shpanzi's Xanga

Quarter Life...Crisis

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 02:25:32 GMT

In exactly 5 days, my biological clock will hit 25 years old, a quarter century.
When my grandmother was my age, she’d already had 2 children and was an engineering executive (Her mother had already had 6 children! And never mind that she didn’t work outside the house, she was an executive all right. She said the word, and her children executed.)
Tupac Shakur, by the age of 25 had already a multi-platinum album and was also an accomplished poet
The Olsen twins haven’t even hit the 25 –year mark and are already worth over $100mm.

Meanwhile, my accomplishments include:
Being able to rap Tupac’s California, in all its entirety.
(Finally) getting over my crush on Uncle Jessie.

...how I love boxing...

Tue, 20 Oct 2009 20:11:26 GMT

So now in my room I have 2 framed prints of Shanghai girls in vintage advertisements, 2 Monet prints, 1 Van Gogh print, 1 Renoir print, and a panorama of the SF night scene. I really have little room for any other prints. However, I’m thinking of buying a big Floyd Mayweather print for my ceiling. Why not?! Lots of guys have prints of naked girls on their walls. I want one of a huge, half-naked boxer on mine. Sweat glistening on his chest, veins popping from his chiseled arms, and his fists up like he’s ready for action. One on one.

...Can't help but stare...

Fri, 09 Oct 2009 20:12:47 GMT

One thing I love to watch in NYC is men watching women. More specifically, men gawking at women. I was riding the subway home yesterday and the guy who sat across from me clearly had not been with a woman for a long, long time, from the way he was staring at the woman seated next to me. He was a carpenter or construction worker (wearing some “Carpenter Union” shirt), perhaps mid-forties, not wearing a wedding ring. Dressed in jeans ripped at the knees and dusty construction boots, he sat with his legs open, a cloth lunch pail resting on his generous paunch. His round white face showed the years of sun and labor and was framed on both sides with a few shy patches of white hair.

The object of his affection, to put it lightly, was a woman in her mid-thirties seated next to me. From the corner of my eye, I saw her remove a hairbrush from her Fendi bag with her French-manicured hands. As she brushed her long brown hair, I could see Mr. Carpenter inching closer. (Meanwhile, I inched further away as the long brown strands were falling from her brush and onto my lap.) When she was finally satisfied with her hair, she pulled out her compact and began powdering her face. Batting her long lashes into her mirror, she removed a lipstick and began putting on a thick coat onto her collagen-injected pout. I could see Mr. C practically falling out of his chair. By now, his lunch pail was on the floor and his mouth was half-open, like a little kid staring at a chocolate sundae. My seatmate by now was looking pretty satisfied with herself. As a final touch, she adjusted her collar down so that the top half of her ample bosom happily popped out, as if to greet Mr. C themselves. Just then, the subway doors opened and in rushed a group of tourists, completing disrupting the climax of Mr. Capenter’s show. (Her I admit it disrupted mine as well.) Miss Ample noticed this was her stop, and gets up, and saunters out in her four-inch stilettos, leaving a heavy cloud of Chanel No. 5 trailing behind. Mr. C’s eyes follow her out the door, all the way until the subway doors close. And then they turn to me.

I’m Sorry… I’m from California

Fri, 14 Aug 2009 02:09:26 GMT

Every day when I get off the subway to walk home I see two blue double-decker City Sights New York buses, with the matching blue-uniformed guys handing out pamphlets. They always ask me if I’m interested, waving their brochures in my face like it’s a lottery ticket. The same guys, every single day. Something about me, my demeanor, just screams lost tourist.

Every day during my walk home I also say Sorry at least 20 times. Maybe it’s because I live in midtown, where it’s bustling with tourists (or in my case, look-alikes) and I inevitably always find the most crowded route to my destination. Maybe it’s because I’m a klutz. Or maybe I just attract people who can’t walk straight. It’s probably a combination of all three.

When the inevitable collision does happen – whether it’s with the 6 foot 6 linebacker-type or some banker enslaved to his Blackberry, the words “I’m sorry” immediately tumble out of my mouth, whether or not I was at fault, whether or not I really am sorry. Once a portly tourist with his face buried in a map crashed into me. As I was bending over, picking up the contents of my spilled grocery bag, the words, “I’m sorry,” came flying out of my life. As he rushed off without even a glance at me, I wanted to yell as his sweaty back, “And I suppose your mother never taught you those words!”

Another time I was in a bar waiting for a friend when one of other patrons and I started chatting. Within two minutes he grinned knowingly at me, “You’re from California, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes,” I was a little surprised. “How did you know?”

