Another really creepy thing I admit to doing (besides rockin’ out at the cemetery) is naming hypothetical children. I mean, I know every girl has her favorite baby names, but I’m pretty sure I’ve take the whole naming process to another level, especially as I’m so not ready for the actual OWNING A HUMAN part that comes after it. I just find the process incredibly peaceful, perhaps because there’s no real pressure to actually choose one and because I’ve never been thrilled with own name (I mean, it’s pleasant and it has its own Beatles’ song and the E-L-L-E loops are pretty fun in signatures, but come on! Creativity, people!)
Anyway, when I think of a name, I think of it fully. I’ll think of its sounds, whether they’re harsh or soft. I’ll think of its ease off the tongue, how natural it is to say, “Hey ____!” I’ll think of the feelings the name evokes, how well it sticks in ones memory, its searchability on Google. I’ll write the name on paper — in cursive, in lowercase, in all caps. I’ll even type it out using various fonts, paying attention to the curves of the letters (Vs, Ks, Xs = kind of clunky). I’ll think of those who have the name (good: characters in classic English literature; bad: characters in US Weekly). I’ll think of whether I would want (or would’ve wanted) the name at age 5, 13, now, 40 and 72.
So on the drive back from San Diego, I made the horrible mistake of describing my obsession with names to Matt. He didn’t get all freaked out or anything. It wasn’t like that. In fact, quite the opposite. He was like, “Tell me some names you like and I’ll try to think of whether I’d want to punch that kid in the face if I were a kid.”
And thus it began.
“OK, I’ll start with girls. Teal.”
“Punch.”
“Penelope.”
“Punch.”
“Gemma.”
“Punch.”
“Simone.”
“Punch!! And then put her in a headlock.”
“Georgia.”
“Punch in the vagina.”
“STOP IT! I’M NOT TELLING YOU ANY MORE!”
Yeah. Pretty big mistake. Sigh. I need a new hobby.
Matt and I took a superquick trip to San Diego this weekend as we really felt the need to go somewhere, anywhere. We don’t do too many things together that involve planning or spending or traveling beyond Crenshaw Blvd., so these 24 hours away from the laptops next to our pillows were a real treat. Our stay was lovely and you can read all about it here.
When I was living in Arizona, people would tell me that I’m so L.A. and I’d be like, huh? I’ve never even lived in L.A. (just in a pleasant boring suburb) and then they’d be like, okay then, you’re so Orange County. And I never knew what that meant because it’s not like I surf or carry designer purses or ever got into Laguna Beach. So maybe it was because I say “like” a lot, which I’m actively trying cut back on — really, it’s one of the things on my self-improvement list. But I don’t think that was what made me OC. I was confused. I mean, I guess it worked. I always knew I walked too slowly to live in New York, dressed too trendy to live in Portland, drove too timidly to live in L.A., loved Asian food too much to live in most of middle America and didn’t hate Republicans enough to live in San Francisco. So maybe.
This weekend, while driving back from San Diego, we made a stop at the Rainbow factory store in San Clemente. I haven’t worn a pair of Rainbows since I lost mine a few years ago. Slipping my feet into them again brought back so many memories of college and the good ‘ol OC. My heart flip-flopped. (Get it?)
I remember when people would wear these things everywhere: to the food court, to class, to South Coast, to Malarky’s (every girl knew she’d end up drunk on the beach at some point; high heels just wouldn’t do). I loved the cool-without-trying vibe they gave off. For guys, the more destructed your Rainbows were, the cooler you were. Like OMG, your soles are so worn down that your heels can touch the ground? That’s hot. I myself strolled miles in these eco-friendly, multiple-layer sandals. Rainbows became a durable symbol of my OC life.
My coworker recently moved from New York and was lamenting SoCal’s laidback fashion scene.
“Flip flops are hideous,” she said. “I just can’t get into them.”
“You have to,” I replied.
“I know,” she said sadly.
Visiting the Rainbow store made me think that I’m more OC than I thought. I can’t wait to start living in my new Rainbows — once they stop hurting like a bitch.
- The fact that I can feel a swelling urge to hear Leona Lewis’ “Bleeding Love” just one more time, and then turn to any station on the radio and lo and behold! KEEP bleeding. KEEP Keep bleeding.
- Sausage McMuffins with egg. Why are you so delicious?
- Nail biting
- Not setting my alarm clock and letting myself wake up naturally — on workdays.
So michellewoo.com is in the middle of some serious soul searching. It stares out window, blinking into the sun as it questions, “What’s my motivation?” It squirms in the night, thinking that if it would just apply itself, it could really make something of its life. I, along with a couple of very nice people, have been busy guiding it through this puberty-like transition. They’re doing the tough stuff. I mostly pet it and sing it to sleep.
While that’s been taking up the bulk of my internet playtime, I’m still able to dedicate much of the remainder to reading blogs. Blogs are my peaceful haven. Whenever I feel my stress level rise a notch, I tell myself HURRY! READ A BLOG! and then when I do, I instantly snap back to my carefree self. I don’t think I’ve ever compiled a People I Stalk Blogs I Read post, so I figured now would be a good time to do so, as many of my friends are starting to blog again. You see, everyone seemed to stop blogging during the Fall of Xanga (circa 2006) and it was a very sad time because I’d just sit there rocking back and forth at my laptop whining COME ON! POST SOMETHING! I eventually went on with my life in (mostly) blog solitude — until recently. Friends are finally realizing that life has little meaning if you can’t talk about it on the internet. Yessss, people, come into the light.
