For as long as I can remember, I have spent my birthday night with family. Some days, my birthday fell on Thanksgiving, and we enjoyed turkey and stuffing and cake. Most birthdays, though, involved dinner out with my parents, brothers and, most recently, Rama. It's a tradition I have grown to love.

When I found out my brother Ricky and his girlfriend Brooke were going to be in town for my 30th birthday and the holiday weekend, I was thrilled. I couldn't wait to add two to the dinner reservation. I imagined a nice meal out, followed by cake at home and games through the wee hours of the morning.

The plan was this: Rama would come pick me up at 6:30, we'd drive to my parents' house in OC and we'd go to one of my favorite seafood restaurants. In the car, Rama asked me if I knew what I was going to order. "Hmm...maybe some grilled shrimp," I said. "Or fish. And mashed potatoes!"

"Do you think your mom will have cake?" he asked.

"If she doesn't," I said, "it just means we can order dessert." I was quite satisfied with this answer. I was hungry, too.

The drive was a bit long and the traffic was kind of awful, but we made it. As I pulled into my parents' housing complex, I noticed a mass of people standing by the clubhouse. It was hard not to notice them, actually. There were at least 20 or 30 people just milling about. I wondered what was going on at the clubhouse but not enough to get suspicious.

As I drove up closer, though, a few of them walked toward the street and a couple leapt right in our path. "What the @^*!?" I exclaimed to Rama. Just then, a cousin of mine came into view. And then another and another and--OH MY GOSH! It hit me like a ton of bricks. It was a party. A birthday party. For me.

My cousins offered to park my car, so I got out and slowly greeted all these people from all corners of my life--Mom, Dad, Ricky, Brooke. Aunties, uncles, cousins. Friends from grade school, friends from college, friends from church. They all came to celebrate my 30th birthday. In Orange County. On a Tuesday night. I felt tongue-tied and starry-eyed and overwhelmed with all this love.

As if that wasn't surprise enough, there was more.

At the bottom of a beautiful pile of gifts was a box wrapped in red paper and yellow starred ribbon. It was from Rama. He'd told me earlier that I probably knew what it was, but when I lifted it off the ground I realized I didn't have a clue. It was heavy.

Tearing off a sliver of paper revealed a yellow wooden box. Tearing off more revealed a gorgeously hand-painted box. "The We Love Christine Box," it said in hand-drawn letters above an illustration of me as a little girl dressed as Wonder Woman. Inside, there were gorgeous paintings, letters, photographs, stories, poems, music mixes and trinkets. Each was a treasure in and of itself, and together it was like an archaelogist's dream discovery come true. So much history and heart.

Beyond the obvious, there were some beautiful things about the whole affair. Like how Rama had been planning this surprise since my 28th birthday but I unknowingly beat him to the punch with a similar surprise last year. Or how my friend Carrie, who's 7 months pregnant, drove from San Diego because it broke her heart to be anywhere else. Or how my 89-year-old grandmother contributed stories from my childhood that even I'd forgotten.

Everything about my 30th birthday was pure magic, not because of what people gave me, but because of who those people have been. I am who I am because of them. They celebrated me, but I don't know if they realize that in doing so they were also celebrating themselves.

quiet 16 November 2005

What is it about these autumn months that has kept me so quiet? Maybe it's the weather—the coolness that inspires cups of tea and a good book. Maybe it's the festivities that surround this time of year—the baby showers, the birthday celebrations, the holidays that keep me driving all around town. Or maybe I'm just getting shy in my older age. I don't like to talk as much as I used to.

Whatever the reason, I decided today I'd speak up. I'd say hi.

So, hi.

I'm drinking a cup of afternoon coffee and printing holiday cards. It's 80-something degrees out, but I've got Christmas on the brain. I've already gotten a stash of gifts beneath my desk and a list of more to buy. It seems soon, I know, but a week from tomorrow is Thanskgiving, and we all know how Christmas always sneaks up right after that. This year, I'm gonna be ready when it does.

first chill 26 October 2005

The first chill of the season always comes as a surprise. One minute, you're wearing tank tops and flip-flops and the next you're wishing you'd brought your sweater.

business 18 October 2005

Last night, I made my first bulk wholesale order for some Darling t-shirts that I'm going to start selling. I stared at the web form for several minutes before I mustered up the courage to click "submit." Why the hesitation? Because ordering a few dozen t-shirts makes all of this real. I'm not just coming up with "great ideas." I'm not just thinking, "Hey, I could do that." I'm actually doing it.

It's nerve-racking to make such an investment, but it's also very exciting too. I'm releasing my ideas into the world. That's so cool.

catching up 13 October 2005

I'm at a loss for words these days.

By the time I've caught up on email, written in my journal, called my mom, gabbed with girlfriends and penned a letter to my grandma, I feel all talked out.

Some days, I obsess about the wedding. Other days, I drown myself in work. The good days, though, are the ones when I feel like I get a little bit of everything done. When I end up sitting across from Rama at the dinner table sharing all the bits and pieces I accomplished and all the odds and ends I still get to do.

There is so much going on. I'm going to show some pieces in a small local art show to benefit the hurricane victims. I'm going to launch the Darling shop once and for all. I'm going to turn 30.

Gosh, I remember when "thirty" sounded ancient. Now I laugh at the thought. I feel like all the really good stuff is just around the bend.

fragile 05 October 2005

It's been one of those difficult and trying, life-is-fragile weeks. The trials and tribulations aren't mine to tell, and I'm not going l to list them like laundry here. All I can say is that people dear to me are hurting, and I hate that.

The one thing that is magic in all this is that I can be there for them. I have experienced enough that I know how it feels and I have words to share that actually mean something. Is it wisdom? Is it empathy? Whatever it is, it's such a gift.

I am grateful for that, and I am grateful for the people who support me when I need it. I'm even strangely grateful for these kinds of weeks, because it reminds me not to take any of this for granted.

r u 4 real? 08 September 2005

Walking out of the post office this morning, a man wearing a white undershirt and gold chain crossed my path. "Good morning," he said, as he got closer to me.

"Good morning," I smiled. I'd been up since 7-something and felt pretty good about the day.

Right as we passed one another, he said: "Here, you need one of these." I looked down at his hand and saw a slip of paper. In black ballpoint ink, it read "Ron," with a phone number. Without having time to think, I laughed and said "No, thank you!" He laughed, too, and kept on walking.

In my car, I remembered how my friends and I used to think how funny it would be to have pre-written phone numbers ready for such chance meetings. We didn't realize that people actually do it.

katrina 06 September 2005

What is there to say that hasn't already been said? I am speechless and have been for days. My heart is with everyone who has been affected by Hurricane Katrina.

If you want to help those in need but don't know how, check out this great list of organizations and efforts.

Also, Crafters United is an effort near and dear to my crafty heart. Crafters and designers all over the world have teamed up to sell their wares, with 100% of the proceeds going to the Red Cross. They've already raised over $12,000! I donated a few sets of my Sweet Notes cards. There are so many lovely goodies there, and I suggest you check it out.

Note: Thanks to everyone who bought note cards. They're sold out. But stay tuned, because the Darling Shoppe will open later this fall.

four months on the job 29 August 2005

I am continually learning what it means to make art and make art my living in my darling little studio in the corner of my bedroom.

re-creation 24 August 2005

Two of the quickie collages I made this afternoon, in my neverending quest to let go and get messy. "Don't think!" I kept reminding myself. "Just glue!"

My friend Christine came over today and, after having a lovely breakfast at one of my favorite neighborhood spots, we made a glorious mess in the afternoon sun. It was so much fun.

I forget how important it is to do that—not just to make art and make a mess, but to do it side by side with another colorful soul. Sometimes, there's chatter between creating ("Can I borrow a stamp pad?" and "Here, have some glitter tape."), but there can also be complete and utter silence. Both are so nice. Both make the experience.

I broke in a new sketchbook, and it was kind of exhilarating. I've always loved the promise of a blank page, but now I'm also learning to appreciate the beauty of one filled with scribbles, blotches and brilliant, messy color.

tagged 11 August 2005

I don't normally play blog games or spread memes, but I can't refuse my favorite Penelope. So, okay. Here are five idiosyncrasies of mine:

1. I have a funny walk. I didn't know I did until my friend Erlina saw a picture that Rama drew of us on his web site and told me she recognized it as me because of the funny walk. "I have a funny walk?" I asked Rama. "Oh yeah!" he said. It has been described as a waddle—a cute one.

2. I hate peas, but I like split-pea soup. I'm told that fresh peas are different, that I'll love fresh peas, but I'm doubtful.

3. Sometimes, I start a letter by writing a draft on a scrap piece of paper (or in a text document). When I've written and read and re-wrote and re-read the letter, I'll transfer it in nice handwriting on nice stationery.

4. Speaking of writing, I am always in search of the perfect pen, and I am protective of the ones I like. I purposely bring a crappy pen in my purse to give out when someone asks to borrow a pen. That way, if they forget to give it back, I haven't lost anything precious.

5. I can get sucked into almost any movie on television—no matter how crappy it is. An example: Rama and I were supposed to go out one afternoon, but Gremlins II was on. After 5 minutes, I was hooked and ended up asking him if we could finish it before leaving.

What are some of yours?

i'm a big kid, now 06 August 2005

There was a new guy, a boy in his early teens with thick brown hair and big teeth. Like a lot of teenagers, he had a short attention span and flitted from one person to another, starting stories but never finishing them.

"Where are the kids?" he said. I looked around to see many of my fellow volunteers, other people in their 20s and 30s, but not many other teens. Youth group in the summer is unpredictable. Sometimes, a couple dozen kids show up. Other times we're lucky to get 10.

"We are the kids," I said.

He thought I was trying to make a fool of him, but I wasn't. When I hang out with these teenagers, stuffing popcorn and red vines into my mouth, telling silly stories and laughing at stupid jokes, I feel like the biggest kid of them all.

c'mon, get messy 04 August 2005

Oh man, I'm wiped out today. I've been working hard, and I can feel it in my eyes and my fingers and my neck. Cramps don't help, either. Or the bloating. Or the cravings for everything chocolate. I am still up against one more deadline for the week, and I don't know how I'll get it done.

This is me trying to write about the real stuff.

This is me trying not to impress you.

It's harder than you'd think.

I have been doing experiments all summer in letting go, getting messy and spilling open. There's a page in my sketchbook where I tried intentionally to write as quickly as I could; I even used a brush tip pen instead of my usual uniball. But instead of looking beautiful and messy, the page just looks sloppy and muddy. I've been tempted so often to just tear the page right out and pretend it never existed, and I know that's totally ridiculous. You can't mess up getting messy, right?

dead sea skin solution 29 July 2005

Some neighbors bring you candy or bake you pies, but our neighbors give us mud.

They took a trip to the Dead Sea and came back with a packet of mud. Apparently, the stuff is chock full of minerals that do wonders for your skin. People slather it on their bodies and lay by the water, baking in the hot sun, hoping to see silky smooth results.

I've never done the whole mud mask thing, and Rima is always trying new skin treatments, and we like to think we're both open to new experiences. So, we figured, what the hell, let's try it. We got up early this morning, slipped on ratty tank tops and shorts, pulled our hair back with headbands and got out some towels. We also made a pot of coffee.

I rubbed the mud on my face with one hand and held a mirror with the other, leaving holes for my eyes and nostrils and mouth. It was darker than we thought it would be. And it tingled a little bit. And, oh yeah, it stunk. Bad.

"I feel like an elephant," Rima said.

"I feel like a tar pit," I said.

After covering our faces, arms and knees with the stinky sticky mud, we went to the front porch to bake under the sun. We had hats on our heads to disguise us and coffee in our hands to keep us company. Every time we thought somebody was driving up or walking by, we'd quickly turn around so that they couldn't see how silly we looked. It didn't occur to me until I was rinsing off in the shower, that two girls with muddy arms and hats staring at the front of their house would have looked ridiculous no matter what.

Our skin is pretty silky and smooth, though.

sears saved my life 25 July 2005

I learned a new phrase yesterday: "It's a cooker!" We were at Home Depot when Marcia said it, and I thought she was referring to the grills we were passing, but it turns out she meant the weather. It was boiling hot.

I had a little panic attack on Saturday because some girls from church were at my house baking cookies for our youth group bake sale when, for no reason, my electric fan died. "What are we going to do?" I wondered. "What am I going to do?" With each question, I got progressively more and more panicked. "I can't work under these conditions! I can't live under these conditions! I'm going to die this summer!"

After we baked six dozen cookies, I hopped online and began shopping for cooling systems. I tried Lowes, Home Depot, Sam's Club, Costco and Amazon.com. Everyone was sold out, though. Some sales people even laughed at me when I asked if they had any in stock, as if I had just asked the most ridiculous question in the world.

Thank God for the Santa Monica Sears and its overachieving store manager. She had overstocked small air-conditioning units, the model that just happens to be the perfect size for my room, and they had several left. Plus, they were on sale. I didn't have to think twice before handing over my credit card.

Last night, Rama came over to install it and today I enjoyed wonderfully cool temperatures while I worked on design projects. Sears is my hero.

bridezilla-to-be 20 July 2005

Unlike many girls, I never really daydreamed about my wedding day. I imagined what kind of career I'd have, the sort of car I'd drive and the type of house I'd call home. I even fantasized about having a family and in that fantasy there was always a husband. I just never imagined the day that he'd become mine.

But now that Rama and I are engaged and, knock on wood, getting married in 10 months, I can't stop thinking about our wedding day.

Well, partly it's because I have to. We've picked a date and chosen our ceremony location, and now we have to find a reception spot.

Mostly, though, I like thinking about it. I enjoy flipping through bridal magazines, I look forward to tearing out pages and slipping them into my wedding binder, I have a wedding binder, and I just love those emails that tell me how many more weeks until Rama and I tie the knot.

I guess that's the weird part. This obsession is new to me. I told Michelle that I'm afraid of becoming a bridezilla. I'm worried that I will put our wedding before our ever-blossoming relationship. I'm nervous that I will focus too much and too long on every little detail of this one day. Michelle says it's not possible and Rama says the fact that I even think about that means that I'm probably safe. I hope they're right.

it's only 2, what else should we do? 13 July 2005

This weekend, I was spoiled with time. So much time to sit and sketch and talk and laugh and sit some more. So much time with so many amazingly wonderful people. So much time that, rather than rushing from one place to the next like I so often do, I found myself trying to find ways to fill all this glorious extra time because I had nowhere to be for another couple hours.

I guess that's vacation for you.

Now, I'm back to the grind, although truthfully I'm still not too sure what "the grind" is, anymore. This morning, it's been coffee and toast by the window, followed by phone calls with current and potential clients. This afternoon, I've got a site to update and emails to answer. Tomorrow, though, will be filled with something else entirely. I'm just not sure what, yet.

the best seats in the house 07 July 2005

We drove up a steep and windy road to get there. When we reached the top of the hill, we scrambled out of the car and made our way through the house to the backyard. Rama and I found two lawn chairs in the corner of the yard and sat down. We were just in time for the fireworks.

I turned to Rama to see where he was looking, but he was looking at me.

"I see fireworks in your eyes," he said.

It sounded like a line out of a movie, but he meant it literally: There were fireworks everywhere. A big glittery show directly in front of us (in Burbank, I think), another display way off to the right (was that the ocean?) and several small and at least half a dozen illegal fireworks shooting into the sky (they felt dangerously close). Even the hills were glowing.

I felt silly that, just an hour before, I had bragged about how I used to see Disneyland's fireworks from my family's backyard every night, because this was unlike any fireworks show I'd ever seen. The entire sky was lit up in dazzling color, and we had the best seats in the house.

the little yellow house 01 July 2005

Last night, my dad and I took a drive to the house where I grew up. They're in the process of fixing it up, and Dad wanted me to see the progress that's been made.

From the front yard, it's the same old house, with some torn up roots and a new paint job. Walking inside, though, I hardly recognized it.

Where was the window I used to climb through when Ricky and I got locked out of the house? Where was the tiny pink bathroom that I used to pretend was my own secret haven? Where was the laundry area where I taught my grandparents to play mahjong?

It probably didn't help that just the other day I had looked through my old photo albums, so my childhood home was fresh in my mind.

Everything has changed, my dad explained, proudly giving me the tour. The bathroom is now the master bedroom. My bedroom is now a bathroom. There are new hardwood floors, new windows, new cabinets. Everything is new.

I imagine it might be a dream come true for a couple just starting out—or even for my parents beginning their early retirement, but for the little girl inside me, it was a little bit heartbreaking.

mini-vacation 29 June 2005

I'm at my parents' house for the next few days. A mini-vacation, I call it, since I'm not sure how much work I'll actually get done on my little old ibook. In addition to my computer, I've brought my sketchbook, my watercolors and a stack of bridal magazines. But I have a sneaking suspicion I'll just end up sleeping in and watching a lot of cable.

I wonder if there's ice cream in the fridge.

saturday night fever 25 June 2005

In the past 24 hours, I've launched two projects and I feel a hundred times lighter. I can't tell you how giddy I got when I moved the client folders from "active" to "inactive." I thought I should ride the high while it lasted and, after putting away some laundry, got ready to make my long overdue update to the Darling site.

Then Rama called to see what I was up to. Working, I told him.

"It's Saturday!" he chided me.

"Oh yeah," I said. I'd forgotten that for almost everyone else, it was the precious weekend. Time to let loose and unwind.

So I closed Photoshop and quit Mail. I cleared off my bed and got a DVD from Rima's shelf. And, as soon as I update this web site, I'm watching Mrs. Robinson and reading magazines in bed.

guess what? 22 June 2005

Every day is a surprise.

I have learned that the act of making coffee (and maybe also smelling the coffee) is what wakes me up—not actually drinking it. I've learned that traffic isn't so bad when you don't have to fight it everyday. I've learned that if you actually like the work you do you don't count the minutes until lunch or the days until the weekend—in fact, sometimes you forget to eat lunch until late in the afternoon and you work through the weekend because you are enjoying it that much.

I am learning so much about business and design and people and myself that I'm almost embarrassed that I ever pretended to know anything at all. I have so much to learn and so much to do, and I am so grateful that I have this time to do it.

the things i don't miss about my old office job 16 June 2005

1. Traffic. There are few things more frustrating than going 5 miles an hour on a major highway, especially when you realize that you live 20+ miles away and, if you continue at that speed, it will take over 4 hours to get home.

2. Cubicles. I actually love having my own little space, but I hate that awful beige office color that covered the walls. It just made me feel so blah.

3. Micro-management. That feeling that somebody is always looking over your shoulder — or worse, literally having someone look over your shoulder while you try to work. I much prefer working independently, and I think I'm better at it.

4. Meetings that go on forever. And ever. And ever. And you can't even figure out why.

5. Drama. Enough said.

6. The Refrigerator Thief. I still can't believe there are people out there who will take food that doesn't belong to them, but there are. First it was my yogurt. Then, my salad dressing. I don't miss walking to the refrigerator to grab a snack only to realize that my snack has disappeared.

7. Bad Office Coffee. Of course, I drank it. When it was a choice between bad office coffee and none at all, I took the coffee. But I much prefer brewing a fresh pot o' really good joe.

8. Gossip. This isn't to say that I never participated in it. In fact, I often lived for a good piece of gossip, but that's exactly why I'm glad I'm no longer in an environment that breeds it. I like myself better when I'm not whispering about so-and-so and you-know-who. You know?

the things i miss about my old office job 15 June 2005

1. People. While it's true eight whole hours sometimes went by without me saying so much as a word to someone else, I still drove to work alongside hundreds of other commuters. I saw and heard people shuffle past my cubicle dozens of times a day. I shared air and space with others. It was kinda nice. Now, a bulk of my day is spent in front of my computer in my empty house. Email is my number one way of reaching people and being reached. I go to the grocery store because I crave human contact.

2. The Girls. You know you are getting close to a group of girls when you all fall on the same menstrual cycle. You know you have something special when you just have to look each other to laugh.

3. Payday Fridays. And direct deposit.

4. Target. There was a Target store 5 minutes away from the office, and I loved knowing I could go there before work, on the way home from work or during my lunch break. Of course, maybe the fact that I don't live nearby is a good thing.

5. All The Good Food Places. The area where I worked is known for a few things: valley girls, the porn industry, dry heat and strip malls. Luckily, those strip malls are home to some of the most amazing little gems of restaurants. Mexican, Italian, Thai, Vietnamese, Filipino, Japanese, Cuban, Korean BBQ, French — you name it, we ate it. There even was an IN-N-OUT nearby.

6. Icebox Air Conditioning. I don't miss it yet, but I know when the temperatures start rocketing into the 90s I'm going to wish I was so cold I needed a sweater.

7. Guillermo. Guillermo, one of the maintenance fellows, always made me smile.

clarification 09 June 2005

I never in my life thought I would know a Rama, a Rima and a Rafi, but I do. Rama is the boy I'm marrying, Rima is the girl who shares a house with me and Rafi is the boy she's dating. It's kind of funny, isn't it?

p.s. Do you fancy yourself a Movable Type expert? If so, please let me know. I could really use your help.

sitting still 08 June 2005

Lately, it seems, I've been doing a lot of sitting.

In beach chairs anchored in the sand by a blazing bonfire. On a dark and windy two-lane road because there's an accident up ahead and no other way to get home. In the backyard of a house in the middle of nowhere, playing made-up guessing games about celebrities. Under the shade of a cherry tree as we wait for a ride back home.

Whether I'm at the final destination or on my way somewhere else, I'm learning to enjoy the act of sitting still. I'm learning to enjoy the moment. I've spent so much of my time rushing from one place to another that the act of dawdling is a refreshing change.

Of course, it helps that I've had good company. But I know that even if I were all by myself in the middle of nowhere with nothing but my thoughts, I'd be able to sit still.

ch-ch-ch-changes 07 June 2005

"I hate writing. I love having written."
—Dorothy Parker

It's been quiet. I know, I know, I know.

I have to admit I've kind of enjoyed the silence. I've had a lot of thinking, planning and dreaming to do, and it's been nice doing it in the comfort of my own head and heart. But I think I'm ready to share my days with you, again.

And oh, what days I've had! I have some good news and some ridiculously good news for you. Are you ready?

The good news is I have taken the big leap into self-employment. I have been a fulltime darling designer for about a month now, and I love it. I feel like I get to play all day long, and I get to do it with amazing people.

The ridiculously good news is that Rama and I are engaged. He proposed to me on our 2-year anniversary—we spent it in Portland, Oregon at the beautiful Kennedy School—and of course I said yes. Words can't express how thrilled and grateful I am to be marrying such a dreamboat.

Part of me has been bursting to tell you this news, but another part of me has been scared to break the silence. I'm still getting used to the idea of being my own boss and somebody's bride-to-be. It's like I'm a whole new person. Except I'm still the same.

Anyway, now that those cats are out of the bag, I plan on writing more—and more often. I may not have any big news for a while, but I'll always have stories to tell.

Thrive 17 March 2005

The days go by too quickly.

So often, comedy strikes or I stumble across something beautiful or I just feel like saying "hello" -- and then all of a sudden, like magic or lightning, it's weeks later.

But I'm tired of apologing. I'm tired of repeating myself. And, most certainly, I'm tired of being tired.

I'm taking better care of myself, though. Maybe that's one of the reasons I'm so quiet. I'm sleeping a lot, eating well and laughing often. This weekend, the wide open road calls. Rama and I are taking an itty bitty trip way up the coast, and I can't wait. We've both needed a vacation desperately.

Recently, a friend of mine signed an e-mail by saying "I hope you are thriving" and those words have stuck with me. It's more than just saying "I hope you're well" or "Have a great day." To thrive is not just to exist or survive or hang in there. It's to live and breathe and love out loud.

I'm working toward that. And I wish you days that are better than good and okay and fine, too. I hope you find ways to thrive.

Beware these pinchers 25 February 2005

I've said it before and today more than ever it's true: I feel like an old lady when I think about the Web, how far it's come, how long I've been publishing and playing on it and how much it's changed my life. As of Monday, I will have devoted six years to this web site, which is, really, at its core, a diary with no locks or hiding place.

After checking out Ryan's beautifully redesigned site and reading about his own web site's start six years ago, I realize I'm probably not the only one who feels this way.

We gave birth to an idea, fed it time and energy, let it play with the other kids and watched it grow. We learned, we got recognized, we fell off the face of the earth and we always came back for more.

I imagine us old folks crowded on benches around the playground while our children run and slide and swing, musing how, even if our kids can sometimes be a real pain in the ass, we are so damn proud of them -- and of us, for raising them.

We did something good. We built something, we made connections, we expressed ourselves, we fooled around, we gave each other hope in really trying times and we kept on going.

And, really, if I could, I would pinch each and every web site's cheeks today because I think they are such beautiful little miracles of life.

I was here. 18 February 2005

This is one of the best things I've read all year:

"Above all else, it is about leaving a mark that I existed: I was here. I was hungry. I was defeated. I was happy. I was sad. I was in love. I was afraid. I was hopeful. I had an idea and I had a good purpose and that's why I made works of art." --Felix Gonzalez-Torres, in Adbusters Vol 13

It rings so true to me and reminds me of why I started doing this in the first place.

I am slowly finding my way (back).

Lightbulb 14 February 2005

For many, great ideas come to them on the toilet.

For me, however, they come in traffic.

Retreat 31 January 2005

I know. I've been quiet.

This may be the most silent I've ever been and I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I've been designing and printing like a fiend. Maybe it's because I'm spending hours every week with other like minds and hearts in pursuit of changing the lives of teenagers. Maybe it's because some nights I just would rather watch TV or eat a slice of pie with my boyfriend than spend more time in front of a computer screen. Maybe it's all of this and more.

I'd been dreading this kind of post. I don't like apologizing for anything I do or don't write on my web site, because, well, it's my web site. And the moment I start to think too much about the audience, it stops being fun.

But the truth is, something has got to change -- something is going to change. I don't know if it's going to be a simple redesign or if it's going to be a major overhaul. I don't know when I'm going to have the time or energy to do it. And I don't know if you're going to like it, hate it or even want to keep visiting when it's done.

I just know that I'm going to try my darnedest to stay true to my original goal when I created this little space on the web. I'm going to play, again.

Secrets 26 January 2005

I am inching toward something good.

Success 24 January 2005

Thanks for all your well wishes and prayers. Ethan's surgery was a success, and he is slowly recovering. I haven't seen him, and I may not for several weeks, but just knowing that his little heart is beating and his pink lips are curling up to a grin, makes me so happy.

Everything else is fine. I am going through my usual beginning-of-the-year soul searching and cleansing. I also chopped a couple inches off my hair. While the two aren't really related, both are making me feel light and hopeful. Let's see how long it lasts.

Calling all prayers 13 January 2005

Tomorrow, my nephew Ethan will undergo heart surgery. He is 4 1/2 years old. Please send all prayers, wishes and good vibes to him and his family. Thank you.

Let go 01 January 2005

After the stroke of midnight, after we hooted and hollered and blew our horns, after we exchanged "Happy New Year"s and "I love you"s with our families via cell phone, after we clinked glasses brimming with champagne, we each grabbed a balloon and went outside.

Earlier, we'd made lists of fears, anxieties and issues we wanted to let go of this year. We rolled each scrap of paper into a tiny scroll and tied them to the balloons.

At the count of three, we released them. It was exhilarating and peaceful all at once. We stood in the middle of the street for a few minutes, watching the balloons disappear into the dark night sky.

Perspective 30 December 2004

All day long, I waited for the Volkswagen Dealership to call me. I'd brought my car in at 8 and it was supposed to be ready by noon, but of course, noon became 1 o'clock and 1 o'clock became 3. The problem was nothing major: The front passenger car door wouldn't open from the outside. It was covered under warranty, so it didn't even cost me anything to fix. It was just a hassle.

At 4, my car still wasn't ready and my co-worker--who had graciously played chauffeur to me the whole day--had to go home, so she dropped me off and I joined the other VW owners sitting on black vinyl chairs and cradling styrofoam cups in their hands.

The waiting room TV was set to ABC and the news was on. I hadn't watched any of the tsunami coverage on TV until then. Seeing the top stories on the web--and watching the death toll rise several times a day--was devastating enough. Seeing the survivors and hearing their stories on the television, well, that left me completely dumbfounded.

"This is so awful," I sighed, to nobody in particular.

The girl beside me answered: "I know."

She looked my age or younger. Her skin was flawless and her lips shone. She had a kind face, one you'd expect on a nurse, or a teacher, or an angel.

I continued, "It makes me feel like my car troubles are nothing at all, you know? Some of those people have lost their homes and family members. I just can't fathom that."

"Yeah. It puts everything into perspective."

We traded stories about our cars as if they were our children then fell back into silence, staring at the screen. A few minutes later, her name was called and she started to gather her things. Then she turned to me.

"May I read you something before I go?"

She reached into her purse and pulled out a little black book. "It's my favorite passage in the Bible. It always brings me comfort."

My heart sank. I knew where this was going. In college, I was the target of a dozen or so evangelical Christians. Maybe I looked like I needed saving, or maybe I just looked like I'd listen--I'm not sure. All I know is I started to resent those students who were constantly invading my space and privacy. I didn't like being quizzed, questioned, schooled, or worse, condemned.

I started to prepare my best comeback, a polite but firm "please go away" speech, as the girl found the page. She read the passage to me, quietly and calmly, following the words with her finger.

"Maybe you've heard it before," she said, "but I like it because it reminds me that this world is bigger than our comprehension and God is always with us."

I had heard it before, and it was comforting.

The girl closed the Bible and slipped it back in her bag, then got up to go just like she said she would. She didn't want to prove anything to me or expect something in return. She just wanted to give me some hope and faith. It was a gentle gesture.

I sat on that black vinyl chair, looked up at the TV and clutched my bag closer to my lap. It was all I could do not to cry.

Tsunami 29 December 2004

The death toll climbs and my heart continues to break for the people in Southeast Asia. I am whispering my prayers to the heavens for them.

You can help. Every little bit makes a difference.

Top secret mission revealed 21 December 2004

For the past two months, I've been leading a double life. The first life as Christine, the girl. The second as Christine, the spy. For Rama's 30th birthday this past Sunday, I put together a comic book, compiling artwork, stories and letters from his family and friends, most of whom I have never met. It was a pretty gigantic feat, and it was a complete surprise. I opened a new e-mail account that Rama would never see me use, I had covert phone meetings with his mom without him knowing, and I made secret trips to my p.o. box a few times a week, stashing away the contributions I received.

The past week was the height of my secretive behavior. In order to put the book together, I had to steal Rama's photo album from his closet, dodge some of his phone calls, say "no" to some plans, and, most difficult, stop myself from squealing with total utter excitement because the book was looking so much better than I thought it would. Luckily, I kept my cool and the mission was accomplished: When Rama opened the comic book on Sunday, he was stunned. He'd had no idea that any of this was going on, and he was amazed with the final product.

Now that that's over, I can turn my focus back on Christmas. This morning, I sent the last of my holiday cards. Tonight, I wrap the last of the gifts and lay them beneath the tree. This weekend, I get to see what Santa has in store for me. (I feel as giddy as I did when I was 5!)

My wish for you is that Santa brings some surprises your way and that, regardless of how you do or don't celebrate, your heart is filled with so much merriment.

Rockin' around the artificial tree 06 December 2004

I just bought a fake Christmas tree. It's a foot shorter than I am and pre-lit with 300 tiny white bulbs. With Rima and myself gone so much this month, we decided against getting a real tree. Even if I know that it's for the best, I feel a bit sad about it. I'm going to miss the smell of pine in our house. I'm even going to miss the mess of pine needles all over the floor.

Still, I'm looking forward to decorating it with my random assortment of handmade felt ornaments, threaded balls and wooden stars. I'm looking forward to wrapping gifts and arranging them beneath the bottom branches. Heck, I'm just looking forward to Christmas, because I just love it to pieces.

I am grateful for you 24 November 2004

I started keeping Good Things lists on Thanksgiving Day many years ago. After getting dressed for dinner and before going downstairs to join the party, I'd sit at my computer and type out all the good things I could think of. Everything that I was thankful for. The lists were long, rambly and sometimes ridiculous. They included the people in my life, the elements of the earth, the clothes in my closet, the food that made my mouth water, the music that made me wanna dance. Nothing was too big or too small for the lists. I wouldn't stop typing until I listed at least 100 people, places and things, and it was never difficult to exceed that by several dozen. It was my own little secret tradition.

I haven't made such a list in years, but tonight, while I am battling a fierce bout of cramps, while I am procrastinating packing for my weekend in San Antonio, while I am praying for my mom who was admitted to the hospital tonight for observation, I think being grateful for all that I have would do me a world of good.

Shutdown 11 November 2004

I shut down this weekend. I was like a household appliance that had been working so much so long that it overheated and shut itself off.

So, I stayed home sick Monday and Tuesday. At first, I felt guilty for it, as if I had to be on my deathbed to warrant such a thing. But after several hours shuffling around in my flannel PJs, sipping gallons of peppermint tea and sleeping until I just couldn't sleep any more, I realized it was just what I needed.

Now, I feel fresh and ready to brave my upcoming birthday, holiday travels and Christmas shopping. Speaking of Christmas shopping, my holiday cards finally go on sale tomorrow. Get ready.

The littlest thing 05 November 2004

Sometimes, it's the littlest things that lifts my spirits.

Last night, it was a belly warmed with tomato basil soup, my iPod slipped into my left pocket, my hand slipped into my right and Sam Beam's soothing crooning in my ears as I crossed the Ralphs parking lot to my car in the cold, dark night.

It's not over 03 November 2004

I feel just as deflated and depressed as many of you do. But, I keep telling myself, now is not the time to lose hope.

It breaks my heart to think that those who voted for the first time this year, those who spent countless days and nights canvassing neighborhoods and raising money, those who kept their hopes up until the very last minute, might look at today and think it was all for nothing. It would be too easy to throw our hands up in the air and stop trying. But we can't give up yet.

Almost 30 years ago, my parents left the Philippines at a time of martial law to seek a better life for their children. And we are so much better off because of it. I made the decision in 1997 to become a U.S. citizen, because I wanted to have a voice in the country where I grew up, the country that I had grown to love. I do not regret that. I still have hope, even if it's just a glimmer, even if today it wants to curl up in a ball and cry itself to sleep. Tomorrow, hope will still reside in my heart, because that's just the kind of person I am.

"We must be the change we wish to see in this world." --Gandhi

I have said before that I'm no good at politics. I don't pretend to understand the intricacies of our government and the issues that we face. I won't speak for the entire country, because clearly there are people who have views and values far different from my own.

But I can do my part, as small as it may be, to help those around me. I can keep educating myself and others. I can continue to speak my mind and heart. But give up? I just can't do that yet.

Hope 02 November 2004

Can you feel the hope and energy? I can.

Last night, my roommate Rima and I beep-beep-beeped our way down Sunset Blvd. past a mob of people carrying "Fire President Bush" signs. We both felt weighed down by the stress and fear of another letdown, but had to constantly remind ourselves that our emotions could do little to help. We'd just have to put in our votes and hope it counts. Instead, we talked about astrology and eavesdropped on the baristas. Rima read her sample ballot. I wrote a letter to my grandma.

At 7-something this morning, I fell out of bed, threw on jeans and a hoodie and drove three blocks to my polling place, a little Russian church. (In retrospect, I realize I chould have walked, but my brain doesn't work that early.)

Outside, a man with a tape recorder was interviewing a guy walking his dog. He was a reporter from a local radio sation. Inside, six booths were occupied by people of all shapes, colors and sizes. As I voted, I felt grateful, hopeful and careful.

I went back home to get ready for work and, before leaving, grabbed a coat from the rack that I hadn't worn since winter. When I tried it on in front of the full-length mirror, I noticed that an "I voted" sticker was still on the lapel from the last election. I took it as a good sign, draped it over my arm, along with my handbag and lunch, and went to work.

Sugar hangover 01 November 2004

Me as Chas Tenenbaum, from The Royal Tenenbaums. Rima was a demented prom queen, Henry was a Hasidic Jew and Rama was a kid dressed up as Superman.

It took me 1 1/2 hours and half a can of hairspray to curl my hair last night, and I still looked more Shirley Temple than Ben Stiller. Still, my costume got a couple laughs and kept me comfy the whole night.

We played pop culture trivial pursuit and stuffed our faces with all sorts of treats while we waited for kids to come by. Whenever the doorbell rang, all activity stopped and one of us darted to the door with the gigantic bowl of candy. The rest of us watched, cackled and cooed, which probably ended up being more scary than we'd intended. We were just so darned excited.

We were visited by a sumo wrestler, a couple spidermans, a few ninjas, a handful of teddy bears and several princesses. I wanted to squeeze the cheeks of every last one of them.

Today, I've got a sugar hangover and a daunting to-do list. Mondays are like this.

p.s. If you dressed up and took pictures of your costume, it's not too late to join Penelope's Costume Contest.

A blessing 28 October 2004

I wish you enough sun to keep your attitude bright I wish you enough rain to appreciate the sun more I wish you enough hapiness to keep your spirit alive I wish you enough pain so that the smallest joys in life appear much bigger I wish you enough gain to satisfy your wanting I wish you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess I wish you enough hellos to get you through the final goodbyes --Unknown

Today, I wish you enough.

So much going on 27 October 2004

The oh-my-gosh-what-now panic of yesterday has become more of a wow-I-can't-believe-this-is-all-happening feeling swirling in my tummy. How did I get to be so darned lucky -- and busy?

Some of the many things I am looking forward to:

- Dressing up for Halloween, lighting my first-ever jack-o-lantern and stuffing the bags of all the adorable costume-clad kids

- Launching my first line of holiday cards (a limited amount will be available through the soon-to-launch Darling Shoppe, as well as my favorite local paperie)

- Going to Disneyland to celebrate my birthday and taking a week off work to do a whole lot of nothing

- Visiting Rama's family in San Antonio on Thanksgiving weekend

- Ladies' night at my place tonight, which will probably include crafting, gossip, tea and treats

What? 26 October 2004

I'm having a "What the hell am I doing?!" moment, complete with sweaty palms, racing brain, pounding heart and all.

Luckily, I've had enough of these to know that it'll pass.

Lucky bastard 20 October 2004

There's nothing like someone else's bad news to change your point of view. I spent most of the morning mumbling and grumbling because of the teeniest, tiniest things. I was in a bad mood, a funk, a stink. But at lunch, I got word of something worse than I could imagine for myself, and my mumbles and grumbles turned to hard blinks and sighs.

I wish I could be a superhero to everyone who needs one, but I know that's an impossible dream. Instead, I'm going to try to focus on being grateful for what I can do. For what I have.

No! 14 October 2004

There are a lot of things I'm not good at. I can't throw a ball to save my life. I have a heck of a time balancing a checkbook. I get stage fright in front of big crowds. If I were a superhero, Rama and I joke, one of my weaknesses would be that I am too nice. I don't know how to say "No."

This year, however, one of my unwritten resolutions has been to find my limit and stick with it. To take, as well as give. To slow down.

But somehow, as another year's end approaches, when the resolutions are a faraway memory, I am forgetting it all. I am trying to do way too much, and it's making my head spin. My project list is longer than its ever been, and the deadlines are approaching before I can blink twice.

Part of me thinks this way is the only way. Life is short, a voice in my head says, and you better do all that you can while you can. But another voice laughs and retorts, Don't forget to slow down and enjoy the ride. Life is short.

I want to learn how to slow down.
I want to learn the difference between challenging myself and driving myself mad.
I want to spend a day without a list of deadlines and to-do's.
I want to say--rather, shout out loud--No!

TV reality 08 October 2004

We live in a society that stalks celebrities, puts them on pedestals and under microscopes, and weaves tales about their lives that are either enthralling or mundane. So, it's always strange when I see those celebrities in my own environment, like the time Drew Barrymore sat behind me at a movie, the Iron & Wine show where I shared balcony space with Winona Ryder or the night I slurped udon a few seats away from Ralph Fiennes. I feel as though they should be standing on a magazine page or behind glass. I forget that they are real people with real lives.

Last night, Rama and I found ourselves partying (read: watching the party from our little corner of the club) among the likes of Jason Schwartzman, Zooey Deschanel, Kelly Osbourne and all these people who probably have been in TV shows and movies and bands but who knows which. It was very surreal.

On one hand, the fact that we were friends with the same girl made me feel like we're not that different from one another after all. On the other hand, I still felt like I was watching some reality TV show or having another one of my crazy vivid dreams.

Where I left off 05 October 2004

As I predicted, there was a lot of giggling this weekend with Lorraine in town. We also did a lot of eating, walking and napping. A weekend highlight had to be lying on lounge chairs at the Standard Hotel rooftop, telling stories and staring at the sky. Another was the halibut.

***

My narrative has lost its momentum, but I'm trying to find it again. Redesigning the maganda.org homepage made me take stock in my past and present projects, and I realized how much I miss capturing moments, spying on people, divulging crushes and sharing way too much about my days.

There will be more stories soon.

Housekeeping 16 September 2004

1. I wiped the maganda.org homepage clean, and it felt unbelievably good. I will be re-doing it sometime soon, or maybe I won't. Maybe it will be weeks before I look at it again. That's okay, too. It's just a web site.

2. I am testing out Flickr and so far so good. I have to admit, at first I just didn't get it. It only seemed useful to people with cell phone cameras, a group that sadly does not include me. I've been playing around with it more, though, and I'm discovering that it's pretty darned cool. For example, all I had to do was add an eensy weensy bit o' code to make the latest entered image appear on this page (look right, toward the bottom). If you click on it, you end up on my Flickr photo stream, which is all the photos I've taken in the last short while. Kinda neat.

3. My brother Ricky gave me his old (20gb 2nd generation) iPod and it feels like Christmas. It is a true joy to have all that music with me in the car, at the gym and on the job. I am dancing a lot more.

4. Soon, I'll be offering a limited line of maganda.org products through Cafe Press. I got a sample last week, and it was pretty stinking cute. I won't be marking up the price on these, but I will be selling other non-maganda.org things eventually. Start filling those piggy banks.

5. Tonight, I have the first youth group meeting of the year. We have a new director, and he is full of energy and faith and ideas. I can't wait to see what he has planned for the kids. I have missed hanging out with teenagers. They keep me young.

The fall girl 13 September 2004

The days are zooming by.

This morning, I stepped outside surprised that clouds hung low and a chill filled the air. I was still dressed for summer.

I'm excited for autumn, for corduroy and denim and sweaters and tights. For cuddling and cocoa. For falling leaves. For turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes. For the next four-day weekend. Not for my 29th birthday, but for everything else that comes with this time of year.

So proud 08 September 2004

I am glowing with pride right now, because I just discovered that not one but both of my brothers are winners in this year's Communication Arts Interactive Annual. We may be missing the doctor and lawyer genes, but hot damn, our art gene makes up for it.

Congratulations, Tom & Ricky. You inspire me.

P.S. No congratulations would be complete without acknowledging the design & tech teams with whom they worked. Hi Brooke! Hi LUST!

Trying 02 September 2004

I am trying to find a balance between work and play, between here and there, between the way things are and the way I want them to be.

I am trying not to give myself unrealistic expectations, but at the same time I am trying to push myself to do/give/be more.

I am trying to remember that, often times, less is more.

I am trying to take better care of my body by eating healthfully and exercising regularly. I am trying to convince myself that going to the gym at lunch today is a better choice than grabbing a burrito and a coke.

