Life in California again

The sky opened and God handed you directly to me

2009-05-19T21:24:00.000-07:00

This is an extremely belated blog but I finally have my thoughts in order (or rather, I have work I don't want to do).

A few weeks ago, on Mother's Day, I fainted in church. The fact I fainted was strange but that it was in church made it even more surreal.
My family and I had gone to the Los Angeles Cathedral for mass because my sister and I were too unimaginative to come with anything else my mother would enjoy. Also, it's close to Olvera Street so we could enjoy that side of our heritage, along with some heart-stoppingly delicious food. We had to wake up very early to make it to 8 o'clock mass (I know, I know...my parents are old). I was cranky because I had to wake up that early, so it wasn't a good day from the start. Everything was fine once we got to mass, but as we're kneeling during the blessing of the Sacraments, I start to get light-headed. This happens a lot so I just sat back, thinking it would pass. Instead of passing, it increases and I realize that if I don't go out NOW, I will vom all over the pews (and the old woman in front of me). I get up, already starting to sweat profusely and both my mother and sister look at me like WTF. I put a hand up, the universal signal for "I'm fine" and tell them I'm going outside. However, I don't make it that far because my vision starts to go and suddenly, I can't see anything. It's hot in the church, the incense is making my head spin, and I'm dizzy dizzy dizzy. All I know is that there is another pew somewhere in front of me, so I stumble over and sit with my head in my hands because I'm not sure what to do. Suddenly, a woman comes out of nowhere and asks in my ear, "Are you all right?" Speech functions all but gone, I shake my head. She takes my arm and leads me up the stairs, telling me it's going to be ok. Walking is difficult for me and she notices that I can't stand up, so she asks if I want to lay down. Without waiting for an answer, she takes me and lays me on the cool marble floor. This is heaven, I think, here in church. I lie there for a long while, as this woman - this strange, this parishioner - holds my hand and talks to me. I don't remember much about that time - I began sweating profusely and my vision was still gone. She kept asking me if I was pregnant and I laughed at that because there was no physical way I could be (unless God was having some fun). She asks my name and where my parents are and I realize, at that point, that they aren't here. They didn't notice me falling over but some random woman did. I am not upset because the floor still feels nice and my vision is clearing. People keep walking by, staring at me, so I keep my eyes shut. It's embarrassing and I don't want to be here, so helpless, but I'm so thankful that woman is. A little old asian woman comes over and takes hold of my clammy hand and starts to do some pressure point stuff on it. I am too tired to pull my hand away or worry about it being sweaty. Her nails bite into my skin and it makes me think of stigmata. My breathing is less labored now. I'm telling the woman why I'm here when I finally see my sister, who has wandered over to go to the bathroom and sees me there on the floor. Then my parents come running and a security guard and I tell them all no, no, I don't want an ambulance, I'm ok. So they get me a wheelchair instead. Sitting in it, I notice someone has removed my cardigan and you can see my bra. The reflection of myself in the windows shows that my hair is standing up. My mother puts her hand on my cheek - "You're as white as a ghost." They wheel me outside and I keep apologizing profusely for ruining Mother's Day, because I have. The wind feels good and a Mary statue stands over me, all purity and calm, while I sign papers saying I will not sue the Cathedral. I don't want to anyway. It's my fault - my blood is too thin or something. My mother tells me again and again it's ok, but it's not.

I always fuck things up.

I get orange juice from somewhere because I finally remember I haven't eaten. There's a collective "Oh!" as if this is the answer to why I fainted. It's not really, I think, but if it makes them happy. As I'm sitting outside, the woman who helped me walks by. I want to hug her, cry, tell her thank you but that's not enough. I want to get her name and address and write her a thank you letter because she helped a stranger on her day - but I don't. She smiles at me and I wave and know I won't see her again. I am constantly indebted to the kindness of strangers, I realize. She didn't have to help me but she did. She saw I was in need and reached out. This makes me heart at peace and I want to be a better person when I think of this. It's simple - just try and be nicer. I think I can do that, but it's taking a little bit of work. Small steps, though.

Bonus: on the way out, as I'm being wheeled like an invalid, we run into the Cardinal. His Eminence, or some shit, because this is the Catholic church and we've got a hierarchy if anything. He puts his hand on my head and blesses me. I don't feel any different than before, except a small warm spot from the heat of his hand.

Lost and Found

2009-05-06T15:21:00.000-07:00

I lost my Moleskine notebook last week. It was a weird experience - I rarely misplace important things like that (but I lose everything else), so when I couldn't find it at my Irvine home, I assumed it was in LA. When I went home that weekend, it wasn't in my room there either. Panic set in and I started thinking, what now? I didn't know where I could have left it, let alone who could have possibly found it. And if someone had found it, would they return it? A notebook like mine is worth nothing of monetary value but has a priceless sentimental one. I write EVERYTHING in there - the beginnings of all my poems, musings, doodles...a veritable collage of my mind. These are things that I don't back up on my computer unless I actually do something with them, which is few and far between. So I was panicking at the loss of some part of my identity and creativity. I guess the only thing I can liken it to is it being like I had lost my child or something (not that I know what that is like, but I would assume it's the same sort of WTF WHERE DID IT GO? feeling, followed by a lot of hand wringing, that I had. But not by making an announcement on the loud speaker, telling my child to meet me in the frozen food section of the market).

