pieces of grace

It’s that time of year again. It’s freezing in your house (think 60 degrees Fahrenheit), and your mother refuses to turn on the heater due to exorbitant fees. Meanwhile, you can’t feel your fingers or toes and will surely drop dead at any moment. But not to worry. You’re not alone. I am here to commiserate with you, and being a sufferer of extremely bad blood circulation myself,  my years of experience have given me enough expertise to offer a few tips (Ok, so not really, but this is what I do, and if you want to try it too, that’s cool).

1) Dress in layers. Preferably a long undershirt of some kind (if you don’t have one, ask your mom. She probably does), but a tight tank top that blocks out the cold air can also be quite helpful. Next stack on one or two layers of long-sleeve shirts, or a one long-sleeve shirt and a sweater (or, if you’re daring, two layers and then a sweater). If you’re still cold, add a winter coat jacket. Yes, you will feel ridiculous  looking like an inflated marshmallow in your own house, but trust me, it works wonders. Slippers are a must, as socks really aren’t quite enough to keep your feet warm. If this still isn’t enough for you because you just have an abnormally low resistance to cold like me, wear a warm scarf.  An absolute last resort is mittens. If you are still cold, continue down the list.

2) Run your hands repeatedly under the faucet with scorching hot water. Do this with caution, obviously, as you don’t want to burn yourself (and be careful about desensitizing yourself after sticking your hands under for long periods of time), but doing this a couple of times will definitely help you stay warm. Putting your hands to your cheek immediately after will be especially rewarding.

3) An equally effective alternative is drinking something hot. Even if it’s something as simple as hot water, just fill the cup with boiling water and sit with your hands around it for a couple minutes and when it’s cooled down enough, take some nice, deep sips. Other good options are tea and hot chocolate.

4) Shut yourself in a room with a bunch of computers on, preferably at least two desktops. Just keep the door closed and the room will gradually become very insulated. Not a very quick way to get warm, but if you stay in the room for the most of the day, you are guaranteed to stay quite warm.

5) Wrap yourself in an electric blanket and turn it up to the highest degree of heat. Apply to whichever section of your body is the coldest. If your upper body is more prone to coldness, wrap it around your shoulders like a shawl. If it’s your legs and feet that are more sensitive, just cover them constantly with the blanket. If you are fortunate enough to have two electric blankets, that’s definitely a double win.

If none of these are enough for you, start begging and moaning about how cold it is. Or write posts like this one so your parents will feel bad enough that they’ll want to turn on the heater out of shame. I’ll admit that we’ve all given in at various points, but for now I can say rather cheerfully that I am wearing 3 layers and wrapped in an electric blanket sitting in a room full of computers with no heater on. While my feet are still quite cold, I can at least feel my hands, and that is certainly something to be thankful for. Welcome to the holiday season.

“Let me explain…No, there is too much. Let me sum up.”

- Inigo Montoya, The Princess Bride

My last SAT test this morning was commemorated by a power outage. That’s pretty much all you need to know. I suppose I could tell you more, like how I very nearly missed the test, on account of the fact that none of the alarm clocks in our house are battery-based. Or I could try to express the sense of urgency I felt when my mother woke me up and I glanced accusingly at the clock, only to see a blank screen. Perhaps it would be more insightful for you all to hear my belief that God saved me, performing a grand miracle through my father, who usually lacks a bit of common sense. I could explain to you the once-in-a-lifetime genius act that my father performed last night when he decided, by a sudden flash of divine wisdom, to set up an alarm on his watch just in case a power outage occurred. And maybe, just maybe, you’d be intrigued to hear that despite this most despairing of circumstances,  I rejoiced silently as I brushed my teeth in the yellow gleam of a flashlight. I like to imagine that you’d want to hear about this particular hardship (a difficult task, indeed, as the darkness only added to the visually-impaired blur I am accustomed to seeing before I put on contacts). It is quite possible that you’d be interested in everything I have to say on this close shave. Maybe you thought that, for once, I wouldn’t be that long-winded and verbose – that I would be able to sum up. But I can’t.

