Nearly wordless Wednesday

A perfect drop... gotten with a *massive* amount of luck.

Reflections

And so Noel 2009 has come and passed. It seems almost ridiculous now that Christmas is over... I mean all that anticipation and preparation during the holiday season for this one day. And it passes by so quickly. I swear if I blink I'll miss it.

Because my niece and nephews are 3 very crafty rug-rats, there isn't a part of the house that is safe from their little, but o-so-nimble, hands. And so whatever gifts and knickknacks we buy for them has to stay inside the car trunk until the very last minute. On the day before Christmas they were trembling with giddy. Where was Santa? What toy is he going to bring? How will he get down the chimney? When we watched the SantaTracker, their eyes bugged out and their jaws dropped. Lucky for me, one of the stories we read specified that Santa does not visit houses where children were still awake. That hushed them up pretty well, and they actually trampled on each other on the way to brush their teeth and get to bed... all the while giggling like mad. To be sure, I waited an hour after they were in bed before braving the icy driveway to get to the car to lug in the toys. Then there was the business of wrapping the stuff, bows & whatnot, and then sneaking it under the tree.

Such an elaborate operation. Why do we do it? All because of them and their smiles in the morning as they tear through the wrapping. What took me close to an hour to wrap they manage to rip & open through in a matter of minutes. As I sat there and watch the flurry of papers and bows flying about, the MasterCard commercial plays in my head.

Bows: $1
Wrapping Paper: $7
Toys (some that will be broken & lost within the hour) : $359
Squeals in opening a present from Santa: Priceless

My niece and nephews are, without a doubt, more spoiled than 3 day old milk left in the sun. Spoiled as in they are free to be children and still have that childhood innocence that goes away too early in this day and age. I have somewhat a biased view because of my childhood. Growing up in Vietnam my family struggled, really struggled, for everything that we had. My sisters and I knew of no Christmases, birthdays, or any other holidays... except Chinese New Year. We'd get a red envelope that day with some money inside, for luck.

I don't ever want them to have to experience the hardships that we did. I'm happy to give them what I didn't have, for them to have the happiest childhood memories, and for them to be children as long as they can... even if that means telling them that some white-bearded jolly old man goes around the world delivering gifts to every single child in a mere day by way of flying reindeer. I guess in a way I'm reliving my childhood through them, vicariously. It's not so bad, I don't think. But I do worry sometimes that they do grow up to take things for granted. I make it a point to show them the other side of life, the not so glittery side that they don't know... but it's hard to comprehend, I know.

Anyways, 2009 will be over in a few short days. I can't believe it. It's been a bittersweet year. How I've gotten here still puzzles me...

January: Heartache
February: Rebuilding a wall
March: Snow fight; Bahama sunshine
April: Easter egg hunt & some awkwardness
May: I have a Bachelor's Degree! Yay!
June: Strenuous brain work-out
July: Judgment day & failure of expectations; the start of Vietnam
August: Discovery, exploration, indulgence, & reunion in the mother country
September: Recuperating; finally face to face; patiently waiting
October: Excitement, butterflies; death.
November: Mission Search & Salvage; London Bridge; heartache; mourning; despair; loneliness.
December: Sadness; The Mask of Cheers; Christmas happiness; moving forward.

Is it fate where we end up in life? Maybe 10%-ish. We all go through life making choices for ourselves. In retrospect some choices were probably better than others. But there is no magic crystal ball for us to know right then and there the consequences of our actions. And even if such thing exists, life is still unpredictable and mysterious... enough so that sometimes I feel thrown for an unexpected loop (don't we all?). But I'll survive by making the best of what I have, and smiling (or trying to) in the process... because there's always hope for happiness. Case in point: In the midst of November's tornado, I had totally forgotten that I became a published first author! So, as unpredictable and twisted I think life can be, I believe that we can/should/ought to laugh and then laugh some more, because in the end everything will work itself out. What is the logical basis for my belief?... I have none.

So, 2010... Bring it on. Take me for a spin. Make me smile.

I like paper

Today I sent out Christmas cards. And not those e-cards either. Real cards, in envelopes that you have to lick to seal and with real stamps. One of the cards I sent was to a friend who thinks me a luddite, or, less harshly, as someone who was born in the wrong generation. I put up an argument, but I know there's a grain of truth in that assertion.

To be crystal clear, I love the privileges of modern life... air conditioning, heat, microwave, *television*, and the almighty internet. Goodness knows I can't carry on my bummy lifestyle without those modern conveniences. And here's something else I appreciate immensely about this day and age: my entire life goal is not reduced to just getting married and bearing children! O the joy of living in the 21st century. Wouldn't give it up for a hot minute.

