Not For All The Tea In China

I've realized I'm noticeably more sad in the morning than the evening. I'm not sure why. Strange, eh?

Today I'm working from home. People at my work work from home all the time. I often wonder if they're actually working or if they're doing what I'm doing, which is working while watching movies. Oh and blogging, but I already blog at work anyway.

New York in the summertime is gross. Don't ever let anyone convince you otherwise. I'm not going to waste time describing it. Just know it's gross and that dry heat is where it's at.

I've been thinking a lot lately about growing up, about what I should do when I finish school in December. I could stay in school another semester, I could work for a little while and go to grad school in the fall. I could go back to New York and work, or go to Europe and work, or move home to San Francisco and work. Also, I could stay in Utah and work, although I'd move to Salt Lake City. Or I could still serve a mission.

But the real dilemma is this: Do I want to be someone or do I want to be mediocre? I feel that if I move back home, I'll be taking the easy way out. I could work a cool job in San Francisco, but it probably wouldn't be with the BBC. If I moved to New York I'd be unhappy because I have to take the subway everywhere. If I moved to London or Paris, of course I'd be happy and doing something with my life--I'd be in Europe!

Do you see my predicament? I need to detach myself from that mindset, that I have to be somewhere other than a place I know to be somebody. I'll go where I should go, I guess.

Here's a personal revelation. My friends Trent and Phil and Joe have been staying with me the past few days since their sublet doesn't start til tomorrow. I've noticed though that I really like having a man around. Like REALLY. It feels natural. It feels right. It feels...scary. I'm not sure what it means, but I think it mostly just means I like having a man around. Nothing more. I think it also means I miss Dave, but my life is already less stressful not talking to him. I let myself get too stressed out with him. It wasn't good. This time not talking will be good.

Also, his myspace profile says he's from Bourgeois Bohemia. I've always wondered what this was, so I finally looked it up yesterday. The definition of the term bourgeois bohemians follows: "Often of the corporate upper-middle to upper class, they rarely oppose mainstream society, claim highly tolerant views of others, buy lots of expensive and exotic items, and believe American society to be meritocratic."

Too bad Dave's so cool.

Off to work!

I'm so tame in my old age.

I have six weeks left in New York starting today. Six weeks minus two hours from the time I started typing this.

I am not going to take my iPod off shuffle until I leave (This is a goal I will not complete). I'm on song 224 out of 5,150.

Tomorrow the iPhone comes out. Everyone at work is freaking out.

This weekend I am helping Trent, Joe and Phil move to their sublet Brooklyn. Then we are going to the beach so we're not so white (except for Phil because he's Asian). Then my friend Addie, who once stayed with my family as a French exchange student, is turning 26, and I'm going to her party which will probably be full of French people. She lives in Park Slope. It will be a day full of Brooklyn.

Wednesday is the 4th of July. We are seeing the New Pornographers for free. The Macy's fireworks are that night. They light over one million pounds of explosives. Anyone who knows me knows I am overjoyed with this prospect.

Friday the 6th, Fujiya & Miyagi and Ulrich Schnauss play for free.

Saturday morning I'm leaving in a 15-passenger van with 9 or 10 friends for Montauk where I will be camping on the beach until Sunday night. Meet me in Montauk.

The next Friday night I'm taking the train to Syracuse to see Marcus. I get to sit in the dining car and lounge, which must mean I have to wear a black sequined dress, white gloves that make me a modest woman, and a feathery hat. That night we're going camping near some waterfalls. The next day we're going to Palmyra for pageant. We're driving back to NYC the next night.

The weekend after that is Trent's birthday. He wants to go to Atlantic City. Maybe we will.

The weekend after that Sonic Youth plays in Brooklyn and Lani comes to town.

The weekend after that is my last weekend in New York.

The Tuesday after that is my last day of work, and I fly home Thursday.

I leave on my road trip home a few days after that. I'm going to ride bikes with my dad in Yosemite and go camping with my dog Kimba. (Phoebe could come too I guess, but she's small and doesn't like walking, so when she gets tired she just plops in the middle of the trail). I'm going to go to the beach. I'm going to do nothing. When I'm sick of being home (which is never possible) I'm going to drive down Highway 1 to LA where I'll visit Kevin and Cameron. Then I'll drive back to Utah.