On Sunday, after I had basically given my notebook up for dead (or for it to become the personal laughingstock of some humanities student), I received an email from someone saying that they had found it in the photo lab and that I could pick it up Monday. My first reaction was: ahsigodfgjdfoihjgfihoj YES! and then, I would leave it in the photo lab, followed by, I wonder if they will notice the $10000000 award I promised on the inside if returned. Thankfully, the latter was not brought up but I did send a very grateful email, punctuated with many exclamation points. I probably seemed like the sort of person who WOULD lose a notebook (and it turns out, I am). When Monday rolled around, I sprinted up to the photo lab to see the technician on duty. I stumbled out a, "heyi'mheretopickupmynotebook...theblackonebecauseilostitandtheysaiditwouldbehere" and she just smiled, reached under the desk, and pulled it out. I don't think I've ever been happier to see something in my LIFE. Grabbing it, I thanked her profusely and hugged it to my chest. I had been reunited with a part of me that I wasn't going to lose again so soon - so I buried it in my book bag, checking every 5 minutes to make sure it was still there. Now I have relegated it a spot of honor and luxury on my bedside table, where it belongs.

I'm looking at it now and it is beckoning me to write in its comforting pages, so I think I will.
Oh Moleskine, I've missed you.

Indian Lover

2009-04-29T21:06:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I had dinner with a very old friend (not old age-wise, but I've just known him for several years). It had been a long time since we'd seen each other so playing catch-up was a little out of the question. We settled on talking about the most important things going on in our lives at the moment - for him, that was the impending moving in with his girlfriend. Now, for the record, my friend and his girlfriend are about my age and haven't been together too long but he feels secure in his decision to move in with her.

I wasn't so sure about his decision and told him so. Most of my complaints were about (surprise!) my own hesitations moving in with a hypothetical significant other at this age and in thus could no way reflect his relationship. How I feel about moving in with someone is how I feel about most relationships: they are pointless. We are too young to know much of anything, let alone who we want to spend the rest of our lives with. Also, relationships are scary and uncertain. Why would you want that...in your HOUSE? It's such a huge risk. I just feel like I'm way too incompetent to even live by myself, let alone co-habitat with someone I actually love. I would fuck it up. But then he pointed out that he was legitimately happy in his life and wanted to cement that. So he's willing to take that risk and just see what happens. I sat back and thought about this for awhile and realized that while I'm not moving in with someone, I'm also taking a pretty big risk in my life right now.

This brings me to what I talked about: the boy. It's been about a year since I've liked anyone legitimately. You all know what that means - butterflies, giggling, the works. Cue rolling your eyes. So I told my friend the whole story (because there is a very long, complicated one even though its been a short time) and how I felt somewhat morally torn on being with this boy, but that it felt right. He said then that why should it matter. I kind of already knew that but it was comforting to hear from another person, especially an outsider. It just reinforced everything that has come to head in the last three weeks - that I like this, I like where it's going, and I should keep it. Yes it's a risk, and while it's not moving in with someone, it's still letting someone into your life and your minutiae. It's all extremely personal and for someone like me, who has intimacy issues, it can be scary. But I'm going to do it anyway, for a couple of reasons that I won't share here, but the last not being that I'm wearing his sweater.

I forgot how nice this feels.

2009-04-21T21:54:00.001-07:00

Dear Internet,

I just won the Bret Baldwin Prize in Poetry.

I almost hyperventilated.

Sincerely,
Samantha

Musings on a hot day

2009-04-20T16:32:00.000-07:00

For your consideration:
Irvine, CA - 104 degrees
Norwich, UK - 43 degrees

This heat makes me feel slow, like I have no bones. I melt on my bed when I get home.

All the blinds are drawn in our apartment. It is still too hot and the fans just stir the air. I am sitting because there's nothing else to do. Or that I feel like doing, anyways.

When it's this hot, I don't like to be touched. Walking to class, I avoid the crowds because they makes me anxious. I don't want to feel other peoples sweat, their own body heat. I don't even like my own.

My sister called me at 12 and said it's too hot, so she's at home, in the cool dark of the living room. I'm walking across Ring Road under a mean sun and tell her I want to take off my skin.

Intermediaries

2009-04-11T20:04:00.001-07:00

For the first time in a very long time, I considered going to confession. It was an accumulation of things, I suppose, that made me come to this conclusion. Basically, I'm a horrible person with no morals who should stop drinking/smoking.
This is the Catholic guilt that has been instilled in me since Day One - since my baptism. I know this is the guilt talking. I know this but I listen to it anyway.
So last night, as I wasn't sleeping in my bed, I thought about going to confession today. The more I thought about it, the more ridiculous it became. It's just the basic idea of it: I'm going to sit a room and tell everything to a priest. I haven't done that since before my Confirmation, which was humiliating. It was a retreat, in the middle of nowhere, and I had to go in a bungalow where I sat face to face with some priest. With my bones digging into the metal folding chair, I told him whatever lies came to my mind - that I stole, that I hit my sister. I figured at the time that it was safer to tell him lies about things I didn't do than actually tell him the truth about what I did do. I don't know...15 year-old logic, right? I still feel like that, but if you're looking at it in a Catholic manner, I'm still sinning since I'm not telling the truth. So either way, my immortal soul is fucked. Later that night, as I was doing my penance by some cacti (seriously - this retreat really was in the middle of nowhere), I thought of something: why did I need a priest to absolve me of my menial sins? At that point in my life, I hadn't done anything wrong. Aside from the stray rude comment to my parents or coveting something, I had led a pretty simple and blameless life. So why did I have to sit in an awkward room, looking at the floor, and tell some man I've never met everything? And why did he get to say, "It's ok, my child - you are absolved. But here are 23748 prayers you have to say to make it better"? I decided then and there that I did not need someone else to speak to God for me or to give me punishment for my wrongdoings - I'm a glutton for self-punishment anyway. Also, if God had a problem with what I was doing, He would probably smite me where I stood. With that, I got up from the cacti and never looked back, spiritually speaking. I took my soul into my own hands and stopped going to church. A few months later, I made my Confirmation with what the church thought was a purified soul. My mom was happy. I had to wear a gown that made me look like something out of the KKK, but that is church for you. Now, I really don't second-guess what I do - if it feels good, then it must be ok. A pretty primitive outlook for most people, but it works for me. I probably won't be starting a religion any time soon, though.