“Well, there’s something about your demeanor.”

“Oh,” I blushed. I didn’t know what to say. I was almost apologetic.

“It’s really cute. You talk softer, slower.” He said this matter-of-fact, in the tone of Wow, you are so slow you didn’t even realize you were slow…

Excellent. I’m cute, but I’m slow.

“Anyways,” the guy finished. “I gotta go,” he downed his beer. “Welcome to New York!” Walking toward the door, his wide shoulder crashed into mine. Ultimately splashing half a cabernet onto my white shirt.

Immediately the first words out of my mouth were, “I’m sorry.” And they came out slowly too.

Orders from the Mothership

Tue, 26 May 2009 19:09:48 GMT

I’m visiting my parents for the long weekend, and the inevitable happens in the first few hours. There is of course the initial small talk (“How was your flight? Did you get to nap? I hope you didn’t sit next to a fatty”), but then there is the Spanish Inquisition. It starts off easy with questions that I can answer. How is work going? (fine) How is your health (implying, I hope you don't intake more calories from alcohol than vegetables?) Do you sleep well? (Yes, but I still talk in my sleep) Have you been studying for your GMATs? (no), Finally, when the easy ones have run out, it becomes When are you going to buy your own house (read: next door to us?) and When am I going to see my first grandchild? These last two questions always floor me, because I think she expects them to be executed simultenously. I mean, I’ve always been great at multitasking, but even this I don’t think I can pull off. For the house, I would need seed money. Lots of it. And for the child, well, I would just need seeds.
But I can be aggressively ambitious if she wanted me to be. I can give it my best effort to get it all done at the same time. I picture myself, at 24 years old, in a gray office as a day-trader. I am bent over my desk placing a limit order and doing the nasty at the same time. (Or, rather, someone is doing it to me). “Yes, oh, do it, harder baby, harder” (here I type in the stock quote)… “Faster, harder, oh you know I like it like that” (hitting the “Place Order” button)… “Baby, I’m coming, oh oh oh!” (The screen flashes “Order Executed.”)
So either I will complete everything in the meager amount of time my mother has allotted, or someday I will have to tell my poor kid, oh yes, your father and I were very romantic with each other. In fact, you were conceived in front of a Bloomberg terminal during a market rally. I made $80 grand in about 40 minutes – about the time it took Daddy to finish putting you inside me.

Being Mrs. Bradley...

Tue, 26 May 2009 04:14:08 GMT

The first time I saw Roman Holiday as a little girl, my goal was to marry Gregory Peck. I was determined to be the next Mrs. Joe Bradley. He is the true definition of tall, (sort-of) dark, and (very, very) handsome!!

The movie is about a rebellious princess who, during a tour in Rome, runs away and falls asleep on a public bench. Joe Bradly, a news reporter, takes pity on her and finally allows her to sleep in his apartment, relegating her to his couch. When he finally recognizes who she is, he is determined to cash in, and even ropes in his photographer friend to document their time together. The two end up spending an entire 24 hours together on a rendezvous throughout Rome - sightseeing, dancing. Even though initially it was all based on a lie - Ann was a princess in hiding, while Joe hid his status as a news reporter aiming to get a hefty sum for a "personal" interview -- the two end up falling in love. The point is, you can find love in the most unexpected places. You just have to have an open mind - and heart. (Finding Lust is another story - for that I recommend hitting the bars where they make strong drinks.)

Sadly, Ann finally realizes that she cannot be with a newspaper reporter, and thus returns back to the embassy.

The movie ends with a press conference with the princess that Joe attends, during which he makes it clear that he will not sell the story. The final scene shows him all alone after Ann has left, lingering in the large hall, as if waiting for her return. Hopeful.

Even today when I watch the movie, my heart still hopes that at any moment, Princess Ann will come racing out. She'll jump into his arms and he'll whisk her away (on his hot Italian vespa, no less)

Oh, I don't care if you force me to sleep on your couch instead of your (twin-size) bed. Even if I were a princess, I would still marry you, Joe!!*

*When, as a seven-year-old, was finally told that Gregory Peck was older than my own grandfather, it was the biggest heartbreak of my little heart.

Remnants of SF...

Tue, 26 May 2009 04:12:02 GMT

8 pm on Sunday night, and my parents and I are sitting in my dad's Saturn SUV (he only buys American now). He is doing 85 on highway 101, tyring to make it home in time for the Cleveland / Orlando game. Meanwhile I am sitting in the backseat like a fat kid who overate his share of birthday cake, dozing off to Barbara Streisand on KOIT ("Light Rock, Less Talk"). My jeans are spotted with droplets of chocolate from the peanut butter and hot fudge sundae we devoured at Ghiradelli Square that morning. My shirt smells like fish and chips from lunch at Pier 39. There's a grease stain on the collar. Next to me is bag of taffy, mixed truffles and (half eatten) almond bark from the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory . I think there is still caramel stuck to my hair from my afternoon caramel apple.

