I've always been told that lying is a bad thing. For a while, I adopted the saying, "it's not lying; it's acting" as my own, which didn't please my mother very much. Both points relate to my current state of mind. I feel guilty right now. I don't feel guilty because I lied necessarily, but mostly because I got caught. Sure, that makes me sound like an awful person, and I promise you, I'm really not that bad. However, in my mind, I had a completely legitimate reason and I don't resent or regret my decision whatsoever.
In school, we're doing a musical. No big deal, right? I love musicals and singing and fake dancing and lights and make up and costumes: all of it. There were so many to decide from: Godspell, Guys and Dolls, etc. (You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown was my first choice because I wanted to be Snoopy to sing 'Suppertime' with all of my heart.) Instead, we wrote a musical. I wasn't a fan from the beginning; it was too reminiscent of a certain insufferable student written play that we did my sophomore year. We eventually changed it up and I became a little more keen on it...until practices started. After a grueling audition due to the crap way that I sing, I ended up getting the part I wanted. It's not a huge part, but I get/got to sing Streisand, which is all that matters. Anyway, practices started and we blocked the whole show in 2 weeks. Good timing. Then we started music rehearsals. Solos were fabulous. Chorus numbers were horrid. We've spent the last few Saturdays working on the very first song in the musical. All day long. For hours. Over and over again. To say the least, it feels like we're getting nothing done. Yesterday, practice started at 9. I got a wake up call from my best friend, Angela, at 9:33 asking where I was. Awesome. I get there at 10. They've already started working on Bohemian Rhapsody (the first song) again.
"Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide. No escape from reality..."
was all we sang for 2 hours. Over and Over. By ourselves. With accompaniment. With choreography. With the girl chorus (which I'm not a part of. Awesome.). Without the girl chorus. Freddie Mercury would have even said that enough was enough.
We had an hour long lunch break.
We sang it some more. Not once did we get through the whole song.
All I could think about all day was the fact that my friends Claire and Daniel were in town on break from college and I had to see them. Claire's birthday was recent and she was having lunch. They had already rescheduled so I could go, but this rehearsal was ruining every plan we had tried to come up with. There was no way I was going to be able to go if I didn't make something up.
I left at 1:45, telling the director that I had to go to work.
This would have worked perfectly if there weren't Facebook statuses about our plans. This would have worked even better if the director wasn't friends with a few of us. But the statuses exist and she's Chan's friend, so she commented. Awesome.
What I'm trying to communicate is that I know it's wrong to lie. I know that I should have just stayed at rehearsal. I know I should have stayed to sing Queen a couple more times, get a little more irritated at the show's author and at the male chorus, and to learn choreography for a song I'm not even in. But I didn't. And I'm okay with that. I'm okay with it because I miss Daniel's sense of humor. I miss Claire's wisdom; we're so much alike. I miss being with Chan and the two of them together. I miss last year. I miss all of them. Therefore, it doesn't matter to me that I missed an hour of musical practice. And if I get kicked out of the play, if I don't get to sing Streisand (which would ultimately work because my part is double-casted), I don't think it would upset me in the long run.
That is all.
Later Days
Peace
H
Monday, October 25, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
College Prep
The college prep atmosphere in which I've been so thoroughly immersed for such a long time makes me forget what the rest of the world is like. College college college; degrees degrees degrees. My inevitable future education has been squished into my brain, almost like being conditioned as a newborn embryo in Aldous Huxley's A Brave New World. North Hills requires that every student be accepted into at least a 2-year college in order to graduate. It takes a while to adjust into the public school idea of just graduating, of obtaining enough self-control and/or determination to keep from quitting.
I work at a Sonic in Arkansas. I work with people that are 19 and married, not because the women are pregnant, but because they love each other enough. They dated throughout high school. They had time to go on dates, hang out several nights a week, go cruising around town. I do the math and figure that they graduated in 2009, a little more than a year ago. This makes me even more incredulous. They were seniors in high school when I was a sophomore. I've been in plays, gone to dances, gone on dates with people that graduated that same year. But all those kids are in college now, probably (and hopefully) not even thinking about marriage. By the time those kids do get married, the ones that I work with here in Arkansas will have an overlooked advantage on them. Sure, the kids that graduated from North Hills will have esteemed degrees, but they've never truly had to live on their own. They've never had to pay for everything without the help of Mommy&Daddy back home. Sure, these North Hills kids are smart, but these others are wise.
The question is, then, does a rigid curriculum in high school prepare you for living life? It prepares you for a job, a paycheck, for one man's definition of "success". But does it prepare you for balancing a checkbook, for being a mother, for unexpected layoffs from steady jobs? We're being taught an optimistic approach, which can be delightful, but we sometimes forget that there's also a realistic point of view that more of us will come into contact than not.
Later Days
Peace
H
I work at a Sonic in Arkansas. I work with people that are 19 and married, not because the women are pregnant, but because they love each other enough. They dated throughout high school. They had time to go on dates, hang out several nights a week, go cruising around town. I do the math and figure that they graduated in 2009, a little more than a year ago. This makes me even more incredulous. They were seniors in high school when I was a sophomore. I've been in plays, gone to dances, gone on dates with people that graduated that same year. But all those kids are in college now, probably (and hopefully) not even thinking about marriage. By the time those kids do get married, the ones that I work with here in Arkansas will have an overlooked advantage on them. Sure, the kids that graduated from North Hills will have esteemed degrees, but they've never truly had to live on their own. They've never had to pay for everything without the help of Mommy&Daddy back home. Sure, these North Hills kids are smart, but these others are wise.
The question is, then, does a rigid curriculum in high school prepare you for living life? It prepares you for a job, a paycheck, for one man's definition of "success". But does it prepare you for balancing a checkbook, for being a mother, for unexpected layoffs from steady jobs? We're being taught an optimistic approach, which can be delightful, but we sometimes forget that there's also a realistic point of view that more of us will come into contact than not.
