Because I Can't Afford a Therapist

Meenski

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 06:23:00 +0000

My, my. Apparently I haven't had a thought in my head since Oct 31, 2011. I'm sorry.

It's not as if the last couple of months have been boring. Thanksgiving Orphan Dinner was delicious (third year in a row!), I got to see my sister's pregnant belly, pranced around DC with my college buds, and NYE was four solid hours of YouTubed 90's R&B videos, brought to you by DJ Cat. Judge not, lest ye be judged; I thoroughly enjoyed how I spent the last few hours of 2011.

Anyway, this is a hard one to write. I met Meena on April 25, 2008, at Accepted Students Day. After about seven minutes of chitchat, we started throwing around neighborhoods for our housing search. That's chemistry. Unfortunately "that B Sarah C." screwed us so we never got a chance to be roommates.

Since then we've shared many an indulgent meal, knowing glances of judgment, and loads of life counseling and therapy. I've become highly dependent on her witty commentary, lightning-quick Meat Name coining, hard-hitting questioning about my love life decisions, and general merriment. We even got to fulfill our dream of living together when we studied abroad in the Philippines, where we slept about 5 feet from each other for 5 months. We had a helipad on our building, and yet I slept on a roll-a-bed on the floor.

Last year she moved from the East Coast and relocated to our lovely city of SF. Since her arrival, Meena, Diana, and I have perfected the art of people-watching in Dolores, run over the Golden Gate Bridge in the SF Marathon, and most recently snuggled in D's bed watching Babies.

During this past year, our Meena also fell in love. On Wednesday, she will move around the world to join her beloved. I am elated for her and excited to hear updates about her new adventure. But while I want to be positive, and know that, of course, the sadness will pass, I can't help but feel selfish and don't want her to go. I think it's mostly that I don't actually know the extent of sadness that I'll feel once she's really gone, and am nervous for it.

Meenski, you already know this, but I'm going to need you to be on Skype 24/7. Love you.

That kind of hurt..

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 20:06:00 +0000

During lunch today, I told my coworkers that I don't own (and have never previously owned) a brush. This came up because we have staff portraits scheduled for Wednesday, so I thought maybe I should step it up and get one.

A little while later my nicer-than-nice coworker, Tom, handed me a package:

I just gave it a test run, and ow, that hurt! When I was little I had a perma-rat's nest on my head because I screamed and cried when someone would try to run a comb through my hair. Eventually my Mom cut it all off because I don't think she cared much for that battle. And then she started perming it as it grew out, and my Dad would call me "Ramen Head." Talk about a tangled hot mess.

Just one day at a time.

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 21:41:00 +0000

NPR: School Debt A Long-Term Burden For Many Graduates

This article stirred up all kinds of thoughts, and I almost fell down the quarter-life-crisis-rambling-thought rabbit hole, again. Lord, I’m tired of this, “what happened to Plan A?” internal strife that I feel every few months. Maybe this is what a parent is, but I feel like every quarter-lifer should be paired up with a mid-lifer so that both people can simultaneously look into the past/future to recognize that, no, you will never “figure it out” because not a single person in the world has a clue what “it” is. (Perhaps with an exception for the Dalai Lama.) Life is not one “it,” yes? There are a lot of “it’s” and we should be so lucky to discover what those are along the way. The more the merrier, I say.

At first I was going to add my lamentations on how my school loan debt is going to prevent me from “reaching my goals” and “moving forward.” But what do those mean? Yes, I will never be able to save for a down payment on the Colonial-style home I dreamt about. And I am very behind on my first-of-five-kids-at-24 schedule. But had I not gone to grad school, I would never have met some of the closest friends that I have now, I wouldn’t have gone to the Philippines to live and work, and I probably wouldn’t have found my way to San Francisco as quickly as I did.

I think this falls back onto my desire to go to therapy, but increasingly I realize that I don’t recognize or haven’t heard my internal voice. And I can’t distinguish what I truly want from what I’ve been nurtured to believe that I should want. But I need that clarity before I can move onto any next phase of life. So instead, I'm going to cherish what I’ve collected from my life path thus far, rather than bemoan where I’ve fallen short on the “supposed to” checklist.

But Ina made it look so good..

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Wed, 05 Oct 2011 21:42:00 +0000

I don't know why I felt this was blog-worthy, but something compels me. And since I've already written about bread, why not again?

Last night I stopped by the overpriced grocery store in my neighborhood to pick up a couple of things. Nine dollars later I ended up with three peaches and a package of pumpernickel bread. Heinously overpriced.

What was meant to be a delightful little sandwich of black bread, radish, and butter turned into me choking down my food. Goddamnit, I just spent $6 on this dumb bread and I can’t throw it away. I had to Google it to find out how to disguise it as edible. This girl loves it, apparently.