And I haven't even finished my In 'N Out Shake yet.... It was a good day.

Knock Out

Fri, 01 May 2009 01:14:28 GMT

It’s Thursday, amateur boxing night. The scene – BB Kings. The opponents - the NYC firefighters and the Dublin Firefights. There’s a dozen beers on tap, any kind of mixed drink you’d like, and the night is young.

The first fight was a rather painful one. One guy was a lanky albino-looking guy who looked like he hadn’t reached puberty, and yet was already thinning on top. He went by “Flash” and while there was no doubt the guy was quick, his aim wasn’t exactly accurate. The other fighter, “Brick” actually looked like a brick. He was a whole head shorter than “Flash” and what was his head was more of a red rectangular mass with pig eyes and a red nose poking out. With every hit, his arm flab would jiggle, flailing out as if having their own little brawl. It reminded me of that commercial for Jenny Craig when the woman goes from 250 to 150 pounds and jumps for happiness to prove her newly acquired agility -- only to have her arm flab bouncing up right with her and finally settling with a rubbery jiggle around her sides. The fight ended unceremoniously with Flash socking Brick squarely in his face – giving him a bloody nose.

The second fight had less bloodshed. Both guys looked about equal in size – “Buffalo Bill” was a freckle-faced red head, a jolly looking fellow with visible rolls around his middle. His opponent, “T-Bone” looked like he might have been a physics professor in another life. He had a dark brooding figure and a particularly prominent double (triple?) chin. Their fight started off rather friendly – too friendly, in fact, because neither guy had managed to get in a good hit by the middle of round two. By round three, the guys behind me were finishing their third round of beers and getting antsy. One guy yells out, “C mon! Knock out that fat ass!!” and my friend retorts with, “Which one?!”

Out of the 11 matches, the best one was fight number 9, the only one that was between two girls. One of them, “Pixie” was actually a Golden Glove boxer - really cut, in great shape. She had quick, accurate hits, knew how to defend herself. She easily won all three rounds. When she took off her mouthpiece and headgear, revealing waist length blonde hair and a dazzling white smile, some guy in the audience whistled. “She’s hot too!” My friend pokes me. “Yea,” he says under his breath. “I’ll let her knock me out anytime.” Then he turns to me with a wide grin on his face, “What do you think? Can you take her down in a fight? She’s about your size.”

“Ummm.. I guess so.” The idea of putting on one of those helmets and slugging it out in a ring, surrounded by a bunch of heckling drunks sounded as appealing at a broken pelvis.

“Yea, well, worse case, she’ll just pin you down and you two can have a couple rounds on the floor. What do you think of that?”

“Well, what you think of wresting Brick?”

His smile turned sour. “I think I’d rather wax my balls.”

How Babies Are Made

Thu, 16 Apr 2009 01:01:16 GMT

In reality, my first job was quite a learning experience as well. The summer I was 14, I was babysitting twice a week for the Johnsons, the wealthiest family in my neighborhood. They had a 4-year old, blond-haired angel – Jenny May, whom I read and played Bingo with.

My second day on the job, I am in the middle of baking cookies when the front door slams open. Mr. Johnson’s 6 foot, 6 inch frame fills the door frame; clutching onto his arm is a petite red-head, stumbling in her stilettos. It certainly wasn’t his wife – this woman was a third her size. She is panting, sweat staining her silk shirt. She looked like she happened to suffer a seizure while walking by the Johnson’s house. I reach for the phone to dial 9-1-1, but Mr. Johnson beats me to it. “I’m just going to take care of her upstairs. She’s needs something to drink, that’s all,” he assures me. He bends down to scoop up his companion and airlifts her upstairs to his room.

Little Jenny walks in from the TV room, “Is someone home?” I tell her no, that was just the Cookie Fairy – he came to add more chocolate chips to your cookies! She beams and runs back to watch her program.

I slowly make my way upstairs with a tray of water and ice cubes to check on Mr. Johnson. The door to the Johnson’ master bedroom is wide open, and I see two stark-naked figures tangled in bed. The tiny red-head is moaning like a savage, drowning under Mr. Johnson’s line-backer frame. Bedsheets and clothes are strewn everywhere. I take a deep breath and spin around, promptly landing on my rear – ice cubes, water, and cups flying everywhere.