In the midst of trying to copy some 20 pages of a test prep book double-sided, I casually turned on the TV. I was confronted with a rather intriguing scene: about 50 girls on the verge of nervous breakdowns with Tyra Banks injecting as much suspense as possible into the words, “The next name I will to call is…” I guess the music helped too.

I’ve always been curious about America’s Next Top Model, just as I am curious about Gossip Girl, Project Runway, Heroes, and the long list of TV shows that capture millions of teens my age – the shows that I would explore if I actually had the time. Let’s just say half an hour of ANTM was enough for me. I found the entire thing rather amusing, though that’s hardly surprising, since I find everything amusing. I did find myself enjoying about half of it, though. The other half was covered by disgust at myself for actually enjoying the horror that was unfolding on TV.

For one thing, this new “Cycle 11,” is unique in that it included a transgendered woman named Isis. Obviously this led to much controversy and already some pretty catty remarks from the rest of the contestants. Anyway, I’d love to rant more, but I really need to get back to being productive, so I will just list some of my favorite quotations. And remember, these were all in the space of about 30 minutes (20 if you subtract commercials). Imagine how much I could compile in an hour.

1. The various forms of “OHMYGODD”s from the newly announced contestants.

2. “Hi, my name is ShaRan, and I AM America’s Next Top Model.” (continues to repeat this to every judge who looks at her weirdly)

3. Nigel: “So what in your opinion is the difference between a beauty queen and America’s Next Top Model?”

Sharan: “Well, a beauty queen is like save the world, love world peace, you know?”

4. From the one Asian contestant: “YEAHHHH ASIIANN” “YELLOW FEVER REPRESENT!!!” (at least that’s what the subtitles said)

5. About the transgendered contestant: “I just feel weird knowing that she’s different down there, you know?”

6. To the transgendered contestant: “You’re like a butterfly, being reborn.”

7. The mass giggling and screaming that would ensue every time a message from Tyra appeared and the words “Love, Tyra” were read.

8. Paulina (apparently some really famous model): “So if you were at a shoot, and a photographer requested to have sexual relations with you, what would you do?”

Interviewee: “Walk over, kick him hard right in the balls, and walk away.”

*camera pans over to Paulina’s shocked lock*

9. Nigel: So who is your favorite photographer?

Interviewee: *giggles nervously*

Nigel: Ok, confidence is key here.

Interviewee (continues to giggle nervously. then finally catches her breath and says): YOU. *more nervous giggling that is incredibly awkward to watch*

10. And my all-time favorite. (The girls were supposed to each model according to a political issue theme. Like immigration, or health care, or environment)

“I have to represent bureaucracy, but I don’t really know what that is.”

To other contestant: “Hey, do you know what bureaucracy means?”

Contestant: “I know, but I’m not going to tell you.” *smiles seductively*

Bureaucracy girl to camera: Okay, that girl needs to chill.

Alright one more…

Girl whose photo theme is Environment: “I don’t get how all this background environmental stuff is supposed to help people get out and vote.”

EXACTLY.

To quote a seemingly innocent Ellen Page seeking revenge against pedophiles in the movie Hard Candy, it is, indeed, time to wake up. Well, for me, anyway. In a mere 4 days, I shall be embarking upon the miserable journey (or so I’ve heard) of a first-semester senior. And I’m not exactly looking forward to being overwhelmed by a slew of schoolwork, exhausting extracurriculars, and, of course, the biggie: college applications. Someone recently asked me how come I haven’t burned out yet in all these years of high school, and I guess the answer is I’m kind of burning out right now, at a most inopportune time. But in all honesty, I am feeling a little lost in the whole college application process. There seem to be a lot of opportunities, but, then again, compared to all the competitive genius kids my age (of which there are millions), my accomplishments (which seem to be diminishing daily by closer inspection) don’t seem quite enough. Not that I ever really thought they would be enough. Right now I’m just worried about a lot of things, primarily the essays, since I’m not a particularly strong writer (just ask my English teachers). But really, what can I do? Now isn’t the time to try working on my literary skills, though I do know it’s relatively early on in the actual application process. Since playtime is now officially over, it’s time for me to stop trying my poor attempts at humor on this blog and focus on the stuff I should be focusing on. So forgive me if you don’t hear from me within the next 3 months (that’s rather unlikely, though, since I get ideas and want to write them right away). Before I take my indefinite leave of absence, though, I have two last anecdotes to share, which I decided were not good enough to be entries on their own.

