Making a list, checking it twice (pt 2)

I was going to write another blog about movies I've seen last year that made me think. Made me want to blog. You know. Movies like...

1. Juno
2. Waitress
3. Enchanted

...and then I realized my list stopped. Thinking that it was just because I'd forgotten what wonderful movies had come out last year, I did a quick Google search. That should have been Warning Sign #1.

As I went through the list of ALL MOVIES THAT WERE RELEASED IN 2007, I started to realize that I've only seen like 5 movies total this entire year. Warning Sign #2.

...

And that's including in-flight entertainment from United Airlines!

...

I need to get out more in 2008.

Making a list, checking it twice

Songs that meant something to me in 2007 (in no particular order):

1. Love Song - Sara Bareilles
2. Human - Jon McLaughlin
3. The Last Goodbye - James Morrison
4. Don't Get Me Wrong (The Pretenders cover) - Lily Allen
5. Relax - Mika
6. Red Umbrella - Faith Hill
7. Shut Up and Drive - Rihanna
8. Last Request - Paolo Nutini
9. Who We Are - Lifehouse
10. Last Train Home - Ryan Star

Read into that as you will.

Comfortable (pt 2)

I started this blog two years ago. Two years ago, when my best friend and I had decided we'd had enough of each other and I needed a place to vent. He was determined to keep hitting himself over the head with the hammer that was his ex-girlfriend. The ex-girlfriend who hated my guts and forbade him from hanging out with me. Ever.

Our friendship was doomed the moment he decided to play by her rules.

Or so I thought.

He finally realized that there was no such thing as being "friends" with this particular ex. Especially since she was still yanking him around as she dated around. I personally like to think that maybe he just missed my charming sparkling witty conversation. (But I know better.)

Regardless, he got over her. Eventually.

But our friendship wasn't the same. I still felt betrayed. I mean, this is a guy who had suffered through organic chemistry with me. We had matching butt marks on side-by-side cubicles in the library. This was a guy who knew that I hate apples, except when it comes in French apple pie. This was the guy who helped me stave off the freshman fifteen by eating half my Hotpocket every morning, without fail. And this was the guy who trekked 1.2 miles every day to study with me and my roommate.

In crutches.

We were the JLM trio. We were always there for each other. Even at church, when I spilled the blood of Jesus all over his crisp white Communion shirt. Even at the ice skating rink, where I fell all over myself and my two left feet. Honestly, who knew that a boy from Texas would turn out to be such a good figure skater? (Granted, he's from the same hometown as freaking Tara Lipinski.)

And so, for him to throw that all away was very much a stab in the back. We didn't talk for a good six months.

It got so bad that when the L in our JLM trio hosted a Thanksgiving dinner, she made sure to invite enough friends so that neither one of us were ever alone or in the same room together.

But time passed. And somehow, we found our way back to each other. He's a year ahead of me in med school - and his new girlfriend is less scary. Less demanding. (Read: I actually like her, and I think she likes me.)

Anyways, as boyfriends are wont to do, my best friend hangs out with his girlfriend quite a bit. So, I see him maybe once a month on designated JLM dinner days. I might catch him online and have a quick "what up, what are you doing, where are you studying" conversation, but we don't have the same dynamic that we used to.

This past unit was particularly terrible. Honestly, how are we supposed to learn about the entire autonomic nervous system (and all the drugs that affect it), and the renal and male genitourinary system, in less than three weeks?

It's madness, I tell you. And downright impossible.

So every day, I would go to the library. I would sit in my little cubicle. And study until the cows came home. One day, I saw a familiar jacket sit down next to me. And within seconds, a little Panera brown paper bag came flying over the divider. And inside was half an Asiago cheese bagel and half a cinnamon crunch. My two favorites. In the exact portions I always want.

After all these years, he still remembers my idiosyncrasies. Like how I only like eating half a bagel before I get bored with it. And how I need something sweet to go with my something savory, and vice versa.

This past weekend, we hung out quite a bit. And he was good about making sure we always sat facing the direction of travel on the subway. Remembered that I hate apples in anything but dessert and told the waitress to switch them out for raspberries. He even downloaded episodes of The Office onto his ipod to keep me entertained (and probably so my ADD wouldn't drive him up the wall). We watched girly movies that he would never admit to liking. And while he may make fun of my matching earmuffs, gloves, inner fleece, and the required ten minutes I need to put on all of my winter accessories whenever we head out into the cold, I've missed him and his incessant whining and ribbing.

We're friends. Nothing more, nothing less. And I wouldn't change it for the world.

There are very few people in the world that I feel so comfortable with. He's definitely one of them. We might not have grown up next to each other in houses with cute white picket fences, but we definitely grew up with each other. And so, no matter where we end up in life, I know we'll always find a way back to each other.

Get out of this town

I cannot pull an all-nighter for the life of me.

Last night, I went to a holiday party and then met up with my best friend from undergrad to watch a late-night movie. We ended up making pasta and chatted for a while. About old roommates. New roommates. His girlfriend. My non-existent boyfriends. School. Movies. Computers. Really, to be honest, I don't really remember what we talked about (see: holiday party), but I do remember that was a lot of fun just catching up.

I didn't get home until 3am.

Normally, that would be fine. Normally, I would have hit the bed with my made-up face and tangled curls and snoozed until noon. Normally, I wouldn't mind being such a lazy bum during break.

Except I had the first plane out of Chicago headed for beautiful sunny California.

I had planned to leave my house by six so that I would get to the airport in time to make my 8am flight. Just enough time to throw in my last-minute toiletries and sweater, walk out the door and hail a cab.

But you know what they say about the best laid plans.

I said my goodbyes to my friend at 3am and headed home to pack and clean, but the moment I saw my bed, my head hit the pillow and I was fast asleep. With my made-up face and tangled curls and itchy holiday party clothes still on. I woke up at exactly 6:46am...and the first thing that went through my head were some things that probably shouldn't be repeated here.

I don't even know how I managed to throw everything into my carry-on. I don't know how I put on my contacts and brushed my teeth. I don't know how I remembered to grab my phone charger and computer and glasses. I was so frazzled, and yet, I managed to be out of my door by 6:58am. With matching socks on.

I know. I can be freaking amazing sometimes.

I told my cabbie to drive like the wind, and two near accidents and three almost dead pedestrians later, I was at the airport by 7:40.

Just so you know, it normally takes an hour and a half to get from my apartment to the good ol' ORD. And there was traffic. Lots of it.

So while I didn't make it there with time to spare, I wasn't late, per se. Not yet. So I ran into the airport, told everyone in sight that my plane was leaving in five minutes, and managed to get through security checkpoints and to my gate by 7:45am.

Like I said, I can be pretty amazing sometimes.

Just picture this. I'm running through the airport like a madwoman - and I probably looked like one, what with my mussed up holiday party hair from the night before and smudged makeup caked on my face. So when I finally get to the gate (which had to be the farthest one of course), I freaked when I saw the JetBlue employee close the gate door.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

Yes, he replied. Simply.

But it's not 8am yet! I need to be on that plane! I pleaded. I was officially freaking out. Understandably freaking out, in my own humble opinion.

Yes. We decided to close the gates a little early because everyone else was here.

But I'm here! And it's not 8am! It's SEVEN FREAKING FORTY FIVE!

And then he said the best line ever uttered by an airline employee.

Well, are you done freaking out, or do you need another minute or two hours?

...

What?

You can continue to cry over spilled milk, or I can put you on the next flight.

I was so flabbergasted, I didn't say anything. Eventually though, he put me on the next flight (which was nine hours later), and I sat down - dejected and worn out - at the gate.

I pulled out my computer, started writing an email to my roommate, and looked out the window at the beautiful blue plane that I should have been on. On my way to beautiful sunny California.

And then I noticed what time it was. 8:27am. The plane had been sitting there for the last forty minutes. The plane that I should have been on. The plane that I definitely could have still been on. The plane that had doors Mr. Martin could have opened for me. The plane that would have had me in California twelve hours ago.