Now a days, I go to church about twice a year: once on Christmas and once on Easter. Maybe a few times in between, but really, I try and limit my exposure. Which is why the urge to go to Confession was a strange one. Maybe it's like being pregnant and wanting peanut butter and pickles at the same time. I'm not going to act on this need to spill my innermost secrets, mostly because it will be a waste of time and I won't feel any better. So I'll just wake up tomorrow with a dish-water dirty soul (figuratively speaking), go to church, eat a lot of Peeps, and contemplate just why I'm even celebrating a Savior I don't think did much, except be a cool dude with a beard.

Please, Mr. Postman

2009-04-01T15:53:00.000-07:00

Lately, I've been writing a lot of letters. I've sent a few to Christopher, a few to Nick, and I'm working on one for Hillary right now. It's not a long list but letters take awhile (at least for me they do). Overall, I find that letter writing is not only an excellent time waster that involves no electricity or computers whatsoever, it's also highly romanticized.

I dig that.

Sometimes, when I'm writing a letter, I'll light a candle and pretend to be in some Jane Austen novel (even though I hate Jane Austen and, on the whole, prefer Emily Bronte if I'm going to have to pick a chick-lit author). I also like letter writing because it lets me gets my thoughts in order. I'm a such a conversation spaz in general. This is probably because I'm really awkward in social situations and that carries over into my conversation, which is full of random topics and stupid jokes no one gets. Thank GOD that on paper, I come off as slightly educated. And maybe even - dare I say it? - interesting. I'm going to attribute this to the fact that letter writing lets me sit and figure out what I want to say before I say it. It totally eliminates any possibility of my frequent foot-in-mouth episodes. That's probably something I should take up in real life, but that would take a long time and I would be even more quiet than I normally am (which isn't a good thing). I also just think letter writing is more personal than emails or Facebook, which I've decided are soul suckers. I don't respond to emails because I don't want to and I'm trying to get off Facebook more, but that's easier said than done. I need, like, a 12-step program or something for that. But I digress. Letters, like film photography for me or writing poetry in my notebook, is something that we're losing touch with the more technology takes over. It makes everything so much easier and accessible, which isn't always a good thing. We're losing the face time we would normally have thanks to FB chat and Skype (although I'm thankful for that when I want to talk to Flat 3). Conversations become merely text to be over-analyzed or over-simplified with "OMG"s and the like. On the whole, when things are easier, a lot of the fun and originality in the world disappears. Kind of related side-note but mostly because it's cool, check this out:

Now, I don't know about you but I don't want a brain implant! I don't even want an iPhone. They are just trying to fast-track life while I want to slow it down, savor it. Ideally, I would want to do things the old-fashioned way for as long as I can. I used to think I wasn't a romantic because I hated the idea of getting flowers or chocolate or being cliched, but now I realize romantic can mean other things. For me, it's developing my own film instead of using a $700 SLR or writing letters to people I miss dearly. Think about it: the process takes time that would otherwise be spent online. And it lets you think. You're doing something much more worthwhile when you're writing a letter. It's a very selfless thing, I think, because you're taking time out of your schedule to write to someone. Also, it's just more rewarding. Afterwards, you sit and think, "I wrote that," or, "I printed that picture. And developed that film..." It's completely satisfying in a way I haven't found in anything else. I think everyone should try writing letters.

Now, if only they would write BACK, then you're set. There is nothing better than receiving mail.

True or False

2009-03-30T21:27:00.000-07:00

I have worms coming out of my ceiling.

Little, black, writhing ones.

I'm afraid to go to sleep in case the crawl over to my bed, into my ears, then eat my brain.

click click click

2009-03-25T22:53:00.000-07:00

I'm back from San Francisco. The more I travel, the more I realize that nothing compares to home. New places are exciting (nice realization, Watson) but home will always be romanticized in your heart.

I guess what I'm trying to say is: I am and will ALWAYS be an LA girl.

San Francisco had good food (because I'm a fat kid at heart, this is top of my list - Squat & Gobble, pho, and Nutella donuts) and excellent music. I was accosted by a man in the Tenderloin, called delicious by another in Haight-Ashbury, made to dance by a drunk girl at the Bishop Allen show, acted like a kid at the Exploratorium, got lost on the streets, walked up too many hills, and learned that turtles and frogs MUST be killed before leaving the store in Chinatown. It was beautiful - in a cold, new way. But most nights, while on the bus, traversing up and down some hill by houses that all looked the same, I felt lonesome for LA. I LIKE (really, I do) the sprawl, the smog, the people who are trying too hard, and the traffic. And the heat - I love the heat. It has always been in my veins and has settled in my heart, for good I think. I thought about this as we flew back into LAX at 7:30 and you could see the city lit up from miles away, with cars hovering along some streets I didn't know (or did). Someone once compared Paris to a large, hideous monster. While I think that's true for Paris (because it was slightly frightening and overwhelming, but beautiful in a Frankenstein way), I think LA is more of a jellyfish. Slightly amorphous and prone to expansion, you can see it's pulse if you look close enough: it's in the freeways, the homeless, the ethnic blocks, the murals, and the river that trickles on through.

Enough waxing poetic for tonight. I need to sleep.

