Pleased to have known you, George Carlin

Because I'm homeless and underemployed and "not allowed to use the elevator without my host" and have access to Netflix, my four eyes have been hurting. I'm watching things I never thought I would (not porn, I just am not mature enough) and I have to say... hooray!

It's 4 o'clock in the morning

My phone gave out a loud buzz. Instinctively, I knew it was a missed call. I'm always missing my calls. When I was in high school, I would get excited picking ringtones on my Razr. When I found out I could edit songs and make them ringtones, I'd have people call me just so I can hear the snippet of that song. Now, when anyone calls me, I don't hear a thing. It doesn't vibrate, it doesn't ring.

I had 3 missed calls from Dad. 7:17, 7:20, and 7:35 in the morning. I know I can't speedily subtract, but I knew it was early in Los Angeles. 4 o'clock early. I was wide awake when I realized the time. Why is he calling me? Is everything okay? Is mom okay? Did someone die? What else would I assume if my dad calls me at 4 in the morning?

Instead of calling back, I checked my voicemail.

"Hi, it's Dad. You got a letter," he said loudly in Vietnamese. I hear my mother yelling something in the background. At least I know they're both alive.

I called back.

"You got a mail for jury duty!" he said.

I was speechless.

"I'll have your brother mail it to you! Remember to fill it out, tell them you don't live here anymore."

I didn't bother to ask why they both were up so early and why they had to call me at that moment.

"Are you going to work now?" he asked.

I said yes, hung up the phone, and went back to sleep.

Where have you been?

I've been looking for you. I've checked everywhere. Even when it looks like we're as compatible as ever, you end up finding someone else.

In the beginning, I was nervous. Will I look good? Am I smiling too much? How do I say goodbye? I'd spend hours thinking of how to approach you, and realize that it doesn't matter too much. As long as I show that I am human, you'll respond back. When I finally got to meet you, it wasn't as bad as I thought. We were communicating. I was energized, and you were the same. But you didn't call me back. Well, you did, but it took three weeks, and you told me I wasn't the one. 

The furthest I've travelled to meet you was 2 hours. That's one way. I was willing to have a long distance relationship if I meant I'd have some kind of stability. Again, you rejected me for someone else. I had to keep reaching out for you to get an answer.

I thought maybe I should change some things up. It sounds ridiculous, but I remember wearing shoes instead of sandals for my third driving test and I passed. I passed because I changed my shoes. Everything else was the same.

So, after 6 months of searching for you, I thought I had found the one. This time, I went and bought new clothes. I didn't wear my glasses. I wore makeup. I even told everyone about you. My father knew about you.

Again, I was let down. I thought changing things up would work, but it didn't. In the end, there is someone out there with more past experience. But don't you like novelty? Don't you want a fresh mind, someone who isn't jaded? 

I don't know when I will find out. I feel it's time for me to stop searching. I'll let you find me. 

I need them to see

I had to walk to 8th avenue again. The D was running on the A track again. The rain stopped, and I also stopped to take a deep breath, filling my lungs with my favorite aroma. I love the after rain smell, the smell of the rain hitting the dry pavement.


I hung up on Francis, ending our long conversation that should be saved for the road trip. Topics like loneliness and memories shouldn't be discussed at 2 in the morning with 952 miles between us.

Once I wobbled down the stairway towards the turnstile, the D train arrived. I can't believe this normal occurrence made me so happy. The D train arrives all the time, but the fact that it came right as I entered the station makes me believe in miracles. It won't take me an hour to get home tonight.

There was a young man, I presume in his late twenties, tall, dirty blond curly hair. He reminded me of a skinnier Seth Rogen. From the corner of my eye, it looked like he was tying his shoes, or putting on his shoes. I stared ahead, and there were three other people, sleeping. I liked how they were all evenly spaced apart. I walked past the man fiddling with his shoe and sat three seats away from him. I had to make sure I was keeping with the trend of keeping a good space between me and the next passenger.

I took out my Trader Joe's bag of onion chips. I forgot to take my thirty minute break at work. I really was enjoying them until I saw the man with the shoes walking towards me. I kept munching, this time aggressively, with chips falling on my lap. I was trying to scare him off.

"Where did you get your glasses?"

Really, sir? At this time? "Korea," I said.

"I really like them. I ordered a pair like that online."

I kept eating.

"You know, I just googled the glasses place. It's probably from Korea. It looks a lot like yours."

 The train was running local and I couldn't stand having a conversation with a stranger about glasses for the next thirty minutes. I stopped eating, placed the bag in my tote bag, and smiled.

"This is 59 street," said the conductor in a whisper.

"Well, you have a good night." The man with the shoes and new glasses walked away from me, toward the opened doors.

It's an unusual entry that will possibly occur again

I'm craving sesame buns and bbq kalbi. I'm craving spicy ramen. I'm done craving. It's 2:29am. The internet is slow. I'll never finish Mad Men and having it pause every second frustrates me. I can't be frustrated at this time. It then started to play again, but for some reason the show changed into another show starring Jennifer Love Hewitt. This is what I get for streaming online and not owning AMC.

People are getting married. 7 years, break up, and after a few months of dating a church boy, she's getting married. She's younger than me. I don't know her. There is no relevance to this story.

This, I am warning you, is me writing at 2:31am now (I can't help but update on the time). I've been home for an hour. We left at 12:30 and the train wasn't working. I walked to 8th ave again. I love walking at night in the city. People are out. I feel safe.

I haven't had a chance to bake or make a decent dinner. This is when I know I'm busy. Before, I wouldn't go to events because I was "busy" and really, that just meant I didn't want to go. Now, when I say I'm "busy" I mean I have no time to relax when I get home. I go straight to bed (or try to watch Mad Men but fail).

I'm reading more. I'm sleeping less. My skin has never felt so disgusting. There are many things going on. I'm not making sense. Can't you tell by my short boring sentences?

He says I do too much, I want too much.

