No, not a zombie apocalypse (but I will get into that recurring nightmare another time). (Oh, and can I add that I'm glad I'm not in Utah for the Annual Zombie Walk? I think I would die of a heart attack.)
I'm a thinker. Before making decisions, I like to think everything through. Oftentimes, I think too fast and miss important steps. Other times, I think myself into a hole, create implausible situations, and scare myself. For example, especially after watching "When a Stranger Calls," I start thinking of different scenarios, mainly worse case scenarios, that could happen when I babysit.
Like getting a Calvin to babysit.
Rosalyn is my babysitter hero.
Like losing a child while playing Hide-and-Seek.
But this one scenario came to pass. You ever worry that the animal you are petsitting died? Um. Well, let me tell you that when it happens once, the worry increases.
I was petsitting two chickens. I let them out into the gated area in the morning, I put them back into the coop at night. When I went back one evening to shoo them into their nesting area for the night, I felt like I entered a crime scene. Feathers were everywhere, the ladder to the coop was on the floor, and one of the chickens was squawking. I peeked into the coop and the other chicken was not in there. Shoots. What happened? I looked around. No blood, just feathers. Then I saw it. In the back corner of the gated area, there was a hole leading to the outside world. I slowly walked towards it and saw that the area was dugged out. Loose grass littered the area and I stood there. I stood there sweating as I thought of what I was to say to the family of six kids, to the parents who bought the chickens, to the oldest child who received the chickens for her birthday.
I spoke with the parents who told me to keep the live chicken in the coop, but have the window open. Everyday after the...incident...my mind kept on floating back to the poor lone chicken in the coop. Will whatever got the other chicken break into the coop with superanimal strength and strangle that last one too? Gah!
But the owners returned and I have nothing to worry about any more...but I still feel bad.
Blah.
Random update: I'm a couple weeks behind on the Bachelorette. The second I logged into Facebook, statuses ruined the surprise. I'm peeved.
So the other day, I woke up late and was rushing to get out the door. I had the sink faucet on at full blast while brushing my teeth when all of a sudden, my right contact popped out of my eye and fell straight into the whirlpool I created. Shoots.
I half-blindly rummaged through my bathroom drawers and jammed my pinky in the process of finding my pack of contacts. I was almost positive that I had extras in there, but my fingers found nothing. I stood there, staring in the mirror, and remembered that the last time this had happened was on campus, where I walked around for the next hour dizzy from the having one eye blurred.
I reluctantly took out my left contact and slid my glasses up the bridge of my nose. It was a weird Pavlov's effect--I usually only have my glasses on when I'm about to go to bed. The second I had those lenses in front of my weak eyes, I felt ready to go back to sleep.
At work that night, one of the sushi guys did a triple-take when I waved at him. "Oh, I didn't recognize you. You don't...you don't usually wear those, right?" My mind quickly replayed a previous encounter.
Four months earlier.
"Eden?" I turned and saw my classmate.
"You have glasses?"
Um. I feel that the majority of the Asian population has glasses. I replied, "Yes, but I usually wear my contacts."
"They look nice. You should wear them more often."
My mind starts racing as I wondered what that one line implied. Do I not look nice without my glasses? I mean, in movies, the girl always looks prettier once she takes her glasses off (i.e. "She's All That," "The Princess Diaries," "Scooby-Doo"). I mean, that's the reason I got glasses in the first place! (No, not really. I'm not that absorbed in my appearance. Dodgeball in gym was just brutal to my glasses and my face.)
Present.
"No," I replied and then I sheepishly recounted the tale of the morning.
"Okay." Then he gave me the thumbs up.
Glasses are what transforms Superman into Clark Kent...
I have a thing for superheroes.
...and skinny boys into fashionable hipsters.
Or it may be the plaid...
And everytime I have my glasses on, I feel like I will run into a situation where my glasses will be knocked off and I will end up dying because I can't find my blasted glasses. I guess I have Velma from "Scooby-Doo" to thank again.