I love the airport.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Chicago is the cutest city in the world during the holidays. There are the Christmas windows at the old Marshall Field's, outdoor ice skating rinks right on Michigan Avenue, free hot chocolate stands, lights everywhere, and carolers on every corner. And with the near-freezing temperatures, you just naturally pull the one you're with a little closer. The slippery sidewalks force you to cling to each other a little more tightly, and the holiday music spilling out of the stores and shops invites you to sing along.

And the decorations!! It's almost as though Chicago ate too much Christmas candy and threw up toys, elves, sugarplum fairies, reindeer, and boughs of holly all over the place - and then decked the crap out of its halls and streets on top of it.

It really is a winter wonderland.

And it really does make you smile a little bigger, hum a little louder, and step a little more lightly. If I could go a-wassailing', I would.

And the snow! It just covers Chicago in this thick blanket of magicalness. It's kind of amazing, looking out the window and just seeing fields and fields of pure unadulterated beauty.

Of course, the couples are out in force, holding hands and giving each other little pecks all over town, going for carriage rides, laughing, cuddling, and throwing snowballs at one another. True story: I overheard one couple calling them loveballs. It's so cute I could throw up.

Man, look at that. These snowflakes are so beautiful! They look like little balls of cotton.

Yeah. Little balls of freezing, making me wet, cotton.

...

Whatever dude. It's romantic.

Too bad it's completely wasted on us.

[Five minutes later.]

Michelle!

What?! I asked as I turned around to get a huge snowball in the face.

OW! Oh, you are going to pay...

And that's what I call a snowball. He laughed triumphantly.

One thing's for sure - that sure as heck isn't a "loveball..."

If you can't have a boyfriend, I guess having a cynical smart aleck of a friend is the next best thing.

Chicago at Christmas might be for lovers, but it's just as good as a playground for friends.

So close

Once upon a English Honors class, I sat next to this rather dashing, good-looking guy. And when I say good-looking, I mean like, holy crap, I got butterflies in my stomach every time I looked at him, and holy crap - I blushed as red as The-Scarlet-Letter-omg-can-people-really-turn-this-color if he so much as caught me staring.

With my mouth open. And my tongue dangling out. And drooling.

He was the star of our soccer team. And surprisingly smart as well. Since we sat next to each other, I was also paired up with him for book reports and projects - much to the envy of other girls in the class who would constantly ask our teacher if we had to sit alphabetically.

He was perfect. He was funny, he was smart, he was compassionate, and he could sing. He could bend it like Beckham, and yet he was humble. He was a star, but an awesome teammate. He was an amazing listener, and a great leader. And his mom made the most delicious cookies I've ever eaten (random aside, I know). He could do no wrong in anyone's eyes. There was just absolutely nothing wrong with him.

Just so I can emphasize how amazing this kid is, let me tell you this. He ended up going to Princeton where he graduated cum laude. And then he was drafted into MLS. Where he's currently playing with the actual person who can bend it like, well, himself.

He was the Big Man on Campus. All the girls crushed on him. And I was his friend.

And then one day, I became his prom date.

Prom was great. But that's not the point of the story. What's important is what came after.

He held my hand, and I'm pretty sure he would have kissed me, had my dad not been waiting at the front door like the strict Asian father he is (I had only broken curfew by TEN minutes!). I knew he was serious about his intentions when he came to my orchestra concert the next week and actually stayed awake for enough of it to realize I had a solo and compliment me later. He told me he thought I was beautiful and that he wanted to date me.

So I did what any girl would do in this situation.

I treated him like crap.

Why?

Because he was too good for me. I felt like a charity case. I mean, why would someone THAT amazing want to date someone like me? The thing is, I know if I were to tell him that, he'd hit me, jokingly, of course - because hello, he's so wonderful and compassionate and wonderful, of course he's part of the Men Against Domestic Violence group on campus - and tell me that I was being silly. So of course, I tried sabotaging the relationship before it even got to that point, so that I could be like, see, I knew you wouldn't ask me out, because you're too good for me, and I TOLD YOU SO.

It's twisted, I know.

But maybe that's why I always end up sabotaging my relationships. Because I meet great guys whom meet all my rules and high standards, and yet, I never end up dating them. I get so close, and then it all falls apart because people only come back so many times after you keep pushing them away. I just didn't think I deserved such wonderfulness.

But I am wonderful myself, damnit. I am awesome. And even if I didn't graduate whatever cum laude, and I still can't play sports to save my life, well - I'm pretty handy with a reflex hammer, and I can make mashed potatoes like nobody's business. I am a catch.

And maybe if I keep repeating it over and over again, I'll finally believe it and stop ruining my love life.

And 'til then, well, I'm sure there are some jerks out there that I could date.

Signed, sealed, delivered

I think you have to be superhuman to survive the second year of med school.

At first, I thought maybe it was just the first week. Thrown immediately into four hours of lecture (of stuff that has yet to make sense to me), we also had to help out with the M1s' orientation week. Take our little sibs to dinner. Attend their White Coat ceremony to welcome them into the fold. Put on picnics and activities fairs. Be amazing, essentially.

Eh. It makes sense that I'm behind for the first week, I told myself. There's simply not enough time. No biggie. I'll make it up next week.

Except, the extra time never ever materialized.

With each week we got hit with something more. Economics classes. Review of our entire physical exam skills course in a week. Preceptorships. PBL. Hospital visits. Lunch meetings that we now had to lead and buy food for.

I know I sound like I'm complaining, but remembering to bring napkins and serving spoons along with all the different gram negative bacteria, all while running on four hours of sleep? It's kinda a lot to expect.

Like I said, I think you have to be superhuman to be an M2.

I am not superhuman.

I'm clumsy and forgetful. Awkward and socially inept. Trust me. I am everything BUT superhuman.

I have a feeling I won't look back on this upcoming year and think...hmm, I wish I could do this all over again.

The only thing that is helping me get through this is my class.

This is the beauty of going to a pass-fail school. There's no competition between me and my classmates, just a sense of camaraderie. Today, I had to stuff 200 envelopes. That sucks. But as I sat down to begin the tedious and mind-numbing process, a couple of my classmates showed up and offered to help. Soon, we had a team of 20 soon-to-be-physicians assembly-lining envelope-stuffing.

We were done in less than 10 minutes.

And the cherry on top? I didn't have to make the extra trip out to Children's Memorial Hospital to drop off the letters. One of my classmates lives around there and offered to take them for me.

So really, I guess you don't have to be superhuman. You just have to be a part of the best medical class ever. Because then, you have people who will help during your time of need. It doesn't matter if that time of need is just a need for more time (to study, eat, and do laundry).

Thanks Class of 2010. I would jump off a cliff if I didn't have you.

I hate second year of med school.

But I love my classmates. More later.

Pedestal

First of all...who says 'yes' to that kind of a proposal?!

Set me free

You know how you have those moments when you realize that everything is exactly as it should be? That even though we have all these different options, different paths to follow, somehow we ended up exactly where we were supposed to be. I love those times. They're few and far in-between, which might actually just add to how special they are. In those moments, time really does slow down, and as cliched as it sounds, you drink it all in. And you remember everything. What you were wearing. Exactly where you were. Who you were with. What they were wearing. What you were feeling. Everything.

A year ago, to the day, I had one of those moments.

I knew exactly what he was going to say before he even said them. Even though I had no clue how I was going to respond. Sitting there, on the bleachers at the UCLA track, watching the lone runner at 4am, we just clicked. We sat there for hours. Silences have never been so exhilarating.

I'm a little glad I never blogged about our beginnings. I never really knew how to describe how deliriously happy I was that summer without it sounding like a top-40 love song. How far do I have to go to get to you? Name me the miles, send me the miles, and I'll be happy to.

He was by no means the love of my life. But I did care about him. And he will always be the first guy who got through my cold cold heart. He was the first guy to make me feel truly beautiful.

