i heart countdowns

A couple countdowns to a couple really, really cool things:

70 days: Three of my friends from high school and I are driving up to Connecticut to visit our other best friend, Karen, where she goes to school and now works. It’ll be my first Big Old Road Trip with people who aren’t my family, and I anticipate a lot of neck-aches, singing along to whatever abomination Fergie will release this summer, and …Cheetos.

57 days: A luxurious, timeshare-inhabiting family vacation (plus my Lindsay and my sister’s best friend Sarah) in Myrtle Beach, where my only goals will be a) to not resemble a charcoal briquette at the end of the week and b) to compulsively buy as many useless souvenirs as possible.

40 days: Matt’s parents bought him tickets to Spring Awakening for his birthday, and that means another photoblog about us frolicking around New York City! The tentative theme for this installment: The 9th Street Adventures, Or, How I Learned To Eat Dinner in Manhattan For Less Than $170.

28 days (ZOMBIES AIEEEEEE!!!): Big mom’s-side-of-the-family reunion in Las Vegas! I’m 21 now so that means Whatever Happens In Vegas Stays In Vegas, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN NUDGE WINK. (I don’t even know what I mean.)

16 days: Pre-gaming for the Las Vegas extravaganza in Atlantic City with Linds, Ilana, and Karen, my best friends. We would have done this earlier, I suppose, but we have to wait until June 15th for Linds to turn 21. LAAAAAME.

Tomorrow: Matt arrives in JFK Airport and calls me and I do a happy dance because my boyfriend’s BACK, BITCHES!!!!

Sorry. I didn’t mean to call you all bitches. You’re not. You’re really nice people. Thank you for reading my blog.

Now I’m going to eat this Kit Kat I stole from Target. (Sorry, Linds!)

back to business as usual

I’m admittedly running out of vignettes. I wanted to do a “pinkies out” one about the 2 days Matt and I spent lounging around in a Very Fancy Hotel, but he wrote a very good entry about it on his blog that probably covers just about everything I was going to say.

Everything that was going on the last time I wrote a normal entry is still going on, except that I got the haircut and it was, for once, a very pleasurable and satisfying experience with a hairdresser.

Does anyone else have the complex where you feel like hairdressers don’t understand your hair and your hair needs? That no one else IN THIS WHOLE WIDE WORLD seems to understand that “my hair is big and frizzy BUT ALSO Asian at the same time” or “my hair is curly BUT thin” or “my hair is wavy BUT oily,” etc., etc., etc.?

Well. That’s always been my hang-up. I worry for hours beforehand that I’m never going to get what I want because I don’t know how to explain it properly, or the hairdresser will just give me a stock haircut because they think I’m not sure of what I want, and then I’ve wasted $20.

But yesterday was a completely different experience. Lo, there were questions and clarifications! Lo, there was attention to length and layer style! There was interest in my coloring and cut history! There were suggestions on how to style my hair after the afterglow of deliciously expensive products and an expert blowout wore off!

On my friend Lauren’s suggestion, I made an appointment at a local “family hair” salon about 10 minutes from my house. I walked into the salon and admittedly had my doubts. It was run out of a house, there were 2 sinks, 4 chairs, and a back room. It was, to be blunt, not ridiculously impressive. I had to wait 10 minutes while my Jen, with whom I had the appointment, finished blowing out her previous client’s hair. But I know that fancy schmancy decor doesn’t necessarily mean quality hairstyling (I’m looking at YOU, Panache Salon of Marlton!)

As I started explaining myself, Jen seemed to know exactly what I was looking for. “I’m not looking for a drastic length change,” I said self-consciously, feeling like a poseur for using pseudo-hair-school-terms, “what I really want to do is to, uh… change the shape of my hair,” I mumbled.

“Right, clear off the dead ends and get away from this pyramid shape and go towards more of a square shape?”

My jaw dropped. The world fell away. This was a woman who understood my needs without my having to say them.

“YES EXACTLY” I said, lunging in for a passionate French kiss.

No, not really. Just trying to keep you all on your toes.

She cut my hair into a v-shape in the back without even knowing that having my hair cut straight-across is a huge pet peeve of mine. She used thinning shears at the end, completely unwarranted. It’s like she had actually looked at my hair, assesed what it was like, and then created a strategy for making it look good. As opposed to just snipping away as many of the ladies at $13 Haircut Depot tend to do.

