OakMonster’s Den

We have been busting out our credit cards a little bit too often these few months.  But all for the things we do need and we’re willing to eat Top Ramen for a while for.

First was my commuter comfort purchases.  My lovely red briefcase got here today.  I’m going to adore its candy red shell for a few more weeks before slapping on one of my Emily the Strange stickers.  Hehee.

Then was the birthday party.  Instead of me cooking, we ordered a party pack from Naples Rib Company.  To our surprise, for $100 from Naples can feed about 15 people easy.  While a visit to the restaurant with 3 other friends might have cost just about the same.  Next time we crave barbecue, we’ll have to get a group together to be worth it.

Brandon’s birthday present is also an online steal.  He desperately needs a new office chair.  His back pain alone is worth every dollar I was to plunk down to get him the chair.  We found one at Staples and I came home to comparison shop.  I managed to find the same chair on Staples website with $50 off and no delivery charge, plus an online coupon that roped me 10 Arbor Day canvas bags for zero dollar.  That’s right.  10 bags for free.  I have enough to supply everyone I know back home with a “Gift of the U.S.”!  (And it’ll be made in China…I’m sure.)

And speaking of Thailand, the big daddy of them all are the prices of our tickets home.  Brandon and I will be in Bangkok the week of Thanksgiving with Brandon returning the Saturday after Thanksgiving and me the Friday after that.  With his bad knee, we have to get bigger seat of Economy Deluxe on EVA.  But then again, regular Economy on Thai already costs more than that even if it’s a real direct flight.

Oh, and good job on Thai Airways in luring people in.  On their website, it lists the flight I want at $903, but miraculously there are fees that makes the ticket in the $1600 at the end of check out.

Flight costs are going to be crazy, people.  It is already unpretty out there when even China Airlines hits the $900s to go to Bangkok when it’s all said and done.  And I thought I was clever for buying the tickets now.  Should’ve bought them in March or something.

I bought this from the Container Store.

That, my friend, is the gift from the Commuter Gods.

I am a sleeper on the bus. I usually put my head forward and stay put that way all the way to Downtown. On the way home, I usually lean back on my fleece scarf if I have the front seat, or sideway on the seat with back support. Either way, my neck wasn’t happy about the strain.

Comfort Creature Travel Buddy Pillow may be for kids, but I really don’t care when it’s this comfy. It has machine-washable soft fleece cover and stuffed with buckwheat hulls. The two “horns” fit perfectly on my shoulder so I can rest my head against the window just right. I can also lean back on a lower seat with the “horns” behind my neck and lean again it backward so I don’t chicken-neck around.

My neck is pain-free. And I must say, I have never slept so well on my bus.However, with the addition of this lovely pillow, my already stuffed commuter bag is really, REALLY full. The bag has been a little too heavy to heft around for a while now because of the emergency bottle of water. But along with my neck, my shoulder is beginning to hurt as well.

Ah, the joy of aging. But I digress.

I am now in search for a bag with wheels that are not obviously for a kid (like the Hello Kitty one I found yesterday at Target) or the usual corporate black. There was a lady in my building who wheeled in a lovely red bag. I complimented her on it, and she told me it was Kate Spade…or something fancy like that.

I so don’t have the money for that. LOL. But I hope I can find one reasonably priced one somewhere. Appreciate any lead, by the way.

ETA: The Commuter Gods REALLY love me!  I scored on the first online search and just bought this with zero shipping and super cheap on Overstock. And yes, I bought the lovely red one.

I used to dance.

I’m not particularly good at it, as in I could never go to Juilliard, but I wasn’t horrible.

This might come to surprise to some, but I used to be THE choreographer at school back in my days.  Mainly because nobody else would risk the embarrassment to do the job, while I, on the other hand, have no concept of shame.

There wasn’t a school show I didn’t dance in or choreographed or both.  I was in every Christmas pageant since kindergarten.  I was on the “dance team”, a handful of dancers teachers would call on to perform somewhere.