I am trying to be a good daughter, a good girlfriend, a good friend. I am trying to be a good me.

Christmas in August 25 August 2004

Thank you to all you kind and lovely souls who have sent little and huge pieces of mail over the past month or two. I went to my p.o. box this morning and walked away with an armful of beautiful thick envelopes and packages. I felt like the most popular girl at the post office.

Bobby, the postmaster, knows that I don't check my mail often enough. In fact, I feel like every time I do go, my half-yearly rent is due again. But there's a benefit to letting the mail pile up: I get my very own Christmas in the middle of August.

Pure imagination 23 August 2004

On Friday night, Rama and I saw Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory at the LA County Museum of Art. As part of a month-long series, the museum held the screening outside on the lawn. The weather has been gorgeous, especially in the evenings, and I've always loved that movie, so I knew I just had to go.

I bought way too much candy for the event, complete with a chocolate bar wrapped to look like a Wonka Bar. There was even homemade golden ticket slipped inside for Rama to find.

When Rama opened it -- the same time that Charlie opened his winning candybar -- he whispered to me, "I bet I'm the only one here with my own golden ticket."

I nodded. "I bet you are."

At one point in the evening, I looked over the fence to the street and city lights and realized how beautiful it was. I remembered watching the scene in The Wedding Planner where J.Lo and Matthew McConaughey catch a screening of an old movie at a park and wishing that I could have a night like that. I felt so grateful and giddy that, years later, I actually was.

It's not goodbye 19 August 2004

I am still surprised at how easily I move from belly-aching laughter to heart-stinging tears.

Good luck to my dear Sidra as she begins a new adventure in San Francisco. I won't miss you, because I will be visiting often -- and soon.

Treasure hunt 09 August 2004

I played treasure hunt in my old bedroom yesterday and I found so much good stuff: Classroom-passed notes and letters from crushes, Madonna cassettes and embarrassingly bad mixed tapes, clippings of magazine-published poetry and a folder of dot-matrix printouts. I could have easily spent hours digging through the treasures, remembering tidbits of my childhood, alternately laughing and sighing at the beauty of it all. But I didn't. We were cleaning out my room for a new foreign exchange student moving in, and it had to be ready today.

It felt strange cramming my past into boxes and clearing up space for this new girl. Actually, it felt really kind of sad.

But then I got to my own place, carting some of my treasures into the house. I plugged in the old CD player that Dad gave me to replace the broken one gathering dust in the living room. I popped in one of my new CDs, and I sat indian-style on the hardwood floor and sang along.

Radio silent 04 August 2004

I don't want to talk about where I've been or why I've been so quiet, but here is what I can tell you: The weather has been gorgeous. Usually at this time of year, it's too hot to handle. Instead, we've been blessed with 80-degree days and 60-degree nights and a cool breeze throughout both. My basil, mint and chive plants are the only ones that have survived my neglect.

My travels have taken me to the Philippines, Miami and San Diego, and I hope, still, to visit San Antonio and San Francisco before the year's end.

Right when I started to get the hang of my digital camera, it broke. It's going to cost me at least half an ipod to repair it. I don't take photos every week, much less every day, but I already miss it.

I have watched over a dozen movies and the first two seasons of Alias. My favorite films of the year so far include Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Garden State, Mean Girls and Spider-man 2. I have a soft spot for 50 First Dates and Anchorman. I still have to see Fahrenheit 9/11, and I feel really guilty about that.

There is a lot of pink in my wardrobe right now, something I never would have expected. If I wanted to, I could dress head to toe in the girly hue. But don't worry, I don't.

Most days, I am really happy. When I say that I am about to explode, you can bet that it's from too much good rather than too much bad. When I get cranky, it doesn't last.

I can hardly believe that it's already August and I'm almost 29.

3...2...1... 29 July 2004

Some days, I feel like I'm going to explode.

Like my body isn't big enough for the feelings inside of me.

Bad things 27 July 2004

* Carelessly dropping my beloved camera on the convention center floor while trying to play hero and pick up scattered bookmarks. It turns out neither my camera nor I are indestructible.

* Dreaming about fires caused by meth labs secretly hiding in my parents' garage.

* Caffeine hangovers. You know, that dry mouth empty stomach feeling after drinking one too many cups of coffee the night before.

* My hair stylist staying in Milan for the entire summer. My hair is slowly growing out into an unmanageable mess.

* Icebox air conditioning vs. 100-degree heat. I just can't win!

[Note: It was hard for me to keep a frown on my face while I wrote this. I just don't have it in me to be a permanent crank. That's a good thing.]

Weekend highlights 19 July 2004

I was in desperate need of slowness and sunshine, and this weekend was perfect for just that. Highlights include (but are not limited to): Iced coffee, egg salad on whole wheat and french fries at Alcove; handstands in the shallow end and a poolside nap; wrapping up the first season of Alias; giving Rama a tour of my old 'hood; window shopping and Italian ice; and lots and lots of movies. I thought I got a tan, but by the weekend's end it was gone.

Holding on 16 July 2004

Thank you for your lovely messages and sweet prayers. I think they're working, because my mom told me last night that Grandma is feeling better. She's not out of the hospital yet, but she might be released this weekend if her health continues to improve. I feel so grateful. I can see her on that hospital bed making mental notes of everything she's going to do when she gets back home. I can see my mom sitting beside her with a solemn smile.

I have to confess that I am still scared, but I am not going to let the worry weigh me down. Instead, I think I'll write my grandmother a letter. I'll tell her how happy I am that she's in my life. I'll tell her that it's undeniably summer and I'm going to celebrate by jumping in the pool. I'll tell her about my sun-kissed porch garden, the funny flip-flop tan on my feet and the gigantic juicy strawberries I bought at the market. I'll worry about everything else when, and if, I have to.

A quilt of worry, part 2 12 July 2004

My grandma is still in the hospital and on Friday she had a mild heart attack. The doctors say her health, her life, could go either way. Nobody knows. She's been asking for my mom, her only daughter, to come, so Mom leaves today for the Philippines.

I'm trying not to assume the worst but still be ready for anything, and it's hard. I have been a mess of worry and sadness all week.

Anyone who knows me knows I love my grandma. If you knew her, I'm certain you'd love her, too.

A quilt of worry 09 July 2004

Grandma and me, ink and watercolor on bristol, 2003

My grandma is in the hospital, again. It's the third time she's been admitted in a month, and I'm worried. That's the last thing I should be doing, I know, especially when I always have given her such a hard time for fretting about every little (and big) thing. But now I understand that worry comes with love. And, god, do I love that woman.

Lazy and lovely 06 July 2004

Rama plays Sungka in Mom & Dad's lovely backyard, this lazy 4th of July weekend

Other weekend indulgences: Reading comics in Griffith Park, a delicious afternoon nap, an IKEA shopping spree, barbecued ribs and mini ice cream sandwiches, Shrek 2 at the local theater (courtesy of free movie passes) and Pass the Pigs, a new favorite

How did you indulge yourself this weekend?

Have a cool summer & K.I.T.! 23 June 2004

Just because I don't get a summer vacation anymore doesn't mean I can't enjoy the season all the same. Jen has the right idea, so I'm following suit. Here's what I'm going to do this summer:

I will swim in at least three different bodies of water.

I will buy my fresh produce at the Farmer's Market on Saturday mornings.

I will barbecue in the back yard.

I will keep the porch garden alive.

I will make halo-halo, fresh ice cream sandwiches and juicy fruit popsicles.

I will maintain a vigorous routine of reading, writing, doodling and napping.

I will take long walks, with and without my camera.

I will go on little road trips, even if it's across the city and up the coast, and sing out the open car window.

I will host crafternoons (and crafternights) and make beautiful messes with the girls.

I will stop asking myself, "What am I doing with my life?" and start paying attention to the wonderful people, activities and blessings already surrounding me.

I will look up.

I will write more love letters and send sweet care packages for no good reason at all.

I will pamper myself with pedicures, long baths and maybe even a massage.

I will find many reasons to celebrate and make up my own holidays.

I will hide out when I need to.

I will take my sweet time and, if I forget or miss something on the list, I will forgive myself.

Shifting 16 June 2004

These days feel like a slow motion chess match: Black and white pieces gliding across the board. Sidra going away to college. Tonia moving up north. Michelle leaving Columbia. Kris jumping coasts. It's hard to keep track of everyone going everywhere and, when I do try to, I just get sad. I'm going to miss them so much.

But this is nothing new. Many of my friends already live in different time zones. My family is already oceans and continents away. I just wish somebody had told me that "growing up" sometimes also means "going away." I would have prepared myself for the sadness.

Whereabouts 10 June 2004

26 May 2004 | A roadtrip arm-out-the-van-window shot of the Pacific Ocean as we drive south of Manila to Grandma's house in Bicol. The roads were rough, but the sea looked calm.

* * *

I'm back, refreshed and recharged, slightly changed and hugely inspired, and mostly, oh mostly, incredibly moved -- whether to tears or to roaring laughter -- by my faraway family.

Whenever I leave home for awhile, I begin to remember what's really important. What moves me. Who matters most. It tumbles forth when I'm looking out a plane window, walking down a crowded street or lying in a stranger's bed. It's as if leaving is the only way to discover where I've been.

Happy thought for the day 24 May 2004

I'm getting on a plane in a couple hours, and I miss you already. I'll be gone for almost two weeks. While I'm gone, will you do me a favor? Tell me a good thing. Tell me twenty. Tell each other good things every day, like "That's a nice shirt" or "You really listen to me and I appreciate it." Even "please" and "thank you" make a world of difference.

In return, I'll tell you good things about my trip when I get back. I'm certain there will be a long list to share.

A bottle of red wine 19 May 2004

I knew there was a long list of To-Do's starving for my attention, but when Rima offered me a glass of red wine I couldn't resist. I stretched out on the futon, took small, slow sips, and talked to her and Eric about art and writing and love. And when they craved a smoke, I followed them down the back stairs and out to the patio, where we continued our conversation and watched time stand still.

Off into the sunset 18 May 2004

I was thisclose to riding a horse on Sunday. I have never gone horseback riding and I am a little bit terrified of the idea, which is why I knew I had to do it.

Okay, so I'm not that brave. First, I tried to weasel my way out of it. "You guys can go," I told Rama and his friend Peet, "and I'll just ... find some place to sit."

"Well, if you don't want to go, we won't," Peet said gently, "but let me just tell you something before you make up your mind." He told me this story about how he got thrown off a horse when he was 4 years old and how it was so traumatizing that he refused to get back on one after that. But his girlfriend Allison wouldn't stop asking him to go and, one day, he got the courage to do it, and you know what, it wasn't bad at all. It was actually fun.

Now Peet rides all the time. He even wears cowboy boots.

So, I said, "Okay, I'll do it!" with half-enthusiasm, half-terror, and I gripped Rama's hand as I said it, and we followed Peet and Allison up two highways and a windy, hilly road to Sunset Ranch. It smelled like horses and, you know, horse stuff. I felt kind of queasy, but I told myself was going to do it. I wanted to do it.

When we got up to the window to pay, a lady's voice called out to us. "Are you here for a day ride?" she hollered.

"Yes," we nodded.

"The last ride went out at 3:30pm," she said. It was 3:45pm.

"Saved by the bell," Rama whispered. I think he expected me to feel relieved. I expected it, too. But instead, I was sad.

Now, I'm determined to return to Sunset Ranch and get on a horse and stay on that horse down and back up the trail. Who knows. Maybe I'll even ride off into the sunset. Wouldn't that be something?

Early summer 10 May 2004

The days are swirling with activity, and I feel summer breathing down my neck.

It seems like yesterday that I was making plans for the oh-so-distant months of June, July and August. Now it's mid-May, soon I'm going to the Philippines and soon after that I am going to work on a new project that I'm not yet at liberty to discuss.

There's much too much to do. That's probably why all I feel like doing is eating a gigantic banana split while I watch Six Feet Under re-runs.

Mystery of the universe 26 April 2004

Why is it that I choose to spend days, weeks and, sometimes, months procrastinating something that only takes 5 minutes to actually do?

Yesterday morning, I brought some winter things to the garage. I'd boxed them up a few weeks ago but hadn't had the time -- or made the time -- to store them until this weekend. The garage, only 100 or so yards from my back door, seemed like a grueling several-mile-long hike until I actually stepped outside and walked down the driveway. That part took half a minute. It took another minute to unlock and open the door. It took 2 more minutes to run back to my house and get the box I wanted to put away. After another minute or so, I was back in my house marveling that the chore was so quick and painless.

All too often, the tasks that seem the toughest are really a cinch. Of course, I could say that about a lot of things.

Little Ethiopia 23 April 2004

There are so many beautiful pockets in Los Angeles that, if you're not careful, can go undiscovered. Last night, I visited Little Ethiopia, which is somewhere around the middle of the sprawling metropolis. It's only 6+ miles from my house, but I rarely visit it. I get too caught up in my own little world.

There are over a dozen Ethiopian restaurants on a 3 or 4-block stretch and, as far as I know, they're all good. In fact, everyone has his favorite. Eric swears by Merkato. Rima takes her parents to Nyala. I went on a date, once, to another restaurant whose name escapes me and, while I like to forget many of the finer details of the evening, I do remember my date claimed it was "the best." Last night, though, I was meeting my girlfriends at Meesob.

I drove down Fairfax in search of green neon and twinkly lights, parked across the street and crossed with two well-dressed Ethiopian girls. Kris and Brittany were already waiting for me, ready to order. We ended up with a table covered in injera topped with sizzling grilled beef and chicken, mashed peas, collard greens, lentils and green salad. Everything was delicious.

I appreciate the slowness of Ethiopian food -- tearing off pieces of injera, then scooping up a morsel of grilled beef or sopping up some mashed peas. It reminds me of a restaurant in the Philippines called Kamayan, where dishes are served on banana leaves and you use your bare hands as utensils, molding rice into a bite-sized portion and sliding pieces of grilled meat off skewers.

There's something calming about eating like that. You can't shovel the food into your mouth or finish it in a few big bites. You have to take your time.

Secret passageways 20 April 2004

If I could, I'd take you each by hand and lead you into a quiet clearing under a ceiling of tree branches so we could talk. There are a lot of things I want to say, but I find it hard to say them lately. I feel secretive and silent and a little bit scared.

I tell myself that it's okay, that I don't owe you anything, that I am allowed to keep as much as I want to myself. But the truth is I want to be loud and brave as I've been in the past. Some days, I'm bursting to tell you stories about my adventures and relationships and plans. I just don't know where to begin, so I never do. Soon, too much time has passed, and it's a closed chapter in a book.

The real stories, I know, are those filled with ache and beauty and truth. Those are the ones I like to hear. Those are the ones I want to tell. I just need the courage to tell them.

I am trying to find my voice again. I suspect that wherever it is, I'll find my hope and faith there, too.

Listen to your heart beat 15 April 2004

They say follow your heart, but what if you can't hear it speaking to you? Maybe it doesn't speak English or the cat got its tongue. Maybe it's taking a nap or it went away on vacation. Maybe it is so in love -- too in love -- with everything all at once that it doesn't know what to tell you. Then what?

Weapons of mass deliciousness 14 April 2004

Bake Sales for Kerry: Yum.

Be kind to your country and your stomach. This Saturday, find a bake sale in a neighborhood near you and pick up a brownie or two.

Time 05 April 2004

I don't want more hours in the day or more days in the week. I just want to slow time down. I want hours to pass like weeks and months to pass like years. I want enough time to do all the things I want to do, without feeling like I'm letting something else suffer.

My eyes for art and adventure are far bigger than my stomach. I'm overwhelming myself, again.

I am the April fool 01 April 2004

I always make a fool of myself, so today really is not much different than any other day. For my parents, however, today is a date to remember. It's their wedding anniversary. They've been married 38 37 years.

I applaud my parents, who not only have built a beautiful together but have also had to put up with my brothers and me for most of that time.

Not just any ol' fool can do that.

Tiny seeds 31 March 2004

The weekend was long and hard and exhausting. The retreat team, a group of ten amazing people, worked for five weeks to put together a weekend that would open the teenagers' minds and hearts. But they just weren't receptive to it. I'm used to dealing with a couple of closed minds at a time, but there were more than a couple. The more we tried to reach out, the more the kids pushed us away. It wore us out.

These aren't bad kids. But maybe they're having a rough time at home, maybe they're starving for attention, maybe they're too scared to let us know what's really going on in there. They just didn't realize that it feels so much better to let go and open up than to hold on tight and close yourself off to the world. They haven't learned that yet, and they weren't ready to.

Before we left the camp Sunday morning, Mark, one of the leaders, handed every person three seeds. These three seeds, he told us, were reminders that ideas, lessons and dreams were planted inside of us. "You may not see it now," he said, "You may not see it until next week, or next month, or a few years from now, but those seeds are growing inside you."

I thought about how doing something nice for someone else is also like planting a seed. It disappears into the soil, and you trust that it is there ready to grow. You don't have to sit there and wait for it. You just have faith that it will happen. You believe it.

I bought a bunch of daffodils last night. They were only 99 cents. I wasn't sure they'd blossom, because they looked faded and dry, but I put them in water when I got home, anyway.

By the time I woke up this morning, they were already blooming.

Retreat 25 March 2004

I'm getting out of here. Out of the city, up the coast, and into the beautiful wooded foothills of Malibu. I'm going to take deep breaths and feel my lungs and head clear up. I'm going to count stars, and I'll probably lose count because there are just so many. I'm going to sit with a bunch of teenagers to talk about God and life and, you know, stuff.

While I'm gone, I'll miss you. But I hope you are having too wonderful a weekend to miss me back.

Happy Gal Pals and Buddies Day 18 March 2004

I feel so grateful for my friendships today. For the girls I've known since grade school whom I can meet for bagels and coffee after months and months of not talking. For the magic souls who can look at me and know exactly what I'm thinking without my having to say a word. For the kindred spirits who lead parallel lives on the other side of the country. For the dear ones who didn't choose me, but choose to love me anyway. For the superheroes who inspire and challenge me to be a better me.

I trust that you know who you are, and I hope you know how much I adore you. Today, my dear wonderful friends, I'm celebrating you.

Hey, if Hallmark can declare a holiday, so can I.

Twice her age 12 March 2004

Most Thursday nights, I volunteer with high school kids at a church youth group. Because of how I sometimes act, and maybe also because of how I sometimes dress, the high schoolers don't realize that I am as old as I am -- that I am, in fact, twice the age of some of them. Usually, I get "wow, really?"s and "no way!"s but this response was a first:

"So, how old are you?" asked the teenage girl.

"28," I said.

"28?!"

"Yes," I smiled. "28."

"Wait, so when were you born?" She asked, puzzled.

"1975."

Her jaw dropped. "Oh my god. So you were, like, alive during all of the '80s!"

My heart sank. "You weren't?"

Good hair day 09 March 2004

Several inches of my hair got lopped off this weekend. I'd let my hair go long the past couple months just to see what it would look like. It was the longest it's been since junior high. It was fun to wear ponytails, pigtails and buns, but soon that was all I was wearing. My hair took forever to blow dry and strangled me in my sleep. I made a hair appointment with Matt to stop the insanity. When Matt finished, he smiled and let out a sigh of relief. "Back to normal!" I looked at my reflection, then him, quizzically. "Normal? I haven't had hair this short in so long, it doesn't feel normal. But it does feels good."

spring sprang sprung 08 March 2004

Spring sprang this weekend. I opened all the windows on Saturday afternoon and invited it inside the house.

The not-so-temporary thing 02 March 2004

On Saturday night, I went out.

I hadn't gone out to see live music or get drinks in so long that I felt like a teenager sneaking out on a schoolnight.

We went to see The Temporary Thing, my friend Joel's band, play at the Knitting Factory in Hollywood. The tiny room was packed with friends, fans and stragglers. The band totally rocked. I tapped Rama's back to the beat of the drums. Tonia shook her hips against mine. Two very tall people swayed like reeds above the entire crowd. It was so exciting to see a crowd there specifically to see them play, this fact made obvious by the way almost everyone cleared out when the 45-minute set was over.

After the show, Becky, Banning, Rama and I ran down Hollywood Blvd. to play amongst the sidewalk footprints and stars at Mann's Chinese Theater. When I saw Donald Duck's name on the sidewalk, I shouted with glee. Very loud glee.

We giggled, then kept running up the street, toward the neon lights.

Taking a moment to breathe 24 February 2004

It's nice to have friends who make you want to get off of your butt and go, but sometimes we need friends to tell us it's time to stop.

Stop. Breathe. Listen.

Tonight, I had a short, sweet chat with a dear friend. We had made plans, then we changed those plans, then we changed them again. We've both been doing so much and we finally realized it was time to take a deep breath and relax. Even if relaxing meant neither of us was going to get into our cars to drive over to the other's house.

So, we talked instead about the past couple days and the next few months. We have plans, grand plans. Luckily, we also have time.

For now, I'm taking deep breaths and listening to the slow rhythm of my heart.

Start here 20 February 2004

There is comfort knowing we've only just begun.

"We are at the beginning of our life journeys. We are going to be 50 and still wondering what are we going to next." -- my dear friend, Tonia

It's not just that Tonia is filled with delicious bits of wisdom like this. It's that she shares them with conviction. You can't help but believe it, too.

Who is American? 19 February 2004

When I was a little girl, I signed up for an international penpal. I picked Australia because I was intrigued by the land of koalas and funny accents. When I got my first letter, with vital stats and photograph and everything, I was disappointed to learn that my new penpal was named Chan and she was Chinese. Chinese! That's not what I signed up for. I remember being so disappointed. It didn't occur to me until a couple years ago that maybe she had the same reaction when she saw the mug of a scrawny Filipino girl -- not a blond, blue-eyed American beauty -- staring back at her.

Double feature 16 February 2004

I have never been a big fan of Valentine's Day, but I might just have to start. I had such a lovely time on Saturday.

When I picked up Rama that morning, I was greeted with a smile and a dozen tulips! And that was just the tip of the sweet iceberg. He had for me a pile of pretty pink and red parcels, including a children's book by a Filipina author and the Down With Love DVD. We hopped in my car and headed up the highway to visit my parents and my favorite Aunt and Uncle who were in town from Manila. We spent a few hours at the house, playing boggle and eating pizza. There was also laughter, a lot of laughter.

When night started to fall, we left for Part Two of our day: The date. There was a double feature of Breakfast at Tiffany's and Sabrina at one of my favorite theaters in town. We got there an hour early, because I was so paranoid it would sell out. Of course, it hadn't yet. They don't even sell tickets early.

Somehow, Rama convinced them to make an exception, and after buying our tickets, we ran across the street to a little sweets shop and café. I'd passed the café for years, but never bothered to stop inside.

Thank goodness my curiosity finally got the best of me. The shop was a sophisticated version of my childhood heaven! They had heart-shaped cakes, tiny fruit tarts, rows of chocolate and jars of sugary candies. I couldn't decide on a treat, so I settled for a pot of peppermint tea. We sat in the corner of the cafe with our sketchbooks. Rama drew two fellows at a nearby table, and I drew Rama.

By the time we got back to the theater, there was a line at the box office. We marched right in. I don't know how many times I've watched those two Audrey Hepburn movies -- dozens, I'm sure -- but seeing it on the big screen felt like I was seeing them for the very first time.

Rama and I shared a heart-shaped box of chocolates in the dark. I couldn't see which candy was which, but somehow I managed to get all the ones with caramel inside, my favorite.

A-E-I-O-U 06 February 2004

Last night, I remembered how it felt to be carried by the sound of a word. I was lifted by vowels, jolted by consonants and wooed by a poet's breath. I attended a reading by Robert Pinsky, former U.S. Poet Laureate, and it moved me. I didn't realize how much it moved me until this morning, when I woke up with words buzzing and sounds swarming inside my head.

ABC Any body can die, evidently. Few Go happily, irradiating joy, Knowledge, love. Many Need oblivion, painkillers, Quickest respite. Sweet time unafflicted, Various world: X=your zenith. --Robert Pinsky

I have not always wanted to be a writer. When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a ballerina, a teacher, a doctor, a fashion designer, an interior designer and a candy shop owner. I didn't devour books like many writers I know, and I don't even have a childhood favorite.

But sometime between then and now, I fell in love with the written word. That love spun me into a whirlwind adventure of sentence diagrams and teen magazines and journalism school and personal web sites and pretzel alphabets and Boggle.

I still do not read nearly as much as I wish I did, and I am not yet ready to write my Great American Novel, but I will always have a spot in my heart for words. The homepage of my first web site read: "When you use words every day it's hard to make them count, but I try." And I do. I try.

Let it snow 29 January 2004

Mom and me, Big Bear Mountain, ca. 1980

I know I don't know what cold really is. I've lived in Southern California most of my life, and I can probably count the times I've seen the snow on my fingertips. I don't know how it feels to bundle up head to toe. I have never had to worry about my car getting buried alive. I don't know what below zero even means.

Still, I daydream of marching home down icy paths, making snow angels and tossing snowballs at friends, and waking up in the morning to find the whole world covered in a blanket of blinding white.

Enjoying the ride 28 January 2004

Today, I am celebrating my little victories, like making do with the limited groceries I had in the fridge and ending up with a green bean frittata, pushing myself all the way to the reservoir to meet Becky for an early morning walk, and learning a new way to string beads so that I could craft a lovely, ladylike necklace.

I have bigger, broader goals, but I'm not letting them scare me. I am trusting that every thing I do, make and learn is a step forward, even if I don't know where this path may lead.

Best of all, I'm enjoying the ride.

You are free 08 January 2004

You Are Free, an illustration I drew for Measure Magazine

My friend Daniele is doing something very cool this year. She's doing everything that scares her.

I love that idea: Taking wild, courageous leaps into territory we've never gone before--territory we assumed was blocked off with yellow tape and orange cones. I want to do more of that, too. It's why I made a couple of concrete resolutions, like learning how to sew and completing a book. Because if I don't do it now, I never will, and if I don't even start, I'll definitely never finish.

Rama said something to me last year that has echoed in my ears since. "Christine," he said, "you'd be really good if you were more brave."

He was talking about my artwork, but it's true of a lot of things. It is so much easier to show hints at brilliance -- short snippets of writing and half-done sketches -- than to finish a piece and let it stand on its own two feet. What if it's not as good as I hoped it would be? Worse, what if it's really awful? What if I discover that all this time that I've been carefully treading, I've been on the completely wrong path to begin with?

It's possible. Everything is.

Maybe I'll surprise myself. Maybe I'll end up creating something beautiful. Maybe those dreams tugging at my shirttails are trying to tell me something I need, and deserve, to hear. That I can do it. That I always could. I just had to try.

In 2003 06 January 2004

I want to tell you something new -- new, like the blinding white of our freshly painted living room ceiling or my neighbor upstairs whose name is the same as a Green Day album -- but I am still stuck in the old. I am still thinking about last year, glorious 2003 that was so good to me.

In 2003, I continued to try to see the good things in every day. Some days, of course, I only saw bad things. Those days passed. I fell in love with a boy who makes life more beautiful. We spent a lot of time together. I paid off all my credit card debt and sent money to family in the Philippines. I started my own business. I was interviewed for a fashion magazine and featured in a college English textbook. I laughed when I saw both. I got two parking tickets in my own driveway and sat through hours and hours of traffic. I snuck into my first movie. I went to San Francisco, Seattle, Portland, the Philippines and the California coast. I went swimming for the first time in years, doing somersaults in the shallow end and diving to the bottom of the deep end. I saw half a dozen shooting stars, and I wished on all of them. I started drinking coffee less and craving tea more. I baked three cheesecakes, dozens of cookies and brownies, and a keylime pie. I perfected my lasagna. I made pictures, mixed CDs. journal covers, felt ornaments, silly songs and wonderful friends. I made believe, too. I spent time with family and wrote letters to those I couldn't see. I opened up, and carried on, and looked inside myself for answers that have always been there.

Resolute 31 December 2003

I don't make resolutions each year, because I'm afraid of disappointing myself. But that is exactly why I need to this time. Because fear (of forgetting, of flailing, of failing) is holding me back. Years pass while my dreams gather dust on a shelf, and what good are dusty, old dreams?

Exactly. So. In 2004, I will:

- Be brave, honest and true.
- Take better care of my body.
- Learn how to sew.
- Write and illustrate a book.
- Start selling things that I make.

Or, at the very least, I will try.

Happy new year, darlings. Wishing you the energy, the faith, and the determination to follow your dreams, big and small.

Dates to remember* 30 December 2003

When I was in junior high and high school, one of my favorite things to do at the end of a year was sit on my bed with a blank calendar and a pile of colored pens. I loved reading my old calendar to see what I did that year and marking the new one with events, stars and scribbles. It was an exercise in memory and anticipation. Evey little square represented a world of possibility.

I still enjoy that sort of thing, and I'm just aching for a quiet moment so I can christen my new calendar and diary, reminisce about the precious past year and look forward to the year ahead.

* Today, for example, is my big brother's birthday. Happy Birthday, Tom². I miss you.

Making a list and checking it twice 16 December 2003

OK. I have moved into full-force Christmas mode. My room looks like Ms. Santa's workshop: piles of gifts stuffed in shopping bags, slivers of wrapping paper on the floor, spools of ribbon on my dresser. I don't know where the scissors are, but I'm sure they're around here somewhere. They are the most popular office supply this time of year. Scotch tape is second.

The kitchen's getting some action, too. I've already made one lemon cheesecake this week, and I'm making another next week. If I have time, I'd also like to make caramel-pecan brownies and ginger molasses cookies. I am only a good baker because I make the desserts that I love. I can't imagine ever learning, for example, how to make fruitcake or pumpkin pie.

Tomorrow, my roommate Rima and I are finally picking up a Christmas tree, stringing lights and hanging ornaments. The stockings have looked so lonely on the mantel, so I'm excited to give them some company. I can't wait to smell the fresh pine every time I enter the room. It makes the chill that greets me each night completely worth it.

Take that, Martha 10 December 2003

Inspired by some magical advice I got last night, I am taking deep breaths and thinking Simple.

A Christmas tree covered in twinkly lights and colored balls.

Gifts wrapped in kraft paper in twine.

Packets of store-bought hot cocoa and tiny marshmallows.

This time of year doesn't have to be about extravagant expectations. I need to remember that.

Tonight, I'm going to settle down with a cup of hot cocoa and a plate of cookies, some friends and some stories. All that holiday prep can wait.

Not-so-good things 05 December 2003

When it comes to airing out my laundry, I'd rather rejoice than grieve. I like sending the Good Things list because it makes me happy and I know it makes you happy, too. But I don't like talking about the bad stuff. I'd rather not think about it myself, much less share it with anyone else.

This week, I got a lot of bad news. A close friend's dad died on Thanksgiving Day, a grandma who isn't related but may as well be died a few days later, and my own grandma was admitted into the hospital, again. It didn't hit me until Tuesday night, after I'd let go of the freelance project that ate my Thanksgiving weekend, when I finally had time to breathe. And think.

Each event affected me deeply for different reasons. My grandma has been in and out of hospitals for the past year, and each time she goes back in there is that nagging fear that she may not come out. Granny's passing was devastating because she was one of the sweetest and cheeriest ladies I'd ever met, always reminding me that I was perfect just the way I am, despite any negative feedback I'd get from aunties and lolas.

Miguel's dad's death maybe hit me hardest, not because I knew him well, but because I know Miguel so well. He, his wife Erlina and I have been friends since journalism school. They are one of those couples whose love for each other shines but doesn't blind you. They never make you feel uncomfortable or lonely.

I know Miguel's dad was an amazing man because Miguel is so amazing. I got a glimpse of his character when he delivered an eloquent and touching speech at miguel and erlina's wedding. He sent everyone sobbing, and I am sure his death has had that effect a million times over.

When I thought about the profound effect his absence would have on his family, I sobbed, too.

Blessings in disguise 28 November 2003

It was tougher than usual to give thanks today. I had to keep reminding myself that the work that I have to do -- the work that I've been doing until now, 1:30 in the morning, and the work that I'll resume when I get back to my place tomorrow -- is actually a blessing.

I had to skip out on the Thanksgiving festivities early, missing the bad movie sequels screening and the second round of pigging out.

Instead, I slipped into my pajamas and set up desk in my parents' office. My mom played Wheel of Fortune on her PC, while I cropped photos on my iBook. The only time I got up was to get dessert.

Wishes 25 November 2003

One of the best gifts I got for my birthday was the one I gave myself.

Last night, I tore open an envelope addressed to me. My name was written in wild cursive. I recognized it immediately; it was Sabrina's. I excitedly unfolded the slip of paper that was nestled inside and started to read the purple ink message. After the first few words, I realized that it wasn't a note from Sabrina at all. It was from me.

I'd scribbled the note at Sabrina's workshop two months ago. It was one of our last exercises that day: Giving ourselves permission and wishes and dreams.

Somehow, the words I wrote two months ago were exactly what I needed to hear yesterday. That I could be whatever I want to be. But also, that I'm already beautiful just the way I am.

Surefire headache cure 17 November 2003

1. Get in your car and drive. If possible, get on a highway. If there's traffic, it's okay. Keep driving.

2. Roll up all your windows.

3. Pop in your favorite CD, preferably one with lyrics you know by heart.

4. Turn up the volume.

5. Turn it up more.

6. Turn it up so loudly that you are slightly uncomfortable.

7. Sing loudly, really loudly, until you find the very top of your lungs. By the second or third track, you'll be rocking out so hard that you'll forget that your head ever hurt in the first place. Your neck will be looser. Your toes will be tapping.

Do you know what that is? It's your whole body smiling.

* This cure has been tested and proven to work on grueling Los Angeles commutes. Do try it on your way home.

Special delivery 15 November 2003

I've been braving the malls, parking lots and cashier lines this week. I know, I know, Christmas is over a month away. I know. but I've been putting together a monster care package for some of my favorites back home in the Philippines, just in time for my dad's business trip this weekend.

It's a luxury to have someone hand-deliver the gifts. Usually, we put together balikbayan boxes, stuffing it to the rim with anything and everything imagineable, and send it via cargo ship. It takes weeks, and I always worry that it might not arrive, imagining the T-shirts and sneakers and bags of candy floating to some distant shore.

I wish I could be there to give the gifts myself. I want to see their faces light up as they tear open the packages and collect the "Thank You" hugs and kisses. Mostly, though, I want to sit around with my cousins like I did this summer, eating microwave popcorn and garlic roasted peanuts, teaching our parents to play B.S. and Murder and other card games, teasing each other viciously and laughing hysterically until the early hours of the morning. That would be my Christmas wish come true.

You tell yourself the things you tell yourself 11 November 2003

All this time, I thought Natalie Merchant was singing to someone named Anna in her song "Tell Yourself," but really, she was just singing to me. Or my 13-year-old self, who used to bury her nose in Sassy magazine.

I know what you tell yourself, you tell yourself.
Look in the mirror, look in the mirror,
what does it show?
I hear you counting,
I know you're adding up the score,
I know, oh yes, I know what you tell yourself,
you tell yourself.

Who taught you how to lie so well,
and to be mean in each and every word you say?
Who told you that nothing about you is alright?
It's just no use, it's just no good, you'll never be Okay.
Well I know, I know that wrongs been done to you.
"It's such a tough world,"
that's what you say.
Well I know, I know it's easier said than done.
But that's enough girl.
Give it away, give it,
give it all away.

I wish 13-year-old Christine had heard this song when she was growing up, but I'm glad I hear it now.

The kindness of strangers 10 November 2003

I lost my wallet, once. I left it in the stall of the girls' bathroom on the 3rd floor of the Humanities building, and I didn't realize it until two classes later. By the time I ran back to the bathroom, it was gone. I was petrified.

Not only did the wallet contain all my credit cards and identification, but it also carried $200, which is $180 more than I ever had in my possession at one time. I'd slipped two crisp $100 bills in the back compartment, intending to deposit them later that afternoon for my mom. How was I going to explain to her that I'd carelessly lost her money?

Before I mustered up the courage to do so, I got a phone call.

"Is Christine Castro in?"
"This is she," I said.
"I have your wallet."
"Oh my gosh, you do?"

We planned to meet the next day.

When we met, I thanked her over and over again. I felt so elated I was practically spastic, but she just sounded blase.

"Can I buy you a cup of coffee at least?" I asked.
"Nah," she smiled, "I've gotta get to my next class." Then, she was gone.

I took a peek into the secret slot and the $200 was there, folded in half, just as I'd left it. I couldn't believe it.

I have felt that same disbelief several times in the past few days because of people's kindness. Free slices of cheesecake from the owner of a favorite deli, web help from an old web acquaintance, understanding and compassion from a client. People who are nice for no reason except to be nice.

It's so easy to think that everything is a tragedy and everyone is a villain, but god, sometimes moments feel triumphant and regular people seem like heroes.

Young and exciting 07 November 2003

I must be getting old.

When asked what I want for my birthday, I keep saying, "Nothing."

"Are you sure?" they ask.
"Yeah," I say, without even thinking.

Young Christine would have jumped at the chance to make a long and detailed list of everything her pretty, little, selfish heart desires, but now I keep thinking about the people who are asking the question in the first place and how times are tough right now for everyone and that I'd rather they save the money or spend it on something for themselves. Once, I even answered, "Why don't you write me a nice letter," which is a totally grandma thing to say.

So when I finally decide, "Okay, maybe I would like a little something," all I can come up with is Boggle, a subscription to Real Simple magazine and cookbooks.

Baby steps 06 November 2003

I'm writing every day just to see if I can. Some people are writing entire novels this month. Me, I'm just writing.

I'm writing letters to my family. I'm writing postcards and thank you's that are long overdue. I'm writing in my journal, trying so hard to pay no mind to the crooked lines and uncrossed T's.

The task isn't nearly as ambitious as writing a novel, but I don't want to write a novel.

I'm writing, just writing, to see where my ideas take me, following them like a trail of scattered breadcrumbs.

Made-for-TV drama 05 November 2003

The clichés, I have to admit, were right. That, too, did pass. Things only got better. What didn't kill me made me stronger.

This time last year, I felt like I was falling apart. All at once, my grandma lay in a hospital bed in intensive care, my dad bravely faced surgery and my car gasped its last breaths on the side of the freeway. I threw myself at anyone who would listen, anyone who would help me forget, which resulted in a Christine Record of three dates in one week. Three bad dates in one week.

But, almost magically, things got better. In what the doctors touted as a miracle, Grandma got better. Dad's surgery went without a hitch. I said goodbye to my sweet, old car and said hello to a speedy, new one. I never spoke to bachelors #1, 2 or 3 again, and I stopped looking for a #4. Instead, I took a London holiday with a girlfriend, I spent much needed time with family, and I hung out with someone I'd been beginning to forget: Me.

A year later, and I cannot wipe this ridiculous smile off my face.

It's so strange how a bad day, no matter how recent or long ago, becomes so fuzzy in my memory. Like a made-for-TV movie I caught late one night. I am pretty sure it happened, and I remember it being pretty awful, but today, right now, I feel a hundred times better. I feel like maybe all that bad stuff happened to someone else, somebody still stuck in a frame on a reel of film somewhere at a television studio in Burbank.

To grandmother's house 04 November 2003

I had a Halloween identity crisis and changed my costume at the last minute. It was not the wisest decision nor most considerate decision, since that meant I had to pick up my costume from my parents' house and Rama had to change his costume, too. But, you know, I was being a girl.

The morning of the party, I made a trek to OC to pick up my little red riding hood cape. After climbing a mountain of boxes and fighting spiders and other frightening creatures, I found it tucked away beside a kimono, a Hawaiian shirt, a witch hat and a nun habit. On my way home, I stopped at Wal*mart for some schoolgirl knee-highs and a frilly nightgown for Rama, in case he wanted to be the Big, Bad Wolf dressed up as grandma. He didn't use it, but with a painted on mustache and goatee, he still looked Big and Bad.

The party was fantastic fun. There was a cool crowd, fine food and a constant stream of good music. Our potluck contribution was my homemade mac'n'cheese. Mom had made fun of me for choosing to make the non-delicacy. "Ay nako!" she laughed. "If you're going to bring that, why not just make it out of the box?" But my efforts didn't go unnoticed. It went well alongside the carrot souffle, mushroom risotto and pork tenderloin. There were also some special treats, like the sweetest caramel apples, white chocolate covered strawberries and Russian candy. If I were smart, I would have tucked those in my basket, but I went home, instead, with a full stomach and a cheek sore from laughing.

Real weather 03 November 2003

The clouds bled across the entire sky this morning. I couldn't stop smiling on my way to work. Angie and I stepped outside to get a bagel from the lunch truck and a gust of cold wind shook us.

"It's so cold," she grumbled.
"I know," I said, "Isn't it great?"

I glanced at my coat rack before leaving the house this morning and, for a second, considered grabbing my gray wool scarf to wrap around my neck. Don't be silly, I told myself. It's not that cold. But soon it will be.

I remember how Lisaann used to laugh at me for shivering on a 50-degree night, and I know that others who have lived in colder, harsher climates will probably do the same. I don't care. I will wear my coats and scarfs and hats this fall. I'll pretend it's Autumn in New York. I'll imagine I'm walking three hours in the snow just to get to school.

Only treats 31 October 2003

We celebrated Halloween a day early at youth group last night, ducking through haunted hallways, parading in our costumes and carving jack-o-lanterns. There was a ballerina, a toilet, an elf, a Cat in the Hat, a 50's couple and a blond afro wig that hopped from head to head.

I felt ridiculously nostalgic and snapped photos of all the characters in the room. I stopped at a table of my favorite girls, leaned in with raised eyebrows and a devilish grin, as if to tell a ghost story or share a juicy secret, and asked, "So, what's your favorite Halloween candy?"

Sidra laughed. "You're so weird."

But I wasn't being facetious. I've always been serious about my candy--seriously obsessive. When I was a little girl, I climbed the back fence to go to the liquor store behind our house. I bought handfuls of 5-cent candy: jolly ranchers, laffy taffy and tootsie rolls. When I felt rich, I bought boxes of nerds and pouches of big league chew.

At bedtime, I ate candy after brushing my teeth and hid the wrappers beneath my bed. I took packs of candy with me everywhere I went, like a grandma might. Except I didn't want to share. I stuffed entire packs of bubbalicious in my mouth at one time and licked the complete surface area of spiral lollipops from Disneyland just so I didn't have to. One of my piano teachers charged me a piece of candy for each mistake I made, but it didn't teach me to practice. It taught me to hide the candy in my pockets.

There are five bags of candy in the fridge right now, and my roommate, Rima, is buying more this afternoon. I hope tons of kids come trick-or-treating tonight, so we can be one of the cool houses that dumps fists full of candy into pillowcases without flinching. Of course, I won't be disappointed if we're left with all that candy to ourselves.

Spectacle 27 October 2003

It's snowing ashes outside, and a cloud of smoke is slowly rising behind the mountains.

I watched the spectacle this morning on my way to work, which is just miles away from the fires. It's almost pretty.

Almost, until I remember that almost 1,000 houses have burned down and at least 13 people have died from the fires. My heart breaks for the families affected, and I worry for my friends who live nearby.