I feel something missing, and sometimes, that worries me. I want something, and it isn't there. I can't actually say what I want (because I can't put a finger on it) but I know I don't have it.

Does that make sense?

Love me, understand me, take care of me, show compassion, show interest, inspire me.

30 hours this week. 30 hours next week? And then I am off on the road. But I won't be writing a book and I won't be on drugs.

I'm looking forward to it, I am, but I'm also dreading it. Expectations, I have too many. And when things don't go my way, I become flustered. Who doesn't?

These short sentences will make no sense to me in seven hours. I'll re-read this, and will apologize to my dazed and confused self, and any readers out there.

This is not normal.

This is an entry that will go on, and it won't end because I won't end it.

I'm writing just because I've been wanting to write for so long, but had no time. I don't have time now, but I'm forcing myself to just write anything. Updates, updates are hard to type up. I find them boring. I like to recreate specific moments, the way I see them.

This entry is not about specific moments. Rather, it is about a mind that has not rested. Reflection is needed. Self awareness.

Don't become those girls who work all the time, and are too busy all the time.

Memories. People. Timeless. Joy. Facebook is a tragedy. Unread messages, glimpses of life. Picking at our curiosity. Our need to compare. Our need to know. We know too much, and too little. We know details, but not the whole. We know your public persona, but not you. We know what you want us to know. Know is a strange word and I really want to say now. We're hiding messages. We seek love. We want to be cared for. We want to belong. We need to belong. Interaction, even if virtual, somehow comforts us. It's a mess, and we've gone into deep. We don't have long chats. We check up on each other and know everything about each other without ever uttering a word. We know with our eyes. We know what you want us to know. Here we go again with the know. It's all a game.

Sleep will come in 10 minutes. Awake, again, at thirty pass eight. Train. Falling in and out of naps. The busy day will come and it will go, and before I know it, I'm here again, trying to watch a show, trying to slow down my day, but it will happen again. And I won't be able to tell you when it will stop.

Dream catalogue: Taxi in the water

It was my birthday. I’m in a dark room with young people, who I assume are my friends. I ask a girl where we should go.

I know a place on 32nd, in K-town.

Is it good?

It’s dark, so it’s good to hook up and stuff.

Ok, let’s just go there.

My dad comes in.

“Tashi, tashi!”

Everyone stares. They don’t understand.

I laugh so hard I fall to the ground. He couldn’t say taxi correctly.

“Two tashi outside.”

There are two taxis waiting outside to take all of us.

Tony’s at the corner, his face fills the whole frame. He’s lit compared to the dark room, dressed in a light blue dress shirt, the one he wore to his career fair trips. He looked at me and said “I can stay until 11. I have work.”

I get in the taxi, I see Fran in the corner, he’s curled up on the side. He’s wearing his white polo with brown lines running down the shoulders. It reminded me of something Eric Foreman would wear on That 70’s Show. He has been helping my parents while I was in the room with my 30 or so guests.

My mom, who’s in the driver’s seat shouts “one more!”

There’s already three of us, but we open the door and some girl joins us. She’s larger, so we basically have 5 people in the back seat.

“My mom can’t drive. She hasn’t driven in so long. And in NYC,” I said.

“It okay! I drive!”

She merges onto the lane, almost hitting the parked car in front of us. I didn’t know why my mom was driving when we were in a taxi cab.

She almost hits a car, but is not panicking.

I’m scared.

Images overlap of bumpers, lights, wheels, white cars and yellow cars, and a few black ones.

She’s on a road that leads to the beach.

Mom stop the car!

The car keeps moving. My mom doesn’t respond. We’re in the water now, and I feel it seeping into my shoes.

I unbuckled my mom’s seatbelt. She’s laughing.

Mom, this isn’t a video game. It isn’t Mario Kart. We aren’t going to restart! Mom this is real life!

She laughs and waits for the screen to fade to black, for a screen to pop up telling you to press A to start a new game.

This is real life! There’s no restart! Get out!

My dream ends.

Dream catalogue: Death

All I remember is that I am hiding under our kitchen table. However, there's some cabinets covering me. But that wasn't enough. The gunman shot my head. It felt so weird, like I was swallowing blood but it wasn't horrible. It took me to a different world. It didn't hurt. I guess I passed out for a few minutes because I remember Chloe was walking by me as I was on one of those ambulance beds. Once they put that oxygen mask on me, it felt so good. At the hospital, it turned out I was shot 4 times in the head. That's all I remember. 

This is for my dad

My co-worker handed me the white boxcutter. It looked like a stick of peppermint gum but had the texture and weight of a beer opener. Of course, a red square with the words UNIQLO written in white capital letters sat at the end of the razor. It belonged to them.

I took the tool, retracted the sharp blade, and sliced through the tape. I felt cruel destroying this box even though it has consistently excelled in storing perfectly folded linen shirts. The sharpness of the razor sure beats my well inked blue Bic pen, which will stick to it's role of transcribing the daily sales goal and whatnot.

This utility knife felt familiar. I have seen it before, piles of them actually, in all different colors, though I mostly remember orange and dark grey. They appeared less polished, lighter because it was molded plastic and not metal. More used, with strips of packing tape holding the blade in place. These segmented blade utility knives rested in our monochromatic filing cabinet with its charcoal colored drawers and handles. It was located in our dining area between my dad's homemade alter and a twin sized bed. My dad found it on the side of the street and insisted to carry it up a flight of stairs just so it can consume more space in our already crowded two bedroom apartment. It became home to the knives, old VHS tapes varying from home videos to Paris By Night concert series, usb cords, and other tangled electronic items.

I never knew why we had so many of of them. I've never seen my dad cut anything at home. Then,  for some reason, at that moment of me breaking down the box, it occurred to me that he used them for the same reason. He opened a lot of them at the shoe warehouse where he worked.  Here I was, doing exactly what my dad has been doing and still is doing for 15 years. I'm living what he still is struggling with now. He has been working there since 1997. That was his way of making money to support his wife and two kids. He had left the comforts of his homeland and his family, replaced a camera with a knife, and abandoned a huge house with a backyard full of jack fruit, gauva trees, and all sorts of fruits and vegetables for an upstairs corner two bedroom, one bathroom unit in an apartment that looked more like a motel.

