Friday, June 25, 2004

What not to say at a Hollywood party when you're trying to be considerate to the young up-and-coming actor trying to be cool and smart in his conversation: "Hey, you should really step away from that Tiki torch, with all of that crap in your hair and cologne that you're sporting, you're likely to go up in one big blaze of glory, and you've just started!" I guarantee he won't think it's funny, and within 30 minutes when ever you start talking to a guy, he's going to start playing with his hair self-consciously wondering if there's too much product, and he'll make sure there's lots of space in between you two so he doesn't reek too much and you'll NEVER get laid because all the guys will think you're an over-critical producer. For some reason, if you're critical, you're automatically a producer. Go figure. [12:47 PM] |

Monday, June 21, 2004

June 21st is supposed to be the longest day of the year. It's still pretty light out as I write this, and it's nearing 9 pm. But all I want to do is sleep. I feel like I should be taking advantage of today, not sure why, but I do. Maybe the middle aged woman in me is struggling to come out way before her time. I beat my inner child into submission when I was at a very early age, don't see why I can't do the same to the middle aged hag. No way in hell am I going to let her put up unicorns and rainbows while wearing crystals, looking at my cootchie in a hand mirror to better come in tune with my womanness. And dancing around nekkid on a summer's solstice is not my intention, but part of me, that little part of me that wants to start collecting "Precious Moments" figurines, grow violets, and procure lots of cats, thinks that maybe today might have some special meaning. Don't get me wrong, today does have special meaning, but not in a spiritual, "changing of the seasons let's all bless the goddess" kind of way. More in the way of, "oh my god my life is over for the next two months" kind of meaning. I'm exhausted. I understand what people with full time jobs are talking about when they're explaining how tired they are, how completely drained of any physical or mental energy. I'm feeling it. Oh, no, don't get excited. I don't have a job still. I just started my first day of summer school. But I am going full time. I have a 9 hour day, five days a week. The big difference between summer school and regular session is that there is a SIGNIFICANT age difference between me and "them", instead of a relatively large age difference during regular session. These kids have just come out of their AP classes from high school. Before, where I was around a lot of people with degrees or full time jobs, with some semblance of maturity associated with them, the summer school kids all have nothing better to do than go to school. So it's a bit unnerving, and somewhat disruptive. I'm getting prone to ulcers already. If I start to write a lot it means I don't understand a thing, and I'm doing what ever I can to keep busy and make it look like I'm doing something productive. If I'm out of it for a while, you'll know it's because I've become the busy little beaver or I've been arrested for wringing the neck of fat rodent begging food of me. [9:39 PM] |