Falling leaves 22 October 2003

A few weeks ago, Mom and I were walking to the movies on one of our perfect Girl Days. We get together once every few weeks to go shopping, see movies and eat out. The outings are sometimes as simple as a trip to Walmart and a cruise through the In-N-Out drive thru, but they're always fun. That afternoon was one of the first days that really felt like Fall. I remember that clearly.

As we were walking, I noticed a leaf lying on the sidewalk. There were no trees on that block, so it must have blown over from a neighboring street. The golden leaf curled up at the corners. I could tell it was crisp for crunching. Maybe Mom could, too, because her sandle-clad foot stomped on it.

The leaf crackled beneath Mom's foot, and a grin snuck up her face.

"You're like me!" I exclaimed. "I love stepping on fallen leaves."

"No, Christine," she said, "You're like me."

"Oh. Right."

That's what a hamburger's all about 08 October 2003

The other day, Ricky called me on my cellphone. I was in the candles aisle at Cost Plus when I answered it.

"Can you deliver an In-N-Out hamburger to LAX?"

"What?"

He and his girlfriend, Brooke, were stopped over at the airport on their way to Mexico. Ricky may be a funny guy, but he was only half kidding. If you've had In-N-Out, you understand. Those burgers are no joke. They singlehandedly kept me from giving up red meat.

A few years ago, my mom convinced me that it would be good for my health so I figured I'd give it a try. I had gone two days pork- and beef-free when my parents came home with a couple of Double-Doubles and some fries. The scent wafted up into my bedroom and lingered for hours. Three days later, I broke down and got a cheeseburger with grilled onions. A milkshake, too.

It's not like I go to In-N-Out that often. Once a month, maybe. Sometimes twice. But when you are craving the juicy beef patty, topped with crisp lettuce and a sweet tomato, a pile of grilled onions and melted cheese, on a perfectly toasted buttery bun, you want to be able to get it. Now. So, you know, I just totally sympathized with Ricky when I had to say, "No."

My little black book 23 September 2003

I left my little black book at a cafe today at lunch, and I already have separation anxiety. It's more than just a little black book. It's my dayplanner, doodlepad and secret hiding place all rolled into one. It's important to me.

I know it's still at the café; I just called, and it's waiting for me at the counter, stuffed underneath somebody's forgotten sweater. But I feel strange knowing that it's within anybody's reach. It contains most of my plans and whereabouts for the year. There are silly doodles and makeshift fonts on the pages. There are lists and lists of lists. There are even love notes.

I'm sure they're uninteresting to anyone but me, but I will feel much better when the book is back in my hands and I can slip it safely into my handbag, along with the rest of my life.

Spinny 13 September 2003

I rode a ferris wheel, the bumper cars and one of those you-stand-up-and-they-spin-you-high-in-sky rides at a church fair on Sunday. I was fine -- I was ecstatic -- until that last one. My stomach leapt against the walls of my body. High up in the evening sky and at the top of my lungs, I shouted, "I'm not 16 anymore." It took two hours and two glasses of water to get my stomach to settle again.

The risks 12 August 2003

Last night, I dreamt that I found a lump in my left breast. I was staring at my reflection in the mirror when I noticed that there was something uneven about my breasts. I ran my hand over the left one and found a bump the size of an egg.

Strangely, in my dream I didn't panic. I remember thinking, "Well, it's a good thing I have a doctor's appointment next week."

Because I do. Every time I go to the doctor, I wonder if she'll announce to me that I've inherited one of my mother's or grandmother's ailments.

My grandmother had breast cancer decades ago. Her sister has it now. Many of the medical decisions my mother makes revolves around cancer risk. She has a mental list of newspaper and magazine articles about studies done proving this or that will affect you.

*

This morning, my co-worker announced that her mother's cancer has been diagnosed as terminal and she is packing up her things to take care of her in her dying days. It was especially surreal to hear this news because just last weekend I watched One True Thing, in which Renee Zelweiger's character drops her life to take care of her dying mom played by Meryl Streep.

"Are you okay?" Mark asked.
"Yeah," she said, "I mean, everybody dies some way."
"But she's your mom," he said.

Everything happens for a reason, Mark told her. I used to say that, too. I would tell myself those words when I was hit with disappointment or tragedy.

Maybe it's true. I haven't proved myself wrong, yet. But seeing this woman have to drop everything to take care of her dying mother, wondering what other disappointments and tragedies lurk ahead, I wonder what those reasons could possibly be.

Jetlagged 06 August 2003

I'm back, teetering between timezones and realities. I woke up this morning, thinking, hoping, it was a decent hour, but no. It was 4am and I was wide awake.

I sat up in bed and read my laptop like a book pressed up against my chest. I imagined what my family might be doing in the Philippines. Mom is eating dinner. Nanette is washing the dishes. Grandma is saying a prayer.

My time spent abroad was filled with so much love and adventure. Some sadness, too. I came home with a renewed sense of gratitude for everything I have. Not everyone is as lucky as we are, you know--not even half as lucky.

While there, I kept wanting to write and photograph and sketch everything all at once. "Make the most of this moment," I kept thinking. "You will never get it back." But I got tired of watching everything with such hard stares.

Now that I'm back, I want to get every last memory down on paper, fold the pages up and slip them inside a shoebox that I will have forever. I don't know if I can. I don't know if I should. I just know that part of me misses it already and another part of me is so glad to be home.

A day at the beach 16 July 2003

I'm spoiled with beaches the way I am with swimming pools. I spent summer days lounging around secluded spots in the town where my grandmother grew up, digging my toes in black sand, chasing warm water waves, and swinging on hammocks dangling on coconut trees. Even in Newport Beach, a 30-minute drive that felt like 30 hours as a child, we had a favorite spot that was hardly ever crowded.

It had been months since I'd spent an afternoon at the beach, but Sunday, Rama and I made pasial. "I don't really know where we're going," I warned him.

"It's okay. Neither do I," he said, then continued singing familiar melodies with nonsense lyrics.

I read in Los Angeles magazine that there are something like 50 openings to the Malibu coast but most of them are unmarked. We drove up Pacific Coast Highway, keeping an eye out for passageways to secret slices of paradise. But no luck.

We ended up at Point Dume, a relatively small and quiet beach. Several people were already headed home. Rama and I found a nice spot and collapsed on a blanket. We watched surfers and seagulls and wrote silly messages in the sand. Once in a while, the waves crept up to kiss our toes.

I started to fall asleep--I told rama that I was just going to "rest my eyes"--when all of a sudden a big wave came crashing over us. We lept up, laughing and shaking out the water. I was drenched from the waist down.

Luckily, the sun was still out, so we dried off enough before getting back in the car. On the way home, I told rama he could take a nap. "It's okay," he said, and almost immediately fell asleep. I rolled the window down, sang along to aimee mann, and watched the orange moon rise over the ocean.

Stage fright 15 July 2003

Now that you and you and you and you are reading this, I don't know what to say. Mom, dad, aunts, uncles, even my grandma is reading my website, and I am getting severe stage fright.

How will I ever become a real writer, I ask myself, when I am too afraid to tell real stories?

Home of the free 11 July 2003

each year, the 4th of july becomes more and more about my independence than this country's.

i had a houseguest and a barbeque, i played hostess and tour guide, i scheduled outings and naptime. there were moments of hostess anxiety when i worried that something would go wrong, that we wouldn't have a good time, that i was way in over my head, but everything fell into place.

we had a lovely time. the afternoon ended in a siesta on my front lawn. we laughed and lounged until the sun climbed over the house. then we went back inside.

*

in two weeks, i will step onto a plane and fly to the philippines, where i was born and only a piece of my heart still lives. i am going to see my grandmother whom i've missed dearly. i'll also spend time with my aunts and uncles and cousins and people who are somehow related to me.

they'll make fun of my accent. i'll make fun of their style. we'll hug, laugh, and talk until it's time for me to come back home.

*

this is my home. this, these emotions i feel, these words i write, these clothes i wear. the light blue house with stately white pillars, shiny wood floors, big bright windows. your hand in mine. their laughter around me. my parents' voice booming on the telephone asking me when i'm coming over, again.

it's the home i've made and it's the only home i know.

Dipping my toe in the shallow end (the water's fine) 24 June 2003

last night, we talked about swimming. i realized i hadn't swum in months--maybe even a year. i haven't swum because i don't like sharing the water. we had a pool in our backyard growing up, and i never had to worry about interruptions in my laps or glances at my imperfect curves.

rama told me about swimming pools, rivers and oceans where he used to swim. i closed my eyes and imagined the current lifting my body and pulling me along. i thought about holding my breath and slipping through tunnels. i wished right then i was floating on my back and squinting at the sun. i would have been happy just sitting on the pavement, dangling my legs over the edge of a swimming pool.

i had forgotten how much i loved the water. how i used to spend all day long, all summer long, in our backyard pool, only getting out to eat popsicles and pee. how we used to pretend we were mermaids and synchronize swimmers. how i used to sink to the bottom for a moment alone.

my mom would call us in when she came home from work, and i'd pretend i didn't hear her. she'd warn me that my skin was getting wrinkly and dark, but i didn't care what she said. i didn't care what anyone said. i just did it because i loved it.

i wish i could go back to being that fearless, playful little girl. i know she's in here somewhere. i want her to come back out and play.

Hush little baby 19 June 2003

i don't normally like to dream out loud. i like to keep things secret until i know they are real. it's a lack of confidence, maybe; a safety net because i think i might fall and i don't want you to be there when it happens.

but i want to be braver.

the process is just as important as the outcome. we're all looking for something, right? maybe if we look together, it will be easier to find the answers.

Swiss cheese 17 June 2003

lately, i have been thinking a lot about swiss cheese. i have been thinking about holes in stories and messages between lines that never get told. i like you, and i enjoy sharing bits of my days, but i don't tell you everything. you know that, right?

sometimes, i feel guilty, like i owe you the whole story. but i have to remember that stories are just that--they're stories. they are not promises to document or divulge.

my friends and i play a game. we make movies, video games and memoirs out of our lives. we choose actors who would play us, special powers we'd possess and titles of the stories of our lives. i think about that last one a lot, for obvious reasons.

what would you call the book about your life? what anecdotes would you pick to go in there? which would you keep to yourself because they are too private or precious?

i don't even know my answers to those questions. i'm still living my story, and i'm making it up as i go along.

Sweetness 13 June 2003

my upstairs neighbors had a beautiful baby girl named nola lee. she has the pinkest lips and cheeks.

i stood over her as she slept. five, maybe ten, minutes passed by without a stretch or a shift from her.

"she laughed earlier," said her uncle. "no, she didn't," laughed his wife. "well, she smiled," he said. i shot him a knowing glance as if to say, i believe you.

i could have stood there forever, just watching her. just marveling at her preciousness.

when i came back downstairs, rama said i smelled like talcum powder.

In passing 11 June 2003

i've been hiding somewhere between here and the moon, resting my head on clouds and gazing at the sun. i've been at a loss for words, not because nothing has happened but because so much has happened. i don't know what else to say.

i told sabrina, "i still don't know what it is i should be doing, but i feel like i am closer to figuring it out."

i am still collecting good things. i am trying not to eat too much bacon. i am enjoying the sunlight that floods my living room and marveling that i've lived here for over two years.

Bestest friends forever 22 May 2003

christina c____ and i used to bring candy to school, distribute it evenly amongst ourselves and eat it behind the short stop at recess. we swapped issues of BOP magazine and planned birthday parties for our cabbage patch kids. christina was my very best friend. we even had the silver heart charm cracked in half to prove it.

in 4th grade, she moved to mission viejo, so we took to writing letters on hello kitty stationary and weekend sleepovers when our parents weren't too lazy to drive. as she moved further and further south, we drifted further and further apart. by high school, we had very different ideas of how to have a good time, she was busy dating boys; i was busy writing about them. in college, we had one brief email exchange, in which i learned she was going to uc berkeley. then, i stopped hearing from her.

i've thought about christina a lot, wondering where she lives and what she does, whether she is married and if she has kids.

i decided recently to try to find her, but i hadn't had any luck. admittedly, i'd only done a few quick internet searches and a google; two of the three top searches brought up my own website, so that didn't help.

but last night, i got an email from her.

i recognized her mom's name in the return address but assumed it was just spam. when i opened it up, however, i knew it was christina after all. "my long lost bestest friend," she wrote. "it really is you!"

she said she found my site randomly, thinks about me often and regrets letting go of our friendship. she also remembered the nicknames we'd made for each other--plum & kiwi--and the pains we took to follow the fashion trends (i wore those pink jelly shoes until the sole was as thin as cellophane and the straps cracked in half).

oh, christina. my heart swelled when i got this email.

i called my mom immediately because i knew she was the only person who would really understand how dear this was to me. our friendship was separate from any others i'd had in that period of my life. it wasn't a trio or a foursome. it was just us two, cc and cc, the cute boys in new edition and the world.

What I did for love 16 May 2003

there are three guys asleep in my living room. one of them is my brother; the other two are his design partners, jeroen and dimi. all three are tall, so it's a good thing i have a lot of floor space. sometime around 2 in the morning, i gave them a stack of blankets and pillows and towels, then crashed hard. it was a long night.

i drove them around like a good little hostess, cruising down hollywood boulevard to melrose to sunset. we saw the sun set while driving down pacific coast highway. we dug our toes in sand and listened to the ocean. we met my parents for dinner at a filipino restaurant, where a piano man played as if he were at an old-time theater. he banged on the keys.

we requested two filipino childhood tunes and he rolled his eyes at us like we were not funny. oh, but we thought we were, and we laughed and hummed and passed the bowls and platters of food around the table.

after dinner, we went to the standard downtown. my brother's friend, a fourth boy, joined us. we had to wait for access to the rooftop, and i had a minor hostess anxiety attack. the gin & tonic helped. when we finally retreated to the roof top, i was overcome with calm and awe. there is something so serene about being eyelevel with skyscrapers.

we ended up at the bigfoot, where dimi got scolded for not having any form of picture ID. the bouncer shooed us away. we were about to give up but something inspired me to plea one more time with him. violins played as i told him how it was my favorite bar and my brother was in town all the way fom holland and i had been telling them how cool it was and they were only here for one night. true story.

he scrunched up his face and gave me a grin. "okay. hurry up before i change my mind."

"what did you say to him?" dimi whispered as we walked through the thin crowd toward the back of the bar.

"i told him i'd marry him."

What I did over the weekend 08 May 2003

yesterday, ryan asked me, "are you going to write about your trip?"

immediately, and without thinking, i said, no.

i tried to explain to him that the trip was less about sight-seeing and more about time with my family and friends, less about documentation and more about experience. with all the blasts from my past and first-time hellos, it should have been overwhelming, but it wasn't. it was everything i wanted it to be and more than i could ever have imagined.

today, i daydreamed i was back on the seattle pier, with the sun beating down on my right arm and my eyes pointing past the clouds. i remember thinking, "this, right here, this is vacation." i asked my mom, dad and brother to leave me there and come back for me later. i wanted to take everything in and forget not a single thing.

Postcard from the future 30 April 2003

if i had your addresses, enough postage and a hand that never cramps, i'd send each and every one of you a postcard from my vacation¹. but since i don't, i'll write it here:

darling,
it's rainy and cloudy and lovely here in the pacific northwest. the sun is playing hide and seek--mostly hide. it's so good to see ricky again. i don't realize how much i miss him until he's right in front of me. i saw gregory and met his girl and ate, as lisaann promised, one of the best grilled cheese sandwiches ever. the next morning, i left for portland. it was wonderful. i spent three hours staring out train windows and the next two days laughing. now, i'm back in seattle. my parents arrive in an hour, just in time for lunch and a full weekend of family daytripping. if only tom were here, it'd be the complete castro clan.

is it bad to say that i don't wish you were here at all? it's not that i don't love you, but sometimes i just really need to get away. you know what they say about absence and the heart, don't you?

love,
christine

--
¹ no, i haven't left yet -- my flight's tonight -- but i am psychic and i already know what i am going to say.

Superwoman complex 24 April 2003

i am learning the difference between confidence and delusion.

confidence: yes, i can do it.

delusion: yes, i can do it all.

i have been fooling myself into believing that i can be everything for everyone. i have been forgetting what i need to be for myself.

i feel awkward and ridiculous. i feel worried for the women in my life whose health is failing, whose hope is draining. i feel tired all the time. i feel like i will never catch up.

but catch up to what? what am i even chasing?

this weekend, i am turning off my ibook and i'm not turning it on until monday morning. maybe without all the noise filling my head i will remember what my own voice sounds like.

Flight 22 April 2003

frankly, i'm a little overwhelmed.

it's almost as if i have been hiding behind this project for so long and now that it's done i don't know what to do with myself.

i am faced with everyone's expectations of me combined with my own expectations of me, when what i really wish i could stare straight in the eyes is what i want. what, as sabrina says, brings me the most joy.

i am so good at seeing details, at embracing that which makes a moment, at falling in love with the tiniest thing, but i don't know what it is that would bring me a sustained happiness. a peace.

when i find it, if i find it, i wonder if everything really will fall into place, like they say it will. but that almost sounds too easy.

And making a mess of it 17 April 2003

while rolling sushi last night, i dipped my finger in the vinegar water, traced the edge of the nori and suddenly felt like i was making lumpia with mom. i remembered the big plastic bowl from where i'd spoon out the pork, shrimp, vegetable mixture; pulling the eggroll wrappers apart slowly and carefully so i wouldn't tear them; the sound of the bubbling oil and the thrill of getting to try the first one, fresh from the pan, still sizzling on the paper towel.

Part of your world 15 April 2003

i am not used to being called an artist. for so long, i avoided the title--not because i didn't want it but because i didn't think i deserved it.

ricky was the artist in the family. he was the one who spent hours at his desk drawing, who won award after award for his work, who always had his head in some kind of charcoal-and-color-lined cloud. in class, kids would tell me stuff like "you're such a good artist!" and "how do you draw so well?" but i would always respond, "oh no, i'm not an artist. i don't draw well at all."

so, i didn't take any art classes, and i didn't minor in art like i'd wanted. i didn't think i had any kind of real talent. a knack, maybe -- the way i can carry a tune and the way i end up baking perfect brownies every time without knowing how -- but not talent.

somehow art kept following me, anyway. the more i let myself create, the more i realized i enjoyed it. i painted a mural at my old church. i designed the college newspaper. i started building websites and they started getting noticed. now, i'm nearing completion of a (soon-to-be-revealed) web project for an artist whom i adore. i can't help but think i have to be doing something right.

i realize now that there is really no escaping it. i make things. i try to make things pretty. i design, i paint, i draw, i build, i create. if these artists let me into their world then maybe i should accept that i belong there.

while volunteering at a hospital during high school, i met a little girl who asked my friend to draw a picture for her.

"oh no," carrie said. "i can't draw."

the girl looked at her, puzzled, and replied: "you have hands, don't you?"

carrie was stumped. what do you say to that? nothing. you can't say anything to it, but Yes.

The path from here to there 10 April 2003

at the last minute this morning, i stepped out of my jeans and sneakers and into a skirt and blouse because i remembered i had a lunch date and had to look presentable. my dad and my cousin, lindy, were coming to meet me.

lindy lives in bicol, the province where my mom grew up, a place with shoddy electricity, tin roofs, mosquitoes and black sand beaches. when i was 10, ricky and uncle carlito played a cruel joke on me, pretending that my parents sent me to the philippines not for a vacation but because they wanted me to stay there to study. at first i didn't believe it -- i didn't want to believe it -- but they were so convincing that i had no choice. i broke down in tears.

it isn't that bicol is so bad. it just isn't here.

the kids there think i live in a scene from baywatch with people who dress like the girls in clueless. to them, The Big City is manila and california is a dream. some of them never leave.

but lindy escaped. she always has been the adventurous one. the one most likely to succeed, most likely to leave the country, most likely to stay up with my brothers and me drinking beer and telling funny stories until the early morning hours. seeing her, although briefly, sent a rush of pride through me.

i thought of my mother, who wanted to study architecture in america but wasn't allowed by her parents.
i thought of my grandmother, who didn't get married until she was 25.
i thought of my great-grandmother, whom i only know from stories.

i thought of the woman i've become and the daughter i'll someday have and the marvelous turn of luck we'll both have been given. the chance to see the world and create a history all our own. the chance to truly live.

Things I learned last night 04 April 2003

01. it's fashion week. the term "fashionably late" never made so much sense.

02. some women can wear birdhouses as hats and look perfectly normal.

03. some men can wear pressed pink oxford shirts and look like psycho killers.

04. my world's walls are closing in on me and there is nowhere to hide. as such, you will inevitably run into someone (who knows someone) you know.

05. here in LA, flashing the peace sign is an acceptable way of saying hello. so is the head nod.

06. laura owen's artwork is how i want to be: daring and subtle and bold and delicate all at the same time.

07. i have become a lightweight and that is, perhaps, not a bad thing at all.

08. i still meet amazing people all the time.

Acting someone's age (not mine) 31 March 2003

yesterday, i found myself stitching by hand, sipping fruit punch and talking about having a good game of bingo with the ladies and i felt 72, not 27.

of course, the other night i ate ice cream for dinner and thin mints for dessert and this morning i had cherry vanilla cake for breakfast, so i guess it all evens out in the end.

Up where the air is clear 24 March 2003

what i gained this weekend was perspective.

i go to these retreats in hopes that i will teach them a lesson or two about life but they always end up teaching me so much more. i am in awe at what trials some go through in lives half as long as mine. i am inspired by the way they live and love and hope and believe despite them.

if they can continue to smile day after day, surely i can.

i worry about the world in which we live, but knowing that someday the world will be in the hands of these teenagers makes me worry a little less.

Now 20 March 2003

now more than ever we have to be brave and live out loud. we have to tell the people in our lives we care. we have to make time for laughter. we have to create beautiful things. teach others. volunteer. give. sacrifice. pray. believe.

it's so easy to say and it's even easier to forget, but we must try.

this weekend, i'm taking 50 high school students up to the mountains for a church retreat. there will be no tv, no radio, no cellphones, no internet. nothing but us and the trees and the wide open sky.

at first, i didn't think i could do it. this is wrong, i thought. we can't go up there at a time like this.

i wanted instead to hop in my car, drive to my parents' house, hug them hard and stay glued to the tube all weekend.

but i realize now that this is what i need to be doing: talking with the youth about the world and God and the meaning of everything. finding hope in each other. staring at all the stars we hardly ever get to see.

Spilling

the words stop sounding like my own when i know you're there, so i am going to pretend there's no one here but me.

i'm waiting for my laundry to dry so that i can go to bed. it's not even 9pm, but i want to slide under my covers and sip tea simmering from the pot and read spilling open for the zillionth time and finish up the pages in my journal and think about things that i haven't thought about in a while.

just, i don't know, because.

*

i hope we are not running out of things to talk about.

that is my fear. there's a difference between comfortable and empty silence. comfortable silence is knowing looks and holding hands under the table and things previously said so that you just don't need to speak right now. empty silence is why are you still here i have nothing more to say to you so please go away already.

i don't want you to grow tired of me, because i certainly am not tired of you. it's actually the contrary, and that's why i'm still here.

maybe it's just a matter of time and space : knowing when to speak and when to listen and when to just crawl under your covers and spend the night alone.

On war 19 March 2003

i don't know how to describe it but maybe you know how it is i feel. the clearest picture i can paint is a mother's empty arms as she mourns her only child. then, i multiply it times 250,000 and that is only a fraction of the fear, grief and panic that fills my heart.

it hasn't even begun and i'm already sick of talking about it.

In from the cold 05 March 2003

when i went to the bathroom this morning, there was someone in my favorite stall. there's never anybody in my favorite stall. in fact, there's usually nobody in the bathroom at all since i'm the only girl in this building.

but this morning, it looked like someone was camped out in the bathroom: a cable-knit sweater draped over the door, a turquoise blanket sprawled on the floor and a bar of soap sitting on the counter.

i heard shifting, but i was scared. i just did my business and ran the hell out of there. i called facilities in a panic, but no one answered. i left a message. there's somebody in the bathroom. i think it's a homeless person. please come quick. i told the boys, my coworkers, but none of them thought it was a big enough deal to scope it out. i felt nervous and fidgety and violated. i didn't know why. i just did.

it turned out to be an elderly homeless woman who snuck in through our back door that should be, but wasn't, locked.

the office manager came to talk to her. are you alright in there? she asked. i'm fine, the woman said in a shaky voice, but i'm so tired and old. when the office manager asked the woman to leave, she got angry and mean. "i don't have to take this fucking shit from you," she said. the police came to take her away.

afterward, the office manager came to my desk and with a sigh of relief told me the bathroom was clear. but i didn't feel relief. i felt sad. i felt disappointed in myself for forgetting that the homeless person was human. i felt angry at the world for instilling fear in me.

all i could think about was how the night before rain fell and temperatures dropped. i remembered that my hands were so cold and i was so happy to slip inside my bedroom and cradle a fresh cup of coffee to warm them.

Into thin air 02 March 2003

they're gone. the neighbors out back disappeared. one day, i saw their silver rocket peel into the alley. the next day, rima told me they were gone. the black curtain that had cloaked the living room was sitting in the trash can. the only trace left was two identical plants on the porch steps, one alive, the other dead.

we were convinced that there were four of them occupying the one-bedroom guesthouse. one: julie, the stick-thin fashion queen. two: anger management, her boyfriend. three: another girl, maybe her sister. four: three's boyfriend.

to be honest, i never liked them. anger management always paced on the front porch barking angrily into a cell phone. julie constantly parked in front of our garage despite the open spaces everywhere else. three and four would be inches away from me but never looked me in the eye.

call me crazy, but i like neighbors who smile when you pass by and say hi back when you say hello. i don't like being woken up at 4 in the morning by a chorus of giggles and screams and "fuckkkk"s passing by my window.

we were afraid to complain about them because they outnumbered us. plus, their dog, likely trained by mr. anger management himself, had a set of vicious looking fangs and barked like he was set to kill.

it figures that the one time that they went unnoticed, the one time i'd actually like to say hello how are you goodbye, is the day they left for good.

I don't know what I'm saying, but maybe, just maybe, you do

i was starting to worry that i had forgotten my dreams, but maybe i've just outgrown them.

maybe this is what david meant by making the late-20's transition. "you thought you knew what you wanted but now you want something completely different."

i'm learning that i can't control everything, that some things are beyond even my wildest imagination, that so many surprises are along the way.

maybe it's not that i haven't accomplished my goals but that i'm making new ones, and the big question isn't "What am I going to do with my life?" but "What am I going to do with today?"

i can prepare for the future, i can imagine what i'll be doing in 5, 10, 20 years, i can hope to God that i'll be ready, but first i better be ready for right now.

the things i'm doing right now matter, whether it's as big as spending a lot of my spare time on a project that thrills me or as small as smiling at the person standing at the corner. everything counts.

Childhood friend 27 February 2003

the thing about mr. rogers is i don't even remember the details. i don't remember anything about his house, i couldn't tell you the name of any of the neighbors, i wouldn't be able to recount any story lines. i can only see his smiling face.

i just remember that i would walk home from school, tug the silver chain from my backpack and turn the dangling key in the front door lock. i just know that i'd turn on the TV and he'd already be there, going about his business.

it made me feel safe.

some of my best memories are like that. they are a feeling, or a scent, or a sound.

it's almost as if adding any detail would just ruin it.

Pretty silly if you ask me 26 February 2003

so, it turns out i've been doing this for four years. four. i remember when one year was a big deal, two was pretty impressive and three, three was like, oh my gosh, i have spent a lot of time on the internet, haven't i scary. but four? four is just pretty darned silly.

four years is the standard length of time for a solid education and for all this work to be worth it i sure as hell better have learned something. something, but what?

well:

1. this is just a website. so is this and that, his and hers. sometimes the people behind the websites are exactly how you imagine them and sometimes they're nothing you ever could have cooked up in your mind. that's what makes them so beautiful.

2. what you see on these people's websites is only what they choose to show you. so-and-so may have told you what he ate for breakfast, but afterward, he might have had five more donuts and you would never be the wiser. you may read all about a horrible day i had, but i might neglect to tell you how the following night my friends rescued me with pie and cocktails and stories that made me laugh so hard i couldn't breathe.

3. people who make websites are crazy. (yes, mom. me, too.) it takes a certain kind of person willing to document their lives and throw them on the web for all the world to see. but it's a good kind of crazy. the loveable kind.

4. if you write it, they will listen. if you photograph it, they will look. if you ask someone to tell you how to play heads-up 7-up, or you wonder aloud if anyone else was obsessed with Degrassi Junior High, or you ask complete strangers to leave guestbook messages for your dad because you think it will be funny, somebody somewhere will respond.

5. there's something for everyone. the web is a big place and there's enough room for us all. yes, even bacon!

6. it takes a lot of time, patience and vision to keep something like this going. also: an endless supply of caffeine and music.

7. this personal website business is a love/hate relationship: we love to hate it. but if you stick with it, if you pour some of yourself into a project that matters to you, if you just have let go and fun, it will be well worth the one, two, three, four years of bleary-eyed mornings, raised eyebrows from family members and self-imposed guilt for not updating often enough.

Translation, please 05 February 2003

i met a boy who collects foreign words and i like that idea. collecting words, like pebbles or fortunes or ticket stubs. i used to know how to say i'm hungry in nine languages, but i only remember five.

tabatchoy (tah bah choy): someone overweight; a term one would use to tease, much like "fatso."

a lady at the flea market on sunday asked me if i was asian. she stood a foot away from me at a table covered with old jewelry and knick-knacks. when i said yes, she dangled a medallion in the air and said, "can you tell me what this says?"

madaldal (mah dahl dahl’): chatty; talkative; rambly.

i looked at the characters on the metal coin, but my head translated it as art, not language. it was beautiful.

maarte (mah ahr' tay): artsy-fartsy; also having a flair for the dramatic.

"no," i told her. "i can only read english."

"oh really?" she said, with wide eyes and a fallen smile. "that's too bad. i really want to know what it says."

Climbing fences 31 January 2003

it's a good thing i was wearing jeans.

when the boys asked me to go with them to lunch, they didn't mentioned we'd be jumping the stone fence behind the office.

"do you guys do this often?" i asked, apprehensively.
"oh yeah," my coworker said, "all the time."

i hadn't climbed a fence since i was a little girl, when we'd sneak over to the liquor store behind our houses for bags of candy and sodapop. i felt like a juvenile delinquent cutting class.

the wall was almost as tall as i, and i stood there for a second, taking a deep breath and planning my strategy. i handed my handbag to one of them, grabbed the top of the all and anchored my right foot into the chainlink fence to hoist myself up. at the top of the wall, i looked behind and in front of me, and then went for it.

my feet pounded against the pavement. a dust cloud blew up from where i stood. i took another deep breath.

"landing is the hardest part," he said.

Five minutes behind 28 January 2003

last night i told her, there's something in the air and everything is changing. the jasmine thinks it's springtime. the raindrops never came. the sky and the clouds and the air and the atmosphere...it's just different.

i can't explain.

today, i woke up with a dark cloud in my belly.
today, i got a very expensive piece of paper.
today, i said goodbye to some very dear friends.
today, i received inspiration via fedex.

up down up down, like a yo-yo in mid-air.

when i got home, i sank into my sofa. i wanted to dive under the cushions. i wanted to swim away.

there's something in the air and everything is changing, but i'm still here. i'm still here, and i don't know where the consolation is in that.

Paper is the new new media 20 January 2003

Her words, not mine 17 January 2003

"oh my god, christine," she said, "you have, like, the best taste in clothes."

"thanks," i smiled.

"it's almost identical to mine."

S p a c e 14 January 2003

i'm totally consumed by space. the way a person travels through my bedroom. the glaring holes on the computer screen. the walls i've stripped bare.

i drive down the freeway/sit in a meeting/stand in the shower and it's all i can think about. i make mental notes:

maybe i should replace optic nerve with the little prince.
the white shelf would totally fit there!
5 shelves times 5 drawers times 15 CDs-- what is that, 400 CDs?
color, lots of color.
find the tape measure.
...do i have a tape measure?
borrow a tape measure.
dude. this website is gonna be so cool.

even when i am doing something that requires my attention, i have to admit it's divided. my projects: 99%. the world: 1%. when i get home, i sneak into my bedroom, throw everything on the floor, kick off my shoes, roll up my sleeves and get to work. i know that it will take time to make everything just right and, as usual, that's the hardest part. waiting.

sometimes, i stare so hard at each piece and imagine the way it should be and when my eyes blink open i'm surprised that the transformation hasn't already taken place.

Casualties 11 January 2003

i'll tell you what this feels like: it feels like rolling a window down on a roadtrip, the wind shaking your hair, the music blasting in your ears.

it sounds like quiet.

it is everything in reverse. a rollercoaster that reaches the very top only to come back down, again.

London, briefly 07 January 2003

on our third day, we went to tate modern and, afterward, crossed the millenium bridge, a foot path that leads from the museum to the other side of the thames river. off to our right, the sun was setting over the tower bridge. the blues and violets bled into each other behind the old, majestic structure-- it was such an amazing sight and all i could think was, "this is not the same london that i visited years ago." i was stunned.

In 2002 04 January 2003

in 2002, i settled and stayed in the same apartment. i went to london, new york city and vegas. i won the jackpot. i gave my heart away and got it back, slightly scratched and bruised. i picked up a guitar for the first time and learned how to play love me tender. i sat at the piano, after months of shying away, and fell back in love with the way my fingers feel on the keys and the way the sound fills the walls. i lost my tolerance for alcohol and strengthened my addiction for caffeine. i took more risks. i signed up for a gym. i lost weight and gained it back and lost it again. i let my hair grow out. i put my 1987 acura to rest and bought a 2003 golf. i asked for help. i made necklaces, magnets, pictures, mixed CDs, sequin-and-bead-covered balls and friends. i discovered i don't hate indian food. i forgave. i forgot. i remembered. i reminded. i tried to see the good in everything, every day, and i shared it with whomever wanted it. i took care of my dad. i laughed with my mom. i went on so many dates i can't even remember the names of all the boys i dated. i became best friends with a 15-turned-16-year-old girl. i learned a lot from her. (i'm still learning.) i gave my time away. i lost track of time. i saw a lot of live music, not as many movies and not nearly enough art. i saw a shooting star. i made a lot of mistakes, but i think, i hope, i learned from them.

Purpose 03 January 2003

Here's what I'm going to do: I'm going to go home and clear several paths in my bedroom. One, from my bedroom door to my desk. Two, from my desk to the bathroom. Three, from the bathroom to the closet. Four, from the closet to my bed.

Then, I'm going to eat an orange. No, a tangerine. I will start to peel it the way my brother does, carefully and with purpose. Then, I'll get tired and tear it apart, splattering juice everywhere, inhaling the sweet citrus scent, thinking about summertime.

I'll pop in the CD I just got and turn up the volume. Up, up, up. Way up. I'll fast-forward to track 4 and I'll begin to nod my head but I won't even notice, at first. I'll tap my foot, too. To the beat.

I'll take a shot of cough syrup, climb into bed and read. I'll ignore the phone if it rings. I'll fall asleep with the light on and the book pressed up against my chest.

two oh oh! three 26 December 2002

filipino tradition says if you do the following on new year's eve, you'll be struck with good luck in the year to come:

1) keep all the lights on 2) stuff coins in your pockets 3) wear green

at 12 minutes to midnight, throw 12 grapes into a glass, pour some champagne (or sparkling cider) over it, and make 12 wishes-- eating a grape for each.

if you're like me, you'll make some ridiculous wishes ("i wish for $10,000 via direct deposit into my checking account") and some practical ones ("i wish good health for my family"), and you'll run out of wishes by, like, the 8th one ("did i say $10,000? well, if that one doesn't come true, how about $5,000?"). by the second week in january you'll forget that you even made them and that's okay, because it's not really about the wishes at all. it's about the hope-- and lots of champagne.

How do I love my neighborhood? Let me count the ways 18 December 2002

1. i see people i know walking down the street
2. i know exactly where to go if i need to buy a gift/baguettes/pretty paper
3. they recognize me at my favorite coffeehouse
4. there are cheap taco stands on the same street as fancy shmancy restaurants, both of which are unbelievably good
5. yard sales all weekend long
6. the architecture
7. the lake
8. funny dirty hipsters
9. rock 'n' roll
10. sidewalk cafes and dogs on leashes
11. memories
12. wacko
13. francesca
14. lisaann
15. miha

Finally

it was the first night i couldn't sleep because of the cold. i kept tossing & turning & sliding further down my bed to find some warmth. when i mustered up enough energy to get out of bed and turn on my heater, i saw that it was 54 degrees.

of course, now it's blue skies and sunshine all over again. in los angeles, storm watch lasts longer than the actual storm.

so, i'm picking up kate from the airport in an hour. i can't believe that it has been a year since her last visit. just now, i was looking around my apartment, wondering what is different since then. what have i accumulated this year? what have i swept away?

i feel a lot stronger and smarter. if i were here last year i would be crumbling. but i'm not. i am taking care of myself, finally listening to what i really want to do and then doing it, without worrying about anything else.

no fear, lisaann says. it sounds so big and ridiculous and impossible. but they are good words to heed. if i could just stop listening to the doubt and insecurity and wonder in my head, i think i could make so much happen.

Sounds like dancing 11 December 2002

last night, the wind shook the trees and it sounded like waves crashing. i felt like i had my ear pressed up to a seashell.

i had never heard anything like it. or if i had, i'd forgotten.

A wonderful mess 10 December 2002

i spilled red glitter all over the floor last night and pricked my thumb with a pin. i love this time of year. as if i am not a kid every other day of the year, this giddy little girl within me awakes and i have to have my hands in everything. i always try to start out modest -- my christmas list begins with a handful of names -- but it keeps growing and i keep buying and i keep getting excited about all the things i can do and make and give.

so, that's where i am right now: in a mess of glitter and sequins and paper and twine. i can hardly give another thought to much of anything else.

It's like you're watching a movie, she said 07 December 2002

it's the kind of laughter that erupts from your belly without warning. a graceless, tactless, careless roar that you really should control but just can't because it's late and you've had a rough week and you are past the point of sanity. you have been trying to hold it together, but it just seems pointless now, at the 24-hour diner where nobody knows your name, and oh my god, did you see that? is he for real? are we even really awake? you are laughing so hard you can't even speak. you just exchange giggling glances, hold your belly and keep on laughing.

Falling behind 02 December 2002

yes, okay, i am well aware that it is december. that technically, it is not so much autumn as it is winter. that in most places, in fact, it is already snowing. but i feel a little cheated, because i haven't gotten to stomp on any crunchy leaves and i didn't get to re-heat turkey dinner leftovers in the middle of the night friday and i went straight from suffocating from the heat to shaking from the cold. so, i'm just going to relish the chill in the air, i am going to refuse to wear a hat outside, i am going to pretend like there are more than couple dozen shopping days until christmas, if that's alright with you.

(which, you know, also explains the new illustration of me, circa 1982-ish, swinging on a tree.)

Very 24 November 2002

the following conversation with grandma, on my birthday and the day she was discharged from the hospital, pretty much sums it up.

me: "i'm very happy."

grandma: "am i happy? yes, i am happy."

me: "no, grandma. i'm happy!"

grandma: "yes, i am very happy."

Numbers 22 November 2002

hemming my pants with masking tape and staples,
driving my car for the first time,
smiling at cute boys when they look away,
listening to night swimming on repeat,
wondering about the future,
crying about the past,

i am 17, again.

*

buying furniture that can't be assembled in three steps,
taking a new way home to avoid traffic,
smiling at cute boys because they smile first,
listening to wedding day on repeat,
planning for the future,
laughing at the past,

today i am 27.

Off-balance 20 November 2002

i don't know if it's that i spoke to my grandma on the phone the other day and, while she is getting better, she still sounds so old and tired and far away, or that my father is still awaiting his biopsy results, or that i am turning 27 (TWENTY SEVEN) on friday, but i feel all sorts of wobbly lately, like a table with uneven legs. and i don't know what to do about it. you can't slip a folded napkin under the shortest leg to straighten me out. i think i just have to let myself wobble.

tomorrow.maganda.org 12 November 2002

so, like, if i were the kind of person who bitched all the time about every little thing that pissed her off, i'd probably tell you about the guy who cut me off last night on the sunset strip, and while i was at it, i'd probably mention that i hate that part of town because of drivers like him, and because you can't park anywhere for less than eight dollars, and because the number of men with greasy hair and shirts unbuttoned two too many times is drastically high.

if i were on a roll, i'd explain that i was only there to see a friend perform in an improv comedy show, which was -- despite his modesty -- pretty good. unfortunately, i'd add, i was sitting beside a casting agent wearing too much perfume, and she didn't clap or laugh or smile, not even once.

that would remind me of my neighbor out back who i'm convinced has three other people shacking up in her one-bedroom apartment. these three people never acknowledge me or my roommate when we're inches away from each other, yet have no problem running past our windows at 4 in the morning, shrieking and giggling like high school girls at a slumber party.

speaking of high school, i'd tell you, there is a naughty high school kid who gave his teacher my phone number as his own, so i get voicemails all the time about his grades and his health, and i can't even contact the school to tell them to stop calling me because i can't understand half the things they say.

i'd offhandedly remark that last night i sketched an obese garfield on a cocktail napkin that made me think of elvis in his late southern-fried days. i would crack a smile, until i noticed that the pen i used to make the drawing leaked in my favorite purse.

Status: Fine 06 November 2002

it only took an hour and a half, enough time for me to grab a latte and cinnamon roll at the coffee cart, read kurt cobain's journal entries in last week's newsweek and begin this week's list of good things. i also made friends with a 2-year-old girl with pigtails tied with yellow pom-poms. i have no idea what she was saying, but she seemed to understand me fine.

when i pulled my car around to the front of the medical center, dad emerged from the sliding doors with the same old goofy grin that he always has. the nurse was pushing another patient in a wheelchair. dad was strolling beside them.

"that chair was supposed to be for me," he told me as we drove away, "but i told her i didn't need it. i feel fine!"

this is where i get it from, i thought, the cheery disposition, the glass-half-full optimism, the mile-a-minute chatterboxiness.

i asked how he felt and he said hungry. relieved, too, he added. the past few weeks have been filled with anxiety.

the test results come in two weeks, and i wonder if he is more afraid than he is willing to admit to me, because i am still his Little Girl. dads don't cry or hurt or fear in front of us. they're the ones who protect us when we feel that way.

but i think part of him really does feel fine and really does believe that everything will be okay and who am i to argue with that?

Staples, scotch tape & string 05 November 2002

i tell myself, christine, you have to keep it together.

but this is the hard part: the waiting. the being strong. the hoping for the best.

it's strange how my comfort comes in your understanding. you know how i feel because you've been there. in fact, you have more to mourn because you lost someone close to you just last week/this weekend/yesterday. the people i love are still alive -- struggling, but alive.

suddenly the phrase "every second counts" makes all the sense in the world. suddenly i remember everything i want to tell everyone. if i could just get you all into a room and give you a group hug i'd feel a hell of a lot better.

Around my collar, close to my heart 04 November 2002

i'm wearing the medal she gave me. i forgot i had it and i forgot she gave it to me, until thursday night, when i was looking for a silver chain to wear around my neck. it was nestled in in a tiny pouch at the bottom of my jewelry box.

it's heart-shaped and silver, with a painted red flower and emerald leaves. it looks like a locket, but instead of flipping up, it slides open. it's a miraculous medal, like the tin ones mom would safety pin to the inside of my shirt before going on a long trip. they are supposed to keep you safe.

i called my dad from a payphone in the mountains this weekend and he told me the doctor said it would take a miracle for her to recover.

a miracle.

i'm wearing the medal she gave me, not because i think it's going to change things or because i need saving. i just like it because it reminds me of my grandma. it makes feel close to her, even though we're thousands of miles apart.