I can't help but make comparisons and wonder if I'll be in the same shoes. Has he succeeded? His two kids are college graduates from outstanding universities. One has a good job, and the other is still searching. It's hard to say. His goal was for us to have an education and pursue any occupation we wanted, and raise our own families and make enough money to support them. In that case, he has succeeded.

But I feel that if he knew what his daughter has been doing - working at a store, moving boxes, using razors like he did - he would be mad.

"I didn't come here so you can work like that," he would probably say.

But Dad,  I understand your struggle now. I used to ask you why you were always tired all the time from work. Why you sighed and huffed and only sat in front of the computer every time you came home.  I now do the same. I'm now somewhat living your life and barely getting by (except I have no one else to support except myself). I don't want to repeat that step.

I will get out of there. It's just a step I need to take to get elsewhere. Lucky for me, I have you and mom for support. And lucky for me, my family is in the same country and I can visit them any time. Lucky for me, I have the opportunities you never did.

It doesn't end on the razors as a comparison. I'm also picking up furniture from the street. I'm taking an hour to buy toilet paper because I need to compare and find the best value.

I moved to NYC by myself to pursue a dream, as you did when you left Vietnam. I know it's a bit farfetched comparing my journey to yours, I can't help it. You've inspired me to do this. And I can't let you down. I came here for a reason and when I go back home, you'll be living in a house with a backyard full of fruits and vegetables. And when I get home, I'll throw away all of your razors.  You won't need them anymore.

I wanted a job but I got a haircut instead

Taken by my brother at the High Line in NYC. Why so mad!?

I decided to hold on to the sheet protector in my hand, making sure the images of Michelle Williams, Tao Okamoto and Jessica Stroup were in his sight. Thank goodness I wasn't in his shoes. I showed him three different looks because honestly I didn't know which one I wanted. I knew for sure I wanted to be able to tuck hair behind my ears (I kept stating that over and over along with the hand motions of tucking hair behind my ears) and I wanted it to still look feminine. Before the cut, I also showed him my "NO" sheet, which coincidentally were full of Asian women in their mid-40s. I should have illustrated it better with a huge X on all the images. I kept pointing at the bad sheet, and shook my head saying "No, not this. This is bad. No." He nodded, and before he started, he left for a minute and returned with a style book. He frantically flipped the pages and pointed to a sample. I gave him a look of doubt, and he took the sheet from my hand and examined it. "Okay" he nodded.

And before I knew it, he was snipping my hair. Short. And it kept getting shorter. And shorter. For some reason, when he was done, I told him to make it shorter. It wasn't a huge change for me, since I basically always have my hair tied up anyways.

My observant roommate and friend was surprised that I was rather... dull during the cut. "I thought you were going to cry." Nope. I thought I would feel lighter and clarity will overcome me. I seem to always miss the boat when it comes to epiphanies and life changing moments. I didn't feel like a brand new person. It's just hair. I just happen to currently be having short hair. Another interaction I seem to have when people first notice my hair is "That looks so good on you. What made you do it?" I'm not sure if I believe them or not, but I take the compliment anyway. My answer seems to disappoint them when I say "Thanks. Nothing. I just wanted to cut it." Typically, for girls at least, cutting more than 12 inches of your hair is done strategically and usually occurs during a great moment of transition and a need for a new start, i.e. the ever popular breakup, getting hired/fired, a death.

It shows how much I've changed. I'm still dramatic over things, but I seem to be very calm when it comes to bigger changes. The old me would have freaked out with the short hair, and plaster the message all over whatever social network that's poppin'.  I've become quite calm about such big issues, and I'm not sure if I like that or not.

However, my enthusiasm comes out when I apply for jobs. I'm passionate about my career choice and I've never been so hopeful and hopeless. I hate transitions. I can't fathom transitioning to the working world. Everyone I've spoken to just happened to fall into their careers. They never planned it. As for me, I've planned it, and I've had my eye on it since college. Doesn't this give me an advantage? Perhaps from this adventure, I'll end up somewhere unexpected and I end up loving it. For now, am I too eager? Should I apply the old advice to the singles of "Don't go looking for love, it will find you"to my job hunting? I'll wait for a job opportunity to find me and want me. Bull.

I guess in the end, cutting my hair did symbolize something. I wanted a shift in how things were. Getting short hair replaced getting a job. Good enough for me.

I took the A train today

I took the A train today, and if you work, you know the A train going downtown is always packed. I once was lucky to walk in and find a seat by the door.  The thing with the subway in New York is that it's unpredictable. I saw the C train running on the B/D track. The A train became local all of a sudden and would only stop at certain stops. The L stopped working and I think it was because of the guy who committed suicide and splatted his guts everywhere.

I love it when I walk down the stairs and both trains come at the same time. It's one of the most beautiful things, I think. You stand there in the middle as these two trains rush by and it causes your hair to fly everywhere. I make sure to pause and enjoy that moment. When I got in the train, I barely took two steps. I found the nearest pole and held on. I never really know what to do when I'm standing. Usually I sit, look around really quickly to see how crowded the train is, then I close my eyes. You would think that I should open them and enjoy what's around me, and I agree. But I can't do that for 35 minutes. I'd look at the advertisements, which usually consists of some community college posters. My favorite is the Guggenheim one, which has been there for three months and should be taken down because the exhibit no longer exists.

I was standing there and I wasn't feeling sleepy so I kept my eyes opened. The young lady standing next to me was reading a book. I couldn't stop looking at her short blond hair. I wish there was some type of real life pinterest to collect everything I've seen that has inspired me. But I used my peripherals and I really wanted to ask her to turn around so I can look at the back of her head. Don't worry, I didn't do such a thing. But I kept glancing over. The three people who were seated in front of me all had their eyes closed. Actually, everyone seated had their eyes closed. It was awfully quiet for such a packed train. I couldn't see what stop it was and I hate it when you couldn't hear the conductor because for some season, he/she doesn't understand how to turn on the volume. I wasn't at a panic. I knew that after 59th, half the people leave the train anyway. "This is Canal. Next stop is Chambers. Stand clear of the closing doors." That's usually my cue to start walking to the door.

