Author: tlee

What’s up with that? Why do people deliberately chop off the tail of their dogs? Is it an aesthetic thing? And without the tail, how am I going to know when the dog is going to greet me in a friendly manner or bite me on my neck artery? Apparently, the wagging means they’re psyched, and the flat look or ramrod straight thing means trouble is brewing (courtesy of Dog Whisperer Jenn Mattern).

Other dog communication no-no’s: when I recently smiled and waved to a pack of dogs bounding towards my husband and I on a jog in New Hampshire, he told me to stop b/c showing teeth means aggression in Dog World. Oh jees.

I am trying to slim down my belongings, so our studio apartment feels less choked with piles of clothes, tchotchkes, dust-gathering jigsaw puzzles, etc., but I’ve discovered that I’m a hoarder.

Of the items in my apartment I have not touched in ten years or more — about two feet of sheet music and books for advanced flute and piano, several boxes of oil paint and linseed oil, and a small pile of records, which include:

* Scoundrel Days by a-Ha
* Boy and War by U2
* Let’s Dance by David Bowie
* Wheel’s on Fire by Siouxie and the Banshees
* Music for the Masses by Depeche Mode
* Christmas Carols from around the World
* Walt Disney’s Cinderella
* Mickey Mouse Disco

I should just set fire to all of them, donate them, give them away, and I will–but I haven’t so far. I played the piano and flute from little kid age to 21, and I loved them both, but music is not a casual hobby and I don’t have the time or strong interest. The paints — when I obsessed from junior year in COLLEGE. Oy, have to let that go, and the records? Please, I don’t have a record player and will never get one. If any of these appeal to you, let me know. They’re all terrific records, and maybe I can get you to record a CD for me from them.

I still remember the Mickey Mouse Disco album (I think there’s a track called Macho Macho Duck to the melody of Macho Macho Man — you get the picture). In third grade, I looked forward to listening to it all day and waiting for school to end, and then I found my mom had let my cousin Aimee, too young to go to school yet, listen to it b/c the poor thing was bored all day, but MAN, was I mad when I found out! For some reason, it was vitally important I be the first one to listen, since it was MINE. ROAR!

I wish I could say I’ve outgrown such peculiar flashes of territoriality, but…I can still get mental about the same things. My husband knows.

So the truth about the clutter — I experience physical pain when I even think of parting with certain items, despite the fact I never look/touch/use them. If I can succeed at the Purge, it will result in a more spacious home, but also more room in my head too. I can’t hold on to ALL OF MY DUMB MEMORIES. My friend told me about some dude on PBS got rid of literally all his things — all of his clothes, books, and toys, and it changed him profoundly. How did he change? No idea. But he changed. My memory is so bad, once these things leave the house I won’t remember that I ever had them, but I’m still not going to go that dire…tiny steps.

Like a kabillion others, I took about three hours to get to work from my borough today. AWESOME. There was a herd of cranky, anxious commuters perspiring underground, waiting for the no-show 2/3 subway. I sweated with them for about 45 minutes before I decided to ditch for Starbucks, where I nearly exited the place incident-free with my decaf iced grande latte (I figure it’s a special day, so I can get a special drink), but dropped my SAG card in the trash and knocked over a half-n-half jug on to a woman’s khaki pants. Eeeeeek!!! I think the humidity and crowds caused my brain to swell. I thought for sure, this day was doomed.

I got to work eventually, and afterwards, my gym was closed due to flooding, and so instead of exercising, I went to get margaritas with my step aerobics teacher and classmates (which was really fun, b/c of some reason, step aerobics makes me really SOCIABLE and I introduce myself to everyone and admire their L-step or Around the World.) At 7:30 p.m., the teacher announced that we would’ve been done exercise at that point–which was a little sad, b/c we had finished two rounds instead. And then to even up the ante of the day’s conclusion even more, I had a really good hair day.

How about that. Silver lining, people.

I’ve just spent the last two hours on this Zen exercise of updating our company web site, where all my efforts were to no avail — you know, where you keep fixing the code and the same problem keeps coming up? Does that ever happen to you? I can’t believe how ready I am to throw this PC out the window, and the pasty-faced assistant keeps coming up to me for other edits, even though I clearly look like a tomato on top of a body about to explode.

I can’t even find a good picture of an exploded tomato.

I’m trying to get my to email me this gigantic horoscope I have at home to amuse myself, but he’s got even worse luck with technology than I do, and after trying three times, I don’t think he will take my calls any more.

I’m just blogging so I don’t assault the pasty assistant.

Saturday night, I dreamed of finding two bedrooms attached to my apartment that I didn’t know about. When I woke up, I was so disappointed to see that I still live in a studio.

My husband and I have shared it for two years, and I think it’s a testament to our get-along-ability that we haven’t killed each other, but lately, I’ve started to feel crammed and really crave more s p a c e.

Part of my stir-crazy is from nights where he hasn’t been able to fall asleep till 3 a.m. and I’ve woken up from his frustrated antics. It’s also the subway, packing into a rush hour sardine can, while being asked for money by not one, but three homeless, on your way to work, has started to make me shout things like “I hate people” as I make my way through. Yeesh, not good.

