Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda.

Not too long ago, I had this irrational notion that I was meant to be a business consultant. Had I listened to my parents, graduated summa cum laude, and done everything right in life, it woulda been me clad in the tailored Theory suits, attending fancy client dinners and becoming well versed in the culinary landscapes of many a major metropolitan city. I coulda been the one with the collection of miniature Bliss samples acquired while hopping from one Starwood hotel to the next, and enough United miles to grant me free transatlantic flights to any European destination of my choosing. Of course I would be much too busy to afford any time off, but one well deserved trip to the Cote d’Azur each year would have to do. While I would be tired of living out of a suitcase, the simplicity of my W Hotel suite and a warm cup of genmai tea would calm my nerves as I curled up on my bed with a copy of the New Yorker. I had myself convinced that that shoulda been my career path, and somehow, that equated to success.

We all have our irrational what if scenarios masquerading as regrets. You know the ones - perceived and supposed epiphanies of success where if you really think about it, it makes no sense at all, at least not for us. Who am I kidding? I would've been miserable. But being the neurotic people that we are, we're convinced it should have come to pass. But despite the shoulda, coulda, wouldas, I'm seeing that life is exactly as it should be.

Luck Be A Lady.

I've never really been the jealous type. Sure, I compare myself to others for better or worse, but I like to think that the green eyed monster doesn't often rear its ugly head. That being said, my friend Grace and my cousin Hannah are currently #1 in their respective March Madness brackets, and I'm straight up jealous (but thoroughly proud). Whereas I had initially scoffed at their unoriginality - their presumed selection of the top-seeded teams based on rankings alone - I came to discover that there was indeed strategy involved. Extensive research. And once again, I learn never to assume, as it makes an ass out of u and me.

I feel as though a girl should have some knowledge of the goings on in the ESPN domain. While daily viewings of SportsCenter are not a requirement, the ability to speak intelligently is. This year I decided to join in the fun and choose my brackets. Knowing next to nothing about the NCAA college hoops world, I subsisted off a meager diet of regurgitated statements allowing me to feign some semblance of insight into the wide world of sports. This is where having a brother comes in handy. All those years of him spewing facts at me while I blatantly tried to ignore his presence; I guess there's something to osmosis after all. Throw in a couple random comments about the '96 Atlanta Braves lineup (his once favored team), and already you're up five notches.

And so I leaped into the selection process with much gusto. But how would I, with the sports IQ of a peanut, base my decisions? This couldn't be haphazard, as bragging rights were at stake. And so I opted for relevance. Many of the teams did not ring a bell, so obviously, those couldn't possibly be any good. Oral Roberts? Old Dominion? No thank you. My second line of defense became relevancy. UCLA was a no brainer, as one must always cheer on their alma mater, especially if they were #1 at some point this season. I had friends who attended BC and UNC, thereby determining their success, and I vaguely remember hearing the name Vanderbilt. Nomination by association. And then there is the historical data. One must always learn from the past. I seem to recall a player from last year's Gonzaga team crying like a baby. I don't remember if this was because they won or lost, but the outcome isn't relevant. The point is, I remembered. Ergo, Gonzaga.

My guy friends will make well informed, statistics-based decisions. Having followed the season religiously, they know each coach by heart and can list off the players' respective high school mascots. And the best part is, despite their education and determination, sometimes, it comes down to magical thinking. True, I am embarassingly behind in my fantasy league. But let's hope luck will be a lady tonight.

Across the Universe.

Recently, I discovered that certain childhood memories or experiences are not all universal. Now I suppose this ought to be an obvious statement, but I find that I am genuinely distressed by the very notion. This was so shocking to me, in fact, that hours later, my mind was still reeling from the thought.

I have always assumed that everything that I grew up with fell under the umbrella of the quintessential American upbringing - from Disney afternoons, to En Vogue, to most Asian parents being engineers. Of course this is all shaken the moment one enters college, when you meet people from different areas, different backgrounds. Notions of naivete come and go with the floating of your childhood.

Appalled at my ignorance in light of today's egalitarian society, I decided to investigate this gross miscalculation and trace it back to its roots. Where did I go wrong?

Oversight #1: I forgot that not all of my friends grew up in the States.

This applies to those seemingly assimiliated friends who are dead ringers for native sons and daughters of the U.S. of A. Much of the 80's and early 90's culture that I would reference would, for example, be lost on my friend Jeff, who grew up as an island boy on Papua New Guinea, swimming with the sea turtles and wearing garments constructed with leaves (joking). And references to certain fads (pogs) or trendy snacks (Raven's Revenge) would result in a blank stare from Jon, my brother from another mother, whose childhood memories hail from Moscow, where he was dodging neo-Nazis (not joking) and growing up with ex-pats and the Russian elite. Lesson learned: never make assumptions.