Who knew that rye bread was so complicated? Of course I manage to buy bread that has no flour, but rather grains that are steamed and not baked. That sounds terrible, doesn’t it? I like to tear my crusty, chewy bread; not catch chunks of it as it crumbles in my hand. But you know, the smell of balsamic vinegar grossed me out, and oysters and I didn’t get along—so you never know. You might find a tray of canapés served atop some Westphalian Pumpernickel at my next cocktail party.

Does this mean I have to change my Blog title?

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Wed, 05 Oct 2011 07:38:00 +0000

I still can't afford a therapist, but I've come to a decision that I could (should) see one. My friends, of course, have been the first line of defense against the crazies. In fact, Julia just talked me out of a potential "why did I do that" moment about an hour ago. Oy, how do I even manage to dress myself every morning?

I've always said that my friends are the rational me when I'm overrun by so-called feelings. I hate those. But there comes a time when your friends, who are undoubtedly overrun by their own feelings on occasion, will get sick of your quirky-but-redundant neuroses. Not that anyone has said anything recently, but my friends would probably appreciate the time off while I consult an outsider's perspective. And besides, when a therapist calls bullshit, you can't discount what they say because you never saw them stumble in drunk one night after having peed herself in the cab because she "couldn't hold it in." Not one of my friends, but I assure you that has happened.

Secondly, a therapist obviously has some insight (drugs) and knowledge (drugs) beyond the life experience of your friends. I kid about the drugs. I just want to touch base with a therapist to make sure that I'm conscious of what's going on around and with me, and work on anything that I might be holding onto. In a way it's like my yoga practice. Some days I work out the tension in my body and I feel incredible, and other days I can barely touch my toes. But after an intense and sweaty session, my skin glows the following day and I feel more stable. I still have a long way to go, but it's nice to create a foundation to build onto.

With all that said, I've started a search for a therapist, and so far it's been terrible. I don't know what my insurance covers, the different types of therapy, who/what I would benefit from--those are just a few of the many questions I've come across. There has to be a better way...

This one's a rambler

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Tue, 20 Sep 2011 06:18:00 +0000

My neighborhood on weekend mornings boasts a strong showing of puppies and babies. Sadly, both are likely better dressed and/or accessorized than I. (The weekend uniform is usually a pair of leggings, flip flops, a t-shirt, and hair wrangled into a bun. Julia likes to call me out when I recycle the same shirt on Saturday and Sunday). However, luckily my maternal clock hasn't started ticking yet, and although the babies are cute, I don't maniacally desire one.

The dogs are a different situation.

I think my friends dread when they see a dog or puppy walking towards us because they know that I can no longer pay attention to the topic at hand, and my voice simultaneously increases in volume and pitch. The squeaking are cooing can be a bit much, I agree. I am really sorry; I can't stop it. And I try to avoid pointing out every single dog but again, I can't control it. Muttville.org specializes in older dogs, and I fell in love with Charlie ("Charliiuuuuueeeeee!"). I made up a story for my landlord for why I needed to have this guy come live with me, but no dice.

The time for a puppy will come when I move to Chicago. Judson is my official timekeeper. I told him 2 years, and every time I talk to him he reminds me of the countdown. I think we're down to 22 months now. Eeps.

Dear Future Nora,

If you read this years from now and are not in Chicago, I hope you have a good reason. And I hope that reason is that you are in a remote part of the world, working on a public health project. Europe is also an acceptable alternative. I'm going to go with a Scandinavian country. Or hey, maybe you married Jude Law, after all, and now you're in London. That's fine, too.

Man cannot live by bread alone.

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Thu, 04 Aug 2011 15:52:00 +0000

Saturday morning, after feasting on a delicious brunch from our friend Caroline's new food truck, Brunch Box, Meena and I popped her Tartine croissant cherry on our way to see the Picasso exhibit at the De Young. On the way there, I declared that I want the man equivalent of a Tartine croissant. Let's call him Henri. Yes! How amazing: after Henri I always enjoy blissful thought-wandering and daydreaming induced by utter indulgence. Now is when you envision a scene from a black and white movie: a bedroom; in the background doors open on a balcony overlooking le Tour Eiffel; a woman in bed; smoke curling from the cigarette in her hand.

But, as irresistible as he is, Henri is also incredibly flakey, soft in the middle, is one of the most high maintenance things to make, there is always a long line for it, and the price just went up. He is pretty much the worst of the worst and the last person I would want to date. In a moment of weakness or if I need a boost, sure, why not. Everyone needs a little maintenance to make sure everything is still in working condition. But as much as I'd like to indulge, I've had enough Henri's in my day to know that once in awhile is plenty.