Later Days
Peace
H
Friday, July 9, 2010
Miracles
I have a younger cousin named Miles who was born a month or more early. The gray matter in his brain wasn't (and still isn't) completely developed. As you may know, brain cells cannot be regrown after the child has left the mother's womb. They told us that he'd never walk or talk. They spouted off names of scary disorders and diseases: cerebral palsy, dystrophy, severe mental retardation.
I love his name. At first, I loved it because I started calling him Smiles, which was a nickname that no one else had thought of before I had mentioned it. Then I began to realize how much of a walking miracle that child really is. Now I love his name because it's almost a pun. He's come miles and miles further than they ever thought imaginable. There's a sign hanging up in my aunt's kitchen that says "Expect Miracles". Collectively, as a family, we've learned how to.
Recently, my paternal grandparents have been having health problems. From hips to hearts and other things that just can't be helped, they aren't doing too fabulously. My grandfather, especially. But lately, Miles has been 'stuck' on my Papa. Miles is a repeater. He'll say a name over and over until he gets that respective person's attention or whatever it is that he wants. From the moment he gets up, between asking for juice or to watch Mickey Mouse, he drones on: "Pa-pa! Pa-pa! Pa-pa! Pa-pa! Pa-pa! Pa-pa! Pa-pa! Pa-pa!" for most of the day.
As I lay in bed last night, beside my cousin Ena who had slept over, I couldn't sleep. I texted people until they all fell asleep (or until I lost service). I thought about college, about the future. I thought about my job. I calculated the number of hours and minutes until my next shift starts. I even thought about yearbook and senior year. Nothing was helping and I really didn't want to sleep too late the next morning. So I started praying. I prayed for everything and everyone I could think of. I prayed for Papa; I prayed for Baba. I prayed for my parents, my brother, my best friends. When I got around to praying for Miles, I thanked God for his life. I thanked God that he had taught my family to 'expect miracles'. I prayed that God would use Miles' sweet, innocent nature to cheer up my grandparents through this time. Then I remembered what my Aunt Christine, Miles' mother, had said earlier that evening when she had eaten dinner with us. She spoke about Miles talking about Papa all day, then coming straight in to see him. Papa had piped up then, saying, "He came and sat in my lap for, oh, seventeen seconds." But to Miles, seventeen seconds is a long time. That was Miles' way of showing Papa that he cares, that he's thinking of him.
Our little miracle is drawn to my Papa, someone who just might need a miracles a few months down the road. Sure, it may just be a phase. Kids go through those; they want one specific person for some specific reason. But what if Miles trying to tell us something? He may not me hinting that another miracle in on the way, per se. He might just be trying to remind us that there's hope in Papa's situation too. Miracles aren't just for the young. We relied so heavily on God when Miles was born and we had never met the child. (His mother's state of health was dwindling too, but still.) Why wouldn't we still rely on Him when there are 67 years of living behind someone else?
Later Days
Peace
H
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Happy 4th
The Fourth of July. It's supposed to be about fireworks, hot dogs, watermelon. But what makes a GOOD Independence Day? Is it eating until you can't move? Laughing at the people racing to see who can scarf down a slice of watermelon quickest?
Or is it about celebrating the freedom we have to do such things? Relishing the fact that we live in a land of immense opportunity?
In that case, it shouldn't how many hot dogs we can eat. It shouldn't matter how awful or fabulous the fireworks are.
In noticing this, it's arguable that this Fourth of July was one of the best. I had to work for four hours. Then I watched several episodes of NCIS with my aunt. We ordered pizza and were about to sit down to eat it when we heard a big boom. We went outside to find that the neighbors were setting off fireworks. From then on, the evening was full of neighbors and close-range colorful explosives. Isn't that the way it should be? Relaxing and thoughtful?
Or is it about celebrating the freedom we have to do such things? Relishing the fact that we live in a land of immense opportunity?
In that case, it shouldn't how many hot dogs we can eat. It shouldn't matter how awful or fabulous the fireworks are.
In noticing this, it's arguable that this Fourth of July was one of the best. I had to work for four hours. Then I watched several episodes of NCIS with my aunt. We ordered pizza and were about to sit down to eat it when we heard a big boom. We went outside to find that the neighbors were setting off fireworks. From then on, the evening was full of neighbors and close-range colorful explosives. Isn't that the way it should be? Relaxing and thoughtful?
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Sonic
No nail polish.
Only wedding bands.
Black shorts or pants.
Tennis shoes.
Hair up.
Visor on.
Shirt tucked.
Welcome to Sonic.
2 X CLA
X+ Li
1 S COKE
3 K SPR
"CHEESE STICKS!"
"THANK YOU!"
1 L GRP SLSH
1 OREO BLST
CONE
"CHEESE STICKS!"
"THANK YOU!"
Sticky shoes.
10 Unread text messages.
4+ hours.
Sore feet.
Messy hair.
Faint smell of limes on your hands.
Odd crease across your head from the visor.
Sleepy eyes.
Here's to summer jobs.
Only wedding bands.
Black shorts or pants.
Tennis shoes.
Hair up.
Visor on.
Shirt tucked.
Welcome to Sonic.
2 X CLA
X+ Li
1 S COKE
3 K SPR
"CHEESE STICKS!"
"THANK YOU!"
1 L GRP SLSH
1 OREO BLST
CONE
"CHEESE STICKS!"
"THANK YOU!"
Sticky shoes.
10 Unread text messages.
4+ hours.
Sore feet.
Messy hair.
Faint smell of limes on your hands.
Odd crease across your head from the visor.
Sleepy eyes.
Here's to summer jobs.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Last Night
Sitting in the armchair with a glass of
ice-less, watered-down lemonade.
Mom mumbles, "Turn it down..."
so Rachel yells
at Ross
quieter.
A blind fluff-ball rolls off another piece
of furniture, heads for the door.
Screen door is opened for
the old dog who
won't know
where he
is.
The inane cat tumbles and rolls, trying
to initiate a game with
a dreaded roach that slimes
his way across
the floor
again.
The younger of the two brothers is
seated comfortably in a
blue folding chair. He plays
a song once or
twice with
his nose.