Lent is like a bet with Jesus

2009-03-16T21:29:00.000-07:00

This is a drunken conclusion I came to a few years ago and I still think it's pretty accurate - the 40 days of Lent are like one big bet with Jesus. I'm not very religious so obviously I'm not taking Lent as it should be, which is seriously. It should be a chance for you to suffer as Jesus suffered, to help bring you closer to him and God, I think. I don't really know...I never payed attention in religious studies. I'm taking it more as a chance to clean myself out, re-center things, maybe come to a few conclusions about my own life - I'm not entirely sure yet. It will become clearer as Easter approaches. I hope, anyway.
In case you're not familiar with how Catholics do Lent, we are supposed to give up something we enjoy for the 40 days. This can be food or sex or smoking or anything - so long as it's something you love. We are also not supposed to eat meat on Fridays. Now, that doesn't sound so hard, right?
Wrong.
It's classic reverse-psychology: the second you tell yourself you can't have it, you WANT it, no matter how mundane it is. This year, for instance, I gave up soda. I can't even begin to tell you how much I enjoy soda, despite the fact that I only drink it about once a week. The reason I love Del Taco so much is because they have cherry coke, which is an A+ in my book. So in an effort to cleanse myself, I decided to give up soda because I thought it would present a challenge and it would be good for my health. So far so good, but in retrospect I should have given up alcohol or smoking, because those are worse for me than soda is. Also, I enjoy them much more frequently. But my decision was made before Lent started and soda was what I picked. I'm not one to flip-flop after a decision has been made, especially where God is concerned. That's some karmic retribution that I really don't need to deal with. Despite the fact I gave up something so seemingly simple as soda, it's been difficult. I fixate on it frequently, gripping about how I can't have it, even though I never drank it that much to begin with. In an effort to combat the withdrawal, I've been drinking a LOT of tea and obnoxious amounts of water but because I'm so thirsty for soda, nothing else quenches it. It sucks HARD. My sister says I'll stop missing it so much and grow to hate it over the 40 days. I think she's wrong, as I had a dream the other night where I actually drank soda in my dream. I felt the lovely cold, effervescent bubbles going down my throat and it felt so nice, that I would swear it was real - except that I was with Taylor Lautner at the time (so sue me...I'm on Team Jacob - all the way). So I'm biding my time until Easter rolls around. First thing I'm going to do is head to Del Taco and buy an aforementioned cherry coke.

This is one bet I ain't going to lose.

The House in Paris

2009-03-08T21:47:00.000-07:00

Normally I get lyrics stuck in my head, but lately it's this one sentence from "The House in Paris" by Elizabeth Bowen -
"I don't want you to ask yourself, 'What have I done?'"

This probably has deeper meaning for me but I'm too tired to contemplate it now, so I'll leave you with your own thoughts about it.

What I want to be when I grow up

2009-03-02T15:20:00.000-08:00

Thanks to my sister, my life plans have changed: I want to be Anthony Bourdain when I grow up (in case you don't know who he is or what he does, here)
Basically, he's a dick and all-around bad ass who gets to travel around the world, eating food and making snarky comments. He used to be a writer and chef, but now has his own show on the Travel Channel. Both my sister and dad like to watch his show, although they prefer Andrew Zimmern (and on the whole, I do too). But the more I watch Anthony Bourdain (his name is so great, you have to say the whole thing - like Michael Ryan), the more I think, "I could do that."

Maybe. I think the not being a chef thing might be an issue, but I'd still really like to, anyway.
Here are my top 5 reasons why I want to be Anthony Bourdain:
1) I would get to be a snarky bitch. I really don't need to change much, just pay more attention to things so that I'm more witty. And I would get paid to do this.
2) I would get to travel the world. This is self-explanatory. Places to go: Korea, Japan, Sri Lanka, Egypt, Greece, Spain, and Peru.
3) I would get my own show that people could WATCH. Again, self-explanatory.
4) I would get to eat delicious food.
5) In relation to above, I would have every right to be fat if I was eating good food. I think this is excellent because I wouldn't have to work out anymore. Look at Paula Dean. I'll just be the West Coast version of her.

So I'm not getting my MFA anymore or my teaching degree. I'm going to work on having a traveling/eating show that is totally self-indulgent and awesome.

And on a totally un-related note: "Supermassive Black Hole" by Muse is a really sexy song. That is a poor description but it is. I don't even like Muse that much. Maybe that could be my theme song for my show.

Weetzie Bat

2009-02-23T14:39:00.000-08:00

Remember those books? Excellent, excellent books. Last year, Francesca Lia Block came to my library to do a reading and I was (unfortunately) out of town. Missing her is one of the big regrets of my life.
All this has a point, so bear with me.

I got my hair cut on Saturday. As promised, I have gone short. My sister says I look like what she thinks Weetzie Bat would be. I agree with her when it's done, but in the mornings, I look like a duckling. Part of why I cut my hair short was to capitalize on not having bed head ever again. I used to have the WORST bed head - no lie. Really. I don't know what I do when I sleep, but I wake up looking like I've been attacked with a weed-whacker. Unfortunately for me, even cutting my hair short is not enough to get rid of my outrageous case of bed head. Now it's just more contained and fuzzy, probably like a boy's.

So while I was at the salon (for 5 hours), a boy and his father came in towards the end of the night. The boy was about 14 and had long-ish, emo hair. You know, the standard - covers all of his face, like he's trying to hide from the world. But what sets his hair apart is that it is covered in acrylic paint. Blue, green, white, yellow - splogged all over his head. All the stylists gathered around him, trying to figure out how to get the paint out without cutting his hair (In case you don't know, acrylic paint does not come out of hair without acetone or other serious shit). It was like I imagine the ER to be. The shampooed and poked and prodded. Sadly for the boy, not even the acetone would take the paint out. A unanimous decision was made - to shave his head. This got a, "O RAH!" out of Kenan and lots of, "Semper Fi!" It can be safely said that the boy looked less than thrilled. His father, on the other hand was so excited he took pictures of the entire transformation. Out came the shears and shaver and the stylist went to work. When it was all over, the boy's face had no emotion on it and I don't blame him. Losing your hair when you don't want to is a traumatic experience. I speak from experience. But unlike my bad haircut, this boy looked REALLY good with no hair. I mean, he was cute before but even more so with a shaved head. But there's no telling someone when they're upset. I think he'll get more girls this way. On the whole, I prefer guys with short hair. Or at least with hair shorter than mine. Though at the moment, that will be hard to come by.

p.s. At some point, I will post pictures of my hair but first I want to surprise all my friends/classmates.

