Somebunny Loves Me

I blame Stephanie. At least, I want to blame her and all her time spent helping the elderly. Recently she announced she wanted to try cross-stitch so she "could have something to do with her hands."

"Oh no," I thought to myself. This is where it starts -- the early-bird specials, night gowns, false teeth. But a few days later we found ourselves in a fabric store purchasing some beginner cross-stitches. I made every effort to resist stubbornly clenching my book as she stitched away. Alas, my impatient hands got the best of me. My sewing beast was unleashed and two days later, I have tiny needle punctures in my thumb. I've filled out the green grassy areas and am nearly done with the pink heart in my "somebunny loves you" cross-stitch pattern.

It completely satisfies my obsessive compulsive tendencies. I imagine aristocratic women of yore filling their days with this activity and it leads me to wonder what came first, cross stitch or OCD?

What it does afford me is the opportunity to be present. Not all of us desire cross-stich, but subconsciously, we all crave the experience of being in the moment. And strangely, for the past few days I've been bombarded with this message that somebunny, somewhere, loves me. So Thanks Stephanie, dammit.

Night Shift

I've been working a lot of long nights lately. I'm sleep deprived and I have the munchies when I'm sitting on long conference calls. My job involves a lot of "encouragement" - getting people to communicate about technical issues and fix problems in a timely manner. Sometimes, the lack of communication is exasperating and I wonder what my cohorts' personal lives are like. After all, if they aren't communicating during half their lives at work are they so different at home? Perhaps when we interview people for their jobs we should also interview their spouses or partners. Well, it could be a disaster but wouldn't it be entertaining?

So I guess with all my frustration and tiredness it is not such a stretch that I would be fantasizing about winning the lottery. I even went so far as to buy a ticket this week - something I have NEVER done, but heck, my 1 in 200million chance is just as good as the next person.

What would I do with an exorbitant wad of cash? Well, after quitting my job, paying off the house, and doling out some nice gifts to our families, I would start tackling some more eccentric things on my life list and winning the lottery would certainly afford me more opportunity to fulfill those dreams. How much does it cost to see earth from space? Right now none of it seems as important as a soft cozy bed. And as crazy as it sounds, I am also thinking about nuts. How did one decide to eat a nut? They aren't attractive. They are deceptively tasty in spite of their outer appearance. It took one risky (or very hungry) person to try a nut. I've never craved a nut but if they are sitting in front of me I will eat one after the other relishing their hearty flavor.

When I am not so tired I would like to be that person who tried the nut (or asparagus, or seaweed). I don't need to win the lottery to take some risks. Though, I reserve the right to buy a ticket now or then.

The Wardrobe's Short Story Contest

I submitted the following short story to a local contest (less than 1000 words). The theme had to do with fashion and how an article of clothing has inspired you. Okay, I am NOT a fashion-ista but I thought, what the heck, it would be good practice writing.

"ISLAND FRIEND"

I have never been one to pay much attention to my attire outside of what is necessary for business or occasion, but fashion is perhaps deeper than on the surface. It is a sign of our times and something whose meaning is formed in one’s sub-consciousness from an early age. Being first generation, my parents had different thoughts about what was important. Going through grammar school, clothing was merely functional and outfits were changed only if they needed washing, so I was constantly wavering between fitting in and making do. From my formative years, I never quite developed any fashion sense, or perhaps even fashion common-sense, until the following experience.

I arrived in Sacramento via a job transfer from Texas armed with (1) clothes for work and (2) an assortment of t-shirts, shorts, and jeans for casual wear. Around this time I befriended a family of Polynesians – a tight knit laid-back bunch. Having never been to Hawaii, I was immediately attracted to what was exotic – from taro to pigeon English. I was particularly close to Pua, who was closest to my age. She was a little thing and relative to me, on the other end of the fashion scale, piecing together a stylish and unique statement.

In this part of the story enters a faded round-neck lime green t-shirt. It was from REI and had little tribal figures printed across the chest. It was soft, comfortable, and in the deep recesses of my mind, very Islander. I was set! We passed the months together and my impressionable self was starting to speak Pigeon.