An overly large quilted comforter
folded backwards over the end
of the bed. "The Bear" snores;
hibernation's
a bit
too hot.
A disheveled room, newly painted. There's
a faint orange glow as the light
goes on, exposing a
cat, so loyal
and old,
who naps.
A long, blonde-ish ponytail. Pictures
to edit, blogs to write until
two thirty in the A.
M., since sleep is
out of
question.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Paris, Je t'aime
Paris, je t'aime is a vair, vair lovely foreign film that we started watching in French class today. It's composed of a series of short vignettes centered on love. Each vignette had different actors in it and was directed by a different person. It mentions various types of love: parental love, love and loss, weird relationships that make you tilt your head and say, "wtf?", language-barrier love, the kind of love between a husband who decides not to leave his wife after finding out she has terminal leukemia and re-falls in love with her, and something involving a mime. I've been thinking since I got home about what my vignette would look like if I were to direct one.
~~~~
It would take place in one of artsy arrondissements (boroughs) of Paris. A young woman, pretty. A young man, kind and charming. She's a journalist; he's an artist. Her articles and investigative journals make her content, but art is her passion. They assign her to interview street artists. They meet each other. He looks her in the eyes, genuinely willing to hand her her story. A smile spread across his face as he stops his world to dictate a well-mannered and well-meant "merci". Somehow, all her notes are lost and a follow up interview is arranged. She watches him work. The brush strokes show what he's learning, the colors show what he loves. "He's not perfect," she notices, "the painting lack depth and shadowing levels." But he's perfect to her.
A flashback.
Her childhood: smart, well-liked, pleasant-looking. But inwardly, she has no self-esteem. She classifies herself with people 20,000 leagues under the sea of her potential.
Back to the present.
He fits her.
He finishes his painting and turns to her. She snaps a shot of him with his masterpiece. He stays to talk. They talk for 20 minutes. "Is twenty minutes a long enough time period to fall in love?" she wonders. She accepts that it has to be, that she's crazy, that they're soul mates.
She walks away with a smile.
A day later, his art show. He sees her and the artsy group of people that surround him fade away. In a West Side Story type fading, radiant smiles are exchanged along with a few words. She gets a call from her editor: a new story, another job. She leaves and promises to return, knowing she can't.
A few months later, he contacts her editor, asking for her address. He shows up at her door, packed for a vacation, and tells her he's leaving for America. Art is calling him. To sculpt, to paint, to design.
A silence.
Then a kiss.
A different kiss, not like the kisses in the other vignettes. It's not a kiss of lust, of desperation, of secrecy. It's a kiss of true love. It's a kiss that understands and promises to return. But this kiss, unlike the false hope the woman gave the man, will keep its promise.
~~~~
My vignette would be about a couple who fall in love at first sight. Neither of them really believe in it beforehand, of course. But then, after meeting, they're changed. They stop doing ritualistic single-like things that they used to. They change for someone they may never see again, but that they're in love with.
Later Days
Peace
H
P.S. Is it better to know that someone like that is out there? Or is it better to forget about true love and settle into true like? I think I would rather know. I would rather know even if I could never be with that person. I think I would sleep better at night knowing I did something right, that there's someone out there fighting for me just as hard as I'm fighting for them.
~~~~
It would take place in one of artsy arrondissements (boroughs) of Paris. A young woman, pretty. A young man, kind and charming. She's a journalist; he's an artist. Her articles and investigative journals make her content, but art is her passion. They assign her to interview street artists. They meet each other. He looks her in the eyes, genuinely willing to hand her her story. A smile spread across his face as he stops his world to dictate a well-mannered and well-meant "merci". Somehow, all her notes are lost and a follow up interview is arranged. She watches him work. The brush strokes show what he's learning, the colors show what he loves. "He's not perfect," she notices, "the painting lack depth and shadowing levels." But he's perfect to her.
A flashback.
Her childhood: smart, well-liked, pleasant-looking. But inwardly, she has no self-esteem. She classifies herself with people 20,000 leagues under the sea of her potential.
Back to the present.
He fits her.
He finishes his painting and turns to her. She snaps a shot of him with his masterpiece. He stays to talk. They talk for 20 minutes. "Is twenty minutes a long enough time period to fall in love?" she wonders. She accepts that it has to be, that she's crazy, that they're soul mates.
She walks away with a smile.
A day later, his art show. He sees her and the artsy group of people that surround him fade away. In a West Side Story type fading, radiant smiles are exchanged along with a few words. She gets a call from her editor: a new story, another job. She leaves and promises to return, knowing she can't.
A few months later, he contacts her editor, asking for her address. He shows up at her door, packed for a vacation, and tells her he's leaving for America. Art is calling him. To sculpt, to paint, to design.
A silence.
Then a kiss.
A different kiss, not like the kisses in the other vignettes. It's not a kiss of lust, of desperation, of secrecy. It's a kiss of true love. It's a kiss that understands and promises to return. But this kiss, unlike the false hope the woman gave the man, will keep its promise.
~~~~
My vignette would be about a couple who fall in love at first sight. Neither of them really believe in it beforehand, of course. But then, after meeting, they're changed. They stop doing ritualistic single-like things that they used to. They change for someone they may never see again, but that they're in love with.
Later Days
Peace
H
P.S. Is it better to know that someone like that is out there? Or is it better to forget about true love and settle into true like? I think I would rather know. I would rather know even if I could never be with that person. I think I would sleep better at night knowing I did something right, that there's someone out there fighting for me just as hard as I'm fighting for them.
Twilight
Before you start judging me about the fact that I'm posting about the "teenage vampire saga", hear me out. I have a strong love/hate relationship with the series. The order in which I prefer these books are as follows:
1. Eclipse
2. Breaking Dawn
3. Twilight
4. New Moon
I'll preface this by saying that I'm a closet fan. I hate how entrancing this series is. I abhor that I couldn't put any of the books down once I started them, including New Moon.
