Grr-attitude

I love the holiday season. And I especially loved it when I was in New York because it’s magical – there’s simply no place like Manhattan at Christmas time. When I traveled to Italy a few years ago at this time of year, I expected the festiveness to exponentially outdo anything I’d seen in the United States, and I was surprised that it was quite the opposite. There was very little public display – no giant lit-up Christmas trees, no mall Santas, no seasonal half-off sales, no last-minute shoppers pepper spraying eachother for home electronics. It wasn’t my Americanized vision of Christmas, but I could respect the understated sentiment, the private matter of holy celebration. And the utter lack of commercialism involved was quite refreshing.

I find it hard to relate Christmas as we do it up here with the origins of the holiday. It’s a massive retail marketing ploy to get us to spend money. Not my family though – being the “goddam foreigners” (old family joke) that we are, we’ve never totally bought into the American expression of Christmas. That said, we’ve celebrated it for as long as I can remember. At first, I imagine that to the adults, it didn’t mean much – America was new to them then and its traditions were not yet their traditions. Perhaps the whole thing didn’t make sense to them – the notion of a jolly fat man and reindeer and the sleigh and the North Pole…How that relates to the baby Jesus is, well, perplexing.

But for me (the kid), they abided. We had a plastic drugstore Christmas tree for most of my childhood, and only in recent years have I gained exposure to a real live (well, dying) pine tree. The excitement of it all has never been lost on me – I love the lights (so much that I’ve been known to keep “happy lights” up all year round), the tinsel, stockings, warming drinks, and the spirit of sharing and caring.

We lived in a chimney-less apartment building and so I would tape my letters to Santa to the balcony sliding glass door. I don’t remember ever leaving cookies or milk out for him – or ever having cookies and milk in the house for that matter (what did we have, tea and dates?). My family did well in coming through on my Christmas list, but one year, “Santa” must have overslept, or I awoke earlier than expected, because under our plastic tree was nothing. Nada. Zilch. My sobs awoke my mom, and shortly thereafter (after being told that Santa hadn’t gotten to our home yet (traffic, I guess?), so I had to go back to bed until he swung by), presents miraculously appeared. There were some other glitches along the way too, like when Santa brought me a generic Cabbage Patch Doll and not one with the requisite butt signature. It was all good fun though, and still is – celebrations with my family are certainly never lackluster.

As I’ve gotten older and joined the adult population, my presents have waned. I wish I could still make a list and tape it to the balcony door and have someone care enough to make my dreams come true. That’s the unique magic of childhood, I guess. On the bright side, it’s my chance to give back for all my family’s efforts on my behalf over the years. And so, I kind of like playing Santa’s elf.

On that note (lest this story sound too sentimental), let me share a bit of my day with you.

I spent last night baking cookies and making stockings for some of my teammates. This morning I elfishly handed out the little presents and pleasantly surprised a few people I know and like. And then there was this reaction: “These cookies look weird. Their color’s really weird. They look gray” and “This stocking is perfect – I’ve been looking for stocking for my dog.” Later, I arm-twisted acknowledgment for a gift I sent clear across the country: “Did you get the gift I sent?” “You should say thank you.” And to top it off (to ensure I have nightmares tonight), I decided to go to the mall after work. I can barely deal with the mall on the best of days – I swear people in LA generally walk around similarly slow and confused as Times Square tourists – and think I may have actually growled at a man who cut me off as I’d finally started to pick up slight a stride. My jovial spirit was broken a bit today, but it will be back tomorrow. And if tomorrow, anyone gets on my nerves, then I’m out of the game until it’s time to sing happy birthday to Jesus.

Bonafide Adult

When left to my own devices, here are the things I (apparently) like to do:

• Exercise
• Eat
• Blare pop music
• Dance
• Sing
• Stay up all night long

It’s only been two days since my boyfriend went out of town, and I’ve already reverted back to the real me. The me I am when I’m left alone with no one to judge me or stop me from doing ridiculous and/or gluttonous things. And I must say, I’m having fun!