Thank you, Velma. Thank you.
And now I don't know how to end this post. That's the one thing about blogging that gets to me. I don't know how to close it off with a nice conclusio
I wrote this as my Facebook status soon after I dressed up and looked at myself in the mirror:
after seeing the final product of myself dressed as harry potter, i've decided that i'm changing my costume to "the child of cho chang and harry potter had they gotten together and if scars were inheritable."
By the end of the night, I sweated my scar off. Maybe I shouldn't have dressed up two hours before I left for the theatre. But hey, it was a hectic night.
1. I spent more time than was necessary to perfect my scar. It's hard to draw just looking in the mirror and trying to figure out which way the lightening bolt was supposed to be drawn.
2. I have no air conditioning in my house meaning I'm sweating even if I'm just eating dinner.
3. Mackenzie and I got to the theatre and the line went out the back entrance. And it's hot under my graduation gown (which was my Hogwarts robe).
4. We realized that the staff was cracking down that night and forcing people to sit in their assigned theatre. I was 9, Mackenzie was 5. The others that were coming were 8, 5, and 9.
5. After Mackenzie went in to grab seats, we were asked to pose by some people.
Oh gosh. I just realized how short I really am.
5. Everyone snuck into 5. Sorry Keasha, if you're reading this...I know you told me not to.
6. For the next two hours, we watched other Harry Potter films on my laptop. And got snacks.
7. "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - Part Two" began.
It was a phenomenal ending and goodbye to a beautiful legacy and childhood.
I admit, I did not cry as much as I did in "Part 1," but that was probably due to the fact that the lady two seats to my right sniffled and sobbed so loud, it killed the mood for me. Also, I prepped myself before I came to the movies. I stood in front of the mirror and said (spoiler alert to anyone who cares), "Eden, calm down. You know there'll be death in this film. Fred, Lupin, Tonks. Dobby and Hedwig are already gone. Deep breaths." A single tear rolled down my cheek.
"Deathly Hallows," both parts, were done so beautifully. Longbottom and Luna, Ron and Hermione--ah, both couples just make me giddy. Voldemort's anguish and fear as he felt each horcrux that was destroyed brought feelings of joy within me. The hug he gave Draco when he thought he was going back to the dark side made me giggle at Voldemort's naiveness: Silly Voldemort, Malfoys love their family. Snape's memory was the one part that really brought me to tears. The disbelief he had when he realized that Dumbledore had saved Harry in order to let him die at the opportune moment broke my heart as you realize that Snape did love Harry (though mainly because Harry was Lily's child). And when he scoped out the Lily's situation after Voldemort attacked, I felt my heart break as he held Lily in his arms.
I don't know...sorry this isn't really a great review. I can't really put what I feel in words. On one hand, it was just so amazing that I can't really describe how I felt about it, but on the other hand, I know I feel like I've been robbed and left with nothing. My childhood is over. Am I expected to grow up?
Either way, mischief managed. Goodbye Harry. I'll visit you sometime soon.
I babysat last week at a Chuck E. Cheese's. Honestly, places like that are breeding grounds for future gamblers--bright lights, loud bells, joyous screams, heartbreaking cries. Tickets are dispensed liked rapid fire as tokens are devoured by various games. Children are begging parents to buy more and more tokens, which they waste on one unbeatable game that promises one unbelievable prize.
For some reason, I get rather competitive when I play games with little kids. I guess it's because I never win against people my age so I feel some sort of satisfaction in beating three-year-olds at target games. Pathetic, I know. But hey, you try trampling over forty-ish three- to six-year-olds on your way to the game that held the biggest jackpot: 3,000 tickets. It's another game in itself, and the prize? The realization that you possess the ability to combat scores of children jumping on you.
But I shouldn't say anymore: What happens in Chuck E. Cheese's stays in Chuck E. Cheese's.
Now, Mahjong. No, not the internet Mahjong where you mindlessly match tiles (but I admit that I play sometimes). I'm talking Mahjong. With the physical tiles.