Yet, as much as I love being a part of the 21st century revolution, I can't help but feel nostalgic (?) for some of the less-than-convenient ways of earlier days. Nostalgia. That might be a bit of a strong word for a 23 year old.... but it feels apt. Nowadays, it is much easier to stay connected, but are we really connected? Text messages, FB posts, email messages, *tweets* ... there's no denying the ease. But I'm inclined to think somewhere along the lines, we have sacrificed personal intimacy for ease of use.

Now some might argue that intimacy is enhanced with the progress of technology. Can you say "Sexting"? But that's not the intimacy I'm referring to. What I miss is more intangible. The feeling of ripping open an envelope to find a personal letter inside, the squiggly 's' in a friend's chicken scratch, the voice of a person. I miss the stuff that can make a person so endearing... the stuff that can't be replicated even with the most sophisticated machines.

An email and a letter can contain the same message. But for me, the message feels more meaningful in the form of a letter. Maybe it's because I know that a person actually took the time to pen that letter with ink and paper, and then had to put it in an envelope, lick the seal, place a stamp on it, and walk it out to their mailbox. A letter is inherently more personal in its inconvenience. We rarely receive such letters anymore in this day and age. I guess its rarity is also part of why I put such high value on it.

So... am I a luddite? Hardly. I am using my laptop to "blog" aren't I? That's a definite 21st century act. Not to mention I use Google and email everyday! But while I don't oppose the progress of technology, I'll always prefer handwritten letters over emails, actual post cards instead of facebook posts, conversations over text messages. While I'm at it, I'll always, always prefer a crate of books over a shiny Kindle.

For my friend who is super-mega-advanced in all that is technology, I included a hand-drawn comic about his probable perception of the extinction of holiday cards in the card I sent. O the irony... it couldn't drip more of irony than if I had included actual iron in the card. For him more than anyone else, I hope he will appreciate the personal touches in the card.

On board the Holiday Express!

12 days until Christmas. I still can't believe it. Maybe if I squeeze my eyes hard enough, I'll wake up and it'll still be July, and I'll be gearing up to visit Vietnam again. Maybe? ... No? ... Oh well, Christmas isn't so bad. I hope we'll get oodles and oodles of that white fluff from the sky this year.Christmas baubles & lights make me giddy. Who am I kidding... bright, shiny objects make me happy.
This is what the holidays must feel like when you're on crack... (strictly a guestimation).

Happy holidays!

So this is love

When we first touched I knew it was meant to be. He was dark & shiny, modern but with that touch of class. The first time we clicked I think my heart fluttered. I wanted more than anything to bring him home with me, but I needed to make sure that he was the right one for me. So I Googled the heck out of him, read every review and saw every picture. Everything seem to say he was the perfect match. And so the next day, armed with my checkbook, I stormed Costco and proudly brought home Sam, also known by his official name as Nikon D5000.

I was grinning and giggling like a silly schoolgirl in front of the hot teacher when I was unpacking and putting him together. He's dreamy. Everything I could've asked for, and more.

I've had Sam for a few weeks now, and I can definitely say I haven't been disappointed yet. So far I've taken him to every place I normally go to, just to test him out. I've gotten a few good images, but there's so so so so much I still need to learn.

The camera I had before Sam is a simple Canon 3x zoom point & shoot and I loved that thing to death. It was with me for the longest time, weathering both England and Vietnam. It gave me many good images and boatloads of memories. I would still be using it had I not slipped on some wet floor and broke the flash as I fell. I figured fixing it would be moot what with the prices on those cameras these days. And so I decided to invest in Sam. It might be too soon to say, but I suspect I made a very good investment. I'm very happy so far and I think this hobby might take on a life of its own.

To be sure, I am no photographer, just a person who owns a camera... a really nice one. I've made it a point to shoot something everyday. Can't wait to see the progress of my images!

Walmart: low prices aren't the only things you can find there

I was in Walmart today, trying to get my holiday shopping done for my niece and nephews. Walmart... I love going there because I'm cheap & broke, but I hate going there because everyone else is there for the same reasons. The crowded aisles with filled with shopping carts, the endless checkout lines, and the o-s0-cheerful people. It's a love-hate relationship. But today, I bit the bullet & took myself there. What happened in the store today was almost too insane to be true, but make no mistake, it happened.