Anyway, this started quite the amusing "if you had to pick a bread to represent your ideal man, what would it be?" conversations:

Meena: Corn dog. Meaty inside with a nice firm tan coating.
Catherine: Maybe a twinkie. Nothing you can live on, full of bad things that are delicious, perfect for the occasional indulgence, best when deep fried to golden, brown, and delicious.
Susannah: Pretzel. Tan, firm, and it's diamond-studded. (I voted neg on that one, because that sounds way too Jersey Shore.)
Lillian: Sourdough. Good foundation for sandwiches, tasty, and looks good.
Natalie: Whole wheat sourdough. B/c I like em browner. Sourdough has a little twang to it, a little bit of edge/something different. It can come in many forms: short and squat, or long and tall. But really, I'm pretty equal opportunity as long as you're hot.

Frances: I think it would be this Chinese bread: Hua Juan. It's in layers and rolled up, hence this multidimensional concept, which I want in a guy. And there are bits of spring onion in it, for some kick. And it's rich--can be oily--but also filling, and very satisfying. There are also different variations that can be a teeny bit sweet, like have a hint of sweetness--that's the one thing I would want more of--but the way it's shaped makes me choose it.

Photo on the right.

As for myself, I've reconsidered. I have to go with a multi-grain bread. A little nutty, always fulfilling, you can dress it up--one day for a fancy sandwich, but it doesn't mind slumming it as a PBJ, and he's reliable.

The worst article ever.

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Wed, 03 Aug 2011 02:45:00 +0000

Doctors: Hot Dogs Are as Bad as Cigarettes

Things that make me cry

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Tue, 26 Jul 2011 11:51:00 +0000

Don't judge me. I've been up since 2:30 am because I fell asleep at 9 pm. I passed out after a long training run for my upcoming race. Physical activity is such a terrible idea.

I've been a big cry baby lately. But sometimes you just need to feel some feelings and let it out.

1. Whenever PBS shows Les Miserables. One Day More. Bring Him Home. Every time.

2. When Mufasa dies. Movie and/or musical. Scar, you are a terrible brother.

3. Cheesy reality tv: including, but not limited to, Extreme Home Makeover episodes, the Biggest Loser, Oprah moments.
4. Danny and Annie
5. Dear Zachary. I've already written about this one. I ugly cried a lot.

27

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Tue, 12 Jul 2011 07:07:00 +0000

My birthday soon approaches. I will be 27. I just Googled 27, and this is what came up: 27 Club. Not really the vibe I was going for, but that's ok.

For my birthday this year, I'm crossing off one of the items on the Life List: half marathon before 27. I took it as a sign when I found out that the SF Marathon this year fell on July 31. Shit. This means I have to do it now. Much to my surprise and disbelief, I've enjoyed my training thus far. "Training" consists of crawling up these sanfranciscan hills and braving the "summer" winds and cold weather. On the flip side, when you didn't even realize you just ran five miles because you were too busy admiring the views of the Golden Gate Bridge and spectacular vistas, it ain't so bad. And I got a kick-ass fanny pack to hold stuff while I run, so that's pretty awesome. Really, my main goal for this race is that I finish without having tripped on anything or peed myself.

Another year passes and I'm content. I've gained some life lessons learned from a few steps backwards, and I'm thankful. I hope that every few years I have a few steps backwards. And some uphills, and wind.

Dr. LaMorte

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Mon, 06 Jun 2011 04:05:00 +0000

I actually had a Professor LaMorte at BU. He's awesome--he just won the Metcalf Award! I have no idea if the recommendation that I wrote last year was a part of the 2011 committee's selection process. But if it was, I'm happy that I contributed my very tiny part to recognize this teacher and mentor. In the 0.02% chance that you'll see this, Dr. LaMorte, hope you're having a great summer sailing and relaxing, and congratulations!

The other Dr. Death: Kevorkian. I'm sure you've read the articles about his recent death. I think it's unfortunate that his advocacy of euthanasia was portrayed in the media as so grotesque. Granted, his attention-seeking antics were obnoxious. However, we euthanize animals to prevent suffering, so why is there such a strong reaction against allowing a person to end their own life?

I believe that the decision to choose the how and when of one's death should be included in the Patient's Bill of Rights. The protection that it outlines now: the right to privacy, prevention of abusive insurance practices--sure, fine. To me it's still fairly useless and un-enforced, and as a result healthcare practices and services have a long way to go. I'm frustrated with the lack of welfare and social protection that I feel a government should enact and enforce on behalf of its population.

What is this preoccupation with preventing death? Is life really worth extending a few years through over-dependence on prescription drugs? Or kept alive in a hospice bed by a machine that breathes for you? As the baby boomer generation approaches old age en masse, we are going to have significant social and economic challenges in the healthcare industry. I don't bring that point up as a reason or justification for radical policies. But I do think there are questions and issues that should be discussed preemptively.

Kevorkian was a pragmatic thinker; his ideas on death should not be labeled as morbid or depraved, but as compassionate and progressive.