Also, I'm Team Jacob. I have nothing against the vampires; I don't consider the Cullens to be "blood-sucking leeches". Edward sounds gorgeous, I'll admit. (I say "sounds" because the movies are awful representations of the books.) And this sounds cliché because it's the same reason my fellow teammates worldwide give for not liking Edward: he left. My reasons are different, however. Those other girls say that if Edward truly loved Bella, he wouldn't have left her there alone. I do realize Edward's concern. He realizes that his 'family' sucks, literally. And Jasper really, really wants to suck Bella's blood. Here are the things I don't understand. First of all, why the monkeys would he choose Bella? Why the monkeys would ANYONE choose Bella? C'mon! She's boring! Everything about her exudes "damsel in distress". She's not the main character; she exists to make Edward look amazing and make Jacob look like a desperate idiot. And Stephanie Meyer succeeds in this. Second of all, if Edward is really almost a century old, shouldn't he know that his family will like the smell of Bella's blood? I'm not even a legal adult and I knew that. Thirdly, he's with Bella because she smells good. Way to build a strong relationship there. Lastly, Edward leaving was a little too relevant in my own life at the time that I read it. Last summer, my '09 Senior friends and friendliers left for college. It was hard to see them go, especially the ones that said they would leave. The literally dismissal wasn't as much of a shock or a disappointment as the figurative one. When people that you love so dearly leave for bigger and better things, you have to accept it and encourage them. But when they stop contacting you, it's difficult. I guess that's why I like New Moon least.
I like Eclipse best for the sole reason that Edward and Jacob have to share a tent. It's the best scene ever. That is all.
Later Days
Peace
H
1. Eclipse
2. Breaking Dawn
3. Twilight
4. New Moon
I'll preface this by saying that I'm a closet fan. I hate how entrancing this series is. I abhor that I couldn't put any of the books down once I started them, including New Moon.
Also, I'm Team Jacob. I have nothing against the vampires; I don't consider the Cullens to be "blood-sucking leeches". Edward sounds gorgeous, I'll admit. (I say "sounds" because the movies are awful representations of the books.) And this sounds cliché because it's the same reason my fellow teammates worldwide give for not liking Edward: he left. My reasons are different, however. Those other girls say that if Edward truly loved Bella, he wouldn't have left her there alone. I do realize Edward's concern. He realizes that his 'family' sucks, literally. And Jasper really, really wants to suck Bella's blood. Here are the things I don't understand. First of all, why the monkeys would he choose Bella? Why the monkeys would ANYONE choose Bella? C'mon! She's boring! Everything about her exudes "damsel in distress". She's not the main character; she exists to make Edward look amazing and make Jacob look like a desperate idiot. And Stephanie Meyer succeeds in this. Second of all, if Edward is really almost a century old, shouldn't he know that his family will like the smell of Bella's blood? I'm not even a legal adult and I knew that. Thirdly, he's with Bella because she smells good. Way to build a strong relationship there. Lastly, Edward leaving was a little too relevant in my own life at the time that I read it. Last summer, my '09 Senior friends and friendliers left for college. It was hard to see them go, especially the ones that said they would leave. The literally dismissal wasn't as much of a shock or a disappointment as the figurative one. When people that you love so dearly leave for bigger and better things, you have to accept it and encourage them. But when they stop contacting you, it's difficult. I guess that's why I like New Moon least.
I like Eclipse best for the sole reason that Edward and Jacob have to share a tent. It's the best scene ever. That is all.
Later Days
Peace
H
Thursday, May 13, 2010
New York, New York
You left Boston at 11 a.m. It should only take two and a half hours to get to New York City from there. However, thanks to some unbearably fresh Bostonian Clam Chowder, your Pops has the barfs. You finally get to the City at 5 p.m.
Your hotel is cute, chic. The lobby is on the second floor, which is bizarre. The walls are purple and crystalline chandeliers hang above zebra print couches and chairs. An Indian baggage clerk takes your luggage and you follow him up the steep, creaky stairs. A highlighter-yellow/green color coats the third floor walls. One more flight, thankfully. You're out of breath, out of shape.
The room is small. Sunflower walls make you feel at home. Your father catches your eye and you two exchange a "this-is-a-double-bed-and-i'm/you're-barfy" look. A shrug of the shoulders later, your dad's half asleep on the bed and you're flipping through TV channels. One of your best guy friends that graduated last year calls you up when he hears you're in the City. You promise your dad a Gatorade if he's a good boy and set out to explore this place you've waited your life to see.
Chinatown was first. Block after block full of signs you can't read. Souvenir shops smaller than your hotel room have the same merchandise as the next. But it's cute there.
Then comes Little Italy. You halfway expect Don Vito Corleone to step out of the corner store, get shot, and start a giant car chase. Somewhat disappointingly, that doesn't happen. You walk into Joe's Pizza, order a slice, and stand. You just stand there. Overly tall tables of very small diameters fill the small eatery. You eat quickly so the line that swirls out the door can come inside. He takes you down to the subway.
You expect to see rats as big as your forearm and roaches longer than your fingers. Thankfully, none are found. A subway pass is purchased and you swipe it. You run into the gate. Twice. Your friend laughs at you as the New Yorkers behind you get irritated. Looking like a tourist makes you frustrated so you swipe the damn card furiously. It lets you in. "Yeah, you better," you mutter to yourself.
"Oh, yeah. It's rush hour, by the way," your friend mentions as if it's no big deal. Great. You have to stand in the subway, which you don't mind, really. The train starts suddenly, without warning. Falling over, you become acquainted with the businessman standing behind you. He's attractive, so it's okay, but you grin sheepishly and pull yourself together. The subway halts; it happens again. He laughs at you this time. So does your friend.
The Arts District is next.
Then the subway.
Then to Broadway, 32nd Street.
Then the subway.
Then to Times Square, the face of New York City. Hustle and bustle surrounds you and you feel a bit claustrophobic, but, hey, you're in the greatest city in the world, so you try to ignore it.
Next, Grand Central Station, Rockefeller Center, the place where they put the gigundous Christmas tree.