“A Rant on Those Ghetto Asian Shopkeepers Who Pretend They Don’t Have A Restroom of Any Kind” (aka Yet Another Bathroom Story)

I recently paid an exclusive visit to the Asian parts of Los Angeles. I asked my dad why LA didn’t have a Chinatown. (every time we go somewhere, we always pay a visit to that city’s very own Chinatown) My dad answered that the area we were in was basically shaped like a bell, and that was the LA Chinatown. Aka LA doesn’t need one because it’s already flooded with the Chinese population. Reaching our favorite 99 Ranch plaza, I was disappointed to find that the big Asian department store there had been closed down for remodeling. But I needn’t worry. My mother had already done the research 2 weeks before and found a cute Korean-esque boutique across the street for me. We made our way across the back of the plaza to a sketchy-looking area and entered the store. Not long after, I was plagued by nature’s calling and quickly rushed to the one employee at the cashier, asking if there was a bathroom.

Me (attempting to be casual, but really not good at hiding the urgency in my voice): “Hey, is there a bathroom here?”

Girl: “No, sorry, we don’t have one.”

Me (catching a glimpse of a bathroom right behind her that says Private): “Oh…okay, well, where’s the nearest bathroom?”

Girl: “Oh, we don’t have one in this area, so you’ll probably have to go across the street.”

What lies. There was clearly a bathroom in that store, and there were probably a lot of other ones in the surrounding ghetto shops. I mean, are you really asking me to believe that these sketchy shopkeepers didn’t have their own need to fulfill bodily functions in the middle of the day? Seeing as they can’t exactly leave their shop, where else would they have to go? I was rather furious with her at this point and wanted to say, “You might as well let me go here since there is a very strong possibility that I will buy clothing from you.” Fortunately, I controlled my tongue and walked across the street. The first stop was Tapioca Express. I rushed in and, to my delight, found a bathroom after boldly pacing across the cafe, trying to ignore the many stares that soon came my way. I restrained the urge to jump up and scream for victory when I saw Women sign on the door, but then…I noticed another sign that read, “Please ask for key.” So here it was, a sign that was clearly meant for those people like me, who walk into Tapioca for the sole purpose of using their bathroom. It was such a clever ploy to make us feel guilty that it succeeded with me. I was too embarrassed to walk up to the counter and ask for the key when it was quite apparently that I was not a paying customer. Sorely disappointed, I stalked out of Tapioca and tried my luck at Nubi, a new froyo place that’s to Socal as Yogurtland is to Norcal. And though I had to wait because there was only one bathroom in the entire store, and then deal with the disgusting cigarette smell from the previous user, I managed to succeed. Though hardly triumphantly.

“Idiomatically Challenged”

While I have spent all my years in the US and am a very firm American citizen, I still struggle with the English language – particularly in the idiom department. For example, I failed to understand “just what the doctor ordered.” My most notable incident this year was when we were supposed to write a parody of Pope’s “Rape of the Lock” and the prompt instructed us to create our own “tempest in a teapot.” Like the stupid, idiomatically-challenged idiot I am, I thought that the “tempest in a teapot” part was our prompt and was ready to literally write about a storm in a teacup until my friend (poor girl) was confused by my interpretation and proceeded to ask the teacher for clarification (thankfully none of this happened in class). My English teacher couldn’t help laughing at my idiocy, but nicely explained that “tempest in a teapot” was an idiom. I was incredibly embarrassed and made the casual remark that I seem to have difficulty with idioms, to which my teacher replied: “Grace, were you born in America?” I glanced up at her face, sure she was joking, but no, she was deadly serious. And I had to humbly admit that, yes, I was a full-blood citizen and have lived here all my life. Needless to say, I left her room rather deflated – was I that bad that she actually had question my years of learning English? That’s probably an overreaction, but still, this incident made it official: I am strongly idiomatically challenged (along with being vertically challenged and all that good stuff).

