Everett

My uncle passed early this morning after living for 90 years. He was an omnireader, observant and kind, built with a slight frame and a thoughtful countenance; he was a chef, a traveler, a lover of antiques, generous in every sense of the word, and the nexus of my father's family. For the last several years of his life, after my aunt died, he grew exceedingly lonely and fatigued. I hope that now he is enjoying inconceivable happiness.

Today is the eve of all Hallows' Eve, and ghosts are on my mind. Good ghosts. Family. Heritage. Our connections, lives that haunt us with amazing memories of who we are and where we come from. The shiver of ending and of not knowing. I want to know. I want the light on.

Got Milk Money?

As a recently returning guest to the 9-to-5 jamboree, I've found myself still basking in the joy of a steady--albeit modest--monthly paycheck. Behold my poetic despair from just this summer:

Unemployment
Oh, the deafening silence of the empty inbox.
I make homemade granola bars at three.
Like a hunter, I click
on Apply Now! and wait
for an acknowledgment of love:
you, yes you, glorious you, come here, you.
My Hollywood pitch:
Groundhog-Day-meets-Chorus-Line,
with Please god I need this job.
Please god I need this job.
Please god.
But no, you sirs and madams, you
bottomlined twats, you continue to suck
my heart dry, laid bare in Portable Document Format
looking forward, as it always does,
to speaking with you soon.
I check and I check again on
nothing. Please somebody love me
with wild abandon. Yours sincerely,
MLJ


Ah, poetry. So now, with job in hand, I feel as lucky as a duck--maybe even luckier. As one of my friends put it, I got the last paid gig in California. There was a time not so long ago when I would have wanted a job that would have given my alma mater a reason to request me as their graduation speaker. But I'm older now. Wiser. Satisfied with my anonymity, my 2-buck Chuck, and my rental apartment. I do yoga now. Thank you, Effed Economy, for this odd feeling called gratitude.

Why I Love the Beauty Industry

Reason Number 1: Lauren Luke. I just discovered her this past week--which, I admit, means I'm way behind the times and not well-versed in British Youtube stars (with the exception, of course, of spunky never-been-kissed singer Susan Boyle). But nevermind my ignorance. Lauren's singlehandedly changed my view of the cosmetics industry with her down-to-earth and artless (yet ever so artistic) makeup tutorials. Want to get a Lady Gaga- or a Bollywood-inspired look? Then check out Lauren and her videos pronto. She's even got her own hip new line of cosmetics.

Reason Number 2: Dr. Legs. Cause she's got brains and she knows how to use them. Who else but a podiastrist-slash-fitness-guru would have thunk up a workout to improve your stiletto-wearing capacity?

Damn, girlfriends. Way to revolutionize beauty, step by step, color palette by color palette.

Silent Superlatives

Have you ever gone around a table full of people and allotted silent superlatives? You know:

That dude's got the worst earwax.
That kid's got the veiniest arms.
That dumb ass is definitely the dumbest.

You get the point. Makes me glad Sookie Stackhouse ain't sitting at my table or she'd see a whole lotta ugly going on inside my head.

Charity isn't my middle name. Actually, it's Lea.

Origin Stories

Well, as you can tell from my irresponsible absenteeism, I've been away from the blog, cheating my loyal reader (and any future biographers) of my private, publicized thoughts. Very sorry. Cyberland is hard to maintain.

Recently, when I saw J.J. Abrams's outta-sight film Star Trek, I began thinking about storytellers' interest in juvenescence and origins. From Adam and Eve to NYC Prep, we peeps love to know how youth gives way to adulthood, innocence to experience. Time stretches out so pleasantly with potential when you're a wee babe. And what storyteller wouldn't want to cash in on all of that delicious opportunity?

So what's my point? I'm not quite sure I have one. But in these uncertain times, when even President Obama's ray of hope barely lights the darkness of my employment-challenged soul, I find myself thinking about my own origin story: How'd I get here? Where will I head next? How many times will the narrator of my biopic get to say, "This is when it all began"?

Photographic

Can people be racist against themselves? Well, I just proved this sad fact the other day while staring, horrified, at a recent personal snapshot. "My god," I thought, "I look way too Asian." I mean, my eyes were all scrunched up in a slanty-eyed smile, like two symmetrical accent marks, and my teeth looked like long Chinese cartoon dentines. In short, I found the photo mortifying. But even worse was my realization that followed a split second later--the icy-hot, shameful feeling that I, in fact, shunned myself simply for being me.

Yes, I live in the great U.S. of A., where screwed-up ethnic identity is confused with the American spirit of multiculturalism and equality. It's exhausting having to fight the Caucasian beauty ideals that suffuse our culture and subversively convince me of what's pretty and what's not. Sometimes I mentally fail. But when that happens, I'm quick to reprogram, reboot, rethink.