Thursday, June 17, 2004

Did it work? did it work? My short attention span won't let me keep things the same for long, so I went with the "so bright, no one will think it's porn" template. A bit of advice when dealing with old people. I have to dye my hair once in a while. My real hair color looks unnatural, especially on an asian. I like to call it "poopy brown", but my mother more adeptly calls it "old sewage blah". So today was the day that I decided to further build on the physical facade. I just had my locks shorn anyway, so why not, I don't have to use a full bottle now. From my coloring enhancement experience, I have learned to not assume that the grandmother will not notice anything out of the ordinary. I especially thought this to be true when Judge Judy is on, when nothing else in the world matters. But alas, I forget, her bladder and other bodily functions aren't as reliable as the younger generation, and bathroom breaks are plentiful. In the middle of the dyeing process, I had a hankering for my raisin bran, but I was out of milk. Determined to have my raisin bran, and not patient enough to wait until I was done with the 'do, I donned a shower cap and a hat on top of that and headed out to my local korean, but being in LA, it's going to be a 7-11. Now I have to explain something to you all (ex, you can skip ahead, you are already privy to this information via firsthand experience), I happen to be a great spaz. And I don't mean great, as in lofty, but great, as in GREAT BIG. I have very little control of my musculature structure ( I like to think it's because of all the THINKING I'm doing, so not enough brain power to the coordination area of the noggin. What people think of as a grandiose flourish of my arm in reaction to a dramatic tale, is really just flailing of limbs as a delayed reaction of wanting to slap someone silly earlier in the day. Okay, that being said, because I'm a huge spaz, my home dye jobs end up being an exercise in detergent comparison, to see which one will take out the stain best. I have to apply the dye in the shower, because it's a given that it will go everywhere. (okay ex, you can start again here). So I thought the shower looked like I had explosive diarrhea, but figured I'd wait until I was going to wash the crap out of my hair to wash the walls. So I'm out getting milk, looking like the sorriest, wannabe-ghetto asian gangster. With the shower cap poking out through my nappy skullcap, my tattered pants that hang over my bottom because I keep popping buttons and breaking zippers, I'm surprised the clerks didn't call the cops on me. Oh, but not to worry, MY GRANDMOTHER DID. I came home to a flashing of red and blue, and three police vehicles surrounding my humble domain. My grandmother stepped into the bathroom earlier on and saw the mess I had made, and instead of assuming it was poo, as I would have, she thought someone came into the bathroom, chopped me up and carried me away. So she called the police and told them I was brutally murdered in the bathroom, next to the TV room, where she was just sitting watching Judge Judy. Now, because I live in a little beach city in LA, not a whole lot happens, so the police officers get bored, and don't question such assertions, they just go to the scene and ask questions later. I don't know if that makes me feel any better, but by the by, it was an embarrassing situation nonetheless. To walk into my house with a ridiculous shower cap, surrounded by beefcake and a hysterical grandmother (and why wasn't my mother called? She got a laugh out of it later, if she were informed, she would've known better), is not an experience I would like to repeat. It's a guarantee that this story is circulating the police station, if not many others. Great, now I'm never going to snag a police officer with a great pension who might very well get shot in the line of duty leaving his wife a large insurance settlement. During this episode, I also learned to not assume that old people won't assume the absolute worst no matter how unbelievable it might be. In other words, you will never know what old people are thinking or how they're going to react. Not even when you're old. You're too old to remember how. [10:43 AM] |

Tuesday, June 15, 2004

Stop the Insanity! Because I refuse to do anything this week in preparation for eight weeks of stress, I've been watching a lot of television. I am particularly fond of A&E's "Mystery!", because I am old, and "Murder, She Wrote" is no longer on the air. I am about a hair away from Matlock. But that's not the point. The point is: after watching an episode of "Mystery!", I could not find the remote wedged under one of the dogs, and I wasn't about to get out of my seat to look for it, I didn't need to go to the bathroom, so why get up? The next program on, was called "Boomer Nation", yet another clip show, this one about baby boomers. And on this program about baby boomers, (which there were very few baby boomers, most of the people making commentary were around my age, hmmm) I see some wild woman, sporting pink dreadlocks, dark eyeliner, nose ring, torn t-shirt, screaming meant-to-be-funny-but-not-very-funny comments about the 80's. Then underneath her image is the text: Susan Powter, Author of "..." ( I don't remember the title off hand). And I was thinking, "that name sounds familiar, but I can't place her. Musician, maybe?". After hearing her scream for a while, it came to me...Susan Powter! The "self-help guru" from the early 90's! She had a platinum blonde buzzcut back then, she was a "300lb single mother whose husband left her for a younger woman" yadda yadda. She was everywhere for a while, then just fell off the map. Well, it looks like she's back. Okay, I just took a gander at her website, and she's still schlepping self help. But not so much Oprah-style anymore. It's odd, seeing this. I'm not sure why though. I'm not even sure why I feel the need to bring this person up, as I was not one of those swayed by her sermons. Nor do I know anyone who was. She was just a prevalent image in pop culture during some impressionable times. And now, with me being such a pop culture retard (apparently, Buffy is off the air, I just found out yesterday, who knew? Who the hell watched that over the age of 16, mentally?), I guess all that was familiar to me has some kind of impact. But in reality, I think I just wanted to update y'all on Ms. Powter's whereabouts nowadays. Because I know it bothered me. [2:07 PM] |

