environmental crisis, developed a new eco-friendly, renewable fuel and how to make cashmere as inexpensive as cotton (with no harm to the goats, at that!).

Except I am totally fixated on my toes right now.

I just painted them (again) and they are very, very pretty. It's an opal-y, metal-y, shiny shade of seashell white (Sally Hansen Diamond Strength Nail Color in Platinum). It's like I have mother of pearl toes! I have no idea why this delights me so much.

Lately I've been on a toe-painting craze. I change the color at least twice a week and have become particular about the shape and length of the nail. Not my hands. My hands are strictly filed neatly and occasionally shined. But my toes....It's like all the decadence I can't express are let go (because let's face it. If I could get away with it, I would wear sequins and glitter every.single.day. And shoes that glitter like the stars (I tried those shoes on. They looked wonderful on. And would be yet another pair of shoes I wear once or twice and then look at fondly. My finances are not up to that at this juncture). But as I regularly mock people who do that, I will be satisfied with my shiny, shiny toes. For now.). I also quite like how my feet look, they've been called quite pretty (aside from the freakishly long second toes. But they give my feet *character*. This is how I comfort myself).

I've been alternating between true, deep red (Sephora No. 08, Sephora No. 06 and Sally Hansen Maximum Growth Sensual Red) and the opalescent white (Revlon Pure Pearl or the above mentioned Sally Henson). I was wearing a pale, almost white, nudish shade (OPI Bubble Bath) for a while, until my mother said "Your toes look like a corpse's." Though the last time I wore the opalescent white at home she also asked if my feet glowed in the dark and lit my way at night.

I think I need a new color to add to the mix/rotation, something for fall, something that looks professional, but will make me smile and admire my feet whenever I look down (suggestions welcome). The end of sandal season is rapidly approaching, and while the cardigans get to come out to play, I get a little melancholy.

Fall's my favorite time of the year, but there's something about the change of seasons that make me take a little breath and let it out just bit slowly.

And maybe I need to get my head out of my ass.

I (heart) Sundays.

P says Sundays are the day I do not leave my burrow. And is true. Takes a crowbar and blowtorch to get me out of my burrow. Or a non-existent fire (yes, still referencing that. Tonight I broiled something in my oven and worried a tad about smoke and alarms and I do not need two dozen firemen here again. Well. Not to check out a fire, anyway).

Today was about sleeping in, doing laundry, tidying up everything else, discovering that I left a red lipstick in my jeans, laundered them and had red streaks all over my favorite grey cardigan, a bath towel and some kitchen towels, not the mention the interior of my dryer. So much joy for me. Luckily I have a deep fervent belief in stain remover and a deep fervent belief in better living through chemicals. Ta-da! Red stains gone. Am virtual Martha Stewart.

Now am staring at computer, revising dissertation proposal and hoping coma victims' brains don't actually melt. Some science article I read earlier this week talked about how coma victims' brains sometimes turn to liquid and I'm not sure if that was poetic license or if that actually occurs. As I work with a neuropsychologist, I could probably find out easily enough. But am just a little bit worried about the answer. So instead will hide my head in the sand and fixate on this without a resolution and this will keep my own liquefying (horrifying!) brain occupado.

Liquid brains stop me from thinking about the fact that my thirtieth birthday is less than two months away.

(Whimper...sob...anguish....)

Blank.

I have nothing to write about. I started writing half a dozen drafts and then erased them. Have nothing cogent in my head right now and think, instead, I will take a very long shower using my most favorite bath products (sugar scrub and exfoliator, I'm counting on you) and make sure my hair is very shiny. Because shiny hair makes everything better. And if my hair is shiny, then it's okay that I have nothing interesting to write, my dissertation proposal is in a state of disarray and there are aaaaaaaaaalllllllllllllllllllllllllll those internship applications still to be completed (started?).

Yay for the power of shiny hair!

Let me keep my delusions. They're very comforting.

Revisions.

Revising my disseration proposal for the millionth time. Tired of thinking about this. Tired of devoting Friday, Saturday, Sundays to re-work, re-word, re-vise. Fearful of hermit phase, as P and M call it. Know will not sleep for month of October.

There's a point to this, right?

There's a light at the end of the tunnel, right?

Cannot accept any answer aside from "Here's some chocolate/booze/sleep."

Natural habitat.

P and I went had a far-roaming adventure today. Well, to Wheaton for Thai food which is my current favorite Thai place in the area. They make the unusual Thai dishes that aren't popular in the US, but are favorites. Cannot get enough of catfish. And duck! Oooh, the duck! And the papaya salad! And the Yum Wah-ta-kressssss (Hah. If you have a Thai parent with an accent, that's remarkably funny).

Specifically went there for this (hoy tod), and while it looks like a mess on a plate, it's amazingly yummy. Though, for some reason, while I generally like mussels, in this, they gross me out (like, to the max) and I get it with shrimp.