Jumbler

2009-02-18T22:49:00.000-08:00

Hell definitely froze over today. Or at the very least, got colder - I had a good day at El Sol. I never though this would happen. My group actually worked on their poems. We had fun. We Googled. We talked about boys. We laughed. We yelled, "Hey HYNA" and pretended we were cholos. I did not get annoyed. Later, I wondered why I did not get annoyed. Was I in a better mood today than normal? I assessed the facts - I had eaten my favorite cereal but not gotten enough sleep. I'd had a lovely night the evening before and consequently had been giddy since, so maybe. I think everything kind of lined up right this morning - my eyeliner even went on better and my bun stayed in place.

It's days like that that make me want to teach and to go back.

Gin and Tonic

2009-02-12T19:39:00.001-08:00

If you want a recap of last night's event, basically it got to the point where Tiana and I attempted to do this dance:

(for the record, we couldn't really but we're going to learn it. It is excellent)

I also woke up with a hangover so bad I required sunglasses while I was outside.

Right now, I am waiting for Steve to come over with cornbread because I have made chili from scratch with my new Crock-Pot. I feel like Jamie Oliver, except minus the man parts.

Serrano chiles

2009-02-10T22:47:00.000-08:00

I chopped an onion (with a spoon in my mouth to prevent crying) and serrano chiles for ceviche, squeezed obscene amounts of citrus juice, bought $60 worth of alcohol, and will bake my famous vegan cupcakes tomorrow.

It must the New Forum Valentine's Day event. And it is going to be EPIC.

Here's the poem I will be reading (a love poem, of sorts):

Hot Ass Poem by Jennifer L. Knox

Hey check out the ass on that guy he’s got a really hot ass I’d like to see his ass naked with his hot naked ass Hey check out her hot ass that chick’s got a hot ass she’s a red hot ass chick I want to touch it Hey check out the ass on that old man thats one hot old man ass look at his ass his ass his old man ass Hey check out that dog’s ass wow that dog’s ass is hot that dog’s got a hot dog ass I want to squeeze that dog’s hot dog ass like a ball but a hot ball a hot ass ball Hey check out the ass on that bird how’s a bird get a hot ass like that that’s one hot ass bird ass I want to put that bird’s hot ass in my mouth and swish it around and around and around Hey check out the ass on that bike damn that bike’s ass is h-o-t you ever see a bike with an ass that hot I want to put my hot ass on that bike’s hot ass and make a double hot ass bike Hey check out that building it’s got a really really really hot ass and the doorman and the ladies in the informatiom booth and the guy in the elevator got themselves a butt load of hot ass I want to wrap my arms around the whole hot ass building and squeeze myself right through its hot ass and out the other side I want to get me a hot ass piece of all 86 floors of hot hot hot hot ass!

Don't call me boring, it's just 'cause I like you

2009-02-09T14:34:00.000-08:00

It's raining outside.
My computer has conveniently told me it's about 43 degrees, probably both inside my apartment and out. I can't feel my fingers or toes because I'm banned from touching the heaters (a story for another day).

It must be said: I'm incredibly homesick for Norwich in all its glory right now.

Run Away

2009-02-08T20:58:00.000-08:00

I am full of animal-magnetism.
That is le fact, and the following story will prove it.

I was sitting at my desk today, when Martha came running in. "Samantha! I need your help!" I thought some old person had fallen down or hated the movie so much they were threatening her with their walker. Neither was the case - it was a pair of stray dogs that had wandered into the building. Gorgeous, stray dogs that looked (strangely) like a couple in love. They followed each other closely and didn't want to make a move without the other's permission. Now, how they got in was this: the front door to the center is motion -censor and very sensitive, so when they walked by, the door swished open and they came in, pleased as anything. The seniors didn't know how to handle it and started getting excited. I didn't know what to do either but knew I had to save them. Along with snails, I've got a soft-spot for strays. It might have something to do with the fact that I am also a dog owner and would hope that if she ever got lost, that someone would return her safely. It might also be the fact that I feel much worse for animals on the whole than I do for humans. In general, I think humans can fix the situation they're in - animals can't. Which is why I cry at those stupid ASPCA commercials (you know...the ones with the poor kitties in cages and that stupid Sarah McLaughlin song playing in the background...make me fucking bawl) and not the ones asking me to sponsor an orphan in Guatemala. I bring strays home when I can, much to my dad's chagrin. It's always, "Goddammit, Samantha! You can't keep it!" And I don't want to - I just want to help something so defenseless. That is just the kind of person I am.
So when these dogs came in, I ran and got the pretzels I had brought for a snack in an effort to lure them in so that I could call their owners. But the dogs, for some reason, would let us get within about 3 inches of them and then be run away, like "Ha! J/K, guys." We followed them outside, where they walked out into the street and I thought that was going to be the end of them. I covered my eyes and waited because Overland is nothing, if not busy. But by some miracle, they made it across, and then back again to the Center, where they hung out in the parking lot for an hour or so. A passing woman walking her own lovely boxer had enough presence of mind to take the leash off her own well-trained dog and put it on one of the strays. We then called the owners, who rushed over, clearly distraught. It turns out both dogs were theirs and had somehow escaped from the backyard. Unfortunately by then, the other dog, a small white one, had run off. I wished the owners luck in finding their other dog, but was distraught inside because I didn't know what was going to happen. All dogs deserve to be found and I just wished I could have done more. So it was half of a happy ending.
I still hope they found the other one and will worry about it to the point of losing sleep until some more time passes.

A conundrum

2009-02-05T22:23:00.000-08:00

I try to be a good person.
I really, really do. More often than not, it blows up in my face, mostly due to how overly judgmental I am. Which is why I volunteer. I'm trying to score some brownie points with karma and/or God, so I figure volunteering might even things out a little bit.