I've missed you

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Wed, 25 May 2011 20:38:00 +0000

Dear Red Hot,

I've known you for a long time, but we don't always get the chance to enjoy each others' company. You live in Chicago; I live in San Francisco. I think of you frequently, and with fondness. Whenever other hot dogs enter my life, I try to give them the benefit of the doubt and hope that they can measure up to you. But without fail, nothing comes close. You will always have a special place in my heart.

This weekend is our time; on Sunday you are mine. I can't wait to see you.

Love,
N

She only gets a pass because yesterday was Mother's Day

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Tue, 10 May 2011 00:52:00 +0000

Did I call it, or did I call it?

Well, I guess I am my mother's daughter, so I would be able to call it. I talked to my mom today, which consisted of general updates and the fact that I can't fit into my dress for the wedding. I'm going to need her to work some voodoo on that situation. I call her from work and speak to her in Korean so that my officemates can't make out what I'm saying. However, this backfires on me when I interject every now and again with "Mom, NO. NO."

Today's "Mom, NO" resulted from her bringing this guy back up. Really? I thought I took care of that. Le sigh.

I know his family is invited to this wedding. And I know he'll miraculously be sat next to me.

In- and semi-significant life updates

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Wed, 04 May 2011 18:05:00 +0000

1. Apartment is lovely, though I still don't have a bed. That's a spicy purchase, and I'm not ready to make such a big commitment. Also, I tried to hang a mirror, which unfortunately came crashing down off the wall onto my second-hand store wooden tray. The tray probably isn't worth much, but I love it, and now it has a chipped toof. Next to my cracked jewelry dish that broke into pieces and subsequently glued lovingly back together with some Elmer's, my belongings are starting to look a little janky.

2. Fleet Feet is kind of awesome. I went into the store to finally get some big girl running shoes, and they were so helpful. Apparently my feet are shrinking from a size 6 to a size 4.5. What the ish? I have feet nubbins. No wonder why I can't do my one-legged yoga stands well--all I have are stumps to balance on. But after putting on the right-size shoe, I definitely felt the difference. And considering the McHotties running around that store, I might have to invest some time into actually running so I have another excuse to walk in there and ogle.

3. Sister's wedding is in less than a month, which means that I get to spend Memorial Day weekend in Chicago! It's one of my favorite times of the year to be in my hometown. Can't wait for some friends and family time, to tie another 4,265,345 bows, to eat some Potbelly's, and watch my sister say her "I do's." On the flip side, as soon as that ring is slipped onto her finger, my mother's hawkish eyes will likely be scanning the crowd for any and all single bachelors at this wedding. Guh. Of the woman's many talents, I have to admit that this Korean yente's ability to sniff out a single man within a 30-mile radius is impressive.

Spring = rebirth

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Wed, 06 Apr 2011 03:58:00 +0000

Last May, I was "going through some things," as we like to say in the San Francisco chapter of the Meat Club. And like any good emo-hipster-wanna-be, I was spending time at coffee shops, head buried in my Mac, realizing that, "Wow, someone else has gone through this before and wrote a song about it! Rad."

Nico, Fairest of the Seasons

Now that it's time

Now that the hour has landed at the end

Now that it's real

Now that the dreams have given all they had to lend

I want to know do I stay or do I go

And maybe try another time

And do I really have a hand in my forgetting?

I fought it, but the grad school loan-holding part of me started accepting that the right doors weren't opening for me in this city, and that I needed to suck it up and either move home to Chicago or back to DC. Thank God even that side of me is a procrastinator, and that I have the best friends and family in the world who took me in, fed me, consoled me--basically burped me and wiped my ass for me--for the past few months. After some time, I got back on my feet and I am officially back in commission.

I just cooked my first meal in the tiny kitchen of my apartment. So the floors slope a little, and the stove is from 1921--no big deal. I can walk around naked and sing to Alanis Morissette on the top of my lungs. Jagged Little Pill. Win-win for everyone. Don't worry, my blinds are shut so that I don't offend the neighbors.

Now with the weather warming up, I'm probably going to look out the windows of my office longingly towards Dolores Park, and reminisce about all of those beautiful days in the sun. But I'll also keep in mind that while I was daydreaming in the park, I longingly remembered days that I had money in the checking account.

Jacques

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Thu, 24 Mar 2011 07:07:00 +0000

...Julia, Lidia, Chris, Victor, Bob, and David.

I miss them all so much. It's been nearly a month since I've gone from couch-dweller to cubiclite, and it's been rough. I miss watching each of them while sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee in my hands on a sun-drenched morning. Late morning. Probably closer to noon.

Going to sleep is the toughest part. I should be sleeping now, actually. But I just can't shake this night owl business I have going on. In high school I had a really jacked up schedule: got home from school at 4pm or 5pm, slept until 2am, woke up to do homework, shower, eat, then back to school by 7am. I realized then that my favorite time of day is 4am, when no one else is awake and everything is still.