Those are pretty awesome tiles...I want my own set...
With the gambling.
100 HKD (Hong Kong Dollar) = 12.84 USD
You know how movies always depict groups of old men gathered around a chessboard in the park (I've never witnessed them in reality...)? Well, in Hong Kong, and I'm guessing China too, they're gathered around a Mahjong board. And I've joined in on the gathering myself. There's just something about the clicking of the tiles when you "shuffle" them and the joy you feel when have a good hand. And I'm generally a good sport. That is, only if I feel I've been beaten by a worthy hand. Otherwise, all emotions break out on my part.
But in all honesty, if your hand, which would have been worth about 20 USD per loser had you grabbed a winning tile, was vanquished with someone's "winning" hand worth 1 USD per loser, you'd be upset too. And if you were defeated three rounds in a row by such cheap hands, you'd cry too...um...which I may or may not have done.
Here is a clip from a Hong Kong movie called "Mahjong Warrior" so you can get a taste of Mahjong is like. I find this clip hilarious, but that's because I understand what they're saying; you probably won't think the same, but it's here anyway.
Sorry the subtitles weren't very good. That's just how they are in Hong Kong movies. You generally don't switch tiles with your neighbors, but the version they were playing, which they called the "American" version, allowed them to do so.
And there you have it. Mahjong. I've been trying to resist the urge to play since there aren't enough players here to Mahjong with me (you need four players and the only people I know in my area who plays is my own family, but at the moment, only two members of my family are here) and I know I'll end up sitting at the table by myself, staring longingly at the tiles, wishing there was someway we can play with only three people.
A quick shout-out to Crystal who will be satisfying my need to play Mahjong when I'm back at school. Anyone want to join? (You are a lifesaver, my friend.)
But while I'm home, does someone want to come Mahjong-it-up with me? I'll teach you.
p.s. "Deathly Hallows Part Two" review to come on Thursday...along with pictures, which I know I said I'd post last Friday. I apologize. I lied.
I have to sheepishly admit that the first time I watched this fan-made video, I teared up.
Re-enactment of me tearing up.
Lately, I've found that I've been beyond emotionally attached to Harry Potter; I'm holding onto the last piece of my childhood. I remember being confused in "Sorcerer's Stone" when McGonagall asked Quirrell if she could "borrow wood." I vividly recall burying myself in "Prisoner of Azkaban" in my fourth grade classroom and savagely reading through the series in the following years. On July 21, 2007, my parents told me that they had never ordered "Deathly Hallows." I threw a fit, yes I did, but came to realize that my parents lied to me to see my reaction. They laughed and handed me the last book. I tore it from their hands and sat on my rocking chair for countless hours.
I love Harry Potter.
When I watched "Deathly Hallows Part I," I have to confess that I sobbed uncontrollably at the end of the film. I didn't even know why, but tears kept on falling after Dobby died. I knew it was coming, but I guess it hit me that the end was almost there. (I had a good support system composed of some of my roommates and a dear friend of mine. May Dumbledore bless them all.) Last month, when the kids I babysit went to bed, I watched "Goblet on Fire" on TV. Cedric died and I started sobbing. Why? I never cried for him in the multiple times I watched that movie, so why was I crying then?
Yes, yes I could re-read the books and re-watch the movies, but I will miss the anticipation of another movie release, just as I have missed the anticipation of another book release.
For "Deathly Hallows Part II," I decided to go out with a bang. I'm dressing up...again. I went as a Slytherin with Sirius Black's wand for "Part I," Cho Chang--naturally--for "Goblet of Fire" and "Order of the Phoenix," and a quidditch player to all the others. Heck, if one of my sisters were here with me, I'd go as Fred and George...or I could just go as George......sad thought, sad thought.
Thursday night, I will go as Harry Potter, the title character, the hero of both magical and muggle world, the best childhood friend I could ever ask for. (Photo of me as Harry Potter will be posted Friday.)
What better way to celebrate freedom than to get pumped up about "Captain America: The First Avenger"?