I am a hopeless romantic because of him. Even though we crashed and burned at the end, I'm glad we had what we had. Because he made me realize that I deserve wonderful things. And I will be able to find someone who will give me the world, the moon, and all the shoes I've ever wanted.

I've had plenty of 'life is beautiful' moments since then. More than I should be entitled to, I think. But it's reassuring. As many low points this year has had, I've had so many uplifting ones as well. Even today, though it's officially the anniversary of a relationship that had no possibility of ever working out, I'm realizing that I am exactly where I want to be. Exactly where I should be. With all the right people. Wearing all the right clothes. Doing exactly what I should be doing.

It really is beautiful.

When bells are ringing

Congratulations Annie and Tim.

When bells are ringing/ima a ting a tinging/ they're ringing and bringing you closer and closer to me/ hear the organ a-playin'/ yeah, I hear the voices singing/ yeah yeah yeah, they're saying I'm wearin' a smile, 'cause I'm marryin' you/ now in a moment or so, all of the people gathered will know/ that for the rest of our lives, we'll be man and wife/ not a soul is a-missing/ yeah, they're all around me kissin'/ oh oh oh, they're kissing and wishing us joy on our honeymoon...
[click on this link to go to the artist's myspace page...the song title is Wedding Bells]

Chasing the sun

I'd hate to admit it, but we all know it's true: I'm a dork through and through. Which is why these kinds of things make me smile and go awwwww.

(Because secretly I wish someone would spin counterclockwise for me.)

This post brought to you by Oregon

I love coming home to California. But invariably it means I'm going to run into old faces. At the grocery store, at coffee shops, even randomly at the post office. And while most of the time it's nice catching up, finding out who's now married with children(!!), who's moved away, and so on, there are the occasional run-ins that are super awkward.

I went to brunch with one of my high school friends the other day. We had just ordered, and I was helping myself to a yummy-looking muffin when he walked in. My high school boyfriend. The one who started dating my best friend before he broke up with me. Yeah. We didn't really keep in touch, but can you blame me?

I was seated facing the door, so we made eye contact when he came in. He dropped his eyes right away, too afraid to even look at his friends who were with him. Now, given my recent success with one ex, I was positive I could make this work out too. High school was forever and a decade ago. It's all water under the bridge now. So when his friends saw me (remember, he was still staring intently at the floor), I smiled and waved.

They walked over to say their hellos. We all had gone to the same high school, so everyone knew everyone else. There was no need for introductions, we could just skip pleasantly to the overly-friendly, over-eager, how are you's.

But as my ex's friend opened his mouth to start the aforementioned expected exchange, my ex butted in and exclaimed, What are you doing here?!

Not used to this kind of confrontational greeting, I sputtered and said I was back in California for my sister's wedding. Our friends looked on, aghast, and more than slightly afraid of what was going to happen in the next couple of minutes.

My friend, jumping to the defensive, threw the question back in his face. And why are you here?

Lunch, came the unequivocal answer from the friends.

We made small talk, finding out where we all were located now, realizing we were all home for the holiday, and then leaving a huge silence where real friends would have invited each other to picnics and high school reunions.

Then my ex spoke up. Again. So you're still in Oregon?

I blinked. Oregon?

Yeah, aren't you in some strange med program or vet or pharmacy thing up there?

I blinked again. Um, I'm at Northwestern med. Which is in Chicago, Illinois...

I was so flabbergasted at the question I drew out the syllables, bringing out my nonexistent ChiCAHgo accent and turning Illinois into noise. He knew I was at Northwestern. He had applied for the same program in high school, and was extremely bitter when he wasn't interviewed. Our friends all knew this, as he had gone on a rampage back in the day about how he had such better credentials than me and he deserved my spot.

Our friends were silent. And the awkwardness piled up around us.

And just when you think it couldn't possibly get any worse, the hostess appeared and cheerily asked if we all wanted to sit together.

NO no no, said my ex's friend, a little too forcefully. We're having lunch.

The hostess took a moment to process that. And then started to say what we all were thinking (which is that you can eat lunch and breakfast at the same table), but I shook my head at her and said that we were fine and would be leaving soon.

Oh okay, she said, picking up on how low the temperature had dropped. Well, I'll get your table ready then, as she walked over to the farthest part of the room, to a table that would have no eye contact with mine whatsoever.

We all stood there, not quite sure what to say to each other.

My friend came to the rescue, simply stating, but pointedly, Um, my eggs are getting cold.

Relieved, we all said our goodbyes and nice-running-into-you's even if we all knew they were total lies.

And here I thought I was making progress on the whole Awkward front.

You learn

Run-ins with ex-boyfriends are always inherently awkward. I never know what to say, and I tend to just completely clam up. I start fidgeting with jackets and become completely fascinated by knickknacks that surround me.

And I never deliberately seek them out. I might be the Queen of Awkward, but I definitely don't go looking for awkward situations to put myself in.

Except sometimes when I'm tired and delirious, I don't really know what I'm doing.

For instance, two weeks ago, an ex-boyfriend sent out an email to my class, offering some really great deals on books I would need this upcoming year. I emailed back, cordially, politely, telling him that I would love to take them off his hands if someone else hadn't already offered. It wasn't until after I pushed "send" that I realized I'd actually have to see him to get the books from him.

The old Michelle would have just bought overpriced books from the bookstore and avoided the whole awkward mess.

He wrote back, letting me know that although two of the books had already been spoken for, he'd give me the rest of the lot at a new special deal! After a couple more emails, we set up a meeting time - which turned out to be at 1am the night before I left for LA - the only time that worked for both us.

A little apprehensive, I walked over to his apartment with nothing but a check and my keys. Ten minutes of awkwardness couldn't be that bad, right?

I knocked on his door, and he quickly opened it. My roommate is sleeping, he whispered apologetically, to explain why he wasn't inviting me in. That's fine, I nodded, totally okay with getting this over with as quickly as possible. So imagine my surprise as he reached down to grab the pile of books, and then walked out the door into the hallway with me.

He sat down. So how are you? It's been a long time since we've talked.

Befuddled, I followed his lead and sat down as well in the corridor. We made small talk for a while - him telling me what he was up to, what to expect during my second year of medical school, and then the shocker - that he was taking a year off to do missionary work - and would be joining my class next year. So I'll see you in rounds, he said excitedly.

I nodded. He started asking me about my classmates, and as I gushed about them, I started gushing about his classmates as well, one of his closest friends in particular. She is amazing. Super involved, super efficient, superhuman. If I could accomplish just 10% of what she does, I'd be set for life, I remarked.

At first he laughed. And then he realized I wasn't joking at all. This girl was totally my role model.

Then he looked at me, very seriously, and said, Michelle - you don't want to be her. You don't need to be 10% of her. Heck, you don't need to be 1% of her. You already are amazing. You are already absolutely incredible.

I was floored. It's nice whenever someone pays you a compliment, but somehow, it means so much more coming from an ex. Because he knows there's no future for the two of you. There's really no need for pleasantries. Just bitter and honest truth. And to have him tell me that, was pretty amazing. Because after all we've gone through, for him to tell me I'm incredible, meant that I must be pretty freaking unbelievable.

We kept talking for a while and soon we were randomly talking about how immature kids are these days. Indirectly, I apologized for the way I treated him, as a lowly little freshman in undergrad. And though I didn't say it outright - it would have been too direct and awkward - he knew what I was referring to. Instead of lording it over me and rubbing it in - how horrible I was, how mean and insensitive I was - he merely nodded and placed some of the blame on himself, saying that his immaturity probably fostered my own. That couldn't be farther from the truth, but it was a nice gesture.

Well, at least we're all grown up now, I laughed, as I stood up to leave.

Oh, we're not at all. We're still young. Still making mistakes.

At least tell me I'm not so immature anymore.

Eh. I guess....

I punched him in the arm. Hey!