I was among the moms and pops and gramps at the toy section with my own shopping cart perusing stuff. I knew I wanted to get my nephew a new bike since he's sort of outgrown his old tiny one. And so a few aisles down from the pepto-bismol pink explosion that is the girls' toy section, I found myself standing in front of a red bike and a blue bike. A few passersby smirked as I tried the bikes on for size, but that's no big deal. Then as I knelt down to feel the tires, a man came by. He, too, was looking at a red bike and a blue bike, but not at the ones I was feeling. I happened to glance in his direction and we exchanged polite smiles. No harm done. He looked to be around 50ish (I'm always bad at the age game), white & tall, pronounced stature, eyes a bit bloodshot, and perhaps like he's forfeited his razors for a few days. He was dressed in business clothes, with a black plain jacket. He had two items in his hand: ClearEyes, which made sense, and another small box which I can't remember. All in all, he looked pretty normal... safe, even.

He remarked that we both don't know which bike to get. I agreed. The truth in the statement made me assume kindness and I asked how old is his boy. Six, he said. Mine is seven, I told him. He then went on to tell me that he has to buy toys for EIGHT kids. I gasped. Not only that, the eight kids were international kids who he's adopted. "Really? Wow." He listed where he got them from, but I only remember Vietnam, Korea, Costa Rica, Ireland, and some country in Africa. He himself had been adopted and raised in Korea. I was beside myself. Here's this incredible man who's got a heart of gold.... and I met him in, of all places, Walmart!

We got to chatting a bit more, and at times like this, I wish that I had a record button in my head. Switch it on, and I'll be able to recall the entire conversation without forgetting the tiniest details. His name, I learned, was Thomas. He was born in Ireland. His family had been killed during the British invasion of Ireland. Here I was perplexed... my history is very rusty, but I couldn't recall any such invasion within the past century. There was WWI, and WWII, but even with my rusted knowledge, I was pretty sure those events didn't involve invasion of Ireland. Pretty much the only historical event involving Ireland that I could remember was the potato famine. I was ashamed not to know what he was referring to, so I played along, nodding my head in sympathy.

He went on: he's the grandson of Daniel O'Connell. His family in Belfast was killed by the British. He himself was shot in the back (he was 7 then) and left for dead. His kind neighbors found him and took him to a nearby "Christian monastery" where the "monk" removed his bullet and tended to him. He was later shipped out to Korea where he would be raised by Buddhist monks there. He paused.

If I possessed Caucasian eyes, they would've popped out of my sockets by now. As it were, I have Asian eyes, and they only felt like they would pop out. Every wheel in my head switched on. I still hadn't solve the mystery of the British invasion, and here he was, his family killed and as the only survivor, he was shipped to Korea! "Why Korea?" I asked, innocently as I could. He paused, looking up. "Because that was the only place where they thought I would be safe from the British. The British wanted me dead, you know." Interesting. What possible danger could you, as a 7 year old child, pose to the Brits that they wanted you dead? When did Brits set out to kill families and 7 year old children? What British invasion are you talking about? What the hell did your family do? So many questions I wanted to ask him, but it seemed risky, so I simply nodded.

Nodding, I learned, is the universal cue for "Continue" because continue he did. The monks raised him for 12 years. As if to impress me more, he spoke a bit of what he claimed to be Korean Buddhist chants. Being completely ignorant of the language, I could neither authenticate nor discredit, and so I was impressed. And as he spoke some more of his time there, I noticed strange movements in his left hand. He was touching the back of his neck and then moving to the front, touching his collar and loosening his jacket. Odd, I thought. ".... and then the monks tattooed me with their sacred sign." And then, there in the middle of the bicycle aisle in Walmart, Thomas opened his undershirt to show me the tattoo on his hairy chest - an apple-sized blue circle with what looked like a closed fist in dead center. There might have been some yellow or black involved somewhere in the tattoo, but I was too shocked to remember all the details. A camera along with a recorder in my head would have been most useful.

Thomas described himself as European on the outside, but really Asian on the inside. I resisted the urge to ask if he knew what an "Egg" is. He goes to the Buddhist monastery in Richmond, and has been asked by the "Master" to become a monk. I laughed, he laughed... though I'm quite sure we weren't laughing at the same things.

During these sort of conversations, I always know I need to end it sooner rather than later. But somehow I can't quite do it. Make up an excuse, look at my watch, fake a phone call... I could've done any of these acts and walked away. But I didn't. I stayed and listened; I smiled and even asked questions in kind.