One weekend in the early summer, Pua and I went shopping at the Galleria. I needed new tops and she graciously offered to help me. We perused the usual stores trying on different things but I didn’t end up buying anything. Near the end part of our journey we arrived at a sporting good store to look for bathing suits. I was in my comfort zone distracted at a rack of summer sale t-shirts. I happily flipped through the hangers finding t-shirts with palm tree prints, surfing logos. I sallied forth to the fitting room. When I decided on the one I wanted I stepped out to show Pua.

In history, patience and silence has won battles. Pua did not say anything but she had a look of concern in her eyes that teetered close to horror.

“NO,” she finally concluded.
“What – what’s wrong with it?” I questioned pressing my face downward to inspect my newly donned light green t-shirt.
Silence…
“You need to pick another color,” she finally replied.
“What’s wrong with the color, Pua?” I whined, “I look good in this color, the shirt I had on earlier is…”

And then it dawned on me.

“You don’t like my t-shirt?”
“It’s not that I don’t like it,” she started slowly, “It’s just that…you wear it…a lot.”

A light bulb went off on in my head. Once or twice a week I would do my laundry and in would go my lime green t-shirt. One or twice a week Pua and I would meet up for dinner, hanging out, or a movie and coincidentally, out would come my lime green t-shirt. This had been going on for many months.

I was embarrassed and a little hurt.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Sue-babes (this was my islander nick-name), I just didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“But that’s my favorite t-shirt,” I explained,
“I KNOW,” she retorted.

And then, I started laughing. I buckled over in that store and laughed until I was crying. I could not believe her restraint. I could not believe she had gone out with me in public night after night enduring my green t-shirt. Little by little her story came out. She would come to pick me up or vice versa and every time she would be silently thinking, “Oh man, please don’t let sue-babes be wearing that t-shirt.”

Pua joined in my laughing. We would stop for a minute, sigh, and then bust up laughing again. It turned out my beloved t-shirt was far from Polynesian. The little tribal figures were Kokopelli, from the Southwest. Not that it mattered as my t-shirt had worn out its welcome long ago. The t-shirt lived out its days as sleepwear, but long after its life had ended, it has stayed with me as an endless source of giggling. I was lucky to find a friend who could see past my one t-shirt and still love and accept me, all the while patiently opening me to try something new. Of course, I still have made many mistakes, such as my pique polo era, but that is a different story.

Networking

Aaaaahhhhh! I'm already losing steam on this project. I feel myself waning...thinking about the blog and then distracting myself with something else. Like training for my half marathon, which was this past weekend. I've run half marathons before and started doing 3-5 mile jogs several months ago. When I realized my half was three weeks away I crammed in two longs runs -- an 8 mile run and 11 mile -- over two weekends. This lead me to consider over and over again during my 13 mile event, why (oh why oh why) did I wait so long to prepare? My conceptual pain, brewing in my mind didn't motivate me much for several months. However, during the run, it was obviously trumped by physical pain in my body. Similarly, conceptual joy is always trumped by satiating myself in the moment. So how to rewire this network?

I just went on a walk and came back ready to process my own question. Well, that and a particularly inspiring coaching session. In my formative years, I hated to eat. My mom is a fabulous cook but back then Korean food was just not that appealing - too many edgy colors I guess. So relatively, anything American was a treat but a rarity in our household. My brother and I were latchkey kids so when it was just us, I would microwave Velveeta cheese slices in a bowl until they were melted in the middle and crispy on the outside. Seriously, I'm salivating while writing this. I was also one of those kids you hear about who would pilfer tiny slivers of butter off the cube and eat plain. It was an act of rebellion and independence. Maybe it was a coping mechanism. Ideally, I would like to say, there is some special mineral I needed in processed dairy that caused me to act this way... you know, like kids who eat dirt. Whatever it was, it happened early on.

In telecommunications, I would say this is cable laid by the operator. It's buried deep in the ground and goes from point A to point B. Now, I'm trying to go wireless. I'm trying to create new demand for a new product and I am my own consumer. I need help. Maybe I should post my food journal on here.