I'm full of it, but at least I'm full of something

I hate when people constantly talk about how busy they are, as if their filled agendas and mile-long to-do lists give them some sort of edge and excuse to go crazy. But I am going to be that person. In fact, I've been that person this whole semester.

For example, one of the hooks that holds up my shower curtain somehow ended up on the floor and every time I look at it I think, "I don't have time to pick that up." And it's been there since last Friday.

That's about all I am going to say right now. I will complain later about my crazy non-schedule, just a blur of people to meet and interview, pages to write, pages to edit, dogs to run, and friends that make me sit down and have a real, normal-paced conversation.

But I secretly like it. It makes me feel important. And staying up late makes me feel important. And waking up early makes me feel important. This is one of the reasons I want to live on a fishing boat. I can go to bed late telling stories about my tattoos and scars, then wake up early to make a weird breakfast and cast my lines. While everyone is on land, I feel so entitled to float on the water catching fish and eating it and bringing some home for people I like. Except when I do live on a boat, it'll probably be as a cook for the fishermen, because I'm not strong enough to strangle nets.

Don't ask how I had time to make this post.

A Mid-Production’s Quiet Leave

The venue Mysterium lived up to its name. Even in finding it on the dark streets of Orange was a conundrum. And once Theodore and I entered the Tarot and palm reading, Wicca and Reiki retail shop, I wish we had never found it. The people at the front were nice enough, and upon walking past the various spiritual healing books, past the Tarot reading rooms and then into the theater, I discovered the reason for their joy at our arrival. The theater, which was more of a back room, sat about 30 or 40 people and it was half-filled that Friday night. The audience members’ faces looked strained, confused, and unintentionally judgmental. They were watching the opening act: Puck, a gothic, Asian young man doing card tricks and jokes in a horrible British accent. And when people did not laugh, he actually said, “No? Not funny? Okay, maybe this one.” The best word I can use to describe it is “creepy”. And the creepiness continued throughout the mutilated rendition of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

The four Athenian lovers were dressed like those generic models on Target posters during August, advertising the latest white and navy back-to-school ensembles. Demetrius had a cast on his foot and a single crutch. He clacked around the stage while being chased by a very tall Helena. Peter Quince and his troop were not all male and were dressed as plumbers and construction workers and other blue-collar professionals. Thesseus and Hippolyta were dressed as a conventional king and queen, as normally as Mysterium’s budget could bear. And besides Puck’s gothic outfit, Oberon’s cheesy warrior outfit, and Titania’s rather revealing outfit, the fairies’ costumes were just the way you’d think a fairy might look, with just enough mysticism and imagination. This mixture of modern and traditional costumes was confusing. It did not add to the play at all and only enhanced the fact that this was a wobbly production. Luckily, it did its part to momentarily distract me from the across-the-board, poor and embarrassing performances, besides of that one 10-year-old girl who played that one fairy in those four scenes.

However unkind the acting was to my cheeks from my uncomfortable cringe, the only positive thing I can recall from the play was in the all of the actors’ performances: energy. Energy was in no way lacking from the stage. In fact, I think they stole my energy, because I walked away quite drained. Both Helena and Hermia were perfect examples of the enthusiasm, to which apparently the director made the cast pledge some sort of cult allegiance. Or maybe it was all of that Reiki they do. (Reiki, I found upon polite and deliberately nonjudgmental inquisition, is a Japanese, stress-reducer practice that moves healing energy through mental and physical massage.) Helena was out of breath as she ran after Demetrius, speaking her lines as quickly as she could. I appreciated Puck’s nimbleness as he jumped on the slide, stumbled on the swing, and hopped lightly after Oberon. But it was also very contrived. Everything Puck did was contrived.

Titania’s energy was a different kind. As if her odd, strips-of-lace costume was not racy enough, she had to act as if she just drank her third Irish Car Bomb the whole time she was on stage. She arched her back in weird ways, lifted her arms with wrists left limp and revealed more of her leg than I wanted Theodore to see. She said her lines as if she was approaching a hiccough and she made unprecedented eye contact with Oberon, Bottom, and me at one point. If she wanted her performance to be remembered, she succeeded.

The characters I did not mind coming onstage were the misfits practicing their play. These were the scenes I enjoyed most while reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream, so it is only logical for me to enjoy watching them. Yet, more than that, I think I enjoyed watching the crew in play rehearsal because I was pretending, and hoping, they were rehearsing to actually better their upcoming actual performances. For example, perhaps when Bottom, a big, annoying, clumsy boy, practiced Pyramus, he was unconsciously practicing Bottom. Rehearsal is where all the actors needed to be. I appreciated their energy; but I’m pretty sure they forgot that other actors were on stage. There were no connections.