Oversight #2: I forgot that location is everything.

So not everyone goes to Outdoor Science Camp, and (gasp!) there are actually those who have attended indoor schools. I always wondered what that would be like. Weather and area-specific natural disasters have a lot to do with it. I have found that as rainy days are pretty universal, so is Heads Up 7-Up. There apparently weren't annual visits from the Yogi Bear Earthquake Mobile, which for those lucky 4th and 5th graders, would simulate 6.5 on the Richter scale and teach the proper responses to a natural disaster (though how a thin plank of wood loosely referred to as a desk can shield one from a crashing ceiling still remains a mystery). And while Southern California never allowed me the opportunity to go sledding or experience the thrill of having a day of school called off, I just have to think positively and consistently remind myself: Earthquake Mobile! Earthquake Mobile!

I had a conversation with a friend recently. And as I was explaining how I had bought a bunch of records and was in search of a record player, I had mentioned that I was the proud owner of one Peter and the Wolf album. To which the response was a quizzical 'huh?'. So appalled was I, that I proceeded to survey my cousin, roommates, friends and co-workers on whether or not they were familiar with the Prokofieff's classical narrative. Fact (insert simultaneous Dwight Schrute hand motion here): Every school goes to the theater to watch the story of the boy (Peter) and the antagonist (the wolf) unfold, and how the wolf eats the friend bird, represented by the piccolo. That's just how it goes. And while I'm not sure what kind of twisted childhood these people must have led - "..You mean the boy who cried wolf, right?" - I, clearly, was the normal one.

Lite-Brite.

Thoughts that occurred to me while standing in the microkitchen at exactly 9:49am PST on 2/28/07, contemplating organic yogurt:

Maybe you're supposed to live unapologetically and just give life a chance.
No room for regrets, no predetermining missteps.

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Maybe it was the influence of the fluorescent haze of the Google-branded display case, but somehow, I am under the impression that I ought to run with this.

Reading Rainbow.

I like to buy things. In fact, I like to buy many things. I go through periods where I'll stockpile anything from CDs to stationery to vintage rock t-shirts. These are subject to change according to mood and stage in life, of course, but the one thing that remains constant is books. I love used book stores: Green Apple, City Lights, Pegasus, Black Oak. Pages lovingly worn and vintage hardcover editions for a fraction of the price. I can never say no to a book, and I spend a ridiculous amount of money on literature because after all, how can you put a price on knowledge and culture?

From my stint as an English major to my overflowing bookshelf, everything about me suggests that I voraciously read. Having run out of room on my [strictly decorational] fireplace mantel, I have resorted to amassing piles by my CD collection and even more piles under my bed. That's not to say that I actually ever get around to reading, however. What I've realized is this: I buy books primarily to place impressively and ever-so-thoughtfully upon my mantel. And when I'm feeling especially artistic, I'll rotate the featured display, as if visually merchandising a boutique window. Books strategically purchased for what they represent, from the aesthetics (who doesn't judge a book by its cover?) to the eclectic genres, creating a telling persona without me having to even open my mouth.

Case in point: I walked into Barnes & Noble one day and stumbled upon newly designed pocket editions of Francis Bacon's On Empire and Plato's The Symposium - essentials for any self-respecting intellectual. Inspired and on a self-betterment campaign, I took the two books straight to the counter and promptly whipped out my credit card. Once the transaction was completed, I felt instantly smarter. Visions of grandeur and culture, of being engaged in philosophic discussions about shadows against a cave wall and what they represent.. all spurred by a lovely handpressed fleur-de-lys motif adorning a book cover. Will I ever study said manuals? Who knows? But should I ever have the desire, I have the option to.

Maybe it was my upbringing. While riddled to guilt at even the suggestion of shopping anywhere other than TJ Maxx, my parents would shell out the big bucks for anything with a binding. It was an educational investment, they said.

And so I continue to buy. Just this weekend, I bought seven*.

I don't know when the last time I actually read was. I simply don't have the time. My productivity ratio for the past month breaks down as follows: 10 books purchased to 1 fashion magazine perused. I recently ordered subscriptions to the New Yorker and the Economist as an alternative, but I wonder if I'll even get around to thumbing through those. If I were more practical, I suppose I would finish what I owned before carting home another dozen. But I'm not, so I can't, then I won't but.. continue to be anything other than idiosyncratic me.