Then the subway, again.
Then the Brooklyn Bridge.
Then the subway.
Next thing you know, your feet are killing you and you have no idea where you are. You see your hotel in the distance and remember that you promise your sickly father a bottle of Gatorade. It's 11 pm and nothing is open. The two of you walk a 5 block radius with no luck. About an hour into your Epic Search for the Holy Gatorade, you see a convenience store across the street from your hotel. You roll your eyes and pay the 2 bucks for a bottle. A long, agonizing stair climb later, you're back in your room, pouring a glass of Gatorade for your sleeping dad. A quick shower, a change into pajamas, and you're asleep too.
The next day, you're up early. Pappy feels better, which is good, but you aren't in a good mood. Your feet hurt and so does your head. But you came to this city to look at NYU's "campus" and that's what you intend to do. Your generally directionally advanced fahjah gets south and north confused, somehow, so you're on a wild goose chase to find the Admissions Office. A cop helps you out and kinda snickers at the way you pronounce "Houston". You're late to the informational meeting, but your tour guide rocks and is a musical theatre major, which you can appreciate.
Nothing stands out here and you're sad. This is New York. You've been singing, talking, thinking about living in and visiting this city since you were 8. It's not bad and you don't hate it, but you can't see yourself here.
You get a bite to eat and return to your hotel for a nap. You wake up four hours later with the barfs. Thanking you father in your head with a few choice words for handing off the torch of sickness, you lay on the cold floor of the bathroom. Pappy leaves with your camera, feeling perfectly fine. It sucks to be cooped up, barfing, on St. Patty's Day in New York City. However, lying in bed watching reruns of 30 Rock, Seinfeld, Friends, and CSI:NY make you feel like you're really out exploring. You fall asleep.
You wake up and your father looks at you, a little green around the gills and says, "Let's get the hell outta this town."
You do.
And this is New York City.
Later Days
Peace
H
P.S. I'm sorry that this is soooo extremely late.
Your hotel is cute, chic. The lobby is on the second floor, which is bizarre. The walls are purple and crystalline chandeliers hang above zebra print couches and chairs. An Indian baggage clerk takes your luggage and you follow him up the steep, creaky stairs. A highlighter-yellow/green color coats the third floor walls. One more flight, thankfully. You're out of breath, out of shape.
The room is small. Sunflower walls make you feel at home. Your father catches your eye and you two exchange a "this-is-a-double-bed-and-i'm/you're-barfy" look. A shrug of the shoulders later, your dad's half asleep on the bed and you're flipping through TV channels. One of your best guy friends that graduated last year calls you up when he hears you're in the City. You promise your dad a Gatorade if he's a good boy and set out to explore this place you've waited your life to see.
Chinatown was first. Block after block full of signs you can't read. Souvenir shops smaller than your hotel room have the same merchandise as the next. But it's cute there.
Then comes Little Italy. You halfway expect Don Vito Corleone to step out of the corner store, get shot, and start a giant car chase. Somewhat disappointingly, that doesn't happen. You walk into Joe's Pizza, order a slice, and stand. You just stand there. Overly tall tables of very small diameters fill the small eatery. You eat quickly so the line that swirls out the door can come inside. He takes you down to the subway.
You expect to see rats as big as your forearm and roaches longer than your fingers. Thankfully, none are found. A subway pass is purchased and you swipe it. You run into the gate. Twice. Your friend laughs at you as the New Yorkers behind you get irritated. Looking like a tourist makes you frustrated so you swipe the damn card furiously. It lets you in. "Yeah, you better," you mutter to yourself.
"Oh, yeah. It's rush hour, by the way," your friend mentions as if it's no big deal. Great. You have to stand in the subway, which you don't mind, really. The train starts suddenly, without warning. Falling over, you become acquainted with the businessman standing behind you. He's attractive, so it's okay, but you grin sheepishly and pull yourself together. The subway halts; it happens again. He laughs at you this time. So does your friend.
The Arts District is next.
Then the subway.
Then to Broadway, 32nd Street.
Then the subway.
Then to Times Square, the face of New York City. Hustle and bustle surrounds you and you feel a bit claustrophobic, but, hey, you're in the greatest city in the world, so you try to ignore it.
Next, Grand Central Station, Rockefeller Center, the place where they put the gigundous Christmas tree.
Then the subway, again.
Then the Brooklyn Bridge.
Then the subway.
Next thing you know, your feet are killing you and you have no idea where you are. You see your hotel in the distance and remember that you promise your sickly father a bottle of Gatorade. It's 11 pm and nothing is open. The two of you walk a 5 block radius with no luck. About an hour into your Epic Search for the Holy Gatorade, you see a convenience store across the street from your hotel. You roll your eyes and pay the 2 bucks for a bottle. A long, agonizing stair climb later, you're back in your room, pouring a glass of Gatorade for your sleeping dad. A quick shower, a change into pajamas, and you're asleep too.
The next day, you're up early. Pappy feels better, which is good, but you aren't in a good mood. Your feet hurt and so does your head. But you came to this city to look at NYU's "campus" and that's what you intend to do. Your generally directionally advanced fahjah gets south and north confused, somehow, so you're on a wild goose chase to find the Admissions Office. A cop helps you out and kinda snickers at the way you pronounce "Houston". You're late to the informational meeting, but your tour guide rocks and is a musical theatre major, which you can appreciate.
Nothing stands out here and you're sad. This is New York. You've been singing, talking, thinking about living in and visiting this city since you were 8. It's not bad and you don't hate it, but you can't see yourself here.
You get a bite to eat and return to your hotel for a nap. You wake up four hours later with the barfs. Thanking you father in your head with a few choice words for handing off the torch of sickness, you lay on the cold floor of the bathroom. Pappy leaves with your camera, feeling perfectly fine. It sucks to be cooped up, barfing, on St. Patty's Day in New York City. However, lying in bed watching reruns of 30 Rock, Seinfeld, Friends, and CSI:NY make you feel like you're really out exploring. You fall asleep.
