Tag Archives: love

Cookie Shop Lady

I go through these food obsession cycles.  One day, I just need to eat a certain thing, over, and over, and over.

I’ve been doing it since I was little. For example, The Month of Tuna.

I asked for tuna sandwiches for every meal. Without fail. And I ate them. And I liked it.  Since then I have been doing this with various foods: avocados, jamba juice, lentils, black beans, and matzo balls. (Matzoh? Matza? I can’t get an answer on this.)

Most recently, the obsession was with cookies. Granted, these cookies are actually famous, so I’m not alone in this rite of passage. These cookies are so famous, in fact, that the line always wraps around the block.

 

I was waiting in line.

 

I was being my typical self. Pretending to be absentminded but truly people-watching to an awkwardly intense degree. There was this family in front of me dressed really nicely. Every few minutes a boy would start humming a song and the girl next to him would join in. Soon the whole family was singing under their breath. Suddenly someone would look around and pretend to be embarrassed (no one was actually watching) and they’d laugh. This went on for 30 minutes, it was such a warm experience.

 

The family left.

 

There was a couple doing couple things in front of me. She was talking. He was listening. That involved kind of listening boys do in the first 6 months of the relationship. The one where they taste your words. They aren’t actually listening, they’re just memorizing the way your mouth moves, you know?

The girl in the couple got self conscious. She looked at me and stiffened, as if I was being judgemental or weird.

 

I gave them privacy.

 

The woman behind me was rather close to me. Whisper distance. People don’t stand closely to each other in Los Angeles. Not the way they do in other cities.

 

In other countries.

  

She was writing in her book. Such a student thing to do, I thought. She was on the older side and no undergrad at UCLA does their readings. She must be a graduate student. Too cutesy to be a professor though.

 

Yes, too cutesy.

 

She snaps, “Give us some room!” to the boy behind her. He’s my age. I feel uncomfortable that she included me in her accusation. She sound protective, though. I like that. It’s kind of her.

 

She continues changing her body language to being more and more defensive. She’s making a wall between me and this boy, and she’s turning so that her rear is facing away from him.

“Ugh, this guy is totally on top of us,” she grumbles. (I love the word, “grumble”.) I laugh.

 

“Yeah, huh?” I’m clearly a witty conversationalist.

 

We begin talking. She tells me he pinched her butt. Multiple times. I agree that that is strange. We begin talking. She asks me what I study. (World Arts & Cultures) She collects art. Have I heard of Mr. Brainwash? (I’m insulted she even asked.) Do I know of unique galleries? (You bet! Wait, only like 1.) She does location and art scouting, too.

Aren’t these cookies great? Here’s my card, email me the name of that gallery.

 

I do.

Fashionable Rage

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It was 8:30pm, and there was only thirty minutes left of lecture. This late night ritual is a rare one at UCLA. As a university that mandates full time scholars, night classes are not a luxury allowed to us. However, this particular course is taught by a guest lecturer of sorts—the director of our Center for the Art of Performance.

Our professor, the director, is being interviewed because we students keep asking about what exactly she does. We were certainly all curious eight weeks ago, but it’s been two and a half hours. Our curiosity is waning.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the interviewer makes a comment, “rage is all the rage nowadays—it’s fashionable.” My friend and I look up, make eye contact, and immediately scratch it into our notebooks: rage is fashionable.

She’s just so on point. Immediately I think of the internet culture’s obsession with rage. Jenna Marbles pops up in my head. As a close follower of Jenna Marbles, I’ve watched my own humor follow hers—ranting. I don’t know why, but people love listening to each other rant (as long as it isn’t too personal).  It’s rampant in our popular media and has been for decades.

For context, we were discussing social change. And to be realistic, spreading rage can occasionally catalyze change. More often, though, it just spreads an unproductive form of anger.

I’m no genius. I don’t have an answer for why this is. All I know is that now that I know about it—I have a choice whether to be (or not to be) fashionably enraged.

A Letter From My Future Lover

So I really suck at keeping up with this blog, but I’m going to do my best to get back into it. I’m going to worry less about being perfect and worry more about getting out content. This post is a reaction to a letter written by a friend of mine, which was taken up by Thought Catalog.

“My Dearest Amanda,

I know your friends call you Mandy, but I think Amanda is so much more sacred, so much more graceful. Before I tell you how much I love you, I need to thank you for a few things. First of all, thank you for your shitty childhood. Yes, I know, it was out of your control. What was in your control, though, was your choice to grow out of it. In the midst of disaster, you decided you weren’t going to be crushed. You decided to grow, instead.
That’s another thing, thank you for being so grown. I know you like to pretend that you are young. You say you like to go out and you spend long nights with friends. I know you, though. I know you like a glass of wine and a book over anything. I know you’d rather have a conversation than a drink.
On the other hand, thank you for being so god damn immature. You frustrate me so much. You always need to be right. You’re so passive aggressive. You’re the messiest person I’ve ever met, and yet your inbox is always clear. That’s something I don’t understand.
Thank you for fucking up. Like, horribly. You seriously went on a date that got you a $500 ticket? That’s adorable. You failed classes? That’s human. You said no to commitments? Thank god.
Thank you for taking a break from dating to face yourself. You talk about your “dry spell” constantly and how happy you are that it’s over. But how would you have even found that dance club we met at? If you were always at dates would you have had time to invest in salsa lessons or your photography or that thriving blog of yours? I don’t think so. In fact, I don’t think we would  have ever happened if you kept seeking out men to fill your dread of the real you.

See, because out of that that pained, horny, artsy disaster that dry spell came a woman. She had found a way to balance love and a career. She found a way to be a leader and a caretaker at once. She had hobbies and opinions and drive. She had a job. She worked out when she wanted and ate what she wanted and said what she wanted. She traveled and backpacked and hiked. See, the woman you are came from the woman you were, and that’s the woman I fell in love with.

And let me just tell you about the woman I fell in love with. She is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever set eyes on. She’s so confident, yet somehow she shares her heart with everyone she meets. She’s the type of woman who notices people. She talks to everyone, from the cashier to the homeless lady we pass every day (I love that, Amanda).  She wants to give to the world but for some reason she also gives so much to me. She is raw. She is changing the world. She only wants good for people. She can make an entire room laugh. She can laugh over an entire room. She is a beacon of grace and leadership and talent. There is no other woman I will ever want to be with, because my Amanda is enough for a million lifetimes.

So yeah, I decided to write you a love letter on a Tuesday morning. The coffee’s on.  I’ll see you tonight, gorgeous.

Japanese or Ethiopian tonight? I think Ethiopian…I’m feeling handsy. 😉

Love, ….”