Anyway, I need to cut this short because I really need to get to bed. Some major kudos to the person who can list the last names of my beloved public broadcasting favorites. Speaking of which, the House cut funding for public broadcasting. That is a damn shame--truly. Luckily a very small portion of funding is from the government. Nonetheless, what funding they do and should continue to receive can still be advocated for through the Senate. Please visit www.170millionamericans.org and write your Senator.

Goodnight.

I am mad at Anthropologie.

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Wed, 09 Mar 2011 06:35:00 +0000

Anytime someone asks, I tell them "I just moved to San Francisco!" But as my little blog here confirms, I've been here a little longer than my self-purported "officially since June 1" date. Apparently I've been here since April, which makes my upcoming April 1 move-in date to my fabulous new apartment very special. It's fabulous. The closet has a window in it. A window.

Let's revisit what I decided my future would hold a year ago: a job, an apartment, a well-stocked kitchen, dog, and a Vespa. My, my, aren't we ambitious? It took me a whole year to put some roots down in San Francisco, and I am appreciative and grateful for how things are coming together. I signed myself up for a Pacific Heights studio, 0.3 miles from Meena, 0.5 miles from Chez Knichards (my current house where I have been playing permanent houseguest), 1.1 miles from Diana, 11.1 miles from my sister, and 2913 miles from Catherine. Sorry, Catherine.

What's with the title, right? Well, in all the excitement over a potential new apartment, I went Type A and researched all of the furniture I wanted for my new pad. Julia recently told me that I'm Type A. "What? Me? No way.. I am so not Type A." After I looked at my spreadsheet, separated by room type, and including such columns as price per unit, shipping, link, etc., I bowed my head in silence to acknowledge that, indeed, I have Type A qualities.

After three in-the-zone days of online research and sifting through my go-to retailers, I came up with a decent list of furniture. If you saw it, you'd be impressed and hire me to organize your life. Just saying. After staring at my screen with dry contacts, I stumbled across the Anthropologie site. I never shop here--mostly because I can't afford a bar of soap from here. But apparently they've done their market research on me and already sells everything I want. And/or they should hire me as a buyer because I guess their customers just want everything I want.

Exhibits:

Overstock, Manchester Club Chair, $308 Anthropologie, Lunet Chair, $1698

Pottery Barn, Adrienne Bed, $549 Anthropologie, Marigold Bed, $1298

HDC, Holbrook End Table, $249 Anthropologie, Decker End Table, $248

HDC, Holbrook Console Table, $379 Anthropologie, Decker Console Table, $398

HDC, Holbrook Coffee Table, $369 Anthropologie, Open House Coffee Table, $1,198

Target, Glass Accent Table, $80 Target, Mirrored Console Table, $210 Anthropologie, Mirrored Dresser, $1298

Craigslist, Reclaimed Wood Bookshelf, $650 Anthropologie, Decker Bookshelf, $698

What the HEEZY, right? Bah, I really dislike that I am exactly like everyone else and that the individually selected pieces of furniture I thought were eclectic and/or interesting are being sold in one store. No bueno.

Put-Together Nora

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Tue, 08 Mar 2011 08:21:00 +0000

She's here every once in awhile. Not as often as we would like, but enough. Put-Together Nora will manage to get her hair did and face on (meaning she washed it and smudged eyeliner on her face). This also means successfully navigating the daily leggings-for-pants-struggle; strategy on that is win the war, not the battle.

This is what her world would look like: Welcome to Nora Yuree.

I shop too much. But I'm good at it.

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Sat, 26 Feb 2011 02:59:00 +0000

The last time I shopped at a department store or in legit retail was in high school. Except for the few months that I worked at Nordstrom, when I went ape shit and spent $1600 in two months. My underwear drawer overfloweth, but that $20 Nordstrom Note was so not worth it.

I don't know why I thought I was so fabulous, buying full retail price. Oy, I cringe at the thought. How young and naive I was. When I got to college I discovered the joy of discount shopping. It's pretty damn fun, let me tell you. Excluding a few pieces, 80% of my wardrobe consists of Marshalls and consignment finds. You think my man stalking skills are good? My clothes shopping skills are fine-tuned. When I step into a Marshalls, my eyes can't focus on one thing. They're scanning the entire visual field like the Terminator.

Shopping with friends is great--Meena and I have the "interesting or ugly?" test. But I do like to go alone, too: headphones in, latte in hand, no time constraints, ready to roam the aisles and zero in on that clearance section. Sometimes I circle back two, three times to make sure I haven't missed a juicy nugget.