Sunday, June 13, 2004

Aahhhaahhhh, or, nature calls I'm finally done with the semester, and have a week until I start up again. I think my sphincter has not budged in about two weeks. Still hasn't, but it will soon. I have been living on coffee, rock star energy drinks and twinkies. My pee stings. I have been drunk for 8 hours straight, and I don't plan on stopping until school starts or my liver stops, which ever happens first. It's odd being back in school. Granted, I'm back at a JC, trying to get into a good grad school, but it's difficult nonetheless. I'm thinking it might be a wee bit harder to take over the world than I thought. It's kind of sad when the person teaching you happens to be only a few years older with multiple Phd's. During this last week I've been crazed with dementia from lack of sleep, a poor diet, my menstrual cycle, no sex for a while, and just from being in LA. I found myself eating my fourth peanut butter and jelly sandwich (I've become addicted) for that day, and I was accosted by a squirrel. You have to understand, the squirrels on that campus are enormous. And I know what an enormous animal looks like, you should see my kid, I mean, my dog. I'm not talking enormous-big, I'm saying enormous-FAT. There is no lack of food for these critters, it's like they are perpetually storing for the winter, and have no idea that LA has no winter. So of course, as the little rat with the fluffy tail is trying to extract my lunch from me, forcibly, I might add, I forget that this animal is in fact a rodent, and not a human, and I'm oblivious to the fact that there are normal people in the same vicinity, and I started to have a conversation with it. Not a full-on conversation, with frank and enlightening caveats regarding the political atmosphere, or even discussion on the diet of the student and how it effects the squirrel. No, it was more an argument over who gets possession of my food. But it was a conversation nonetheless, because he was answering me. And it went a little like this: Rat: squeak squeak. Me: Huh? What are you looking at? I don't think you're cute, you're not getting any. Rat: Squuueeeeeeek. Please? Me: No! Get your own! You are obviously not hungry my chunky friend. Rat: I'm not your friend until you hand over the sandwich. Me: No! I need the calories to sustain my mental clarity and provide me with the energy to finish my finals! Rat: Haven't you heard of speed? Me: Been there, done that. I'm hungry. Rat: Me too. Me: doesn't look like it. You're kind of like a furry burrito. Or a mini kangaroo with a baby in it's pouch. Or a cross between a peach and a pear. With ticks. No rodent, you are definitely not hungry. Rat: Cooooome oooooooon. I'm going to get hungry during the summer. GIVE ME THE SANDWICH! Me: Hey don't yell at me, and stop complaining, there will be plenty of people. One of my classes filled up in an hour. Signing up for some of these classes was like when I used to sleep outside of Music Plus for INXS tickets. Rat: yeah yeah yeah old lady, seriously, if you don't give me that food, I'm going to punch you. (at this point, the little pest climbed on my leg since I was sitting on the grass, and continued to berate me while I was oblivious to his pain and continued to eat. Some expletives were thrown at me and the evil thing chewed a hole in my jeans. Really. Finally, I had enough.) Me: This is so unnecessary. There is plenty of food around here, go somewhere else! Rat: But you have chunky peanut butter on whole wheat! I don't want any more tuna! GIVE ME GIVE ME GIVE ME! Me: NO! YOU WANT CHUNKY PEANUT BUTTER, GET A JOB! Police officer: Excuse me miss, are you yelling at a squirrel? Me: Uh, yes, but he was really aggressively trying to get at my food. PO: Did you just tell him to get a job? Me: Well, uh, yes, I guess so. PO: I've been saying that to them every day. Just give him a piece and he'll go away. Good luck with your finals. Evil Rat: OW! You just pelted me in the heat with the crust! And there's no chunk in the peanut butter here! Stingy bitch! Me: UNGRATEFUL SNOT! But at least my finals are over. [12:30 AM] |