Sickness talk

The last time I was sick and actually enjoying every second of it was second grade. It seems all of my great childhood memories were in that time. I was 8 or something. We were still living in a studio so my twin bed was in the living room along with my brother's. He had these really colorful dinosaur sheets. I can't recall what my sheets were like, but I'm sure it wasn't as awesome as his sheets since I can't even remember it. It was a school day and I wasn't in school. Instead I was under the covers, one of those thick, heavy, flowery ones. If you have any familiarity with Asians, you know what I'm talking about. There's always some type of pattern with some shade of red. My mother's had a peacock. Mine had huge red and pastel flowers all over. One side of the blanket felt silky so when you run your hand against it it'll smooth it out and everything looked perfect. That was one of my favorite things to do, petting the blanket. At least it behaved and didn't poop.  It seems life was easier with this blanket because now I have an Ikea down comforter with those duvets and life isn't as easy. It's still very warm, but I can't pet it like my Asian blanket. My mother took the day off to take care of me. I remembered my great aunt (that's what I called her, though I really don't know how she was related to me but she was related) came over and gave me five dollars. I forgot why, but I remembered wanting to be sick all the time so I can get more five dollars. Five dollars could have gotten me ten fudge popsicles or ten bottles of lucas. Even though I was sick, if the ice cream truck came by, I'd rush out the door and run after it.

On these sick days, besides blowing my nose and filling up so many plastic bags with my used tissues, I watched television all day. Daytime television wasn't made for kids (I know because they always had soap operas that had stuff my eyes should have not seen as a child) and PBS became my favorite network. I never knew what PBS stood for, but knew that before and after every show, they always thanked me "like viewers like you, thank you" and I'd always reply "you're welcome!" I never watched Nickelodeon or cartoon network because I didn't have cable. I remember I'd lie to the kids at school when they asked me if I had cable. I told me that I had it once, but my father cancelled it because I wouldn't do my homework. Everyone believed it.  I already knew I wasn't a typical kid, but I still wanted to fit in. So yeah, I used to have cable and watch TRL and Rugrats until my parents turned off our 20 inch tube.

Life as a sick child was not a struggle. Now at the ripe age of 23, I'm sick and there is a TV, a huge one actually, but it doesn't work. It sits quietly in our living room and constantly reminds me everyday that I am still poor. But it is quite encouraging because I really wish I can turn it on and watch The Notebook on there. Can you imagine Ryan Gosling's face on a 50 or so inch screen!? I ended up finishing The Catcher in the Rye instead. It makes me wish I wrote more during my teens angst years (what do you call angst in your early twenties? I feel like there should be a clever answer here and then that drum sound to state that it was a joke should play). But then, I wouldn't want to reread any of that because it'll just make me hate myself because I know how annoying I can be.

One thing I kind of like about being sick is my lost of taste and smell. It means I can make anything I wanted and it didn't matter how it tasted, as long as it filled me up. It means not being able to smell urine in the subways or smelling someone's fart, including my own. It means I can put sour cream and onion potato chips in my porridge and not be disgusted by it. But it also means I can't enjoy a freshly made avocado shake/smoothie or homemade angel hair pasta with mushroom and chicken alfredo sauce. I always feel these minor sicknesses happen to make us appreciate whatever that is hurting, more. Like when your elbow starts hurting for no reason and you begin to appreciate your elbow and pray to God that you won't ever mistreat your elbow ever again. I would think of other examples, but you know what I mean. You begin to give that part of your body more attention and tell everyone you encounter to be happy that theirs is functioning properly or at least looks normal. This reminds me a lot about people too, and how when someone gets sick, or gets mad or you, or something different happens to them and it changes your relationship negatively, you begin to focus on them and really appreciate them and wish you had done more and pray to God so many times to undo it all, to bring it back to the way it was before all of it happened.

The case of the heater

Here are two stories. My mother's co-worker, an immigrant from China, turned on the kitchen faucet and had no idea how to turn it off. This wasn't a fancy faucet either. But I guess she didn't have such sinks where she came from, so this contraption became her enemy, and she was not winning the battle. She ended up calling 9-1-1 because it was an emergency. Her sink was overflowing, and if she didn't stop it, her whole house would flood! The firefighters came and turned off the faucet. How? He twisted the knob to off.

Story two: This man (my father's friend who's also from a foreign land) didn't know the that red lights meant stop and green meant go, so every time the light was red, he would drive and wonder why people were honking at him.

I was shaking my head when I heard these stories. How can anyone not know how to turn off a faucet or understand that red means stop? Isn't that universal? "Give me the greenlight" means go right?  Come on, people!

And rightie tightie, leftie loosie. I've never actually typed that out, so it looks really awkward and cute at the same time. If I turn something towards the left it will loosen it and if I turn it towards the right, it will tighten it. That's exactly what I did to our heater. It started getting cold in the apartment so I tightened it because it was loose. The next day, my roommate layered up before bed (sweatpants, sweater, three blankets). Usually, he'd don his Harvard t-shirt and basketball shorts. The day after that, it was just unbearable. I walked around the apartment wrapped in a blanket, and spent the majority of my time in the kitchen or restroom because those were the two hottest spots. It was frustrating. How can our heater break? If ours is broken, that means everyone else in the building is freezing their toes off too! I went back to the source and turned the knob tighter. It was still cold. I googled and youtubed "how to fix a broken heater" but I didn't have the advance tools, and the heaters looked different from mine.

I called our super (I'm his favorite tenant).

"Yeah, it's really cold. Our heater is broken," I told him as he walked in the apartment.