You wake up and your father looks at you, a little green around the gills and says, "Let's get the hell outta this town."
You do.
And this is New York City.
Later Days
Peace
H
P.S. I'm sorry that this is soooo extremely late.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
American Food
It's no wonder America is thought of as the fattest country.
Mozzarella sticks: breaded cheese sticks. I recently found out that they taste the same without the cheese in the middle.
Hamburgers: ground steak on bread. Then people start stacking patties. Double and Triple quarter-pounders.
Hotdogs: mystery meat wrapped in sheep intestine. Yum. And you're wrong. You really don't know what's in a hot dog. They put leftovers, also known as Variety Meats, in hotdogs. That means livers, hearts, a mixture of beef, turkey, pork, chicken, and whatever else is left. Have you ever noticed that hotdogs are relatively cheap? It's because low quality leftovers are used to produce them.
Snack Cakes: daily calorie hogs. I have to admit that zebra cakes are like manna from heaven. However, one package would make up one-fourth of my suggested caloric intake.
Onion Rings: breaded onions. A vegetable that's healthy for the body but that wreaks havoc upon the breath is coated with flour and spices then fried. What's the point? I still don't see how someone came up with doing that.
French Fries. Nuff said.
Hot Wings.
Chicken Fingers.
Chicken Fried Steak.
Chili. (maybe you'll be lucky and find a finger!)
Steak.
Pan Pizza. (Italians made pizza thin for a reason)
Vienna Sausages. (I've seen someone drink the leftover juice - not pretty)
Jello. (there are cow bones in that stuff)
Those individual fruit pies. (they use beef fat. I'm still not sure why)
Tex-Mex. (Mexican food already involves frying; why refry?)
It's often said, "You are what you eat." I guess that would make us as Americans stereotypically greasy and fried. Looking around, I see that it's true. It's been proven that chocolate intake doesn't cause acne and other skin problems. However, eating greasy foods does. I see greasy faces and greasy hair that stem from our greasy fingers. Of course, the body naturally produces its own oils but the amount of oil put into the blood stream through food consumption adds more. As for fried, we fake bake. We bleach and color our hair until it's a lovely shade of tye-dye. In the end, we are popcorn chicken. We're crispy, fried around the edges, and too 'chicken' to do anything about it.
I'm not trying to turn anyone vegetarian, but maybe we should do unto our bodies as we would want them to do unto us. In other words, if you wanna be greasy, eat greasy foods. If not, don't.
Later Days
Peace
H
Mozzarella sticks: breaded cheese sticks. I recently found out that they taste the same without the cheese in the middle.
Hamburgers: ground steak on bread. Then people start stacking patties. Double and Triple quarter-pounders.
Hotdogs: mystery meat wrapped in sheep intestine. Yum. And you're wrong. You really don't know what's in a hot dog. They put leftovers, also known as Variety Meats, in hotdogs. That means livers, hearts, a mixture of beef, turkey, pork, chicken, and whatever else is left. Have you ever noticed that hotdogs are relatively cheap? It's because low quality leftovers are used to produce them.
Snack Cakes: daily calorie hogs. I have to admit that zebra cakes are like manna from heaven. However, one package would make up one-fourth of my suggested caloric intake.
Onion Rings: breaded onions. A vegetable that's healthy for the body but that wreaks havoc upon the breath is coated with flour and spices then fried. What's the point? I still don't see how someone came up with doing that.
French Fries. Nuff said.
Hot Wings.
Chicken Fingers.
Chicken Fried Steak.
Chili. (maybe you'll be lucky and find a finger!)
Steak.
Pan Pizza. (Italians made pizza thin for a reason)
Vienna Sausages. (I've seen someone drink the leftover juice - not pretty)
Jello. (there are cow bones in that stuff)
Those individual fruit pies. (they use beef fat. I'm still not sure why)
Tex-Mex. (Mexican food already involves frying; why refry?)
It's often said, "You are what you eat." I guess that would make us as Americans stereotypically greasy and fried. Looking around, I see that it's true. It's been proven that chocolate intake doesn't cause acne and other skin problems. However, eating greasy foods does. I see greasy faces and greasy hair that stem from our greasy fingers. Of course, the body naturally produces its own oils but the amount of oil put into the blood stream through food consumption adds more. As for fried, we fake bake. We bleach and color our hair until it's a lovely shade of tye-dye. In the end, we are popcorn chicken. We're crispy, fried around the edges, and too 'chicken' to do anything about it.
I'm not trying to turn anyone vegetarian, but maybe we should do unto our bodies as we would want them to do unto us. In other words, if you wanna be greasy, eat greasy foods. If not, don't.
Later Days
Peace
H
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
So Long a Letter
Dear G-ma,
You're sick now, really sick. I read Jessica's letter yesterday and figured that I should write one of my own. It's true, obviously, that I'm not one of your real grandchildren. Sure, Chandler and I are extremely close, but I'm not actually one of Sherilyn's kids. Ashley and Lucas aren't my siblings, neither is Brent. But, somehow, I always felt like I belonged right in the middle of your family's shenanigans.
Gratitude is the first thing I want to express to you. I'm thankful that you love me as one of your own grandchildren. You came to see my musical last semester just to see me. Chan wasn't in the musical at all and you didn't know anyone else in the production, but you came anyway. I spat on you right before intermission, but you still loved every minute of it. My favorite part of the care you gave me is that it "killed two birds with one stone", as Chan would say. The compassion and love you show me not only makes me feel special and one-of-a-kind, but you manage to make every single person you come into contact with feel the same way. I know we never really got to know each other, G-ma, so let me brief you. I hate conformity. I don't like the idea that I'm the same as someone else. If it were anyone else giving every individual as much attention as you do, I would be jealous out of my mind. It's still a mystery to me how I don't ever feel that way at all. I'm not jealous of the way you care for every single person with whom you come into contact. Your heart's big enough for the world over and I appreciate that greatly.