I started ballet in kindergarten and took the standard tests for it up to level III before I decided that I didn’t want to be tested any more.  The instructor didn’t seem to mind me continuing to take classes  with everyone without the test.  As a matter of fact, at some point, for the big multi-school production of The Nutcracker, I was taking 3 levels of dance lessons.  Because of my size, I was to perform as the clowns with the girls one level below me.  Then I’d take my regular class and learned all the moves as Clara’s friends. And I followed that with the advance class, but just the regular class but not the choreography.

Anyways.  By 6th grade, I started on pointe.  First of all, I was the only one left in the class who actually haven’t done any testing.  I was also the only one left who actually didn’t have the goal to go to dance school or have a serious career in dance.   I surely didn’t have the long, lean body for a ballerina.  I was there purely because I love to dance.

The instructor didn’t think the same way.  Pretty much, I was given minimal instructions and largely ignored in class.  I didn’t even know I was supposed to break my pointes so that they would flex.  Conveniently for all, my motion sensitivity set in just about the same time.  I mean, I couldn’t even do a double on regular shoes without feeling dizzy.  It was never like that!  On pointe, the dizzy spell was a lot worse.  I would pretend to sit out in class, blaming it on my toes, when in reality I was so dizzy from all the spins I was ready to throw up.   I would come home and lay down for another hour before I can even move.

That was the end of ballet and the beginning of jazz.  I was enjoying jazz thoroughly when the class I could attend was canceled.  Then the school moved to a new location, no longer convenient.

Despite the fact that I was no longer taking classes, I was still called on to dance and choreographed.  I guess because, like I said, I was the only one up for the job.

I came to the U.S. and I was excited that you can actually take dance as one of your classes!  But then I got to visit the dance class and quickly realized that I would be totally out of my league.  And here, who would want me to do anything.  So I retreated to my own private production of dancing around my bedroom.

Sometimes I beat myself up for having to quit proper lessons years ago.  Same regret I had with piano.  But I still love to watch people dance.  I still feel the music through my veins.  As a matter of fact, watching a dance performance, sometimes my muscles would twitch as if they want to dance too.

And my body was doing that when I watch So You Think You Can Dance, my newest TV addiction.

I can never dance like that.  But I was surprised that my criticism from the couch was the same as the experts on the panels most of the time.

It’s not that I have the expertise.  But I FEEL the dance.  If the dancers couldn’t move me, if they couldn’t get me twitching, they’re not conveying the emotions that should be moving the audience.  And that just can’t be a good performance.

SYTYCD thoroughly entertains me and at the same time it breaks my heart that I no longer dance.

But yes, I am planning on getting my shoes back on and get back out there.  As a matter of fact, a few years ago, I took up jazz at the community center.  No offense to older readers, but the class was paced for seniors.  Not what I was looking for.

Nonetheless, I AM planning to take up the classes again. I have done some research and I know where to go now.  It’s just a matter of money at this point.

Sunday. Justin graduated from medical school and Olaina finally became a doctor’s wife.

Monday. Brandon set off to Pennsylvania.  It was his dad’s birthday.

Today.  Brandon’s grandfather passed away.  It is also Brandon’s little niece Cheyenne’s birthday.

Tomorrow. Brandon’s niece Lauren graduates from high school.

The funeral is set for Saturday afternoon.

It’s a heart wrenching week all around for Brandon.  I am all this far away and my heart is heavy for him.  I want to be right over there and just hold the man for a little while, the way he was there to hold me when I came home the day mom died.  This is what it means that you want to be with someone so badly it physically hurts.

I did look into a flight out of here, but Brandon insisted that I stay put.  They can’t possibly add another body into grandma’s house at this point.  And another body is just going to be too many cooks in the kitchen.

Please continue to send more love and good mojo to Brandon and his family.  I really appreciate it.

Brandon’s grandfather passed away this morning.  More information coming.

Please send your good mojo and prayer to my beloved husband and his family out in Pennsylvania.