Thomas currently volunteers for some Christian immigration organization, which, interestingly, does not exclude Muslim or Buddhist immigrants. He lowered his voice when telling me this, as if some federal agent was luring behind the bike rack. He also volunteers for an organization helping adults with mental disorders. He learned that I was unemployed but looking for work in a research lab, and that I had done previous research in anxiety disorders. He widened his bloodshot eyes at the mention of anxiety, as if I had just provided him a perfect segue into his next bit. Anxiety! You don't say!

In fact, he is currently taking a "sabbatical" to work on his dissertation. Given the course of the conversation so far, a regular person would have nodded and responded with something nonsensical like, "Oh! That's great." Being a non-regular person (but not irregular) and somewhat of a huge nerd, I couldn't help the words that escaped my mouth: "Oh! Dissertation? On research?" Apparently, Thomas will be writing about women's sexual dysfunctions, specifically the inability of some to orgasm. Thomas whispered the O word, as if he was embarrassed. If *he* was embarrassed, I must've been ready to shoot myself. Again, a regular person would've feigned an emergency phone call. Hell, they'd have blatantly walked away in the general direction of security. But no... my feet, it seemed, grew roots and all I could manage to do was raise my eyebrows.

The study, 3 years in the making, was done with a Dr. Sarah White who insisted the title be "The Mystery of the Female Orgasm." Thomas had interviewed 1800 women for the study and found 72% of Korean women were sexually dysfunct, while 73% of Vietnamese women suffered the same tragedy. He didn't disclose the rest of the breakdown. I realized my eyebrows could not be raised any higher, so I lowered them, and raised them again.

It was like watching an amateur magic act: you were slightly entertained, but if you squinted hard enough you could make out the faint string lines. I kept squinting for those strings, and against my better judgment, I baited him. "1800! My! How did you analyze the interviews?" By this, I merely wanted to know how he quantified the subjective responses. Thomas took this differently, and proceeded to tell me that he had to study the couples in the act, but not in the same room, mind you! That would've been inappropriate! He was in the *next* room while the couples sexed up. Afterward he gave the women questions while they were hooked up to lie detectors. At this point I was screaming in my head... somewhere nearby dogs were howling in response.

Not to be discouraged though, Thomas continued. He had found a cure that was 85% effective. Being a Taoist, trained by the Buddhist monks, he learned that he could cure women's sexual dysfunctions with holistic treatments, by transferring Chi to strategic stressor points on their bodies. Behind the left side of the neck, on the back, the hands, the feet. He proceeded to demonstrate how he "transferred energy" to these women by pretending his left hand was a foot, and massaging it with his right hand. I guessed that the 15% of cases where treatment was ineffective was due to women having ticklish feet. He laughed, I laughed, but again, I knew we weren't sharing the same humor.

In effect, Thomas claimed that he could give women back their ability to achieve the big O with Chi massages, taught to him decades earlier by Taoist monks in Korea. Taking ancient teachings and giving it a whole new twist - how proud the monks must be of him. It took all of my being not to blurt this out.

As it were, the conversation had passed several hundred levels beyond what I consider to be comfortable talk with strangers in Walmart. I stared at the red bike intently, loudly proclaiming that I will need to find someone to help me get the bike off the high rack. We said goodbyes and parted ways, but not before exchanging phone numbers and him taking my hand and bowing his forehead to it. "Om chung ma" he said, which is supposed to mean "It's fate" in Korean.

I wanted to run out of the store. To hell with the toys, just leave! Lest he calls the number, finds out I gave him a fake one, tracks me down and demand I give him my real number. But I had already fought my way to the store, and had endured what could be the world's most bizarre conversation with a strange middle-aged man in the bike aisle of Walmart. And so I sped through the maze and to the checkout line, all the while scanning my surroundings, as if I could be caught any second.

While driving home and even while writing this, I experienced sporadic pangs of guilt. What if Thomas is an Irish humanitarian who was shot when he was 7, who was raised by Korean monks, who really does have 8 adopted international kids, who legitimately studied sexual dysfunction in women. That could be possible. How ignorant and how righteous of me to think he would tell me anything but the truth.

As it turns out, Dr. Sarah White does exist, in quite a few number actually. But I couldn't find anything related to the "Mystery..." or Thomas. And from what I could find, the last time the "British invaded Ireland" was under Cromwell in the 1649. The last uprising involving Britains and Irishmen was in 1918. Daniel O'Connell did indeed exist, between 1775-1847. Now, even though I am bad at the age game, Thomas does not look to be near 80 years old, and he certainly does not look to be near 360 years old.