Today I decided that eating three chocolate covered Joe-Joe’s made me feel like a hideous monster, so on the drive home I pep-talked myself into exercising tonight (to burn off the three Joe-Joe’s). Immediately upon entering my apartment, I proceeded to put on my workout clothes (I find that if I put the clothes on, I’m way more likely to follow through), spent the better part of an hour searching (in vain) for my carrying pouch that I put my iPod in (yup, I kick it old school style like that), then finally took off racing down the sidewalk for my first Los Angeles jog. Since I couldn’t find my pouch, I left my music at home, so to pass the time, I sang songs to myself in my head (that’s normal, right?). After jogging for about half a mile, a harsh reality set in. That I am out of shape. And possibly old. (But let’s go with out of shape, because I could conceivably change that.)

I set a goal that I would jog for a mile, which is 2000 steps on my pedometer (yes, I know wearing a pedometer makes me seem middle-aged, but what was I to do to gauge the distance?). I made it to about 1600 before I quit, got hungry, and proceeded to walk (officially my “cool down” phase) into the nearest Thai restaurant. I was seated in a very romantic nook by the window where I set forth to do what I always do when I eat out in real restaurants by myself – I ordered two entrees. Thirty minutes and a fat tummy later, I walked home with doggie bag in hand and proceeded to feel guilty about ingesting exponentially greater calories than I’d managed to burn on my measly jog. The only remedy to this dilemma, naturally, was a dance party. To achieve this, I turned to iTunes (where I hold the title of “The Only Person in America to Pay for her Music”) and I purchased some new songs that energized me. As I blasted my new tunes – which were extra gratifying because had my boyfriend been around, there’s no way he’d have been keen on a Phoenix and Foster the People concert at 11pm – my exuberance overtook me because I ended up dancing around maniacally for a hour and had to stop only because I made myself dizzy.

Yeah, that’s right. I’m an adult. I can do whatever I want. (And these are the things I choose to do?)

America’s Next Top Confused Immigrant

I think I’ve done myself a disservice by not watching shows like America’s Next Top Model. From my understanding, Tyra has some good tips for how to maximize photo potential, which I realize from looking at recent photographs of myself, that I haven’t a clue about. I tend to appear neckless and chubby-armed in photos. I do strange things with my hands. And I don’t know at what angle I’m supposed to stand to look svelte, or how I’m supposed to position my legs. I feel like if I close my eyes, I can exactly envision the standard one or two poses every Hollywood starlet does, and you’d think that I’d at least be able to emulate what they do, but something seems to take over me in the presence of a flash bulb.

My friend used to describe my photo look as “Confused Immigrant.” It’s not that off the mark, sad to say. Sometimes, just as the shutter snaps, my eyes take on an other worldliness that is indescribably and (I hope) not accurate to what I usually look like as an animated human being. My boyfriend has on more than one occasion asked if I have a lazy eye. It’s that bad.

I had to renew my driver’s license the other day and they took a new photo of me for it. Before that, my license photo was ten years old. I very definitely looked like a confused immigrant in that one. When the DMV lady snapped my photo this time, she said “This one is much better,” so that gave me some hope. My new license is supposed to arrive in the mail in a couple of weeks. Fingers crossed!

Everything I don’t know I didn’t learn in elementary school

Some things just don’t come naturally to me. For example, playing a musical instrument. When I was in elementary school, being in the band was mandatory, and for god knows what reason I felt the violin was my calling. My mom was smart and rented my instrument (she must have sensed that I wouldn’t last long). Before the ink on the rental contract was dry, I declared that the violin wasn’t right for me – I had to switch instruments if my musical potential was to be met. That’s when I became a clarinet player.

If you’ve ever attempted to play the clarinet – or have heard a seven year old playing one for the first time – then you know it does a great imitation of a dying cat. The day I announced to my family that I was quitting, and sadly would never amount to the clarinet virtuoso we’d all hoped I would be, I do believe they applauded. It wasn’t until many years later that another instrument caught my eye. The guitar. I thought it would be a no-brainer, I mean, I didn’t even have to learn to read sheet music – tabs were easy! And practically everyone could play the guitar, so how hard could it be? Oh wait, it hurts to hold down the strings (apparently I have quite delicate fingertips – who knew)? And how are my petite fingers supposed to reach around the neck? Long story short, another instrument bit the dust.

Another thing I’ve more recently discovered I’m not so good at is video games. Put a joystick and Pac-Man in front me and I’m golden, but these newfangled games (of the past two decades) – let’s just say, there’s a lot of room for improvement. Apparently, I lack hand-eye coordination. (Which is not entirely surprising since I can barely pat my head and rub my tummy at the same time). I can’t help but think there’s something fundamentally wrong with me if I can’t master something my five year old cousin can do.