"Really? It should be working. Which ones?"

I pointed to our room. "There, and in the living room."

He kneeled down and starting turning the knob towards the left. "Look, it was closed off. You have to loosen it so turn it to the left." He went to the living room and said the same thing. "It should start heating up in 20 minutes." And he left.

The poop story and how a kitty changed a life

And then there were two. Two needy, breathing mammals. Lexy came in a Zappos box and left in a legit pet carrier. This time, he, I mean she, is plumpier and I hope happier. The last four days has been hell for her and her owners. The internet said to place her in a small room with her food and litter box. We didn't want her to urinate in our bedroom. We didn't want to walk around smelling like kitten droppings so we avoided the closet. And we didn't want our brand old 50 inch television that might have the possibility of working to not work at all. Our tiny black and white restroom became her new home. After this new piece of information, we moved the litter box, her green rice to riches food container, and her furry self to the restroom, closed the door, and went about living our lives. I felt like a tiger mom punishing my daughter because she didn't take off her shoes in the house. That night,  the cat's constant meowing joined my roommate's snoring. And that continued for three nights.

"Have you seen the restroom yet?" asked my roommate one morning. I was snuggled under my comforter, ten minutes past my alarm.

"You should look," he said eagerly.

Last time the cat peed on the white towel, knocked over my tree oil face wash, and destroyed our soft  toilet paper. I knew it. She had taken down the shower curtains! I knew those plastic hooks from Ikea weren't going to last.

To my relief, the shower curtains were still hanging.

"She shitted all over the tub," my roommate said. I pulled the shower curtains open and immediately pulled them back. There were little pebbles of poop on the right side of the tub and in the middle was a fat one in a shape of a wishbone. I knew it wasn't a big deal, at least it wasn't human poop, but this was bad. Poop is poop.

I can never be a mother. We decided to split the task: I pick up the small poops and he picks up the wishbone poop. It was a fair deal because there were more small poops. There has to be a better word than poop right? It's starting to sound too cute. Poop.

And that was the end of it. I didn't want to pick up shit every day and I didn't want the white towel to turn yellow. Lastly, I was tired of having to hide our toilet paper and needing to collect the right amount of toilet paper before I sat on the toilet. The cat wasted a week's worth of toilet paper and that was the last straw.

That night, a kind lady responded to our craigslist ad (it was in the for sale section for $65, changed to $35 when no one responded, and after the poop tub incident, it moved to the free section). Her and her kids came over, met Lexy, fell in love with her, and left with her and the 3.5 pound bag of friskies cat food. Never have I ever seen a kid so happy.

In the end, I realized that I really am not a cat lady or any kind of animal lady and if kitten poop freaks me out there is no way I can handle cute baby poops. During one of my uproars, I confidently and dramatically told my roommate "Remember how we shouldn't have regrets? Well, my biggest regret is getting this cat!" and I take that back. Because of this cat, we both added happiness to a child's life. We provided this kitten with a loving home, and overall, Lexy taught me that I should be careful next time before I allow anyone/anything in my life because when I realize it isn't working, I can't post it on craigslist and have someone else fix my problem.

45 Days

I've been meaning to post about how everything is going in New York, but I wanted to wait until the forty fifth day. If you were to ask me this question, the answer will depend on when you ask me. If you had asked me that today, I'd say "The weather has been warmer than usual. I wore sandals this evening to the laundromat which is 3 blocks from my apartment (yes I need to actually go outside my building to do laundry). It felt like an episode of Friends except that I wasn't Rachel and there was no Ross, but there was a laundry cart! And did you know that you can pick how many minutes you want on the dryer? A quarter for 7 minutes. 3 quarters is enough to dry all my clothes!" On bad days... well, I've been thinking about it and I can't really recall a seriously bad day. The only time was when I went to Uniqlo orientation and the lady dismissed me because I didn't have my passport. I sat on the subway with a pouty mouth and my head down, feeling almost like a sad Korean drama.

I can say that every day here has been different. There's actually reason to have a daily journal because I won't be writing in the same things. Oh shucks, too late for that now. In the 45 days, I signed a one year lease to an empty apartment that I'm sharing with one of my great friends from home. I found a part time job as a sales associate for Uniqlo (I just tried the heattech scoop neck shirt today and oh-em-gee it's always toasty and I love it). I'm getting real world experience of what it's like working in a magazine office. I've stepped inside Spin Magazine's office (sadly they decided to not hire any new spring interns). In the 45 days I've had many opportunities and misfortune. My 2012 schedule is still in the air as I'm waiting to hear back from shootdigital and Men's Fitness. In the 45 days, I've baked ciabatta bread, crack pie, brownies (twice in four days). Thanks to Phimy, I've had numerous nights of fun times and numerous mornings of hang overs. I would go on, but most importantly, in the 45 days I've been here, I've been constantly moving.

You know how when you apply for college, they always want to see how well you adapt to new environments? Well I don't even know why I typed that last sentence, but I can say I've adapted very well. New York City isn't very different from any other places I went to. Even when I went to Korea, I didn't feel estranged. Physically, there are differences. People are always around me whether I like it or not. I don't have my car to shield me from the rest of the world. When I want to go somewhere, I hop on the train, and become involved in other people's lives for a few seconds before my stop. In New York City, they take out the trash three times a week, meaning that three times a week, you'll see piles and piles of garbage bags on the curb. The buildings aren't as high as I imagined them to be, the people aren't as "aggressive" and it isn't as chaotic. And I have to say, I honestly suck at blogging because I never have a focus. Sorry.

Now to answer the question: how's life in New York City? Life is being lived.

In this moment

My friend texted me saying "Life is crazy." Why? "Idk I didn't think I would ever hear back from anyone" and it made me realize that I haven't actually reflected on this life of mine. Because it really has been CRAZY. Crazy in the best sensible amazing awesome way. There are two types of crazy. The "My ex-gf was fucking crazy"crazy or your friend's reaction when you tell the story of you sitting on the subway and realizing Ryan Gosling is next to you and you both engage in an intimate conversation about which power ranger was your favorite and he gladly adds his phone number in your phone and decides to hold your hand as you both step off the subway to lead a life of eternal bliss and she responds with "O-M-G that's crazy!" My crazy is the latter. To a certain extent.