Good news & bad news 31 October 2002

this morning, i picked up my brand new car and the sad irony is that this is the one piece of good news in ages i would like to tell my grandma in a letter, but she is in the hospital in ICU. she had a heart attack at 3 in the morning. she couldn't breathe. the first 24 hours are critical, they say. if she pulls through, she'll be okay. if not, well.

on friday night, we all gathered in my living room to call her. we passed the phone, giggles and exasperated breaths because she couldn't understand a word we were saying.

when ricky asked her how she was feeling, she said, "not so good."

when i asked her the same question, she said, "very well."

"but grandma," i said, "that's not what you told ricky."

she laughed.

"for ricky...not so good. for you...very well."

maybe she wanted to put on her brave face for me, because she knows i am always telling her not to worry, to think positively, that everything will be okay. but now, i have a hard time believing those things, myself.

my mom leaves on a plane first thing in the morning, while the rest of us wait, hope and pray.

Every good boy does fine 29 October 2002

mostly, really, it's just hormones coupled with nerves and a lack of patience. by this time next week, i expect i will have calmed down considerably. i'll be able to focus on perfecting the hot toddy, finding the perfect brown boots and planning my uk holiday.

i know it's fall because when i leave the office, it's pitch black. when i wake up in the morning, my nose feels like it's going to explode. my bedroom is chilly and i skate around my hardwood floors in socks.

i finally changed the lightbulbs in my bedroom. that's one of those sentences that might sound really cryptic and horribly mysterious -- or perhaps like a play on the concepts of dark and light -- but it actually has no significance whatsoever. i just forgot how bright it gets.

Stalling 28 October 2002

after weighing all my baggage and measuring all the options, after making mistakes and learning from them, after taking stock in who i am and what i have and where i want to go, i realize that all it comes down to is: i don't want to grow up.

while it may seem charming and noble to remain childlike & wonder-filled, there is something faulty in the notion of forever. there is nothing charming about pretending everything is okay. there is nothing noble about shunning responsibility.

but i don't know what to do with that. i don't know how to reconcile my desire for a world where ordinary things are beautiful and everybody can make magic with the reality that some days there is nothing but gloom and sometimes our favorite people let us down. i don't know how to act with urgency, because i am too busy painting candy-colored skies and taking naps beneath cardboard trees. i don't know how to be a grown-up.

shouldn't i know this by now? i am almost 27 years old. when my mother was my age, she was rearing a rambunctious 2-year-old. i can't conceive of taking care of another person. i can barely take care of myself.

i know i am on my way to somewhere good, but i have come across some twists and bumps, and i'm scared. i'm scared of tripping and falling and hurting myself. i'm scared of going there alone. mostly, though, i'm just scared that i might not get anywhere at all.

This is not an option 19 October 2002

something's gotta gonna change.

Breakdown 16 October 2002

my car broke down last night, and so did i.

i was laughing with diana one minute and i was resting my head against the steering wheel the next. my car wouldn't start, so she gave me a ride to claudia's house and miha drove me home and helen took me to work this morning. the knots in the pit of my stomach kept me up most of the night, waking me up from several dreams that weren't even really dreams-- they were just drawn-out thoughts and anxieties. i pleaded to God and karma and luck and whomever else might be able to help me that my car would magically start in the morning-- or that the problem would at least cost less than a hundred bucks.

so, this morning, the AAA guy came wearing dirty jeans and the whitest-teeth smile. he told me my battery had died. that's it. nothing else. so, he jump-started it, taking all of five minutes. we left the car running in the parking lot for a while before turning it off. i bought a new battery at lunch. my sad little car is not so sad anymore, although i think it's still sore with me for letting it get to this point.

i shouldn't be this lucky. that's all i keep thinking today, as i turn the key, rev the engine, blast the stereo and cruise down the street. i'm like a cartoon running away from disaster and barely missing tragedy. the anvil comes crashing down to the pavement a second after i pass that spot. what did i do in another life to deserve all this fortune? what did i do in this life?

Help me help you 15 October 2002

i don't care what they tell you on TV or at the mall or in the fashion magazines: the mullet is not a good idea. no, it's not ironic. it's moronic. it's unkempt. and it's just not attractive.

sometimes, i want to go around with scissors, thin strips of fabric and bulky wool sweaters.

i'd lop off excess locks of greasy, stringy hair, i'd pin straps to tube tops so they don't keep sliding down, and i'd wrap the sweaters around the frail hipster bodies because the girls' exposed backs and stomachs are clearly shivering, they just don't want to admit it.

oh, and you, over there, with the scarf and turtleneck and faux fur coat. i know you want it to be winter. i do, too. but this is los angeles and it's october and it's 65 degrees outside. come on.

The Vibe 11 October 2002

he says i'm giving off The Vibe. i laughed when he first told me that -- i've never given off any vibe and i wouldn't even know how -- but now i'm beginning to think he's right.

The Vibe is the antithesis of really bad B.O. instead of people slowly scooting away from you because they can't handle your scent, they inch toward you because you are giving off a Come Here Now signal.

before i go any further, please note: in order for The Vibe to work, you can't actually want people to come here now. you must give neither a flying fig nor a rat's ass if they do. in fact, you have to want them to stay away because you are so tired of everything and you have trouble trusting anyone and you just can't be bothered right now because you have drawings to finish and a retreat to plan and brothers to entertain.

when you throw your hands up in the air and surrender, when you forget to put on make-up and put on your baggiest sweatshirt, when you are laughing so hard you are snorting, that is when 16-year-old boys in a parking structure honk and wave you and your girlfriend over to their 1990 ford escort. that's when the best man's sisters surround you on the dance floor, cooing about how good a catch he is. that's when men with gold chains and unbuttoned shirts approach you at the neighborhood bar, although normally nobody ever, ever does that.

it has been confirmed by several sources that i am, indeed, giving off The Vibe and i don't know what to do. maybe i should conveniently forget to wear deodorant to send them running the other way.

London calling 10 October 2002

all i remember about london is good chinese food, rows of coats for under twenty bucks, one perfect moment and the coldest wind i have ever met in my life. there was no big ben, no tate modern, no buckingham palace, no tower of london, no fish, no chips, no guiness, no tea.

but i'm getting another chance at london and this time i'm doing it right. i'm going in december to visit claudine, to ring in the new year and paint the town all shades of red with the craftiest lady i know.

i am ridiculously excited, especially since i haven't left the country in over two years. my passport's been gathering dust at the bottom of the drawer and my backpack is balled up in the corner of my closet. my eyes and ears and brain are so bored with blue skies, car-packed highways and so cal speak. they long for something new, some place new.

my dad always says that january 1st determines how the rest of the year will be. if you spend money, you'll be spending money the whole year through. if you enjoy a pleasant day with family and friends, expect much of the same the other 364.

maybe the fact that i'll be celebrating with old & new friends, waking up in a foreign country and hopping a plane home means i've got more adventure to come. maybe it means i'm going places.

Just when you thought it was over 05 October 2002

i threw my luggage down, shoved my clothes off the bed and onto the floor and climbed under my covers when i got home at 11 this morning. the exhaustion of everything hit me all at once.

just as everything was turning blurry and silent, the phone rang. it was claudine. i hadn't talked to her since i heard, through the grapevine, that she got engaged.

i lay in bed with the phone propped up between the pillow and my ear and she told me how her engagement ring sparkles more than anything else. she was bursting.

and here we go again. the hope, the heart, the nerves again. something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue again.

everyone around me is getting married and having kids and buying houses, but all i can think about is running away to paris to play Amelie tricks or taste-testing diner coffee across the country or taking naps in a hammock on a black sand beach.

Old man Johnny 02 October 2002

old man johnny gave me hope last saturday, coupled with a wink and a smile. he was sitting at the left end of the diner counter and chatted me and tonia up the moment we sat down. "everything's good here," he said, as we thumbed through the menu. "everything."

"oh, you've been here before?" tonia asked. (i was having a moment with my coffee.)

"i'm here all the time," he smiled.

he has all the time in the world since his wife died last october, he told us. they were married 55 years. "married and happily in love," he said. "we held hands until the very end."

in less than an hour, tonia and i learned more about this man than i know about some of the people i call friends. he used to wear zoot suits and fedoras. he fought in world war II. he has traveled the world. he loves women, but only one has ever stolen his heart.

i was charmed that he still knows his wife's measurements ("34-24-36," he winked) and that his eyes light up when he talks about her ("oh, she was a real looker") and that he remembers their first date like the back of his hand ("she wouldn't kiss me! she turned her head when i leaned in"). when i looked at his 80-year-old frame, thinning hair and faded tattoos, all i could see was a 30-year-old man in love.

i would like to see johnny again, sit beside him and find out what the tattoos were before they blurred on his skin and ask him what his favorite place in the world was and get him to tell me the secret to his smile, and maybe i will. i know where to find him.

My best friend's wedding

this time, it's all different.

there will be no bouquet to dodge, there will be no taffeta or satin puddles around my ankles, there will be nary a bobbie pin nor curl in my hair. tonia's getting married and i am wearing a black cocktail dress with strappy shoes and dark red toenail polish.

and this is why i love her so.

the wedding is friday afternoon. tomorrow is the rehearsal dinner. tonight i should be getting beauty rest but, well, i'm here.

and i am wondering what i am going to say when they hand me the microphone at the reception and i am remembering all the really good and really bad times we've shared in the past four years and i just know i am going to cry, because some things, unfortunately, don't change.

You 25 September 2002

i am finally realizing that you are everywhere, and i'm just going to have to get used to it.

i see you at the grocery store, at the bar, in my living room, in my portland living room, in my paris dorm hallway, in my suitcase, in my purse, in my wallet, in the shower, in my dreams, in the waking hours. i can't escape you. i don't know why i even try.

instead, i need to learn how not to jump back every time i catch a glimpse of you, how to bite my tongue and smile instead of saying something they don't need to hear, how to keep it bottled up inside of me because some things, some things are better left tucked away. unseen, unsaid, unheard.

when we pass on opposite sides of the crowded street, let's pretend we don't even see each other, like they do in the movies. we can look back once, even twice, but then we must keep on walking.

Let it snow 18 September 2002

something magical happened this afternoon while i was driving down the 101: i got stuck in traffic.

this wasn't the typical 3-car pile-up sig alert on the other side of the freeway but you have to look anyway and slow everyone else down kind of traffic. it was something else. it was cotton -- willowy clouds of cotton flying past us. the clouds were dissolving into smaller pieces of fluff and floating slowly through the sun-soaked sky. i don't know where it came from, but i was convinced it came from above.

i was caught in a cotton blizzard and all i could think was, this is the closest to snow we will ever get.

i blinked hard and wished for winter, but then i remembered i was wearing a tank top, it was 80-something degrees, and it was still september.

The darnedest things 16 September 2002

it gets harder and harder to tell stories that are real.

and i know why. it's because those that i have are not really mine to tell. they involve other people, people who deserve privacy. it wouldn't be fair for me to tell you of their sadness and worry and stress. it just wouldn't.

so instead, i can only think of silly things to tell you, like how i am afraid that the "ponytail haircut" matt gave me is really a mullet in disguise and how all this time that i thought i was smitten with wyatt from trackstar it was really the other band member who had caught my eye. oh, me. maybe i really am a cartoon character waiting to happen.

a year ago, i rekindled my love for a cocktail. today, i'm desperately falling for oatmeal.

i don't get it, either.

Tiny dents 11 September 2002

what i heard first was a flat tire. the flip-flopping of rubber spinning clumsily against the pavement. is that my tire? i thought. is that the car next to me?

i looked to my right and saw a flag the size of college-ruled paper flapping in the wind.

it wasn't a tire, it was the flag. i hadn't noticed one of them on a car in such a long time. the red, the white, the blue, the stars, they all just blend in with the skies and palm trees. they stop meaning anything after a while.

this is what means more to me: i get daily emails from a 15-year-old girl who rolls her eyes at me when i say anything negative or mean and, in return, sends me uplifting quotes and beautiful pictures; i have friends with whom i can tell secrets and no matter how deep or dark they seem to me my friends isten and hide them safely away; i share emails with one big brother, instant messages with the other and phone calls with mom and dad throughout the week to remind us that no matter how far away we are from each other that we will always be here. i work with intelligent and talented people at a respectable company and go home to a charming and bright house filled with with plants i've cultivated and art i've collected. i can go anywhere i want, but this is where i've chosen to be. i have choices.

this is the america i know. this is the life i lead. for that, i continue to be grateful.

in return, i don't raise flags or light candles or sing anthems. some will show their patriotism that way. some will make a difference by shouting and rallying. but me, i can only hope to make a few small dents in the lives of the people around me, the people i love.

destruction 29 August 2002

they are tearing down the building next door. for the past three years, the dilapidated structure has been home to graffiti messages and trash, the remnants of which are now on the sidewalk: an unplugged electric fan blowing in the wind; a beat-up orange eames chair; dust clouds every time someone walks down the sidewalk. now it is just a skeleton of beams and planks.

every half hour, a rumbling passes through the floor like an earthquake. we run to the window and stand there with noses and palms pressed up against the glass, mesmerized by the spectacle. we feel like naughty boys who like to blow up things.

i don't know what it is about its destruction that is so appealing to me, but the more light and sky that shines through the criss-crossed steel beams, the more beautiful it becomes.

i'll be your memory if you'll be my song 25 August 2002

when they began to sing, i shook like a leaf. i looked up at the moon and told myself, "focus on something, something other than them," so that i wouldn't cry. tonia and i promised each other we would not get sappy, but that pact went out the window when i stood there, watching one of my best friends, claudine, and her little sister serenade a yard full of smiling people. it wasn't the first time, but it was probably the last in a long time.

claudine is moving to london on thursday. she'll be there indefinitely.

"i have known her since second grade," i told everyone and continued to recount stories about grade school and high school and college. how even then every other word out of her mouth was a song, how we got suspended in junior high for lying to our teacher about The Tennis Ball Incident and then begged our principal not to put it on our permanent record, how we were Dorks and then Cool and then Dorks again, how how she always passed out my number to random boys in college, how she introduced me to joel when i was 19 and the three of us ended up some sort of trio while we all lived in orange county.

i have to tell the stories, because she can't remember anything before 6th grade. i piece back our childhoods for her.

so, we ate and drank and laughed under the moonlight. i watched claudine float from table to table, like a firefly. she was glowing, and i knew that i was sad for me but i was happier for her, because this move, this change, is good. and it is pretty amazing to have friends like her and tonia and joel, to see the twists and turns in our life and watch us grow.

27 in 3 22 August 2002

i hardly recognize myself. i've got a green thumb and a gym card on my key chain. i get tipsy after two sips of gin. i dream about homemade spaghetti sauce with freshly torn basil and black iron coat racks. i haven't gotten a proper hair cut in 6 months.

i rush home so that i can water the plants before it gets dark and finish the painting i started in the morning and crawl into bed, close my eyes and feel muscles i never knew i had.

"do you remember ever being sore when you were little?" i ask everyone.

i don't. i repeatedly scabbed my elbows and knees, but i don't remember ever lamenting how much i ache. i ache so much these days, but they tell me it's a good kind of ache, the kind that means you are doing something right-- that you're moving around-- that you're alive.

when i told my mom that i was getting tired of the bright colors, she said, "oh, you're getting old."

it's a joke i make, often. i'm such a grandma, i laugh. a lola, lisa chimes. but i really don't feel like one. i feel different, but not old, and i don't think it's the same thing.

Come follow my train of thought 19 August 2002

• what is the lowest common denominator? what is the least amount of detail necessary? what is the one thing that captures this very moment?
  
• god, i am really craving ice cream
  
• cookies & cream or peach?
  
• i wonder if this is the part of the meal plan
  
• i miss paris
  
• someday, i am going to the tuscan countryside
  
• mmm...gelato
  
• daniele is so awesome
  
• i want to make more pictures like this and that
  
• i need to go water my plants
  
• boys are so stupid
  
• boys are so cute
  
• maybe they're right, maybe i am setting myself up for failure
  
• maybe they're right, maybe i am onto something, here

I've got my rations 18 August 2002

i bought a new watercolor set yesterday. while working on my latest project, i realized that i'd been using a set i bought four years ago, when i took my first (and last) watercolor class. the color was dwindling. the brush bristles were shedding. i am so used to Making Do that i didn't stop to think that my work was suffering by using old and inadequate materials.

so, i went to the art store and poked around until i found the perfect set. i lifted the brand new box off the shelf: 12 tubes of color, two brushes, a palette -- all neatly stowed away in a sky blue case. i also bought a stack of paper and a journal.

when i got home, i organized my art supplies. i slipped the pieces of colored and printed paper into a folder. i tucked my new box of crayons beside the rows of rubber type. i stacked my catalogs and magazines (inspiration) beside my desk. i found a place for everything and put everything in its place.

when i noticed that half a drawer is devoted to adhesives, i started to laugh. oh, the littlest things amuse me.

Hearts on sleeves and smiles on faces 13 August 2002

the boy with the loose hips and coke-bottle glasses turned out to be a king of convenience. we saw him at josh's crepe party last night; you couldn't really miss him, because he was bouncing and shaking all over the place. gangly arms and infectious smile. i thought, what a funny little boy.

when he and his friend with the messy brown hair walked up on stage at the troubadour, i could only laugh. "it's the boy who was dancing in josh's living room. it's him," i said to stella.

except he didn't seem so funny or little, anymore. he and the music they played were larger than life.

they turned off almost every light in the house and covered tom petty's freefalling, urging everyone to sing the chorus. everyone did, including me, and i was glad the lights were off because i didn't want to have to look anyone in the eye. (i feel like i am freefalling.) i stood there in awe at how the band got the audience to finger snap and toe tap and sit perfectly still on cue.

during a song called, i would rather dance with you than talk to you, he leapt off stage, grabbed a girl's hand and twirled her around. i envied her, but i envied him more. how lovely to be them right now, i thought, to make a whole room sing and spin and smile.

Out of tune 07 August 2002

the thing about right now, about Lately, is that it's not very interesting. i don't know what else to tell you except i'm starting to think that's the way it's supposed to be. this is the part in the book you skip to get to the part where it starts to get good again.

there is a mess around my desk. there is an even bigger mess in my head. in my dreams, they arrange themselves into little vignettes that feel so real that when i wake up i am shuddering and swooning and sighing. one morning, i woke up to my own voice.

i was scared.

tonight, i saw i am trying to break your heart, the documentary about wilco. i had seven seats to myself and i sat behind a short girl. even the woman behind me who, during the trailers, had posed a threat of talking too much kept quiet the entire movie.

everything about the film and the songs resonated in me and pretty soon i couldn't stop tapping my toes and bobbing my head. i looked around the theater but every head aside from mine was perfectly still and i just didn't get it. why was nobody else dancing?

Um, hi 03 August 2002

so: i still do that thing where i get all quiet nervous schoolgirl on people i really admire. a thousand compliments and questions and marriage proposals swirl in my head as i'm waiting in line to talk to you but then, when you are there, in front of me, they fly out my ears and all i can do is force a smile.

inside, i am jello. i can't stop sweating. i can barely speak.

only when i walk away can i think clearly and all the brilliant ideas come flooding back. maybe i'm better off admiring you from afar.

Balikbayan* 30 July 2002

the littlest things take me back--

a swig of lukewarm coke, a whiff of muggy air, the rumbling of an engine, and for the next fraction of a second i feel like i am in the philippines.

when i snap back to here and now, i am awash in longing and nostalgia for everything and everyone we have left behind.

it has been so long and it seems so far away.

* one who goes home. a name also given to the box that filipinos pack -- with sundries, food products and gifts -- and bring on trips back to the philippines.

I like the idea of a pregnant moon 25 July 2002

lisa and i walked down the street, drunk on guitar riffs and possibility. we were smiling, because it had been a good night -- and it wasn't over, yet.

two guys followed closely behind us. "is it a full moon tonight?" one asked.

i looked up at the moon, hanging low in the dark sky, and said, "no. i think it's the moon that makes you think to yourself oh it's a full moon until the next night when the real full moon comes out and you realize you were completely wrong."

When we both act her age 23 July 2002

i: we are starting to think alike. it's scary. either you're thinking like a 26-year-old or i'm thinking like a 15-year-old.

she: we have been! ever since the scottish accent incident i am used to it! :-)

i: ha! The Scottish Accent Incident.

she: i think im thinking like a 26 yr old! :-) im very mature, you know... hahaha. that's funny. even trying to type that lie is hard! :-)

Action & adventure 15 July 2002

this weekend, i went to a preteen-infested rock show, a drag queen beauty pageant, a rubber stamp convention and a crepe party.

my head is spinning with bare midriffs, blonde afro wigs, ladies wearing fanny packs and sizzling butter. some of these are good things, some of them are not. can you guess which is which?

Bless his heart 11 July 2002

i was filling ricky in on all the latest when an idea struck him: "grandma should do yoga."

"she will never do yoga," i said, trying to imagine our 86-year-old grandmother twisting herself up into pretzels. "she could pray to the patron saint of yoga, though."

How does your garden grow? 10 July 2002

standing on the grass, feeling the sprays of water splash my leg, holding the hose and pulling the trigger, i remembered a game i used to play when i was a little girl. i was an angel and i was raining on the shrubs and rose bushes and trees. i was forging rivers and making lakes in a muddy village that stretched from our driveway to the back corner of our house. i was feeding the plants that were desperately thirsty and i was drowning the ants, who just caused trouble, anyway.

now, i'm just watering plants. i'm soaking roots, pruning leaves and digging my fingers into the soil to make sure that they are getting what they need. i'm gardening, and the plants are growing, and sometimes this just makes me laugh because it is all so ridiculous and marvelous that i could do this, that anyone could do this, that we can help life along.

Like three Saturdays 08 July 2002

i know it's been a good weekend when i can't muster up any good stories, because i'm too busy living them. instead, the remnants of such weekends are found in messes in my house and the smile permanently glued onto my face.

come sunday night, evidence of the fabulous four-day weekend included leftover desserts in the fridge, opened sacks of soil, stray beads on the hardwood floor and lists sloppily scrawled into a notebook, which read something like this:

"yellow daisies and purple petunias and pink ginger plants. fried chicken and corn on the cob and ice-cold lemonade. glass beeds and 22-gauge silver wire and elastic thread. green and red and blue and pink polka dots. turkey burger with cheddar cheese + avocado + lettuce + tomato + mustard. fresh strawberries. va savoir and ocean's eleven."

oh and how can i forget the sound of music sing-along? we watched one of my favorite movies of all-time alongside senior citizens and drag queens, eating brie sandwiches and berry salad and singing to the songs we liked best, under a chilly and starry night.

when the little boy and girl dressed as "a needle pulling thread" marched up to the microphone and cooed the words to my favorite things, i nearly lost it. it was all just too much for me take.

Hello, again 04 July 2002

the good news: my grandma is out of the hospital.

the bad news: i am still cranky.

the obligatory announcement: the archives are back up, in case you need some light summer reading.

Celebrating my independence

i escaped orange county unscathed, despite my mother having doubts of safety outside suburban borders. this morning, gunshots caused chaos at LAX an hour after my dad flew in from san francisco and a plane crashed a hill away from lisaann's dad's house.

i promised her i wouldn't go out, so instead lisaann and joel came over. we had a barbecue in my kitchen and watched fireworks from my dining room window. at one point, there were sparks coming from three different directions and we just stood there, our eyes darting left and right across the big black sky.

we spent the rest of the night mixing cocktails and playing games. at times, we felt like senior citizens. at others, 12-year-olds. not once, however, did i feel unsafe or ungrateful for one more day in america, in los angeles, in my cozy apartment overlooking the palm trees and city lights.

How not to win my heart 02 July 2002

1. tell me you really love sugar ray

2. talk about how indie you are in the same breath

3. bring your finger to your lips to hush me every time i ask you a question, such as "who the hell are you?"

Hello

my grandmother is in the hospital, again, and all of a sudden this website seems like the stupidest thing, ever.

Teetering on the cusp 26 June 2002

i have been reading my horoscope religiously and looking for answers in road signs. but tonight, while listening to a sad and beautiful song, i realized that maybe i'm looking for something that doesn't exist. an arrow pointing somewhere, to some thing. something.

maybe there are no signs and all the little coincidences that pop up are just that: coincidences.

you have to understand that this is a foreign way of thinking for me, a girl who saw the future when she looked in the mirror and wished on stars just in case she was wrong.

now, i'm not predicting the future at all. i'm just hoping to God that i don't trip and fall from now to then.

Salt on my lips and stars in my stomach 23 June 2002

we snuck out with a bag of popcorn and i felt like holly golightly in breakfast at tiffany's, that scene where she and fred walk out of the five-and-dime wearing cat & dog masks they just swiped--all giddy.

i got home, salt on my lips and stars in my stomach, and stumbled over a pile of photographs i'd been sorting earlier today.

i wished i could step into the photos the way mary poppins stepped into paintings, so i could see all your beautiful, blurry faces up close.

Let's dance 21 June 2002

"do you want to dance with me?" he mumbled, teetering on his own two feet.

"i'm not a very good dancer," i said.

"i get really offended when people say no," he frowned.

"i'm sorry."

he clumsily spun around once and then propped himself up against my table. "so, do you want to dance?"

"no."

Shrinky-dink world 20 June 2002

my aunt jinxed me when she told me to drive safely, so i got on the freeway going the wrong direction. i was already late, so this just made my heart beat and palms sweat even more. when i finally got to the club, rosie was already singing and i took deep breaths until the soothing melodies sank in.

halfway through her performance, two girls walked in. the first, a bleach blonde and the second a redhead. the blonde looked just like a girl i'd met briefly on monday but i wasn't sure. another song later, and she came up to order a drink, looked at me once, twice, and then pointed. "christine, right?"

her name was sarah and we met at a hair salon, waiting for our dye to dry. she and her friend amber had been driving down the street on their way to another show and happened to notice "rosie thomas" on the marquis. amber knew a rosie thomas years ago but they lost touch and she was wondering if it was the same one.

it was.

after hugs and laughs, the four of us went to the back room, normally buzzing with people and swimming in smoke, and sat on an empty sofa. we discovered rosie used to play at my favorite college town coffeehouse and sarah owns a vintage shop a few doors down from eric's apartment. the girls even teared up when felicity ended and hang out at the same haunts. what a small, beautiful world.

we were approached by rosie's fans, new kids on the block and entertainment industry folks and rosie asked us, "does this happen in LA a lot?"

no, i should have said, but making fast friends, running into people you haven't seen in years and hearing wonderful live music down the street from your house does.

Dinner with the grownups 19 June 2002

it was a dinner torn out of martha stewart living. the sun was setting, the perrier was chilling and the pasta was boiling. tables were set in the backyard with red floral china, napkin rings that looked like fresh berries and vases with a single rose bud.

i kept notes with my eyes so that i could remember to follow suit when i had a house of my own, although i kept pretending it already was my house. a sun room and art on the walls and happy colored furniture and a garden that would make you cry. i imagined throwing dinner parties and getting my hands dirty in the soil and sitting on the porch with a book.

my cousin cooked a wonderful summer meal: melon wrapped in prociutto topped in lemon creme fraische, caviar and dill; fettucine with a light lobster sauce; a gorgonzola, sundried tomato, walnut salad; and garlic crostini. i drank perrier and white wine.

marix & i talked about our experiences planting flowers, framing artwork and cooking filipino dishes for the first time, a combination of domestic successes and failures. we couldn't help but laugh at ourselves playing house.

when i looked at my watch for the first time that evening, i couldn't believe my eyes. it was 10:30. oh god, was it really 10:30? it was, and i had to go.

i excused myself from the table, kissed everyone goodbye and ran out the door, as gracefully as cinderella scrambling down the steps. it was suspicious and perhaps even improper of me to leave before dessert, but i didn't have time to explain. i was late for a show.

The secret's out 16 June 2002

boy #1: "you seem sweet and lovable on your site, but in person you're mean and loveable."

boy #2: "no, you're just mean."

Fitter, faster 14 June 2002

i have rediscovered red, red wine, snuck flip-flops into my daily wardrobe and developed a deep, undying love for ponytails.

that, and i'm reading like a fiend and drinking at least six glasses of water a day.

it's doing wonders for my skin, as well as my brain whose gears had gone rusty by reading only my daily horoscope and the labels on candy bars.

Ladies' night 10 June 2002

somewhere in las vegas there is a young man with one less pair of flannel boxers in his closet, a hotel maintenance man cursing the brightly colored feathers clogging up the industrial vacuum, and a bartender who learned to make a new cocktail thanks to the expertise of some ladies who came by on a mission.

this is the aftermath left by over a dozen young women running rampant in the city of sin to celebrate their dear friend/cousin/sister's last weeks being single. a bachelorette party of monstrous proportions.

i confess i was a part of it. i was one of the annoying girls who giggled and pointed and spoke a little too loudly. i was annoyed, myself, until i had a cocktail or two, and then all of a sudden everything seemed like a brilliant idea.

i would tell you more, but then i'd have to kill you, and besides, a true lady knows that she has got to keep some secrets.

A good lounge 06 June 2002

now that it's practically summer, you may see me lathering on the sunscreen, lounging on a beach chair and watching the sun rise and fall, just like i am doing in the image above, sketched from a photograph taken about 20 years ago. i'm not much for suntanning -- i've been blessed with brown filipino skin -- but i do love a good lounge. i just like sitting.

activities that go well with sitting include, but are not limited to, drinking frothy beverages with or without paper umbrellas , reading a good novel or short story collection, scribbling in notebooks, pretending not to gawk at the cute shirtless boys who saunter by and taking leaning-back-with-head-tilted-sideways naps.

this is why my search continues for the perfect porch set, so that i can spend my evenings after work and lazy saturday mornings lounging.

The rollercoaster ride (of all the trouble kept her inside) 03 June 2002

i am so achy, thanks to the magic of the gears and rails and trains that loop at lightspeed. we rode long, smooth, snakelike coasters and jumpy, shakey, rattly trains. i really do love a good roller coaster -- the head spinning, arm flailing, stomach leaping thrill of it all -- but i discovered i am not as limber as i used to be. i walked, not ran, from ride to ride. i scowled when the girls splashed me on the log ride. and i complained more than once about the pains in my neck and head and back. how sad. i am old.

after driving the girls back to church and myself back home, i kicked off my smelly sneakers, stripped down and slid into a hot bubble bath, scrubbing and rubbing the pain away.

seaweed face wash and peppermint lotion make me feel so clean and soft, again. a fresh coat of nail polish and i feel brand new.

Hope in small and big things 02 June 2002

the lakers won again, and ethan turned 2.
there is hope, everywhere. just two years ago, we were sitting in the hospital waiting area at the edge of our seats wondering what would happen -- on the court and in the room where ethan lay. he was born with an underdeveloped heart, and we did not know if he would survive.

but he did, and you should have seen him at his birthday party saturday. he clapped hands and blew bubbles and ate cake. just like any other two-year-old. silver mylar balloons spelling out his name E-T-H-A-N hung high against the wall and i thought to myself, they should keep these so we can hang them up again next year and the year after that.

a miracle is what you want it to be. finding your car keys when you're late for work, your favorite basketball team pulling through when you thought they were sure to lose, and one more year of sweet and precious life. i call ethan a miracle baby, because he is ours.

Oh it's you again 29 May 2002

i think summer struck while i was eating lunch today. when i got back into my car i could not steer with my hands. it was too hot.

instead i steered, no joke, with my thigh. the denim fabric of my skirt shielded me from the heat. i pulled my knee closer to my chest and pressed it up against the black wheel.

I'm someone's daughter, are you somebody's son? 28 May 2002

i was sitting on the porch of the house of blues when a man came to sit next to me. he was carrying a guitar and a briefcase. the sun was hot, it beat down on my hair and shoulders and face. i didn't have anywhere to be. i was waiting for joel.

was this man with the band? i wondered. no. if he were, he wouldn't be sitting on the empty porch with me. he'd be in some green room with beth orton and the rest of the band. was he the opening act? i snuck a glance at his olive-colored complexion and puzzled expression. no, he didn't look like he belonged anywhere near here.

two men in suits and one man in yellow security garb leapt out the front door and landed in front of us.

"can we help you?" they asked the man.
"i'm here for the show."
"what's that you got there?" one asked, pointing to a fluorescent orange bracelet hugging his wrist.
"oh, that's a press pass," the man mumbled.
"oh?" smirked the security guard. "for what?"
"the l.a. times."
"i'm sorry, but we're going to have to ask you to leave."
"but i have a ticket..."

they told him they had the right to refuse service to anyone, that the musicians do not want him there and that he could not come back tonight for the show. "you're going to walk over that bridge and you're not going to come back," the man in the gray suit said, hypnotically.

the man didn't put up a fight. he shuffled his way off the premises and they watched until he disappeared down the street. i sat there perfectly still, pretending like i hadn't seen or heard a thing. but in my head, i had already created this man's life story: he was stalking beth orton and brought his guitar to play a song he wrote for her. in the briefcase, the tabs scribbled on college ruled paper, a snickers and a flask of cheap vodka. he is from arizona but speaks with a fake british accent. he has never been to england in his life. he has never been east of the mississippi.

my daydream was interrupted by the guard's boisterous chuckle: "oh, that wasn't your boyfriend, was it?" he asked me, playfully.

"um, no."

One more Sunday 26 May 2002

i am waiting for the pie to arrive. it will be accompanied by the boston cream, french apple and a la mode gang, my dear and silly friends. we are going to mix cocktails, eat junk and tell stories. giggling is optional. thank you in advance for coming. if i forget to tell you, i had a wonderful time.

***

this afternoon has been splendid. i got home, read another chapter of the divine secrets of the ya-ya sisterhood and took a nap. i went to three markets in search of mint. i cooked some pasta and ate at sunset. i plugged in the christmas lights.

it doesn't sound like much, and i guess it really wasn't. that is the beauty of a sunday before a holiday. you don't really have to do anything productive or sleep early, because you don't have to go to work the next morning. you have one more day to sleep in and catch up and kick back.

you have one more sunday.

Goodbye, Felicity 23 May 2002

in high school, it was life goes on. carrie and i watched it religiously and compared notes the following day at the lunch benches. i cried when jesse told becka he had aids.

in college, i never missed an episode of my so-called life. ricky used to watch it with me, poking fun during commercials but shutting up as soon as the episode resumed. when jordan catalano asked angela what was wrong with her, i died inside.

for the past two years, i have been addicted to felicity. a guilty pleasure, i begin to explain, but if you admit to me that you can stand the show, i launch into a frightening state of glee that proves i have more than just slight interest in it. when felicity followed ben to go to school in new york city, i felt like i was getting the chance i never had.

it's become a tradition for the girls to come over every wednesday night to watch the TV show, eat too much junk food and gossip during commercials. tonight, the WB aired the last episode of felicity, but i spent the evening alone, watching the two-hour special from my bed, alternately stretched out on top of my quilt and sitting cross-legged on the floor, too close to the television.

i did not cry and i did not die, but i did feel as though another era in my life was coming to a close. as the credits rolled, i wondered, who will be my new heroine? what will be the new television reference i insert into every conversation i have? where will i be next wednesday night and the ones to follow?

i don't know if i can survive. i might have to get cable.

Quick notes 16 May 2002

tragedy averted. zit happens, derek says, and he's right. this second puberty is not uncommon, i have found, especially among late 20-somethings. great.

i've also been told, by a 35-year-old who i respect, that i am moving into my next transition phase. you thought you knew what you wanted to do for the rest of your life, but now you're discovering you were wrong. in a few years, it will settle down again, he says.

in a few years, i'll be thirty.

Damn you, Google

it still catches me offguard when you tell me you've been reading this. there's such a disconnect in my head from the telling of the story and the hearing of the story. somehow, i've convinced myself that when i write these words and i click update that it is disappears into this tiny hole that only a few people can reach, when really anyone can access it and many people, including my mother, do. daily.

so, your first impression of me could be my obsession with a zit or a description of a lady from her ankles down or, worse, a self-aware diatribe about how i am getting self-conscious in this medium for the umpteenth time.

and this is the electronic equivalent of me blushing.

sometimes i want to hide, because, if i actually stop to think about it, the idea of exposing myself seems so outrageous on so many levels, but i can't. i can't hide. i could take the site down or i could speak in code, but a couple of clever search strings later, and there i'd be, a click away from you.

maybe the trick is not to think about it. maybe the black hole theory is a good one. maybe i should just pretend that you're not here, that i am 16, alone in my bedroom, writing to the person in my head who understands why i feel the way i do and finds all my jokes funny and doesn't drown in my streams and rivers and oceans of consciousness.

Zap it! Zap it good. 13 May 2002

when i woke up this morning, i was struck with more than the usual monday dread. yes, the sun was glaring at me and my mind was doing its usual flip-through of this week's to-dos and there was the lingering sense that another delicious dream had come to a grinding halt. when i put on my glasses and my room came into focus, however, something else gnawed at me. it was a zit.

the tender, red bump had appeared, overnight, on the bridge of my nose, right where my glasses rest, and it hurt. bad.

when i was in junior high and all the girls were replacing their bonne bell lip gloss with eye shadow and mascara, i was being told no. no, i could not wear make up. (no, i did not need a bra. no, i would never, ever get a Guess acid-washed denim jacket no matter how many times i asked.) make-up would would ruin my skin, mom said, and maybe she was right, because i went through high school zit-free and all my friends hated me for it.

i would have to pretend that i didn't see the bumps grazing their foreheads and the blemish forming on the tip of their noses, although sometimes i just couldn't stop staring at them. i just didn't know what it felt like.

that has changed because now, ten years later, i'm going through a second puberty. i am developing painful crushes on movie stars who will never know i am alive, i am writing bad poetry in my diary and i am getting pimples -- big, fat, ugly ones -- and i don't know what to do about it. i'm trying to remember what they used to say in the girls' bathroom. squeeze it. no, don't squeeze it. put a hot towel on your face. use clearasil. leave it alone. shouldn't i have learned this by now.

defeated, i do nothing. when i go out, i don't even try to cover it up. i put no make-up on as always and hope they just don't see it. but if they did, i wouldn't blame them. when i look in the mirror, it's the only thing i see.

Feng shui 11 May 2002

i am blaming everything on feng shui. i'm convinced that the arrangement of furniture and the layers of dust in my apartment are wreaking havoc on my life.

i can't breathe without sneezing, i can't walk without stumbling.

that is why i am going to scrub and mop and dust, i'm going to move and shift and reorganize, and i'm not going to stop until i am blinded by the shine and space.

The hustle the bustle 09 May 2002

i am back, i guess. i was gone and then i was back and then i was gone again. (remember? new york.) everything i did and saw, ate and smelled, felt and thought, was written in list form, as it happened or shortly thereafter, on green paper ricky and i bound with thread and glue. angel's share. blue's clues. jurassic five. fire escapes. bacon wrapped asparagus. he's gay. i am a big fat ball.

everyone keeps asking me how my trip was, as if i could sum it up in five minutes of anecdotes and, i don't know, i just can't. maybe i'm not ready to share it with you. maybe i don't know how.

a lot of my time was spent just watching life hustle and bustle all around me and wondering where i -- if i -- fit. i thought i'd come back with some answers, but i think i came back with more questions than ever before.

Sensory Overload 26 April 2002

b>1: buying medicine. rows of bottles of extracts of herbs. ancient remedies. patented formulas. pills behind clear plastic. liquid through brown glass. allergy releif. next time, please spellcheck your label.

2: making milkshakes. wrapped straws in my pockets and a leaning tower of styrofoam cups. rows of tubs of ice cream. (8.) no orders for vanilla, one for a glass of milk. sticky fingers. wet paper towels. big smiles.

3: drinking coffee. hot, warm, cool. two spoonfuls of sugar. no condensed milk. coasters that look like molecules, molecules that look like spirographs. i am afraid to take my medicine because i don't want to gag. more coffee, instead, please.

4: walking circles. white picket, chain link and red brick. the rose bush that eats sweaters, the sweaters that rejuvenate themselves. the house with the red door. soap, rose, smoke and is that jasmine?

5: driving home. teenage fanclub on cassette. rewinding, singing, rewinding, singing again. the squeaking, the revving, the blowing wind as accompaniment. reaching the top of my lungs, wherever that is.

[answers: 1. sight. 2. touch. 3. taste. 4. smell. 5. sound.]

The serial comma and I 23 April 2002

Today I had the urge to punctuate everything properly. I wrote a note to myself, capitalizing the first word of each sentence and all proper nouns. I did not abuse any semi-colons or dashes. I even left in the serial comma.

It was strangely satisfying.

I miss being edited. I miss red marks on the sheet. I miss sitting in a room with something I'd written projected onto the wall being torn apart, my words flying all over the place, forcing me to pick up the pieces and clean up the mess. The dread of sharing my story sat heavy in the pit of my stomach, but it always made me a better writer. It always made me want to try harder next time.

I wish I could say that this motivates me, but sometimes it just allows me to indulge myself more than I deserve. I wish I could say that I am working toward something bigger here, but what will I do with these words when I'm through?

I told him: I don't remember the last time I actually made something. Like, something you can hold in your hand or look at from a couple feet away or read while you're lying in bed. Lately, I just feel like I am making my room messy and cleaning it up again.

Last night, though, something shifted. I got the bug. The ideas poured out in sloppy sketches and arrows and captions. They are ambitious. Difficult, really. Maybe I'll fail miserably and you will be stuck with this, some more, for a while longer. But maybe I'll surprise us.

Oh, my dear sweet NYC 21 April 2002

i am going to new york in two weeks and i am both thrilled and terrified about this. the last time i was in there was fall two years ago, when i was stuck in a love triangle between a boy and the city. i didn't have to choose: the boy left me and i left the city.

and i haven't been back since.

i feel as though i'm about to have one last torrid affair with my old lover. i don't know what it will be like. i don't know how to prepare myself.

should i wear something conservative or should i slip into something sexy? should i be on guard or should i be reckless? will it be awkward or will i fall back in its arms like no time has passed at all?

maybe i'll get there and the city will look at me with sorry eyes and tell me that everything has changed, i lost my chance and i can never go back. or maybe it will tell me how much it's missed me and beg me to never leave again.

Why does it always rain on me? 15 April 2002

it's a good thing i had my rain coat. i don't normally have it within arm's length, but it sprinkled last night and as i was leaving for the car wash at lunch time i glanced at it hanging on my cubicle wall and helen told me to bring it -- just in case. it was still cloudy outside.

i brought my rain coat and my book, because i didn't know how long i'd have to wait in line. two and a half car washes, that's how long. i was a third through with the wind-up bird and tuesday's women when it was finally my turn, so i drove in, slowly.

now, when i was a little girl, i used to hate car washes. big hate. we were driving right through a jungle of giant bristles on a dark and stormy night and our car was under attack. i'd shut my eyes and cry hysterically and just want it to be over.

so i drove in, slowly, until the light at the end of the tunnel turned red and i stepped on my breaks and opened up my book and started to read some more. i didn't get very far, this time, because i was interrupted by a splash.

a what? a splash.

shit, i said, and before i could say it again a rush of water came spilling down on me from above. it took a second for me to figure out that it was coming from the sun roof, which was not, apparently, shut.

shit, shit, shit, i muttered, and i threw my damp book to the side and grabbed my jacket and threw it over my head like a parachute. it didn't help.

the water kept dripping down, past my rain slicker shield and onto the seat and my head and my shirt and my jeans. i took my sweatshirt and began to wipe the seat dry but that, too, was pointless. i was just smearing everything wet.

all i could do was wait for the wash cycle to end and laugh.

the light turned green. i pulled out of the driveway, rolled down the window and felt the breeze on my drenched clothes.