We both laughed. We hugged and said our goodbyes, wished each other luck, and I can honestly tell you that I hope we will be rounding together during our third year. Because he's a good friend. And I'm glad that we've gotten over our issues - and oh, there were lots - because when all is said and done, we respect each other. And that's so much better than our previous caustic relationship where we couldn't even look at each other in lecture halls, couldn't talk about each other to friends without dragging them into the whole mess.

One down, five ex-boyfriends to go.

I'm not gonna write you a love song

I am Sara Bareilles.

Well, no not really, but dude...how did she get into my head and write the most perfect song?

I learnt the hard way/That they all say/ Things you wanna hear/ My heavy hearts sinks deep down under/ You and your twisted words/ Your help just hurts/ You are not what I thought you were/ Hello to high and dry/ Convinced me to please you/ Made me think that I need this too/ But I'm trying to let you hear me as I am/ I'm not gonna write you a love song/ Cause you asked for it/ Cause you need one/ You see, I'm not gonna write you a love song/ cause you tell me it's make or breakin' this/ If you're on your way/ I'm not gonna write you to stay/ If all you have is leavin'/ I'm gonna need a better reason/ To write you a love song today.


Boys. Bleh. They're never worth the love songs.

I'm done.



Free LEGAL download here (until Tuesday, June 26th): http://freeitunessongs.blogspot.com/2007/06/music-sara-bareilles-love-song.html

By the way, I saw her live in concert, and I absolutely adore her. She's great.

Daddy's little girl

My dad and I had a strange relationship while I was growing up.

Oh, we had our fights. I was rebellious, and he was determined to make sure I turned out all right. He was adamant about my 9PM curfew, and I was always trying to test it. He disapproved of my guy friends, and I hated how he would give every single guy who called my house the third degree - "Who is this? What do you want? Why are you calling my daughter? Don't you know it's rude to call during dinnertime? Well, maybe some people eat dinner at 8PM..."

One time, he even asked, "Are you one of those gangster boys? You have spiked hair and baggy jeans right?"

I could have died. I hated how he was so protective. He was so gruff and stern. A typical Asian father, if you will. He never expressed his emotions - unless it was how disappointed he was in my grades. Nothing I could do was good enough. And he never told me he loved me.

And then I moved to Chicago to start undergrad. My dad made the trip out to orientation week with me, and I fully appreciated it. I needed someone to help me bunk my bed, help me buy my books, and set up my home away from home.

He was scheduled to fly back to California on my first day of class. I remember coming back from my very first Chem 171 class - wide-eyed and apprehensive (how in the world was the entire freshman class that smart??), and then I realized my dad was sitting at my desk. And then I realized he was teary-eyed.

My daddy had come to say goodbye before he left. And in that instant, I knew he loved me. Knew he always had. I started crying too, and we were both a mess, as I told him how scared I was, and he told me that he had faith I could accomplish anything.

Six hours later, my mom called to let me know that my dad had arrived back in California safely. "Hey kiddo, your daddy is still crying," she said, as she laughed and mocked him in the background.

My parents are the absolute best. I've always been closer to my mother, but no matter what happens, I'll always be my Daddy's little girl.

I have a very strong memory of my family driving back from Las Vegas. My dad and I were the only ones who were awake in the car. I was, maybe five years old. Anyhow, the moon was pretty low that night, and I nonsensically told my dad that I wanted it. "More than a pony?" he asked. "YEAH! MORE THAN A PONY!!!" I replied ecstatically.

And so we drove and drove and drove (in the wrong direction, mind you), trying to catch the moon. I finally fell asleep and my mom must have woken up and chided my father to get us the heck home, because when I woke up, I was in my own bed again.

Out of all the girls in the world, only I can say that my daddy honestly will do anything to bring me the stars and the moon.


Happy Father's Day, Daddy. I love you.

Satellite (100th post)

I find it strangely ironic that 100 posts later, everything has come full circle. And I am still the same girl. Still searching for a place to lay my anchor down. Still wishing on satellites. Still drowning in my insecurities. Still blindly trying to fall in love.

So much for wanting to change. To become better. To be un-phased by heartbreak, disappointment, and inevitable bad hair days.

Oh, I talk a good game, but trust me. I get phased.

100 posts ago, I wrote about giving up my once upon a time. No more Prince Charmings, I swore. Goodbye Sandra Dee. Hello love cynic. This was the time of my life and I was a hot commodity. Hello, I'm a young twenty-something in Chicago...a young twenty-something training to become a medical doctor, no less. This was no time to search for my elusive lobster, when I could be dating just for the heck of it. Emotions, splotions. I could be your future Sugar momma if you wanted it. If I wanted it.

It's so much easier to say than do. I know. I spent 100 posts trying to convince myself that I could do it. And minus a couple of so-called relapses, I really thought I could. I could become Samantha. I could laugh it off when ex-boyfriends ran away from me. And time would heal all difficult breakups (even the inconclusive spring flings).

To be truthful, I still want someone to love me for who I am. Flaws and all. Yes, there are a lot of them. Oh, 100 posts have shown me just how bright those flaws glare in hindsight. And after 100 posts of trying to get rid of them, I'm just now trying to accept myself completely as is.

After being told so many times about my flaws by various so-called loves, I'm done.

Done.

I just need to find someone who will love me. Will put me first. Someone who can't wait to see me at any time of day or night. Someone who would be perfectly happy - contentedly happy - if it were just me, him, and a couple of Cubs games on a deserted island. Someone who's not afraid of really committing to me. 100%. Because my flaws? Regardless of how huge that number might be, they wouldn't be flaws to him. They're personality, and only occasionally very very very mild annoyances.

That's my list. Gone is the height requirement. The dimples. The Taiwanese heritage. And the musical upbringing.

He just needs to love me. All of me. And that he, whomever he might be, will be my Prince Charming.

After all is said and done, I want him. I need him. I know that there's a chance he might not exist, but damn it, I'm gonna look for him.

I'm done settling and pretending that Mr. Right Now is what I actually want, right now. Right now, tomorrow, and forever, I'm going to want my Prince Charming. Settling is for my 100,000th post. When I'm gray and old and just need to get laid.

I'm done pretending that it doesn't hurt like the dickens when I'm so easily cast aside for others. I'm done pretending about not caring. I'm done being insincere. I'm done using cynicism to hide my insecurities.

I will wish on satellites, impractical as it may be.

But that's me. I'm impractical and idealistic and a hopeless romantic. I hate asking for help because I'm insecure and I want you to love me. And if you don't, well... 100 posts ago I would have said oh well, your loss, next!! But now I'm completely able to tell you that even if you don't love me - which hurts, no lies - I am convinced I will find someone who does. And oh won't you be sorry.

Oh yeah. I'm vindictive too.

The song starts with "black and blue, I found my way." I've been battered and tossed around in this game called love. I am more damaged than so many people I know. But it has to say something about my spirit, my tenacity, and perhaps, my stupidity, that I'm still willing to go out there and get completely whacked over the head by love. I will find my way.

I'm just starting to accept myself. Flaws and all. Love me anyways. And if you do, please remind me every once in a while.

---

All in all I fare the same wishing on an aeroplane as it's calling stars by name. A lonely song of freedom rings in hope of someone listening, and so I send my feeble flare through the silent arctic air, heading anywhere until at last I've finally found a place to lay my anchor down. Satellite, save my life - I'm wishing on a two-way radio. Love might be just like me - jaded, waiting, all alone, a whisper on a two-way radio. You never know never never. Heaven help me - I'm drowning and I can't save me. Send some salvation to keep me alive...

Here comes the bride

Okay...so I have some more possible toasts...


The best story of all is the one you'll write together...and "Happily ever after" is how it begins.

Two hands joined in friendship, two hearts joined in love, two lives joined as a beautiful part of God's eternal plan. Bless you both, now and forever.

Dance on moonbeams, wish on stars, feel a happy glow...Catch life's magic in your hearts and never let it go!


