My mom has this obsession with freezing and refrigerating things. She doesn't like things to go to waste so she bags and freezes almost all of our food. Thing is, we don't really eat the leftovers because we forget about them being in the freezer, and it just takes up the shelf-space that should rightfully be holding ice cream and other frozen goodness. But the thing that gets me the most is how she bags and freezes our rice immediately after our first helping of it. I can't leisurely grab kimchi and kim to eat with bap because the bap is always frozen. And I'm too lazy or hungry to wait for the bap to heat up in the microwave so I've been craving Korean food lately.
Waiting for a prescription at Rite Aid I picked up Philadelphia magazine and flipped to the center. The author of the article witnessed the death of a woman in my area and he recounts what happened. http://www.phillymag.com/home/articles/mystery_sideswiped/. Apparently this past April a woman stumbled out of a moving car and she bled from her head and her eyes to death. The divorced mother of two kids, she had graduated from the same school district as I did. Her boyfriend, a D.A. from my county, was driving the car and people who know him say that they aren't surprised that he is caught up in something shady like this. I stood in the middle of the aisle reading this with my mouth gaping. No one at all mentioned this to me. It's a restaurant that everyone goes to; I went in its first week of opening and decided that it's a sham of an Italian restaurant and have never gone back. But we all go to the Rita's right next to it all the time. To think that possible murder happened in the parking lot of a neighborhood restaurant next to a children's destination is so weird. And it's a place where the biggest nuisance comes from cops who like to pull you over for speeding. so weird. I swam in the same pool as this woman in high school.
The cover story of this same issue is about how Philadelphians ruin their kids because of their wealth. Particularly the ones that live in the Main Line area- which is where Bryn Mawr is. These terrible kids are the same ones that students on our campus babysit part-time. It's weird. The highly-paid nannies and babysitters that the articles mention are my classmates. And I almost was one of them- a woman in the voting line in 2004 asked me for my number so I could sit for her kids. She seemed kind of psycho so I deliberately missed her call.
I'm so grateful to ABC for putting their shows online. Ugly Betty is a great show. It distracts me from the crazy amount of work I should be doing. wuteva.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
broken hearts
seriously. why all the drama and heartache? what goes on in the brains of those who cheat, lie, and steal?
stop it.
stop it.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
stories
I'm a sucker for stories. There's something about discovering things about other people, fictional and real, and their experiences that captivates me. Not like that's particular only to me, but I'm just saying that I'm a real sucker for them. When I was younger I would read 3-4 books at a time, and I would rotate each book after a certain number of chapters. I read in the dark, crossing the streets in New York, in the car, and in the bathroom. Now as a 21-year-old "adult" I've strayed from reading that many simultaneously, but instead get so wrapped up in the plot that I stay up til 5am reading the latest Harry Potter installment. Thank God there are no more due out because I'd lose too much precious time.
I'm an even bigger sucker for testimonies. It amazes me how personal it allows a person to become in front of an audience of some sort. And it's not for the glorification of the individual giving the testimony-- if anything it shows that bad parts of that person. Rather it distinguishes the way in which the almighty God made himself somewhat tangible and reachable to the guy, the girl, you, me. It blows me away; sometimes more powerfully than others, but I'm blown away regardless. To be honest, the fact that God is not for my own escapes me occasionally and it's pleasantly shocking when I'm reminded that there are others out there who have been offered and accepted the same love and grace as me. But in such different manners. There's that lil kid song that goes "my God is so big, so strong and so mighty, there's nothing my God cannot do" (clap clap). And that rings true whenever I hear others' stories. There are the simple "I grew up in church and I just love Jesus" stories, then there are the stories involving gangs and drug use and near-death experiences. There are the miraculous encounters and the intellectual epiphanies that introduced people to the Big Man. And there are the testimonies of after the initial introduction, of times of trial and tribulation, of joy, of abundant blessings and challenges. There are also those crazy missions encounters, where government officials gave people ultimatums but things crazily worked out in their favor.
And there are the testimonies of every day occurrences. Of seeing a baby smile at you without the reason being gas. Of the other car waving you the favor of merging in front of them. Those wouldn't really be referred to as testimonies, but rather they're more generally stories. Little events. But the little events are the things that make up stories and testimonies, and they're essentially the same thing, aren't they. I love stories. I admired, and still admire, the stories of others and the events of their lives that seemed so awesome and exciting. I'd silently envy their amazing lives and cool experiences, and my stories weren't much compared to theirs. My stories didn't seem to compare. Then I embarked on journeys and experiences of my own that I guess others may have envied. But despite my own exciting stories, others' always trumped mine.
It's funny that this summer is the first one in a long time that was supposed to be uneventful. Without any plans, I didn't expect it to turn out so full. Denmark and the rest of Europe's made me see the good in those little things, the boring things like sitting and talking to a Danish man about prisons over tea. I keep referring to how this summer is a quiet and relaxing one, but it's been more than that. There are a lot of stories to it, and I keep thinking of my past ones. And it's so ... humbling. And silencing. And wonderful.
Now if only I could find a way to express and tell them without being boring or sounding too pompous that'd be great.
I'm an even bigger sucker for testimonies. It amazes me how personal it allows a person to become in front of an audience of some sort. And it's not for the glorification of the individual giving the testimony-- if anything it shows that bad parts of that person. Rather it distinguishes the way in which the almighty God made himself somewhat tangible and reachable to the guy, the girl, you, me. It blows me away; sometimes more powerfully than others, but I'm blown away regardless. To be honest, the fact that God is not for my own escapes me occasionally and it's pleasantly shocking when I'm reminded that there are others out there who have been offered and accepted the same love and grace as me. But in such different manners. There's that lil kid song that goes "my God is so big, so strong and so mighty, there's nothing my God cannot do" (clap clap). And that rings true whenever I hear others' stories. There are the simple "I grew up in church and I just love Jesus" stories, then there are the stories involving gangs and drug use and near-death experiences. There are the miraculous encounters and the intellectual epiphanies that introduced people to the Big Man. And there are the testimonies of after the initial introduction, of times of trial and tribulation, of joy, of abundant blessings and challenges. There are also those crazy missions encounters, where government officials gave people ultimatums but things crazily worked out in their favor.
And there are the testimonies of every day occurrences. Of seeing a baby smile at you without the reason being gas. Of the other car waving you the favor of merging in front of them. Those wouldn't really be referred to as testimonies, but rather they're more generally stories. Little events. But the little events are the things that make up stories and testimonies, and they're essentially the same thing, aren't they. I love stories. I admired, and still admire, the stories of others and the events of their lives that seemed so awesome and exciting. I'd silently envy their amazing lives and cool experiences, and my stories weren't much compared to theirs. My stories didn't seem to compare. Then I embarked on journeys and experiences of my own that I guess others may have envied. But despite my own exciting stories, others' always trumped mine.
It's funny that this summer is the first one in a long time that was supposed to be uneventful. Without any plans, I didn't expect it to turn out so full. Denmark and the rest of Europe's made me see the good in those little things, the boring things like sitting and talking to a Danish man about prisons over tea. I keep referring to how this summer is a quiet and relaxing one, but it's been more than that. There are a lot of stories to it, and I keep thinking of my past ones. And it's so ... humbling. And silencing. And wonderful.
Now if only I could find a way to express and tell them without being boring or sounding too pompous that'd be great.
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