I love that feeling when things are happening. Anything, like even getting an email a response from someone, that sense of communication that life is moving forward because I hate feeling stuck and I am the most impatient person. I like for things to happen all the time. There has to be change and movement.

Does that mean that I get bored easily? No. It just means that I can't settle for something that I'm not happy with. For example, my internship during the summer was a blessing. Not only was I paid a good amount of money,  but I contributed to the sales team and felt like I did a lot of good things there. The work wasn't hard and my colleagues became my friends. But after 6 months, I knew I couldn't stay there long because I didn't see myself there. I thought to myself that when someone asks me in five years "so what have you done so far" I don't want to have to say "I've been working at that place that I interned for." Period. The end. I don't think I like straight lines. I tend to get from point A to B by visiting J and saying a quick hi to L and sometimes sadly approach Z to have to get to B. And I think that's the story I want to tell. Jeez, I'm all about stories huh? It probably goes back to freshmen year in my music cluster where my professor asked everyone "What is the meaning of life" or something along that line. And he said "stories." As in, life is all about stories. Every time we talk to someone, we are telling a story. Everything we do is a story. There's a beginning, middle, end to everything we do. Think about it. When you come home and your roommate asks you how your day was, you tell her a story about your day. The action of you walking in and your roommate asking you a question and you replying is a story. Beginning: You walk in. Middle: Roommate asks how you're doing. Ending: You respond by telling her your day. Everything is a sharing, communicating. And that leads me to the eulogy written by Steve Jobs' sister where she states "We all — in the end — die in medias res. In the middle of a story. Of many stories." Okay that was kind of depressing and does not work well with this entry, but there you have it.

And now I'm in the story and I am the author. I'm no longer going through the motions (and I'm glad I have motions to go through) but now the motions and going through me. I just thought that would sound cool by switching it around, by saying that I am now in control.

If you haven't noticed, I'm talking on a high right now. I feel like I'm on cloud 9 (seriously, there has to be a better expression to express my euphoria at this moment). And why am I so over the moon? Because things are happening! Leaves are falling! People are moving! Rain is falling! Sun is shining! Subways are moving! Music is playing! Everything is functioning correctly. Leaves should be falling now. People should constantly be moving. The rain should fall. The sun should shine. The subways should move. And music should always be playing. It's that moment where you begin to realize that you're glad certain things happened in the past because if it didn't you wouldn't be where you are at this moment. I'm glad I didn't get that copywriting internship. Maybe it was a good thing I decided to take Vietnamese class instead of Spanish. And to go even further back, I'm extremely blessed and thankful my parents sacrificed everything for me to be where I am right now. In this moment, I feel infinite. In this moment.

Lessons from a stranger

What goes around comes around Hey girl, is he everything you wanted in a man, something something hand. I wonder if he knew about this song? And he's right. It's similar to the treat others as you would want to be treated. If you get mad when someone cuts you off, you shouldn't be doing that to others. Believe in karma.

The answer "no" makes me want it more Okay, this does not pertain to abuse or any forced sexual encounter. But I told him about how difficult it was to get a part time job. For him, when someone tells him no, it drives him further to get that yes. He tells me of when he had to do cold calls everyday to advertise his business, and out of the twenty calls, only one or two people said yes. It didn't matter how many people rejected him. The few that accepted him made it all worth it.

Finish what you started That's what she said! I just ruined that joke, didn't I? When he said this, he was referring to relationships, specifically for men. For example, if you buy flowers for your girl every week, or call to say good night before bed, you can't stop doing that. Yes, you did all this to lure her in your special web, but you have to keep going even after you've got the girl. Finish what you started. Once you stop, she will notice and assume something is wrong. So advice for ya'll would be to not even start.

Men are dogs, women are cats Dogs chase cats, cats do not chase dogs. For some reason, women love the chase, and they love a man who will fight for them.

Make it happen but do it legally. If you want something, you have to make that happen.

When you have children, you have to give them the best even if that means giving it up for adoption because you don't have the means to take care of the child. In the end, you'll be happy and that child will be happy if he/she is raised in the right household. You can reconnect later, and if he/she does not want to connect with you, it is fine. No matter what, when you have a child, you have to reassure that they will be taken care of in every aspect. Be sure that you are ready to have kids because it is the biggest responsibility you'll ever have.

Don't be intimidated by anyone, we are all human This was geared towards men being intimidated by strong powerful women.  Who cares if she is a doctor, or president of a country, she is still a woman and she has needs and wants a man. Her career, or anyone's career/education/financial status should not be a main focus in picking a mate.  If I connect with you, that is all that matters.  In the end, we are all equal, all human beings with similar needs.

You have to make yourself happy because your partner can never do that for you. They can add more happiness to your life, but they can not make you happy. And if they do make you happy, it will only be temporary. If this is the case, you need to get out of the relationship until you are happy with yourself. Don't expect someone else to fulfill that.

If you want to make money, focus on senior citizens (baby boomers) or generation y because the U.S. population is getting older and kids like us will always want the latest technology (this includes social media)

Don't stress over what you cannot control There is no need. You are wasting your energy over something that is out of your hands. No matter how much you stress, it will or will not happen. If are in a control of a situation, make sure you prepare and do what you can for the best results. If you have no control, let it go. What will happen will happen. Stop worrying.

I'm spoiled and it is rotten

My tolerant mother has taken care of me for twenty two years and never received an income or even a promotion for her magnanimous efforts of raising a poor Vietnamese speaking mercurial daughter. With great admittance, I am a spoiled brat.