This compulsive need to better myself is why, once a week, I drag myself out of bed at 6:45 go down to Santa Ana at an ungodly hour to tutor 7th graders. Well, not tutor per se - we're supposed to be helping them learn to write poetry (it's a great program...check it out here). The thing is, I don't even know how I write poetry, let alone trying to teach a bunch of stubborn, prepubescent kids how to do it themselves. But I like working with kids and thought I'd give it a shot. Now, I've worked in a lot of classrooms with all types of age groups but never with middle school kids. And now I know why- they are horrible. I mean this is the nicest way possible because they are incredibly smart, but they don't know what to do with it. Or don't care enough. Probably both. For example, this week (for the second week in a row, actually) we've been working on haikus. Haikus are not exactly Fun City anyway and it has become even more glaringly apparent when you're dealing with a bunch of 12 year olds. Not wanting to write the haiku for them, I try to push them in the right direction but more often than not, they just sit there and look at me blankly. Or harass each other in a way only children can. It would be amusing if I wasn't so damn irritated by their lack of effort. But once they do start working, it's great. And the stuff they come out with - I mean, MAN! It's great, so fresh and unprocessed. I suppose that's the beauty of young minds. They aren't burden with restrictions or rules or other stupid knowledge.
There is also the question of their attitude. To be honest, I can't really remember what it's like to be 12. I remember thinking I was the shit but knowing I still had 8th graders to contend with. It's a hard age - you're in between EVERYTHING and awkward to boot. However, I don't remember being that little, because these kids are tiny. Maybe it's something in the water. My theory behind why they're so arbitrary is that they have something to prove (I could be totally wrong though). It's just easier to swallow their attitude thinking that, rather than just knowing they're rude. Like the other day, we were looking at a picture of some shrine in Kyoto. I asked my group what they saw in the picture and a girl said, "I see a house!" Gently, I told her it was a shrine. Then some girl goes, "Right. Because we know what that is."
At 9:30 am.

What do you do in that situation? I had a 10 second interior monologue with myself where I debated a)retorting back or b)something violent, then decided neither was a good idea. With monumental restraint and effort, I told her what a shrine was.
It's the blatant disrespect, like that, that works my last nerve. I take time out of my life to help these kids learn to do something I live and breathe, and then they act like this. It's frustrating. I always thought I was a patient person with children, but apparently I was wrong. Or maybe pre-schoolers are just easier to deal with on the whole.

Before we left on Wednesday, we were talking to the person who runs it and telling her about the problems we encounter while working with the kids. At one point, she looked at our haggard faces and goes, "You guys don't want to be teachers anymore, do you?"

I don't think that's true.
I just don't want to teach middle school for all the potatoes in Ireland.

Why Warren is better than you

2009-02-04T15:35:00.000-08:00

On "So Long, See You Tomorrow"

Me: "People actually name their kids Cleetus? I mean, really now."
Warren: "I'm totally naming my kid that."
Me: "So his name will be...Cleetus Fong?"

The scary thing is, I wouldn't put it past him.

Bonus note: Warren ALSO wants to marry a 6ft. Caucasian volleyball player so that his future children will not be cursed with chronic Asian shortness. I can totally get behind this need to biologically create superior children. It is why I am going to marry an Asian man. Or at least procreate with one.

Long Haul

2009-02-02T15:16:00.000-08:00

The only upside I can see to working at a senior center is the people I get to interact with (or did...my interaction is very limited now, thanks to the deep-V shirt debacle). I think seniors are GREAT, really. The nice ones anyway, since there are quite a few who seem to think that just because they're old, they're entitled to be assholes. So back to the nice ones...I've compiled an extensive top-5 list as to why seniors are better than 90% of the population:
1)They tell me great stories. Anything from their childhood to the war to present day. One of my favorites is this old man who likes to tell me about how he started dancing. To hear him tell it, he's been dancing since the day he was born. Apparently, his grandfather lived upstairs from him and played in a ragtime band. So to pass the time, the man would dance when his grandfather practiced.
2)They give me candy. This one cute Chinese woman always gives me lucky candy when she comes in and I save the wrappers in my notebook.
3)They tell me how young/beautiful I am. I love this, simply because it appeals to my ego. Reminders are nice, sometimes, even if they aren't completely true.
4)They sing songs when they walk by my desk. I think this is just the purest expression of happiness: just walking by, singing Frank Sinatra's "Fly Me to The Moon" or whatever crosses their minds that day.
and
5)They are constant reminders that being old doesn't mean the end of your life. The seniors I see are so active and full of life that it (SOMETIMES) makes me at ease with growing old. Just sometimes, though.

I got to see my favorite senior, Lionel, the other day. I hadn't seen him in ages. More than anything, it was good to see Lionel because he had been ill for a while. When you have friends that old, death is never far from your mind. It kills me when someone I used to love seeing stops coming to the center and you know why. With Lionel, I can see that his time is precious so when I see him, I go out of my way to talk to him. He is great for a couple reasons: he walks with a kick-ass cane, he's about 6'1", and he's from England. He's one of the cutest old men I've met, always unfailingly polite and can make me laugh no matter what. In fact, he's the one who told me about Norwich and partly responsible for why I ended up in that gorgeous town. He told me how he used to go punting on the Norfolk broad with his friends when he was younger. They would stay out there for a week, floating from town to town between nature and civilization. He said it was one of the few times he ever felt free in his life. A tangible sort of freedom, he told me.

I wanted that too, so I went.
And he was right.

Sleepy Tigers

2009-01-27T21:08:00.000-08:00

This is Toby. The picture is very blurry, but then, he is a very blurry sort of cat.