Anyway, here are some friends who blog. Hopefully, this will give them a tiny nudge to post more frequently if they’re lagging.
Matt: I have to start with Moron Enterprises, written by Matt — my love, my webmaster. If it weren’t for his encouragement, I probably wouldn’t have a blog. He posts a lot and he’s a very funny writer, even though his topics don’t always excite me. Uh huh uh huh Steve Jobs uh huh uh huh fish tanks uh huh uh huh UCLA basketball uh huh uh huh his friends are gay. Of course, I still visit his site multiple times a day, not just because he quizzes me at night to see if I’ve read everything, but also because Moron Enterprises is pretty darn entertaining, regardless of your interests. There’s something for everyone.
Diana: I worked with Diana at the fashion magazine in Arizona. She’s tall, skinny, well-manicured, has an amazing design sense — oh, and she rhinestoned her cell phone by hand. She’s pretty much perfect. (Dude, she does pageants!) You kind of want to hate her but you can’t because she’s so loveable so you figure hey, might as well love her instead. Done. Silver Spoon Studios is her graphic design and marketing company. She writes a design/style blog on all things Diana. (Warning: There are more rhinestones.) Read and be inspired.
Jenny: Jenny, aka Wang, recently started posting semi-regularly, which I’m excited about. I’ve always loved her witty, self-depricating style. She wrote about the mud run! Jenny, write more. Thanks.
Nina: Nina used to work at KoreAm with me. In getting to know her, I sometimes feel that we’re eerily similar (INFP, right?), except that she’s 25, has two kids and a gazillion blogging jobs and I … well, um … I didn’t drop food on my clothes today! I like reading about her happy world.
Natasha: I do not know how to make comments on Natasha’s blog. What is the meaning of this LiveJournal? Oh well. She is funny, especially when she writes about eye boogers.
Pauline: Pauline’s blog is always interesting. She lives in Boston and posts pretty pictures of the city. I like her commentary on various issues.
Alice: This blog is so new, the first post isn’t even up yet. But I’m overly anxious so I’m writing about it here. Read all about Alice’s adventures in New York at www.aisforbigapple.com. P.S. Alice, can you move back now?
Located at the top of the Palos Verdes hill, Matt’s backyard is an amazing spot to see fireworks. We got to see almost every show in the L.A. area. Look, there’s Santa Monica! The Home Depot Center! Wilson Park! Disneyland, maybe? Hermosa Beach! Wow!
This is what war must look like. Only not as pretty.
It was really windy so Matt built us a fort. What a handyman.
Me in my patriotic hoodie. Go USA!
Maybe this post shouldn’t be flashing across a website titled MY REAL NAME, but oh well. We’re all doomed, anyway. The decay of paper journalism is catching up to the best of us. It’s quick and it’s paralyzing. Lately, I’ve been questioning my skill set more than ever before. Do I have what it takes to make it? And what the heck does “making it” mean anymore? What, if anything, makes me special?
A long, long time ago, writing used to be my thing. Everyone had a thing. Some people did law, some did medicine, some did computers, some did banking. Your thing is what you’re good at and what you choose to do for a major chunk of your life. I loved my thing. It became a part of my identity.
Then blogs started taking over the universe and it was awesome because, hey, more reading procrastination material, but it was also like oh, you’re a writer, too? Oh, that’s cool. I guess. There was something about this whole EVERYONE CAN WRITE! movement that made me uneasy.
And now that I see so many established news outlets slashing their staffs, I can’t help but think this sucks. At 26, I’m still rather young, but I’ve been in the journalism game for more than 10 years (high school counts!). There had always been something esteemed and noble about being part of this small circle of reporters, but I don’t really feel that anymore. Instead, I feel hidden and uninspired.
And when it comes to my career, I’ll admit it. Most of all, I feel threatened. It’s a whiny, bitter sort of feeling. As I struggle to keep my head above water in this big new sea of writers, I’m just like, what the heck? This is my job. You don’t see me whipping out a scalpel and using my “natural talents” to perform brain surgery — why don’t you stick to your own job, too?
But of course, that’s just selfishness talking. For society’s sake, I think it’s wonderful to have this whole army of (lame word alert) netizens keeping the world in check. I just wish they were a little less good.
Today was a happy day. We wrapped up the magazine on Friday so this has been the first weekend in a while that I haven’t had the word DEADLINE orbiting around my head. I feel fresher. Like a little bird flying into a cloud. Matt and I watched like five hours of Planet Earth on Blu-ray this weekend. I’d seen most of the discs before but I was still like woah woah woah no way woah the whole time. This morning, I was making sangria for Matt’s barbeque and got kinda drunk while tasting it and then started watching the polar bears. One polar bear was on the brink of starvation so he tried to eat a baby walrus but the grownup walruses wouldn’t let him so he just gave up and dug himself a hole to lay in and die. I started crying and was like why can’t the photographers just give him some fish??? and Matt was like you can’t interfere with the circle of life and I cried some more and he said this is why you can’t watch the Discovery Channel with women.
By the way, I ate so much today. I had to lay down on the ground so my pants wouldn’t feel as tight. I disgust myself.
Things in general are going OK, not great. Every life category could be a little better, but nothing is failing completely.