After I turned 18 and went off to college, I really thought I was a true adult. But I found myself going home on weekends shamefully so my mother could do my laundry. I wake up past noon and next to my bed will be a plate of perfectly cut up gauva accompanied by the greatest concoction ever: salt, pepper, and cayenne pepper. It's truly a Vietnamese thing (the dip and the motherly behaviors). I figured this type of behavior would diminish by the time I turn 21, the age where I can legally drink, rent a car, buy a car without a co-signer, buy a house without a co-signer, and gamble. How come when I turned 21, all I did was drink until I couldn't anymore? I should have gone and rented a car!

The realization that I've yet to seriously grow up occurred one morning before I went off to work. My morning routine is trite and amazingly lazy: wake up at 6:35, drag myself to the restroom, pee, brush my teeth, wash my face, attempt to comb my hair, give up and tie it in a ponytail, change, and go to the kitchen. All of that takes an impressive ten minutes. I'm independent during those 10 minutes. On this particular morning, I slipped on a black dress because I didn't feel like using my muscles trying to squeeze into my fitted pants. As I walked into the kitchen, I stood by the cabinet, waiting for my mother. "Chờ đợi một phút" she says as she places bags of fruits and a napkin in my black lunch pail. "đồ ăn nóng" she says as she hands it to me. She basically told me to wait a minute and that the food is hot.  I grabbed the handle, thanked her, grabbed my car keys, put on my black flats, and walked out the door. My mother loves to watch me as I leave, and I always wondered if I'll do that when I become a mother.

She runs back in the house and comes out with a strip of stickers, the same one she uses to clean up the cat hair on the floor. Though my brother and I bought her a lint/pet fur roller, she prefers the stickers because she has more control and it's more effective, she claims. And there I was, standing in the walkway with my arms stretched out like scarecrow as she patted the stickers all over my dress as if I was going through security. "Mèo lông" she says. It means "cat fur" a word she's been using since my brother brought home Blue and Willow a year ago. My black dress was covered in tiny orange cat fur. In that moment, I imaged a helicopter aiming it's spotlight at me standing there with my mom on her knees intricately patting the stickers all over my dress, reporting to the news anchor "breaking news, a 22 year old woman is delayed from going to work because of apparent cat fur on her dress. Her mother is quickly ridding of the contamination."

After a minute, I told her it looks good and that I couldn't see the cat fur anymore. I thanked her, and casually walked towards my car. I place the lunch pail in the passenger seat, put on my seatbelt, turn on the engine, and drive off with NPR on the radio encouraging me to donate money for their Fall drive.

My mother says the darnest things

Since my mom was in the room with me when I typed the previous post, I realized I couldn't keep this joyous video to myself! She was already annoyed that I was still at the computer, when I should have been dropping off some goodies for a friend. However, she complied and watched it with me. Here's what happened before, during, and after the viewing of this video.

Me (pretend it's in Vietnamese and words in caps are in English)

Mom, do you want to watch a PROPOSAL?

Mom

What?

I open a new tab and typed google translator. I typed in the word proposal and show it to her.

Me

Didn't Dad do this for you?

Mom

No. Why would he have to ask me?
We already know we were getting married.
In Vietnam, you don't date around.

Me

Okay, well, in America they do this and usually
the girl doesn't know when to expect the proposal.

I press play on the YouTube page.

Me

So that's her in the red. She doesn't know what's going on.

Mom

She doesn't know that this will be on YouTube?

Me

Yes. And she doesn't know that he's proposing.

Mom

What? She doesn't know she's marrying him?
Why would he not tell her beforehand?
Doesn't she need time to think about it before she decides? 

Random people begin to dance.

Mom

Are they exercising?

I'm irritated.

Me

No, they're dancing. Do you hear the music?

Mom

It's nice music.

Now more people are joining the dancing routine.

Mom

Dancing is good exercise.
Exercise is very similar to dancing.

Me

Mom just watch.

Mom

How come you don't like to dance?
You should dance like that. It's good for you.

Me

Okay just watch.

Mom

Vietnamese people love dancing.
 Exercising is very similar. Good for them.

Me

Look, the boyfriend is dancing too.

Mom

Why isn't she dancing?
Does she not like to exercise?
She probably can't dance.

The dancing finally stops and the proposal speech begins. The girl is giggling.

Mom

Her teeth looks like yours before you had braces.
I can see them. Very crooked.

I ignore her and proceed to translate the speech... poorly.

Me

He's saying he loves her and stuff like that.

My mom leaves the room.

Me

Wait keep watching.

Mom

It's not done yet?

In the video he asks "Will you marry me?" She responds "duhhh" with a self conscious laugh.

Me

Wasn't that fun?

Mom

Ahhh that is fun. They're oohing and ahhing because they
 want you to go and give your friend his desserts already.

End Scene.

I'm glad I don't have to do the proposing

I used to think being a girl sucked. It's calamitous. I bleed monthly, I'm easily agitated, I have to be extremely careful with my mating habits, and I'm in charge of popping a 6-10 pound baby out of my thinger (just imagine pooping out a full turkey).  Besides undergoing the natural processes, everything else is easy. I'm talking about relationships in the narrowest form. Politics aside, boys have a more difficult time than girls (with homosexual relationships I'm not so sure).We, in a fairy tale world, don't do the chasing. We give out numbers, sometimes fake numbers. We have the power to make or break someone's heart. Boys have the tough job - they have to put up with our hormonal moods and compete with  Ryan Gosling and Johnny Depp and whoever the male protagonist is in all the Nicolas Sparks' idyllic love novels (I pick the cutie in A Walk To Remember who said "love is the like the wind, you can't see it but you can feel it" marry me now please).

Girls expect a lot from their partners and they have every right to. We all want the best. We do not want to settle with just any guy (please don't ever settle even if he's a millionaire or he has your child). Girls predict everything and anything. We (or maybe just me) have an imagination that's bigger than any romantic movie/ Korean drama.  We know what we want. So can you imagine how tough it is for your partner to come up with the most original, creative, memorable proposal!? I'm having a headache even thinking about it! Poor boys. What sucks more is that certain proposals gain more attention than others because they're the best ones (and they're not from a movie!) and thanks to youtube, you and your partner are able to join in on the event. Doesn't that just suck? You're both watching it, your girl is crying, one because it's so romantic and two because this idea has already been done and she wasn't a part of it, meaning you have large shoes to fill even though you don't even know this guy who did this stunt but you loath him so much for setting the bar so high. 