So, was Thomas a liar? A conman? Perhaps he was mentally ill? Lonely? Perhaps I misunderstood everything, and he is the person who he described. The truth will remain a mystery. All I know is my ordinary trip to Walmart for the most ordinary reasons became a most bizarre encounter. From this, should I learn how to end conversations when they first approach the area of weirdness and not when I'm neck deep into it? Or, should I continue to do what I did, nod & smile, because who else can say that they met a middle aged man in Walmart who discussed Korean monks & sexual dysfunction? Knowing myself, I bet I'll meet another Thomas soon, maybe in Walmart's frozen food aisle next to the teriyaki shrimps.

When you are engulfed

Funny how as I've grown older I'm doing more of the things that I used to despise as a teenager. I used to hate writing. Those book reports and those essays on such esoteric topics were the bane of my high-school existence. To be sure, I still hate writing those things, along with the lab reports and the abstracts and research papers. I suppose we all dread things that we find difficult.

Strange then that I'm writing now. Stranger still is that I intend this post to be about a book I've recently finished reading.... funny how things work out. My rationale? In doing this, I don't have to be grammatically correct, make any valid literary connections or any scientific sense... in fact, I don't have to make any sense AT ALL if I so choose! Too good to pass up, in my opinion.

When You're Engulfed in Flames by David Sedaris is one of those self-deprecating yet witty essay collection. He's a bit of a hot essayist at the moment with a few #1 Bestsellers under his belt. This is my first book of his, and it seems mean to say, but I was disappointed. Having read numerous rave reviews about this book and hearing the hysterics people were in after reading, I expected to be in hysterics too. In fact, I only LOL'ed once... okay maybe twice. My favorite has to be "That's Amore" - an essay about Helen, the embarrassingly tactless, racist loudmouth who was David's apartment neighbor.

"It seemed that she had been at her window, surveying the scene below, and when the super in the building across the street threw a lit cigarette into our trash can, she yelled at him with such force that she blew her lower plate right out of her mouth. 'Ich in da schwubs,' she said. 'Go giddit.' " ----- I think laughed so hard I snorted.

And then there was the bit about the Stadium Pal, an external catheter of sort that guys can use to pee without the hassle of visiting a urinal. Grossly amusing, no sarcasm intended. I had to Google the Stadium Pal to confirm its existence, and indeed, such thing exists.

Not to discredit his talent any, because absolutely the guy is talented. A witty gay man with the uncanny ability to put into prose his skewed version of the mundane? I dare you to name 5, besides Augusten Burroughs. Perhaps I read too many reviews and got my expectations too high (this happens more often than I care for), so it would only be natural that I was disappointed. Still though, this book offers some very interesting stories, that if I remember, can make for good cocktail party conversations. How many cocktail parties do I attend? Between 0 and 1, but more to the 0 end. But should I EVER be invited to one, I'll be good to go.

And so it begins...

To blog or not to blog. I considered a while, and as evident by this newly created blog, I've made my decision. A big part of the hesitation was the whole idea that once published, anything I blogged would be entirely free-for-all. My thoughts, in essence, would become like a little red balloon that some kid released into the sky... I would no longer have control of it. But I supposed that if the scientists are right, and sometimes they are, there are so much junk in outer space that my little red balloon shouldn't matter that much really. I also considered writing privately, of tying down my little red balloon to a lead chair in the basement of my house... but that's just sad.

Then there was the business of deciding on what to name the blog. Something short yet full of wit and character, creative yet as natural as the black hair on my head. Coming up with a name for your blog is very similar to coming up with a name for a book, I would imagine. The fundamental difference between the two is that with a book, one would (should) theoretically form the title based on the ideas in the manuscript. With a blog, one has no manuscript (or at least I don't) and would therefore have to base the title on one's perception of oneself. That is a task more difficult than I cared for. Some titles I considered:

-Random musings (vanilla, anyone?)
-Random musings of a tortured soul (too dramatic and untrue)
-Random musings of a confused soul (true, but too neurotic)
-Because the seal won't leave my kitchen (also true, but too wordy)
-Down the rabbit hole (short enough, slightly off, mildly questionable.. )

The hare may not have won the fabled race, but it kicked ass in this one. And so it begins... the random musings of a tree-hugging nerd, because really, is there any other kind? Here I will write & post the stuff that I remember from the stream of my consciousness. Often I see/hear/read & otherwise chance upon things that just blow my mind, and I think to myself, I should really write that down. I'm trying to make good on that thought now with this outlet. So thank you, Google. You can now add me to the endless list of souls you've already own. And thank *you*, those readers who may or may not exist, who may or may not ever stumble upon this blog. I write for me, but you'll be in my thoughts.