Unfortunately, I have little material left to thrash. Theodore kept glancing at me during the first half and we would meet eyes and nod our knowing faces: intermission was our only hope. We were sitting next to another student from class and his friend and they also left before the second half could begin. I can only imagine how obvious it was that at least four of the fifteen audience members no longer sat in their seats. However, I do not believe the cast’s nor ushers’ spirits could have been brought down. They were positive, happy people and believed they were doing a superb job, down to the delayed jokes and Puck poking his head out from the backdrop to tell a confused audience that it was in fact intermission.

No, Mysterium’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream did not succeed in interpreting this colorful, Shakespearean play for the audience. In fact, it frightened me. The play is eerie enough with its meshing of two realms and characters with goals difficult to relate to, like vying for an Indian child or fighting a love poison’s strength. Then the hyper players added to its creepiness by trying to make every line sexy and to get through every line quickly. What was so bold was they never deterred from their enthusiasm. We were basically on the stage with them the room was so small and they could probably sense how uncomfortable we all were, or at least they could feel our lethargy, and yet continued on in their zestful fight to end the scene more quickly than the one before. And as an infidel in the audience, I was able to enjoy the play more as someone might have in Shakespeare’s time. I was not a passive, modern-day member who did not a thing to represent my disfavor for what was unfolding before me. I was actively sighing, whispering, and taking down rude, but witty, notes on each element of the poor production. They should be happy I had no tomatoes with me. I was so worked up over their raping this play of any of its worth and value I believe it holds that I was tempted to stop by one of the private rooms to get a first-hand relaxation Reiki experience. But we made the cowardly decision to bolt for the car and leave Puck’s accent and Titania’s drunkenness to torture the faithful and committed remaining souls.

This man and this woman and this man and this woman and this man and this woman

All I know is that this is a collective wedding held in Korea. People from all over the world came to participate, although half of one couple participated a bit passively. Lucky guy.

This just reminds me of the marriage rush of people my age. I don't exactly understand if it's a trend that people follow, a mass of weddings must mean it is the right thing to do. So go for it. Or maybe it's because these young men and women don't know what else to do with their lives. Do they have no career goals? Nothing they want to do in the prime of their lives? I have a hundred things I want to do before I'm married. Granted, most things you can do single are things you can do married. But it's not the same. And I must concede that there are very many young couples in their early 20s who are ready to get married. My sister was one of them. She was 21 when she married her husband and both of them were ready. They had been dating for more than six years and they were just in the right place. And I can now report their marriage is nothing but bliss and cotton candy and pink muffin ponies. And an occasional bit of reality.

The top picture scares me. It's a good image of the graduating class of a Christian liberal arts college during any given year.

Some are ready. Some are not. My three readers, do not get married unless you can stay awake at your own wedding.

Breaky breaky

After my first testing Oct. 2008

Marker

Please look at my eye. For those who do not believe me that my eye is a lazy bastard, here is the proof. While my leg kicks ass, my eye is not very competent.

Hello friends. I broke my first board today. I am quite proud of myself. Although my instructor gave me a hard time for not hitting it in the middle, I think it just shows how off-center I really am. I am now an Orange Belt and testing for Orange Senior next week. Perhaps afterwards I will take another intimidating picture. Two thumbs up.

I got my first bruise from sparring a couple weeks ago. And I would have documented it but by the time I thought of it, the black and blue had faded.

A small addition slightly political and actually opinionated. After all, the title of my blog is À Mon Avis, which means "in my opinion" in French.

Before every class we recite the tenants of Tae Kwon Do:

COURTESY, INTEGRITY, PERSEVERANCE, SELF-CONTROL, INDOMITABLE SPIRIT. Then we quote the Tae Kwon Do Student Oath:

I shall observe the tenants of Taekwondo.

I shall respect my instructors and senior students.

I shall never misuse Taekwondo.

I shall be a champion of freedom and justice.

I shall build a more peaceful world.

SIR.

I, as a faithful Taekwondo student, observe the entirety of this five-part oath, even the last one. I strive to build a more peaceful world through my No. 3 leg sidekicks, No. 3 leg front kicks, No. 2 leg spin sidekicks, spear hands, ridge hands, and No. 1 leg double rounds. Ergo, I anticipate to be up for next year's Nobel Peace Prize. I have been doing this longer than a few weeks. I'll try to be more symbolic, to represent something more than myself, to be eloquent and use my hand gestures sparingly. I will even try to bring the Olympics to Costa Mesa, CA for 2018.

YES I CAN.

Ireland

This is my best friend. She draws and paints, and talent she's got.