Truth: I was just in Walgreens and read every single Congrats on your Wedding! card they had.

Do you think my older sister will appreciate a Hallmark-sponsored toast?

Wedding March

All right friends. I need to write the best gosh-darn maid of honor wedding toast ever. It needs to make my sister laugh and then cry, but not be so sad that her makeup starts running (because I'm pretty sure she'd kill me for ruining her $500 face). Oh and it needs to be in simple enough English so my parents understand what's going on. Ready, set...critique!

----

When I was in eighth grade, I entered an "important woman essay contest". Some people choose famous women like Elizabeth Blackwell, the first female doctor, and Britney Spears - remember, this was before she went crazy and shaved her head. Me? I wrote about my older sister, Annie.

And ten years ago, I must have done a pretty good job because I won that essay contest. See? But tonight's not about me.

Annie cracks me up with her "you know what's funny" stories, pushes me to do my best, and is always there with a hug when my best isn't good enough. She looks out for me - saving books for me to study, loaning me Monopoly money when my dad makes me pay my million-dollar-rent on Park Place, and fiercely takes my side whenever I get in a fight - even if I started it. She's led the way for me, showing me what to do, such as getting A's in school, and what not to do, like staying out past curfew or attempting to parallel park. She is my role model, my confidante, and my friend.

When I was going through my awkward years - and by that I mean high school and college and just last week - I'd go to her to complain about everything...school, parents, life, being thirteen...but mainly to complain about boys. To which she always had the right answer. Boys suck. Boys are stupid. Throw rocks at boys.

And wow! Here we are. She's found one boy who doesn't suck. Who isn't all that stupid. She's found one boy that I'm glad to welcome into the family. Ever since I've met Tim he's been the older brother I always wished I had. Beating me at burping contests, teasing me and calling me names like michi shi-ru (which is a play on miso soup), and refusing to concede even ONE point in Wii Tennis even though he has a thousand points and I only have a hundred. But when it's important, Tim's always there for me with a hug...or his manly muscles to help me carry in the groceries.

Annie and Tim, I'm so glad you found each other, because you both deserve nothing but the absolute best. And that's what you are. The best.

So please raise your glass with me and let us toast my fabulous sister and my fantastic new brother-in-law.

To Annie, my gorgeous and intelligent sister, and her new husband Tim - the luckiest guy alive.

Just friends

I like making other people happy. It makes me happy.

So it was my best friend's birthday last Wednesday, and after all is said and done, he treats me pretty well - he feeds me food stolen from random lunch meetings, draws me cute cartoons guaranteed to brighten up the stormiest of days, is always willing to be my plus one to even the girliest of events (though he sometimes agrees begrudgingly), and doles out the best hugs ever.

Oh, and he's our class president. Which means that while he treats me pretty well, he treats the entire class even better. He takes meetings with deans, sets up mock anatomy practicals, emails out cute cartoons of our class mascot defeating those unit exams of death, and takes important class issues to senate (such as our smelly bathrooms and our need for a coffee maker in the student lounge).

He's a good person.

So for his birthday, his number one fan and I decided we wanted to do something really spectacular for him. As a thank you for everything that he has done for us individually, and our entire class of 2010. And because I like making people happy - and I knew he'd love it.

We made t-shirts. Invited all 170 students (and some teachers by accident). Decorated his apartment with streamers, balloons, post-it love notes. Bought lots of pop, alcohol, and the best birthday cake a grocery store has ever created. Made him cheesecake and cookies. Wrote birthday poems for him. And surprised the bejeezus out of him.

Now I can't dodge all the questions people have been throwing my way.

People, please. It's quite possible for two friends to be just that.

Tale as old as time

You know how whenever you have a really close group of friends, you start placing bets on who's gonna get married first? And you always think you know who it's gonna be. Whether it's for romantic reasons, religious reasons, or no reason at all - you always know who's gonna be the first one to get hitched. Oh it's gonna be Chris; she's been dating her boyfriend for 6 years! Or, definitely Caroline, because she's only in college to get her MRS degree. Or, duh, Jefferson - he's Mormon!

A week ago, the day before my friend Jefferson was to leave for Japan, my group of friends and I were all sitting around having lunch. At Chipotle. And about twenty minutes into my burrito bowl, Jefferson told us he wanted to show us something. Fishing around in his pocket, he turned to me, and pulled out a box. A little black box.

Then he opened it. And there it was. The biggest diamond a student loan could afford. It was tiny, but gorgeous.

No, he wasn't proposing. Not to me, at least.

But the next day, he was on a flight bound for Japan. Bound for Engagement-Land.

And for the past couple of weeks, all I can think is, holy crap, how did we get here already?! That game we played is slowly turning into a reality. My sister is walking down the aisle in less than a month. Facebook photo albums are now entitled So and So's Wedding, or Presenting Mrs. [insert new husband's last name here]. I had lunch with one of my friends last week, and she's already getting set up with eligible men right and left. She's only 23.

You make guesses about who's going to get married first, but marriage always remains this far-off destination - the rest stop right before you head into Happily Ever After land. Marriage, for me, has always been something I promised I'd think about after my career was stable, but not one minute before. And so, while I might joke about finding my Prince Charmings and knights in shining armor, I'm firmly stuck on the page right after "once upon a time" and one singing mob, two beasts, three enchanted forests, and four wicked witches away from a wedding of any kind.

But now, I can't help wondering. Could I be engaged myself within the next four years?

Wow. That is scary.

Scary because I couldn't see myself marrying any of my past boyfriends. Scary because I don't know anyone I can see myself marrying, even in the most bizarre of worlds. Scary because I'm dating just for fun. Just for the heck of it. Not because they're necessarily someone I could put down roots with. Scary because I feel like we're still way too young - we have our whole lives ahead of us. And scary because I know the longer I wait, the more likely I'm gonna end up using match.com in twenty years. Have you been on that site? Dude, scary. I want to find my own love of my life. I don't want some computer generating love formulas to find me my so-called Mr. Perfect.

I might end up an old maid. With lots of cats. Even though I'm kinda allergic to them.

I don't know if I'm okay with that. And that's what really scares me.

These words

This post brought to you by Keep It In Your Pants

I know. It's been a while since I've written one of these. Maybe it's because I'm in med school, and the boys here are far less awkward (highly doubtful). Or maybe it's because I've grown up and learned to avoid these situations (unlikely). Or maybe it's because I'm so busy studying all the time, I don't fully appreciate it when they do (probably).

Or maybe it's just because I'm not on the undergrad campus anymore.

Last Saturday, Northwestern had its annual Dillo Day. Wikipedia it, but basically it's the day Northwestern pulls out the stick up its butt and pretends it's a state school. There's lots of alcohol, drugs, sex, and of course, rock 'n roll by the lake.

Now, having officially finished my first year of med school on Friday (cue applause and congratulations here - I made it somehow), some of my friends and I decided to venture down to the undergrad campus and relive our senior years.

Unfortunately it was pouring, and the concerts were completely full - so we ended up at a friend's friend's friend's roommate's friend's house party. So we sat around and played drinking games, card games, even Connect Four, while music blasted over some computer speakers. It was a chill, laid-back afternoon.

The undergrad kids were drunk and high out of their minds - offering us pot, asking us to take off our tops, volunteering to take theirs off too - I was amazed to remember that I was one of them just a year ago.

Then that infectious Prince song came on. And this white boy started singing along to it.

Prince oozes sex.

A slightly pudgy, balding, white boy - singing along to Prince - oozes everything but.

Laughing, I turned back to my card game and resumed playing. Then in the background, I heard a collective gasp, but I was too engrossed by the fact that my pair of eights had just won the round, to care. Then one of my friends threw a Connect Four checker at me. I turned to protest, and then I saw it.

Five inches from my face, was that white boy's scrotum.

Shrieking, I quickly turned my head away. I made eye contact with one of my guy friends, who seemed just as horrified as I was.