I love America, yes I do. I love America, how about you?
I love America because it embodies one principle that my family has held important in our all lives: freedom.
Last night, my parents and I started talking seriously about our family history. We usually spoke of random parts and such now and then, but this particular evening led me to take extensive notes about a couple of my relatives.
My maternal grandparents acted courageously on, I believe, one of the most crucial decisions of theirs and their descendants’ lives. Here is the story of their escape to Hong Kong.
--------
Family Stories: Part I, or Who Knew That My Frail, Newspaper-Reading, Ever-Ranting Grandmother Had To Go Through This?
Grandpa and grandma were living in Mainland China at the time when the Communist Party took over. Grandpa had heard rumors of what the Communists could do, would do, should someone cross their path. Someone told him of the freedom-less regime that the Communists' would consequently bring with them. He was worried, but felt like he needed to stay because he couldn’t find work in Hong Kong. One day, his son, my uncle, who was four-years-old at the time, came home from school singing,Not for father, not for mother, love only for China.Generations of filial piety were forced out of children's minds and doses of indoctrination were injected. Grandpa made a plan. He would flee to Hong Kong and find a home for his family, who was instructed to stay in China till he sent for them.
Grandma did all she could to pack up their essentials. When she, her mother-in-law, and her son reached the train station, they were stopped by hoards of Chinese waiting to board the same train to Hong Kong, to freedom. It was as if all of China was waiting to board. The train was already pulled up but its doors were shut and locked. And all of China waited.
And waited.
And waited.
A police officer nearby noticed Grandma and asked her if she was okay, to which she replied negatively; she was getting dizzy from all the commotion and from the lack of oxygen (or perhaps she felt freedom escaping her). Here, the officer said, I’ll take you to the other side; there’s no one there. They walked over to the next platform, which was empty and my grandma was finally getting fresh air. She looked at the train and saw that one of the doors was ajar. She walked closer.
It was open.
Grandma’s heart started beating three times faster. Was this a sign? As calmly as she could, she walked back towards the crowd and found her mother and son. Come, come quick, she whispered. Her family followed her and they stood in front of the open door. One...two...three. They threw open the door and jumped inside. Grandma dragged her son and her mother-in-law was on their heels. They made it to the middle of the car and they stayed there.
Suddenly, people began to flood the platform. Someone had heard the door sliding open. Punches were thrown, faces were elbowed, groins were kneed: everyone was trying to get on. Afraid that she would be asked to give up her seat, grandma clutched her sweaty son even closer to her heart.
Hours passed, or were they just minutes? The train started to move. Grandma brushed aside her son’s hair, which was plastered with sweat to her chin, and peeked out the window. The train was full, but it seemed that the station was packed still. Fists pounded the outside of the train as if they hoped someone would reach out and grab them, save them from an army marching in from hell. Grandma avoided eye contact.
The train left the station, but Grandma still didn’t feel safe. It wasn’t until they crossed the border into Hong Kong did she take a reassured breath. Grandpa was at the station and Grandma collapsed into his arms. They were safe.
Two days later, trains stopped running and the border between China and Hong Kong closed. Had she try to leave two days later, only God knows for sure how different her life would be. We can only assume that she would have been faced with oppression, violence, and betrayal. She would have faced mankind's worst leaders who promised to lead China to immense prosperity, but instead led her to slaughter and intense poverty.
She would have faced what my Great Aunt faced.
That is another story.
End of my non-fiction short story.
And that is why I love freedom. All my siblings and I were born in America because our parents wanted us to be born in a free country. When Hong Kong was given back to China (they were under British rule since the Opium Wars till 1997), my parents flew to America. I remember helping them learn the Pledge of Allegiance and review the Bill of Rights for their citizenship tests. They became citizens when I was in fifth grade.
Happy Independence Day, America. Keep on fighting for freedom.
Now if you excuse me, I will now spend the rest of the night utilizing one particular gift China gave to western countries: fireworks.