My go-to's in order of most to least janky:

Goodwill: Random ass crap. I just picked up a lantern there, which I happily donated to Chez Knichards. FYI, if you don't know what Goodwill is, I don't know if we can be friends. It's hard for me to walk past one without stopping in and just looking.
Ross: As Julia said, you better bring your A game. Watch out for elbows and warning glances from your similarly-sized discount shoppers. I've gotten into semi-shove matches and angry grunting exchanges with many 5'1" little heifers out there who don't budge when you try to move past them in the aisle. I said "excuse me." Move over, woman.
Target: Tarjay. How many times have you gone into one, saying "I need laundry detergent," and then walk out with 3 pairs of leggings, a new side table, some Hot Pockets, and a blender?
Marshalls: Ah, le Marsh. With each new city I move to, I feel at home when I find one. I get everything here from $5 dresses to shampoo. And I love the shoe section because who else wears a size 5.5?
Filene's Basement: I haven't been to one in a long time because it was my DC staple. That's where I picked up Nora's First Prada.
TJMaxx: A higher price point, but better quality designers. Just make sure the stainage and tearing are in check before you buy. If there is, however, an easy fix on something, I'll ask for a discount and buy it anyway. Ain't no shame, homie.
Nordstrom Rack: I comb that lingerie section like it (was) my job. Like the parent company, the Rack is run pretty well. And the customer service is always great.

Then one day in college, Grace took me to the next level: consignment shopping. The idea may skeeve some of you out, but I have two older sisters--everything I've ever worn has been worn by someone else, so I have no problem recycling clothing. I love consignment shopping because it almost feels like you're picking up a one-of-a-kind. Oh Secondi, how I miss thee. Even you, $1/pound-dive-into-the-pit Garment District. But now I have Crossroads and I'm starting to enjoy selling my haven't-touched-you-in-a-year closet lurkers.

All told, there are certain items you should make sure to invest in.

Shoes and Bags: No mas with the pleather. And be kind to your shoes, for they will be kind unto you.
Wools: Trust me that ish is not going to soften up in the wash, no matter how much Downy you pour into the machine. Once you upgrade to nice wool (merino, cashmere, mohair, angora, etc), anything less will feel like a scouring pad.
Suits and Dress shirts: I didn't understand this until I got my hands on a Theory blazer--big difference. For your shirts, the dry cleaner is your friend unless you plan to starch and iron.
Jeans: I don't actually wear pants. I hate them. But the one pair of jeans that I do wear are these Japanese jeans that suck in the right areas. When you find a pair that makes you look better than you are in real life, pick up a few.

94%

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Tue, 08 Feb 2011 09:08:00 +0000

I was hesitant to write about dating again because I don't want to come across as desperate and listening to Adele on repeat. But I like Adele.

Over the weekend, Meena and I, while feasting on our snackstravaganza (olive bread, pesto, three kinds of cheese, mushroom ravioli, mini tacos--we went crazy at Trader Joe's), discussed how online dating is apparently very common in SF and how openly people discuss their online dating lives. We wondered if we'd ever join a site, but more importantly, why is The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills so damn entertaining? I've watched the scene where Kyle wilds out on Kim at least 7 times, and my jaw still drops every time.

As I was going to sleep, and because decisions are best made when you're alone in bed and bored, I started looking at dating sites and signed up for my first account. After 40 minutes of answering questions, I was provided with some matches. One in particular stuck out to me because aside from being a 94% match, he had a great smile. Unfortunately, the 29-with-a-comb-over look trampled any possibility of mojo. Hey, I have nothing against balding men. But as a word of advice, gentlemen: if it's clearly falling out, go Jason Statham on it, not Donald Trump. So much better, I promise.

The next morning I went to the farmer's market with a friend, and whom else do I see, but Comb Over himself. I freaked out and hid behind a giant wheel of cheese. Then I remembered, "you dumbass, he doesn't know you were lurking on his profile," so I apologized to the cheese guy for hovering all up on his business, and got myself together.

This is why I deleted my account today. I live in a city because I relish the anonymity of being a no-one in a crowd. Sometimes I walk with my hat and sunglasses on while listening to music, knowing that I'm cut off from everything from the bubble I created around myself. I can't have some stranger knowing that I'm scared of pigeons and that one day I want to move to Africa to lead a development project. That kind of stuff you reveal over a lifetime of knowing someone (or in a blog read by your friends..). What is there left to talk about when a computer program tells you what you already have in common with someone else?

I'm also not ready to give up on the possibility of meeting a person and having that initial connection. True chemistry is hard to come by, but knowing that it's out there is the fun and challenge of dating, n'est-ce pas? I'm not opposed to online dating. I'm just not ready to put myself out there. And when I end up marrying my 94% match I'll look back at this post, shake my head and wonder why I thought I knew so much when, really, I know nothing.