My boyfriend says, “It’s cute that you’re so bad at video games”, and that it’s not my fault, I just haven’t been playing since I was eight. That’s true. My childhood was kind of unconventional by western standards. Some of my fondest memories were of stirring homemade yogurt on the stovetop or sitting on the counter watching my mom load foodstuffs into the pressure cooker. One time the lid blow off and shot our dinner straight up to the ceiling – that was the most exciting moment in my life up until then. By junior high, I’d learned how to prepare complex stews and I was a solid contributor to family meals. After watching my mom and aunt get their nails done countless times, I’d gotten good at a giving manicures (seriously, I could buff a shine into the most dull nail in ten seconds flat), and I was also trimming my own bangs and eventually entrusted to give my mom a layered haircut. I learned how to do all these things long ago and have had a lot of practice at them. Maybe some day I’ll pick up another musical instrument or my fingers will seamlessly glide over an Xbox controller. But will I ever be lead guitarist in a rock band? Unlikely. Will I win a video game tournament? Probably not. But life is long and old dogs can learn new tricks. And if there’s ever a basmati rice cooking competition, you’d be wise to put your money on me.

Road Rage

This may come as a shock to you, but I’ve been having some difficulty adjusting to life in LA. Namely lately, the traffic jams and long hours spent in the car. After my first day of work, I came home, sighed and said “Wow, that’s not a fun commute.” After my second day, I commented “I don’t know if I can sustain all this driving everyday.” On the third day, I declared “We need to move.” Because it’s less than 10 miles away and takes 45 to 60 minutes to get there in bumper to bumper traffic. Which is insane. At a New York pace, I can practically walk faster than that.

There are just too many damn people living here, and every man, woman, child and family pet has a car (and by car I mean obnoxious and unnecessarily huge SUV), no one wants to carpool (myself included – my friend in San Francisco told me how he rideshares and I was flabbergasted at the entire concept), and there’s no reasonable mode of public transportation (I rode a bus everyday in New York but can’t wrap my head around buses here – probably because every bus stop I’ve seen is a homeless hub/meth den).

And while it’s pretty silly to me that practically no one in LA walks, even just to go to the corner 7-11, I’ve witnesses firsthand that it’s just not that pleasant a scenario. Between the buckled sidewalks in the nature versus man battle of tree root against concrete (good job genius who planted those trees without consideration for the fact that they’d grow), dodging ditzy drivers at every block, and avoiding stepping on used condoms and chicken wing bones (granted, it’s very difficult to find trash cans on the street here), the car really is the way to go.

Since my boyfriend seems less than sympathetic to my plight and thus breaking our lease does not seem an imminent option, I figure I’m going to have to find a productive way to use my car time. Yesterday’s impromptu test involved getting into a fight with a guy who cut me off with an entirely selfish, stupid and unsafe driving maneuver, and while our horn versus middle finger fray did kill a good 15 seconds, I think I might need a plan B.

 

The Wonder Years

I’ve been re-watching a lot of old TV shows lately. Having breezed through every episode of That 70′s Show and Freaks and Geeks, my household’s latest obsession is The Wonder Years. It seems we have a thing for period pieces, plus the logic being that since we’ve been watching Breaking Bad, we need something wholesome to balance our mood. Unfortunately, this plan has backfired. The Wonder Years is quite possibly the most depressing show on earth.

Two episodes ago, my boyfriend declared, “I can’t watch Wonder Years anymore”, then spent the afternoon in a funk. One episode ago, I was in tears. It got me thinking, what is it about this show that gets to us so much? The tale of growing pains? Memories of lost youth? Eras that have passed us by that we never experienced and that will never be relived? Oh god, even writing that out is depressing. I need a feel-good substitute for my feel-good show STAT. I wonder if Netflix has Fraggle Rock? Where did I put my Tickle Me Elmo?

“I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here?”

I was doing some window shopping today on a posh street that celebrities like to frequent. Hence, why I was window shopping. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one with my eye on things I had no business to be eyeing.

