Just to appease

My blog has been dying and I apologize. Not only am I realizing that being out of school does not necessarily mean being out of constant nagging, tedious Post-it note making, late nights, long days, and times when I think, "This is the busiest I've ever been," although that is never really the case...except for that one time I said it when I really was the busiest I had ever been, which is impossible to measure. No. Another reason I have neglected what I guess is called "A Mon Avis" is because I have become bitterly aware that some human beings actually read this thing and so now am self-conscious of what I write/share/reveal/detail. Even if it's nothing personal, I'll get insecure, thinking, "Someone will judge me for writing about ear wax." So I stop.

Pictures are always a joy to view, however. So here are some of my favorite recent shots...unedited...only because I hate taking the time to sit messing with color and contrast and brightness. And I feel like a liar when I do.

Another note: I will be doing quite a bit of traveling this month. So know that my excuse for not updating is valid.

An Eye Con

A few shots from my graduation present.

Who knows sign language?

At the party I managed to force my fake smile and grab people’s arms to mimic a coherent and present person, someone who actually wanted to be there. My head was mushy with rich polenta when Ellen called me over to pose in front of the camera that was set up in front of a white backdrop. I realized how sick I was when Ellen wrapped her lanky arm around my throat and I almost vomited at the cue of the flash.

The next day, Sunday, I stayed in bed and skipped the shift I volunteered to cover because I knew I couldn’t stand in front of a cash register for eight hours with an entirely congested head. Even a week later after my nose and throat had basically drained, my ear had not. I couldn’t hear a damn thing on the right side. Then a few days after that, the congestion moved to my left.

Casually mentioning my loss of hearing to a classmate, she scared me.

“You have to go to the doctor right away, Hannah.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, that’s not good.”

I hate doctors, not because I think he or she will grab my shoulder in a mere “hello” and linger to stroke a discovered bump, then pivot me to look in my eyes and say, “We need to do some tests.” I just hate the hassle. Plus, I didn’t want to pay a $10 co-pay just to hear, “Okay, well your ears are clogged. You just need to pour Hydrogen Peroxide in them,” which I had already been doing, holding in the liquid and swishing it around until I heard the snap-crackle-pop. It didn’t work. I was going deaf.

Apparently the strip mall across from school had what I needed—not the Mexican restaurant or Thai restaurant or video store—but it was Natural Healing, a massage/botox/ear candling/waxing/tanning make-shift parlor with a front desk, a couple rooms, and before and after photos scattered around to convince you that toxic protein injections will give you a better after shot. (I had recently written a 10-minute play where one character stops another from getting Botox done, but I really knew nothing about the procedure.) Having no idea Botox was common enough to be done in a massage parlor, I was skeptical of the whole place.

But I already made my appointment. I had scanned ear candles and put them in customers’ bags before; but I have never been brave enough to have a stick of fire blazing from the side of my head. I laid on my side where Tanya pointed as she scurried out the door, leaving it open for anyone to see vulnerable me. She returned and left again, each time bringing in supplies. She layered thin cloth over my shoulders and gave me a pillow to hug.

“Don’t move. Don’t fall asleep. In your sleep you move.”

“OK.”

She went to the counter and still hadn’t shut the door.

“Uh, don’t you want to close the door? Uh, are you going to close the door?”

“Yes, yes. Just sit still.”

She was mad at me, I think, for talking.

After dimming the lights and putting on the appropriate unmelodic music, Tanya shut the door and spoke to me. I told her in the lobby that I couldn’t hear out of my left ear. Since my right ear was currently muffled by the pillow I was laying on and my left was, well, clogged, I nodded and said, “Yeah, uh-huh” a lot during the whole process. It didn’t help that she spoke quickly and in a strong Vietnamese accent…and that her face never moved into any readable expressions. I’m thinking she indulged in a little injection every now and again.

With the long candle stuck through a paper plate to catch the wax, she slid the thing into my ear. I thought she said, “Is that OK?” So I replied, “Yeah, uh-huh.” If she wasn’t asking that, then she was just all-around rude.

She lit the wick and the warmth was nearing my face. Every 20 seconds or so, Tanya snipped off a piece of the candle and the fire blazed higher while hot wax was inches from my skin, separated only by flimsy paper. I started falling asleep. But I forced myself to stay awake and still, even with the woman massaging my head with her fingertips. After the first ear, I turned over and was able to watch the whole process for the second one by the shadow on the wall. (During the first ear, I had no idea what she was doing. For all I knew she was casting a spell and lighting a cigarette on my candle.)

When we were done, she opened up the remaining wax to me and looked at my face.

“Oh, more than normal person.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, that a lot. That a lot.”