A few weeks ago, I heard the author Gene Yang speak at San Diego State University. This brilliant artist/writer was the genius behind American Born Chinese, a funny, daring, and--for me--emotionally-inspiring graphic novel. Read it. It'll cure what ails you. Promise.

Ugly Pageantry

As the Carrie Prejean fairytale-gone-awry continues, I've grown more and more agitated by the swarm of inconsistencies surrounding this mess. On one hand, I can't really blame the girl for capitalizing on her fifteen minutes of fame. I mean, in a capitalist society, smart people capitalize. Even if I despise her argument for marriage being a heterosexuals-only club, she's got a right to an opinion. But what I can't stand is how this beauty queen pretends that her latest role as spokesperson for the National Organization for Marriage has been her life's goal. Let's be honest--it's been a twist of fate and nothing more, thanks to Perez Hilton.

Another thing I can't stand? The two-faced Miss California USA organization. These people invested in Carrie's assets by purchasing her implants a few weeks before the Miss USA Pageant competition, presumably because a little more va-va-va-voom could help secure that sparkly crown. But now this organization is debating whether Carrie violated her Miss California contract, first by posing semi-nude as a teen model, and second by making personal appearances on behalf of the National Organization for Marriage without express permission from the California USA pageant committee.

I have no qualms with the latter violation--that's Carrie's own fault--but the former violation gets me riled up. For one thing, I don't think you can give a girl breast implants--a surgery that perpetuates a culture of highly sexualized, highly objectified female beauty--and then condemn her for having capitalized on her own sexuality years earlier. Can the Miss California USA organization really claim the moral high ground here? I don't think so.

Heading Back, Moving On

Last week, I went to visit my old stomping grounds where Mother Goose lies six feet under and the Green Monster eats hard balls. That's right: Boston, home of the original Tea Party minus those insufferable bags.

As I sat on the plane flying across country, I wondered if my East Coast nostalgia would mushroom into full-fledged heart pangs. After all, I'd spent eight years of my life--nearly all of my twenties--roaming the narrow, one-way streets, eating my weight in J.P. Licks, and hanging out in Coolidge Corner.

Turns out I was happy to be back in Beantown once again, especially since I was able to see many New England friends. But Boston no longer felt like home sweet home. I even got lost twice, like an honest-to-goodness tourist. Sure it was nice to indulge in walks down memory lane, but by the end of my jam-packed week, I was ready to click my heels three times and head back to San Diego.

Luckily, I got home just in time for SoCal's outbreak of swine flu. Nothing like a little pandemic to ruin calm reflection.

Wear and Tear

According to style dictators Stacy and Clinton, it's important to dress age-appropriately. In other words, if you're 40, get your ass out of Wet Seal, put down the fairy dust, and grab yourself a cute blazer with a tapered waist, pronto.

But the smarties over at Harvard might disagree. "Most people," a Newsweek article says, "try to dress appropriately for their age, so clothing in effect becomes a cue for ingrained attitudes about age. But what if this cue disappeared? [Harvard psychologist Ellen Langer] decided to study people who routinely wear uniforms as part of their work life, and compare them with people who dress in street clothes. She found that people who wear uniforms missed fewer days owing to illness or injury, had fewer doctors' visits and hospitalizations, and had fewer chronic diseases—even though they all had the same socioeconomic status. That's because they were not constantly reminded of their own aging by their fashion choices."

Okay. So maybe I still shouldn't don any purple micro-minis. But at least now I can finally wear my Dharma jumpsuit.

My Dentist Sucks

Today when I was at the dentist, I brought some editing work with me, thinking I could make the most of my time while waiting for the doc. I swear that office reception area is like the physical manifestation of some unsettling celebrity womb--all warm and dimly lit, with available copies of Essence, Out, and Rebook, and a TV on low-volume continuously playing Armageddon.

So twenty minutes later, I'm sitting in a private room, trying to edit pages with my red pen, when my dentist finally arrives. He's there to check out the state of my bruxism (i.e., the gnashing and grinding of my teeth down to stubs) when he casually looks over my papers.

"How are your studies going?" he asks.

"This? Oh, this isn't studying. I'm just doing some editing work." In other words, I'm not a college student.

Unfortunately, he only half gets it. "Ah. So what was your major in college?"

"English." Then to try and drive the point home: "But it's been a while since I was in school."

"Did you get good grades?"

Now I'm confused. "Did I get good grades?"

"Mm hm," he says.

"Um. Yeah. I guess so." Why the fuck do you care?

Okay, so I'm agitated. Normally, I would be flattered by anyone mistaking my age by say, 10 years, but this time was different. This time, it felt condescending, and I wasn't digging the power play. Maybe aging does have its benefits. But while I wait for the deep wrinkles to set in, I'd just like to say, "My dentist sucks."