My birthday is the 25th. I'll be 22. I'm having a Backyard Birthday Bash. More information to come.

I move back into my lovely home the 26th and 27th. School starts the 4th.

I've turned into a planner, you see.

Uncool Fool Can't Wait to Go Back to School

The worst part about life is waiting. Waiting until I'm tired enough to go to bed. Waiting until I become cool. Waiting for people to make decisions you know they should make. Waiting for the fiesta below my window to stop. Waiting to go back to Provo (from there I will be waiting to go where?)

I just watched Almost Famous. I don't know how I'd never seen that movie before. It basically affirmed for me what my parent's friends have told me for years: That I was born in the wrong decade. Here I am, almost 22, and my preferred listening format is vinyl. Rolling Stone is run by the man now (although the film purports it was back then too), and who tours on buses anymore? That age is over. But Lester Bangs said something interesting in that film. He said, "I'm always home. I'm uncool." Sometimes I feel this way, but I'm not always home so maybe it's not true.

I made a big decision last week. It was to stop talking to someone very important to me, at least for the rest of the summer. That was Tuesday night. The only day I haven't cried was Friday, but I am a born-again crier (I never used to cry until last August when I had an emotional and spiritual rebirth). The emotional repercussions vary. Most of the time I'm fine. I don't think I'm fine at all when I sleep, because he's been in my dreams every night since then. A) I never remember my dreams except until last Tuesday night, and B) I rarely have people in my dreams.

Josh came to visit this weekend. We saw a man sitting in a trashcan at Coney Island. He was serious about it.

I've lived in my new apartment since Wednesday and I haven't unpacked yet. I have six weeks left in New York, but all I can think about is August when I have 25 whole days to do nothing. It's not enough days. But I won't unpack. I guess I think it'll feel like I'm just on vacation if I don't unpack, like I just got here and I'm going right home. Nostalgia has always been a horrible disease to me. I am one of those people who should take a clue from Cinema Paradiso (great film if you haven't seen it) and never go home.

(One week left in June, four-and-a-half in July, one-and-a-half in August).

I have really great parents and really great friends.

(I think in parentheses).

I'm increasingly convinced that I will suffer from depression my entire life. Not severe depression, but mild after thoughts from when I was severely depressed a few years ago. It will surface at inopportune times, like while I'm making love once I'm married (One time it hit while I was making out with this boy a few summers ago. Luckily he loved me, so he only comforted me), or when I move to new places. I'm fairly sure I'll suffer from postpartum depression when I have kids (all the more reason to continue my plans to adopt), and despite my beliefs on the afterlife, I'll miss my parents, once they die, profusely. I don't think I'm special in any of this. Everyone goes through these things. Everyone has a hard time being away from the people they love. Everyone has had their heart broken. Everybody hurts, sometimes. (Yes! I did that thing).

But really. Since I've been back from California (I was only there for five days, for crying out loud), I've had a pain in my heart. I can't shake it. I'm on the verge of tears half the time, and I've started counting the weeks til I leave again. I did this when I first arrived in New York, but it stopped altogether probably two weeks afterward. I'm counting on that again. I don't like being unhappy in New York. I don't like being unhappy ever.

Today after my walk and nap in Central Park, I walked down 72nd to purchase a cupcake at my favorite cupcakery, Buttercup (it became my favorite today). A few storefronts down from Buttercup was a young girl, probably ten, who looked a lot like my old neighbor and best friend Jenny Wille when she was that age. The girl was playing some very sad melodies on her very sad-looking violin, with a pitiful glittered sign balancing precariously in her violin case. I had to hit the perfect angle because of all the glitter, but it read, "HELP PRESERVE THE RAINFOREST" in those horrible block letters all children are enamored with. (Block letters and bubble letters). Perhaps it was because I was already emotional, but my sunglass-covered eyes filled with tears as I placed a dollar deep in her violin case. There are few things as touching to me as 1: children being sincere, 2: people loving the Earth, 3: music, and 4: a sincere child playing a musical instrument on behalf of the Earth.

Today I found Gramercy Park near my work. It is so gorgeous, but you have to have a key to get inside. What good is a beautiful thing if people can't enjoy it, or if only rich people can enjoy it? Don't they enjoy enough already?