A cone, a collar, a few inches taller

I moved back with my parents recently. Oh joy, you say. But actually, there are many benefits to living with your parents, especially ones like mine: a stay-at-home mother who cooks like Emril and a dry-humored father who rolls his eyes at everything, especially that damn espresso that is just never good enough.

First of all, I think my mother actually enjoys doing laundry, because every two weeks she offers to clean my clothes and even stops me from leaving the house so she can "press my blouse." (I would have just said iron my shirt, but she's a classy broad.) Second, my father is quite fancy. He loves going out to dinners, nice dinners, which is a perk for me and whichever friend I have over at the time. There is not a restaurant in Orange County that he hasn't visited. And every time he lets them know exactly what he thought of the experience. I keep telling him he needs to create a Yelp account, but he doesn't listen. He's too busy drinking wine and watching 24, Law and Order, Monk, or one of the hundreds of DVDs he owns. But my most favorite are the conversations my mother has, either with me, my dad, or herself. She is such a hoot. You should meet her.

She's good at offering perspective on all matters. My dog has mites. Apparently, according to the vet, all dogs have mites but Padme's are concentrated in a certain area, which has resulted in a chewed off, Australia cut-out on her ass. We got all the pills, medicinal baths, and, yes, Elizabethan, cone collar (pictured above). Our other dog, Phoebe, who is such a Q-tip, really hates the collar. I don't think Padme really notices when she has it on. She's just really confused at why she can't chew more of her fur to resemble a larger continent. But the Phebester notices. Normally the two of them play tug of war and all that and get along great. But with the collar, Phoebe becomes a maniac. Pad is just jumping around like everything's normal, and Phoebe freaks out, gnashing her teeth and the whole bit. We had just broken up a rumble between the dogs and my mother and I were in the kitchen when she, in all seriousness, empathized with the fluffy Phoebe:

"Well, I can understand. I wouldn't want to play with someone who had that on their head either."

I love my mom.

(Padme's patch is not shown. She is embarrassed and wishes not to reveal her lower half to the public until the hair has grown back. She's not Britney.)

Mystics and Graveyards and Beautiful Music

I had such an eventful weekend. Sexual harassment in Long Beach. Worst rendition of A Midsummer Night's Dream at a Tarrot/Palm-reading, spiritual-healing, Wicca and Reiki retail, energy and mystic shop. All-nighter at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery to see Bon Iver at sunrise. Donald Miller talk in Irvine...I like that man.

I could go on about the Shakespeare play, but I won't. Just know that we left at intermission. And that the girls were all a little slutty, and the actress who played Titania seemed kind of drunk.

The Bon Iver concert was the coolest event I've ever been to. We got there at midnight. Hundreds of us spread out blankets with drinks and food and weed smoke wafting over us every ten minutes. Personally, I just ate too many Twizzlers and Carmel Apple Pops. We watched Bottle Rocket, some of Planet Earth, listened to some good random music. Free coffee served all morning. A half hour before the show started Buddhist monks blessed the stage through chanting and offering. Then 6 a.m., Bon Iver played. It was amazing.

You know when you're at an event like this and everyone knows it's the coolest thing but no one wants to say it out loud? While everyone was standing in line, people whispered to their friends "this is so cool." But not too loudly of course, because it's cool to not comment about what's cool. Act like it's the norm.

But the first to say it was Justin Vernon himself:

"Thanks for making this the coolest thing ever."

Bon Iver is one of the only bands that are even better live than on their CD. I knew almost every song but they were all a little bit different than the recorded versions. All a little revamped in some way. It was a great show.

Really Appalling

Rite Aid seemed like a perfectly safe place for Cynthy to pick up her ear ointment. And dressing up in skirts for our lunch didn't seem too ominous of a decision.

I'm standing there in the aisle a bit awkwardly because, as much fun as it is to wear four-inch heels, I am quite visibly uncomfortable when I dress up in something more than jeans and a neutral-colored shirt.

I see a man, white, 30s, sunglasses, shorts and t-shirt, limping towards me. He's not limping because he's hurt, but because he has something on his foot that's about to fall off. It looks like an upside down, orange iPod. He walks really close to me and so, out of instinct, I close my legs and walk away.

Cynthy goes to check out and I whisper to her.

"That guy has something on his foot."

"What is it?" she asks.

"I don't know. I really don't know. But he got all close to me and put his foot by my foot and, I don't know, I think it's a camera."

"What do you mean?"

"Like he was trying to look up my skirt or something."

"No. Really?"

"I don't know. That's what it seemed like. Look. That guy. Look at his foot," I say as he walks past us.

"Yeah. That's a camera phone."

"Oh my god."