Secondly comes awe. As I sat in the hospital with your lovely, lovely family, I've heard stories of your past. Jessica, Chandler, and Lucas sang me your special alphabet song. I nearly peed myself from laughter. Though I never got to read it with you, I've heard that the miraculous Sleep Book written by the wonderfully philosophical Dr. Suess has hypnotic powers. Another thing about me, I'm a pessimist. I've always figured that being negative is ultimately beneficial in life: I'm either proven right (which I always enjoy) or I'm pleasantly surprised. It was there, in that hospital room that I learned the true powers of an optimistic mind. When I walked in, I saw tubes, IV's, packets of donated blood and bone marrow. When your family walked in, all they saw was you. Tubes and IV's didn't have that negative connotation in their eyes; they were proof of hope. Donated blood and bone marrow didn't exhibit dependency; they showed the love of a stranger. Every single person that walked in that room admires you. They admire your strength, your perseverance, your faith in God. But out of all of them, I think I admire you most. Out of anyone I have ever known, you have the most right to be cranky and to force that miserableness upon everyone. You don't, though. You never complained once. You hold your head high because you know where you're going after this small pit stop. You know that you have something stronger than cancer. You have God. That faith amazes me. I appreciate it greatly.
Last, I just want to say some things. This is in no way you giving up. I would never think that of you. This is what you want for yourself. You've spoken to God and you know this is what He wants for you. Your family is still trying to wrap their minds around the thought. But don't worry about them; you've taught them well. I'll take care of them for you, if you'll let me. In my mind, there was so much I had wanted to say, but, suddenly, nothing will come out. In that case, I'll say one last thing. Cancer didn't beat you, not at all. You aren't succumbing to it. This is God's way of healing; He has many different ways and this is just one of them. He's taking your damaged earthly body in exchange for an unimaginable and wonderfully new one. He's giving you one that's brand new, that never hurts. Now, if you ask me, that's the best kind of healing I've ever heard of.
With Love,
Hayleigh
P.S. When you get up there, say hello to my great-grandmother. She doesn't speak English very well, but I'm sure if you ask nicely, God will teach you some Ukrainian.
You're sick now, really sick. I read Jessica's letter yesterday and figured that I should write one of my own. It's true, obviously, that I'm not one of your real grandchildren. Sure, Chandler and I are extremely close, but I'm not actually one of Sherilyn's kids. Ashley and Lucas aren't my siblings, neither is Brent. But, somehow, I always felt like I belonged right in the middle of your family's shenanigans.
Gratitude is the first thing I want to express to you. I'm thankful that you love me as one of your own grandchildren. You came to see my musical last semester just to see me. Chan wasn't in the musical at all and you didn't know anyone else in the production, but you came anyway. I spat on you right before intermission, but you still loved every minute of it. My favorite part of the care you gave me is that it "killed two birds with one stone", as Chan would say. The compassion and love you show me not only makes me feel special and one-of-a-kind, but you manage to make every single person you come into contact with feel the same way. I know we never really got to know each other, G-ma, so let me brief you. I hate conformity. I don't like the idea that I'm the same as someone else. If it were anyone else giving every individual as much attention as you do, I would be jealous out of my mind. It's still a mystery to me how I don't ever feel that way at all. I'm not jealous of the way you care for every single person with whom you come into contact. Your heart's big enough for the world over and I appreciate that greatly.
Secondly comes awe. As I sat in the hospital with your lovely, lovely family, I've heard stories of your past. Jessica, Chandler, and Lucas sang me your special alphabet song. I nearly peed myself from laughter. Though I never got to read it with you, I've heard that the miraculous Sleep Book written by the wonderfully philosophical Dr. Suess has hypnotic powers. Another thing about me, I'm a pessimist. I've always figured that being negative is ultimately beneficial in life: I'm either proven right (which I always enjoy) or I'm pleasantly surprised. It was there, in that hospital room that I learned the true powers of an optimistic mind. When I walked in, I saw tubes, IV's, packets of donated blood and bone marrow. When your family walked in, all they saw was you. Tubes and IV's didn't have that negative connotation in their eyes; they were proof of hope. Donated blood and bone marrow didn't exhibit dependency; they showed the love of a stranger. Every single person that walked in that room admires you. They admire your strength, your perseverance, your faith in God. But out of all of them, I think I admire you most. Out of anyone I have ever known, you have the most right to be cranky and to force that miserableness upon everyone. You don't, though. You never complained once. You hold your head high because you know where you're going after this small pit stop. You know that you have something stronger than cancer. You have God. That faith amazes me. I appreciate it greatly.
Last, I just want to say some things. This is in no way you giving up. I would never think that of you. This is what you want for yourself. You've spoken to God and you know this is what He wants for you. Your family is still trying to wrap their minds around the thought. But don't worry about them; you've taught them well. I'll take care of them for you, if you'll let me. In my mind, there was so much I had wanted to say, but, suddenly, nothing will come out. In that case, I'll say one last thing. Cancer didn't beat you, not at all. You aren't succumbing to it. This is God's way of healing; He has many different ways and this is just one of them. He's taking your damaged earthly body in exchange for an unimaginable and wonderfully new one. He's giving you one that's brand new, that never hurts. Now, if you ask me, that's the best kind of healing I've ever heard of.
With Love,
Hayleigh
P.S. When you get up there, say hello to my great-grandmother. She doesn't speak English very well, but I'm sure if you ask nicely, God will teach you some Ukrainian.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
"Want a bottle of water?"
"I need something way stronger than that..."
--a conversation between my father and a coworker
"I need something way stronger than that..."
--a conversation between my father and a coworker
Monday, March 15, 2010
Road Trip Entry #2: Boston
You cling to the seat in front of you as the worst flight you've ever been on lands. Now that the menace journey that's comparable to the Texas Giant is over, you overhear natives speaking about "the T". The wind blows your hair askew and cold rain stings your retinas. It's no Texas thunderstorm, so you're set, but the rest of the town isn't. Rain water floods the highway so the airport shuttle takes twice as long to find you a rental car. You drive around aimlessly for an hour, trying to find your hotel. Nothing is on TV. The wi-fi doesn't work. You go to sleep.