Guess who's coming to dinner 04 April 2002

i had forgotten all about dinner parties, about mismatched silverware and plates, bowls of warm food and glasses of cold beer, laughter and stories rising up to the dimly light ceiling. i had forgotten how much fun it can be, but tonight, i was reminded when a friend asked us over for dinner for pakistani home cooking. she made chicken, potatoes, okra, lentils and bread. it was all so good.

the company, of course, made it even better. it had been months since we'd all been together, but we got along like no time had passed at all. i kept looking around the room, wanting to laugh and cry at the same time because i hadn't realized how much i missed them. fiona's black spikes and stand-up comic antics, roger's lanky arms and poker face, tania's high-pitched shrieks and hot pink streaks, miha's new york sass and tipsy giggles, jesse's silent, smiling eyes.

when i lived in portland, dinner parties were my favorite thing, aside from brunch. my friends and i took turns cooking our favorite meals, sharing family recipes and rambly tales. the night would inevitably end on somebody's floor or porch, heads on shoulders, sleepy smiles and full bellies. it was always more about the people than the food.

i had forgotten all about that. i had forgotten that you don't have to always leave the house for a good time. the good time can come to you.

this summer, i will re-initiate drinks in the patio and reading on the front porch. i will test, once and for all, my ability to cook all those filipino dishes i watched mom make while growing up. i will invite you all over for another housewarming party.

but this time, it won't be a party to celebrate my moving in. we'll be celebrating good friends and home cooking and the fact that i found a place to stay for more than a year.

Zzzzz 03 April 2002

everything was sleep to me, today. the untouched patches of carpet in each empty cubicle. the endless roll of bubble wrap abandoned in the corner of the office. rosie thomas's caramel voice oozing through my headphones.

all i wanted was to sliver onto my carpet bed, lay my head on a bubble wrap pillow and drift off to rosie's lullabies.

Vegas, baby 29 March 2002

next stop: vegas. i am going to play nickel slots and drink free gin & tonics and flirt with cowboys. or maybe i will play babysitter to my little cousins, buy them ice cream cones and win them stuffed teddy bears. if i hit the jackpot, i will become a lady of leisure and perfect the recipe for strawberry pie.

las vegas has been a strange backdrop to my life. my family would abandon me in hotel lobbies, with the promise of "ten more minutes" hanging above my head. 10 minutes became 20 became an hour became two hours and i would be left there, scrawny brown girl with thick glasses and ink black hair, sinking into plush cushions, making up stories about the people passing by. the almighty dollar whispered sweet nothings into my parents' ears and they could not resist.

vegas also reminds me of my grandfather because, god, he really loved that place. his snail's pace always turned turbo when we were nearing a casino and his face lit up to match the marquees' flashing bulbs. one night, he snuck out of our hotel room at 4 in the morning and my parents woke up the next day wondering where the hell he was. panic struck, and everyone split up and searched for him.we finally found him, sitting content in a corner, feeding a slot machine with quarters.

i was in vegas when he was buried, and i haven't been since.

i have been to a wedding in vegas, witness to elvis enthusiasm and drive-through love.

once, i kissed a boy by the ice machine of our hotel, lips locked and eyes closed and ice overflowing from the bucket, like a slot machine jackpot.

clink. clank. clunk.

Sank my teeth into it 26 March 2002

my hope was handed back to me tonight by the tamale guy and it only cost $1.75. in the pool room, i sat and i watched the seconds become minutes become hours and wanted a tamale so badly. he always comes sometime after 1, and he always has enough cheese tamales for the gang, and he always smiles when i speak to him in my broken spanish.

but it was getting late and i was getting hungry and he was nowhere to be found.

i thought, if he doesn't come, then that's it. i don't know anything anymore.

i sank further into the black vinyl and sipped hard on my glass of water and fought back yawns. that's when lars appeared, around the corner, waving at us. "look what i have."

my heart leapt, and i followed it, over to the tamale guy, standing with his blue cooler and plastic baggies and still-warm tamales. i handed him a couple of crumpled dollars, he handed me a chicken tamale, and i sank my teeth into my hope.

"gracias," i said.

"de nada," he said, and all i could do was smile.

Unsolved mysteries 24 March 2002

my life has often felt like an after-school TV special, a Lifetime movie, a painfully bad sitcom, and yes, okay, even a cartoon.

right now, though, it feels like an episode of Unsolved Mysteries. marvelous coincidences and bittersweet moments that make absolutely no sense whatsoever.

so, i just sit here and i follow all the clues and i look for all the signs and i sigh a lot and i whisper to myself, "why, oh, why?" but there are things i will never understand, so i shouldn't even try.

Good things

once a week, i make a list of good things. this task usually falls around sunday, and it's often scribbled on a scrap piece of paper and then written, more nicely, in my notebook. sometimes i come up with 20 things. others, i can barely think of 5. but it's important, i think. i complain and whine and sigh so much that i need to remind myself that there are just as many -- most likely more -- things to smile about.

good things
* the lucksmiths
* miha & dave moving 1.1 miles away (a 15-minute walk)
* red walls
* sleeping the day away
* felicity, minus her bad hair choices
* getting back holga contact sheets
* rosemary & garlic potatoes
* argyle socks
* cute boy with a lingering stare
* friends who believe for you when you just can't

Been all over the place 20 March 2002

this weekend, i did not once think about you, obsess about my appearance or wish i were somewhere else. i did go to disneyland, take cabs to get around town, and jump up and down to some damn good rock & roll.

surprises, everywhere.

like when you suddenly realize that somebody else is watching you, the way you are watching the world.

(clockwise: me, fixing a broken jacket zipper, while waiting for a rock show; me, stepping out on a sunny afternoon; me, trying desperately to pay attention.)

Sensing springtime 13 March 2002

i really love when the leaves rustling in the wind sounds just like rain. i convince myself that there is some sort of storm, look outside my window and see debris dancing on the driveway, instead.

*

circling around the reservoir on monday night, the windows rolled down and the nighttime air drifting inside, and i ask him, "is that jasmine?"

i already know the answer because i see a tree full with blossoms as we turn the corner.

"yes, i think so," he says, and i nod and take a deep breath.

The lady with pink pants 12 March 2002

the lady with pink pants and i are on some kind of schedule. i ran into her three times today in the bathroom, and each time it was exactly the same. i'd enter the middle bathroom stall, look to my right and see the salmon slacks bunched up over the brown loafers. i'd hear the faucet going as i flushed. i'd step out of the stall as she disappeared out the door.

i never saw her face.

i know she works in the building next door, and that's about all i know. i wonder if she noticed my scratched up mary janes, gray striped socks and frayed denim and looked at them in scorn. i wonder if she downs coffee every morning noon and night, if the restaurant wait staff kept filling her glass of lemonade at lunch, if she has a sipper bottle filled with sparkletts on her desk like i do. i wonder if i'll see her tomorrow and if i'll even know that it's her since she probably won't be wearing her pink pants. probably not.

Oh, my aching back 10 March 2002

oh, they are so right. it really does feel so long ago. i still remember telling my mom how excited i was to go to texas for the first time ever to meet these people whose work i respected and learn about this medium with which i was falling in love.

i was on fire, and she just told me, "hija, be careful with That Internet." i thought, she has no idea what she's talking about, and then i found out that neither did i.

i could never have predicted what would happen to me: the people i'd meet, the places i'd go, the things i'd do. so much has happened to me in the past two years, some bad, but mostly good.

and i told maura, sometimes i feel like a grandma. by no means do i believe i am a founding mother of the web--i realize the magic began way before i even discovered it--but i do feel as though i've been at this for a good, long time. i feel like i'm a cranky old lady peering out my blinds and gossipping on the phone to my girlfriends about these newfangled sites and the latest fads, and exclaiming, sometimes in horror, "just what are these kids thinking?"

i am falling back in love with paper and ink and colors. i can splash color on the screen, but i can't get my hands dirty or hang a website on my wall. i am spending time with the people who really matter in my life, because the hours in the day are so precious and i don't know what will happen tomorrow. i am remembering why i wanted a website in the first place: because i wanted to share stories.

but you can only get so much through boxes and wires. real stories come from real living.

so, that's what i'm trying to do. my html and javascript books have gotten dusty, but my guitar has been rescued from the cobwebbed corner of my parents' house. i have never bothered to redesign, but i have vastly improved my brushstroke. besides, i would much rather sit across a table from you over typing and uploading and clicking send any day.

A thousand question marks 06 March 2002

i don't know everything. in fact, i'm certain i don't know much and have a lot to learn, but there are some things that i know for certain:

• i have amazing people in my life.
  
• i am at my best when i am with them and when i am doing things for other people.
  
• i must write and make things. i don't know why, but my hands feel lost when they are not creating.
  
• i will never look like them.
  
• but that doesn't mean i shouldn't take care of my body. it feels good to exercise and pamper and relax.
  
• what you see is not always what i see and there may be a difference between my ugly and your beautiful. there will also be some things our eyes miss entirely.
  
• as much as i'd like to believe that my hormones do not affect my emotions, they do, and every month i get horny, then tired, then depressed, then happy again -- in that order.
  
• when i am starting to feel the hunger pangs in the late night hours at one of the many fine drinking establishments in my neighborhood, the tamale guy will be there with his cooler and i will get a jalapeno-cheese tamale for a buck fifty. it will hit the spot.
  
• i'm not 19, anymore.
  
• the blue-skied days far outnumber the gray ones, and yes, the sun will come out, again, tomorrow.
  

these are things that i know for sure, and when everything else seems so nebulous and confusing and scary, i know i have these things, these truths. i know i always have somewhere to go. i know it's okay.

For now 01 March 2002

i know there is a lot to say, but right now i just want to know how i could possibly have missed all that was right in front of my eyes.

sometimes, maybe, i see it but just pretend it's not there.

Surprised! 24 February 2002

mom was surprised, and i couldn't stop taking pictures of her 100-watt smile. one by one her friends came up to greet her and when tita linda came up, they kept hugging and laughing and shrieking and hugging again. tears filled my mom's eyes, and i got teary-eyed, too. i was pacing and shaking. so many blurry photographs.

there were piano players and DJs, heat lamps and fountains, mango cake that melted in my mouth and raspberry vodka that seeped down my throat.

we ate drank sang danced, and we didn't stop until 5am. the parents were in the kitchen eating early morning snacks, while the surviving children sat delirious on the sofa. we all got drunk -- vodka or laughter, it was all the same.

my brothers called from whistler and sang into her ear, a dozen bachelors serenading a lady. i think i saw her blush.

She is going to be so... 23 February 2002

coffee, pancakes and mushroom omelettes, followed by a drive by the ocean. picnics on the sand. deep breaths held for ten seconds. oh, my legs are so pale.

i watched squirrels dart in and out of a flower bed on the cliff, and i imagined what it must be like to have rows of flowers and foliage up to my shoulders. afterward, we went to a nursery and i got inspired to turn my brown thumb green. i walked out with fresh sweet basil, italian parsley and three bamboo sticks.

i made the mistake of pointing out a father and son riding bicycles side by side and my mother lamented that it will be a long time until she has grandchildren.

today is her 60th birthday. we're throwing a surprise party, with white table cloths and two turntables and, i think, lechon. one of her best friends from high school has come all the way from jersey for the affair, and my mom hasn't got a clue.

Come again another day 22 February 2002

sooner or later you just have to laugh because there is a big, gaping hole in your living room ceiling and you don't know where it leads. this morning, you woke up and heard raindrops and you started to get excited to wear your new raincoat, but when you looked out the window the pavement was dry.

it was drizzling in your living room, from nonexistent rain clouds, somewhere in the apartment above you. there, on the floor, was a blue pot, the largest pot you own, and it was already half full. so you wheeled the cooler, still in the kitchen from a party three weeks ago, in its place, because you figure, if it's good enough for four 6-packs of beer, it's good enough for a day's worth of rain.

you forget about it by the time you get to work and remember by the time it's lunch. you call your roommate who calls your landlord who says he'll take care of it, and he does.

back home, the pot is gone. the cooler is, too. the dripping has stopped, and in place of the dark ceiling cloud is a hole about the length and width of your favorite book. it is unfinished and unattractive, but it is somehow charming and reminds you of a secret passageway in one of your dreams. it reminds you of that movie you saw on TV, once, where a family buys a house and everything goes wrong until something finally goes right and, somehow, they pull through.

Who? You. 21 February 2002

some people, unfortunately, missed the whole point.

i know that imitation is a form of flattery, and i know a girl using my words as her own is probably her way of saying she knows exactly how i feel and couldn't have said it better herself, but when i see my words on somebody else's site i feel like that person has poked little holes in me and syphoned my soul.

i try not to take it personally, but it is personal. they're my thoughts, my experiences, my moments. sometimes they are trivial, but they're mine.

it just makes me so sad to think that some people are so uninterested in their own lives that they choose to pretend they are living someone else's, instead. because in the end, it is just pretending. these are just words, strung together to tell stories and leave impressions on those who read them.

words can never fully convey the way i tilt my head back to laugh, the swell i felt when i first heard the words "i love you," the question mark wonder of what on earth will happen next. that is mine to keep.

On this, my 3rd anniversary 20 February 2002

three years ago today i launched my first website, a string of purple pages and sloppy code. a handful of people read it and only a few of those people really knew me. i didn't know i would last this long. i didn't really stop to think about it at all.

i read the stuff i wrote then, and i want to laugh and cry and scream and sigh all at once. it's amazing what changes in one, two, even three years.

it's amazing what doesn't.

i guess that's why i'm still here. i'm still dreaming, wondering, learning, telling, hoping. and i'm still sharing it with you.

the other night, i caught a lipstick drawn girl staring at me from the stall wall of the short stop bathroom. the words above her tired eyes read, "now what?"

and all i could think was, stand up, flush the toilet, put your pants back on and walk out the door.

All grown up and no place to go 19 February 2002

this morning, i got up before the sun. i remembered all these things i'd meant to do last night before watching bits and pieces of chungking express and falling asleep with the telephone beside me. Responsible Things, like paying bills and getting my oil changed and putting the dishes away. things i couldn't ignore, not unless i want to live in darkness and go everywhere by foot.

so, i got up. it wasn't hard. i've been getting up before 7am half of the week, anyway, and it gets easier each day.

even michelle is amazed. "who are you?"

"i don't know!" i laughed.

when we lived in santa monica, she'd have done a million and one things by the time i rolled out of bed. now, she says she can't remember the last time she got up so early.

who am i? i feel like i should be able to tell you that, by now. maybe you know better than i do. maybe nobody ever really does. maybe it's a stupid question, because what does it matter what anyone says, anyway.

today, we are going to some old haunts to eat mandarin orange topped salads and chocolate chip cookie sandwiches, shop for art supplies(!) and used CDs. there is no better way to spend a saturday afternoon, or if there is, i can't think of it right now.

Where I marry Pocky and run away 17 February 2002

last night, strawberry pocky and e-mail in bed. it was so quiet, and i'd forgotten how much i enjoy that. quiet and stillness. being alone.

i dreamt that rima moved all of the house plants. i was about to get angry until i noticed that they were thriving in the corner of the house.

i am working on a project one year overdue, and i hope it is the mark of a trend. Getting Things Done. last year i took several steps forward and then a few more back. it was like a clumsy dance, one that i don't want to repeat.

i want to glide across the dance floor. i want to shimmy and spin. i want someone to dip me.

Do it all over again

if i were a boy, i'd go to the short stop on saturday nights because the ratio of the sexes works in your favor. when the lights go down and the volume goes up, the coats come off and all you see is shoulders and napes and thighs gleaming in the light. hair shakes like leaves in wind. glossed lips curl upward in grins. get up off your ass and sway beside them. if she shimmies closer, you're in, but if she spins away, you're out of luck. please try again.

i wanted joel to get up and dance with the girl with fringe bangs and sleeves folded up to her elbow, but i think he felt strange leaving me there. he shouldn't have. i was happy, sitting on my hands and sipping my gin, trying to find pretty eyes in the crowd.

With just one look

i am tired, but i want to tell you about today: scarlet shaded bridesmaid gowns, zippers that won't slide up, a rainbow of flip-flops, pricetags that make us laugh, photographs of hands and purple walls, deep bowls of soup and refills of coffee, giggles and whispers, raising voices and wiping tears. tonia can always make me cry with just one look.

"okay, stop, already," i said, exhausted. "you're going to make me cry."

"i will make you cry if i damn well want to."

(she was telling me that i am beautiful and that boys don't know what to do with me because i am so wonderful and that God is taking care of me and that time will make everything right.)

the reason i love tonia is because there is never any bullshit. pretending is not allowed, and i shouldn't even try, because she sees right through it, anyway.

My fingers are possessed by somebody else 16 February 2002

sometimes, and i have to be honest with you, i ask myself: "did i really write that?" i don't know whether i should be embarrassed or disgusted or glad or proud.

i am just struck by disbelief that those words landed on the page at all.

Dear Sarah 14 February 2002

girl,

it's not about leading a life of adventure or spilling magical tales. it's not about impressing them with big words or fancy tricks. it's not about trying too hard to be whatever it is you think they want you to be.

they might say it is, but don't listen to them. they are just as scared as you are.

listen to your heart, and speak whatever is on your mind. be yourself. that is being real. that is being beautiful.

i know i say it like it's easy, and it's not. sometimes i just want to hide, too. i want to crumple myself into a ball and roll under the bed and stay perfectly still. i want to erase these words and paintings and leave the screen blank, and that's okay. it's okay to be quiet, and i have to remember that, too.

but something inside me tells me to keep going, that there are stories worth telling, that there are people listening. maybe it's that same something that compels you to write, too.

the words you shared with me spoke volumes, more than anything anyone else could have said for you. please don't stop that. please keep writing, even if it's just pencil scribbles in a spiralbound notebook. but don't do it for them. do it for you.

xoxo,
christine

Fourth fret, second string 13 February 2002

i am taking guitar lessons, and i feel like i am 7 all over again, playing two-line tunes that make chopsticks sound like a symphony. i read the notes on the page and i know how they should sound, but my fingers stumble and find the wrong string, instead.

my hands are not used to this. they used to dance across piano keys but now they can't even find C.

this is beginning, this is learning, i have to remind myself, and then i realize that i'm not just learning the guitar. i'm learning patience, too.

Typewriter love 04 February 2002

wandering through the aisles of blown colored glass and faded wood stains and fabrics that hadn't seen the light of day, i spotted the dusty typewriter in the corner. i had to have it.

"thirty five dollars," the man said. i was armed with cash and ready to whip it out, but my dad whispered in hushed tagalog to ask for twenty.

he gave it to me for twenty-five and made me the happiest girl alive.

the corona typewriter is from the '40s but functions perfectly and comes in a travel case. i carted it around with me the rest of the morning, stuck in a dream-like state, imagining journalists and writers and students fashioning tales and weaving stories with its keys.

Lucky bastard 29 January 2002

last night, somehow, the topic turned to passive-aggressive behavior, and eric said, "i've never really understood that concept," and i said, "neither have i."

then lars said: "that's because you have a family who loves you."

and i had to take a moment of pause, because he was totally right.

Songs handled with care

there are five stacks of CDs beside my chair, nine open windows on my desktop and 10 star lights twinkling above my head. my head is spinning mp3s, i'm swimming in guitar riffs, my stomach is doing triple flips to the beat of the drums,

and i think i want to dance.

january is two days shy of being a memory, and i have never been so happy to tear the page off a calendar. if i had to make a list of the bad things that happened versus the good, i'm sure the good would win. i didn't lose my job or my home or people who love me, but i did get my annual oh-god-what-am-i-doing-with-my-life panic attack and i did take a wrong turn down painful memory lane and, oh yeah, there is still a hole in my living room ceiling.

i don't suppose the day of the week or the month of the year can really change much, but i still like the idea of empty pages and clean slates. there's hope for you yet, 2002.

Stars speak softly 24 January 2002

sometimes i think that horoscopes are really just God saying what i need to hear. you never know. sometimes they are so eerily true, filling in all the appropriate blanks from my life, while i just sit here in awe.

Fast-forward 21 January 2002

on second thought, i think i would rather fast-forward to february.

Rewind 20 January 2002

i want to rewind today and start over.

Slippery when wet 15 January 2002

i made the mistake of diving into the past today, reading old things written, getting nostalgic, feeling regret pelt me in the heart, missing him, missing you. i am wondering if i will ever learn.

there is so much, too much, that i feel needs work. if i could just be more of this and less of that, i think, then maybe everything would be ok. maybe i would understand.

but that is where i falter. i won't ever know it all, i can't ever know it all. i will always be chasing, hoping, fretting. i will always be starting over. i am a work in progress, slippery when wet.

and i am trying so hard not to try to be clever or cute or charming, here 13 January 2002

whatever you think of me, it's wrong. i am not that brave, i am not that strong.

"how do you do it?" people ask me.
and i ask them back, "do what?"
"keep it together," they say.
and then i laugh.

because i feel like i am just unraveling slowly and soon i will fall apart.

tonight, i am lonely and sad and scared.

and maybe i should say that more often. maybe i should frown more, cry more, scream more. maybe i should let myself crumble and let someone else pick up the pieces for me. maybe i should admit for once that i need someone just as much as everyone else.

Everything counts in large amounts 12 January 2002

dude. five paintings at five hundred dollars apiece. quick, do the math. i did, and i thought to myself, between sips of art show red wine in a plastic cup, "i could do that." why haven't i done that? where are the stories i've been meaning to write? where are the books i was supposed to make? where did last year go and is 2002 going to go there, too?

no. i won't let it.

it's like my friend once told me after going back to work after a chunk of time off: all of a sudden you get this feeling that you shouldn't waste any more time. nine hours of your day (eleven, if you commute) are already devoured by work; don't let the other 15 pass you by. make every free second count.

this morning, i woke up before 9 and took a walk to the blue awning café, which isn't its real name but i always get it wrong so i have dubbed it that, instead.

how beautiful. a trace of gauze clouds stretched across the big blue sky. i sat at a table facing the street and watched people walk in and out the door, watched dogs chase their tails, watched cars zoom by. i felt like i had all the time in the world, and in a way, i guess i do.

Once around the lake 10 January 2002

i have never been a morning person, but today i got up
at 6:30 and met lisaann in front of the community center at 7, hands in my pockets and sleep in my eyes, and we walked. we walked around the reservoir, saw a boy who looked like a guy i used to work with and a woman whose shirt was too big and another guy who wore shorts that were so flimsy they blew in the wind. one man said good morning. "hi," we chimed back.

through the diamonds of the chain link fence, i noticed an untouched patch of grass and hundreds of dandelions peeking their heads out. a hundred weeds to one person is a hundred wishes to another. i wanted to blow each and every one, watch my wishes rise to the sky and fly away.

once around the reservoir is 3 miles, or 45 minutes, or the latest gossip shared between friends. perfect.

and now it's 8:30, the time i normally am hurriedly assembling myself for work. instead, i'm drinking a glass of water and deciding which shoes to wear. i feel pretty good, so good that i am already looking forward to my next walk.

there are adventures to be had before 9am! who knew?

How do you spell salvation? 09 January 2002

as we pushed our way through the crowd, lisaann leaned in and said to me, "jesus loves you!" and i laughed. there were several men at the bar with the jesus complex : their faces covered with facial hair and long locks draping their necks. one of said JCs sat coolly against the wall, white scarf wrapped twice around his neck, round specs framing his eyes, a transplant from the 60s. another's hair stood at least a foot tall, the size of a giant fishbowl.

beside me, a girl whispered to her friend, "there are a lot of cute boys here."

maybe so, but it was far too hot and stuffy and packed to notice. the room started to spin and my stomach started to growl and the first thing that came to my mind was: french fries.

so, we left in the middle of the set, walking right by jesus, past the giddy girls, through the curtain of beads and onto sunset boulevard where the search for food began.

Seaside 07 January 2002

on my last day of vacation, i stood at the edge of the world and stared at the ocean. the sky was bleeding orange clouds and blowing cold wind seductively in my ear. all at once, i was hit with nostalgia and relief and melancholy and peace. i felt like it was the end of summer, and everyone was going back home.

except for me, i guess. i already am home.

On a mountain high 03 January 2002

the truth is i was afraid of falling. that's why i couldn't get up on my own, that's why i wouldn't let go of his hands, that's why i wanted to stay seated on the top of the snow-capped hill. i didn't want to lose control.

and how terrifying: to be skidding down a mountain and not know how to (if you'd) stop.
and how fantastic: to turn the skidding into gliding and feel like you are so close to flying.

i snowboarded for the first time yesterday, and it was the first time in a long time that i was new at something. children barrelled down the hills past me, and i felt so small and weak. i was terrified, but i kept at it. by the end of the day, i felt like i had gotten somewhere, like i had learned something. i felt good.

today, i am all aches and pains. i think of them as war wounds: a bruise on my upper arm, left knee and a spot i can't quite place on the back of my thigh. i am sore all over the place. i am so sore it hurts to put on my socks and shoes. i wonder if this is how it feels to be 80, with teeth falling out and hearing disappearing.

my body may be drained, but my soul is revived, and i remember what it is like to be alive, to try something new, to take a risk. to be willing to fall, because you know you can always get right back up.

Notes to self 01 January 2002

don't forget where you came from, girl. don't forget God and the girls who know you inside-and-out (and love you anyway) and your family who would do anything for you. don't forget the plans you once wrote in the stars, of who you want to be and what you want to do and where you want to go. don't forget to give, because you get so much as it is and you continue to take when you can. don't forget to smile big and speak loudly and feel honestly. don't forget to forgive and understand and trust. have faith. be loving. go far. you can and will reach amazing heights if you keep true to yourself, and you know who that is. you have been getting to know yourself since you were a little girl. you have been stepping into your dancing shoes ready to twirl around this crazy world.

Time out 30 December 2001

i am coughing hysterically and it just won't stop. i've been sick for almost two weeks now. it makes me so sad and achey and cranky, too. i suppose it's partly my fault; i have not really taken a good chunk of time to rest until today. it's been so much go-go-go with my two brothers in tow. but can anyone blame me? i hadn't hung out with them both in a couple years, so of course we've tried to pack it all in there.

today, however, i take my leave from them, as they've trekked up the mountain to go snowboarding, while i stay at my parents' home to try to recuperate (read: sleep).

inbetween bouts of consciousness and swigs of nyquil, i plan to read poetry and scribble in my moleskin notebook. i've got great plans for the coming year. i just need to stop coughing first.

Family ties 26 December 2001

and just like that, christmas is over. the last few packages thought to be lost in the holiday rush were spotted in a cubby hole outside the front gate. they sit in a crumpled bag, waiting to be wrapped. a few branches hang sadly because they were never fully clothed. the christmas carols have been replaced by love songs on the coast. outside, it's blue skies, sunshine and cool breezes. and do you expect anything less on a december day in LA? you'd be silly if you did.

my family, who in the past three days spent many hours sitting cozily in the living room -- a sight not seen in four years -- are now scattered throughout the greater los angeles area. ricky is relaxing here with me, mom and tom are watching DVDs and dad is back at work.

we forgot to take a family photo, but there is still time. we still have a week and a half of this, of sitting, of reminiscing, of laughing so hard our stomachs hurt. i wish it were longer than two weeks, but it will have to do.

vacation, all i ever wanted 19 December 2001

today is wednesday, but it is my friday. actually, it's my last day before vacation, and i feel like i should be going to a classroom party with fruit punch and star-shaped cookies and play games like heads-up 7-up and simon says until the school bell rings.

two and a half weeks to stay up late and sleep in later and play and eat and drink and laugh. two and a half weeks! i may never want to come back to the office after this.

*

my tree is nearly fully clothed in white lights & paper snowflakes, save a few naked branches. if you come into my house i accost you with a pair of scissors and a square sheet of paper, as i did joel & kate, and then i make you sit on the sofa and cut away. it makes me so happy to stare at the tree because i know that people i adore have helped decorate it. each snowflake is different and beautiful, as are the people who made them, as are the memories we've shared.

tonight, tom comes over. sunday, ricky arrives, too. that means sunday night is the official start of the holiday madness, and i've got a feeling it will not stop until long after they've gone back home. there will be gift wrapping and gift opening, laughter and rambling conversation, food inhaling and drink spilling. there might even be some snow.

in case i can't steal a moment in the coming days, happy holidays, darlings. be safe & merry.

Excuse me, Elsa 13 December 2001

it was elsa's birthday today and she drank one too many shots. she spilled and tripped and slurred her words all the way to our table. all i wanted was a slice of apple streudel and a glass of water but i lost her to more birthday singing and drinking and floating. when it was time to go, we left the tip in a birthday card that claudia had sitting in her bag. i hope she puts it in her pocket and looks at it tomorrow morning and wonders who the hell those girls were, anyway.

claudia, miha and i snuck out of the bar and drove up the hill to my house, where we drank pints of water, got high on fresh pine and talked about boys. i haven't heard giggling like that bounce on these walls in so long.

i am trying to convince miha to move to my neighborhood, so we could do that sort of thing more often. for the longest time she'd complain to me how she didn't have any friends here in LA, but i think she's finally realizing that she, in fact, does.

i almost didn't go out tonight. i was ready to slip into my pajamas and sink into crankiness. i was ready to wish the world away, but i'm glad i didn't.

Welcome home

my brother's feet will touch the los angeles pavement within the hour, the first time in three years. i can't be at the airport to greet him, but i know he will call from my dad's car and he will ask in his dutch-tinged english when he can come over and i will smile heart to cheeks to stomach because i am so happy he's here.

i can't wait to see him.

Get festive 12 December 2001

i thank my mom for never dressing me up in holiday clothing: sweaters emblazoned with christmas trees, earrings the shape of lightbulbs, socks that spread a message of christmas cheer. i've got spirit, yes i do, but i do not need to wear it on my sleeve, or head, or feet.

tonight, i am cutting paper snowflakes and writing christmas cards. tomorrow night, we're getting our tree. after that, it's a big mess of christmas lights and paper and ribbon, strewn about my house in one big festive mess until the tiny packages are sitting patiently in a row beneath the lowest branches. i love that.

All I want for Christmas 09 December 2001

i know what i want this christmas, and it can't be wrapped in paper or tied in bows. i want a hug from my grandma. i want a christmas tree short enough that i can reach the top by standing on my tiptoes. i want to laugh so hard i have to hold my stomach from bursting. i want strawberry pie. i want a senseless smooch under the mistletoe. i want conversation by the fireplace. i want to see snow, even if i have to drive far to see it, and i know i will.

i want to remember that it's not about gifts, it's about family. it's not about wearing the right outfit, it's about feeling secure. it's not about jingles and cookies with sprinkles and stars that twinkle. it's about love, and you knew i'd say that, so don't act so surprised.

this christmas, i don't want gifts. you think i'm just saying that, but really, i don't. so, unless santa can go get my grandma, bake like the people at house of pies, maneuver the kiss of the century with the boy i'm still crushing and make it snow in los angeles, then he can go to someone else's house. i'm going to have a merry christmas without him.

Shiny and new 06 December 2001

i am, of course, okay. the shaky feeling has subsided, and my car window is shiny new. everyone rushed to my rescue today, in thoughts and words and action, and i am so grateful i know so many beautiful people. (you know who you are, i hope. i've told you once but if i need to i'll tell you again.)

a good thing is i can now listen to all of those cassettes gathering dust on my shelf. the french tapes i never played in my car because i was too embarrassed to recite my lessons in traffic and the book-on-tape kiehl lent me and the dozens of mixed tapes i've made over the years.

just the other day, i was listening to an old mix and a song came on and i could not for the life of me remember what it was. it made me sad. how could a song that meant so much to me at one point barely strike a chord in my memory?

i think i could say that of a lot of things. everything shifts. this morning, i felt like walls were crumbling around me. a year from now i might not even remember today.

Shattered 05 December 2001

there is broken glass everywhere, and i don't even know how to begin to clean it up. i want to pretend it is not there. i want to crawl back into bed and wake up at 7:30 like i do every other day. i want it to be every other day.

somebody broke into my car last night, sometime between 7pm and 7am, during which time i complained about the traffic, got take out thai food, made eyes at a fish in a fishtank, rented sixteen candles, watched felicity with my girlfriends, ate a krispy kreme donut, watched sixteen candles, and then slept early because i just didn't have any energy to do anything else.

i woke up at 6, for no apparent reason, for the second time this week. i stayed in bed for another hour and then i remembered that last night i'd parked on the wrong side of the street, the street cleaning side, and had to move it out of the space by 8 to avoid getting a parking ticket.

i parked on the wrong side of the street.

when i looked out my window -- peering through a crack in my blinds like i always do -- i noticed my car trunk was open. did i leave that open last night?

no, i couldn't have. i wouldn't have.

i threw on some clothes, stepped outside and cautiously wandered across the street to where my car was parked. the rear window was smashed. i walked around and stared at it, shattered like cracked crème brûleé, glistening in the morning sun.

they must have taken my cd player, i immediately thought, the $50 discman my parents got me for christmas, but i didn't want to know what else they took. i didn't know what else they possibly could take. i didn't care. i just couldn't bear to stand there anymore, dumbfounded and groggy, so i pulled my jacket and scarf around my body and marched right back into my house. i called my dad and started to cry.

it's so strange how sad and violated and upset i feel, i told rima, as she poured me coffee. i keep thinking about the hundreds of pages of police reports i pored over during my year at the Times. i had to find something worth reporting and condense it into two lines of print. and now those two lines were me.

700 Block Christine's Street: A $50 portable CD player was stolen from a 1987 Acura Integra. The rear right window was smashed.

i don't even care about the CD player. my only concerns are how now my mother will not be able to sleep at night because she thinks her daughter lives in the ghetto and how i will have to tell eric that the CD he lent me is gone and how things like this, and things far worse, happen to people everyday. today it just happened to be me.

Vicodin dreams

my mouth is a tea cup and i've got a string dangling out of the corner of my mouth. but that's what the instructions said, right? yes. i read them at least five times, and clearly it said: "if there is excessive bleeding after a period of six hours, place a dry tea bag on the surgical site and maintain firm pressure for at least one hour." i don't know that it's necessarily excessively bleeding, but it's still bleeding after 8 hours and that sure as hell feels excessive to me.

so, i've got the tea bag stewing, an icepack pressed up against my left jaw, my hair pulled back in a half-ponytail and surely i am a vision of loveliness. i look like a supermodel, and you're just wishing you could see.

i am beautiful.

*

wait, no. i feel like hell, and the vicodin has made me woozy.

i tell myself i will only take it this one last time, because i know what that shit does, it fucks with you man. the bottle's instructions say take it with food, but the instructions from the oral surgeon (3. Diet - drink lots of liquids including juices, milk, water, soups, etc.) say i shouldn't be eating more than liquid. i've eaten two cups of miso soup and drunk maybe 12 ounces of water. i am hungry. i want ravioli. i want pizza. i want sushi. i want a cheeseburger, yes, a cheeseburger. oh god, i want a double-double with grilled onions, fries and a vanilla shake.

*

surely it's the vicodin speaking, because i can't imagine any other reason i'd be writing this at 2:15am.

i got a tooth pulled today. one of those bloody (no pun intended) wisdom teeth, and it's been killing me all day and night. i sleep in hour-long intervals. i roll around. i sleep some more. i get up and walk around. i re-freeze my ice pack. i fall back asleep. i check my email. i go back to bed.

i will probably forget this ever happened come morning, and then i'll open up netscape and see this entry on the screen and laugh at myself.

that is, if my mouth will open wide enough.

Better than okay 04 December 2001

sometimes, i wonder how loud the mouse clicks really are. can you hear them in the bathroom if the water is running? or in the dining room if you are on the phone? what about outside while taking out the trash? can you hear me? does it matter?

oh, my room is getting cold, again. earlier, i was actually sweating. i bought a heater and it works. when eric told me i could burn the house down with that tiny little thing, i imagined the hard wood floors bursting up in flames. the only thing of mine that's ever caught fire, really, is an oven mitt. i burned a hole right through it and never slipped my hand inside again.

if you are wondering if i am okay, and apparently some people were otherwise i wouldn't even bother mentioning it, the answer is yes. yes yes yes yes yes. i am better than okay.

but my hands are cold.

We are not crazy 01 December 2001

is it, we ask ourselves, a blessing or a curse to pay such close attention to detail and be able to let our imaginations run wild?

Pond scum 29 November 2001

sometimes, i'm afraid i talk more about doing good than actually doing it.

i have so many grandiose plans about how to change the world, but i spend my days getting paid a better than decent salary and my nights doing whatever pleases me. i look at others with critical eyes and don't hesitate to turn to whisper harsh words, yet i constantly fail to see my own shortcomings and faults. i am so good at making everything sound like a dream that i forget that sometimes the world is just harsh and cold and mean and there is nothing anybody can do about it.

when i talk about how lucky i am or mention how grateful we should be, i don't say it to be boastful or proud. i do it because if i don't constantly remind myself i will forget. i will get so wrapped up in myself, in my insecurities and desires, and i will trample on the people who mean the most to me, and i don't ever want to do that. i don't ever want to forget how i got where i am.

and what do i know, anyway? i am 26, and i feel 13, and i act 5. i am so confused so often and i get terrified to the point of paralysis and i think myself in circles until i'm so dizzy all i want to do is pass out and live in my dreams.

Forty-five degrees! 28 November 2001

the other night was the first time living in LA i've ever thought to myself, "i could really use a scarf right now."

seriously.

forty-five degrees. it was that cold.

inside, my feet are wrapped in wool socks and my bed is a mess of every blanket i own. by the time i reach the bottom of my cup of tea, it's no longer warm.

Electricity hangs in the sky 27 November 2001

i was sitting indian-style on the floor when kid in candy started and my heavy spirits were lifted to the dim ceiling. all of a sudden, i was back in portland, sitting under blue skies. i was in a record store, sifting through discs with dawnie. i was laughing on the porch, taking sips of my ruby red.

rebecca gates rocks. and so do the boys from the chicago underground and tortoise who joined her.

while walking home, i thought of the helicopters flying over downtown los angeles, like flies circling a trash can. a man was getting into his beamer and a lady was climbing out of a van. i passed my sad car and blew a kiss goodnight.

Another year of unbelievable luck 26 November 2001

i know i'm getting old because today i hemmed my pants with a thread and needle, not the stapler i'd normally use. by the second leg, i was stitching so quickly i had a flash of my mother sitting on her bed and handing over the pants she'd hemmed for me. "there, all done."

this morning, i stood in front of my house for a picture, waving to my brother, as if i were in a homeowner's insurance commercial. we hugged goodbye inside and again on the empty street and i could feel tears well up inside, but i fought them back. i got used to having him around, in the next room over, beside me in the car's front seat, across from me at one of our favorite restaurants. i got used to having him around, and now he's on a plane back to seattle.

we ate too much, talked too much, laughed too much, while he was here. i got too many gifts and wishes and how old are you nows. i cried some tears, when i read my grandmother's birthday letter and again after i spoke to her on the phone. what a lovely weekend. what a lovely life. you'll have to excuse me, because i'm still so overwhelmed by it all.

Happiest 21 November 2001

already, this autumn is so much better than the last, and i am so happy. my brother is in town and my toenails are pink and the leaves on the sidewalk go crunchcrunch as i walk to my car.

for my birthday (a celebration that is going to last four days, it seems) i have eaten, so far, italian, creole and vietnamese food. by the end of the weekend, i will have also had mexican, japanese, filipino and maybe some cuban and thai.

people keep asking me if it bothers me that my birthday is on thanksgiving day this year, but i think it's actually quite perfect. both are days that remind me how lucky i am and how grateful i should be.

One one-thousand, two one-thousand 20 November 2001

i forgot to count how many meteors i saw, but i know at one point they were shooting across the sky every five seconds. as soon as i breathed, "five one thousand," another flash of light came streaking across the blackness.

i forgot to make a wish. i forgot a lot of things.

but it was rather nice to lie down, look up and see nothing but sky.

Jasmine tea and vinyl 18 November 2001

i got to chinatown earlier than i thought i would and parked on the street, and on my way to the restaurant, three old men growled at me in a language i didn't know. i wanted to yell back, in their native tongue, "haven't you ever seen a girl in a skirt before?" but i didn't know how. all i could do was look down, pull my sweater around my body and walk faster.

at the table for eight, we feasted on dumplings and chinese brocoli and sesame cakey balls and shrimp and mango pudding. i just kept shoveling the food in my mouth, inbetween chatter and giggles. i must have had at least eight cups of tea, maybe ten.

"what does dim sum mean?"

"it means to touch the heart."

"it does?"

"dim, touch. sum, heart."

"oh, i thought it meant snacks."

*

later in the afternoon, kiehl and i went to amoeba records to pay homage to the newest and largest record store in LA. we stood at the landing of the stairs, watching the mobs of people. i could have stood there for hours. the line snaked from one end of the store to the other, and it was made up of mostly male customers. the boy to girl ratio seemed like 50 to 1, and the boys were more geek than rock. people marched around almost robotically, arms carrying boxes stuffed with discs and records and dvds.

the way i felt in there reminded me of my first time at powell's in portland. complete and utter awe at the rows and stacks and piles of books. i remember wandering around the store not knowing where to stop, so i didn't. i walked right in and back out, and it took weeks before i could go back again to actually shop.

Ooh-oooh, nobody knows it 17 November 2001

i just expended my last ounce of energy dancing to "don't go breakin' my heart" in my parked car, one house down from mine. and then i tripped, twice, on my way to the bathroom. now i am lying in bed, where i can do no more harm. (pretty soon, i'm certain i'll pass out.)

that song always reminds me of ellen, a name i almost never breathe, especially around my family. i can still see her in the nijmegen living room, wearing fly sunglasses and blue velour, and using a broom as a microphone. that was the summer after i graduated high school, the trip i got in lieu of a debut. she inspired me to get a bob haircut. she taught me the value of true friends. she was the big sister i always wanted and never had. and then she and my brother got divorced, and i never saw her again.

still, i have to say that was a pretty amazing summer. it was my first time in europe. before i developed a taste for coffee and an appreciation for van gogh. before i learned to pack light. before i fell in love.

somewhere, i have a silver ID bracelet, engraved "summer of '93," that tom and ellen gave me as a pasalubong. i think i'd wear it again, sometime, if i could find it. i had put it away because it brought back bad memories, but now all i remember is the way my cheeks hurt from smiling.