First, happy birthday to my beautiful mother! I love you very much mommy!
Second, a random note: I am currently watching "Kiki's Delivery Service" for the fourth or fifth time within two weeks. It's my favorite Miyazaki film and I'm making my niece watch it. I'm only hoping that it will become her favorite that way we can watch it ALL the time. All day erryday. Not that I'm not already doing that. She can now say Kiki.
Onto my post.
Would you believe me if I told you I made these?
Illia's paperweight. I accidentally uploaded hers instead of mine.
Cup.
Vase.
Glass flower.
Well, you better believe it, buddy. This weekend, my family and I vacationed in Vermont, which, in my opinion, is one of the more beautiful states in America.
Isn't it magnificent?
My dad offered me two choices: learn how to blow glass or be pampered at a spa. I was seriously conflicted. I love a good massage...but I absolutely love learning new things, even if it internally scars me (skateboarding, summer of 2009: I still don't have feeling in a small part of my right thigh), or sets off an expensive journey to master many instruments (violin, piano, trumpet, guitar, ukulele, drums, bass guitar...and now banjo? mandolin?). Obviously, I chose to blow glass. My older sister and my mom went to the spa and Illia accompanied me. My wonderful dad stayed at the motel and watched my niece. Thank you daddy-o!
I stepped into the building from a humid environment into a overheated workshop. There were two blazing furnaces. Needless to say, the excess heat got to me.
But it was awesome. And I want to make more. Our teacher, Andrew, described it as legal crack. You have the power to create at your fingertips and it's so satisfying to see the results. At first, Andrew asked me if I ever did pottery.
"Yes, I have," I said.
"Were you any good?"
"No." And I really wasn't. I had added too much water so my clay practically slipped off the wheel.
"Oh. Then you'll probably suck at this."
But I proved him wrong. It turns out I'm a pro.
The start of my vase.
The molten glass pulled like laffy-taffy. I was super tempted to touch it half the time. I know, I know..."Are you crazy Eden? That's like a bajillion degrees!" I know. I am crazy. Confession: I am also tempted to step straight into a biker's path everytime I hear one creeping up behind me.
From June 10th to the 12th, I was in New York...
...attending a Bible conference for young single adults;
...bumping into my visiting teacher from BYU;
...living in an apartment for two nights belonging to a family who I never met before, but were extremely hospitable and generous to me;
...watching half of "She's All That" and "True Grit";
...perfecting my skills in riding/figuring out subway;
It's confusing, but doable. (What a weird-looking word...doable, doable...)
...and listening to the testimonies of L. Tom Perry, Quentin L. Cook, and Senator Harry Reid.
On June 14th, I wrote a song with my guitar teacher about shooting a cow. Lyrics will change. Eventually.
On June 18th, I was...
...in Flushing, Queens getting a hair cut;
Before: pixel-y and confused.
After: short hair and confused.
...attending a wedding reception, where there was a square dance, and where I realized that I like the banjo--meaning, I will probably end up playing it by the end of this summer. (But, dilemma...this summer, should I perfect the trumpet or take up the banjo? I can do one or the other, but I can't decide what I want to do more...help me decide!)
Today, I will partake of my first chili cheese dog, which, according to friends, is "quite the experience." Wish me luck as I embark on this new adventure.
And from June 12th till now: I've been hanging out with my sisters and my niece, who calls me Eddy (and dubbed my laptop "Elmo," since we frequently watch "Elmo's World" on it). Today, she added two new words to her vocabulary: "Come" and "What?" I'm probably more enthralled than you are, but if for the last couple days you've been hearing "No way! No way No way!" from a tiny little toddler, you'd find new words are exciting too.
I walked up and down the aisles. There was no sound except for the noise coming from the rusting cogs of the assembly belts . The women working the line reminded me of my elementary school lunch ladies: old and perpetually grumpy (and understandably so). They were machines, moving only to grab their part for the ensemble. My Humanities lecture on Charlie Chaplin's "Modern Times"suddenly became very real to me.