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* Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Salman Rushdie, The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood, The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell, The Unthinkable Thoughts of Jacob Green by Joshua Braff, Mountain Man Dance Moves (McSweeney's book of lists), and This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald, in case you were wondering (but most likely weren't).

We Never Change.

I've been experiencing a bit of writer's block, so I'm resurrecting something from the past for some much needed inspiration:

Every morning I wake up, and the first thought (or word, rather) that enters my head is “shit.”* I find this rather troublesome. I am beginning what may potentially turn out to be a glorious, God-given day with “shit.”, which proclaims doom from the start. This is usually due to the fact that I oversleep every single day and am either (a) late to work or (b) waking up at an obscene hour at which I feel like a disgusting slob. I wake up in an utter state of panic and irritation, running around, stubbing my toe, hastily slapping together what is erroneously labeled a lunch, and proceed to skivvy on out the door, face the unrelentingly malevolent wind, and run into oncoming traffic, at which I then continue to mutter obscenities under my breath in a state of sleepy disillusionment. I'm really not sure if this is the best thing.

Somethings never change. I wrote the above during the quarter I spent in DC during my senior year of college, and three years later, here I am, still v. much the same person that I was back then. Only now I don't slap together makeshift sandwiches - I get gourmet ones for free at work.

I like to think that I have shed any and all vestiges of LA. A past life, I'd rather leave to compartmentalized boxes in mental storage, collecting dust as I move forward with this new chapter in life. As with anything else, life in a new city takes acclimatizing to. First the weather. I work in an environment where knowledge of the power of 2 is a fundamental. My work has crept up even into my wardrobe, as the number of outerwear hanging in my closet has grown exponentially. Then there is the local culture. It is no secret that I have wholeheartedly embraced a local sports team – the San Jose Sharks. Some time ago, I compiled of checklist of things I needed to do in order to become a bona fide San Franciscan. I became a fan of public transportation, moved into a pre-1920's Victorian flat, and the clincher: I purchased one black North Face denali.

The other day, I happened to meet both Will.i.am and James Taylor independently in the same day. One at Google, and the other while en route to my design class. I got off the early shuttle at Civic Center, and there, surrounded by fans, was a man I recognized from UCLA Spring Sing 2004: Mr. Country Road himself, James Taylor. And as much as I love his music, I hesitated. No self-respecting Angeleno would behave the part of the shameless groupie, so I simply played it cool and walked on by. It then occurred to me that this was James FREAKING Taylor (yes, little known fact: Freaking is indeed his middle name) that we were talking about here, so I proceeded to shed any and all dignity, pivot, and walk on by again. This was my chance! Shake hands? Take a picture? A signed forehead, perhaps? The possibilities were endless. And in that moment of hesitation, that fleeting need to play it cool, the security guard ushered him back into the theatre where he was to perform, to perform songs like Carolina on My Mind and Sweet Baby James.

And in that moment, it dawned on me. I will never get LA out of my system.

* Subject to change and directly correlated to number of minutes late. Variants include: 'shiiit' (not to be confused with Shi'ite), 'SHIT!', and the milder, 'oh dear'.

Random Reverie.

I've been having the same reccuring random reverie, and it goes a little something like this:

Setting:
I'm sitting at one of the Google cafes overlooking the Googleplex.
I suppose this will have to be Pacific or Slice - I haven't fully worked out the details - and Larry or Sergey (doesn't matter which one) will walk in.
He'll see me sitting there, gazing out the window, contemplating the contours of a nearby Eucalyptus tree.

And with the rapid brush strokes of my hand, I'll be sketching away and deeply lost in thought. And instantly, he'll be captivated.

The whimsy! The use of color! How very Googley, he'll think to himself.

And he'll whisk away my drawings and demand to know who I am and what I do for this company of his. "Hmm? Recruiting," I'll respond, in a distracted, far off manner. Simple, one word answers, furthering the mystique. And he'll proclaim, personally affronted: "Recruiting?! Talent such as that does not belong in recruiting! I hereby christen you the official sketch artist / water colorist of Google, Inc!"

And so stripped away will be my cube and IBM laptop. I will be officeless, but one MacBook happier. And I'll sprawl out on the grassy lawn, as it will be a perfectly warm, sunny day, painting the varying color nuances of the leaves above.

I know, I know. There is no such thing as a perfectly warm, sunny day in Northern California. But a girl can dream, can't she?