“Sorry.”

She cleaned the outsides of my ears with a Q-tip and sort of pushed me out the door.

I could hear a little better, but not entirely. The only significant change was throughout the rest of the day, certain smells reminded me of my ears that normally wouldn't: paper plates, lighting a cigarette, and Bath and Body Works.

He's a regular friend to the animals

Well, the venue was neat

The matching little riding hoods were the first things to tip me off: this was going to be an ostentatious show.

There were also some hints in the Walt Disney Concert Hall's lobby, though. Urban Outfitters models in black-framed glasses, unnecessary scarfs, flat ballerina shoes, American Apparel t-shirts, skinny jeans with zippers leading to no where, plaid button-ups, and swooping hair cuts milled passed Theodore and me as we drank our $14 half-bottle of water. The most embarrassing part is that we blended right in.

We found our seats in one of the curves of the building. (This place turned out to be the sexiest structure I have ever seen. If you have a chance, buy tickets for one of the events just to see this building. And before you go, read "The Fountainhead," for good measure. Crazy architecture kind of blows my mind.) Most of the people in the crowd were of the hip kind, ergo in their 20s, ergo showing up 20 minutes late, ergo not knowing how to hold themselves while the L.A. Philharmonic opened for the Dirty Projectors. Eventually everyone learned to watch the conductor's hands for the appropriate moment to applause.

The Philharmonic was obviously marvelous, but truthfully my attention was wandering toward the sexy ceiling and sexy walls. (Really, you have to see this place.) Then, since the seats are circled around the stage, I was able to look at all the hip kids while they enjoyed the music. These are some of the thought bubbles I put over their heads: "Hm, this is cool. I really should come to the symphony more. It would make a great status update." and "Wow, this is boring. But I have to say I like it because if I don't, my friends won't think I'm groovy."

After intermission came the riding hoods: grey, blue, yellow, and red. How cute. How old are those little girls any way? They look 12 to me. The band played an entire album with some of the Philharmonic; it was an album that only sold something like 10 copies. Now, I'm not a music person by any means. I don't get it, and most of the time music just annoys me. But I know what I like and I know what I don't like; and I know what people are supposed to like because it's just too damn cool to stand up in a big concert hall singing about kangaroos while matching your three best buds: "Ooooooo, ahhhhh, oooooo, oh, oh, ahhhh."

The sad thing is that I like the Dirty Projectors. But I have only heard their Bitte Orca album, which is still bizarre. Yes, he sings about Gatorade hittin the spot oh yeah; but those songs have an actual melody that I can follow. When the music stops in the echoing concert hall and the 20 people on stage are trying to clap at the same time in a slow rhythm, and the audience can't stand up to try to get into the music because the seats were hugging the sexy walls, I start to look over at Theodore and nod my head while he imitates a kangaroo dancing to the music--that would have saved the show.

What I like to think about when going to shows is, who are these people that got suckered into doing this on stage? Not the leads. But the backup. Who is this first-string violinist who said, "Sure, I'll play with you guys."

As she is running out the door in the morning she yells up to her husband, "Honey, I'm going to be late tonight. I have a show, then I'm playing with some kids who want to include some of the best musicians in the world to do their backup!"

He peeks his head down, "Was that that crazy rock jiggy you were playing last night?"

"Yes. But at least I'm not the French Horn. Those guys have to blow in bottles."

It's true. Some of the wind instruments picked up glass bottles and blue into them during one of the songs.

"Hey the show is about to start. Can you finish drinking my instrument?"

It really was such a pleasure to watch two grown men bend over to their shared microphone, their back fat showing through nicely chosen shirts for the occasion. That part was worth it.

After this stressful (hour? 2 hours? I don't know) of dissonant chords and overused percussion, Theodore and I bolted out of there. Luckily we waited toward the back to see if we knew any of their songs in their encore. Finally, 2 songs that I've heard of! That part was actually enjoyable, I'll have you know. Dave Longstreth really has a magnificent voice, and is a damned good guitarist. (He's even a lefty: unique.) Those two songs were completely worth that lovely amount of money I don't want to think about right now. We could understand his lyrics and could kind of sing a long to it. People still weren't moving though. The seats were pretty restricting, so watching the band up there was still a bit awkward. At least we walked out of there with a familiar tune in our heads.

I think Theodore summed it up best while we were driving home: "Call me crazy, but people like music they can relate to."

Yell

I am ashamed to admit that I have been doing it wrong this entire time. My intimidation. My power. Exhaling air from my lungs. Are there really a right and a wrong way to do this? Yes, apparently. And I've been going two years yelling like a fool.