Do it all over again 14 November 2001

i think i fell asleep for five minutes, sometime during won't get to heaven, when the lights were flashing purple white orange red, when everything was such a blur that i decided to close my eyes, instead. i wonder if anyone noticed, but i doubt it, because the whole theater seemed to be in a trance (except for the lady plugging her ears in row F).

it wasn't that i wasn't enjoying it; it was actually the opposite. spiritualized mesmerized me so much that i felt at complete peace, like i could just melt away into the white light and sound waves.

afterward, stella and i stopped by my house and filled a grocery bag with an assortment of bottles to take to the lads' pad. i had half a beer and felt the belches rise up my body. i should have opened the raspberry wine, but i was afraid of forgetting the bottle there and it is special to me. i started to fall asleep, again, with my cheek to the clean carpet and my glasses pushed up crooked against my face.

Putting away the silverware and fine china 11 November 2001

the party didn't really end until 2pm today, after joel put away his guitar, claudine stopped singing and i set down my imaginary tamborine.

i met back up with them at 11 and we practically ran to cj's pantry, where we'd had breakfast just weeks before.

"that girl is wearing the same jeans she wore last time," claudine said.

"maybe it's her sunday pants."

we stumbled home, filled with caffeine and grease, and straightened up the house a little bit. thankfully, it was nowhere near disaster. claudine said something to joel about playing us a song or two and considering his condition i was sure he'd say no, but he went downstairs to get his guitar without even putting up a fight.

it was like old times: guitar riffs and laughter in perfect harmony. music brought us together seven years ago, so it's no surprise that we can still gather around a guitar and pass the time away.

*

the party was, i'm told, a success. joel doesn't remember much, but i remember everything. i got us home safely despite the missed on-ramp and slow-pouring rain. it was such a beautiful night.

i can't believe i get to celebrate some more when my birthday really rolls around. i keep waiting for my luck to run out, but it doesn't seem to want to leave.

One parts gin, two parts ginger ale 10 November 2001

there will be an interesection of people, places and things tonight: cocktails swirling and bottles clanking and voices carrying from room to room to room. i can already hear the conversations in my head (how do you know so-and-so, what do you do, where do you live?) and smell the alcohol on my breath. i can't wear heels, lest i trip.

i am trying not to think about it too much, but i get hostess anxiety every time. friends of friends of friends meeting for the first time just sounds like a bad science experiment. an explosion waiting to happen. i just want everyone to have a nice time.

and i'm sure everyone will. i have thrown enough parties to know that there comes a point where you can't really do much, except serve good food & booze, dim the lights, crank up the stereo, and then knock back drinks until the room is at a tilt and all you see is laughter.

Confetti stars 08 November 2001

i've got paint on my fingertips and shards of paper on my lap. there are two envelopes unsealed and undelivered beside the jar of dirty water and a blurry polaroid beside that.

god, i missed this. making things. making a mess.

and the look on your face and the sound in your voice and the feeling i think you feel when you get it. something i made. for you. it's priceless.

i used to make cards for my mom for no reason, fold up a piece of typing paper in fours and color it with smudged ink and say something sweet, like hi, i love you, thank you for being my mommy. i don't do enough of that.

i think a hundred sweet things every day. i grin twice as many times. and i don't think to tell what is behind my twinkling eyes and grinning heart enough.

i haven't written a letter to my grandmother in months.

i want to wrap the world in a big hug, awash in color and covered in glitter.

The girl who cried wolf 07 November 2001

i am falling apart today. slightly unraveling & fraying at the edges.

my eyes are blurry, my throat is scratchy and my stomach is tumbly, and i don't think any of the symptoms come from any one thing.

in fact, i may be imagining it all.

The quiet game 06 November 2001

i don't know what else to say except it's been so long and i can't tell you why. this seems to be the time of the year when i get quiet, for one reason or other. i feel like keeping things to myself, lately, the way i feel and what i see and where i think i'm going.

(i don't know where i'm going.)

this doesn't leave much for me to say, at least nothing i think is extraordinarily interesting or profound.

there is something wrong with my left eye and i have eliminated soda from my diet and i spent another weekend learning so much from high school kids and we are throwing a party on saturday to celebrate three birthdays because soon i will be 26, which i don't think is such a nice number, and i have been writing too many run-on sentences, like this one, passing it off for good detail.

Sweet teeth 31 October 2001

i just want to sit around and eat candy all afternoon. fists full of candy corn and twizzlers and raisinets and skittles. did you know they sell powerpuff girls stickers in boxes like raisins? that's almost as bad as quarters from the old man down the street. tonight we're watching mr. leary's funeral and opening our giant bottle of sake and yelling 'boo!' at the kids who wait on our front porch. if i'm feeling up to it, i might wear my tiara, but unfortunately my taffeta dresses are hanging up in my parents' garage.

What I did over summer vacation 29 October 2001

there is no need for napping when i have time off. in the middle of the day, when i usually reach for a cup of coffee or a fluffy pillow i pace around my house, looking for something else to do. i curl up on the big green chair and read a book, ready to fall asleep with my face pressed up against page 11 like i've been doing for the past month, but i do not close my eyes. i finish the story and then get up and pour myself another glass of water. i march down to the basement, march back up to the kitchen with the mop and drag it around the dirty linoleum. i scrub the counters and oven and dishes. i even bleach the sink. i catch up on e-mail. i restock the refrigerator. i organize my closet. i call friends who live in other places, faraway places, places i might not get to see this year, and i tell them how much i miss them. i think and worry and ponder and fret, about too much, about everything. i realize i am becoming my mother, who is becoming her mother. i try not to think about it anymore. i don't change out of my pajamas until 2. i don't leave the house until dark. i don't know what time it is. i don't even know what day of the week it is.

Breaking up is hard to do 24 October 2001

and just when i am about to break up with the internet, we finish our project and i receive the sweetest e-mail and my brothers, who are on opposite sides of the world right now, find me on aol instant messenger and we ensue in a half-hour chat. we cross state lines and time zones and oceans, and in one five square inch window, we reminisce and crack jokes and insult each other and make plans for christmas. it's the next best thing to getting rowdy over a few beers. it's almost as good as a hug. it had been, we estimated, three years since the last chat. back then, we said we should do it more often but, of course, we never did. this time, we'd better. i miss them too much to let them off so easy.

Lalaland 23 October 2001

it's a perfect afternoon for a book, a cup of tea and the sweet strumming and humming of the softies. the sun hasn't come out today, or if it has, i don't remember. it's a nice respite from the blazing beams of yesterday.

i had brunch with claudine and joel this morning. i was in lalaland driving to joel's place and went about four blocks too far, so i had to turn around. that's been happening a lot, lately.

with the gray clouds hovering over us, we walked to the diner -- a few blocks, without much to say. none of us had had our coffee, yet.

that's the beautiful thing about us three. we can be silent and still, we can be cranky and annoyed, we can be silly and lame, and it is always okay. we can try to hold back or keep secrets, but the others just won't allow it. they can still make me blush.

on the way home, i missed my exit, again. i went west instead of east, got off the freeway the first chance i got and had to drive about two miles before i could make a u-turn. i guess it didn't really matter. i wasn't late for anything. i didn't have to be anywhere at all.

Red wine and golden ears 21 October 2001

we left just an hour later than we'd planned, which is a big feat, considering that we're always missing movies and getting to stores after they close. we had to stop at two ATMs before we even got on the highway and a farmer's market 30 miles away from the first stop because our stomachs demanded it.

when we got to rancho california road, we didn't roll our Rs and scream "ay, ay, ay!" like josh suggested, but we were happy all the same. it was saturday afternoon, we were dozens of miles away from the city, and we were in wine country. temecula wine country.

we only went to one winery because of time and because of the heat. it was a big old victorian house with green picnic tables on the lawn and a gravelly parking lot. we tasted four whites and two reds, and i didn't much like any of them so i left the shop empty-handed.

one windy road and half a CD later, we got to the corn maze. it was tougher than we'd expected and longer than we'd have liked, and after the halfway point, we wanted to slip through a clearing in the stalks and crawl back into the air-conditioned car. maybe i had idealized it a little in my mind. i'd imagined: playing hide & seek in rows of green and gold. but it was dusty and hot and we could hear cars roaring by.

still, it was what i'd needed -- to leave the city for even a little while and clear my head of the things that had been making it difficult to get out of bed in the morning.

I used to frolic 19 October 2001

too much popcorn and too much smoke last night. my throat was scratchy, and this morning i woke up and felt a jabbing pain behind my left eye. i took two advils and bought three shirts and now i feel better. (i was not hungover, if that's what you're thinking.)

my e-mail is piling up, and i feel awful. there are so many people i want to say hello to, so many people i miss, so many people i wish i could sequester on an island and just hug, each and every one of them.

where is the light at the end of the tunnel, that one that everyone keeps talking about? i thought i saw it, but then i realized it was just the living room lamp left on and when i went to bed i had to turn it off.

tomorrow, we're going wine tasting and wandering through a corn maze. i will make sure there are many photos taken of myself frolicking about like a 5-year-old. it's been so long since i've frolicked.

Don't let me forget again 12 October 2001

it is just the internet. there is more to life than <href>s and <p> tags, titles and teasers, comps and sitemaps. if a line break breaks the page, it is not the end of the world.

i have been so wrapped up in work, and i have let it get to me -- i've found myself becoming bitter and drab and just plain horrid. i don't know what is going on in our world right now. i don't even know what is going on in my life.

i vaguely remember a wonderful sunday brunch, though. i remember being poured a mimosa and kicked out of my kitchen so that two lads could play iron chef. i remember the smell of blueberry muffins and fresh coffee. i remember the sun flooding into my dining room and lighting up our day.

it feels so long ago, but it was just last weekend, and suddenly, it's the weekend again. it's kind of scary, how that happens. how time just disappears. this weekend, i'm working some more, but i won't let it get the best of me. there may not be another lovely brunch, but there will be something else, something to make me smile, something that reminds me that i am alive.

Hope

"i saw Say Anything again last night."

"i love that movie."

"me too."

"you've seen Some Kind of Wonderful, right?"

"hell yeah."

"that movie is the hope for all artist/geeks."

"yes, and girls with really short hair."

Crunch time 10 October 2001

it's crunch time, and i haven't felt this way in so long. the tired eyes, the tumbling stomach, the achey back. the staring off into nowhere because i am so paralyzed -- too paralyzed -- to actually do what it is i'm supposed to be doing. the deadline, looming over our heads like a black cloud. the stress, strung across my shoulders like rubberbands about to break. and all i want is to drive away, far far away, with the windows rolled down, the music blasting and a cute boy sitting shotgun.

Never thinking twice 04 October 2001

it wasn't until i lifted my wrist to check the time that i realized i'd forgotten to put on my watch. the missing stainless steel links revealed a stripe of white skin. that part of me never sees the light of day, that part of me is never late, that part of me can't stand to let go.

i never let anyone see that part of me, and there it was, glaring back at me.

how could i forget that? i gripped my wrist to cover it up and hoped nobody would notice. it is too embarrassing.

how could i forget that? it was easy. as easy as it was to neglect to put on lip gloss and voluntarily show photos of myself with aquanet crunched hair and let beer belches escape my lips. it's the same reason i didn't think twice when i slipped on my old pair of levi's and t-shirt and hopped into my car to drive around the reservoir. it's a certain kind of comfort where i can reach into the fridge and sink into the sofa and close my eyes to the music and everything is ok. everything is ok.

Painted angels and evergreens 28 September 2001

she asked me if there were evergreen trees nearby. "i see palm trees everywhere, but no evergreens. i didn't know LA would be like this."

i scanned the streets in my mind but couldn't think of anywhere with evergreens, not in the city. "i don't know," i said. "why?"

"i'm just looking for a place to sleep."

she didn't have camping gear, just a sleeping bag, just enough to wrap herself up and fall into slumber.

"but i can't sleep under a palm tree or on the beach," she said. "it's too wide open."

she paints landscapes and angels but does office work, any kind of office work. "do you know of any jobs?" i said no. "do you know of anyone who needs a housesitter?" i shook my head. "do you know anyone driving to arizona?" i wanted to say yes to something she asked, anything she asked, but i couldn't.

she was in santa barbara before los angeles and new york before santa barbara. i don't know where she was before new york, but she has no ties to the city. she needed to find somewhere to stay and something to do. a place to live, a way to make a living. a life.

"do you know any good spiritual places?"

i asked her if she practiced a particular faith, but she said no. "i take what i can get."

Fine 27 September 2001

my thighs feel like sausages. (and my stomach feels like a big doughy roll.) i told my friend peter that i think i am getting a beer belly and he just laughed.

"HA HA HA HA.
you look fine."

but maybe i don't want to look fine.

The leaves do fall 25 September 2001

i am so unamused with these last blasts of hot air. isn't it supposed to be fall? last night, i took a nap after dinner, and woke up feeling sticky and gross and disoriented. indian summer, i muttered, and dragged myself out of bed.

seth and stella rescued me from my oven-baked house and we ended up on the road to monterey park, where they make all good things asian. i really wanted boba, but they were out, so instead we ordered fruity milkshakes, chow fun and fried rice. we also had fried yams, but they were nothing like i thought they'd be. grandma used to fry up slices and sprinkle sugar on top for an after-school treat. i still remember that.

back at home, i looked at the pile of pants on the floor and put together outfits in my head and projected coolness, all around me, i thought of breezes and zipping jackets all the way up. i know it's kind of ridiculous to think about, it being 90 degrees outside and all, but the leaves are already falling in my mind.

Still standing (still) 22 September 2001

you said los angeles wouldn't be standing come morning, but look, here we are, still standing, smog, sunshine and silver lake. i drove up the west side of the reservoir and everyone was up and about so early in the morning. there was a father trying to block the view of his son peeing against the hill, a man walking with his wife and child waving at me to slow down, children collecting donations instead of selling lemonade at the corner. it was like a video game; i kept wondering who i would see after one more bend in the road.

we had breakfast at algermacs, which is, according to eric, Where Old People Go to Eat. they serve unmelted slices of american cheese on top of your omelettes and endless cups of good-bad diner coffee. there is a section hidden behind the restrooms that smells like everyone's grandparents' house.

"where does the name 'algermac' come from?"
"it's a term from the old days: he's such an algermacdaddy."
"it reminds me of algae."
"flowers for algermac."

the week, i've been having long talks, watching jackie chan movies and making art, and it has been so good. my soul was glad to make room for more comfort and laughter and less fear and tears. i just need to resist the temptation to feel guilty for living, because this is when it most counts.

Please try again 20 September 2001

i am fresh out of words tonight, but i want you to know i'm okay.

i feel silly having you believe otherwise.

Salty tears 16 September 2001

tonight, the tears came. i hadn't been able to cry all week, although i wanted to, although i felt like i should (and felt guilty that i hadn't). i cried for the mother clutching the framed photographs of the child she'd never see again. i cried for the children who have to see the horrific images flashing on the same TV that brings barney to their living room. i cried for the lack of compassion, understanding and education, my own and the rest of the world's.

life goes on, everyone says, and that goes for both the triumph and tragedy of every day. so there may be laughter and drinking and eating and singing, but there is also sickness and heartbreak and corruption and death. every hour of every day. and now, this, too? it's too much for me to wrap my head and heart around.

nothing makes sense right now.

Long lost love 15 September 2001

i call it the Long Lost Love because i have held a torch for it since we first met four years ago: in the hot, crowded loft of the saucebox. i developed a serious crush, fast and hard, and could not stop thinking about it.
four years later, and i could not stop thinking about it.

who develops crushes on cocktails? i do. gin, lemon-lime and mint is the secret passageway to my heart.

i could not stop thinking about it, and i could not stop talking about it, and i am sure everyone thought (thinks) i was (am) crazy. "they call it The Best Drink," i'd tell people, "and it's sparkly, with mint and gin and i don't know what else."

that sounds like a mint julep, some told me. that sounds like a mojito, others said. i don't care what it is, i thought, i just want to have it again.

in a fit of passion monday afternoon, i broke down. i called the bar. i called the bartender, but he wasn't around so i left a message. "this is going to sound crazy, but i was wondering if you could help me out," i said. "i had the best drink when i was there and i need to know what's in it. i lived there four years ago and now i'm in los angeles but i can't stop thinking about it. i am craving it."

i didn't think he'd call. i thought it would be funny if he did, but i didn't think he would.

four days later, he did. he left step-by-step instructions on my voicemail on how to make this cocktail. i never want to delete that message; it's like an old boyfriend's t-shirt or mixed tape.

so last night, i rekindled the flame with my long lost love. we mixed drinks and dipped chips and played gin rummy. old ladies' night, i called it. i was tired by midnight.

outside, planes circled los angeles. twenty five minutes to get from here to there and back around again. where are they going? what are they trying to find? what is going on?

it is the little things that you notice, about the way things have already changed in less than a week. it is the little things that don't make you outright cry or leap back in fear, but simply chip away at your peace of mind. anything can happen. nobody knows what's next. i am glad she was with me, because everyone else is so far away.

Take a moment 14 September 2001

i feel like i am not educated enough, not smart enough, not brave enough to talk to you like this. i am good at opening my big mouth but i am not as good at getting things done and quite frankly, i am so terrified i'm paralyzed and i have done nothing for anyone but myself since tuesday.

i don't know what to say.

i should have just left it at i love you.

Making peace 12 September 2001

we went to the beach tonight. there were no planes overhead, only stars. we lit a fire and did cartwheels in the sand and sang songs under the whirring wind.

my mom begged me not to go anywhere public, but it is too hard to stay in the house, where i am tempted to feed myself more media. inside, i feel trapped and suffocated and sad. outside, i felt like i could breathe, again. even if it was cold and smokey air, it was something.

every once in a while, we'd fall silent, staring up into the sky, staring out of our windows, the drone of music drifting into the empty space. and that was okay, too.

it just felt a million times better spending time with people and stories and laughter and faces rather than boxes and wires and soundbytes and images frozen in time.

Before today 11 September 2001

i have never been good with politics or history or world affairs. this world is too big for me to comprehend. (it never sat in the palm of my hand.) i can barely get a handle on myself, my family and friends, much less tragedies such as this.

i keep thinking of the people who open up their wallets and mouths, coughing up donations and accusations. i wonder what is in their heart, and i wonder where it was monday, or last week, or last year. yes, those two buildings were beautiful -- anyone who knows me knows that new york has been to me a magical place since i was a young girl -- but so many monuments were before they, too, were destroyed. yes, thousands of people have died, but thousands of people die everyday.

please don't mistake this for lack of compassion. i am just so sad and frustrated and scared. they say that america is finally waking up, but i wish it didn't have to come to this. what were we doing before today?

i look at the red, white & blue flag, and i feel like it doesn't belong to me, but then i remember that i pledged allegiance to it. that i stood up tall with my hand on my heart and said i would fight for this country. many of you were born into this, but i chose it. my parents chose it, because martial law had been declared and there would have been no hope had we stayed.

america was hope, and look at it now.

I don't need no stinkin' career 04 September 2001

you know you've been working too hard when you can say one of the following phrases without arching an eyebrow:

"so, make all snips snippet."

"we need to find out the difference between link and links."

"we should just spell it out. nobody knows what woc is."

this morning, i woke up from a crappy dream and sat through crappy traffic and had a crappy meeting and all i could write in the margins of my notebook was "crappy CRAPPY C R A P P Y." sometimes, you just wake up that way and all you can do is wade through the day, knee-deep in sludge, until it's over. (and muttering, "i hate you, i hate you, i hate you," to tuesday doesn't help the day go any faster. i tried.)

i feel like i peeled off the sticker of my mcdonald's waxy paper cup and failed, yet again, to win: "i'm sorry, please try again." and what do you do when you hold that little slip of paper in your hand? toss it on the tray, dump the tray's contents in the trash and vow never to eat there again, because the chicken mcnuggets only seem like a good idea.

First comes love, then comes marriage 03 September 2001

most parents want their children to graduate college and get a good job and raise a family in a nice home, but when i was growing up, my dad wanted me to be a nun. i used to tell him that if God called me that i would gladly say yes, but God never did. and i was glad, because what i wanted most in the world was to be a mother. it wasn't even that i played House so much--i think i played School more often--it was that i could actually visualize myself living in a house with my husband and kids. god, i wanted that.

and i still do--just not now.

lately, though, i've been feeling pressure from family to speed things up. like today, we were at my cousin's house, surrounded by young couples and grandkids. all eyes were on the children as they waddled around the living room barefoot and in their swimsuits, fresh out of the pool. you could see the look in my parents' eyes when they saw other grandparents get called "lola" and "lola" and scoop up the child. they wished it were them.

my mom sighed, "i'm not a grandma yet," and i felt the eyes slowly turning to me, and all i could do was look straight ahead. then i said, with a half-hearted chuckle, "sorry, mom. we've got a long way to go. you'll just have to wait."

i could have left it at that, but i added that it was their fault for teaching us to make the most out of life, to travel and pursue careers and meet people and experience new things, and that is what we've been busy doing.

it sounded good for a moment, until they asked my mom, "well how old were you when you got married?"

"25."

and silently, i think everyone realized that i am 25 but luckily nobody said a word.

*

later, my cousin asked me how my boyfriend was, and i just looked at her puzzled, and then i realized who she meant.

"ohhh," i said, and shot her a look that said that was a year ago and simply left it at that.

"he's history?" she asked.

"yeah."

No-driving weekend 31 August 2001

i'm back, and already it feels like i never left. to get home from the airport on tuesday, i took the 90 to the 405 to the 10 to the 110 to the 101. hello, freeways. i didn't miss you at all.

the weekend was near perfect: a lot of sitting and talking and drinking and eating and walking and shopping and sleeping and breathing, slowly. a lot of remember whens and i can't believes. a lot of introductions and nice to meet yous. old friends, new friends and my little big brother.

on monday afternoon, i lay atop a hill overlooking seattle, with my satchel as my pillow, the sunshine warming my face and no place i had to be. and that, my dear, is vacation.

*

pasalubongs brought home:
eeyore pez dispensers: 2
vivace dolce blend espresso: 1/2 lb
plastic hyena figurine: 1
hello kitty lip candy tin: 2
smoked salmon: 1 lb.

fun things acquired:
leopard print slap bracelet: 1
peter, paul &amp;amp; mary cd: 1
copy of resonance magazine: 1
packets of herbs for tea: 3
cocktail mermaids: 4
travel-size bottles: 3
handmade books: 3
olympus d-500L digital camera(!): 1

things i learned:
geese have enormously long tongues.
i have become extremely battery dependent.
izone photos are best in low light.
i am the way i am largely because of my brother.

Get me away from here, I'm dying 22 August 2001

i woke up wishing today was thursday, but it's not. thursday, i'm getting the hell out of here. i'm hopping a plane and never coming home, or that's what i tell them and they just laugh nervously.

really, i'm just going on a trip, a mini-vacation, up the coast to see some of my favorite people. two days in san francisco, three days in seattle, five days away from here. no smog, no traffic, no movie stars. i won't miss you, because i won't be gone that long.

*

last night, i had a bad dream about a girl i know and it was one of those cinematic tales that feels like i am watching it on a big screen and it had bad guys and good guys and crying and screaming and racing to deadbolt doors. i feel like i need to call her and make sure she's okay. the call would be much like one i received almost a year ago from my mom:

"i had a dream that you were missing and i wanted to make sure you're okay."

"i'm okay."

"okay, good."

Longer than a little while 16 August 2001

i am going through my usual bout of why am i here? and i am not talking about LA, because i feel like i have finally found a slice of sprawl that i can call home. (good food and drinks and art and people, and i can walk down a street without feeling like a misshapen puzzle piece.)

i am so predictable.

i went home last friday--"home" to orange county, to the town where i grew up, to my parents' house. i slept in the bed i had throughout most of my childhood. the brass ball at the end of the corner post still rattles when i walk by too quickly. we never could fix it.

a friend got married, yes, another one. she is somebody i have known since grade school, except we didn't become friends until after college. she wore her mother's dress and she looked so beautiful and she made me tear up. twice. that is a mark of a good wedding, if you ask me.

throughout the day, i felt a little off, like i was home but i didn't quite know how to get around but everyone knew me and it was just weird. even after the wedding, at a bar in downtown fullerton, i saw people i knew, including a former gap kid. she was wearing denim shortalls and a white t-shirt, and i honestly think that's why i recognized her so quickly. we used to gossip and fold denim together. i answered the question "what have you been up to?" at least a half a dozen times, each time changing the order of things, just to keep it interesting for me.

my story is good compared to others, but i still think there are pieces missing. a paragraph here, a chapter there, and maybe that's my problem. maybe that's where the doubt and confusion lies. in the blank pages. why am i here?

i owe a lot of people a lot of things (and for that i apologize and beg for understanding) but mostly i owe myself more time to cultivate, to build, to create. i am just too darned fickle for my own good; how am i supposed to finish anything when i get sick of it after a while?

maybe i need to concentrate on things more timeless. something that will last longer than a while.

Girl from Ipanema 08 August 2001

so, it's sometime after 1am and we're outside smoking and drinking. well, the boys are; i'm just stealing sips here and there. the door is cracked open two inches, not a lot, but it's enough and you can hear the bossanova seeping out to the patio. the percussion is live from my living room, tamborines and egg shakers and castanets. rah-tat-tat. shuka-shuka-shuka-shuka.

(earlier, we shook and rattled to that stan getz song, the good one, i can't remember what it's called. i closed my eyes and bobbed my head lightly.)

we talk about pretension and irony and self-esteem and giant robots and swim trunks. i think i hear someone in the bushes, but we decide it's probably just an opossum. i know my neighbors can hear us and i am dreading seeing them in the morning, but i can't bother to care. it's summer, and pete's on vacation, and i just met him tonight but it's good enough for me.

Everywhere but my pants 07 August 2001

i feel like they're crawling all over me. down my forehead, up the back of my neck, across my ankle. the ants have come to get me. this is the third time since i've moved in that i've had to defend myself from them.

operation ant massacre: first you spray, then you let it dry, then you wipe it clean (water, soapy water, water). you throw the corpses in a bag, tie it shut and dump it in the trash can. immediately.

this only happens when it's hot.

Wires strung across the ocean 06 August 2001

"can you please give my mom a message?"

"your mom went to get a massage."

"oh, that's nice. can you please just give her a message for me, then?"

"she'll be back after 9:30."

"ok, just tell her i transferred the money."

"what? what about your daddy?"

"no, the money. the pera."

"what? i can't hear you!"

"nevermind."

"what?"

"i'll just call back!"

"okay, bye...i love you."

"i love you too, grandma."

Shiny white and early night 05 August 2001

to recap: there was dutch apple pie a la mode and planes flying overhead and big wide movie screens and nice walks down the street and hundreds of thousands of dusty old books and hundreds of thousands of new ones and laughter and chatter and silence, the comfortable kind. there was also sleep. a lot of sleep. and a lot of nothing. much needed nothing.

today, i got my car washed. i have to admit that i feel a little frivolous pulling into the car wash parking lot when i've got a perfectly good hose and bucket and driveway at home, but it's one of those luxuries i can't do without. i don't get my nails done. i don't have cable. i don't subscribe to any magazines. my car was so sparkly shiny white i hardly recognized it, like teeth in a toothpaste commercial.

i am drinking coke out of my favorite glass and listening to a medley of mp3s on my ibook. somebody outside is playing music, and somebody else is laughing. i don't want it to be 9 o' clock. i feel like the day should just be starting.

Karma 03 August 2001

it's kind of hard to explain, but i saw part of my life flash before my eyes tonight. it wasn't a near-death experience. it was more like an epiphany and de ja vu and caution all rolled into one. it's kind of hard to explain.

i ate dinner with liomir at my new favorite french café, under the stars, on a beautiful night. we talked about the usual: work and travel and food and merriment. we reminisced about paris and gossiped about common friends and plotted out where we were going. that's when i realized we had traded places. a year ago, i was miserable with my job and complaining about lack of direction and jealous of his plans to go here and there and everywhere. he was taking me out to dinner and buying plane tickets for his next big trip and falling in love with his apartment and the city and life. tonight, it was very much the opposite. and instead of it making me feel boastful or relieved, i just felt a lump in my throat and a sliver of panic.

it could disappear at any moment. the shiny new ibook, the hardwood floors and big window, the steady-paying 9 to 6 job. all of it.

and if it does, when it does, what will i have?

i instantly felt remorse for the birthdays i have let slip by and the phone calls i haven't made and the letters i have been saying i'll send. for the complaints and the cranky remarks and the grumbles under my breath. for being neglectful and careless and thoughtless. sometimes, all it takes is five minutes, and i have been choosing to spend those five minutes doing other things.

and i don't want to be the kind of person who is only concerned with herself. i want to see beyond this little life i've built for myself. because one day the walls around me will have crumbled and i don't want to be left standing in the dusty remains alone.

Hello, stranger

i am watching you. the way you move, the clothes you wear, the things you do. i try not to stare, but i can't help it. sometimes you are so fascinating i can't keep my eyes off you. i look long and blink hard and then i repeat it in my head all the details so i can write them down later: "chambray shirt, green pumas, curly hair, crooked nose, two straws, nervous twitch." it's not like an obsession or anything. it's just a new hobby.

i am trying to pay attention to someone other than myself.

Walking contradiction 31 July 2001

a matter of life or death: it's hours before Rock N' Roll monday, and i can't decide what to wear. i am staring hard at my reflection in the mirror; i'm polling every boy i can find online to see what they think; i'm calculating the infinite possibilities of how wearing a skirt or jeans could change my life.

i decide to wear a skirt. i wore jeans last time. i sit here, painting my nails with glitter and rubbing lotion into my elbows.

then i tell him: i just don't want to be the girl who tries too hard.

and he laughs at me. with good reason, of course.

In memoriam 30 July 2001

in memory of my grandfather.

Rest in peace, Performa 29 July 2001

i unplugged my computer today--a kind of bittersweet moment, as i've had the thing for so long. now it's sitting on the floor, a big clunky machine and mess of wires, waiting to be put into a box and stuffed in the garage. my hard drive is saved on a zip disk and everything else went into the trash.

are you sure you want to delete 500 million items?

um, i think so.

it took so long to go through all the files, microsoft word documents and quark files and jpgs that are such crappy quality you can barely make out my face. i probably won't need them ever again, but it's so hard to throw that stuff away. my thoughts and ideas and conversations and e-mails and designs and stories.

it's hard to believe six years of my life fits on a on a zip disk.

Locked in 28 July 2001

i just got up a half hour ago -- went to bed at 9 and slept six hours straight. i'd been up all night doing not what you are thinking and i am wishing. no. i was up singing karaoke and shuffling cards and flinging spoons and eating red vines and gulping mountain dew and trying my hardest not to fall asleep to kirsten dunst's whiney voice. with high school kids. who make me feel 80 because they don't know who james brown is or what the breakfast club is.

at 6-something a.m., i was near-comatose on someone else's sleeping bag on the floor and i heard the door open and the footsteps scurry out and i don't know how but i got the energy to stand up and follow them. the air felt good, i'll admit. it was smelly in there, i know. we were all a little stir-crazy, but i made them come back inside, anyway.

the girls were pouty and the boys were pissy with me, but i didn't care.

"i am not there to be their best friend," i grumbled to julie.

"were we like that when we were their age?"

"i hope not, but probably."

Echo (echo) Park 25 July 2001

out on a school night, at a no-name bar in echo park. neon light whispered cocktails into the air and lured us inside.

we sat in the corner of the room, watching it slowly fill with people and drinking beer that tasted like pennies. the table was too far from the booth. i noticed, because i wanted to lean back against the vinyl and rest my arm on the table inbetween sips but i could only do one or the other.

to get to the diner, we took sunset to alvarado to glendale. i learn new routes every week.

we ate mountains of french fries and drank black coffee. there was a waitress with a scruffy voice and crew cut. i went to the bathroom, twice.

new friends, with stories to tell and moments to share. laughter ricocheted from my belly to the roof of my mouth and around the room. i am still smiling.

Common courtesy, my ass 21 July 2001

what bothered me most about it wasn't that we ended up missing the vocal stylings of marty & elayne; it wasn't that i was, for the five millionth time, mistaken for a 19-year-old; it wasn't that had i ordered a midori sour instead of a fist of fury my brain would have been working better but because that drink kicks my ass every time it took me so long to process anything.

no. what bothered me most about being berated by a bitter, old man on a quiet residential street at midnight because we didn't move our car when he thought we would and were so focused on solving our problem that we neglected to let him know that the parking space was not, in fact, free was that he accused us of lacking "common courtesy" and proceeded to viciously attack us. we apologized over and over again, but apparently in the Bitter Old Man's Dictionary, "i'm sorry" is not an acceptable substitute for "i apologize" and he would not let it go. when i asked him to please keep his voice down because i was calling AAA, he purposely raised his voice a few more decibels and poor ms. triple A couldn't hear a word i was trying to say. as i recall, common courtesy doesn't mean shouting at the top of your lungs, wagging your finger and refusing to accept apologies.

i don't know who did what to this old man to make him act that way -- maybe hipster kids called him names or blocked his driveway or TP-ed his beautiful house -- but there was no need for that. none at all.

in a moment of clarity, i figured out how to shut the door halfway so we could drive home, but i had to hold on to the door handle so that it wouldn't swing open. back at my house, we soothed our nerves with a coke and a krispy kreme. it hit the spot.

Naptime 18 July 2001

i am so tired. i've been up baking cookies, downloading software and reading books until way past my bedtime. i've been using parts of my brain i forgot exist and speaking in words i used to mock. and i've been having dreams about him, again.

do you remember that problem i was having because the sun is so bright that it pierces my eyelids and lifts my whole body up at ungodly hours? oh, well i don't have that problem anymore. i am oversleeping, now.

i made a list of things i want to do but probably never will. at least not this week, or month, or summer. rima says we are in our prime and we can do whatever we put our mind to, but i think there are just not enough hours in the day. or maybe i want to do too many things.

this sunday, maganda.org expires. a month later, reallybigwords.com does, too. i've been trying to figure out what i want to do with everything, and i just can't decide. but be warned: if i don't decide in time, we may experience some technical difficulties. it doesn't mean i've gone anywhere, just that i'm still finding my way back.

Under his wing 14 July 2001

at the airport this morning, i saw a dad and his boy standing in line to get a cup of coffee. the boy, no more than 5, kept wandering off, but his dad took the child's hand and brought it to his hip and said, "hold on to my pocket."

there was something so tender about that moment: tiny fingertips grasping the edge of a denim pocket, knowing that all he had to do was hold on and he would be safe.

i think that's all anybody really wants. somebody to tell us to hold on to them and we will be okay.

TRU LUV 4 EVER 13 July 2001

so, i am in love.

with a computer.

my new computer.

an ibook.

it's just how i like 'em: sleek, shiny and sharp. and so stylish it makes your eyes hurt. i can already see this becoming a co-dependent relationship; i came to my parents' house to take them to the airport tomorrow, and i couldn't bear to leave it at home alone.

i still remember playing decathlon on our apple IIe in my brothers' bedroom, hitting the keys so hard because i thought it would make me run faster. i still remember ricky teaching me how to make scripts that say hello what is your name. i still remember when we got the SE, and the whole family oohed and ahhed around the desk because the mac was talking to us. we shared the machine for so long, and then i got my little performa, and i didn't have to hide secret files or beg ricky to let me use the computer, anymore. at one point, we had three phone lines and four computers in our household, and this was before dsl and cable modems, otherwise we would have networked, for sure.

i think about the boys and girls who are hitting puberty and already have email accounts and screennames and websites, and i wonder what they will be like when they grow up. when they get out of school and into jobs and out of their parents' house and into their own places. i wonder what the world will be like, with these people who are multilingual, not in any romance languages, but in html and java and perl.

i mean, look at it now. and look at me. boxes and wires and rainbow apples have changed me. it's kind of amazing, really, if you think about it.

All good things 12 July 2001

when people ask me when was the last time i went to the philippines i say three years ago. december 1998. it was our family reunion, the first time we'd all been there at the same time since we left in 1976. i leave it at that, and it doesn't even occur to me that it is a lie.

the last time i was in the philippines was a year ago. to see my grandfather before he died.

a couple weeks ago, my grandmother was in the hospital. high blood. heart problems. the usual. she was always the more sickly one of the two. she had worn herself out trying to clean. i imagined her trudging up the wooden steps in her empty house to the dusty upstairs, heaving deep breaths, resting at the landing to kiss the feet of jesus. i imagined her in the hospital, covered in wires and bathed in low light.

here, hospitals are bright and cold. over there, they are dark and hot--you can barely see or breathe.

i'm worried. i keep thinking about how they say that when one dies the other follows. there is no reason to live, but there is a reason to die: to be with the one you love.

i'm worried about my grandma, and i wonder what she would say to me right now. she would probably tell me what i used to tell her when i was a little girl: "don't worry, everything will be okay." she would probably tell me that God's will be done.

and i would say: "i know."

but there would be a sliver of me that wants to defy all that, that wonders if there really is a reason for everything, that wants everyone to live forever and ever instead, amen.

Hope for me, yet 10 July 2001

who am i trying to fool? i can be bitter. i can get angry. i can feel hopeless. but i am still the same girl who thought she could step into a mirror and find herself somewhere else. i still wish on stars. i keep drifting off in daydreams. i have faith in the world.

that is who i am.

of course, i have bad days. i have bad weeks. and sometimes, but only rarely, i have bad months. but i have never had a bad year. i don't let it last that long.

life's too short to hold on to grudges and to build walls around you and to pretend like nobody else but yourself matters. it might be easier, it's definitely easier, but it doesn't feel nearly as good as it does to forgive someone and let someone new into your life and give your time and thought and compassion away.

it's worth it. i know it doesn't feel that way, sometimes. i know it seems impossible, sometimes. but it is. this is what i tell myself. this is what i need to remember.

there's hope for me, yet.

My gingerbread walls come tumbling down 09 July 2001

some people give me hope. others drain it out of me.

i am trying to believe. i am trying to believe that people are kind and that intentions are good, but i just don't know right now. i'm trying to believe that this is the exception to the rule and that i am getting carried away and that i will see the world in rosy colors again come morning, but i am convincing myself otherwise.

sometimes, it doesn't pay to be smart. you can convince yourself of anything if you try hard enough.

and i feel so horrible about what i said last night. i didn't mean to rain on her parade. i didn't mean to sound like i wasn't happy for her. but the words poured out of my mouth before i could think about what i was saying. i heard my voice echoing into the receiver, and i hardly recognized myself.

(all my gingerbread walls come tumbling down.)

i am trying to believe, but sometimes it seems impossible.

and you know, it didn't have to come to this.

C-town 08 July 2001

i spent the afternoon in chinatown. it was an experiment in photography and cultural analysis. or, a late lunch and shopping spree.

and what makes it chinatown? chinese characters on street signs, a bank of america with a slanted roof, paper lanterns and american flags. chow fun, dim sum, boba. silk slippers, peacock feathers, jade bracelets. there is something so surreal about seeing an american wear a straw hat down the boulevard.

stella and i went to take photos for an upcoming project, but it felt more like vacation. we ate noodles and drank thai iced tea and bought happy, fun trinkets.

the girl at one of the shops tried to charge me $2 for the ring that was labelled 99 cents.

"i keep forgetting i must look like a tourist, not a photographer," i told stella.

in the middle of the heart of the town is a wishing well divided into specific areas of need, like wealth, health and lotto. it reminded me of those carnival games where you toss the coins in the glass dish to win the prize -- where your quarter lands, there also lies your luck.

Backtracking 06 July 2001

the party, by the way, was a blast. there were twinkly lights lining the window and candles floating in the bathtub and fresh flowers throughout the house. there was lumpia and chips and guacamole and salsa and spinach dip. there was beer and wine and vodka and rum and slices of lime and ice, plenty of ice. at one point, i looked around the room and i only recognized half of the people, but they were all smiling.

we measured the success of the party by the amount of food left over (none), the number of complaints we received about the noise (zero), and the appearance of our house after it was all over (clean).

everyone seemed amused that i had moved three times within one year, and even more so, that three of my roommates (past and now present) were at the party. it was almost as if i were there with my boyfriend and two ex-es and i should worry that they might huddle in a corner and compare notes about me. rima called me a geographic gigolo, because i've drifted from roommate to roommate.

"and now you're throwing a party," added john. "does that mean you're staying for a while?"

*

the next day, rima and i went to a neighborhood diner for some greasy grub and walked home in the scorching heat.

and then we did nothing else.

nothing.

"it's okay. we're in recovery," she said.

"yes."

*

this week has been a strange week. that holiday sitting out of place like a zit on your nose. today feels like monday, but tomorrow is friday, and i am so confused. my brain has been taxed lately, as it is. i am actually using it again. i think that's why.

my mind gets especially boggled when i look around myself and notice that i am the youngest in the room. like last week, i was sitting in a thai restaurant when my co-workers started to talk about life in their 20s and i took a quiet sip of my thai iced tea and i thought, "but i am in my 20s."

i know i'm getting old because after lunch i bought a pair of pants at ann taylor, a place i used to tell myself i would shop at if i ever grew up.

Second wind 05 July 2001

yesterday, i celebrated my independence. i rolled out of bed when i couldn't stay in bed any longer, i baked a pan of brownies and ate one for breakfast, and i lazed about in my pajamas until well after noon.

we sought air-conditioned spaces later and ended up at the two-story target and the movies. throughout my childhood i just assumed everything was closed on the fourth of july, because i never left the house. all the action took place on our block: barbeque in the backyard, sparklers on the driveway, fireworks display at the high school up the street. i had no idea that so many people went shopping and saw movies and ate out.

at home, we made ice cream sandwiches and sat in front of the fan and complained about the heat. after she left, i forced myself up and out of the house. past the lake, across the river, up a few hills and over to felix's, where the party had been all day long. there was a jam session going on: U2 and nirvana and crowded house and the pretenders. in accompaniment: the distant crackling and booming of fireworks.

on the way home, i sang teenage fanclub songs at the top of my lungs and gawked at the colors exploding in every direction. i came home and kept singing, dancing barefoot on the hardwood floors, making a total and utter fool of myself because nobody else was home.

Blank 04 July 2001

"so what are you working on?"

"nothing."

"no really, what are you working on?"

"actually, i'm really not working on anything. i haven't been writing anything at all."

*

there is no explanation. there is no situation. there is nothing. everything's fine. really.

i just have nothing to say that hasn't been said before. or maybe i do, and i am just trying to find the right words.

sometimes, it takes a while.

Party girl 28 June 2001

there's glitter everywhere and twinkly lights in my eyes. i'm folding laundry with the jackson five, and she's cleaning her room with steely dan. we're getting ready to party.

saturday is the big housewarming, and i am all fluttery with nerves. i sat down and made lists, taking stock of what to buy, what to serve and who to expect. i feel myself becoming my mother, and i can hear my father telling me i am getting carried away. and maybe i am, and maybe she did, but everyone had a good time at the parties she threw. everyone went back for seconds and the house was roaring with laughter and buzzing with chatter and the party lasted through the early morning hours.

the questions repeat in my head like a broken record: will they come, will they mingle, will they have a good time? i hope, i hope, i hope.

after you dim the lights, turn up the music and leave the door open, there's not much more you can do. the party comes comes to life on its own.