(Hayes) Valley of the Twenty-Something Guys

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Fri, 28 Jan 2011 06:46:00 +0000

I really hate to say it. I promise. But life is pretty much an episode of Sex and the City right now. I depend on my friends for everything. I can't dress myself anymore without consulting my roommate. I don't make love or life decisions without considerable input from the Council (of Heifers). I have too many shoes, way too many bills, and I'm perched on my bed, writing my estrogen-soaked thoughts on my Mac. You know that thing Carrie does as she's thinking, where she licks the corner of her mouth as she looks off into the distance? Doing it right now.

There's an SATC episode* where Carrie and Samantha play in the 20-something sandbox. Whatthehell I feel like I'm stuck in a Twilight Zone SATC. I don't know what it is, but if you want to feel like a cougar, move to San Francisco. Since living here, I've only met guys who are my age or younger than me. (With the exception of one 43-year old man. Er. No, thank you.) And I'm not alone. Within approximately four hours of moving here, Meena snatched herself a younger man. This "child prodigy" is a quite a catch--I expect nothing less from our lovely Filipindian. But we can't help but wonder what happened to all the 28 to 32-year olds? The must-have/must-be list is getting longer by each dating experience, and this kiddie pool of men is not exactly what I had in mind. But you work with what you've got, right? Meena and I have been making the most of our made-for-TV circumstances. I will say this: it's kind of nice dating younger guys because they haven't quite had the chance to become full-blown douchebags yet. That's always a plus.

Nonetheless, if you are out there, 28-yo Sufjan Stevens or Joshua Radin look-a-like (or actual..), holler. I have some friends who would be interested in meeting you.

*Not to be forgotten: Diana's in this episode too ;)

Science is fun

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Mon, 24 Jan 2011 06:15:00 +0000

Spiders On Drugs

Plan B

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Wed, 12 Jan 2011 22:13:00 +0000

Water Sculpture from Shinichi Maruyama on Vimeo.

Shinichi Maruyama's art. It reminds me of the Buddhist principal that everything is constantly and inevitably changing. “Thus the question is whether we are to accept change passively and be swept away by it or whether we are to take the lead and create positive changes on our own initiative. While conservatism and self-protection might be likened to winter, night, and death, the spirit of pioneering and attempting to realize ideals evokes images of spring, morning, and birth.” Daisaku Ikeda

Although I haven't quite learned how to do this in practice, I try to remind myself that life is an ever-fleeting experience; events, people, emotions, etc. are always, through intent or wholly on accident, shaping you. And rather than savor or resist those changes, I want to embrace them and open myself up for the next. Where I haven't learned the finer art of this mantra is how to honor and/or reflect on the impressions left by those experiences.

My second thought bubble from Maruyama's art is how it reminded me of a This American Life program I listened to about life's Plan B. The program was all about how most people have resorted to Plans B, C, D--and that life almost never works out how you intended it to. When I was 8, and inundated with life plan ideas from Mother Kim, I thought I'd meet Mr. Husband in college, wedding bells at 24, Baby No. 1 at 26, No.'s 2 and 3 at 28 (conveniently they were twins), and live happily ever after with my BMW SUV and 5-bedroom red brick Colonial. With black shutters. Now all I can think about my future is that if I'm still single by 44, I'm going to register for my Cougar badge.

I think I'm on the verge of Plan B. I'm on the verge of a lot of Plan B's. But I hope that Plan A will find a way. I really hope so.

From This American Life:

"It’s not just human beings who fail to achieve the fate that they thought that Fate had in store for them. Most everything does; most everything eventually ends up somewhere that it was not designed to go--serving a purpose that it was not meant for--even if that purpose was just landfill. We end our program today with this brief inventory from J. Robert Lennon of inanimate objects who have left their planet behind and now inhabit a permanent Plan B."

The Accursed Items:

A bottle of pain reliever, brought along on a business trip, that proves, at the moment it is most needed, to be filled not with pain reliever, but with buttons.
Sneakers, hanging from the power line, with one half of a boy's broken glasses stuffed into each toe.
A Minnie Mouse doll you found by the roadside, and brought home, intending to run it through the washer, and give it to your infant son, but which looked no less forlorn after washing, and was abandoned on a basement shelf, only to be found by your son eight years later, and mistaken for a once-loved toy that he himself had forsaken, leading to his first real experience of guilt and shame.
Love letters, seized by federal agents in an unsuccessful drug raid, tested in a lab for traces of cocaine, exhaustively read for references to drug contacts, sealed in a labeled plastic bag, and packed along with a plush bear holding a plastic red heart, into an unlabeled brown cardboard box, itself, loaded into a truck with hundreds of similar boxes, when the police headquarters was moved, and forever lost.
Nude polaroids of a fifteen-year-old female cousin.
An icicle, preserved in the freezer by a child, which, when discovered months later, is thought to be evidence of a problem with the appliance, leading to a costly and inconclusive diagnostic exam by a repairman.
A gay porno magazine, thrown onto a ball field from a car window, and perused with great interest by the adolescent members of both teams, two of whom meet in the woods some weeks later, to reproduce the tableaus they have seen, leading to a gradual realization that they are in fact gay, an incident, the memory of which causes one of the two, when he is well into a life that is disappointing emotionally, professionally, and sexually, to fling a gay porno magazine out his car window, as he passes an occupied ball field, on his way to what will be an unsuccessful job interview.
A biscuit, crushed into the slush of a Kentucky Fried Chicken parking lot.
The orange tobbaggan, whisking her to her death.
A resume, that portrays its author as utterly unqualified for the position for which she has applied, but which, because it smells good, leads its reader, a desperate, experientially undernourished middle-manager at an internet-based retail corporation, to invite her into the office for an interview, which, although further portrays the applicant's complete unsuitability for the job, provides the middle-manager with a physical impression to complement the good smell, which impression is intensely exciting, forcing him to hire her as a supplemental secretary, much to the bafflement, chagrin, and eventual disgust of his extent secretary, who, during her employer's lunch hour, removes the resume in question from his files, and personally delivers it to the CEO, and is with the CEO when he barges into the middle-manager's office, and finds the unsuitable supplemental secretary standing beside him, crying silently with her dress half-off, while he sits in his reclining office chair, sweating profusely, and holding a plastic letter opener in a threatening manner.
The houseplant, that will not die.
Fifty pairs of old blue jeans, found at second-hand clothing stores, and brought at great expense, on a trip to eastern Europe and the former Soviet republics, where rumor had it, old blue jeans could be sold for a lot of money, but where this was no longer true, as so many previous visitors had heard the same rumor, and done the same thing, creating a glut of old blue jeans, which were not even all that stylish there anymore, and causing the entire trip to be ruined by the necessity of hauling around these huge suitcases full of other people's jeans, which smelled kind of bad, as if those other people were currently wearing them.
The urine sample, produced for the cancelled doctors appointment, and forgotten in the back of the fridge.
My eyeglasses, covered with a thickening layer of dust that I never seem to notice, and simply adjust to, until, at last, I clean them out of habit, and discover a new world, sharp and full of detail, whose novelty and clarity I forget about completely within fifteen minutes.
Your signature, rendered illegible by disease.

Surround yourself with good people.

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 00:12:00 +0000

That's what's keeping me in San Francisco. I have people whom I love and miss all over the world, but there are some core people who are sustaining me, one brunch/hookah/coffee at a time. Of course, there are others of you, who I haven't seen in months or years, and yet we manage to keep in touch via phone/email/gchats/skype dates. This is a small thank you to everyone who has given me a hug, in person or virtual. You know who you are.

I'm all emotional and thankful for my friends because I just watched an incredibly touching movie called Dear Zachary. I don't want to say much about the film because I think it's important to experience your emotions as the story unfolds without any prior knowledge. But in its simplest form, the film was made for a boy to learn about his deceased father by the father's best friend. If you do watch it, available online*, be prepared to be "feel feelings," as Meena always puts it. Thanks for the recommendation, Greg.

*The stream will cut you off after a certain amount of minutes, so if you are ok with waiting for the 30-minute break, view it online. Otherwise I'd add it to your Netflix queue or grab the DVD from somewhere else.

"Your mom's a warrior."

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Thu, 23 Dec 2010 08:15:00 +0000

I'm writing this on my phone, individually typing each letter with my index finger. If something comes out strangely, I'm blaming it on auto-correct. Http://damnyouautocorrect.com/ If I knew how to link that in via phone I would have..

Here it is, another entry about my mom.

She was mugged last week. The guy beat her up a little and ended up taking her bag. She is having trouble sleeping and my sisters, dad and I are trying to be accommodating to her needs.

Here's the thing.. While we understand that she needs a little extra tlc right now, Queen Bee Kim is taking it a little far. When the phone rings she has one of us answer it to tell the caller what happened and to "try her cell phone because she is at the hospital." Of course when she answers her phone, her voice is a smidge quieter and more shaky than 5 seconds prior. Her neck brace and sling come off at home. And we are all spending this holiday season as an entourage of chauffeurs and nurses.

In all of this, I am amazed by and wonder where my dad's patience comes from. It almost borderlines "enabler"--everytime my mom blinks her eyes for one demand or another, he's right there taking care of her. He literally cuts up my mom's meat for her.

I feel like the last bit needs background. During the assault she tried to bite off the dude's finger (when I heard this I applauded her and now understand her appreciation for UFC fights) so her teeth have been bothering her. She drives me crazy but I do admit that I admire her feistiness and the fact that she tried to mangle the jerk. Apparently he was an intimidatingly big guy.

The officer who helped my mom stopped by to check on her. He said at first he was worried the blood all over her was hers and then he realized it was his and he gave her props. She may look small, but this lady is a tough nugget.

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