I'm not really sure where he lives or where he comes from, aside from somewhere in my complex. All I know is that he has somehow decided to adopt me as his unofficial owner. I am pleased about this, since I would love to have a cat, especially one as friendly as this one is. The last cat I liked was called Sadie, who was more or less a dog. She would come up to the curb when she heard our car pull up in front of my friend's house. However, cats in general scare me for a couple reasons. - 1)They are pointy on all ends and 2)They are temperamental. You never know where you stand with a cat and those things can turn on you. I've been on the wrong side of a cat more than once and have thus learned the error of my ways.

But Toby (as I call him, since I can't find a nametag on him. I picked the name Toby because I secretly want a boyfriend named this), wandered into my heart and into my apartment a couple of weeks ago. Literally. He waltzed on up the stairs, disarmed me by acting adorable and rubbing up against my legs, and into our living room. Since then, he's been turning up all over the place - such as jumping out from behind stairs and scaring me, as well as just trying to get back into our house. I think it's sweet when he comes meowing up to me and rolls on the ground so that I can rub his stripped belly. Ranithi and Caitlin (the roommates) disagree on this - Caitlin on the grounds of being allergic to cats and Ranithi because she has to sleep in the same room as Caitlin. So I can't keep him. I have to suffice with petting him until he starts purring like a motor tank. Since I'm not sure where he lives, part of me wants to feed him tuna and make him fat but I know that he's got a home somewhere, so I don't (although I'm buying some kitty treats at the market tomorrow). This makes me a little sad, because he would make an excellent lap cat (my dog hates being picked up in any way, shape, or form which kills me. I love to cuddle).

So for now, he's the only boy in my life.
And that's ok.

Workout, workout

2009-01-26T17:30:00.000-08:00

I have started a rigorous regime of fitness and possibly diet, but the latter is entirely dependent on how I feel on the day (today, I did not feel like it). I hate exercise, unless it's dancing or tennis, so working out is not really my idea of fun. It's sweaty and you're in a room of total randoms, most of them really hairy men...I mean, it just does not add up to a good day. Sex is sweaty but that's fun. And you can do that sans clothes, which is always a plus.

But back to actually working out -

Sadly, I have to really stick to this. Thanks to England (which included blocks of cheese, vodka, svarus, chips, and chocolate chip brioche), I have gained some weight. Not a lot, but definitely more than I have gained in a long time (I mean, I even skipped the freshman 15 my first year at UCI. WIN). So this is a first for me. I have been blessed with an extraordinary metabolism on both sides of my family (as well as a pretty tall frame) so I've never had to work at being slender. When I was younger it was a burden because I could never find clothes to fit me and people accused me of being anorexic. Now, though, I'm at an age where I can appreciate it. It's one of the few things I pride myself on. But then I went to England and somehow my pants (TROUSERS) are a little bit more snug than when I first arrived. I really blame it completely on the drinking. Up until then, I had only drank sporadically and that was to be my plan in Norwich, too. I'm not really sure how I ended up drinking almost every night. So if vodka is like, 80 calories a serving and we went through a bottle every week and half or so, that's a lot of extra calorie intake. Then stretch it out over 3 months. I guess it added up. Well, my jeans tell me that anyway.

When I talked to Kate last week, she told me she had been working out. So I got to thinking - I could do that too. More than anything, I want to get in shape. So Kate (if you're reading this), we can make a little club. Like Diet Tribe on Lifetime, only we are not obese, middle-aged women. I'll tell you what I did today: 30 minutes on the Stairmaster and 45 minutes of weights. Plus some mad-dancing to The Virgins (check them out here. They're one band you should definitely download) when I got back home. And tomorrow is yoga.

So far so good.
Let's see if it lasts past this week.

It doesn't matter anyway

2009-01-25T19:59:00.000-08:00

A couple of months ago, I figured out how to get around the internet blockers at my work. This is neither a)useful or b)productive but it had been bothering me. So like with any trivial problem that I am presented with (math, boys, etc. ) I threw my entire being into solving it. This means I spent hours upon hours (and possibly days) trying to find proxys that would let me get around the very extensive block at work. I asked myself: Why do THEY (the eponymous 'they') get to decide that I can't waste my life and their time on Facebook? Probably because I should be doing something more productive as a Recreation Leader II*. And the fact that they technically shouldn't pay me to surf the internets.

But I finally did find that proxy (for the record - http://www.hidemyass.com) and now I'm free to waste my time on Postsecret and whatever else my little heart desires. However, before you think that I'm a horrible person and steal their money, I actually do my work. Really. And quite well. I just get it done fast and efficiently so that I have about 3 hours to kill. What else am I supposed to do? I've read way too many bodice rippers from the center's library and drawn too many doodles.

My mom says I constantly walk the fine line between genius and idiot savant (the above being a good example). Keep in mind this is after I told her Mel Torme's nickname was the Velvet Fog, but couldn't tell her how to get to the Target that I have lived down the street from for my entire life. I'd say I'm more on the genius side of things, but I definitely don't disagree about the idiot savant thing. That's sort of my fallacy: I'm completely and utterly disinterested in many things (things people call important, like balancing my checkbook and knowing which way north is), but if for some reason I can't have it or it presents a challenge, I'll do whatever I can do fix it. And for the most part, I do - and to excellent results. Like finding that proxy. Or the one time I repaired my broken stereo because I wanted to listen to Something Corporate so loud that you could hear it down the street.

Whoo-hoo.

Sadly, it's also a vicious cycle because it carries over into my schoolwork. And that is why I'm here, updating this blog, instead of doing say....my lovely linguistics homework (although this site is particularly fun. Try it). But I suppose you can only Rasterbate so many images or bake so many vegan cupcakes before enough is enough.

I wonder if I can get a job as a full time daydreamer-slash-writer-slash-baker. Know of any openings?