Cynthy is next in line and the guy gets behind me. I cross my legs, scoot away from him, and look at his face. He is exhaling a long breath while looking up nervously. I walk out of the store.

Cynthy comes out and meets up with me.

"Is he still in there?" I ask.

"Yeah. He did the same thing to me. He went like this," she says, sliding her foot directly under me.

"Oh my god."

"So I pulled away and gave him this dirty look."

"Did you say anything?"

"No."

"Do you think he's still in there?"

"I don't know."

"Should we go in there and say something to him?"

"Like what?" she says.

"I don't know. Like, hey pervert, or something. And tell him off. I don't know."

"Well, we don't know if he was really doing that."

"I know. What if we were wrong?"

"That'd be pretty bad."

So we walk away.

Obviously looking back, I realized that was in fact what he was doing. I was just so shocked in the moment I didn't think to report him, yell at him, step on his foot and break his phone, or even simply ask what the hell was so precariously attached to his foot. I wish I did something, said something.

I still can't really get over it. There are so many perverts and freaks out there.

I fell asleep around 2 a.m. with the incident still on my mind. Fifteen minutes later, I woke up from a loud ringing. I checked my phone and I didn't have any missed calls or anything, but something woke me up. Something was telling me to pray for that man. It was a difficult thing to do.

So Serious

Girl With a Patch

If you are standing to the left side of me I probably will not notice your pretty face. Keep in mind that I do care, for I do not wish to ignore you, my dear reader. I do not wish to shun you. The fault is not mine; it is not my mother’s; it is not my father’s; it is not my father’s parents’, who died before I was born; it is not my mother’s legalistic parents’ on a farm in South Bend, Indiana. The fault is no one’s, in fact. Just a pure genetic coincidence, if you believe in coincidence and chance and the like. Just a sometimes noticeable, always laughable, never lived-without-it kind of handicap: my legally blind left eye.

My mother did have this physical fault, but I do not blame her. It would be like blaming her for my tiny mouth, which takes about three bites of a sandwich to equal any person’s one chomp. My sweet mother did what she could for my baby self. I went to an optical therapist, something you probably did not know existed. What I remember of the office lobby was like any unimportant and forgotten doctor’s office: impeccably clean yet un-matching furniture, corners cluttered with Highlights magazines, a seemingly ubiquitous toy with winding rods and imprisoned beads. In the examination room, the kind, fat lady asked me to tell her which was better, one or two. I swung my five-year-old legs, whacking her expensive equipment. And in return I was given a patch. A black, pirate-looking patch.

Cool. My mother and I wondered how making me the kid with the patch, the kid you did not make fun of because she is just too pitiful and suffers enough humiliation within the first five minutes of leaving her house, would help reverse my lazy eyeball. Of course, without the patch, if I looked you in the eyes, in your perfectly straight, forward-looking eyes, you would notice my left eye veering towards my nose. That’s humiliating enough. But the patch does not cover it up; it draws much more attention to it. Fortunately, the optical therapist did not insist on any public wearing of the patch. I was only meant to wear the thing over my right eye for a couple hours a day playing Legos in the privacy of my own home. Relief.

This, however, did not suffice. We kept at my patch-wearing Lego-play for about a year to no avail. My blind eye remained. I wore glasses for most of my life; so I was the kid with glasses, not at all a unique characteristic. But if I removed said glasses, my left eye would throw his hands in the air, give up, and become so lazy he just had to check out what my right eye was doing, which was diligently fulfilling his innate duties of seeing whatever my brain told him to see. At times my fellow conversationalist, out of honest sincerity, would look over his or her shoulder and ask to whom I was talking or at what was I looking. And of course there were the snickers. One year a jr. high boy circled my yearbook picture and wrote “Cross Eyed Girl.” How lovely of him. But the handful of rude remarks has not been the downside.

This handicap has actually rid me of any depth perception. Team sports were always out of the question. I was stuck with things like gymnastics, cheerleading, piano, and kickboxing. The one year I tried playing on a soccer team, I was so bad the team mom had to run alongside me in games to help me out. For future reference, do not try and toss me something most people can catch, things like keys, pens, or remote controls. I also had to take a separate and more complicated driving test to get my license, although I sometimes think I should not be allowed to drive at all based on previous minor but very annoying car accidents that I do not wish to discuss.

I am the girl with the blind eye. If anything happens to my good eye, I would be the girl with the cane and seeing-eye dog. I had fright a year ago when my right eye was infected and I was quite blind for three days. Although reading books is such a big part of my life, I do not think it would be the end of the world if I became blind; thank the Lord for Louis Braille. I just hope no one would ever try to pull a Wait Until Dark. Never mess with a blind Audrey Hepburn or Hannah Petrak.