Hot 26 June 2001

it's getting hot, really hot, and it makes me lazy and cranky and sweaty. i actually considered getting my sweat glands surgically removed, but then my mother told me there were usually complications with those sorts of operations. i imagined the sweat instead pouring from various glands throughout my body, like a pipe that kept bursting leaks. it freaked me out, and i decided i would stop worrying about it. i am a girl. i am allowed to glisten.

if you were a fly on my wall you might have heard:

me: you know, in weather like this, it's too hot to even wear a bra
her: i know, i had to forgo it
me: it's so unfair that boys don't even have to worry about that
her: yeah, we have to always double up
me: i know, not only do we can we not go without a shirt, but we also have to wear something underneath
her: yeah, that's right
me: boys have no idea

to cope with the heat, we have also implemented a daily regimen of ice cream and long pauses in front of the electric fan. if it doesn't let up, i may have to resort to operation slip n' slide.

Bang, bang 18 June 2001

i bummed my first cigarette last night, but i didn't smoke it. i got it for joel, who was too shy to ask his fellow addicts, standing in the cloud of nicotine outside.

"it'll make a good story for your website," he said.

so, there you go. wasn't that good?

*

we need to stop meeting like this, i thought, later on in the club, but the words didn't come out of my mouth. so i smiled, hoping he'd notice, but i'm not sure if he did.

that's when i knew i'd lived here a while: i keep running into people i know. shane at the dresden, armita at the coffee table, gina at the nuwilshire. how LA of me.

*

"hollywood is so trashy," i told joel, driving down the boulevard past midnight. in the movies, you see red carpets and the hollywood sign. in the city, you see neon lights and dilapidated buildings.

at the corner, street punks sat in a row on the dirty pavement. a matching set of girls walked by.

"i hate you johnny," yelled the girl in tan suede.
"come here," he beckoned.
"no, you come here," she shouted back. "why do i always have to come to you?"
she stopped yards away, waiting for him to come, but he never did.

Action & adventure 16 June 2001

the heat is melting my energy away. i can't stand to do anything for more than 5 minutes before my brow begins to drip with sweat, short-circuiting my brain. i need an electric fan.

i fell asleep after writing that paragraph.

it's now almost 8pm, and i'm drinking my first cup of coffee of the day. joel and i are checking out bang! (finally, he says) to my minor apprehension (alright, already, i say). it's 18-and-over, and i haven't been to one of those kinds of places since i was, well, 18. i am such a grandma. last night, we sat in the dimly lit bar, staring at each other. a chorus of yawns dotted our silence.

"what time is it?" erlina asked.
i looked at my watch. "11:30."
"we're pathetic."
(i already knew this.)

fifteen minutes later we left the bar and went home. i crawled into bed soon after that and woke up to the sound of a lawn mower. it was 8am. you'd think i'd be cranky, but somehow i wasn't. i just jumped out of bed, threw on some clothes and did my errands. trader joe's for the usual weekly staples, the post office to send out a super secret package, a photo supply store to get film for my new toy. and then i played house for the rest of the afternoon.

i took turns sitting in various spots in our living room for five minutes at a time, imagining two weeks from now, smiling to myself.

tomorrow i'm celebrating father's day with a cell-to-cell phone call, wishing my dad a happy day over the sounds of slot machines. i've also been promised the best cheeseburger in LA. i have my doubts, but i'm willing to give it a try.

Afternoon special 15 June 2001

outside it's boiling, inside it's freezing. i can't sit still, but i can't leave. this is no way to spend a friday afternoon.

i close my eyes and pretend i'm on summer vacation. i want to hang out in the swimming pool, ride my 10-speed up and down the street and eat otter pops until my tongue turns purple. i want to sit in a circle by the street lamp with the big kids and act like i know what they're talking about. i want to climb trees in the neighbors' back yard and then rinse off in the sprinklers.

in my head, guitar riffs that ring loudest this time of year. in my heart, a hundred thousand fireflies.

Hold me like you'll never let me go 10 June 2001

i am on a karaoke high, music ringing in my ears & sake sinking into my veins. i wore the tiara and the wings and the glitter and floated through the crowd and onto the stage and i sang. i sang. i don't even know where i learned that song, but each note rolled off my tongue and into the mic. when i sat back down, darlene said to me in that proved-you-wrong voice, "see, you can sing." and i felt like i was 8, again, wiping the tears from my eyes because mom just made me sing "the greatest love of all" in front of all my relatives and she assured me that i could do it but i just wouldn't let myself believe it. deep down inside, i knew she was right, and late at night i'd lock myself in my bedroom and play my madonna tapes and perform in front of my full-length mirror and belt out the tunes like i was some kind of diva, thinking nobody would find out my secret, but now that i think about it, i'm sure the whole house heard.

Lovely imperfection 07 June 2001

we all need someone to tell us we're perfect, once in a while. even if -- no, especially since -- we're not.

because it doesn't mean we never make mistakes or don't do stupid things. it doesn't mean we don't trip and fall and stumble constantly. it doesn't mean we are not complete and utter fools every other day of our lives. it means that despite all of that, we are still beautiful in somebody else's eyes.

despite all that. no matter what.

All that was missing was the smoke 06 June 2001

sitting there in the bar, i knew exactly what he meant. about feeling small. about feeling like a speck of dust in a pile of boulders. compared to their stories, my childhood was candy coated and rainbow colored. listening to them talk about what they went through, about what kids are going through right now, i felt as though i had grown up in a tiny gold case, sitting at the bottom of a velvet-lined jewelry box. safe.

but the energy, oh man, the energy we generated. i can still feel it swirling in my stomach.

that we could come from all walks of life and down a drink or two and look each other straight in the eye and completely understand every word is magic. we surpassed class, race and status and dove directly toward truth, which we realized is all any of us really want to reach.

Escape to New York 05 June 2001

a year ago, i was plotting my escape. my head filled with dreams, my pants filled with ants, i was so desperate to get out. i wanted to go there at once.

today, i find myself buying bookshelves and shoe racks and welcome mats. i am tearing out ideas from martha stewart and pad, and i'm sketching redecorating plans in my notebook. i am building a fortress around me, and i feel safe and comfortable and happy.

i know there are some people who think i should just pack up and leave, already. some days, i feel that too. you are young, they tell me. if not now, when? honestly, i think they are trying to pursue their unfulfilled dreams through me. they don't know that i have done things in my life that make me unable to leave just yet. they don't know that i haven't lost sight of my destination -- i'm just taking the long way to get there.

and i don't want to run away, anymore. i don't want to leave a neighborhood just as i'm starting to know my way around and i don't want to leave the friends that i'm starting to cherish.

be careful, she told me, you might plant roots. and i'm starting to wonder if that would be so bad. what's wrong with planting a seed at the bottom of the soil? i might actually get to see it grow.

Whatever-you-want-to-call-it fever 04 June 2001

there is a piece of me that feels 15 and wants to do 15-year-old things, like going to the mall and blowing my money on lip gloss and tank tops and records, going to pool parties and amusement parks and the beach, and following a boy to work to drop off love notes. i want to stay out 'til after midnight, knowing that it's two hours past curfew, and climb back inside my bedroom through the window. i want to blast the radio and shake my groove thing in my bedroom, then collapse on the bed with a trashy magazine and bowl of ice cream. i want to stay up all night, whispering sweet somethings into the phone, only half-covered by bedsheets, with the moon peering through the crack of the blinds.

maybe it's the weather.

i'm convinced that there is something in the air, besides the usual so cal sea breeze and pollen that leaves my hair stringy and nose runny. no. it's something else. some kind of fever. and i've got it. bad.

Technicolor 30 May 2001

hint: sometimes i just stick things in places, hoping you'll trip over them. i've been known to slip funny notes in your shoes or little surprises at the bottom of your bag. i try to add paintings or phrases to the margins or archive page of this site, so that next time you reload you see something new. i might put a flower in a vase and leave it by your bed or paste a pretty photo on the fridge to brighten your morning. i will even make coffee, if i get up early enough, so that when you come into the kitchen it's already sitting there, waiting for you to pour it into your favorite mug. if i really like you, i'll plant a quick kiss on your cheek when you're not looking.

i'm good like that. tiny, happy surprises make the days lighter and brighter. for all of us.

Hello, summer, please come quick 28 May 2001

today started the way all sundays should, with coffee and the paper and a phone call with a faraway friend. it was followed with a thick slice of banana french toast and pile of apple-smoked bacon, saturated photographs and a bubble wrap airplane and, naturally, a good dose of girltalk.

just as i was lamenting to lisaann that i never see anyone famous, i glanced out my window and saw matthew mcconaughey wearing a baseball cap and 12 o'clock shadow, passing through the hipster crowd on melrose.

oh, los angeles. celebrity sightings and dirty air and bad radio. but where was the sun? i waited for you all day long but you never came out.

*

the key to a BitCHiN' SuMMeR(sic.), i decided, is to pretend like you're on vacation even if you're not.

so.

i am going to make little escapes, day trips and long weekends, whenever and wherever i can (is your town worth visiting? let me know). i am going to host crafty afternoons and serve lemonade on the patio. i am going to laze about in my pajamas all day long, reading and writing and watching really bad tv. i am going to meet friends for brunch and go shopping and have cocktails with paper umbrellas. i am going to send you postcards and sign them wish you were here x o x o christine.

I'm going crazy, won't you come along? 16 May 2001

i'm a complete mess. i have a bruise on my upper thigh and i don't know where i got it. i left the key in the door last night -- all night -- and it took me all morning to realize where they were. i keep having dreams about people i don't even want to think about in my waking hours. it's like i've been on this fabulous vacation in lalaland the past week, and i'm finally coming home -- to a bedroom filled with half-empty boxes and garbage bags, a broken bookshelf that i don't think i can fix, and bills that need to be paid, if i could just find them beneath the rubble.

how can i go from feeling so together and with-it one moment and like i'm going to completely unravel the next?

i don't know what's wrong with me. i feel off-center and no matter which way i tilt i'm still crooked.

i remember this:

"we're crazy," he sighed.
"is that a bad thing?" i asked.
"not yet."

i wonder if this is what he meant.

Bad poetry, good luck 14 May 2001

tomorrow night i am reading some words and rima is singing some songs, so tonight we had a dress rehearsal in our living room -- "dress rehearsal," i called it, but really we were in our pajamas and i can assure you i won't be performing in those. my pieces, of course, were mostly sad because all bad poetry is sad. (ok, so i actually like what i'm reading, but it is so dear to my heart that i am on the verge of having a coronary just thinking about it.) hers, because she is my comic relief, were hilarious, and i laughed so hard i collapsed on the futon, burying my head into the velvet pillow and holding my belly from bursting.

*

my mom helped me rearrange my bedroom so that it follows feng shui because, you know, good luck and all. but i didn't tell her that i don't believe in that. last week, i slept on the floor surrounded by boxes and dirty laundry and good things happened, anyway. the week before that, i lived in a dark box with wood panelling and a window that overlooked the kitchen counter and, still, i was happy.

this is how my life has changed in the past two weeks: i hear more music. i give more away. i say what's on my mind. i make coffee in the morning. i wake up to sunlight.

a few minor adjustments here and there, and i would be the happiest girl alive, but i guess there needs to be something to keep for my dreams at night.

Nothing to say but Wow 11 May 2001

i have a new favorite place to sit. it's this big cushy chair in the corner of our apartment that looks out a window. the window looks out into our backyard. our backyard has flowering trees. when the window is open, which is every night now that summer looms, a breeze brings in the smell of blossoms.

this makes me very happy.

there are other things that have made me happy this past month, like out-of-town guests and the changes going on at work and the friendships i am building and keeping with amazing people near and far.

it is sort of overwhelming. they say that when it rains it pours, and right now i feel like running outside, throwing my arms up and knocking my head back to catch raindrops on my tongue.

Welcome to my daily existence 08 May 2001

these days, i pay very close attention to signs. i stop, look and listen to everything around me because i don't want to miss anything. if i left everything up to me, i'd sit there plotting charts and imagining every possible scenario before even attempting to make a decision or any kind of progress.

i came home tonight with every intention of grabbing some pancit palabok, making a phone call or two, unpacking my kitchen boxes, organizing my bedroom, and maybe even taking another bubble bath, but when i opened the front door, i was greeted by my new roommate and her old roommate sitting on the sofa, chit-chatting about things. they were on their way out to the coffee table and asked if i wanted to come. without hesitation, i said yes. unpacking can wait, i thought to myself. phonecalls can wait. obsessing can wait.

but friends can't, and off we went, down the windy road, to the bottom of the hill.

fifteen minutes became an hour became two hours became three, and the conversation tumbled from food to family to work to love. i laughed so much, and i knew that i'd made the right choice. not just tonight, but to move into this apartment, to stay at my job, to live my life the way i have been. to be where i am. (i try not to let myself regret, anymore.)

at one point, darlene said to me: "you've are so together." i almost broke out laughing, because most days i feel everything but.

this time, though, she said it and i let the words sink in. "thank you," i smiled.

it felt good to get a compliment. it felt good to actually accept it.

Zestfully clean 06 May 2001

i'm sitting indian-style on hard wood, staring down at the keyboard that is resting on my lap. the floor is my desk. it's also my bed, my dresser and my cabinets. this afternoon, after they left, i dumped my blankets and comforters on the floor and collapsed on top of them. the sun was shining through the blinds and beating down on my body, but i didn't care. it had been too long since i'd actually seen real sunshine from inside my bedroom.

i haven't unpacked much, but i've already used my first housewarming gift: a bottle of mr. bubbles. i soaked my sweaty, dirty, achey body in the soapy water and let everything dissolve away -- my thoughts, my worries, my woes. everything spiraled down the drain when i emerged from the bath.

Good things 04 May 2001

last night, we sat on the wooden patio set at the corner of weyburn and broxton, sipping almond milky tea with boba, watching the cars go by. and go by. and go by.

we talked about our weekends, giggling and sighing and supposing, and whatever happened, whatever happens, we both decided that it was enough. (it was more than enough.)

so.

*

i am moving this weekend, and i swear, this is going to be the last time i move within the los angeles area. the next time i move, it will be out of the state, off of this coast, somewhere very far away.

very far away, in time and space.

but one thing at a time.

Scattered 03 May 2001

i am scattered all over the place right now. i am carrying an armful of emotions, but they keep falling to the ground, and when i bend down to pick one up, another one falls. so here i am, taking slow steps, holding on tightly to the load. my arms are not strong enough for this.

i am scared. i am scared i won't be able to handle my job and i am scared i will get too comfortable in my new place and i am scared i will forget about my dreams. i am scared that you don't like me and i am scared that it matters. i am scared of endings, but i am more scared of beginnings, because there is so much possibility.

people say i am strong, but i don't feel strong. i feel like the slightest gust of wind could blow me over. i could crumble into a million pieces and disappear with a breeze.

and so many good things are happening. i am not ungrateful, but sometimes i wonder if i deserve it all. one of these days, i think, my luck is going to run out, and then what? i will find myself on some street corner with a handwritten sign asking for your kindness.

i think about yesterday, and the day before, and the week before, and the month before, and i can't believe i got here. it happened so fast. i think about tomorrow, and the day after, and the week after, and the month after, and i don't know what's in store.

hope and wonder and anxiety and contentment and fear. i don't even know what i'm feeling, anymore. there's much too much.

Before I go 02 May 2001

the stacks of boxes in her room get higher and higher, yet there is no sense of disruption in mine. it looks just as it did yesterday. black converse and tan socks beside the trash can. CDs and izone photographs on my desk. empty shoe box, old LA weekly, pile of clothes. i opened the fridge and saw the unopened loaf of bread and bottle of apple juice and thought, i should eat that before i go.

there's so much i should be doing, but i can't find any energy. i couldn't even motivate myself to make a pot of coffee. i just ate leftover soup and watched felicity and wrote incomplete sentences in my polka-dotted journal.

i know i can't keep putting everything off until tomorrow.

Reprise 01 May 2001

i just don't like goodbyes at all. period.

i don't do well with them.

i stumble over my words and mumble things under my breath and repeat myself and heave heavy sighs and make strange faces.

they say first impressions are lasting, but i am always worried about the final one. it seems to me like that's the one that counts.

Until you see it in print 26 April 2001

this morning, i saw my entire existence reduced to a single paragraph.

several lines of copy buzzing through the fax machine and then landing in my hand. and i could not let it go.

so this is how it feels to be dead, i thought. to be floating above the world long after you're gone, seeing what's being said about you.

this is who she is. this is what she's done. any questions?

Fill-in-the-context 25 April 2001

anticipation manifests itself in a variety of ways: panic, thrill. fast sleep, wide awake. not hungry, absolutely starving. i try to write and rewrite things down to calm my nerves, but i end up staring at the page and fast-forwarding hours / days / weeks in my mind. i can only be vague right now so as not to build expectation, yours and mine. i've already said too much to too many, and now they are waiting, too.

i keep telling people i think, perhaps, i am crazy, but no one seems to listen.

somewhere in here is a veiled reference to truth. or maybe i forgot that part.

Bursting 23 April 2001

sometimes, i just want to erase this page, get a tissue and wipe the screen clean. not out of spite, or disgust, or shame. just because i want to start over. beginnings are, in some ways, the best.

i am trying to think of the right words to say but i just can't.

today, i feel a bit like this

bleeding off the page. bursting with color.

I couldn't have planned it better myself 21 April 2001

it was a beautiful wedding. i know they always say that, but you have to believe me, it really was. she looked like an angel, with the light hitting her face just so. i almost cried -- not just then, but several times throughout the day. i don't remember being this emotional at any wedding, but you know, it was carrie's.

just when i thought i had survived a wedding without the dreaded question, one of the moms cornered me.

"are you seeing anyone?" she asked.
"no," i shrugged.
"oh don't worry, you'll meet somebody."

poor girl, her eyes said. always a bridesmaid, but never a bride.

not never, i glared back. just not yet.

*

after the long day of aisle walking, bouquet dodging, cake eating and tear drying, i got locked out of my parents' house. woe was me, all dressed up (in periwinkle taffeta, no less) with no place to go. it was almost 10pm.

i ended up at Katy's house, of all places, waiting for my parents to come pick me up, just like high school. we spent an hour or two, eating popcorn and drinking raspberry lemonade by the fire. it was full-bellied laughter and heart-felt reminiscing. it was what i'd missed most.

Turning into pumpkins 20 April 2001

i am supposed to be asleep right now. shh, don't tell my mom. all of a sudden i'm 12 again, and i was told i should go to bed so i will look fresh tomorrow. what is fresh? a cake. a bouquet of flowers. a newspaper off the press. a bridesmaid after a good night's sleep. apparently.

i wrote a list of things on a scrap of paper so that i wouldn't forget to

buy: film
get: cash
bring: make-up, sweater and handkerchief (something borrowed for the bride)

it is supposed to rain tomorrow. they say rain is bad luck, but i think it's just wet. i almost brought my rain coat, but somehow didn't think it would match the periwinkle taffeta. i could be wrong.

*

all of this silliness, of course, is to hide the fact that tomorrow carrie is getting married, and while i am so incredibly happy for her, i am awash in some sort of sadness. i can't explain it. it's sort of like i'm jealous, but not of her. of him. he gets to be her best friend now. not me. he gets to hear all her secrets and learn all her silly quirks and build a library of jokes that only they know.

"it all changes when they get married, you know," matt said.

"i know," i said. i know.

Hello, how are you doing 18 April 2001

the other day, we passed each other on the street. i on one side, she on the other, walking in opposite directions, both going home. when i realized it was her, i threw my arm in the air and waved wildly. i wanted to part traffic like the red sea, run to her and give her a hug. it has been so long.

"hi! how are you?" i shouted.
"good! how are you?" she shouted back.
"good!"

she waved back, smiled and kept walking. the rest of the way home, i thought to myself, i hope that is not what our friendship has become.

passing each other on the street almost without realizing, shouting over traffic to feign interest in the other's life, unable to stop for a proper hello how are you doing.

I am never moving again 17 April 2001

for the past month and a half, i've been carrying a manila folder stuffed with papers. on the tab, it reads "HOMELESS--AGAIN!" inside is a stack of apartment listings, crumpled up and scribbled on. this morning, i took it out of my bag and tossed it in the trashcan. i don't need it anymore.

i found a new place to live: a place on the other side of town that i'll share with another girl. i move in the first week of may.

no more apartment listings. no more anxiety dreams. no more saturday mornings spent driving by and slowing down and writing phone numbers on the back of receipts. no more.

oh, this place is just lovely. it's a duplex with hardwood floors and old fixtures and big windows. there's even a patio. i feel like i'm returning to a life of luxury, although the things i'm most looking forward to are by no means luxurious -- things like baking cookies, taking bubble baths and growing plants are everyday activities of which i've been simply and sadly deprived these past months.

*

the next few weeks are going to be madness. this weekend, carrie's wedding. next weekend, his visit. the following weekend, the big move. but all of these things are good things, and i can't find one reason to complain.

things are finally looking up.

Always like this 12 April 2001

how is it that one year, even two, can pass, and some things don't seem to change? i feel like there will always be this cloud of wonder following me. i will always feel overwhelmed with questions. i will always be waiting for the next big thing.

i thought it was something i'd outgrow, this dreamy-eyed existence, but i'm realizing that it's just me. this is the way i am.

whew. now that we've got that settled, can we move on?

no! that's the worst part. this kind of attitude lends itself to getting lost in my own thoughts and staring off into the distance; scribbling madly in journals such things as "i hate waiting" and "2 more weeks"; making "if x then y" charts and "the pros and cons of" lists; dreaming, literally dreaming of what could be, my subconscious never ceasing to amaze me. stuck in a loop of imaginings and longings, with infinite possibility.

Silver screen and my disbelief 10 April 2001

so, we watch these movies, these
chick flicks, and they are supposed to be somehow empowering, or uplifting, or funny. or something. but instead, i leave the theater feeling dissatisfied, confused and even a little upset. two weekends in a row, i found myself walking home, haunted by these visions of beautiful women flinging their arms around handsome men, thinking to myself, that is not how it works.

the girl doesn't always get the boy. sometimes, the boy meets girl, the boy woos girl, and then the boy leaves girl. and he never comes back. sometimes the girl wakes up with a zit on her chin, with greasy untamed hair, with pants that no longer fit, and nobody is there to laugh. she just wants to cry herself to sleep, and she does.

there was renee zellweger's butt on the screen -- she gained 20 pounds for this role, you know, they whispered -- and the crowd was oohing and ahhing in horror and disgust, and i thought, what is wrong with you people? that is the most believable scene in the whole movie. she looks real.

and i know, i know. i should know better. i don't go to the movies to get a dose of reality. i can suspend my disbelief.

part of me loves these movies -- zany tricks, sappy goodness, and all. but another part of me wishes that someone would tell a real story, for once.

Bouquet dodger 06 April 2001

i have a confession to make: i dodge bouquets. at weddings, i mean. when the DJ makes the call for all the single ladies to gather 'round, i stay silently seated at my table as if i didn't hear a word until someone spots me and drags me to the reception dance floor. most of the women are giggling and hoping and crossing their fingers, but i am frowning and muttering and dragging my feet. while they are calculating where the bouquet is most likely to fall, i am projecting where it is least likely to land so i can avoid that spot at all costs.

at the last wedding, the bouquet came right flying right toward me. i pushed trixie forward to catch it -- she's planning a wedding for the summer anyway, i figured -- but she pushed back. luckily, an eager 19-year-old girl dove straight for it. she beamed, waving it in the air.

"you could have caught that," trixie said to me.

"i know. i didn't want to."

"they saw you dodge it."

it's not marriage that i'm afraid of, i would later try to explain to them. it's just that barbaric ritual that follows the garter toss. i don't want some wanker feeling up my leg.

now carrie's wedding is in two weeks, and all the single girls who once stood by me have gotten married, and i fear i am going to be left on that dance floor alone.

and i know what's going to happen. the bouquet will land straight into my arms and some kid named herbert with bad breath and sweaty palms will catch the garter and we will have to pose for a photo with his arm around my waist. later on, they will ask me if i am dating anyone, and i will say no, and they will try to set me up with somebody's nephew who is just so smart and such a handsome young man and i will want to disappear right then, leaving my periwinkle dress and silver strappy shoes in a puddle on the parquet.

The April fool 01 April 2001

it appears the joke's been on me. all day long i've been oblivious to the fact that today we turn our clocks forward. so, when i awoke at 9:30 i was really getting up at 10:30; and when i called tom at 2:30, figuring it was 10:30 there in the netherlands and thus not too late to call, it was really 11:30; and when i got to mass 15 minutes early i was really 45 minutes late.

i must have looked like such a fool, sauntering up to the church in my sunday best, only to hear the Our Father being sung through the open doors. that, of course, is when i looked at my watch, and visor, and cellphone. 5:15, 5:15, 5:15, they all said, and that is when i crept into a hidden corner and called The Time Lady who explained to me that it was actually Pacific Daylight Savings Time, you silly girl.

i swear, i heard her laughing at me.

i snuck back to my car, hoping no one saw me and thought i was ducking out early, and i sat there for a minute or two, feeling somehow cheated. like, had i not misplaced that hour of my day, i would have gotten more done.

On how to write

if all else fails, write about your wants. you are always longing for something, whether it be something tangible or something nebulous. just because you cross things off the list doesn't mean the list itself disappears. you want, you get, and then you want some more. sometimes you confuse these with your needs, but they are not the same.

alternately, try writing about your fears. don't tell me you are not afraid, because i can see it in your eyes. you are scared, and sometimes you lie awake unable to sleep and unable to rise. it is paralyzing. you were fearless once. you were 5, and your mother told you not to climb on that table because you would hurt yourself and you saw her lips moving and her head shaking but you thought she was ridiculous and you didn't listen. and then you fell, and you learned that you were not invincible. you stopped climbing tables. you stopped a lot of things.

you might also want to try writing down memories. start with your childhood and work your way forward, or start with yesterday and work your way backward. while you write, keep in mind sight and scent and sound and feel. some may be more powerful than others. that's natural. let one lead to another, like dominoes tumbling. you will get so caught up in them that it will feel like time is passing all over again.

of course, there are always your feelings. these include but are not limited to anger, sadness, worry and joy. these are perhaps the simplest to capture because they are talked about so often. usually these statements begin with the word "i," and that is okay. don't worry about sounding overly narcissistic. this is all about you, anyway.

and if, after all of this, you are still at a loss for words, fret not. perhaps it's simply time to keep your mouth shut. perhaps it's time for a little bit of silence.

happy anniversary, mom & dad 31 March 2001

tomorrow, my parents will have been married 34 years. this astounds me, if only for the mere fact that thirty four years is almost one and a half times my age.

but what astounds me even more is that, after all this time, they are still deeply in love. i know this, not because they told me so, but because of the way they live. because of the respect they have for one another; because they have endured bad times and celebrated good times together; because they are forever forgiving; because they still manage to go on adventures; because they can make each other laugh; because they finish each other's sentences; because they wash each other's underwear; because they share the remote control; because they still go out on dates; because once in a while i see my mom's face beam or my dad's eyes twinkle; because when they cuddle on the sofa his arm automatically reaches around her and her head finds his shoulder and they just fit.

for those reasons, and many more not mentioned, they inspire me, and for that i thank them.

i also thank them for, you know, giving birth to me, but that probably goes without saying.

My own little world 30 March 2001

a night like this, and i think all i really need is a pot of coffee, an endless stream of good music, watercolors, rubber stamps, a thin black sharpie, double-sided tape, a bundle of twine, a stack of paper and an empty space on the carpet, and i could stay up all night long, for many nights in a row, in my own little cut-and-paste-and-color-in world.

Good luck 28 March 2001

walking into my cubicle this morning, i found a plastic bag filled with dirt sitting beside my keyboard. as if i weren't cranky enough already, i thought, somebody's leaving crap on my desk? and what was this person doing at my desk in the first place? and why is today such a horrible god awful ugly depressing day?

i poked the plastic and untied the bag. it was gravel, not dirt, and there was something green underneath. i dug through the wet stones and realized what it was: a bamboo plant, a gift from peter.

the other day, we talked about plants and life and growing things and growing up, and i told him that those tiny bamboo stalks were supposed to be a sign of good luck and god knows i could use some of that right now.

so he bought me one.

i ran into his cubicle, smiling. i wanted to tell him how much it meant to me, but all i could say was thank you. and then i walked back to my cubicle, poured some water into a styrofoam cup and planted the stalks firmly in the gravel.

Resting in peace 25 March 2001

i pull into the parking lot and, while i feel there is something very wrong about using a cellphone in such a place, i call my parents to see where they are.

"three minutes away," dad says, "have you already gone inside?"
"no," i say.
"why not?"
"because i'm scared."

i know i will have to wander through the big white doors, weave through the crowd of unfamiliar filipino faces, find tita angie, kiss her cheek and smile weakly, and i don't want to do it alone.

he looks so peaceful, they say. his face looks beautiful. he looks like he's sleeping. but he's not, i think. my mom and dad go in the viewing room to pay their respects while i wait outside, sitting in the velvet armchair, fidgeting with my purse. i don't like this part.

i watch the minutes on the clock and after thirty minutes -- i promised my mom i would stop by for a half hour -- i jump up and say i have to go. it's not that i can't stay longer; i just don't know if i can.

my mom walks me over to tita angie to say goodbye. i kiss her cheek again and run my hand over her back, like it's the right thing to do. "did you say goodbye to uncle tony?" my mom asks. "it's okay. see? he just looks like he's sleeping." and i am so mad she does this, because now i have to look at him. now i have to see his face. i don't take a step forward. i just turn my head and get a glimpse, but it's enough and i get a lump in my throat and kiss my mom quickly and walk briskly to my car. i sit there for a few minutes before i can turn on the engine and drive away.

Tamborine girl 24 March 2001

i can't keep my eyes off her, and i know that's what she wants. i am trying to focus on the band, but my eyes keep roving to left of stage, where she and her guido boyfriend can't stand still. she's wearing a black tank top, a studded belt, tight jeans and stilettos. he's in a plaid jacket circa the '80s. she's gyrating, and her blonde wisps swing back and forth to the beat. he is standing behind her, tapping her exposed stomach like a tamborine.

it's not like i haven't seen girls like her before, but see the thing is this isn't a club. this isn't even a bar with a good jukebox. this is a coffeehouse in orange county and the crowd is well underage. sure, the band is rockin', but for the most part it's good, clean fun, and she and guido belong somewhere else.

i look around the patio to see if anyone else is as appalled and annoyed as i am, and nobody seems to be. this makes me even more uncomfortable, and i start to wonder why she bothers me so much. is it because she is showing off a body i will never have? is it because she is more bold and carefree than i will ever be? or is it because i am giving her the attention that she clearly wants--and needs?

i tell myself that under all the lip gloss and rhinestones she really is just a scared little girl like the rest of us, but it doesn't really help. and then i envision her rushing up to the stage after the show and tripping on her stiletto heel, falling flat on her face and letting out a squeaky scream, and it makes me feel a lot better.

New routines 22 March 2001

i have to admit, thursdays are starting to grow on me.

there's corn chowder steaming in a bowl and two slices of rosemary bread with a dab of soft butter. there's the LA weekly fresh off the press and free postcards for the taking. there's people watching and artwork analyzing, all against the backdrop of orange sponge painted walls. it's nice to know there are still some places i can go that feel like mine.

there's high school kids, in all their glorious awkward beauty. the shy quiet boy who sits in the corner watching the rest of the room. the take charge girl who you can count on to get things done. the crew of loudmouths who think they're so funny and, admittedly, are. i try to remain calm and serious, but inside i am laughing, and i leave the youth center smiling without even realizing.

there's the drive down wilshire boulevard, and it looks so much different at that time of night, the road lined with muted store window lighting and no other cars in sight. it looks different yet familiar, because i know this place, i've driven this way everyday. it's the way home.

Make that the second day of spring 21 March 2001

last night i dreamt of espionage and gasoline and car chases and my grandmother and church. it was rather unnerving, and i awoke to the phone ringing, thereby thwarting my efforts to solve these subconscious mysteries. i need closure.

and every morning when i wake up, my throat hurts. it has since my trip to austin. the pattern was: saturday sore throat, sunday sore throat, monday getting better, tuesday all fine, wednesday sick again, thursday sicker, friday still sick, and so on, and so forth. sniffly, sneezy and it hurts when i swallow. echinacea, vitamin c, honey lemon tea and lots of sleep. in my spare time, i've done nothing else but that.

but today is the first day of spring, and i will not stand for this nonsense any longer. spring means fresh tulips and strawberries and colored flip-flops and tank tops and extra sunshine and ice cream and all sorts of goodness. anything else i didn't think of? i'm sure there's plenty.

Uncle Tony

my uncle tony died the other day, suddenly and too soon.
not only was he an amazing artist, but he was also a kind, generous and compassionate man, and i feel lucky to have known him.

he had no children but a wife who was always by his side, and in my memory, there was never one without the other--at a party, on a trip or in any setting. and now, mom said, tita angie looked so lost sitting in the corner, clutching his photograph and wiping the dust off the wooden frame.

i wasn't there, but the image is so clear i feel as though i were. i can't imagine losing someone so dear to me, my confidante, my lover, my best friend. it would be like finding my other half and then losing it again. what would i do with all the empty space?

it breaks my heart and boggles my mind and scares the hell out of me. eventually, i will lose everyone i love. it's not death that i'm afraid of; it's that i would miss everyone too much.

moremoremore 19 March 2001

and we can talk about inspiration and making a difference and changing the world. we can talk about baby steps and helping hands, we can talk about group efforts and great strides, we can talk until we're blue in the face, but talk only gets you so far.

inspiration is the easy part. it's the follow-through that's hard.

i am finding this with myself and my own work, lately. i have so many ideas and plans, but i can't seem to focus. i want to do so much, but i end up doing nothing at all. i am becoming so good at apologizing and postponing, and it makes me sad. i never wanted to be that kind of girl, with too much on her plate and not enough gumption to get it done.

i want to get things done.

and i have so many ideas and i have so many plans and i see others doing what i could do, what i want to do, and i wish there were more hours in the day and more money in my bank account and more understanding and naptime and free pizza for employees who work past 6 o' clock. i could be wrong, but i really think that would help.

Heart-shaped and periwinkle blue 18 March 2001

outdone. an ice wreath of berries, bunches of gerber daisies and croutons shaped as hearts. martha stewart would have been proud of the fine display. and carrie looked so lovely, like a bonfaide bride-to-be. seriously, it was that glow that you always read about. she was shining.

when it came time to give her marriage advice, i squirmed in my chair and mumbled how i wasn't married so i wasn't really sure what to say. but after a moment of thought i told her to always make time for herself, because i know how she gets. she givesgivesgives and forgets to take. it's what makes her heart so pure, it's why i love her, it's why he loves her, but it is also the sort of thing that could make you break down one day and wonder what you ever gave yourself.

at home, i finally tried on the dress, a gown i hadn't seen until today. holding my breath, i stepped into it, pulled the zipper up and stood in front of the mirror. i sighed relief, because all this time i had been worrying it would be too small (which is silly, perhaps, but despite myself i worried anyway) but it was actually too big. my body was swimming in the shimmery periwinkle fabric and my hair was a shaggy mess; i looked like a little girl playing dress-up.

maybe i still am, in some ways, and that's okay, because there's plenty of time for everything else. i am taking my sweet time, but i'll get there eventually.

for now, i'll just lounge around in my empty and messy apartment, drink tea out of my favorite red mug and listen to the same cd, over and over again. right now, i couldn't think of anything more wonderful.

Do a little jig 17 March 2001

there was shamrock confetti and green beer and toilet paper streamers dotted with four-leaf clovers. after my friend's band played, we stood and talked about amusement parks and the house of blues and run-ins with the cops.

but the drunken sounds and smoke from the balcony became too much for us, so we retreated to the bedroom with a guitar. the music was elliott smith meets radiohead meets simon & garfunkel. i, of course, didn't play or sing. i just listened, sitting on the bed, staring off into the book-lined wall. (i might have hummed.) i felt like i should be wearing tinted sunglasses and daisy chains in my hair.

the party slowly migrated into the bedroom, and david slipped into the bathroom, motioning for us to follow him. so we did. i sat on the hamper, while he and joel took turns playing songs. it was the sort of thing you'd do if you were drunk, but none of us were. the acoustics were just better in there.

I don't wanna be an old man anymore 16 March 2001

waiting in line, i felt a strange combination of grandma and punkass kid. it had been a while since i'd been to a rock show.

"turn around," said the lady, so i started to spin. shaking her head at me, she growled: "no. i mean, turn around."

"oh, sorry," i said, turning my back to her, so she could frisk me.

i dumped the contents of my purse on the table: a compact, lip gloss, keys and coin purse. nothing interesting, really, but her eyes landed on my miniature swiss army, which she told me to toss in the trashcan. it was a gift from my dad but i had no time to think about it so i did it without question.

they wanted to protect everyone from my killer swiss army knife and her deadly umbrella toothpick, but they let the lady in pink sequins and zebra stripes into the palladium? clearly, there is no justice.

inside, i watched teenage girls bouncing around to weezer's greatest hits. one girl wearing an orange t-shirt and tight jeans held a cellphone to her ear, her dark brown hair flying in the air. her cheerleader smile was reminiscent of slumber parties, jumping on beds and talking to cute boys on the telephone, but it just wasn't the same.

We are all out of wisdom today 15 March 2001

nobody calls me, i think, but i blink hard and the red light's still flashing. standing in my cubicle first thing in the morning, sipping my apricot ceylon tea from the paper cup, listening to the noise left on my voicemail. who is it? i have no clue, but i make out bits and pieces of conversation. and then i recognize your voice, at least i think i do. you are ordering a 7-up or sprite, i guess it doesn't matter. i don't hear much else and after two minutes i delete the message. devoid of clues, it's completely useless to me.

i'm left here wondering whether it was a stupid joke or a silly mistake or just my imagination.

but i can say that of a lot of things.

*

tonight, three e-mails awaiting response about trouble in paradise. confusion with loved ones. heartache and heartbreak. please help, they write. you're the only one who could possibly understand.

do i give off the impression that i have any idea what i'm doing? because i don't.

be honest, i tell one girl. be yourself, and the words are far too easy to type. i can only hope they are better at following directions than i am.

Anti-climactic return 13 March 2001

in the shuttle on my way to the airport hilton, i sneezed suddenly and loudly, startling everyone around me. the man directly across from me scowled at me, as if he were afraid i would spread my germs on his ugly silk tie. for the next five minutes i tried desperately to sneeze again, so that i could conveniently forget to cover my mouth.

(i think i am allergic to LA.)

in my car, i popped in the mixed tape from lisa and realized that the internet has taken over my life, without my even realizing, in the best possible way. i am entangled in this web, and i don't want out anytime soon.

that is partly why i enjoy weekends like the one past and why i don't even think it's worth rehashing in such grand narratives anymore. this sort of thing will become so what's the word, not mundane, not normal, but well, hopefully you know what i mean because i can't think of the word right now. it stops feeling so surreal or staged and more like seeing old friends.

there were a few things that saddened me upon my return: that the parking lot where i used to park shut down permanently march 1, that the dishes i'd left on friday were still in the kitchen sink, that the snow white and seven dwarfs pornmail found its way into my inbox yet i did not receive an email i'd been hoping to get, that it was too late to call the east coast.

is it just me or does it feel like forever since we've last talked?

Austin awaits 07 March 2001

what i have learned since then: taking off is more scary than landing, aloha chips are just as good as thin mints, malaysian cherry is in fact better than egyptian plum, photographs don't do everything justice, receipt collection is a necessary hassle and it doesn't matter what coat you bring because you'll lose it anyway.

right.

so, i'm going to austin tomorrow. five days and four nights. keynotes and panel discussions. events and mixers. action and adventure. i have been practicing my schmooze. (on tuesday i was complimented on my handshake.)

"will you eat hotdog-shaped burgers, again?" peter asked.

"i never ate them. i just photographed them."

Day trippin' 06 March 2001

so, i am sitting in the conference room, sipping my already cold coffee because it's there and why not, crossing and uncrossing my legs for the hundredth time because i just can't seem to get comfortable, taking notes furiously because if i don't keep my hand and brain occupied i am sure i will fall asleep, and i look around myself and i wonder how i got here. they are talking big, and i am wondering when turtlenecks made a comeback and musing that taupe must be this season's new color and marveling how much making a business deal resembles the flirtation of two 8-year-olds.

i start to take notes that make me want to giggle, and i hold my pen tightly and rest my palm on the paper just perfectly as to hide what it is i'm writing:

buzzwords: negotiation, deal, fair, revenue, resources, robust, integration
male-to-female ratio: 5-1
number of turtlenecks: 2
number of taupe shirts: 3
number of white board demos: 2
number of powerpoint presentations: 0

that is the first half of the day.

the second half of the day: we drive to the city and the sky is blue -- blue! -- and we smell the ocean breeze and we visit a small dotcom in the basement of a warehouse and we eat warm sourdough bread and san francisco looks somehow different to me and i remember why it was i thought i would end up here someday.

on the way home, i get a left window seat like he suggested and i stare out at the cityscape colored by the sunset, and he's right--it's beautiful.

One-cent thoughts 05 March 2001

so, i need a haircut but i won't be able to get it cut until the 17th at the soonest, and we are putting our apartment search on hold because our landlord hasn't even given us an eviction notice, and it is raining again, i can hear the swishing of something outside my window, and it sounds nice. there. that is my news.

and it is girl scout cookie season, and already i've eaten a plastic sleeve of thin mints and a handful of aloha chips, and every time i think i really shouldn't eat this next cookie, i do anyway. will you stop loving me when i get fat?

on tuesday, i am flying to san francisco for the day-- on business, and i feel so grown-up when i tell people that.

on friday, i am flying to austin for sxsw, and i'm staying until tuesday night. i will miss you while i'm gone. no, really. i will.

Me and you and a cup of coffee 03 March 2001

all day long i'd been wanting to be alone and the first moment i had to breathe in silence, i went out.

what is it about a cup of coffee, a room filled with strangers and acoustic dronings that makes me feel safe? i sat at the table against the wall, protected by a fortress built with my mug, my LA weekly, my book, my journal and grandma bag, enveloped in my own private world of thoughts and scribbles. occasionally i glanced up at the lonely man strumming his guitar, just so he would know that someone was listening.

he sang songs about dreams and girls and taking long walks on the boulevard, and i wondered where you were and what you were doing, and as always, i hoped you were smiling.

Tomorrow, now, please, thanks 28 February 2001

"i just want today to be over" is a horrible way to live. i don't like being cranky or depressed or gloomy. i hate feeling like the only safe place i want to be is at home, in my bed, under the covers. i am tired of listening to the same moody music over and over and over again.

but i feel nothing else.

and i don't mean to dump on you, i really don't. i know when you say yeah or aww or uh-huh that you don't know what else to say and if i were in your shoes, i wouldn't, either. i know this will all be over, soon; i just don't know when. i know the sun will come back out and i will be laughing too loud and i will wonder why i ever wondered whether i would survive, but until then--

i just want today to be over.

*

sitting in anastasia's before i got ashed, i realized that it had been too long. too long since i'd sat there, within the sponge painted walls. too long since i'd written furiously in my journal, oblivious to my surroundings. too long since i'd taken a moment to stop talking and just listen.

tonight, i am enjoying the silence. tonight, i feel peace.

Breath of fresh air 27 February 2001

the napping gods are against me. i'd slipped on fresh bed sheets, slid under the snuggly softness, and began to fall into a dream, when the phone rang.