*For all intensive purposes, this is my title for work. But really, it is just fancy for "Bitch work," which is what I mostly do. I used to work at the front desk where I got to interact with the seniors, right? I really liked this since they love to talk and I love to listen. I got to hear some great stories and meet some amazing people. Like one day, this man came in and asked if I knew this one woman. I told him sorry, I didn't, but that he was welcome to wait until the movie ended to see if she was in there. He told me he would, since it had been 65 years since he'd seen her. She had practically raised him after his parents died, he told me. Funnily enough, the woman was in the movie and I got to see the two of them reunited. They stared at each other and asked how they got so old.
But then one day I wore this shirt and a very bitter old woman complained (and asked me if girls wear bras anymore. I do, for the record) and I somehow found myself in the back. Like a leper. I like to pretend that they moved me because I lack people skills because that is more of a legit reason rather than a scandalous shirt.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)

2009-01-23T16:04:00.000-08:00

Flat 3,
I've just finished Skyping you (well, almost all of you).
And the more I talk to you guys, the more I want to go back.

It's raining properly today for the first time since I got back. It makes me slightly sad, since it reminds me of Norwich and the weekend before Guy Fawkes Day. Remember how it was absolutely pouring outside and freezing to boot, so we watched the fireworks from Rachel's room?

I miss that.

a little poem by one of my favorite poets

I want to get a wolf and fucking imprint that thing!

2009-01-22T23:21:00.000-08:00

After 5 hours of tedious back-to-back classes and a very LONG nap (which really was just my cover for finishing New Moon. I'm ashamed to say aloud that I actually READ Twilight. And kind of enjoy it, in a slightly sadistic way since the writing is so poor and it is chock full of Mormon Propaganda), I went to my writing group for the first time since I returned from England.

This was very good, since I didn't get workshopped at all in England, save for the times I talked with Nick. It was mostly, "Oh, great poem, Samantha. The lines are working really well here..." etc. Now imagine that in a somewhat unintelligible Hungarian/English accent, if there is such a thing. My professor at UEA, while being incredibly smart and talented, was useless at giving me anything constructive about my poetry. Which means I went 3 months without editing and basically continuously inflating my already large ego. At some point in November, craving criticism, I emailed my UCI writing professor and begged her to knock me down a few pegs. She happily obliged but it still wasn't the same. I was used to meeting weekly with my group and talking with writers I actually respected. Part of the reason I was excited to come back was because I was finally going to get to meet with my group again.

Today was our first meeting since the New Year. There were 6 of us, all people I adore and had missed very much, so the first couple hours were spent catching up. I forgot how much I just liked sitting outside in Santa Ana, at the Gypsy Den or otherwise. I feel slightly bohemian (for the record, Kate, you would love the Gypsy Den. Not only is it full of kind of grungy guys, it has killer - albeit somewhat overpriced- food. We would sit there and talk for hours, maybe with a smattering of Cheese dancing). We were out there for hours, doing free writes, which involved picking two objects from a box Sara had brought and then writing about them. I picked a picture from her senior prom and wrote something I'm not sure about. Then cheesecake acted as a sort of intermission before we moved on to workshop. I had turned in a poem about my father's illness and was mostly proud of it, but slightly weary since poems about death can be so contrite. Actually, anything about death. And love. I tried my damndest to avoid that and think I did pretty well. For the most part it was well received. I love that feeling - when you've written something and everyone gets it and you don't have to try and explain yourself. Maybe that's why I write, because it affords me an opportunity to share myself with people and have them understand. We left soon after that was over, with promises of lunch in the coming week and another workshop in two.

Warren drove me home because my lame-ass doesn't have a car (or even a license for that matter). We were on the 405 when a police cruiser started weaving across all three lanes to get us to stop. Once we had come to a stand-still, we couldn't see anything but mused about what it could be. I said it was an accident and then Warren told me about a time when he was coming home late from a theme park. He came across three cars, in the aftermath of an accident. It was still dark, since no police had yet arrived at the scene, and the cars were flipped and wrecked beyond recognition. It was surreal, he told me, to drive by and see the people still inside the cars, moving, trying to figure out if they were still there. He said he felt bad that he didn't stop to help them. I told him he shouldn't, because we all can't be good Samaritans and that maybe he wouldn't have been able to help.

Fleet Foxes played in the back and I wondered why, as humans, we find ourselves constantly at ends with death. Either we find ourselves rubbernecking to see an accident - a hope for a glimpse at some mangled body - or we drive on past it.

I don't think either is the right answer. There should be less fear and we should be more willing to meet it head on. Murakami said something along the lines of, "Death is not the end of life, but a part of it."

We never did find out what the problem on the 405 was.

Get Outta Town!

2009-01-21T21:54:00.000-08:00

No, really.

But seriously: I'm going to try and blog again. I know, I know. I have failed numerous times (actually about three, two of which still stand in livejournal. Feel free to lurk) but I think this time will be different. Because THIS time, I have a legit reason, other than just feeding my narcissism. THIS time, I am keeping this blog to keep my English friends abreast (hahaha) of my California doings, which to me are mundane but perhaps will be exciting to them. Probably because of the sun and nice weather. I Skype them (or at least Kate) once a week, but I still feel like I don't tell them everything. Mostly because I forget during the course of the week. It's sad: I'll be out and something funny will happen, which will make me want to go and run into Kate's room to tell her, but then I remember - I'M NOT IN ENGLAND ANYMORE.

It is the worst kind of mindfuck (even more so than a grapple, Saavedra).

Right after that happens, I remind myself to remind myself to tell them. But then I forget because an interesting piece of dust passed by my face or Ranithi called me to watch "The True Housewives of the OC." It is a vicious cycle, one I hope to fix by writing in here.

Don't get me wrong: this won't be a tell-all of my worst days or my crushes or anything like that. You can find that on the previously mentioned (and impossibly prepubescent) Livejournals. This will is about my days here back in California, while I try to figure out where I belong and miss Norwich more than I thought possible.

So here you are, Flat 3 (and the rest of the Internet culture that stumbles upon this): me, back in the Golden State, missing all of you.