Is that what I think it is? I mouthed to him.

He nodded. Amused, but more than a little disgusted.

Holy crap. Is it...is that real??

Again, he nodded. And then put down a pair of aces. Which soundly defeated my pair of eights. And with that, I was back in the game and the scrotum was out of my head.

I'm glad I got out of undergrad just in time. I might be traumatized for life.

Okay, maybe not life, but for at least the next couple of weeks.

Hello lovers.

It's summer, and I'm back. :)

Head over feet

I am so exhausted.

Not from school, but from everything else. Extracurriculars. Friendships. And I guess studying as well (although I haven't done much of that in the past week, but I'm sure I'll be exhausted from that in a couple of days as well when I realize how horrendously behind I am). Ladies and gentlemen, Michelle has reached her breaking point.

I'm just tired of things. Tired of having to be there for someone. Tired of caring about what others think. Tired of watching people with spring fever. Tired of being taken advantage of. Tired of letting people take advantage. Tired of pretending that I'm having a fabulous time. Tired of caring. Tired of pretending not to care. And I'm tired of feeling bad for all of this.

I feel so fake all the time - my voice is just a little too high-pitched and overeager to be honest. I'm overcompensating.

It sounds bad, I know. But I need a time out from everything. From everyone. From my overanalyzing mind.

How did I change so much in just one year? This time, last year, I was having the time of my life. I was so carefree. So uninhibited. So happy.

Maybe I need another summer fling.

I'm just glad it's summer. I'm burnt out.

Miss Halfway

I'm over the boy. It's taken me a while, but it's finally safe to take off the bandaid. Go ahead and rip it off. Nothing about him can possibly hurt me anymore. I'm healed.

Really, I am.

So I reached for my phone and my fingers started dialing that number that I just can't seem to un-memorize. It rang a couple of times, and I wasn't sure if he was screening my call or not, but I was determined to leave a message at the very least. After all, I had ignored all of the emails, text messages, and voicemails that he had sent me during the months following our split. So I knew, it was my turn to be ignored. He had told me he felt guilty about our breakup, and I did absolutely nothing to change how he felt, even though I knew no one was to blame. I could see how I was now the bad person in his book. So if he wanted to ignore my phone calls, that'd be fine. I understood. But at least I could leave him a nice friendly message.

I could be the girl who is still on friendly terms with her ex. If other people can do it, why can't I, right?

So the phone rang. And just as it was about to go to voicemail, he surprisingly picked up, and I could hear all the background noise:

"-- answer it for me! I'll be right out --"
"Uh... hello?"
Click.

Yes, I hung up on the sleepy-sounding girl who answered his phone. I don't know why. I don't care about him anymore. I don't care who he spends his time with. And it makes sense that he's moved on. Heck, I've moved on. I'm still not entirely convinced that I wouldn't have hung up even if he had actually answered his own phone. To be perfectly honest, I probably would have hung up on his answering machine. I don't know.

Maybe next time I can be friends with an ex. I think this one is a lost cause.

Keep your fingers crossed that he doesn't remember my number.

Right back where we started from

California in a week. And I can't wait.

I have half a mind to stay there and not come back.

How to touch a girl

This is a speculum.

(From Wikipedia: Vaginal specula were used by the Romans, and speculum artifacts have been found in Pompeii. A vaginal speculum, developed by J. Marion Sims, consists of a hollow cylinder with a rounded end that is divided into two hinged parts, somewhat like the beak of a duck. The speculum is inserted into the vagina to dilate it for examination of the vagina and cervix.)

This is a confused med student.

(and that confused med student would be me, if you changed the left bubble to: "to inspect the cervix and obtain samples for a pap smear, one inserts a speculum into the vagina, click open the speculum down three slots, and then obtain cell samples from the OS by using a cottom swab to sweep the area now visible," and the right bubble to "Holy %($)%$ of $*#$, I'm gonna do %$%#%$ what?!")

Michelle - speculum. Speculum - Michelle.


Speculum, meet vagina.
[Cue Michelle's anxiety levels to sky-rocket.]




Hi Mom. Do you need a pap smear too?

Bent

They say you should do something new every day.

On Friday, I scalped my cadaver, and sawed his skull open. On Monday, I sliced an eyeball in half. Today, I performed a male urogenital exam.

In other words, I stuck my fingers up a stranger's butt and felt his prostate.

Needless to say, it was quite possibly the most horrifying experience of my life. Yes, more horrifying than the scalping.

Our preceptors tried to ease us into it. First they showed us a video, illustrating what we would be doing. I, along with the rest of my college, giggled through it, smirking every time the doctor in the video said penis. Or shaft. Or feces. And then at the end, when our instructor promised us cookies at the end of the day, our dirty minds were all apparently in the same gutter, and we all burst out laughing. Hi, we're the future doctors of America.

Then, they had models of penises and buttholes - some with lumps and hernias, and others that were deemed "normal." We rotated through the stations, as we were taught correct ways of palpating and inspecting. And all I could think of was how scandalized my mother would be if she could see me playing with a dildo and other sex-store-bought toys.

You'd think that I'd be desensitized to the whole process by the time we had to meet our patient instructor. I wasn't. Split up into a group with three other students, I walked into the room and nervously started playing with my hands, trying not to think about what they would be doing in just a couple of minutes. Of course, all my nervous tics caught my patient instructor's attention.

"Okay, you're first!"

Crap. I should have paid more attention to that video.

Luckily, he walked me through the exam, guiding my hands to places they've never been before, and never want to be again. Retracting the foreskin. Palpating the penis. Pinching the scrotal sac to find the spermatic cord. Spreading the buttocks and inserting a finger up into the anus. And then, before I knew it, it was all over.

True, there were some mishaps along the way. I might have mistaken his epididymis for his spermatic cord and pinched a little too hard - which apparently is akin to kicking a guy in the balls - and I might have inserted my finger without warning, and my face might have been as red as a tomato the whole time, but I didn't care. I was done.

I quickly de-gloved and walked back into the holding room, where the dean of medical education was giving a tour to some benefactors. The holding room. Where all the aforementioned models were. Two members of the group started laughing, and our dean quickly ushered them out the door.

Good to know that even adults still find it amusing.

And hee hee. I said members.

Hi, I'm Michelle, and I'm definitely not mature enough for med school.

Dear Chicago

Today I had a very important date at 4:45pm.

So once I got home at 3:30pm, I showered, blow dried my hair, styled it, put on a nice jacket, and rushed out the door.

As I walked rapidly down Michigan Avenue, a relatively well-dressed man stopped me.

"Excuse me, miss. Can I ask you something about your hair?"

Wow, I thought. Who knew my twelve-minute whip-my-hair-into-submission hairstyle could turn heads?

"You could use a new look. I used to be a talent scout, and I think that if you cut your hair into a drastic bob - like Victoria Beckham - you could be really huge as a model."

Cue my blank stare.

"Victoria Beckham. You know who she is right?"

Yeah, do you know who she is? I wanted to ask him. I'm Asian. There's no way I could pull off her hairstyle with this bone structure. This non-existent bone structure.

Turns out he was trying to "give" me a gift certificate for a salon. I could get a $600 pamper-myself day at the spa for just $75!!!!! Hair! Nails! Massages! That's when I realized he wasn't trying to promote a new salon opening by handing out flyers. He actually was trying to sell me something.

No, but thank you.

Are you a student?

Yes, a starving one.

I'll give it to you for $50.

I really don't need it. My hands are in gloves all day. And a nice hairstyle would be lost in anatomy lab. And the library.

$45. You're killing me here.

I really can't. Sorry.

Don't apologize. Just give me $40 and we'll call it a deal.

I really can't. And I'm late...

How much will you buy it for?

I don't have any money on me...

You were wasting my time?!

He stormed off, muttering about impertinent students and how rude Chicagoans were.