Last night I saw the film "Let's Get Lost," a documentary made in 1987 about Chet Baker. He is a different person to me now. Then I met up with my old friend Lauren from high school. She is so great. I really like that girl.

I have to go now. I want to finish writing, but I'll have to do it later.

Bye Bye Bye

The further I venture into adulthood, the more I realize boredom maximizes whatever personal problem I'm currently having.

For example, my last blog post I stressed about a guy. Warranted stressing, maybe, but being home was really the only thing that initiated it. Since I've been back, I'm completely okay about it. Everything I said: Nullified. We are just friends, after all. (But are we?)

Today I have a softball tournament instead of work. Sadly, I wore my cute new flats and not my scrubby old sneakers, automatically demoting myself to the position of heckler/Uno player.

Until going home this weekend, I can't remember the last time I was bored. I've developed a built-in time killer, i.e. looking for split ends on my hair. It's a horrible habit. It's like biting my nails. I've noticed, however, that I unconsciously start looking for split ends when I hang out with this certain person here in NY. It's not that bad though. I'm so busy, all the time, that being bored is a welcome diversion.

I could've written that much more eloquently.

I was hoping to find a salvation.

I have a slight hole in my heart today. I had the greatest day today. I went to SF and met up with my friend Matt. What a delight, this Matt is. We went to In N Out Burger. We went to the Sutro Bath ruins, my favorite spot in the entire city. We went to Ocean Beach. Then he drove me home. It was a delightful day, the best I can remember in ages. There hasn't been a single day, perhaps not even a single moment in New York that topped my day.

But then I came home. My mom wondered why I couldn't date someone like Matt because he is handsome and with it and has never veered too far from his beliefs. We went to my grandma's house which my aunt and uncle are currently preparing to sell. We laughed at a pair of shoes Papa altered: he must've needed to be three inches taller for a project, so he took a pair of Reeboks and nailed the soles to three-inch tall blocks of wood.

Then I got online and remembered someone who's supposed to miss me and who I'm supposed to miss. Sometimes I just don't know. I think, "You should just move on. Things would never really work out. It would be a potentially tumultuous life." Friends tell me, "You are too good for that. Don't sell yourself short." I'm blinded by potential. The highs are so high and the lows are so low. When really, the highs are not that high and the lows are too low. Maybe it's the distance. Maybe it's the fact I feign satisfaction in the present while hoping for future satisfaction that only taunts my heart and skews my logic and confuses my prayers, because really things would be so great if only. Maybe it's that a person cannot possibly love another when they hate themself. Maybe it's the fact we haven't heard the other's voice in a week.

I will always be second rate compared to her.

I'm going to chalk it up to fatigue. I'm jetlagged, my dogs wake me up at 7 am with their slobbers and affections, and my parents' blind racism and ignorant political statements strain me emotionally.

I have this fear that grows more intense each time I visit my parents. I'm fairly sure they won't like who I marry. At least, they won't have much in common with him. But I'm so afraid he and I will become ostracized from my family. That our opinions, which surely will conflict with theirs, will cause polarization between us. Last night we were at Emil's, our family restaurant for four generations. It was 10 pm, nearing closing time, and the service was understandably slow despite the clientele lag in the eatery. My uncle made a crack, "I'll bet the immigration officer came and cleared out the kitchen." "Haha," my other uncle chimed in. "Vamanos, muchachos!" My parents laughed heartily. Behind them was a Hispanic man, no doubt from Mexico, probably on his third job of the day, bussing a recently vacated table. He looked up when he heard this comment, watching them cackle in ignorance. I turned to my brother Michael, my one comisserator, and told him the sequence of events. He bowed his head in residual embarrassment.

Yesterday at Costco, my mom told me she didn't think my dad would like me getting the Planet Earth series on DVD for my birthday. I described the series to her, and she said, "I don't know. It sounds too Al Gore-ish."

"Tell her God's creation is not Al Gore-ish." That's what he said. How can I move on from someone who can whip that out?

I am so confused these days, but I've asked for too much help from the place I receive the most of it, without listening to His advice. My prayers are nullified by my stubborness.

Being in San Francisco today, at my favorite spot in the whole world, taught me something. New York and I speak the same language, but we speak two different dialects. I grew up speaking Bay Arean. San Franciscan and Berkeleyan. I can learn New York's language, but I'll never be a native speaker.

I have nine weeks left.