We’re once again on death watch as Brandon’s grandfather who has Alzheimer is hospitalized.  We don’t really know how many hours, days, weeks he has because, apparently, the doctor has been giving different information to different family members.

With Grandpa’s death watch, we didn’t get to be with Justin and Olaina on his graduation this morning.  Nor will we be at Brandon’s niece high school graduation on Thursday.

Brandon is going to be out to Pennsylvania tomorrow to be with his mom and grandmother.  If the funeral happens then, it happens then.  If it doesn’t, at least he was there to help around the house, and say his final goodbye.

His grandfather was diagnosed with Alzheimer several years ago.   Brandon said that he and Grandpa had already had their heart-to-heart back then.  He didn’t want Brandon to see him when he lost himself, and they said goodbye then.  However, Grandpa did come to our wedding and he was mostly lucid then.

That was the only time I ever met the man Brandon admires so much.  It was an honor.

With Brandon gone, I’m not going to get any sleep this week.  Heck, I can’t even go to sleep right now.

Neither could he.

A row of what I think are jasmine bushes underneath our bedroom window have bloomed for the past few weeks. I didn’t know the neighbor apartment has such plant. I mean, I haven’t smelled it since we moved in, I don’t think.

The first time I caught a whiff of this season’s bloom though, I thought to myself…

“Mom’s visiting.”

It didn’t help that the first time, I was the only one who caught the scent. Brandon was a bit too far away from the window to smell anything.

You see, one of mom’s favorite flowers are what Thai people call “Dok Kaew” ดอกแก้ว. That’s scientifically Murraya paniculata and in Hawaii it’s known as mock orange.  Mock orange is no jasmine, but it looks and smells pretty close.

We have a tree growing on the edge of our property in Bangkok, on the way out the gate. It seems to bloom at night through early morning a few times a year. I remember taking them to my teachers on my way to school and plucking them on Sunday mornings for my grandmother.

It was blooming when my mom passed away. We made sure to have the blossoms at the temple as well as in our house. We put them in mom’s favorite red crystal vases which her friends joked that mom would rise out of the coffin to beat me and Pueng the Maid silly for actually using her prized possession.

Since the day I caught the scent in my bedroom, I expect the blossoms every night. I would take in deep breaths before getting in bed and think of mom.

It hurts a little, but strangely comforting.

I may hide my extra 5 lbs. gain well.  But when none of my 3 pants-suits and 2 skirt-suits fits, it’s a sign.

My expanded hips, strangely, interferes with the length of my pants.

All of my pants on the suits are cut a little loose because I hate tight pants. So all of them sag a little to the floor and therefore give me room for the heels.

Now my Asian J-Lo butt fills in to the pants so they fit correctly. However, my length of the pants are affected. They are all too short for any non-sneakers/flipflop shoes I own.

The black standby skirt-suit skirt is also affected. It is now a little too tight…and wayyyy too short.

Needless to say, Brandon likes that skirt. 

The only suit left in the closet was from a bigger friend. Even after going through a tailor, my jacket still looks like a loaner from an older sister. That didn’t fly either.

I just have to improvise on the “Business Attire” wardrobe until I lose the 5lbs. Or go to Thailand to buy more suits.  Which I probably wouldn’t find because of my giant ass.

Yes. 5 lbs. extra and I’m fat for my clothes.

You know, in Thai standard, I am also a total heifer at the moment. In American standard, you can’t really tell.

I just have to work out more to keep eating the way I do.

Aging sucks.

Someone in the office asked me what I want to be when I grow up.

“Millionaire rock star philanthropist,” I said.

He paused.

“So you want to be Bono?”

“Not with that much talent or the coolness. But, yes.”

He nodded and walked away.

It’s pretty interesting to see how people react to that question and answer. I have heard people get totally stumped when asked the question, and then people who has the simplest answer. Like, “Rich” or “Famous”.

Most people look at me funny when I told them about my ultimate goal.

Does anybody actually have a goal to be a philanthropist? Perhaps I am the only one?