What a novel idea.

According to Jen, she understood my needs because she “has heavy hair,” just like me. I’m not sure if this is entirely true, as I still suffer from “NO ONE ELSE KNOWS THE HAIR TROUBLE I’VE SEEN, NOBODY KNOWS MY SORROWS” syndrome; it may have just been her trying to establish some kind of camaraderie with me. But in any case, her seeming clairvoyance concerning what I wanted and needed really impressed me, and I’m probably definitely going to keep going back as long as I can.

….

Vanity and compulsions. That should really be the name of this blog. Vanity, Compulsions, and Pie.

vignette: the most beautiful things

The Burren, Ireland

The Cliffs of Moher, Ireland

The Aran Islands, Ireland

York, England

York, England

London, England

vignette: getting crunk

Some people get emotional and cry when they’re drunk, some get destructive and throw shit, some get vitriolic and spiteful, some get red-faced and giddy. I’m relatively new to drinking, so I’m just starting to feel out how much I can handle, and how it affects me. As far as I can tell, the results in the early stages include losing all control of my inner ear and thus falling ALL OVER THE PLACE. And when I’ve reached a certain point, I regain complete mastery of my fine motor skills, usually demonstrated by a lengthy booty-shaking to whatever Black Eyed Peas song strikes my fancy at that moment.

Matt knew this trip was my 21st birthday present, so he took me out for a pint on our last day in Newcastle.

I drank about 1/5th of that hard cider (Strongbow’s, I think it’s called) and suddenly found myself teetering over onto the booth, hot-faced and giggling. Clearly I need to work up a tolerance.

The same day, we went to a city called York (site of some of the most beautiful things I have ever seen) and had a fancy dinner and drinks. I went all Girly Frou-Frou and ordered a cocktail made out of raspberry puree, pomegranate juice, and Smirnoff. Don’t ask me what it’s called. Alls I know is it was delicious.

I finished the whole thing. And turned lots of heads. Mostly because of my sweet dancing skillz and my ability to recite the entire Milkshake song from memory when I am tipsy.

On the eve of our anniversary Matt and I ordered a bottle of wine and decided to finish the whole thing in a night. I adore wine but never get to drink it because, well, it’s expensive. But look how romantic it makes everything seem:

Even though we were in jeans and sweatshirts and eating mixed nuts and potato chips, we were rosy with adoration for one another and completely not self-conscious about being the youngest people in the whole hotel. We also made fun of the other Americans wearing jeans and sweatshirts because I guess we are hypocrites.

I only need about 5 1/2 sips of wine to make me heady with Crunk. I finished a glass and a half. Matt finished the rest of the whole bottle. So what ended up happening was that I danced around to “My Humps” until he passed out…and then I continued dancing around his unconscious form to “My Humps” for about 15 minutes after that.

You might be wondering: Meloogal, why are you boring us to death with tales of your kind of not-that-funny escapades into the world of booze? The answer? Because those tales took up about 45% of my trip to England, and I certainly don’t want to forget about them. So there

But I’m interested: What’s your Crunk Style? Weepy? Godzilla-like? Loud and shouty? Babbly and word-vomity? Or are you a teetotaler? Tell meh!!

a break in programming

Wow, let’s take a small break from The Vignettes and talk in Real Time, how does that sound?

The blogworthy things going on in my life right now are as follows:

• I’m getting my hair cut on Tuesday, at a place my friend Lauren goes to. I’m having the same crisis as I did before, but this time I’ll spare you the navel-gazing and just get the damn haircut and let you know how it went.
• The stove broke today. It’s going to be a week until the replacement knobs and switches come in the mail. So I guess it’s Lean Cuisines and turkey sandwiches until then.
• I’m gearing up to buy a new mattress, for my bedroom in my house up at school–apparently it’s WAY more complicated than I ever thought it could be, what with all the jargon and the sleazy salespeople and the different makes and models. Ticking? Quilting? Banting? Coil count?? I JUST NEED SOMETHING TO SLEEP ON AT SCHOOL, PEOPLE.
• My boyfriend is coming home in a week and I couldn’t be more excited to be getting out of this long-distance thing. It’s like I said before–all of you people who endured it for longer than 4 months, I commend you. Like, seriously.
• I officially have no more money. I need a job, stat. Let the hunt begin!