I think I pretty much fulfill every Chinese-American/Asian stereotype there is to fulfill. Over-academically conscious, major fob (see previous post), cheap and stingy, and last but not least, a conspirator in the crime of piracy. I only became truly aware of this tragic fact when recently a woman commented on the cuteness of my purse, and my automatic response was “It’s fake.” Realizing that this reply would spur the start of a conversation I would rather not get into, I bit my tongue at the absolute last second and restrained myself, coming up with a plain-old “Thanks,” though I’m sure the whole fake purse conversation would have been much more entertaining.

As I reflected on my naturally ingrained tendency to confess to piracy, I began to recognize just how far into piracy I am. My house is cluttered with pirated Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Fendi, and Lesporsac. I even have a pirated Pres shirt. To make a long story short, I purchased $5 shirts from the boys’ section in Wal-Mart and got them embroidered in Taiwan. You can tell the difference if you look very closely because the model for the P and the panther paw were both hurriedly sketched by my father, who – let’s be honest here – isn’t that great at making replicas of the real thing. Also, the fact that the buttons for my shirts are on the opposite side (a characteristic difference between boys’ and girls’ polo shirts that I discovered too late) gives me away.

Sadly, I am shameless when it comes to pirated goods and am honestly such a hack for them – though they do make for the best jokes. I guess I’m kind of a hypocrite that way. This was only reinforced by my parents’ recent trip to LA, where they came back with DVDs of quite a few movies still in theaters, such as Wanted, Hancock, and Kung Fu Panda. I groaned at the very sight of them, especially since they came in a $5 for 20 movies deal. Sure enough, each of the pirated movies were bad, filmed-in-the-theater-type quality, and, alas, the best action sequences in Wanted were blocked by an unwitting audience member who had a sudden burning desire to rush to the bathroom. As such, my father was highly upset when all he could see was 1/3 of the screen. Ah, the beauty of piracy.

In all my years of experience with my grandmother, I never would have expected this of her. Admittedly, I have not spent a lot of time with her, but the only TV program that I ever saw capture her attention for a significant amount of time was the ballet Swan Lake on the Arts and Music channel. Yes, the image of Prince Siegfried dancing haphazardly in a dark blue sheet will forever be ingrained in my mind (he was supposed to be drowning, but that fact never registered with me, a 7 yr old. And honestly, the directors could have tried to come up with something better). Oh, and she’s been a long-time fan of Clint Eastwood, so I guess anything by him would have held her to her seat as well.

I recently helped my grandmother move into her new assisted living apartment, as she is now 93 years old. Since she usually just watches TV all day, I settled her down with the remote control as I read a book and my father and aunt handled all the logistics of moving in. Surprisingly, she didn’t seem to enjoy anything on TV, as she continuously flipped channels (and I mean continuously, as in going back and forth through the same series of cable channels at least three times) and fiddled with the volume. I was disappointed in her lack of attention, particularly since I had specially set the channel to an old Chinese guy speaking with great passion. Eventually, she just turned the volume down and started reading something else.