"hey," said the booming voice. it was joel.
"why are you yelling?" i asked him.
"are you taking a nap?"
"uh...yeah," i said.
"go back to sleep."
"mmnnhh...okay."

i tried to go back to sleep, but the phone rang three more times in thirty minutes, so i took it as a sign, crawled out of bed, turned up the bis and put on a pot of coffee, instead. it's 5:19pm.

*

this morning, i got up at 8:30am to the sound of the front door opening and hushed tagalog. it was my landlord and his cousin. they painted the apartment today, and now i'm high on fumes and blinded by the whiteness of our walls. the consistent rumbling of the washing machine and dryer coming from the kitchen has made the day even more disorienting.

i stepped outside and the blue sky and clean air was a refreshing change. i purposely parked ten blocks from where i wanted to go, so that i could walk. to the atm to get some cash, to the post office to buy 1 cent stamps, to the farmer's market to get fresh flowers and vegetables, to my favorite deli to get a sandwich, to the grocery store to get everything else. and i still had 24 minutes in my parking meter.

back home, i painted my nails dark red and talked to ryan and ate ice cream while they dried. my roommate came home with a tray of fresh strawberries; i ran one under the faucet and stuffed it in my mouth and smiled. sometimes, it doesn't take much.

Grey skies are gonna clear up

if i lived in a rainy town, i would never want to get out of bed. i would just open the blinds and lie perfectly still beneath my covers, drifting in and out of sleep, reading the book on my nighttable, scribbling cloudy thoughts in my journal, taking slow sips of tea, giggling and whispering into the phone receiver, watching snippets of movies i've seen many times before, for days and nights and days, again.

it's a good thing we have sunshine here to call me outside once in a while. i just wish it would come back out, already. the gloom is starting to get to me.

Steps 26 February 2001

we looked for an apartment this weekend, driving around in circles in the pouring rain. at the first place we saw, i fell down several slippery steps, scratching my elbows, bruising my thighs and landing on my butt, and i wanted to give up right then. we saw a few more apartments: a house that smelled like cat pee, a townhouse that looked like melrose place and a building that reminded me of a motel where somebody in a movie would get shot and bodybagged.

we did not find a home.

on sunday morning, my parents called. one minute i was talking about hardwood floors, the next minute i was bursting into tears. i sniffled into the receiver and wiped my eyes on my pillow as my mom kept saying, "stop crying na," in that tone of voice that only made me cry more when i was a young girl. i wasn't to the point where i couldn't breathe, but i was close. i was blubbering. "i don't know where i'm going to live and i am getting so old and i don't know what i am doing with my life and i am never going to get to new york and i don't even like LA," i whimpered, inbetween sobs.

it was, perhaps, a bit ridiculous. i can laugh about it now, but at that moment there was nothing but tears. i just wanted to crumple myself into a ball and roll away.

"just take it one step at a time," my mom said. "you have options. you have time."

i know i do, but i guess i would much prefer a quick fix. sweep it under the carpet, stick a band-aid on it, cover the hole with a lovely framed print. there, that is so much better, now let's get on with our lives.

what i easily forget is that this is my life. i can't stuff things in a closet or hide them under my bed. i can't make arbitrary choices or hasty decisions. i can't settle. well, i can, but i shouldn't. i know better. i deserve better, too.

Remember the days of the Pony Express 23 February 2001

me: "so, i'm moving, again. my landlord's being a jerk and i'm getting evicted and--"

ricky: "yeah, i read it on your mass mailing."

me: "oh."

sometimes, the internet takes the fun out of everything.

Third time's a charm 21 February 2001

my head is spinning with street names and numbers and dollar signs. my hand is tired from circling and crossing out and making big stars in pink ink. my stomach is tumbling with anticipation and frustration and hope. it's a bit overwhelming, and it's just begun. we are looking for a new place to live.

it's not that we want to move out, although i'll admit i am already daydreaming of brighter rooms, more space and better parking. we're getting evicted. i still can't say that with a straight face. it's just so ridiculous i can't help but laugh. eviction is something that happens to rowdy frat boys and delinquent drug dealers--not two girls who pay their rent on time. but our landlord is a bitter man, and he is kicking us to the curb. it's not even important why he wants to or if he can legally do it. we've decided we don't want to give him our money anymore, anyway.

so, it's back to classifieds and drive-bys and phone calls and applications and leases and boxes, god the boxes, let's not talk about the boxes. it's so ridiculous, and when i hear myself telling someone the story, i can barely believe it myself.

"didn't you just move?"
"yeah."
"like just last month, right?"
"december."
"and not long before that?"
"august."
"so that makes--"
"three. this will be the third time in one year."

i tell myself it's an adventure. this will be fun! this will be exciting! my life is an adventure and the world will watch with baited breath to see what wacky things happen next to silly ol' me! i tell that to myself to make me feel better, and it helps a little. but mostly i just want to go to sleep and wake up in april, when all of this nonsense is over.

Shooting star 20 February 2001

tonight i saw a shooting star. i was cruising down the 405 and watched it soar over city national bank and disappear over the hill. and then i blinked and the sky was black, again.

i didn't make a wish, although i suppose i should have; there are more than enough things i could wish for right now but it just didn't occur to me. instead, in that one shimmering star, i saw a glimmer of hope. just enough to make me realize that i would be okay.

it sounds silly, maybe, but i looked up at the vast dark sky and somehow everything all of a sudden made sense. like the stars fit snugly in their spots in the sky and the moon hung safely on the edge without falling. and every night it's the same. i just don't notice it. every morning the sun takes over and the clouds come out to play and the wind rearranges the canvas sky like a fickle artist. everything keeps going, whether i care to notice or not. i can try to hide -- today i just wanted to call in sick and slide under my covers and stay in bed with my blinds tightly drawn -- but the world will keep spinning and life will keep turning. and it's okay.

so i might as well face the day, because i only get stronger and braver and wiser as the days go on. i only learn a little more with each trial i face. i only keep growing.

From cover to cover 18 February 2001

i'd almost forgotten what it was like to lose yourself in a novel. to take it with you wherever you go and sneak a few chapters while you're waiting for your friend to show up or before your food gets to the table. to think about the characters while you're driving, or walking, or standing in the shower. to feel like doing nothing else but lying in bed, devouring page after page.

even if you can't get seem to get comfortable. even if it's late and you should have gone to bed three hours ago. even if your roommate comes home and you really should say hi but it's just getting so good and you can't close the book not even for a second.

and so you read, sometimes skipping paragraphs because you're so hungry for the story but going back because you don't want to miss anything, and you count the pages--how many are in the book and how many more to go, and just as you're falling in love with the characters, just as you feel like they could be your best friends, you find the last page, but it can't be the very last page, you think, that can't be the end, so you turn another hoping there is more, but there isn't, and so you read the last chapter again and this time you let the words linger and you fall asleep wondering what might have happened to everyone if happily ever after never came, and you wake up the next morning with your light still on and the book pressed up against your body half-wrapped in the covers.

Ninety-nine cents 17 February 2001

last night, at the record store, we pored over the stacks of cassettes that were being sold for 99 cents. some of them were bands we'd never heard of and some were bands we wished we'd never heard of, but some were bands we once loved. one was a tape he had bought for his mom when he was a kid. one was a tape that i had always wanted but never got around to buying.

we were surprised to find a few rockin' tapes that were well worth the dollar-eight (including tax); i was even giddy. as i waited for the girl to ring me up, i couldn't help but think, somebody's hard work became another's junk became another's treasure.

i was glad to rescue the lonely tapes. the first thing i did when i got home was pop one into my stereo. i even sang along.

Suckers & saps 14 February 2001

valentine's day is for suckers and saps.

i, of course, am both.

sometimes, i think i don't believe in romance, anymore. i don't believe in one special boy for that one special girl, i don't believe in once upon a time or happily ever after. i don't believe that love will conquer anything. no. i don't believe that, sometimes, i think.

your heart gets stomped on one too many times, and you'll believe anything that won't make you feel that way ever again.

but.

but i do.

i may not believe in princes and white horses and tall castles, but i believe in nice boys and the possibility of something with one of them someday. like long walks and hand holding, sofa cuddling and nervous giggling, understanding and accepting, laughing and loving.

maybe that makes me a sucker and a sap. maybe. but some people happen to be into that sorta thing.

Trying not to think about it 13 February 2001

mindless tasks soothe my weary brain. copying and collating and stapling and filing; this is all i can handle right now.

i could not sleep last night. note: i can sleep under virtually any condition, so a sleepless night is indication that something is surely wrong. something is surely wrong, and i do not know what to do. this is the part where i decide not to get specific with what exactly is wrong, because i don't want to speak to soon, or tell other people's stories, or receive a dozen e-mails telling me it will be okay.

of course it will be okay. it is always okay.

right about now, i could use a bowl of my mom's corn soup; swirling the corn and broth with my teaspoon, i'd look up at her and she'd meet my eyes with a soothing look, making the rest of the mean, cruel world disappear. of course, i may just have to settle for a cup of corn chowder from the whole foods deli.

No more cocktails 08 February 2001

no more cocktails on thursdays, she says, bringing the thin red straw to her glossy lips. she says this because nobody seems to be out. at the first bar, there is the smell of nail polish and vodka. women gather around, and we lean back in the beauty salon chairs. two girls -- they don't look 21, we decide, but then again, neither did we at that age -- are sitting a few yards away, with their sneaker-clad feet propped on the table. "will you take a photo of us?" one asks. "i'm here visiting from new york and it's all about the photos." after one drink, we go to the second bar, which is darker and emptier than the first. we walk in and right back out. "where is everyone?" i ask. "there is a party and everyone but us was invited," she says. third time's a charm, we think, so we go to one last bar. while we are walking down the street, two cars honk. it is sunset boulevard, and we are not those kind of girls. we sit outside under the dark denim night and talk about whatever it is girls talk about.

Goodb-- 05 February 2001

i do not like rushed goodbyes.

they make me feel like i am chasing a passing train, catching one last glimpse, blowing one last kiss. racing, rushing, reaching down the platform, with open arms and wide strides. i feel out of breath. out of time.

and i want to slide the clock's hand back just five minutes, just five more minutes, just five more--

If only we'd known 04 February 2001

i cannot help but wonder where i'd be if i'd done things differently. it's not regret--i will not let myself regret--just supposing. imagining. wondering.

if i'd studied less and partied more.
if i'd worn more make-up and shorter skirts.
if i'd held more hands, kissed more lips and shared more blankets.
if i'd had the courage to say no, when everyone expected yes.
if i'd had the courage to say yes, when all i could muster was no.
if i applied to X school and got accepted into Y job and decided to pursue Z dream.

if if if if if.

everyone has ifs. even my mom, who tonight told me about an old college friend. they lived in the same dorm and they spent a lot of time together, although both were in relationships with other people. still, they were close, and he would bring her pasalubongs, or gifts, from his travels. "i think he had a crush on me," she said.

"yeah," i said. "i think that's pretty obvious."

years later, he surprised her with phonecall. out of the blue. by then, they'd both gotten married -- he to his college sweetheart and mom to my dad. when he asked who was the lucky guy who'd won mom's heart and she told him it was a man from pampanga -- the province where he, too, was from -- he half-heartedly joked that it could have been him.

"if only i'd known."

i wonder what is in store for me. who will be my surprise phone call? who will be the man who wins my heart? who will be the story that i tell my daughter when she is old enough to understand?

Grandpa 02 February 2001

just now, as i was typing in the date for behold i realized that today is my grandfather's birthday. he would have been 90. (and all of a sudden my morning is tinged with melancholy, for him, and my grandmother, and everyone else who might be mourning today.) are you supposed to stop celebrating someone's birth after they've died?

i don't think so, because i will celebrate him as long as i live.

*

"did you know it's grandpa's birthday today?" she yelled, from down the hallway.

"yes," i said.

"did you pray for him?"

"yup."

The words we use 30 January 2001

i don't expect people to notice because i barely remember myself, but sometimes it will hit me, no, nudge me when i least expect it. like last night, i was listening to npr on my way home from work. it was a story about the philippines, so i turned up the volume and heard the booming voice of a woman speaking in tagalog.

"she's speaking tagalog," i said to brenna, who was sitting in the car with me.
"do you think she should be speaking english?" she asked, wondering probably why i even brought it up.
"no, i just don't hear it that often."

a mix of tagalog and english was always bouncing off the walls in the house where i grew up. my parents would speak to us in their native tongue, and we would answer them in english. sometimes, they would combine the two, but i wouldn't even notice it was happening until a friend would come over and look at me in awe that i understood the foreign sounds coming out of my parents' mouths. the more i toyed with the language, the more the tagalog words would roll off my tongue, and soon my parents and i were speaking a language all our own.

i hadn't thought about it until then -- the absence of language and what it means (if it means anything at all). because i no longer live in my parents' home, i no longer hear the words. my speech is filled with href="http://www.pseudodictionary.com" title="rockin' site of the moment">other forms of expression.

on one hand, it doesn't seem like such a big deal. language changes every day. i believe that spelling, grammar and usage can evolve over time. (you may respond, "that's whack, yo," to which i would say, "hell no.") yet, language is a vital part of culture; culture is a vital part of me. i can't help but feel like i'm leaving something behind-- a slice of my history, a slice of me.

Blasts from my past 29 January 2001

you put them away in the furthermost crevice of your mind, and somehow they push their way back to the front.

sure, sometimes, you'd thought about them. when you heard a certain song. when you saw their picture. when a chain of memories led to that final link that was them. often, it was like waking up from a dream. sometimes, it really was just that. but for the most part, you left them behind. you had to, to make room for others.

once, they were your best friend / your lover / your confidante / your hero. then, they were gone. now, here they are again, smiling back at you, as if they'd never left.

i thought of you, they say. i still remember, they say. i was just wondering how you were.

well i was doing just fine before you came back, you want to answer, and now i am a mess again.

of course you don't say that at all. you tell them you thought about them too, because you did, and that it's nice to hear from them, because it is. you tell them how you've been, where you've gone and who you are now; a lot has changed.

you are starting over, and you don't know what that means. in some cases, it's like they'd never left. in others, it's like they were never there in the first place.

Not my idea of Sunday 28 January 2001

i dipped a tortilla strip into the 7-layer bean dip, took a sip out of a red plastic cup filled with chilled honey wheat raspberry beer (they brewed it themselves), glanced left at the 17-inch tv screen and right at the 32-inch, picked a number out of a sombrero for the football pool to which i'd donated $1, and i thought to myself, this is america.

it was the first football game since high school i'd watched in its entirety, and i'd be lying if i said i didn't more than once almost fall asleep on the sofa, despite the clamoring of the living room audience. i drove home at 8pm in awe that my day had been swallowed whole by the superbowl.

Rain, secrets, slobtastic 26 January 2001

i am listening to rain slip and slide down the gutter of the building next door. it's cold in my apartment. there's no heat, because last time i turned on the heater i set off the smoke detector. i desperately crave a deep mug of hot cocoa, but we are out of milk. i am tempted to microwave a cup of water just so i can wrap my fingers around the warm ceramic. it's cold in my apartment.

i cannot tell you how at peace i am right now. it's hard to explain without getting into details, and please don't ask, because i won't tell you. there are some things i will never tell a soul. there are some things so secret and sacred that not even ink or paper will have the pleasure of knowing.

but: what i can say is i am feeling extraordinarily better than i was a week ago. that is saying a lot.

and: thank you to the sap who has listened to me babble, ramble, whine, complain and mutter this past week. you are slobtastic.

Spinning 25 January 2001

that wasn't what i meant to say at all, but sometimes the words just don't fit.

in the past week: mingling with rockstars, 1am sobriety checks, surprise emails from old friends, conversations with new ones, greasy slices of pepperoni pizza and spoonfuls of ice cream and smiles so wide they span both coasts.

frankly, i don't know how i keep my head on straight. it keeps spinning and spinning. and i have bad enough balance to begin with.

Let go 24 January 2001

what if all this time i've had it all wrong? i've been trying to hold on to so much and maybe i should just let go. let go of the the things i think i need, let go of the feelings i don't want to forget, let go of the memories i am afraid will disappear from my mind. let go, and make room for more.

i remember, a few years back, when i lost nearly a hundred pages of double-spaced, type-written, pre-web journal entries, and i felt like a part of myself had died. i wrote my friend rusty, mourning my loss. i wanted to cry. he wrote back with words of empathy and hope, acknowledging the tragedy but embracing the possibility. what was experienced was learned, and what was learned would not be forgotten. i lived. that was enough.

i am still so young, and there is so much more to get/feel/learn/live. it's nice just to swim in the moment, sometimes, without worrying about what others think, without trying to record every detail, without planning the way it ends. i am going to try to do more of that. i just don't want to waste anymore time.

Mad 17 January 2001

just so you know, i'm still mad.

i'm mad at the magazines that continue to feature stick-thin, pastey-white models who stare blankly at you. at the clothing companies who claim that it's one-size-fits-all, when the t-shirt would barely fit my cabbage patch kid. at the girls in junior high who would point and whisper at the girl who hadn't quite yet figured it out. (i can still remember their names and i wonder what they're doing these days.)

i'm mad that, despite my effort to tell myself that i'm okay (i am an intelligent girl, damnit, i know about media tactics and idiotic puberty, i know better), i let it get to me; that my girlfriends and i can go through bouts of total insecurity and feel incredibly inadequate. this is not even to mention the anorexia, the bullemia, the depression i've seen, either.

oh, i'm bad, too. i gawk and point and whisper under my breath, 'oh my god, look at her, what the hell was she thinking?' but it's more to make myself feel better about me than anything. if i point out everything wrong with everyone else, maybe they won't notice that today i woke up with flat lifeless hair, a zit beside my lip, and more body flab than i remember.

what does it take?

sometimes i think, i can do it. i can fight the system. i can make them see the truth. of course, sometimes, i am too busy having my own pity party under my bed.

my cousin, before she turned teenager, used to say to me, "ate, you're so pretty," out of nowhere, for no reason. it would automatically lift me out of whatever funk i was in, and you know, there were so many, because my middle-class, suburban life was just so unbelievably torturous. what made it so powerful was that it was unsolicited and genuine. you could see in her eyes that she meant every breath of it. i just wish i had her voice bottled up somewhere, so i could hear it when i feel the way i do now.

Out of town 16 January 2001

sleeping on the floor, i remembered 1984 when our house was buzzing with people. that summer (the summer of the olympics in LA), we opened our doors to family and friends and i think we had more than 20 people staying in our 3-bedroom house at one time. my bed was always the first to go, because i guess my bedroom was pretty and frilly and thus more presentable to guests than the dirty-sock filled room my brothers shared. i was sent to a small slice of carpet beside my parents' bed, but i didn't mind because they had a TV in their room.

that's just what you do when you have guests. you put a vase of fresh flowers on the dining table and fill the kitchen with tasty snacks and constantly ask them if they are okay or if they want anything. you drive them all over town, going wherever they want to go, and you have lavish meals, eating whatever they're craving. you talk and listen and laugh, a lot, and you repeat this cycle throughout the weekend. you take photos, so many photos, and you're tired of standing still and smiling big but you take them anyway, because you will want the memory later on. when they say, "you are such a good hostess," you smile sheepishly and say thank you, just like your mother did. and when it is time to go, you hug and wave and say goodbye as they walk away through the sliding doors. back in your empty home, you sigh relief, but you are also sad, because you miss them already.

remnants remind you that it was indeed a good weekend: empty orangina bottles, dirty dishes in the sink, blankets strewn on the floor, overdeveloped and off-center izone photos, and a pile of CDs from the shopping spree(s).

april march, chrominance decoder
barbara manning, 1212
barcelona, simon basic
belly, star
beth orton, trailer park
dusty trails, dusty trails
jellyfish, bellybutton
stereolab, emperor tomato ketchup
syrup usa, all over the land
teenage fanclub, bandwagonesque
velocity girl, simpatico

tonight, i am thinking about the web my life has woven and large land masses that get in the way and how a lot of it, okay most of it, has to do with this.

how has the internet changed your life? write a five-paragraph essay with evidence supporting your thesis. be descriptive and specific.

Lazy Sunday 14 January 2001

after we said goodbye, i took a walk, but i didn't get very far. i wandered aimlessly around the neighborhood, wishing i had pockets in my sweater. it's a nice feeling, sometimes, wandering through the sea of people spilling over the sidewalks. but tonight it was a little too cold and crowded, and i would have rather been back in my apartment, sitting on the carpet, talking and listening and laughing. i love the laughing.

"what's two and a half hours between friends?"

not enough, i thought.

*

i don't even know why i left in the first place; after hanging up the phone, i just put on my shoes and walked out the door. i made a big circle around the neighborhood until i realized i had nowhere to go. back home, i made some soup and sat in the middle of the still-empty living room, listening to dusty trails and flipping through a magazine i've already read.

it's just me, here, now. a pile of new CDs, a bag of grape licorice and voices still ringing in my ear. (grape licorice? nobody eats grape licorice. who eats grape licorice? i guess i do, now. it grows on you.)

lazy sunday, how i love you. i think soon i will go to sleep.

BMX bikes and dollhouses 12 January 2001

i've gone back to hiding in corners and peering out of windows. this is how i like it sometimes. the girl in the back of the classroom, covertly writing notes to her girlfriends, sketching out grand plans in a spiralbound notebook, shooting sideway glances at the boy over there. i wonder, sometimes, if i'll ever grow out of that. that girlishness that is so ingrained in me.

i used to follow my big brothers around, wanting to be just like them: BMX bikes and comic books and rock music. after the sun went down, they'd come home from suburban adventures with dirt on their knees and a twinkle in their eyes, and i wanted so badly to know where they'd been and what they'd been doing.

instead, i had lip synch parties with my fisher price record player and played school with a classroom full of stuffed animals. i dressed my paper dolls up in clothes i'd made myself with rickety scissors and dull colored pencils. i helped mom in the kitchen and shopped by her side. i can pretend i didn't like any of it, but i did. the next-door neighbor girls and i, we had our own adventures. and the secrets, oh the secrets on which we'd cross our hearts and hope to die, those were fodder for hours of giggles and nights of sweet dreams.

it's silly, when i think about it, but i'm still very much that girl who cried when ricky tore off my barbie doll's head or ahhhed when kenny held my hand at recess.

"i am such a girl," lisaann and i lament to each other, and then we laugh, because it's just the way we are.

but that doesn't mean i can't roll around in the dirt, pore over my brother's comic books and yank off barbie's ugly perfect head, too. sometimes, that sounds just as fun.

Good deed for the day 10 January 2001

sometimes it's a battle just to hold everything together. i know that from the outside looking in it might seem like i have it all under control. i plan it that way. but inside, i am unraveling, and i think all the rope, glue and scotch tape in the world couldn't keep me from falling apart.

it is so easy to give up. today i wanted to throw my hands in the air, scream at the top of my lungs, and let everything go. someone else can clean up the mess i've left, i thought. what do i care? i'll be long gone.

i can pretend it doesn't matter, but before too long i remember that it does. i do. it's silly, and i think selfish, to think otherwise.

luckily, i was reminded how good it feels to do something for someone else. as a young girl, i'd give my mom cards i'd made -- bond paper stolen from dad's desk drawer folded in fourths, marked up with crayolas. the occasion? hello. i love you. you're pretty. you're nice. i remember her face would light up and she'd slip it somewhere safe, and i knew, i knew it was time spent well. i knew it was worth it.

we don't think it touches someone, but it does. we worry it's not good enough, but it is. don't underestimate the thought and effort; it's precious.

so, tonight i decided to make something for somebody. the occasion? hello. i like you. you're funny. you're nice. the moment i scattered my supplies on the steel blue carpet, i began to feel better. my head wasn't filled with my worries or troubles or woes. it made way for ideas and sketches and plans.

and i made something. it's nothing big, really, just a token. (it's smaller than a pony, but just as fun). but it will hopefully bring a smile to someone's face. it already has mine.

Thirteen on thirty 06 January 2001

two girls playing dress up: white t-shirts cloaked in beige sweaters that go down to their knees that are covered in dark denim that skims their chunky loafers that teeter on the floor of the coffeehouse. "two blended mochas," one says, dangling kate spade on one hand, waving nokia with the other. (i only know kate spade because of friends; the bag looks like any other, like many others i've seen at, say, target or mervyns.) wisps falling in their fresh eyes, they smile at each other. she reaches in and pulls out a crisp $20 and slips it to the young man in exchange for the drinks. they pause and take a sip, their glossed lips pressing down on the green straw, and they walk away, giggling.

it's the the giggles that give them away. the laughter of 30-year-old women talking about men and sex and work is far different than the feverish laughter of teenage girls gossiping about the boys waiting outside the shop. you can wear the make-up, the clothes, the accessories; you can practice the walk, the talk, the hair toss; but let the corner of your mouth curl the slightest degree upward and you open yourself up to them.

thirteen going on thirty. girl, don't do it.

wipe off your make-up. kick off your shoes. let down your hair. knock your head back and laugh with your whole body. give the phone back, put the purse in the closet, throw the coffee drink away. burn your magazines, all the magazines that tell you to be somebody else, that photoshopped girl who doesn't exist, she will never exist, and pick up a book that speaks the truth. sit for a while, on the rooftop, dangling your bare feet over the city lights scattered beneath you like stars.

Go away 05 January 2001

but then again, some days i just want to be alone: sneak away when everyone's sleeping and hole myself up somewhere remote (he talks about alaska, a lot). ditch the wristwatch, the cellphone, the handspring. turn off the TV, the computer, the stereo. let the letters, the messages, the email pile up so high i can't see the door. and when you knocked, i wouldn't let you in.

i'd just stay as still as possible until i heard your footsteps fade away.

It's a new year 02 January 2001

so, oh my god, there was a moment on new year's eve when i thought i was going to throw up, like, seriously going to hurl. i was lying on the sofa, with my long gray coat draped over me like a blanket, focusing my eyes on the electrical outlet on the wall. i couldn't look straight ahead, because jackass was on, showing its usual dose of gratuitous nausea-inducing shots. "it's okay to throw up," joel said. "sometimes you feel better afterward."

"but i don't want to," i said.

the party hadn't even begun, and i had had nothing to drink.

i don't know what it was. earlier that day, i nearly passed out while slicing onions for my salsa. i had to sit down and breathe deeply until the room stopped turning.

but of course i went out anyway, because it was new year's eve, and i did not want to spend the evening in bed oblivious to the strike of midnight.

every time i'd try to sit up, my head would get spinny and my tummy fumbly and so i'd lie back down. jonathan and joel were so good, and kept refilling my cup with sierra mist (pepsi's lemon-lime soda, if you don't know, which i didn't) and wouldn't leave my side until i was ready to stand up. after three cups of soda and three trips to the bathroom, i felt better, and by the end of the night, we were sitting around singing songs (joel and jonathan both play guitar) and playing air hockey (well, i watched) and telling stories that were so amusing my cheeks hurt from laughing.

after we made our wishes (one for each of 12 grapes floating in your cup, which is a tradition whose origins i couldn't quite trace) we toasted red plastic cups filled with champagne. "did you make a new year's resolution?" i asked the circle. most everyone said "no" or didn't want to share. there was a general feeling that nobody believed in that sort of thing, anymore; or if we did, we didn't want to admit it, because we've failed in the past and didn't want to let ourselves down, again.

"did you?" jonathan asked me.

"not yet," i said. i hadn't given it much thought at that point and didn't know if i would. but this morning, while driving to work, i decided to make a few, even if they were silly, even if they were simple, even if they were small.

so, this year i am going to try to:
say hi to more strangers
write truer stories
wear more skirts
eat less bacon
pray more

at least that would mean i am trying, i figured, and i don't know if there's anything more noble than that.

Stealing moments 27 December 2000

it's been so long since i've written, and i always hated starting pieces like that. it sounds too much like confession. reader, forgive me for i have sinned. it's been seven days since my last entry.

i kept meaning to steal a moment to write. frightening, really. i'd wake up to christmas songs on K-EARTH 101 / doris day's laughter on AMC / rustling leaves and howling wind / the ding-dong of the doorbell and words that i can only guess were running through my head all the while would come to a screeching halt and stand there, waiting. oh, i must write this down, i'd think, and then i'd roll over and fall back asleep.

even my journal has become less of a place to write and more of a place to put things. recently taped onto the pages: two tickets (from two days) to this american life live at UCLA, a ticket to the american ballet's production of cinderella, and eight incriminating iZone photos taken at two holiday parties. (of them, not me. i'd show them to you, but that wouldn't be very nice.) words scribbled: 0.

tonight, i bought a new pen, hoping it would inspire me. why do i fool myself so?

*

my room is starting to look like somebody actually lives here. i spent the day upacking the last of the boxes, which contained mostly picture frames and candles and books. seeing everything laid out on my floor, i celebrated a moment of panic. i am becoming my mother, i thought to myself, just hours after laughing at her for filling the house with so much stuff. it wasn't so much an epiphany as a red flag. immediately, i began to throw some of the candles and frames back into a box of things to donate to someone, somewhere. it's just baggage, i said to myself. it's just a bunch of things that you will forget ever existed.

but then, of course, there are the CDs and books. those are the things you keep. the pages you dog-ear and mark with colored ink. the songs you play on repeat and sing with your door shut. once, they were someone's hard work. now, they are your treasures. and is there anything as beautiful as carefully arranged books and CDs? no, there is not. the clean, vertical lines shine like a cityscape on my shelves.

someday, i think, i will be a skyscraper on somebody's bookshelf. someday, maybe. but today, there's this.

Oh, bother 19 December 2000

the problem with this lovely layout is when i don't have a lot to say, the page looks like this.

Merry this, merry that 18 December 2000

no energy. no, none at all. i think i set myself up for this one. i only got four hours of sleep last night, and slightly more the night before, but oh, it was worth it. parties, people, stories, friends. iZone photos are best for drunken portraits in low light.

it's amazing to me how large this city is and how little of it i've explored. it makes me feel okay that i'm still here. you think you know LA, but you really don't. no, there is diddy riese and her $1 ice cream sandwiches. there is the cemetary where marilyn monroe and truman capote lay peacefully. there is vibrant little tokyo and k-town where communities of people are always making noise. (saturday night, clomping on hardwood floors and karaoke bouncing off walls. sort of like a lip-synch party, but not really, not as cool.)

this boy i met, he told me i needed to get out of LA more. he's a new yorker, and he says LA folk don't leave the area where they call home, but i do. or, i am trying.

*

sometimes, i don't know what comes over me. this morning i almost cried in rite-aid. lisa and i were in line behind an old man. his pale yellow shirt was so thin it was tearing inbetween seems and had been mended with multi-colored thread. he couldn't hear well and his voice trembled, a combination that made communicating virtually impossible. the cashier didn't know how to respond, the people behind me were gawking, and i just wanted to hold his hand and take him home, wherever he belonged. he reminded me of my grandfather, and i almost began to cry.

my mom and i have these conversations once in a while. she'll say, "i miss tom," and i will respond, "i miss grandma," and that is all we say, because we need not say more than that. if we do, we will both make each other cry and we don't want that. we are both very sentimental.

*

whatever bit of christmas spirit i had last week has dissipated and been replaced with ennui. i need to write cards, wrap gifts, string lights, but they are all piled in the corner of my bedroom. i don't even know where my holiday music is hiding. we have a christmas-twig-in-a-pot ("it's a baby christmas tree," said lisa, but really, it's not) on our dining room table, and that is all. merry christmas.

Pants 12 December 2000

there was time to spare, so i decided to try on the velvet pants i saw the week before. "those are screaming your name," jo had told me on our lunch break. "really?" i asked, scrutinizing the silvery paisley.

"oh yeah."

"but where would i wear them?"

"to a party. or going out. or just for fun. they're so you."

i stared at myself in the mirror and tried to see it. i tried to see me--the life of a party, the hip chick at the bar, the funlovin' girl jo seemed to see when she held up those pants to my body. but i couldn't get over how ridiculous they looked. they were too short and too tight; it was as if somebody painted the paisley on my butt and thighs. actually, they reminded me of a pair of bellbottoms i think i had when i was 5--pants that my big brothers had worn when they were 5.

i handed them back to the girl and started to walk out of the fitting room when i was halted by another guy who worked there.

"so, how'd those work for you?"
"they didn't."
"well what are you shopping for?"
"i'm not. i was just looking."
"where would you have worn them to?"
"nowhere, really. i just thought i'd try them on."
"what was wrong with them?"
"they were just...they were too small...and they were short...but it's not like it matters because i was just trying them on for fun and--"

he stopped me and told me to stand back. take off your coat, he said, let me take a look at you. you are such a beautiful woman, and look at you. you've got that sweater tied around your waist and you're hiding in those loose fitting clothes. you should show that body off. you're so beautiful. come here, i want to show you something.

he made a beeline to the wall of suede, jackets and skirts and pants in soft, smooth silkiness. "now these," he hissed, holding up a pair of chocolate brown pants, "will show off that body of yours. you'll look so good they'll hate you."

"oh, i don't think so," i said, "they're not really me."

"but it's not about you. it's what the pants can do for you."

you will put them on and they will look so good, he said, and because you look so good, you'll feel good, and when you feel good, you will radiate, and people will notice. people will notice, and they will feel good, too.

so it's not what my pants do for me, i thought, it's what my pants do for the world. i can make the world a better place by buying $200 pants.

i didn't mean to, but i laughed in his face, and then quickly smiled and said no. thank you, but no, and i walked away before he could say anything else.

and then i bought the gray wool skirt i'd been eyeing. it hangs low on my hips and swings when i walk. the world might not become a better place, but i sure as hell feel good.

Space 09 December 2000

my feet are tired, but i feel wonderful. i am in my new apartment, and i am all alone. i'm sipping a big mug of coffee, listening to teenage fanclub on shuffle and ignoring the fortress of boxes that surrounds me. i am giddy -- overjoyed by things like discovering my paper cutting board doubles as a mouse pad, hanging my coats in a closet specifically alotted for them and stacking my cornflower dishes beside my marigold bowls on the kitchen counter. it's so good to be home.

now all i need is a christmas tree -- or a decent substitute (although, really, what is as good as the smell of pine?).

all of a sudden i am in the mood for the holidays. now that i have all this space i want to fill the kitchen with the smell of gingerbread cookies and brighten the living room with twinkly lights. i want to blast christmas carols, while i sit on the floor with wrapping paper and ribbons strewn in a mess around me. i want to cut out paper snowflakes and tape them to my window.

some people, they get really cranky around this time, but i love christmas. i love giving gifts and sending cards and singing falalalalalalala. i get merry.

(oh, wow. i just got really sad for a moment, thinking of the christmas two years ago, when we were at my grandparents house in the philippines. we played mahjong and painted watercolor postcards; we couldn't remember for the life of us what my true love gave to me; we let the poor children sing carols in our living room; we put a santa cap on grandpa and stood around him while he opened his gifts in the patio. i miss him. i miss everyone.)

they will try to ruin it. those who've had decorations up since the day after halloween, those who cut me off in the parking lot to steal my space, those who say that santa's not really real. but they couldn't bah humbug me even if they tried.

What do I know, anyway 08 December 2000

i followed the trail of taillights around the windy road, a path i travel twice a day, when the sun rises and sets again. when i moved here four months ago, i got lost along the same road, thrice. one of those times i was near the point of tears. i couldn't find my street, but i found the beach. it was so dark i thought i'd drive right off a cliff and into the ocean.

now i know how to get around. i know that if the cars are stopped at the bottom of the hill to make a quick u-turn and go the other way, otherwise it will take me 45 minutes just to get to the freeway. i know that if i'm going to leave early the next morning to park on the street and to get into the complex through the secret side gate. i know jenny will still pour me a cup of coffee when i realize i have no cash and the village dry cleaner owners won't charge me extra for packages because i ask them how their grandchildren are. i learned these things. i know.

but tonight was the last night i'd drive that path, and monday i take a new route to work.

new new new, everything is new again. it's exciting and exhausting all the same.

"if you are moving," david asked, "are you really (I mean really REALLY) going to want to move again (to NYC) in a year? because moving is a big hassle, right?"

maybe.

maybe not.

*

yesterday i got nostalgic for the way things were. before i moved to LA, before i discovered the web, before all of this was in my vocabulary. i wanted to be lying on the white shag rug on my bedroom floor, thumbing through sassy, imagining my name was on the masthead, pointing out everything i'd do differently.

dreams are lovelier when they are floating so high in the clouds you can barely recognize them. when they start to float down to your level -- or you begin to rise up to theirs -- you can actually see how complex and complicated they really are. and time. time starts chasing you while you keep chasing your dream.

how do you know when to pause and take a deep breath?

*

i just want you to know that i haven't stopped dreaming. i told you i'd meet you there. at the top of the empire state building when the sun is setting and the street lights are starting to glow. i promised you. i promised me. i know i'm a little late, but i'll be there. just in time to dance with you under the moon.

All girly girl 01 December 2000

it's like when i was 15, lying in bed at night, listening to everybody hurts on repeat, wiping tears on my pillow. i shut my door and prayed nobody would knock. i thought my world had ended. whatever it was -- a fight with mom, a broken heart, a bad grade, a lost earring -- a crisis was a crisis, and it was the end of the world.

the next morning, i slipped on my uniform, ate my bowl of fruit loops and lugged myself to school. by lunchtime, i was throwing tart n' tinys at katy, gawking at jeremy kocal and laughing so hard i nearly spit my rootbeer out my nose.

no, really. i'm fine.

*

i am wearing my loud skirt today. it's loud, figuratively and literally: it is a deep, dark, scarlet red and the techno-chino rustles when i walk. it makes me feel tall and pretty.

on thanksgiving, everyone said i'd lost weight, which is impossible, because i've been eating bacon every week in some form or another and drinking dr. pepper with all my meals. i'm getting no exercise, because i spend all my time in a car, on a freeway, en route to work, home, work and home again. i did not argue with them; normally they are telling me how i've gained some fat on my bones and how i should really wear more make-up. this time, i'd made extra effort to remember eyeliner and mousse in my hair. i have to remind myself to be a girl.

this is what my mom tells me: i should be wearing my other glasses, the ones that bend out of shape when someone hugs me too hard; i should blow dry my hair to give it more body; i should dress less casually and more like a career woman; i should marry a man from the east coast because they are so much nicer there; i should stand up straight, with my shoulders back and stomach in, and walk, no, glide, across a room.

but when i wear heels, i feel like i'm going to trip.

my mom would scoff at my appearance, but anything she'd say to me today couldn't knock me down. i am comfortable in my converse. i am fearless in this skirt. i am not hiding my face under a coat of foundation or mascara. i am every bit as much a girl i need to be.

Blue 30 November 2000

there are days like these: when i feel like crumpling myself into a ball and rolling under my bed. when i want to dive into a cup of hot chocolate and sink to the bottom of the ceramic floor. when i don't want to talk; i just want to listen. sing me a lullaby and i'll lie here, perfectly still, my head on your shoulder, my heart on your lap, drifting, drifting, drift--

things are happening. i'm thinking entirely too much, lately. i'm thinking so much, talking so much, asking so much, listening so much that i don't know what's what anymore. i don't know which are my thoughts or your thoughts or his thoughts or her thoughts. i don't know if what i believe is what i want to believe or what i'm supposed to believe or what i just do believe.

i used to believe things. they were like little marbles i'd keep in my pocket and i could just slip my hand inside and swirl them around and hear them tap-tap against each other and know, know what it all meant. but now.

this thinking, this feeling, this wondering it's wearing me out.

i want to be angry. it looks so much easier to be angry. shout at the top of your lungs, wave your arms in the air, slam a couple doors, break a few things and then storm the hell out of there and be done with it. goodbye, i hate you, goodbye. i want to be angry, but i'm just sad.

and it's not just one thing. don't think it's just one thing, because it's not. there's so much, and this is what scares me. it's settling, like dust on a shelf. i try to wipe it away, but it floats back into the air only to land in the same spot. things i haven't thought about in years, things i forgot ever happened, things i want to pretend don't exist. dealing with these. being adult about it. growing up already. i should, i really should, but.

not now. not tonight. tonight, i am going to stop talking. i am not going to think. i am not going to wonder. i am not even going to hope. whisper a sweet something in my ear and tell me it will be okay. tell me i'll be fine, and i will believe you.

On the move 29 November 2000

it hit me saturday morning, when i was driving through my old neighborhood, how much had changed. the hallmark store where i used to buy cards and wrapping paper now sells beauty supplies. my favorite haunt for soup and salad is now a steakhouse. even the art store, where i got a student discount on my supplies long after i was out of school, was closed. "didn't you know?" claudine said to me. "a plane crashed into it."

i imagined the textured paper and colored envelopes and buckets of pilot v ball pens exploding into the air, and frowned. "no, i didn't know that."

it made me feel old, kind of. like in the movies, when they come home for the holidays and walk into their dusty rooms and look at old photos and books sitting on the shelves. i pored through photo albums, sitting indian-style in the corner of my bedroom (we still call it my bedroom, although it's really not. it's the bedroom of a 12-year-old girl, frilly pillows and porcelain angels and all). i wished i had someone there with me to marvel at all the places i'd been, to point out the people who'd stepped in and out of my life, to laugh at my various stages and assure me i really had grown out of that.

instead, it was dinners and parties; hugs and kisses; chit-chat and tsis mis; playing catch-up on the past few weeks, months, years; aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and friends of friends.

when they asked me what was new with me, i said i was moving. their response was always, again?

yes, again, i said, with a bite of turkey, with a swig of beer, with a sip of champagne. i lived within a 5-mile radius for 20 years of my life, and now i can't stop moving.

like a leaf carried by the wind.

and this morning, i left my parents' house early to meet my roommate at our new place. i paid my first month's rent, picked up my keys and wandered some more around the neighborhood. we steam cleaned the blue carpet and bought a magnetic poetry calendar for the kitchen. blank crisp pages, shiny silver keys, fresh clean carpet. everything is new, again.

i'm so excited, she said.

me too.

i don't even know how long i'll stay. that's how i seem to operate these days. open-ended, open-minded, open-hearted. just waiting for signs, for answers, for anything.

the key, i think, is to be ready. also: strong packing tape.

Wanna come out and play? 22 November 2000

so there seems to be a lot of this going around. revamping, some call it. finding their voice. making a change, some kind of change, any kind of change, just because. well, i don't care what you call it. it's really not important. all that matters is we are here now. (and thank you, by the way, for coming. it's so nice to see you.)

more than a year ago, i had a vision of a pretty website and six colored squares.

it would be, i decided, my little spot on the web: a place filled with pieces of myself and words that left you feeling all warm and fuzzy. so i carefully arranged each piece and everything fit just right. it was neat.

but then i started to feel claustrophobic. everything fit so well that i didn't want to ever mess anything up. i wanted room to breathe. i needed room to scribble and be sloppy and silly. remember how fun it was to color outside of the lines? i loved my 64 box of crayolas with all my heart and dug deep into the paper until the tips of the crayons were flat and i could smell the wax on my fingers.

i want to play, again.

while volunteering at a hospital during high school, i came across a little girl who asked my friend to draw a picture for her.

"oh no," carrie said. "i can't draw."

the girl looked at her, puzzled, and replied: "you have hands, don't you?"

that always comes to mind when i realize i am getting too caught up in details, when i am getting so focused on doing things the right way that i end up doing things the safe and boring way--or end up doing nothing at all.

expression isn't about Their Way or holding back or being afraid. it's about letting go and shouting out and sharing whatever the hell you want to. i don't know about you, but that's why i'm here.