I stared. And then I realized I needed to get to the bank before it closed because I desperately needed to get some money so that I could pay my rent. So, shaking my head, I rushed off in the opposite direction.

I got to the bank at 5:03pm. It was closed. Freakin' street promoters wasting my time.

Show me love

[A quick note about Valentine's day just because I think boys are dense. Especially after hearing so many of my girl friends tell me that...well, I'll save that for the actual blog. Boys, bookmark this and come back to it next year on February 13th. You can thank me later.]

I agree. Valentine's day has become way too commercialized. And it's so blatantly obvious. At the beginning of the month, every store in sight drags out Valentine's day concoctions - streamers and cupid decorations spilling out into the street, pink whipped cream with heart sprinkles, pink chocolates filled with disgusting liquor fillings, heart-shaped this, heart-shaped that, all in hues of red, pink, and white. And every store you walk into asks if you've gotten something for your sweetheart, hoping the answer is no, so they can sell you something that they guarantee will make her fall in love with you all over again.

No wonder boys hate the "holiday."

But do you know what Valentine's really is? It's a way to break up the complacency and routine of relationships. It's winter. It's cold. It hurts to walk outside. No one does anything but hurry to work and then hurry home to plop down in front of the TV for sweeps season. There's nothing special to do.

So once a year, boys are "expected" to bring home chocolate and flowers. And that sucks. I get it. Way to take the romance out of what is supposed to be the most romantic day of the year. And maybe you're a lucky one - and your girlfriend hates how commercialized February 14th is.

Even I think Valentine's is a Hallmark holiday.

But I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. If I had a boyfriend, I'd still hold out hope that he'd bring home flowers. And that whole day while I was at school or at work, I'd be giddy with excitement over what might be waiting for me at home.

Because no matter how cynical we are, how jaded we've become, how low-maintenance we might be, we will still be blown away by a simple bouquet. A handmade Valentine. Pretend reservations for dinner at that run-down hot dog shack where we used to go every day after work. Why? Because it means that you appreciate us. That you're thankful for the back rubs and the cooking and the cleaning and the fact that I wake you up after you throw your alarm clock at the wall - even though I know you're going to whine and complain.

Girls just want to be appreciated. We'll do so much for you, but you have to acknowledge that you're thankful for it, every once in a while. We're thoughtful, we're kind, and we'll even dress up for you. Shave our legs for you. Stab ourselves in the eye as we try to put on makeup. Put your name on the present we bought for the mutual friend's birthday. We're friendly to your drinking buddy who is looking at a future of sexual harassment lawsuits. Pretend to care when your ultimate dream car comes out. Let you have the remote control so that you can watch ESPN and every single possible analysis of the football game, when really, we'd rather be watching Grey's Anatomy.

The least you could do is do something back once a year.

So don't tell your girlfriend that you think Valentine's is over-commercialized, and then think that she'll understand when you say that "it's not your thing" to do anything. Or do tell her that, and then do something. Because hey, it'll make whatever you end up doing, that much better. We know Valentine's is over-commercialized. But hey, we've grown up with it. And we feel a little under-appreciated when we come home, and February 14th is just another day.

Or fine. Don't celebrate Valentine's. But dang it. Do something so that she knows she's special. February 19th looks awfully romantic to me.

Wake up call

Chalk it up to PMS or seasonal affect disorder or holiday withdrawal or whatever else might be making me irritable, but some of my friends have been falling way short of the friendship meter.

Friends make friends feel special. Involved. Wanted.

You do not make preliminary plans with someone, and then forget to call them. Two days in a row.

You do not invite my entire circle of friends to dinner except for me - because clearly, I'll hear about it, and wonder how I must have offended you. And if you do, please don't treat me the next day like I'm one of your best friends the next day - don't hug me and tell me how nice you think I am. Because that just makes you two-faced. And since I'm not as fake as you, it'll show, and everyone around us will think I'm a horrible horrible person.

Please don't tell me you're going to come over, and then show up 3 hours later.

And please! I don't want to be your backup girlfriend. Don't only call me up when she's out of town.

I want to be special. I don't want you to take me granted. If we've made plans for 5pm, 8:30pm is not an appropriate time to show up. And in this day and age, everyone has cell phones. It's called pick-up-your-phone-and-let-me-know. Now, I'm not hypocritical. I know that I'm not always on time. I'm always running late, and am typically about 5 minutes late to everything. But there's an eon of difference between five minutes and 2 hours. I may not always be strictly punctual, but I'm always relatively on time. Here's my thing about lateness. Being 5 minutes late is okay because chances are, you were brushing your teeth and brushing your hair. Common decency things. Last-minute things so that strangers don't look at the two of you strangely and wonder why you're walking around town with a bum. In fact, sometimes, that kind of lateness is a little flattering. Oh - he was late five minutes, but he clearly gelled his hair for me. Aw, he's worried about first impressions, etc. Think about first dates and how girls are always STILL getting ready when the guy comes over to pick her up. It's because she wants to look good for him. And she's running behind because the first fifteen outfits she tried on weren't good enough.

But if you're 2 hours late, that's because you just don't care. Oh, she's just going to be studying anyways...it's okay if I go take care of this first. Oh, she's not that important, and I really REALLY need to go to the post office. Or so on and so forth. And when you don't call to let me know that you're gonna be late, it makes it even worse. Because now I'm not even worth that ten-second phone call.

I'm somebody. And I would like someone to just acknowledge my presence every now and then. I don't need anything big. Who needs flowers and chocolate? I just want you to be considerate. Put a little bit of effort into our friendship. Do anything. Something. Whatever. Just let me know that you realize friendships aren't one-sided.

How to save a life

My big test is tomorrow, and I've been studying for the past decade and a half for it. Naturally, I get the munchies whenever I study for hours at a time, and I've been snacking on Twizzlers like it's candy (cause it is). I went through half a bag in just one day. And by bag I mean one of those huge honking family-sized-if-you-mean-the-entire-extended-family-sized bags.

So now I'm doing practice questions and lo and behold, a question on licorice.

Licorice contains high concentrations of glycyrrhizic acid. Sufficient amounts of this chemical will be ingested through the daily consumption of two licorice sticks over a period of one to four weeks to cause the following systemic effects:
- marked reduction in circulating plasma renin levels.
- marked increase in renal aldosterone sensitivity.
- hypokalemia resulting from K+ diuresis.
- hypertension.

It goes on to ask about the cause of hypertension, but I'm still kinda stuck on all the bad things licorice is doing to my body at this exact moment. I'm clearly going to die. From licorice overdose.

Update from ten minutes later: I just ate another 5 sticks unconsciously as I was taking my practice test. Clearly, I'll never learn.

I wanna dance with somebody

Ten days and counting.

Valentine's Day is coming up, and every year I've written happy posts about how it's great being single and how we should grab the day by the proverbial horns and be excited about the prospect of love, even if we aren't currently in love. We don't have to be in love with someone to be in love nevertheless.

This year isn't any different. I still think Valentine's Day is a great holiday. It's one more day to tell friends and family that we love them. That we care for them. It's one day to appreciate all that we have going for us in the world. No matter where we are in our lives, we all have something that we love.

That classmate who saves you a seat in lecture. The homeless man on the corner who realizes that you're never going to be able to pay off your loans, much less give him money, but still says good morning to you every day anyways. Flipflops. Cherry ice cream with chocolate fudge bits. That super cozy armchair. Coffee with just the right amount of hot cocoa mix and creamer - just the way I like it.

So while I'm still my optimistic self in that regard, I have to admit that I wish there were someone. A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about my dance therapy seminar class. I'm still not a big fan of all the personal space sharing and touchy-feely class discussions, but I've come to the realization that I really want to dance with somebody. I've only celebrated one Valentine's Day with a significant other, and well. He wasn't big on holidays. And I burnt the cake. And that's a whole another story. The point is, while I don't mind being a free spirit, all I really want this Valentine's Day is to dance with somebody.