In Taekwondo, it is called the "ki-up" (spelling?). You ki-up on certain strikes and blocks, in an arcade game way that makes your white uniform and colored belt look more legit. Adding that extra "ahh!" in there can do wonders for your confidence and appearance of your form.

Except when you ki-up wrong.

When I was first taught the meaning and purpose of the ki-up, I had already heard my old roommate practicing her forms and one-steps with her own unique ki-up included. I just thought hers was the way to go. When I said my first ki-up, it was uncomfortable, embarrassing even. But I still thought you were supposed to say "ki-up!!" really loudly. Apparently that is not the case.

Recently, I went to a beginners class to make up an absence. The instructor was explaining the ki-up to the white belts. It is a Korean word that means "yell". Wait, what? I'm not supposed to say ki-up? Ki-up is just another word, not an exclamation? No, my dear.

What I've been doing, screaming ki-up at particular strikes, is the same as screaming in English, "YELL!"

Example:

"Everyone yell for the new president!"

"YELLLLLLLLLLL!!!!"

Or another:

"Let's cheer for the basketball team!"

"CHEEEEEERRRRRRR!"

Does everyone see why I should be humiliated?

I changed my ki-up right away, but every time I do it (now it sounds more like "haaagghhh") I laugh out loud, complete nullifying any intimidation I was planning to arouse.

Perhaps I will just go back to the "ki-up". I'm more comfortable with it. And maybe the judges will be more lenient on me during testing because they will think I am special.

NOTE: I am almost positive that you are not supposed to actually say "ki-up". When the instructor was explaining it in that beginners class, I was too ashamed to ask, especially since I was the highest belt in there. My Taekwondo reader, please enlighten me.

Collaborate and Listen, my glory angels

Everyone needs to stop and think about what makes them feel on top of the world. Think about those moments where you feel like you've been put on this planet for a damn purpose, those small victories that are pretty shallow but still make you king for a day or a week or a month.

These are what I call glory moments.

To be perfectly honest, most of my glory moments are school related. While many people just slide by in a school project, I really remember the hours I spent on a Power Point presentation, all the thought I put into a literary theory website, and the real creativity I put into a presentation on "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao" where we created a life-sized comic book narrative. Every time I get an A I think, "My goodness, I am amazing."

I have other glory moments, most of them include all eyes on Hannah. Giving a good speech is a quite glorious feeling. And lordy, when I noticed I had 14 followers on this blog I thought I must be a goddess. (Even though half of them I think I forced or cleverly manipulated into following me. "It's easy. Just push the follow button. Everyone's doing it.") But one of my favorite glory moments was actually something I did not want to share with my parents, even though most of everyone else was invited.

Two years ago I did a play called "Stop Kiss" at the community college I was attending. It's about two girls who fall in love with each other. It's a good play, even though pretty cheesy at some points; but I made it work because I was feeling pretty glorious. And I am a very good actor. Everyone says so. Except my parents, because they didn't come. I told them, "Hey guys, I love you. But I kiss a girl in this play. And in one scene I don't wear pants. I don't want you to come." They supported me by not showing up, bless them.

Today I came upon my script for that lesbian play. I do this thing where I like to relive my glory moments. I really hope I'm not the only one who does this, because that would be kind of embarrassing. For instance, I have this paper I wrote that the professor loved. Sometimes I will reread that paper and her glory filled comment at the end. I tell myself I do it because it's good to reassess how you're doing on your writing and see how far you've come, see if you've improved at all. But really it's just because I like the feeling of being approved of. Anyway, today I relived the glory of being the lead in a play (and doing a damn good job, if I may say so) by acting out my lines alone in my room. It was a private 20 minute rendition of "Stop Kiss."

I don't like when I post things like this just to keep this updated and then end up humiliating myself. Why the hell did I feel the need to broadcast my love for Celine Dion or my six-hour obsession with a crossword puzzle?

Although, telling you about my rereading a play that I did two years ago has meaning, and it is two-fold. One, I miss acting and I'd give a kidney to be able to do a play right now. Two, I think people are too humble sometimes. I'm not saying you've got to be haughty and proud and throw yourself a parade for every victory and goal scored. And I'm really not saying you need to brag in a way where you're trying to look subtle but you really just come off as an ass. But maybe sometimes you just need to give yourself a little more credit when you do a good job. Everyone's got their talents. A lot of people are just afraid to vocalize them.

Snapshots of my Christmas break

Best friend photo shoot

Best friend photo shoot

Best friend photo shoot

Best friend photo shoot

My other dog who has problems

Elaborate Christmas breakfast

Pad's first Christmas. She didn't eat

the wrapping paper and I was so proud.