It was a nice day after the morning fog had cleared and I was strolling along when I got to a crosswalk. One of my many pet peeves about walking around in LA is that crossing the street is a bitch. It’s not like New York where you just look both ways and hustle across at will. Here, the streets are multi-laned, two-way and the drivers are unlikely to be paying attention (putting on makeup, talking to agents, petting their lapdogs, who knows why?), and I’ve heard people actually get tickets for jay walking. So, I was dutifully waiting for the cross signal when this car pulls forward a little ways onto the crosswalk. At that moment, my signal changes and I start walking. I’m barely one foot off the sidewalk when I hear “HELLO” coming from the driver. I ignore it, of course.

Then for the length of the crosswalk, this guy proceeds to try to get my attention by shouting at me through his open window. I don’t look back, but his zeal makes me start to wonder if I didn’t drop something or have a tear in my pants or if he was hopelessly lost and needed directions to the hospital or someplace equally important as to warrant his neediness. By the time I’m across the street and in a store, I’ve already forgotten all about it when lo and behold, I hear “HELLO” again. I look up from the rack of dresses, and it’s the guy. I guess he parked his car and followed me into the store. What made him do this I can not fathom, but he proceeded to apologize for yelling to me in the street, that must have seemed so rude to me, he said, and he was so very sorry. I tried to make as little eye contact as possible while communicating with a blank face, “Don’t worry about it, it’s ok.” In other words, “Go away, creep, this is not normal behavior”. He continued profusely apologizing, repeating his spiel a couple more times as I inched away from him slowly. I suppose he sensed forgiveness because his next move was to ask me, “So are you married?”

Unbelievable.

If I’d been in New York and not in a boutique when this happened, I’d surely have shouted “Seriously?! Are you for real? Get away from me!” but under the circumstances, I mumbled “I’m not available”, to which he replied “Oh, ok… Well, tell your boyfriend he’s a lucky man”. Yeah, ok, sure, I’ll do that… Creep.

Hope in a Jar

While my boyfriend was in line to get the new iPhone last week, I decided to pop into Saks to use the ladies room. But before I could beeline it to the loo, something caught my eye. The La Mer counter. I’d heard about this miracle cream from countless magazines where celebrities talk about their beauty regimens – it is the “it” moisturizer for the jet set, and it costs a pretty penny. I figure it’s the same people who buy their underwear at La Perla who buy this stuff too. Out of my La League, sad to say. But there I was at that moment, and I thought, this is my one chance to try it, to see what all the hype is about. I unscrewed a jar of eye cream. It was empty. I opened a pot of face cream. Empty. A bottle of serum? Empty again. I was starting to see a pattern here. The people at Saks were no fools – they had people like me (people in the store for the sole purpose of using the restroom) pegged. The jig was up. …Or was it?

I guess the rattling of the jars coupled with disappointed sighs caught the attention of the sales lady, because she came over to ask if I needed any help. I struck up a friendly conversation with her, explaining that I’d just moved to town, and my eye cream had run out and I was looking to try something new. I added (perhaps for credibility of my worthiness of premium products) that “I’ve been using Jurlique, which I love because it’s all natural – it’s grown on the company’s farm in New Zealand – but it’s hard to find here”. She offered up some product suggestions, and, to my amazement and delight… some free samples! I’d won the fancy face cream lottery! (also known as: four mini testers worth about $60)

I carefully applied the eye cream that night, smiled, and went to bed pretending to be somebody who could afford a face like an Oscar winner. The next morning, I approached the mirror with excitement and suspense, eager to see the clock turned back and the eyes of a bygone era looking back at me. Carefree eyes, pure eyes, eyes devoid of signs of the trials and tribulations of adulthood. I gazed carefully at my reflection. From the front, from the side, from the other side. I squinted and stared and searched for my miracle. But alas, if it was there, it was invisible to the naked eye. I’d applied at least $10 worth of product – surely a microscopic miracle had occurred?

That’s ok, I thought, it’s not like I can actually buy this stuff. It’s really better this way. Then yesterday, I thought I saw a change. I asked my boyfriend and he didn’t notice anything. But I thought my eyes looked a little less tired, that maybe my micro miracle was growing. And today, I’m almost convinced that something is different, better somehow. Sigh. How’s a girl like me to win this game? If it works, how can I turn my back on a miracle, knowing I’m failing to live up to my potential? Am I doomed to the life of La Junkie who prowls Saks Fifth Avenue’s across the state in search of my next sample sized fix?

Romancing Me

I had a great date today. With me.

I didn’t set out thinking I’d be spending the entire afternoon solo, but as my luck would have it, I did, and it was a most delighful day. Carved to my exact specifications and exceeding all expectations.