Below are two proposal videos that I thought were heart warming (I usually end up watching every single related video I can find but this one satisfied me). Well, the first one made me cry. The second one (recommended to me by a friend) I wasn't too thrilled about. I would go on and on about the reasons why I loved the first one so much, but..I'll go on forever and we both will not have any sleep. Watch and weep! If you have a significant other and foresee a future with them, be nice. 

My best conversations are with strangers

In the past two weeks, my best conversations have been with strangers. During the off hours of my yard sale, I chatted with a man in crutches who happened to stop by because he was taking his weekly stroll to Main street. We jabbered on about the sport of fishing and renovations going on in Alhambra. Everything boiled down to the simple answer "It's the bad economy." A few hours before, Mohommad came by again looking for a water boiler, the one that whistles when its ready. He had stopped by earlier that morning to pick up five dollar speakers (my dad had them in the garage for 10 years). I forgot what we talked about, but it felt like I've known him for years. But out of all the conversations I've had with these new faces, my 5 minute meeting regarding vinyl application printing turned 2 hour meeting about the idiosyncrasies of life with the Femi is my favorite.

"Hi, are you Sami?" I asked the man at the front desk. "Ah, yes it's Femi," he responded with a huge smile. I loved his Nigerian accent.  I showed him the samples we wanted for him to print, and he laughed the whole time because I really was very ignorant about the printing process. "That," he pointed to a poster of three dogs' butts in bikinis, "that was a strange project. These customers invented diapers for dogs. I tell you, Americans love their pets! Where I come from, he feed them and had them to eat the bugs around the house, but we don't sleep with them. If you want to make money, work in a business with pets!"

It's a great conversation when you can't pinpoint exactly how you got to the topic. We went from talking about dimensions and cost of the printing to talks about education, dating, life mantras, technology, tailoring, and many other topics. When I drove back, I kept trying to think how we even went off topic. Most conversations I have with vendors are direct Q and A's. How much will this cost? Do you know how long it will take? How long have you had this shop? With Femi, stories seem to sprout and we both were inspired by each other's recollections.

Femi was born in Nigeria and came to southern california when he was 24. He studied at Cal State Long beach and transferred to UCLA majoring in some type of Health field. I was surprised at how many things we had in common. He also worked in Alhambra for 10 years after he graduated. Well hello, I'm from there! At first, I thought he was just being a great businessman, telling me what I wanted to hear. If that was the case, he was a great businessman. I was reassured that he was simply conversing to converse when he mentioned the Chinese Islamic Restaurant on Garvey. How can anyone make that up? I've always driven by this restaurant called "Chinese Islamic Restaurant" and I couldn't understand how that worked. I didn't know Chinese people knew Islamic people even existed.

"My daughter lived in the dorms for one year and moved out because of me. All the friends she met there lived in mansions in Beverly Hills! I told her I couldn't go and buy her a new BMW. Meet new people!" His daughter, who is now 33 years old working with clinical social worker something (I'm not very good with medical professions) in Nevada.  She's married to the greatest guy on Earth (he cooks, cleans, takes care of the baby, does chores, and anything you can think of that men never enjoy doing. And he does it without her nagging him. )

"Her boyfriend in college was a bad one. He had no job and no respect. He would drive her car, drop her off of school, and go somewhere. I said, if I'm paying for this car and the insurance and this kid is driving it, I will not allow that! I ask her, Honey why are you dating this guy, you deserve so much better." He looked at me and asked "How old are you?" His daughter was 24 when she finally broke it off - 6 long years.

"You are young. I learned that I couldn't tell her what to do. She will learn herself, from her own mistakes," he said expressively, his arms motioning towards his chest, "She did not listen to me. But I knew if I stopped nagging her, she will eventually learn on her own."

Femi began telling me about his first girlfriend, who he wanted to marry, but couldn't because of racial issues. He didn't want to be with a mother-in-law who disapproved of him because of his color. Now, at the age of 55 (I say add 5 more years because colored people age sp gracefully) he's living in Long Beach and his girlfriend lives in Cincinnati. He dreams of ending his career at the sign shop and wants to open an adult daycare center.

"People now are very selfish, that is why relationships don't last. You have to gain trust, and that takes time. Find someone who will be patient to grow with you. Be secure, independent. You both can have your own lives but don't be selfish. Give to give, not to expect something in return. All you want is love in return, right? What else do you need?"

He began to laugh when he gave an example of what he meant. "I love football, so I go to bars to watch it with other fans. She calls me on my phone, so I step outside to talk to her." He put his hands over his ears and speaks into it like a phone "I'm at the bar watching the game right now."

"See, instead of accepting it and asking me what I'm doing and how the game was, she told me to go back inside and to call her when he is done. So I call her later, but she was asleep because of the time difference." He began doing a texting with his hands, and with a laugh, said "And so I texted her "honey  I'm sorry I called so late I will call you tomorrow!"

"You need to know how to live your own life. When your partner is gone, you don't need to talk to them every second and know exactly where they went, who they went with. You need to trust that they are living their life and you live yours. This trust, it does not start at the beginning. You gain it, and it takes years."

Maybe his wrinkles aren't apparent not only because he has great genes, but of his whimsical, some might even say illogical look at life. "Don't worry too much. What will happen will happen. I never stress because I know things will be good. Have faith, embrace the cultures of life, and form meaningful relationships."

My stomach began to growl and I realized lunchtime had passed an hour ago. A customer walked in, which was my cue to end my talks with Femi. I thanked him, grabbed the airplane acrylic models, and walked out the store. If it takes 2 hours to get a quote from Femi about a project, I'd go back and do it all over again.