I wasn’t always my goal, of course. I wanted to be a doctor, journalist, tennis champion and astronaut. Yes, ALL at the same time. I wanted to be an interior designer. A graphic artist. An advertising account executive. A movie producer. A web designer. Hell, I even wanted to be a wedding planner at some point.

The philanthropist thing doesn’t really come to full bloom until a few years ago when I realize the most joy I get outside of music and cooking/eating is helping people.

I love helping people. I love raising money. I do enjoy a few luxury in life that comes with having money on hand, but never dream of not being able to give away any.

I mean, the $3000 purse? I could just buy one for $40 and give $2960 away somewhere and I still have a purse that will hold my possession. $200 jeans? Well, okay, my ass would probably look fantastic in a pair of those, and I would probably own one when I can. But then again, I can squeeze into a pair of Levi’s for $30 and still look cute in them.

Is it a disorder that I can’t see myself being rich and not giving any away?

I think that is why people look at me funny. I want to have a lot of money so I can give a lot of it away. That shouldn’t make sense to most people.

It makes perfect sense to me.

When I die, I can’t take any of that with me. Why should I horde it when my money can go on and save lives, make people happy, and change the world?

How am I going to get to be the millionaire rock star philanthropist? I don’t really know just yet.

Well, unlike Bono, I don’t really have the talent. I can hold a tune and play a couple of ditties on piano and guitar, and I think I have the right rock star moves. But seriously, I don’t think this “good enough” is going to get me anywhere near rock stardom in the U.S. I might, however, be able to take a crack at it in Thailand as some niche pop-rock star, a one-hit wonder that makes banks and banks and then disappear. That would give me a good start on my millionaire goal. But that’s unlikely too.

So, I will have to “grow up” in reverse.

The philanthropist part, I sort of have been practicing that with all that I can afford. The easier next step for me is not becoming a rock star, but to be the millionaire. THEN I can peddle my album to the brown nosers who want my money. Or organize a big ass concert featuring the real artists and pop in on stage to rock with them for a song or two. Or put out charity albums with folks like Band from TV.

Good plan? I think so.

In the meantime, I am just happy being a thousandaire (actually, I can’t even say that since I have negative net worth…) living room rock star, karaoke queen, fundraiser lady.

Baby steps.

P.S. Speaking of which, the Lesser Weevils are back for AIDS Walk Long Beach 2008!  I’m recruiting team members as well as raising funds.  Come on down to the blog and help me out!

I wish I could show you the picture, but it’s really hard to try to take a picture of the side of your own head where gray hair has began its invasion.  After a few close brushes of permanently twisting my body in a improbable angle; and falling off the vanity and breaking my neck, y’all would just have to use your own imagination on this one.

Besides, the gray army is a little camera shy.  It’s tricky to capture a few silver strands among a sea of shiny black, I tell ya.

I have about 3-5 strands of silver hair on each side of my temples.  If I pull my hair back, you can see them.

It used to be in the back and underneath. Then they started to come up on top. And now they’re on to the sides of my head.

Earlier, I would pull some out. Okay, sure, EVERYBODY told me to stop doing that because 5/7/9/[insert your number here] its friends will come to the funeral. But seriously, folks. Grays are in my genes. Pulling it or not is not going to matter.

After a while, I resorted to just pull the ones that sticking straight up or straight out because it’s just way out of control. Or if I happened to spot one in the en of my pigtails. Otherwise, I don’t pull any more.

What’s the point of fighting genetics, really.

My dad has gone gray very early. I actually don’t remember him with black hair. Both of my brothers started finding their grays in their teens. One of them started losing his very early too and the other one, only two years older than me, is going salt-and-pepper.

I actually am looking forward to have more white/gray hair so I can do crazy color highlights without actually having to bleach my hair first.

No, seriously. I do. I know that when men go gray, they look distinguished. Women go gray, we’re just old hags. But hey, this is a genetic traits in my family. Something I got from the good ol’ daddy-o. I’m going to be proud of it.

Like Greg M. said the other day, my hair may be going gray, but at least I still have it on my head.