I’ve slowly been looking at real estate listings, but it’s crazy, man, what it costs to live in NYC. So on top of the space craving, now I suddenly want to make sh*tloads of money so I can buy some more rooms! But don’t even get me started on what the price of a one-bedroom will buy you elsewhere. I can’t move out of here, meaning, NYC…unless the other place is really compelling and requires no cars. If only North Adams had more nonwhite people…

I don’t get the appeal. She’s an okay actress, not great, and something about her face looks off to me, like are her eyes too close together? I mean, I’m still going to see the chick flick “Becoming Jane” and probably “Get Smart” b/c I’m bored in general, and I appreciate that she went to college and isn’t in the news b/c of her DUIs and underwear antics, but what is it? Why is this girl getting all this work? Who made her wear this dress? AAAAccck, and yet I can’t stop thinking about it. Please explain her appeal to me so my brain can rest.

So I was reading Angry Asian Man blog, which is really hilarious and keeps me up to date on all matters I should be po’d about and proud of as an Asian. One of his angrier diatribes was against this Barbie-cute, blond comedienne named Chelsea Handler, whose schtick on Leno was about Pax, Angelina Jolie’s son, who won’t know he’s Asian b/c he doesn’t know how to do nails or drive poorly, etc., etc., etc. It sounded mostly stupid to me, but I did go to this girl’s web site, like a dumb ass, and even reserved her book “My Horizontal Life,” about one-night stands.

The writing sample sounded promising and I figured I would be in for a nice, entertaining ride about embarrassing booty calls, light summer fare (because I’ve run out of my current light obsession—YA romance novels; yes, I am sad). I don’t get offended as often as maybe I should (?) and figured her Asian comments would be a one-time lack of judgment. I put the book on hold at the library (b/c I am a senior citizen, I love the library, and I live in a studio), and waited for it to come in. Much to my dismay, the essays were too dull to really finish and then there was one about an ex boyfriend caught in a ménage a trois with two Asian ladies and racial commentary ensued. You know, stuff about slanty eyes and calling them the wok n’ roll twins.

People, all I want is to be caught up in a good story. Why do I have to deal with this stupid stuff? I figured her Leno schtick was a one-time racially offensive thing, I didn’t know it was consistent throughout her work. Jees, what a loser. Anyway, I don’t recommend her work!

Even Harry Potter now has some Asian kids in the Hogwarts school!

Last night, I saw the Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane Company dance at Prospect Park with Nancy and Michelle. I’ve always wanted to see Bill T. Jones perform—the few times I’ve seen him speak (okay, the one time on PBS, when he was doing a dance project for people who were dealing with fatal illnesses), he struck me. First off, he’s a stunning man and he speaks like a poet, he really feels his words, so it was great eagerness I schlepped to his free performance.

The only exposure I’ve had to modern dance is through my pal Kirsten, who is a dancer/choreographer among a million kabillion things, and Bill T. Jones’s stuff’s kinda reminded me of her dances—weird, baffling, mysterious but also exciting. I don’t understand it, but I like it. As an audience, I’m always, duh, why that text with that move there? There was a lot of this wild stop/go thing, like the dancers are changing their mind mid-sentence, and then drive forward in a completely different direction/pace/idea. This would never occur to my body, as I have barely mastered the side to side bop, with some finger snapping, and am still progressing with my pop and lock.

Man, all those dancers worked hard, sweating, contorting in un-average positions seemingly without effort. I always wonder about their lives off-stage, if they like the touring, to come to non-home places to sweat your buns off and dance your heart out and move on, if they feel as free as they look (I do one set of sit-ups and I’m ready lie down). And then Bill T. Jones comes out shirtless, and dude, this guy is no spring chicken, but still ripped. He’s actually more ripped b/c he’s old man-ripped. You can see the years of practice in his muscles, each clearly defined, and his friggin’ 10-pack. My first thought was Bill T. Jones could make millions selling Tae-Bo videos.

Nancy now wants to start a dance company, and although I don’t dance or choreograph well, I am allowed to join and started practicing my modern dance moves immediately on the subway ride home.

If I were an executive at Disney, I would’ve killed this project.

All I can say is “rats in restaurant kitchen,” okay? Totally gross.

My friend Nancy bought the book Saturday midnight and finished in Sunday morning.

Me: So what happens in the end?
Nancy: Are you going to read it?
Me: No, I’ll see the movie. So what happens? Does he die in the end?
Nancy: I can’t tell you!
Me: What’s the difference? I can google the ending tomorrow.
Nancy: No!
And so on.

I kind of badgered her for a while, but she resisted. While I admire her strength, I am disappointed to not know how it ends. I know it’s a bad habit of mine (actually, dunno if it’s that bad, it’s not like evil) but I used to read the ends of books all the time. I still read them through till then end. My junior high school teacher gave me a hard time about it, how I have to enjoy the ride, the mystery, and I do like that part–but if you can find out, aren’t you a little curious?

If there is anyone out there who has yet to see the flick (Tony, Christine), let me know and we can coordinate.

I bet he dies in the end.

Don’t tell me though.