Tuesday, June 08, 2004

Gipper this! On a political note.... Is it horribly wrong of me, at this time of national mourning, to raise my fist at the barrage of Reagan images saturating all forms of media, and scream, "I hope you're surrounded by all those dead of AIDS you dill hole!" and "I'll show you cold war, mutha fucka!" As one of those non-middle class families in the '80's, we weren't positively affected with all those yummy tax breaks, but we did have our house taken away. And having lived in urban areas both in LA and San Francisco, watching people close to me die of AIDS because it was a "gay" concern and not a concern of the American people, so there will be no funding (it had to go into Star Wars, and I'm not talking about the movie) or programs for those affected by the disease, so I can't say I'm deeply moved by Reagan's death. Well, I was somewhat moved this weekend, but I believe it was all of the coffee and fiber and had nothing, in fact, to do with the passing of Ronald Reagan, more like a passing OF a Reagan. And the worst part of it is, I will be known as part of the generation that grew up during the "Reagan Era", so that automatically makes the assupmtion that I'm spoiled and lazy, with everything handed down to me. My formative years were under the influence of middle class bliss and denial. I feel like my generation is one of the most ignorant, lazy, "get rich fast" scheming numbnuts ever. We're pre-computer, post working ethics, so we all kind of turn around in circles waiting for someone to hand us a check. And it's sad. I'm in my 30's with no job, much less a retirement fund. All of my successful friends of my age, said in their earlier years, "screw this partying all the time crap, I'm going take the traditional, tried and true route and become a lawyer/doctor/truck driver/engineer (non-internet, non-aerospace). You guys can waste your time making acid wash jeans and shopping in the local mall, but I want a secure future and this actor guy is a little shifty." Granted, we were all about ten, but that's essentially how it went. And those people are all doing well, with their houses on the beach and trips to Hong Kong for fun. Just because. And it leaves me standing here with my Fine Art degree and no job thinking about how screwed I am. So forgive me if I don't mourn. It's not like he died tragically, or early in life. You don't have to make such a big deal about it. [10:48 AM] |

Monday, June 07, 2004

Oscar worthy This weekend, while procrastinating all things Finals and all things productive, I actually sat down and watched a movie in it's entirety. Now me, of short attention span (oooH, look, shiny! Wha?), watching an entire movie is an accomplishment in and of itself. Not only that, but the movie I watched was "The Fifth Element". Now, I've seen the while movie, but not in one sitting, mostly bits and pieces here and there while it plays endlessly on TNT. But this time, it was on HBO, so no deleted scenes or no guy with a Mexican accent saying "You meat packer!" while Bruce Willis is obviously saying something else. I had no idea Luke Perry was in that movie. See all the great little tidbits like that, one misses from having self diagnosed adult onset ADD. While absorbing all of those tasty tidbits, during the opera scene, I thought I recognized the voice of the opera singer to be that of Sarah Brightman (which ended up not being Sarah Brightman, but a piece of which she has previously performed, without all of the "rockin" parts). And the people that I was viewing the movie with looked at me quizzically. "You can recognize the voice of Sarah Brightman?" and questions akin to that were hurled at me incredulously. I tried to explain my interest in opera, but not so much "adult contemporary" which she is popular for in the States. So now everyone thinks I'm a 50 year old woman. I'm heading for Enya country now. I guess this means I have to start wearing crystals and visiting an astrologer. What was I talking about again? [11:10 AM] |

Saturday, June 05, 2004

Why is it, That when ever I leave the gynecologist, I feel like I've had my teeth cleaned? I had to go to a cheap gyno this time since the ex broke up with me and took my insurance away (but I forgive you anyway). And surprisingly, I don't feel as violated as I normally do. But I've also had more thorough breast exams from previous bedmates too. Whatever, as long as I get my "let's be sure and not let Jerky breed" pills. I like to call them my "happy" pills. Here's to another round of "Yay! I'm not pregnant! Although I wasn't concerned! But I could have been carrying the second coming or Satan! Most likely Satan!" [1:50 PM] |