Little Jenny did get extra chocolate chips in her cookies that night. Her father, after sending his mistress off, did devour half of them, but I couldn’t care less. No words were exchanged when Mr. Johnson drove me home that night. But when he stuffed two hundred dollar bills in my hand, he gave me a look as if to say, “We have an understanding don’t we?”

So I, every Thursday and Friday after Chinese class, for an entire summer, would rush to the Johnson’s palace, sing and dance and bake cookies for Jenny while Mr. Johnson and his mistress drank, moaned, and thumped loudly upstairs for several hours.

My parents were stunned at how much cash I’d accumulated at the end of the summer. Mr. J sometimes paid me with rolls of $100 bills. That summer, I learned how to bake 14 different kinds of chocolate chip cookies. And that was also summer that I – a late bloomer – really learned how babies were made. 14 different ways.

I'm Here for Work

Thu, 16 Apr 2009 00:59:39 GMT

I was 12 years old and my biggest fear was that I was a lesbian. Not that there is anything wrong with being one. But since I am an only child, the daughter of hardworking Chinese immigrants, I am expected to perform. And this includes procreating with a well-bred, Chinese boy. (Preferably a doctor, engineer, or lawyer. Finance is ok too, except that my parents think Investment Banking means being a teller at the local B of A).

My dad is a software engineer for a Fortune 500 company. My mother teaches piano at our house. We have a two-story white house in San Jose. I’ve lived in that house for so long that sometimes I find random Barbie clothes when I dig through the bottom of my closet. This means that I, after graduating from college 3 years ago, I wanted to travel and be as far away as possible. Thus, armed with my double major (Biology and Engineering), I became a consultant.

My first project was in Orange County. Not entirely far, but good enough for 4 nights a week in a four-star hotel. I was 21-years old, and the prospect of being on my own, traveling (on an expense account!) was thrilling. The project was interesting enough – client X had problem Y, so we’d patch it with solution Z, but not to 100% of course. This meant that problem Y would eventually morph into Y^2 and we could concoct solution Z^2 to patch that one up. Point being, I was on the project for over a year, and our firm made a lot of money.

My first night in the hotel, I decided to do some exploring. This meant starting out with the selection of wines at the bar. I settle on a Cabernet before a voice next to me perks up.

“So I’m going to guess that you are here for work. A consultant, right?” He was a middle-aged Caucasian gentleman, thinning a bit on top. A prominent paunch hovered over his tailored, pin-striped trousers.

“Umm…no.” I straighten the collar on my non-iron Brooks Brother’s shirt. “I’m actually not.”

He squints at me behind his wire glasses. “You must be an attorney then. Do you work for one of the firms nearby?” He removes his suit jacket and motions for a glass of whiskey. Turning back to me, he gives me a wide, friendly smile. A patch of curly graying hair peeks out from his open shirt. It seems to be smiling at me too.

“No. I’m not.” I take a sip of wine. It was delicious. I lick my lips, savoring the warmth. “I’m in the film industry.”

“Oh! What kind of films?” His eyes light up. “Do you produce? Do you act?”

“I’m in a really niche industry.” I take another long, luxuriant sip. The wine was making me salivate.

“My cousin writes scripts for movies. You might have seen some of his movies. He does mainly romantic films, drama. He works with Spielberg all the time.”

“Oh, we don’t really use scripts in our films. They are more like short-films. Simple plots. Not too much drama involved.” The bartender is refilling my glass.

“Short films. Like Indie films? That must be interesting. So you’re traveling here for some shoots?”

“Yup, we’re using some of suburban scenes as backdrops. I don’t really get to decide these things though. I just act in them. The Big Boss tells me what to say and do, and I do!”

“You act!” He was getting really excited now. “Of course! I should have guessed! I mean, forgive me for being so forward, but you are a beautiful, beautiful lady!”

“Well, thank you!” The wine was really heating up my face.

“I’ve actually watched everything! Maybe I’ve seen you in some movies!” he continues.

“Hmm… I’m not sure. Have you seen ‘Lad and the Ladies’? ‘Cumming ‘N America’?”

“No.” He furrows his brow. “I’m not even sure if they sound familiar.” He finishes off his whiskey, still looking thoughtful. “Who else is in them?”

“Bella Starr, Roxie Cunt… really great girls. Really smart.”

“They must be up and coming actresses then, new talent is always great. Would Blockbuster have these films?” He takes out a pen and paper from his jacket, scribbling down the film names.

“Oh, sure. Several copies of each. In the section, ‘Adult Films.’ ” I raise my glass up in a toast, down the rest of my Cab, and stride off. I had a Powerpoint deck to finish after all.