Then went to the Wheaton mall. And found myself saying to P:

"If I were an exhibit at the zoo, they would build a mall as my natural habitat."

I'm just a little bit worried that that's kind of sad.

Power shopping. It's a family sport.

Tomatoes of love.

For some reason, I've been thinking about how my parents show me they love me. There are a lot of ways (a loooooooooooooooooooootttttt) of ways that they destroy my ego and psyche, but, I think, as I become older, as I lay claim to the pretense of maturity (dude. I am so about the big words lately), I'm discovering that no matter what, they do love me, are glad that I'm part of the family, miss me when I'm not there.

This is a startling revelation on the lines of finding out Jamie Lee Curtis is a hermaphrodite. No, really. Look it up (and if I'm wrong, then blame it on my sister who shared that tidbit with me about a decade ago).

This weekend I was home for the niece's and nephew's joint birthday party for the second weekend in a row. For the second weekend in a row, my father, mother, sister and two dogs (because they want to wave Cha bye, too) came out on the front lawn to watch me pack up my car and wave goodbye. My mother, she of the no physical affection and it wasn't until I moved two states away that she said "love you" at the end of phone conversations, will give me a kiss and tell me to be good. Usually this is with the admonition of "Be careful about money." This time it was "Don't swear too much." (What the fuck does that mean?)

My father, this weekend, was waiting for me to come out on the front porch with an enormous box filled with tomotoes and hot peppers from his garden. I had mentioned that I wanted some tomatoes. A few to eat because they looked luscious on the vine. I think I disappointed him when I didn't take the whole box (being one person, who occasionally likes tomatoes, and doesn't enjoy pawning produce items off on others). Then he proceeded to check my tires before I could leave (I have at least six months of wear left on them, by the way). Once deemed road-worthy, off I went. Only to get bellowed at to back up because my father needed to tell me that there was a rattling noise (that's been there since March and has been looked at twice. I am not fretting anymore. Except...a lot) and I should get that looked at when I go get my oil changed or something.

They still want to be Mommy and Daddy, still want to be the care-takers in my life, still want me to be the baby. This, I think, is what I would have given anything for during the turbulent teens, the anxious adolescence, the twittering twenties. Feeling this perceptible love they could never express, never outwardly show. Is it because we're meeting in the middle, as it were, that I can see this now? That I can feel this now? I need to be reminded of this feeling, this realization when I want to be an orphan.

I don't know. I'll just enjoy this, let them be Mommy and Daddy because no matter what, they always will be.

In other news, Silk is making a yogurt. It's like Christmas morning.

Giddy threesome.

(Apologies to those who got here thinking it was something else)

I have two new loves. We're in the first flush of infatuation and it's been so good.

Hello, Mr. Fresh Hair Cream Extra Definition (because it's most definitely got a masculine vibe. As far as girlie hairproducts can be) (Again, what is going on with image uploading on blogger?)(Ha! Parentheses within parentheses within parentheses!)(Ha!).

Mr. Fresh Hair Cream Extra Definition has given me this lovely hair. Smooth, feels good. Most of the frizz is gone, lays lovely. We are in love, but Mr. Fresh Hair Cream Extra Definition is a tad concerned about the graveyard of hairproducts past. Can't seem to toss the half used tubes and crumpled containers. Perhaps I will go back and really like the Phyto Phytodefrisant Botanical Hair Relaxing Balm. Perhaps pigs will also take to the air.

Joining our happy household is Ms. Brand New Grown Up Ironing Board (interesting. Target doesn't have the ironing board I bought tonight on their website. Huh.) I've always used the compact, over the door style ironing boards and this has slowly driven me insane. May have contributed to the absurd amounts of cursing. Have finally splashed out and bought a real, honest to goodness, free-standing ironing board. Together, Ms. Brand New Grown Up Ironing Board and I have officially declared my grown-upedness.

It really does take so very little to make me so very happy.

Unpolitical.

I hesitate to post this on today of all days, but I do not do it to disrespect the dead or those who feel the resounding effects. I do not do it to comment on the courage or bravery or fortitude of every soldier. I did not want to post today, talk about where I was, how it's affected me. That's each person's personal journal.

I do it because what the fuck?

Did anyone catch Matt Lauer's interview with President Bush this morning? Commenting with snarky disdain is old hat, an easy target, not interesting.

But...

He made Tom Cruise look calm, cool, collected and reasonable.

I expected him to start accusing Mr. Lauer of being "Glib! Yer being glib!"

It made me sad.

Lost.

Had a post. Explained the meaning of the universe and what love is really all about.

Then pressed something and poof! Gone now.

So instead will think about more pleasant things like nieces and nephews and birthday cakes and where I was this weekend.

And now Blogger Images is not working and I can't think too much today or I will crawl into a ball and hibernate all winter long.