I headed downtown to the Museum of Contemporary Art to check out the opening of the Pacific Standard Time exhibit. Admission was free today – score! I got a parking spot in a flash and happened to enter the museum at 12:59pm, just as a one o’clock tour was starting – score again! I’m not normally a tour person, but being on my own, I welcomed the company (and knew I could bail at any point I wanted to). The tour turned out to be fantastic – the docent engaged us in a conversation whereby our tour group (of four) was set up to think, share, and derive our own ideas and perspectives about the work. I guess it wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea because by the time we got to the third piece, we’d lost 50% of our group, but my fellow friendly tourer, John, and I, didn’t miss them. Along the way, we even gained a second docent who seemed to enjoy the dialog as much as we did. After exploring the rest of the exhibit on my own, my stomach lead me to Little Tokyo to a ramen joint I’d been wanting to try. Notorious for long waiting lines, I experienced a shortened queue due to being a party of one – score once more! – and got the best seat in the house, at the counter in the thick of the action. I slurped my ramen while gleefully wedged in between a punky teenage girl and an elderly Japanese woman who smiled sweetly at me and surprised me by devouring every last bite of her huge bento box. After a satisfying and porky meal, I went for a stroll through Little Tokyo’s themed streets. The time passed quickly as I window shopped, popped in to gift shops, ice cream shops, bakeries, and sat in the sun sipping Hong King style milk tea. As the day drew to a close, I vowed to return again soon, and toted home some sweet treats to share for dessert later.

Today reminded me of something easily forgotten: even though I’m 50% of a couple (romantically and otherwise), I’m 100% of me. I’m not always going to be able to count on having a partner to be enthusiastic about my interests, and in all honestly, I enjoyed myself more on my own today that I would have with someone else in tow. Because today was all about me. I got to do things on my own terms: I dressed how I wanted (like a happy hippie with a feather in my hair), took the scenic route (which sadly for LA is not saying much), went at my own pace, ate what I wanted, conversed with new people (and got a free dessert out of it – score four!), and decided when I was ready to come home. The whole day cost barely more than $20 and it was simply perfect. I do believe I’ll be asking myself out more often.

Champagne Wishes and Pancake Batter Dreams

Sometimes it dawns on me that I’m a contradiction in human form – I’m typically pretty challenging (ie: not difficult if you try) to please, but sometimes, I’m damn near the easiest person in the world to please. Case in point, today. I walk into the health food store, and do what I often do in food-centric markets – I happily look at food. If you’re not a foodie, you likely have no idea what the appeal of “food porn” is, and it’s in a lot of ways an act of desperation to look for “porn” in a health food store, but what can I say, I’m making the most of my circumstances.

After perusing the ready-made foods section, I decided to mosey on over to the “bar” and accidentally heckle the “bartender” for a while (Yes, I said bar. This is LA and the hippie grocery store literally has a bar with a bartender and a chalkboard menu of drink specials made with intoxicating green superfoods). Let me preface by saying that I wasn’t in a bad mood or looking for a confrontation of any sort – I’m just an inquisitive person and some may say, opinionated. I saw these ambiguous numbers on the board, so I innocently asked, “Are those numbers written next to the drinks, the prices?” And he replied yes. And then I said “You have a drink that costs $30? How big is that?” To which he matter-of-factly replied, “It’s not the size, it’s the quality of the ingredients.” I nodded my head (more in bewilderment that any semblance of agreement) and replied, “Oohhh…” Followed by, “And how many ounces is that $30 drink, just curious?”

Guess how many ounces?

Twelve. Twelve! That’s $2.50 per ounce. Does gold even cost that much?

After the shock of that bit of knowledge wore off, I went back to my happy place of browsing the aisles, which are a source of utter fascination for me. I never knew so many forms of alternate cooking oils and sweeteners existed, so many types of grains, so many gluten replacements and natural thickening agents. But nothing fascinated me as much as a miraculous find – on par with the discovery of the Americas, the solar system, Penicillin! This treasure called… “Batter Blaster.” It’s pancake batter in a can, Reddi Wip style. Except this stuff is made with organic ingredients, so I could actually bring myself to buy it. I can make a pancake (or waffle!) at will any time I want. I can make just one (ONE!) pancake for dessert later just because. I. can.

See, told ya I’m easy to please.