And now, back to the vignettes. I swear there are only a couple more. If “six” is “a couple.”

vignette: flying

Have you ever tackled going downhill on a bike by simply letting gravity take you all the way to the end, the wind whipping across your ears and dragging moisture from your eyes across your temples so it looks like you’re crying, and maybe you are, you’re so happy?

vignette: flora and fauna

I was finding Ireland to be full of animals and plantlife I’d rarely seen up close and personal or roaming all fancy-free.

On the very first day I saw a whole bunch of swans close-up–I never knew how horrifyingly enormous they are.

On the Burren our walking guide pointed out a number of wildflowers that only grow in alpine regions, such as this pretty mountainy orchid.

I was taken by these hardy little pink dudes that grow all abundant-like even though there is limestone all about.

Some of the locals weren’t quite so happy to have us around. This rooster made a loud squawk-yelp when I tried to say hello to it.

This cat hissed evilly at me when I said “HI KITTY!” (Although, to be fair, most cats seem to do that to me.)

The cows liked us well enough. They smelled sort of funny, though.

Unfortunately the only recorded image I have of any flora or fauna in England is…

…this picture of a pooping goose. Sorry, Matt.

vignette: taking pictures as a couple

Sometimes it means employing synecdoche–one of my favorite literary vocabulary words, it’s pronounced “suh-NECK-duh-key” and it’s a metaphoric device that takes the part for the whole–”Will you give me your hand in marriage,” for instance. Clearly you’d want the whole girl, not just her hand.

Synecdoche.

Then there’s metonymy, a bit more nuanced–a few examples: “The Crown,” signifying the King, “the White House” signifying the entire US government, “a pint of Guinness and a pint of hard cider” meaning Melissa and her boyfriend:

Metonymy.

Sometimes you suck it up and take one of those awkward “let’s-reach-the-camera-out-in-front-of-us” pictures usually reserved for college coeds pre-gaming for the lacrosse team’s party. Which sometimes results in less-than-flattering angles and strange-looking proportions:

The Unabomber and his child bride.

Also sometimes results in lopsided framing wherein 15% of one’s person face is omitted from the picture:

I look like I’m thoroughly grossed out by Matt here.

Sometimes you get it right, but your faces are still entirely too close to the camera, making every pore painfully visible:

This picture was supposed to feature Big Ben in the distance, but our Monster Faces hog up the frame.

And if you’re lucky you manage to find someone to take your picture who actually speaks English and/or doesn’t sprint away when you approach them, and you FINALLY get your coveted self-and-boyfriend-in-England picture and all is right with the world:

Success!

vignette: when chavs attack!

[Once again, for reference's sake: A guide to the vignettes]

Matt’s friend Flower was leaving us in the dust for the third time that evening. He walked so unbelievably fast that Matt and I had resigned ourselves to walking maybe 5 or 6 feet behind him at all times. It was now officially nighttime–the sun had set and the street lamps were on. We were walking over a footbridge overpass of some variety when I heard it:

“MUMBLEMARBLEMUMBLYGRAH!”

It was the first time, but not the last time, I would be subject to the unintelligible shouting of an angry chav.

“WHY DID YOU ROALL YOUR SLEEVES UP!?!”

This question was being posited to Flower, who responded with much more tact and level-headedness than I ever could have mustered, and quickly diffused the situation. To be honest, this was what was going through my mind at that particular moment:

OH MY GOD TODAY I AM GOING TO DIE MAYBE I CAN OFFER MY BODY UP IN RETURN FOR HAVING MY LIFE SPARED

It soon became clear that we were luckily not going to have to fight in a street rumble for our lives. For whatever reason, the two of them simply wanted to follow us around the city and holler into our faces.

The boy was pimply, loud, and high on MDMA. The girl was drunk and slightly resembled a sewer rat. For 25 uncomfortable minutes, they circled us as we walked back to Knoll Court, preaching to us the wonders of the education they’d never received, their views on prejudice against the Asian people, and their own misunderstood plight. At least I think that’s what they were talking about. Mostly it sounded like “GARBLEMUMBLERABBLE!”