Insomnia's Calling

When the vulgar insomnia gods woke me at 3am this morning, I spent nearly two hours too utterly tired and lazy to rise from my comfortable sinkhole of a bed. Not that I didn't consider getting up. It was tempting. Especially when the green light of my alarm clock read 4:30. But there were just too many cons. I mean, either I'd actually have to put on some clothes or just hope that the good people eating late at the nearby McDonald's wouldn't be able to make out my face as I traversed my living room naked. And if I did get up, surely I'd want breakfast. But eating breakfast would mean committing myself to the day. Because who ever would eat breakfast and then go back to bed on a Tuesday--only to wake up and have a second breakfast a few hours later? Double breakfasts on a Tuesday are against the law, resulting in prison time at the 24 Hour Fitness.

So as I lay in my sleepless bed, my mind wandered onto a few different things, beginning with the wild rumpus and the upcoming movie trailer Where the Wild Things Are. Would Maurice Sendak be content with the onscreen version? Will I? And why don't I own the infectious Arcade Fire song that plays during the trailer?

Completely unrelated, when will I ever be established enough in my career to own a Coach bag? And also unrelated, what are the odds of a plane destined for Lindbergh Field Airport crashing through my downtown San Diego apartment?

Well, it's always a party here in Insomniaville. Lucky for me, today was Cesar Chavez Day--a California state holiday, a reason to celebrate, and an excuse to sleep in.

Losing Sleep

The night before a big event--such as Christmas (when I was little), or various graduations, or my very own wedding--I have lain in bed with one thought spilling from my mind onto my pillow: "You'll be lying here again so fast--tomorrow is already a memory."

There are many people around the world who live contentedly in the present, but I for sure am not one of them. Given a chance, I will grow nostalgic for something that hasn't even happened yet.

And as I lay in my bed last night, those nostalgic memories began leaping forward, faster, headily, through years. Will it all slip by in a blink?

Dyeing

I've always had white hair since I was a little kid. My brother, too. We believed it was some kind of strange follicle birthmark. But now the proliferation of grays on my considerably older and wiser noggin can only be chocked up to... well, being older and wiser.

I figure I'm about 6-12 months away from having to make a crucial decision plaguing thirty-something women everywhere: To dye or not to dye. I mean, once you start, you can't stop. Sort of like heroin. But not really. Okay--not at all.

So what to do? I've been debating for a while now. In the meantime, I fight the urge to pluck the grays while mourning the loss of my lovely dark hair.

Messages in a Bottle

Like a truffle-snuffling piggy, I went sniffing through the interweb in search of luxury anti-aging skincare products. Here are a few of the delicacies along with their promises:

• Estée Lauder's Re-Nutriv line: Imagine if the look of youth could be prolonged indefinitely.
• Lancôme's Génifique Youth Activating Concentrate: Youth is in your genes. Reactivate it. Discover the skin you were born to have.
• Clinique's Youth Surge SPF 15, an age decelerating moisturizer: Unless you’re in some hurry to see 40.

While I covet, I also cringe. What's up with this culture of youthful beauty? It makes the whole inevitable getting older thing such a psychological chore. And yet still... We wants it, my precious.

Haikus from a Pilates Novice

After Pilates
Sharp pencil points stab
the centers of my butt cheeks
long after class ends.

After Pilates II
Irony is my
ass feeling older striving
for the opposite.

Sorority Sister

A few weeks ago when I was on the SDSU campus, two college girls asked me if I was interested in joining their sorority. "It's rush week," they chirped. They were cute and curvy with well-placed highlights.

"No, sorry," I said without explaining. I think I might have even waved bubye. As in shoo. Quickly. Before you realize upon closer inspection of my face that my ten year college reunion is coming up.

But secretly, I couldn't help feeling pleased. Even giddy. I began having visions of redoing my college experience--like Old School with a lot less balls and hair. I wouldn't have to study; I could just drink, make new friends, shop at Forever 21, practice the art of prettiness. I could wear heart and star printed pjs and sip white zin while watching Gossip Girl. Hmmm....

Nah. I prefer drinking some mediocre red while watching Bravo! in my sweats. Some of you might ask, "Is there really any difference?" But tut tut, sweet darlings. The difference is night and day.

Eggs and Cream

I'm 31 and a half, and no one wants my eggs. Not that I'd ever sell, but you know--options are just another form of freedom. And according to those donor ads on Craigslist, et al., my fruit's too ripe.

I'll admit, I'm one of those Americans preoccupied with quantitative figures: percentiles, stats, heartbeats per minute. I'm personally offended by the birthyears of Disney stars and age-based magazine superlative articles like "The Most Successful People Under 30." I mean, the rest of us aren't dead yet last I checked.

Anyway, the point is this: All of us are getting older, whether gracefully or otherwise. So instead of me just slathering on a $45 face cream and counting my gray hairs, I'm gonna explore what it means to get farther from ground zero. Ya dig?