Tuesday, June 01, 2004

To make matters worse.... I had to turn on the TV during the Miss Universe pageant. Makes me want to study really hard and become wicked smart so I can practice physical eugenics. [11:09 PM] |

Obsessive-Repulsive Now I'm not one to be concerned about my weight, so much as my health, but lately, I'm getting obsessive about it. I don't like to admit that I'm putting so much energy into my body image, since I'm lucky enough to be Asian (ha ha ha, although, for an Asian, I'm considered "big-boned", which I like to think of as "sturdy"). Usually, my naturally high-strung personality controls the obesity. The tense muscles providing isometric exercise, the nervous pacing, constant screaming, the need to do everything myself because of control issues, those are all very handy in metabolizing those calories. The way I keep my sphincter hermetically sealed and tightly shut, it's like the equivalent of 10000 squats. Usually, that's the case. But right now, last summer's shorts aren't going over my hind quarters without a fight and I break out in a sweat trying to zip anything up (so THAT'S why I've come to love drawstring). Yes, I've been lax in my workout schedule, due to my lack of understanding of physical chemistry and my resistance to vectors. But enough with the excuses. I need to get my butt back up. Since I'm looking to costume myself in cheap, revealing clothing for meaningless liaisons, I'd like my body to be presentable for that two minutes I'm nekkid in the light. Rather, I want a shelf-like ass and rock hard abs. Realistically, I'd like to fit into my shorts, 'cuz my broke ass can't afford to buy MORE clothes to fit my new full figure. Someone told me to wear hip pants. The low rise somehow gives the illusion of a waist and magically makes the bulge in the midsection look flat, apparently. I imagine the young Brittany wannabes with their thongs sticking out of their 13 year-old asses, with the butt and thighs of their hip huggers strategically bleached, kind of a contemporary acid wash, if you will. But I put my prejudices and pride aside and hump myself to the nearest mall's version of Wet Seal (I don't remember the name of the store, but that was the Seventeen magazine style, cheap clothing store of my time) and I bought myself the only pair of pants in the store that covered both my butt crack and my frontal rug. So having purchased my wares, I decided to try them out the next day. I realized the reason behind the four inch wide mirrors in the dressing room. I now see the "apparently", in "the pants will make you look thin, APPARENTLY". Yes, my legs looked thin. But it nothing to help the illusion of my upper body. I looked like the Disney version of Tweedle Dee/Dum: stick-like legs and a rotund upper body. Because I'm short, I avoid long shirts. So my shirt rose above my pants (they were low, mind you). So it looked like I was wearing TWO shirts, my actual shirt, and a flesh colored top that happened to blouse over the waist of my pants. But it's NOT a shirt, it's my STOMACH. Stomachs are not supposed to blouse over pants. So back to the mall I go to return said pants. The oh-so-helpful twelve year old sales clerk said to try the opposite and get high waisted pants, and pointed me across the way. I saw a Lane Bryant and was about to clock the little nit, but noticed there was an Ann Taylor next to it. Yes, more my style. So I took myself over there and found some high waisted pants. I didn't even get them home. I looked in the mirror and found that rayon makes great sausage casing. Because that's what it looked like. I looked like one big bratwurst, with some fuzz sticking out the top end. So this wasn't going to work either. The whole point was to fit into my shorts, not get pants. I guess I have to try and get to the gym again, and lay off the fried food. Damn. Maybe I'll just head to Goodwill and pick up some more slacks [10:53 AM] |

Turkey Jerky

Blogarama Watch out for them Asians Aussie's Rule! Who needs a hug? The Prettiest Girl Good clean fun! Rock Star semi-nongirlfriend A whole lotta LA Because I said so

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