Yesterday, however, I was eating dinner in my grandmother’s apartment room and was most intrigued when I witnessed her come across Gossip Girl and fail to change the channel even once. At first, I thought it was merely because she was talking to my dad at the moment, but no, she continued to watch Serena make out with a guy (excuse my lack of knowledge of the show – the only thing I know is that Blake Lively is Serena and that Taylor Momsen, who used to be cute in Spy Kids and How the Grinch Stole Christmas, now looks like she’s 20). I watched as Serena suggest that she and her making out partner go somewhere more “private” – most understandable, since they were pushed up against a stairwell at their high school. Now, my grandma doesn’t speak English nor does she hear very well, so I could excuse her for the privacy suggestion by Serena. But she can see quite well, and the fact that there was only excessive making out on the screen made me more than a little suspicious. I proceeded to leave for about 20 minutes or so to watch Spider-Man with by brother in the lounge area and returned to find her even more engrossed in Gossip Girl. Instead of Serena making out this time, I found myself face to face with a guy at a party trying to lick some candy off another girl’s tongue in a most suggestive way. I was sure my grandma had fallen asleep, but no, I turned around, incredulous, to find her smiling and apparently riveted by Gossip Girl. It was obvious that she was enjoying herself. My parents, on the other hand, had nothing much to say. In short, this little incident brought me disgust, shock, and vast amusement, but most of all, I gained a valuable piece of knowledge: I now know what to get my grandma for her 94th birthday. So Gossip Girl Season 1 DVD, here we go.

I’ll admit it. I’m a straight-up fob. When it’s time for me to look at the camera, my eyes will crinkle up into a slant (though not as slant as Disney Mulan’s eyes, which NO ASIAN has) and I’ll lift up two fingers in the spirit of being fobby. I love Pearl Tea, indulge in strangely exotic and disgusting-sounding foods like pig ears, pig tongue, orange fish, and squid (oh, they are amazing), and will go crazy over the latest Korean soap opera (which I haven’t had any time for lately…but once summer rolls around, Sweet 18 here I come again). I love Jay Chou (only certain songs, of course…his latest album is not worthy of my praise at all), JJ Lin, and other random Chinese songs that my parents discover through Taiwan Idol (which has had 3 seasons over the span of 2 years…Asians don’t seem to understand that “seasons” means you actually take a hiatus of some sort before starting again). Just today, I couldn’t resist singing a JJ Lin song over and over again, which earned me a variety of wary and annoyed glances my way. (Actually, I think that’s pretty normal, so…errr…probably more about me than my fobbiness) Well, my brother will probably disown me for this since he hates fobs, but I actually love being a fob. I embrace fobbiness – particularly when it’s parodied by Russell Peters, UCLA’s Fobman, and, of course, Wong Fu Productions. So all you out there should watch out, because this fob is going to town.

I think that failed pretty sufficiently. Anyhow, APs, up-coming finals, massive loads of homework and projects have weighed my brain down over the past 2 months and have sapped what little creativity I had out of me. Not to mention the fact that it’s 12:50 AM, and it feels like summer.

So here is my planned summer movie list:

1. Forgetting Sarah Marshall

2. Made of Honor

3. Prince Caspian

4. Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

5. Incredible Hulk

6. Baby Mama

7. DARK KNIGHT

I saved the best for last.

yes, i know the title makes it sound like i’m some sort of child abuser/pedophile. but i assure you i’m far from it. just because i adore babies and toddlers and want to hug them all the time does not make me a child molester.

today at church (interesting things never fail to happen to me at church) we were celebrating the retirement of an elder, and so naturally there was this huge farewell ceremony with a mass amount of (what else) food. that’s all everyone was staying for – you could tell, because by the third prayer in Cantonese/Mandarin/English everyone was already talking loudly and showing no respect (okay, so what if it was me?).

i always manage to pile up food on my plate because i want to eat everything and end up only eating about a third because i’m just not hungry enough. so i dove for the barbecue pork puns, carrots with spinach dip, little sandwiches, and – the best food on earth – fruit. unfortunately, there were no room for grapes or strawberries because i had grabbed about three BBQ pork puns and now had to hold them pressed to the plate in order to prevent my lunch from falling to the ground and being crushed by all the Asian people rushing to get food.