The next morning, the alarm clock sounds. You get up. The GPS becomes your best friend as you scramble back into your car. Major intersections and roads are closed and you're already late to your meeting. Your possible future is minutes away, but your so-called best friend won't give you correct directions to the college campus. The rain lightens as you pull up to the Undergrad Admissions Reception Center. Up and down both sides of the street are quaint brownstone-style dormitories.
It's then that that classic feeling all your older college friends speak about happens. You begin to remember all those times you "wanted to get away" but couldn't afford Southwest. Closing your eyes, you were able to escape any overwhelming stress or emotional trauma. Autumn would fill your mind; trees had leaves in the summer but didn't in the winter. There were seasons. But most of all, you would see a fresh slate. Reminiscing, you close your eyes, still standing like an idiot on the slippery marble stairs. You remember where you are and your eyes snap open. When you open your eyes, that image that has brought you so much peace is still there. It's tangible; it's real.
The college information session draws to a close and you've fallen even further in love than you were when you were standing numbly on the front steps. Your tour guides show you the rest of the campus. The group you're with complains about the cold and the rain and how they can't seem to make their umbrellas stay in their original formations. Unlike them, you're satisfied; you're in love. You haven't met the love of your life, no, but you have looked into your future. You know this is where you're meant to be.
This is Boston Unversity.
H
The next morning, the alarm clock sounds. You get up. The GPS becomes your best friend as you scramble back into your car. Major intersections and roads are closed and you're already late to your meeting. Your possible future is minutes away, but your so-called best friend won't give you correct directions to the college campus. The rain lightens as you pull up to the Undergrad Admissions Reception Center. Up and down both sides of the street are quaint brownstone-style dormitories.
It's then that that classic feeling all your older college friends speak about happens. You begin to remember all those times you "wanted to get away" but couldn't afford Southwest. Closing your eyes, you were able to escape any overwhelming stress or emotional trauma. Autumn would fill your mind; trees had leaves in the summer but didn't in the winter. There were seasons. But most of all, you would see a fresh slate. Reminiscing, you close your eyes, still standing like an idiot on the slippery marble stairs. You remember where you are and your eyes snap open. When you open your eyes, that image that has brought you so much peace is still there. It's tangible; it's real.
The college information session draws to a close and you've fallen even further in love than you were when you were standing numbly on the front steps. Your tour guides show you the rest of the campus. The group you're with complains about the cold and the rain and how they can't seem to make their umbrellas stay in their original formations. Unlike them, you're satisfied; you're in love. You haven't met the love of your life, no, but you have looked into your future. You know this is where you're meant to be.
This is Boston Unversity.
H
Road Trip Entry #1: Tennessee, Arkansas
You speed down the backroads faster than you ever would on the highway. It's a two lane road. A rusty road sign stands lazily to the right, telling you to take the upcoming curve at least 30 mph slower than you're driving. As always, the left lane is empty as it has been for about an hour, so you swerve over and drive down the middle. You rev the engine and smile as the 8-cylinder Ford pickup hums beneath your foot. There's no point in carrying a license around; no one is out to get you. Static from the poor radio reception fills the cab. Feeling a little like Fonzie, you smack the dashboard and, depending on the day, the radio either fixes itself or turns all the way off. The next curve nears and you start back towards the center of the lanes until you hear the rumbling of a '67 Chevy. You pass the driver, an adorable, young, blond kid in a plaid shirt, and exchange an embarrassed smirk. The accelerator scrapes the floor; the speed increases.
Horses gallop across fields whose fences couldn't stop them. The wild beasts, muscles tensing and pulsing, run in circles just to feel the breeze. Cows chew cud. Cell phones don't get reception. Internet is available only by a modem. But it's beautiful here. When it rains, the grass is so green that Ireland is put to shame. You might think it's impossible, but, at night, it's pitch black and, yet, so bright. The moon and the stars glisten in the pure, smog-free sky. Prudent, unabridged, natural beauty.
This is the country.
H
Saturday, February 20, 2010
I Love Movies Too!
This is inspired by Olivier. His blog is one of my Not So Weakest Links.
Plot Twist Movies:
Everything is Illuminated
The Maltese Falcon
Sixth Sense
Signs
Holy Cows of Heaven! Movies: (Did that seriously just happen? or What in the world just happened?!)
Shutter Island
Memento
Science of Sleep
Donnie Darko
Sick House
Kick Rear Movies:
The Godfather
Public Enemies
The Dark Knight
Elf
Forest Gump
Movies That Leave You (Me, mostly) Speechless:
Into the Wild
200 Days of Summer
Schindler's List
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
Why-did-they-make-this? Movies:
Material Girl
The Sting
Boogeyman 2
All The Sandlot's after the first one
Carrie (sorry. i just didn't like it.)
Not-so-classy Movies That I Love:
Phantom of the Opera
Mamma Mia
Spiderman 3
Clue
Airplane
Best Classic Movies:
Strangers on a Train
Singing in the Rain
The Music Man
Casablanca
West Side Story
Later Days
Peace
H
Plot Twist Movies:
Everything is Illuminated
The Maltese Falcon
Sixth Sense
Signs
Holy Cows of Heaven! Movies: (Did that seriously just happen? or What in the world just happened?!)
Shutter Island
Memento
Science of Sleep
Donnie Darko
Sick House
Kick Rear Movies:
The Godfather
Public Enemies
The Dark Knight
Elf
Forest Gump
Movies That Leave You (Me, mostly) Speechless:
Into the Wild
200 Days of Summer
Schindler's List
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
Why-did-they-make-this? Movies:
Material Girl
The Sting
Boogeyman 2
All The Sandlot's after the first one
Carrie (sorry. i just didn't like it.)
Not-so-classy Movies That I Love:
Phantom of the Opera
Mamma Mia
Spiderman 3
Clue
Airplane
Best Classic Movies:
Strangers on a Train
Singing in the Rain
The Music Man
Casablanca
West Side Story
Later Days
Peace
H
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