Just as I’ve been questioning whether it’s the best idea to blog by my real name, weary that my real-life identity may be a little too exposed for comfort, what do I ultimately do? Put my picture in my header, of course!

Welcome to the new, even more self-glorifying michellewoo.com. Oooooooh. Preeeeeeeetty.

It’s now more of a writer’s website, you know, in case a Newsweek editor mistypes Michelle Wie in his Google search bar and stumbles here. (Hi editor!) I’ve been meaning to clean up my online portfolio for ages, and while it’s not perfect (keep checking for periodical updates), you can now find my KoreAm stories in PDF format. Thanks to Matt for all his work on that.

Also, I am no longer Pop Star Reject. I know it probably isn’t good blogiquette to just alter your alias — I’m sorry. To the four people who have me on your blogrolls, would you mind changing me? I became Pop Star Reject five years ago when I was obsessed with celebrity culture and now I only care about that stuff a little. Maturity? Let’s hope.

A million thanks to my supremely talented cousin Tiffany Chin for designing and illustrating the header. In the background is the Redondo Beach Pier, which is like five minutes from my house. Neat, huh?

Happy browsing!

Matt says I shouldn’t write about this because it will forever classify me as a dirty girl, but I don’t really have a classy reputation to lose, so I shall tell you.

WE HAVE FLEAS!

(You’re judging me, aren’t you?)

It’s gotten to the point where I can’t believe Matt is here at my house, sitting on my bed, because all we’ve done all evening is peer over our homemade trap and periodically slap each other, saying afterward, “Oh, sorry. Just a beauty mark.” I am bitten everywhere — on my ankles (oh, my ankles!), my knees, my hip, my forehead and even my knuckles. I’m an itchy, disastrous mess and I swear, if I see one more bite, I might just saran wrap my body or curl up in the freezer. Or do something drastic.

Not putting blame on anyone, but we believe my mom brought these suckers home from Miami last week. Since we discovered them, we’ve tried every method of combat out there: carpet powder, flea bombs, light traps, endless loads of laundry, vacuuming like maniacs, and eating lots and lots of garlic. (Gosh, I’m totally racking up popularity points now, eh?) I think I’m at my breaking point. While standing in the hallway, I noticed two fleas on my sock and got so frustrated that I couldn’t help but scream “WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!” so loudly that the dogs across the street could hear me. Dramatic? I don’t care! I don’t deserve the life of a dirty girl! Help!

It’s been a long week, man. Making a magazine is hard. I am majorly drained. Yaaaaaawn.

Yes, we felt the earthquake. I was at work when things started shaking. Our boss announced, “Everybody outside!” and we all ran for our lives into the parking lot. I guess that’s our official emergency plan. A little scary, I know. Once we all got out of the building safely, we turned to poor Lola, our intern from Georgia, who had this look of HOLY CRAP. And we were like, oh, that’s right. Georgia doesn’t have earthquakes, is this your first one? She nodded yes and then we all cheered. Welcome to California! When it was all over, I went back to my computer and Matt and I simultaneously Gchatted each other “EARTHQUAKE!” I then emailed my mom, dad and sis to ask if they were OK (it’s faster than calling) and they answered yes. Phew.

What else? There’s work … work … oh yes, and work. Will update more once I rise from the abyss.

So, um, I got bangs. 

I’d been considering the Big Chop for the past two weeks, ever since I was flipping through Glamour and landed upon the story “Why You Should Try Bangs.” And I was like, who me? And it was like, yes, everyone looks good in bangs, even plain-Jane supermodels Heidi Klum and Kate Moss. And I totally fell for it and started holding the ends of my hair at my forehead and asking everyone around me: Should I get bangs? Some people were like “Do it!” and others were like “NOOOOO!” and in the end, I decided against them. 

But then. 

There at the salon, my stylist was finishing my trim and for some unknown reason, I blurted, “Should I get bangs?” Advice for all: If you’re unsure about bangs, feel free to ask the advice of friends and family but don’t ask the advice of the woman holding the pair of shears. Before we could analyze the pros and cons and delve deep into how this would affect me psychologically, SNIP! SNIP! SNIP!

I had bangs.

The stylist seemed to love the cut and even made me step outside to take a picture. (She says it’s for her portfolio, but maybe it was to tell all her friends later that night, “Look what I did to this poor girl!”)   

I myself didn’t love them, but didn’t hate them. My initial thought was that I looked punk rock. We’re so playing Rock Band tonight, I decided.           