Christmas morning

My first trifle

Hosting a Christmas feast

(Drawing by Theodore Tarantino)

Taking advantage of Theodore's

orange zesting skills, and his

ability to look candid for a photo

A tic for me, a tac for you

Joseph Heller frustrated me sometimes

with his back and forth contradictions;

but I'd still recommend this book because

I laughed and wanted to be Yossarian's friend.

I only take recommendations of

books seriously if I trust the

person and if they convince me.

Although I love my sister, telling

me to read Twilight because it's

about unquenchable love doesn't cut it.

Apparently, according to chapter 2,

Sedaris took up smoking and it rid

him of his tics for the most part.

I took up smoking for a while, but then

realized I was doing it to be cool.

I stopped after three weeks when

coughing became a regular thing for me.

Catch-22 was interesting. Took me long enough to finish. Funny, contradictory, ingenious, stressful. I'm glad I read it, but even more glad I finished it because now I can move on to the mountain of books that I received for Christmas.

After finishing the first season of Curb Your Enthusiasm (Theodore and I started it only a couple days ago), I began reading David Sedaris' Naked.

(Side note: I don't always do nothing all day. I had plans: picnic in Long Beach with best friend, then work, then hang with Theodore. But then I tried this experiment yesterday. I really hate cashiering. I do. It's probably the worst job for me, besides clothes retail because I can barely dress myself. So I'm trying this new thing to force myself to be happy at work and then trick myself into being happier overall. I heard that the healthiest people are always the happiest ones, to which I said, "Well, of course they're happy. They're healthy for fuck's sake." But apparently it's the other way around. The studies go that they're healthy because they are happy. I started thinking, for instance, about Julia Child. She ate so much rich food all the time and she lived until she was 95 or something like that. From what I can tell from the movie Julie and Julia, she was a pretty happy woman who had passions and was excited about life. I thought maybe that was the solution to a long and healthy life. I did an okay job yesterday at forcing myself to be happy ringing up rude costumers, one in particular that threw things at me, wore sunglasses inside and had the smallest breasts I've ever seen. But my contrived joy did not work. Oddly enough, I woke up sick this morning, the first time since March I think. So today, I played Bananagrams and Scrabble with my mom, finished my book, and started another. And curled up in a ball for an hour. I am not lazy. I am sick. Okay, you didn't have to read that. It was just so you don't think less of me.)

Naked is kind of a memoir of David Sedaris' life. A friend recommended it to me and it's fantastic. I just finished reading the chapter on his "plague of tics" and it got me thinking about my own.

How could such a normal girl like myself have tics, you ask? Oh, you are so presumptuous. Although my tics may have been self-induced for attention seeking reasons, they had been and are currently quite serious and are not to be taken lightly.

I used to have to count ceiling tiles and I thought that was so cool. I thought I was so cool and artistic to have such a tic where I would sit down in a movie theater with friends and I would automatically look up to assess the squares and patterns of right angles. Then I realized that a lot of people have tics like that, counting things and such. And since I'm no rain man, I gave that one up because I didn't want any smart ass to grab me, flash a jar of M&Ms in my face and make me tell him the exact number.

I don't know why I wanted a tic so bad to be honest. I guess it was the same reason I got jealous when a kid broke his arm and came to school in a cast. Everyone would ask him what happened and he'd get to talk about himself all day. I never broke a bone, because I was chicken and didn't climb trees or walls or anything then. Tics seemed like the perfect solution. Just get a weird, unique one and people will think you're special and different and eccentric. All the good artists were eccentric.

I can't remember the other tics I went through until I landed on one that stuck. What is so fantastic about this one is that it wasn't forced at all. It birthed itself on its own, right there. Out of a tragedy came a beautiful, individualistic quality I can call my own.

As many know, I am legally blind in my left eye, which has given to my sometimes cross-eyed appearance and my always lack of depth perception. During the first nine months of having my license, I was in three car accidents, all of which were my fault and all of which were due to my inability to determine the distance between my car and another. They were minor, and the emotional damages were always deeper than physical. I have never been in a car accident since, and I like to think that my safe driving is all thanks to my tic.

Now while driving, I constantly gauge myself with four important checkups: is my gear in drive? (which is weird because I'm driving forward) in my E-break down? (done that one too many times) is my gas tank closed? (even if I haven't gotten gas in a week) and is my rearview mirror in alignment with my rear window? (weird because I'm the only one who drives my car)

I do these things about every 10 minutes. It's not that big of a deal when I'm just driving to school or to work. But up to Erin's, kind of annoying. Down to Elle's, irritating. When I used to drive to LA twice a week, a nightmare.