Halfway home, during a brief moment when the two of them were focusing their efforts on Flower, Matt squeezed my hand and whispered, “I’m so sorry about this.” Up until this moment, I had written the experience off as inconvenient and annoying, but hearing the concern and guilt in his voice triggered something in me. It’s actually quite dangerous to be affronted by a chav–a week or so prior, Matt had simply passed by one who had been in a shitty mood, and he had swiftly received a random punch to the face. I suddenly realized how close we all could have been to being beaten up, and my blithe amusement turned into fear. And unfortunately, my defense mechanism when I’m afraid is to run through the lyrics to Top 40 songs silently to myself:

Don’tchu wish yo’ girlfriend was HAWT LIKE ME?! Don’t you wish yo’ girlfriend was a FUREAK, like ME?!

SHAKE DAT THING, you …hanahana, SHAKE DAT THING, Miss Rananana

I’mnotgonnaWRITEYOUALOVESO-ONG, cause you AKSED FOR IT, cause you NEED ONE, YA SEE?

Go SHAWTY, it’s ya BIRFDAY…we gon’ PAHTY LIKE it’s ya BIRFDAY we gonna sip BACARDI LIKE it’s ya BIRFDAY. And you know nu nu nu nu nu nu nu nu nu BIRFDAY

***

Later that night, lying awake and unable to sleep, I revisited the experience. Yes, I’d been angry at Matt for not thinking to maybe keep out of the streets that late at night while I was visiting. Yes, I’d been extremely, extremely uncomfortable, particularly when they kept referring to me as Chinese. You could also argue that yes, I was still alive and with no discernible bodily injuries sustained. But I was still a bit frightened. All this time I’d seen myself as a big girl, ready to move on from college and into the real world. But when confronted with something as basic and instinctive as self-preservation I had clutched my boyfriend’s hand and began singing Shaun Paul songs to myself.

I turned over in bed and rested my face against Matt’s warm back, reveling in the comfort of knowing I was safe behind two sets of doors that locked from the inside.

Maybe I wasn’t quite as grown-up as I thought I was. Maybe none of us who are just emerging into our 20s are.

I closed my eyes and fell asleep to the rise and fall of his shoulders.

vignette: that time i climbed a mountain before lunch

[For those of you just joining us: A guide to the vignettes]

***

The brochure had promised “a gentle walking tour” of the Burren. “Today,” said our guide for the morning, “we will be hiking up that mountain.” He pointed to what looked like an enormous rock face in the distance…

Surely we will hike towards the mountain, not up it, I told myself. I was ill-equipped for mountain climbing! I had no belay system! Not even a carabiner keychain!

It soon became clear that we would, indeed, be tackling the giant limestone hillside on foot. I put on my Optimism Hat. I was on vacation after all, and on vacation you try new things, right?

**

This isn’t so hard! These rocks are somewhat loose but they’re essentially stable! Woooo hooo, I’m striding confidently over a crazy mountainside! I should pick up the pace! I’m gonna beast ALLA Y’ALLS and make it to the top before everyone! I think I can I think I can I think I can I think I whoa I am suddenly not standing up OW MY ANKLE THE TWISTING OH THE PAIN AND ANGUISH.

Okay perhaps I will be fine. I think only Katie and that Australian couple saw me trip and fall. I guess I should keep going now. Perhaps… perhaps with a little less fervor, this time.

**

Midway through the hike, I suddenly realized I was trotting jauntily through a region that had been inhabited by people for thousands and thousands of years. My hometown has been inhabited by people for maybe 150 years. Maybe.

I eyed the rock dividing walls outlining the perimeter of the opposing mountainside and tried to wrap my mind around the idea that 4,000 years ago, those rock fences had been there for 1,000 years.

It dawned on me that I was climbing a mountain and I hadn’t even had lunch yet. And at the top of the Burren, I turned around and witnessed one of the most spectacular views I’ve seen in print or real life:

Here, our guide stopped us and had us lay in the grass, completely still. The Burren, if you don’t speak or move, is completely and naturally silent. My ears rang and buzzed with the sheer lack of even ambient noise: no birds cawing, no shuffling of hooves. We stood and made our way up just a little further, so that each person in the group could have this photo op:

That’s my Accomplishment Face. And my “I’ve-been-hiking-for-3-hours” Hair. Totally worth it.