pushing my way through the horde of people, i decided to be brave and try to find a place to sit down and eat. i thought i found the perfect place and burst into the room, jubilant, only to find a room full of little toddlers and their mothers, each staring at me as though they didn’t know what to do with the giant Chinese girl who had just stormed their party. awkwardly backing out, i found another quiet, small room where there was a lone table in the center. i decided to walk in cautiously this time, for fear of storming yet another little-kid party. and lo and behold, i find myself in the midst of two young boys, eating their food and coincidentally (or not so coincidentally) glaring at me. and this is how the conversation went.

kid #1: You can’t be here. This is an all-boys’ room.

kid #2: Yeah, no girls allowed.

me: I understand that, but I need a place to put my food.

kid #1: Okay, we understand. (now he was a mature fellow)

me: And don’t eat my food. *glares at kids suspiciously* Okay?

*kids eye each other as though they’re sharing a conspiracy*

kids: Okay.

And so I left very quickly to gather together a plate of fruit. I was quite worried about the huge plate of food I had left behind with the kids, and therefore only managed to compile a plate of grapes and tomatoes, as the strawberries were on the other side of the room. needless to say, i was highly disappointed, since strawberries are only the best fruit in the world. but weighing the costs and benefits, losing an entire plate of food to kids less than 10 yrs old provided greater harms than the benefits of a couple strawberries.

For these reasons, I returned almost immediately after satisfying my fruit fetish. I was surprised and yet delighted to find that my plate of food had gone untouched.

(after setting down my second plate of fruit and starting on the first)

kid #2: You can go away now.

me: Sorry, I don’t take orders from 10-yr-old kids.

kid #1: He’s not 10-yrs-old. He’s less than 10-yrs-old. (he seemed to take pride in this fact)

me: Oh, well then, even better.

kid #2: I never respect my elders, except my sister. She’s scary.

me: That’s no good. You should respect your elders.  I can tell your parents about that. (the biggie threat; perhaps a little too mean)

kid #2: Sorry, I don’t take orders from weird people.

me: Too bad, because that would include yourself.

kid #2 knew he had lost at this point and proceeded to kick my Bible, which was next to my purse, creating a domino effect. so technically he kicked both my Bible and my purse.  I decided I should leave as soon as possible, because I’m pretty nonviolent and would definitely not win a fistfight with this kid, due to my complete lack of upper arm strength (or just body strength in general).

me: Thanks for kicking my Bible. I can tell your parents about this.

and that was the end of my verbal sparring. I wonder if one day that kid will grow up to own me. He looked like he had potential, anyway. But I have my drawbacks, because I shudder to think what will happen to him if he responds violently every time he loses a bantering war.

and indeed I shall. For my English teacher has required me to try my hand at poetry creation for one of my journal entries, as part of AP Poetry this semester.

My parody of Shakespeare’s Sonnet #18:

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art sweatier and more disgusting:

Fetid smells do reach the rancid straws of hay

And summer’s lease hath all too long a date

Oftentimes too hot the fires of hell do whine

And I thank the Lord that his horrid hairs are finally trimmed;

And though sometimes the aberrations in your face decline

By chance or nature’s course, for the light of the sun has dimmed;

But thy relentless summer shall not fade

Nor lose possession of that beast thou ow’st

Nor shall life brag thou wand’rest in her shade

For your hideous face is enough to scare her away

So long as men can attempt to hold their noses when you walk by,

So long can I endure your presence, or at least I can try

Right, so it’s not exactly that original, but whatever – it’s a parody. I’m especially proud of those last two lines, though. I felt an obligation to make them somewhat as good as Shakespeare’s, whose rhymed couplets at the end never fail to impress me (for about 2 seconds, but nonetheless they impress me). and let me just put this out there: i would love to say this to one individual in particular; too bad I’m not allowed to. but I do dream of saying/doing something, like maybe while I’m performing my dance, one of my bobby pins will somehow detach itself from all the other crap in my hair and “accidentally” fly out, magically and perfectly hitting her square in the eye.