But now that I have this thing I can't give it up. And not because I can brag about, because I don't, I am slightly more mature than I was in elementary school. I can't give it up because I believe deep down that those regular surveys are what keep me in one piece.

I hate driving. Since I don't like listening to music that much and I can only take so much of Rush's exclamations, I'd rather walk every where. Some day, I shall live in a city where I sit next to strange people on the metro and accidentally sit in gum and complain to my roommate about public transit, but she will be too busy calculating gas prices and car insurance since she doesn't have my tic and just got into an accident because she was driving in reverse for 15 minutes and had no idea.

Celine and Me

Although Destiny's Child's "The Writing on

the Wall" was the first cd I bought, "Let's

Talk About Love" was the one I worshipped.

She's so crazy; I love her.

Disclosing this kind of information is probably not the wisest, especially given the certain wideness of this world web. But it was the only thing I could think of to write. (I was going to write about my latest obsession with the show "Ghost Hunters" and how Theodore and I watched it until one in the a.m. on Christmas Eve and how I couldn't sleep after that and swore I heard a thumping that was from anything but a living human being. But I didn't not want to freak myself out again.)

Alas, I will share a secret of mine and you cannot judge me. Here it goes: I have 5 Celine Dion cds, and I know most of the lyrics. There. I said it. If you knew only that about me you'd probably consider me a lonely girl who waits in lines for Celine tickets and makes t-shirts saying "I love you Celine, BECAUSE YOU LOVED ME." But I am not that girl, let me assure you. My affinity for Celine Dion is not my fault.

It all started when I was about 10 years old. A woman from my church happened to be involved in one of Celine's concerts at the Staple Center. Celine, being the compassionate performer that she is, wanted to include a bunch of mindless children during one of her songs. They were to stand in this lame ass semicircle and sing background for the song "Love is on the Way" from her album "Let's Talk About Love." The woman from my church picked the children she thought were the most talented I guess, plus the pastor's daughter because, well, it was just a nice subtle way to give a nod to the big guy upstairs. Most of the girls my age were picked. My best friend, Brittany, was picked. My sister and I, however, did not make the cut.

Elle was disappointed. She wanted to stand in a semicircle with Celine Dion, too! I, however, was devastated. I convinced my mom to buy me the album, then I sat in my room, and memorized "Love is on the Way." What a beautiful song that was. I cried. I was a regular pathetic weepy girl who longed for a little bit of glory, a little bit of bragging rights to my friends from school. Maybe I no longer would be that odd, freakishly skinny girl with the glasses and short boy hair. Maybe I would be, "Hannah, the singer."

But I learned that I was not a singer. I was wonderful at performing the songs, smiling in the right places, clenching my heart when the lyrics were sad. And that was about all I could do. Singing was as foreign to me as doing a pull-up. No one told me, though, so I continued to believe I was great. Even when I auditioned for the 6th grade showcase a couple years later and didn't make it with my rendition of Celine's "Because You Loved Me", I did not think it was because my practicing with a wooden spoon did not pay off. I thought that it was because I was not one of the cool kids or something, or because they really had run out of room like the music teacher said. I even took singing lessons from the woman who was also my piano teacher, and then she encouraged me to stick with piano after I performed Christina Aguilera's "Genie in a Bottle" at my last recital. I thought it was only because piano came a lot easier to me and she thought I would be a real prodigy. Then I thought she told me to stop singing because she was old and couldn't relate to Christina's sexy song.

There is something about singing that is so attractive to a girl. Maybe because when a woman with a beautiful voice stands up to sing, all her physical flaws seem to melt away and people get goose-bumps. When I would be in a crowd at a recital, or in church, or at a competition or something and a girl with a pretty voice sang, people in the audience would whisper to each other, "She's so good. What a lovely girl." I guess I wanted that. (Luckily I found other ways of getting attention, like the drama team, Comedy Sportz team, junk like that. People laughed. And I eventually forgot about singing.) But it did not change the fact that before I got to high school, I had purchased all of Celine's albums from 1993 to 2002 and listened to them constantly. I had no good music mentor. My parents let me listen to Ricky Martin, Destiny's Child, Celine Dion, and the Hansons. What rubbish that was. And what rubbish it is that I still like it.

And that is the story of how I came to own (and like) 5 cherished Celine Dion cds. That is why I stop to sing along when I'm at work and "It's all coming back to me now" or "Misled" come on. I am unashamed.

I really am a sucker for a good pop song every once in a while. Today at work Miley Cirus' "Party in the USA" came on and I had to sing along. Not only because it is such a moving, deep, and powerful song, but because it is the only thing that wakes me up at 4 in the morning on deadline weekend.