I need you to realize how important that last comment is. I never ever want to dance with others. I never want to dance period. A self-proclaimed klutz, I’ve always felt more like an elephant in a china store than a graceful dancer. While others might flit and float about, I trample and trip my way through life. And I never feel more awkward than when I have to dance with someone. It seems so foreign to me - to imitate and respond to another's movements when I can barely get my own body to do what I want. Really, how can you expect me to follow someone's lead, if I can't even convince my feet not to trip all over themselves?

And I don't mean actually dance dance. Like foxtrotting and swing dancing kind of dancing. I mean, being able to say or do something, and have that someone understand you so well that they respond in kind, pulling you in different directions and leading you to discover a whole new you, as trite as that might sound. I miss being so close to someone you can feel his breath on your neck. I miss being held so tightly it's hard to breathe. I want to dance with someone in a room all by ourselves. There doesn't even need to be music. I want to get lost in some fantasy dreamworld with someone else.

The most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you find someone to love the you you love, well, that's just fabulous.

I know I'm not going to find someone magically in the next ten days. I wouldn't even want to find someone in the next ten days. 'Cause that wouldn't be love; that'd be desperate. So I'm content to keep dancing my own dorky dances. But I'm ready to dork up my dances with someone else, with the right someone else. Hello world. I wanna dance with you.

Here comes the cold - break out the winter clothes

Ahhh...I want it.

The red jacket that is.

So perfect for Valentine's Day. :)

Drench yourself in words unspoken

I'm sorry I threw rocks at you when I was a kid. I don't even remember I did it, much less why. But you can really stop bringing it up now. I wasn't a perfect child. And you weren't either.

Stop thinking that everyone is out to get you. So your most-hated enemy of all time was coincidentally at the same restaurant as you. Your friends didn't deliberately make sure she was there just to annoy you.

Stop being such a princess. Go get your own milk. Or books. Or gas. Just because someone loves you doesn't mean you can use them.

Fine. You're the pretty one in the family. But I'll always be the tallest. So there.

It's called sun. You should get some.

I didn't try to steal your boyfriend. And no, I wasn't in love with him. No matter what you think. But fine. I'll admit I was jealous of you. Because you stole my best friend. And I hated that he agreed to stop studying with me, so that you'd be happier. So much for white flags and truces. I still hate you.

You shouldn't have stood me up. That was too much embarrassment for a seventh grader to handle. I hope you end up driving a garbage truck. And I wish I didn't listen to my naive friends and forgive you. You didn't deserve it. I don't even think you actually were sorry. You were too excited to be dating an eighth grader.

I feel so comfortable around you. And I'd rather spend time with you than anyone else in the world.

Stop talking to your boyfriend in that really fake high-pitched voice of yours. It's not cute. At all. It's just super nasally.

Sometimes I wonder if you're just using me to get over her.

I feel the most unpretty when you call me up for a drunk hookup. And I hate that I pick up. Because even though you dole out great kisses, you're still a douchebag.

I lied and told you that she was the blabbermouth, because I didn't realize it was a secret. And I'm afraid to tell you the truth, because I'm pretty sure you'll hate me.

Screw Moulin Rouge and their "it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all" tag line. I wish I hadn't let you convince me that I was the best thing in your life and that you would never hurt me. It would have been so much easier getting over you. It would be so much easier.

I told you to cut your hair because you looked dirty and greasy with the long locks, even though I know you were trying to go for the whole emo look. Turns out you looked better with the longer hair.

I'm not shy. At all. I don't say anything around you because I'm afraid I'll sound stupid.

When you explain something to me, I nod my head and pretend that I understand, when really, I have no idea. You kinda suck as a teacher.

I hate that I still care about you, even though you might think that my silence means that I'll forever hold a grudge. I care enough to hope that you've stopped smoking. Seriously. Twiggy to Black Lung on two (and I know you still read this), just stop.

You intimidate the hell out of me. Because I don't understand how one person can be as perfect as you are. Seriously.

You're not supposed to use your med student as your own personal gopher. Thanks for letting me shadow you and all that, but really, I'm supposed to be learning and practicing my exam skills, not getting coffee for you and your nurses. With my own money.

I think I'm a horrible person for even writing this out.

Natural's not in it

I'm not a big fan of public displays of affection.

Well, that's a little bit of a lie. I like hiding in a friend's shoulder during scary movies, toss around endearments too easily, and I always get butterflies when that special someone holds my hand. I even think it's cute when a guy picks up a girl and swing her around when she runs up to him for that oh-my-god-I-haven't-seen-you-in-forever hug.

Those are cute displays of affection. Friendly displays.

What's not so cute?

Watching someone stuff his tongue down his girlfriend's ear, as she squirms and giggles in his lap, running her hand through his almost-all-gone hair. While I'm trying to eat. And study. Right outside of our lecture hall. Along with at least twenty other people, who are just as shocked and appalled as I am.

Seriously.

How can anyone think that that is appropriate?

Michelle tip #832047: A couch in a lobby filled with students at lunchtime, and floor-to-ceiling windows, is NEVER a good place to get busy.

I know. Words of wisdom. Words to live by.

Now if this were a one-time thing, I would still be grossed out, but I'd probably forget it about it within the hour.

Too bad it was one of those things where everyday for two weeks, at exactly twelve noon, the boy and the girl would meet at that exact same couch, and do as Marvin Gaye sang, and get it on.

Now you might think that we should have just found another place to study. And passive-aggressive me probably would have. Thank goodness I have friends who weren't about to let two law students, or two business students, or two nothings take over our building. We knew for a fact they weren't med students and we weren't about to let them walk all over our turf, swapping spit.

So my friend Jess went up to them and asked them to stop, since they were visibly distracting people, and making it hard for some of us to eat lunch. The couple was shocked that their love for each other could be construed as gross. They tried to mutter an excuse, but ended up just sputtering.

So Jess walked back to her table and proceeded to continue studying.

Five minutes later, the guy came up to my table, put his hand around Amy, a friend I was eating with, and said condescendingly, "I guess some people can't understand two people in love, but if you really were studying, you'd be focused on your books, and not on me and my girlfriend."

Amy and I sat there. Speechless. Shocked.

Shocked that the guy actually thought he was in the right. If someone had come up to me and complained about anything, I would have turned beet red and immediately left. How could he possibly think that making out in public, on a regular daily basis, was acceptable?! And how dare he mistake Amy and I for Jessica?

Seriously? Dude, not all Asians look alike. And seriously? Please stop trying to make a baby in front of everyone to see. I think the phrase "get a room" was coined just for them.

I just hope I don't see him and his girlfriend at noon tomorrow. At those same couches.

Something to talk about

Talk about awkward.

There's something inherently weird with calling up spring flings and asking for favors. Especially when you've only called them up before to make idle chitchat before the inevitable 'let's hang out' euphemism. And the only favors you've wanted were of the kissable variety.

Hey, don't judge. It was spring quarter. And I was graduating.

And girls just wanna have fun.

Graduation came and went. We both started working, and then I started school. And we never called each other after Senior Formal. Minus a couple drunk online conversations here and there, we started living our own lives. We lost touch. But it wasn't just understandable, it was kind of expected.

Today, I had a slight dilemma.

I needed to get in contact with an undergrad organization who was co-planning an event with the med school. Even after emailing countless times and trying dorm phone numbers, I just couldn't track them down. Then I remembered. That organization? My spring fling was heavily involved with it back in the day.

So I called him up.

Ring ring ring.

Ring ring ring.

And just as I was about to convince myself that he was screening my call, he picked up.

Whoaaa -- hey!!

Strangely, our conversation wasn't awkward at all. There was no resentment, no pregnant pauses, no "yeah, uh, I meant to call, but --" kinda statements. I got exactly what I needed.

Which was the phone number of his ex-girlfriend.

Moral of the story? If you're gonna have a spring fling, have a spring fling with someone with connections. And stay friendly. You never know when he just might come in handy.