The shelter stunk of tuna fish. No surprise there, though. They were assembling tuna fish sandwiches.
"And here is where we end our tour," Meryl Streep informed me. She then proceeded to top off the last sandwich on the belt with another slice of bread. Out of all the homeless shelters and soup kitchens in Connecticut, I chose the one Meryl runs.
One bajillion points for Eden.
Two supervisors barged through the door and stopped in front of Meryl, who motioned to the incinerator in the corner. Suddenly, as if Meryl had flipped a switched, all the women in the shelter lunged for the sandwiches that were in front of them and ran to feed the fiery furnace.
"Wha--what's going on?" I stuttered. I quickly glanced out the window. The hungry were there waiting to be fed...
...but their meal had just been delivered to the devil.
"They don't deserve food." Meryl muttered.
"But you're a soup kitchen. You're supposed to give them food."
"They stole my child."
I was puzzled.
"These people, these homeless, hungry people, took my child."
Infuriated, I tackled the nearest woman and stopped her from throwing her tuna fish sandwich away. I was going to feed the hungry, even if I was to do it alone.
I awoke in a sweat, my heart racing. I knew what I had to do this summer.
End of my strange short story.
Yes, this was a dream I had last night (hence Meryl Streep and her grudge against homeless people). I think it was triggered by the fact that I was called to be a Day of Service specialist (along with Linea...Linea, how do we always end up having the same calling?) and, automatically, my super ambitiousness took over as I concocted ideas. What if I ended world hunger?
I've listened to and liked her stuff before in Meg & Dia, but her blind audition and her battle round didn't blow me away (I also personally felt everyone in the battle rounds did not do well overall). Tuesday night on "The Voice" changed everything and I jumped on the bandwagon. I love Dia Frampton.
(the video I had embedded didn't end up embedding...but this video is worth watching for sure.)
Second, the old. Coldplay.
I had no other reason to put up this picture except for the fact that it is very aesthetically pleasing to the eye.
In other words, they're really attractive.
Coldplay, who I love with great passion and have an undying loyalty to, came out with a new single last week.
Coldplay is definitely evolving, but even in Viva la Vida, they hearkened back to their own unique style, to the style that I found in Parachutes, their first and my favorite album. It was this album that made me love them.
I continued to find more and more favorites, but I've finally settled on one:
But then I heard "Reign of Love" (note that I also love "Lovers in Japan") and I am still torn between these two songs.
I think it's Chris Martin's distinguishable voice, beautiful falsetto, and movingly expressive lyrics that has me listening to him for hours and waiting anxiously for the day Coldplay's new album is released.
I find that I become a completely different driver driving from Connecticut...
Grandma.
into New York.
Asian Invasion, Speed Racer.
I live about ten minutes from the Connecticut/New York border. The second I cross it, I start speeding up, the cars start honking, and everyone's road rage starts kicking in. (The speed limits I have up in my pictures are accurate. It almost doubles just by passing the "Welcome to New York" road sign.)
If you've been in my car with me, you'll notice that my road rage is rather polite.
"Excuse me, um, sir or madam. Um, I don't think you should be doing that. Oh, okay, I guess I'll let you through even though it's my right-of-way."
Illia, on the other hand, has heard different things. At different volumes.
"SLOW DOWN CRAZY! THERE'S A STOP SIGN IN FRONT OF YOU! AND YOU! GET OFF THE ROAD MORON! YOU ALMOST KILLED ME!"
I can only imagine what me yelling looks like to other people. I mean, I am confined by pounds of metal and glass so anything that happens within the walls of my car becomes a game of charades to drivers.
I'm no good at charades.
Illia has also been with me when I was in weird moods in the car.
On a completely different note, I've developed an addiction to these ice cream bars. My mom got these WeightWatchers "GIANT Cookies & Cream Bar" and I've been eating them like crazy. (It defeats the purpose, I know, but hey, I was never on a diet in the first place. My mom thought they looked good and got them.) The ice cream just melts in your mouth.