Then I headed home to face my family and Matt.

I walked in and everyone bursted into laughter.

Everyone: You look so……… CHINESE!   

Me: (I respect my peoples very much, but I knew this wasn’t a compliment.) Aww, really?

Matt: Hello dragon lady. Say “Me love you long time.” 

Me: Heck no.

I bolted to the nearest mirror. 

Sister: Bye Ling Ling! 

So now I have bangs. They’re OK. I’m sure maintenance will suck, but I needed a change. And maybe now people will treat me like her and bring juicy steaks to my desk. Riiight.

I’ve been really grumpy the past couple days. It’s partly a quarterlife thing (who am I?), partly a failing economy thing (mama needs new shoes), partly a female thing and partly an I AM CURRENTLY LOOKING AT A CRACKED LAPTOP SCREEN thing.

See?

I don’t know exactly how this happened. I don’t think I stepped on it. (I’m sure we would’ve all heard the instinctive “AWWW SHIIIIT.”) But I do know that I’m not always the most gentle with the old clunker (an iBook G4, if you happen to care). It often cuddles in bed with me (NOT HARDLY for reasons you sickos think) and I lug it from place to place in a (cute!) denim tote that has no cush protection whatsoever. Anyway, the other night, I saw a small crack and it later got bigger. It really sucks, but at least no data was lost and I’m probably due for a new computer anyway. I was about to grit my teeth and shell out my credit card digits for a MacBook, but people have been telling me to wait until Sept/Oct because Apple will be launching some life-changing new product. So now I’m all tangled inside. And I’m still looking at a crack. GAH.

I posted this in December 2003, just a month after a started blogging and right before I would start my first daily newspaper internship in Palm Springs. (At this time, newspapers still had a pulse. Oh, have things changed.) In a way, reading this depresses me because I’ve lost much of that foolish vigor, but it also helps me understand that no matter how unsure I am of myself, as long as I take the leap, I’ll end up okay. I’ve done okay.

Thank you, fans.

You three have provided purpose to my otherwise pathetic existence. Rambling in this blog for the past couple of weeks has become my favorite way of make-believing I am a writer. I must say that Xanga has almost cured my Attention-Deficit (as in, I’m not getting enough) Disorder and has acted as smack-in-the-face proof when I tell people I’m published. The ”hey, nice journal” comments make me tingly inside.

But snapping out of weblog fantasyland, I’ve lately been having to stop myself every few hours to suck in small whiffs of reality - the fact that THIS is what I somehow selected as my career path. No, I am not training to be a professional blogger (although please let me know if you hear of any openings). I mean being a real journalist. Pretty soon, I’ll be jumping into that whole daily newspaper internship shindig and to be quite honest, I’m terrified. What have I gotten myself into? From what I know of myself, I’m as sloth-like (and sometimes almost as ditzy) as Jessica Simpson, I crack under pressure and my main source for news is still Leno. But brilliant me decided to go for one of the most deadline-driven and demanding careers I can think of. Ay ay ay.

Yet despite the odds against me, I, for once, am going to make myself tough this out. Partly because I’m getting tired of folding velour sweatpants at Express but mostly because I believe that everyone should be truly passionate about whatever they choose to do. When your most valued compliments are on the work you take pride in and your biggest inspirations are the people who do your job well, then you’ve found what’s going to make you happy in the long run. Don’t settle, just keep swimmin,’ and please remind me to do the same when I call you mid-nervous breakdown in about a month or so.

Shivani, a good friend since high school, got married this weekend. Every detail was just stunning. I’m still in a trance.

Saturday was her mehndi celebration:

Gasp. She’s a princess. So gorgeous.

Me getting mehndi’d.

Shivani’s sister Kavita.

Then came the big day:

The crowd awaits the prince of the evening, Shivani’s now-hubby Raajan.

Now that’s a grand entrance.

During the ceremony.

The beautiful couple.

These people aren’t Indian, but they’re still pretty cute.

Congratulations Shiv and Raaj!

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 taken 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.

… of someone who still doesn’t know what in the heck she’s doing!

To be honest, life has been too chaotic for me to put much heart into this photo class, but perhaps I have learned a few things.

Perhaps. I do find some solace in photographing objects. Humans need to stay still, dangit.

Much too amused with the color accent function on my new camera (a gift from Matt! It’s pretty pretty pink!):

In other hypercolor news, didja hear it’s coming back??