The Blind Side mentions Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s poem, The Charge of the Light Brigade, and it reminded me about how much I like Alfred. Lord Tennyson. 

1. 

Half a league, half a league,
 Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!
“Charge for the guns!” he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

2.

“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
 Someone had blunder’d:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

3.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
 Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

4.

Flash’d all their sabres bare,
Flash’d as they turn’d in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
 All the world wonder’d:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel’d from the sabre stroke
 Shatter’d and sunder’d.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

5.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro’ the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

6.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred. 

In a time of my life, where the world seems like a war inside me, and I wonder if I am making advances towards the death of my happiness, I know that the only thing I can do is continue forward, even if it means I know that I have made a mistake. It takes courage to continue forward. 

I know that it’s far and few between, those that leave behind a life worth a Wikipedia entry or a web page dedicated to their life, but I would like to leave behind something that I know others will remember me by: pushing myself forward in a life that I am proud to own.

I may not be one to talk, seeing how I typically wear a  t-shirt with this design:

with a pair of shorts reminiscent of the Umbros I wore when I was in elementary school:

 when I go to the gym, but I’m going to be Joan Rivers of the gym for a second, because my convictions are strong, and certain issues need to be addressed.

Let’s start with the ladies, shall we?

Ladies, spandex is not an invention to make you skinner than you are, and most of the time, the fat you think you are removing is actually just getting displaced to various parts of your body and no one wants to see that. Typically you, spandex-wearing, elipitcal-using woman, choose the machine that happens to always be in front of the TV with the most interesting show on, therefore, in front of me every time. As much as I like cottage cheese for lunch, I don’t need that cottage cheese on your body to make my lunch come back up. Also, if you so choose to wear spandex, may I suggest black instead of hot pink, purple or a combination of the two. To the woman who wears pink spandex shorts so thin there is no need to wonder if you are wearing underwear or not, and who probably has kept said spandex since 1991–please, spend 9 dollars and buy yourself some new shorts–it would be the best money you would spend, and I’m sure I’m not the only one that would appreciate it. If you won’t get new shorts, at least stop doing squats.

If try on a work out top at the store and wonder if it gives you a muffin top or if it’s just you, you should probably pass on the top until you spend some more time at the gym. Use this as a rule: if you’re in doubt, don’t buy it. If you think you’re afraid that it just barely fits and you will have to give it away in a month because you loved your cupcakes more than getting rid of your muffin top, you probably should pass.

And the worst offenses of all are made by men.

men men men men men….there are so many things to discuss, I think I’m going to just make a short  list–to the point and self-explanatory:
1. muscle shirts are stupid. (no matter the color)
2. if you have a gallon of water attached to your arm, girls aren’t staring at you for your body
3. two words: short shorts
4. triangle man–although you have chicken legs, spandex isn’t the way to show them off–it makes me nervous that your massive top will make you topple over and the spandex only emphises how tiny your legs are
5. sweat is fine, but sweatbands not fine

I was watching P.S. I Love You the other day. It’s one of those movies, for me, that can be watched over and over again without getting old. Even though I can anticipate the next line or what is going to happen, I still watch with anticipation. The scenes from Ireland throw me back to my study abroad, and all these feelings rush back. There’s something about being in a European country that makes me feel liberated.

I want to go back. I want to show Tristan what I saw and take him to Italy–take him to the great gelato place in Florence on the corner–next to the bakery I went to every morning. I want to share with him what I fell in love with 4 years ago. I want to go to England, Ireland, Wales and Germany. There’s something that happened to me when I visited these places that I can’t explain, but there really aren’t any other places that I want to visit. I’ve been to Australia, France, Germany, Switzerland, New Zealand, Mexico, Canada, Austria, Liechtenstein, Italy,Ireland, England, Scotland and Wales, but only a few of these places are ones I want to go back and visit again.

It’s like the places I go in my dreams or places I visit when I’m stressed at work. There’s this one pictures that I think captures the essence of my love.

I took this picture the last night we were in Riomaggiore, Cinque Terre, Italy. The six of us 20-somethings shared a meal together, then bought a bottle of wine and ate cookies on the rocks that abutted the bluest water I’ve ever seen as we watched the sun set behind the mountains. We laughed, tried to forget we were leaving, heading to Cambridge to join up with the rest of our study abroad peers. I will always remember this moment. It will always be like this picture–whimsical and candid. I can almost smell the sweetness of the Italian air and hear the waves crashing into the rocks as I write this.

There’s a line in P.S. I Love You from the last letter Gerry writes to Holly that says “It’s about how you changed me, moved me.” I feel the same way about these places I’ve visited.

John Michael Montgomery once sang that “Life’s a dance you learn as you go, sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow. Don’t worry ’bout what you don’t know. Life’s a dance you learn as you go.” If life is a dance, I’m doing the chicken dance over here in the corner while everyone else is doing the electric slide or a number from Westside Story. I don’t think that I fully understand the seriousness of being grown up yet. I still find myself doing little things here and there that I’ve always done, that are frankly juvenile. Sometimes I cut corners and I scan books instead of reading them. A lot of times I stretch the truth or I try to find reasons to work from home, or better yet, leave work early. This isn’t kosher with what I’m supposed to be doing. I’m like a teenager all over again, trying to fit into my growing, changing, awkward body. Dancing is the last thing I would be coordinated enough to do.

Whenever I feel like I have a grasp on my life or I think I have a mature moment, the song changes and I’m there again, left with no partner to dance with and no idea what the new dance step is. Sometimes I feel like everyone else is dancing around me or I have to sit out and wait until I feel confident enough to start dancing again. I don’t know what it is about becoming an adult that frightens me so much, but this in between part is what is making me the most scared, because as of right now, I don’t see an end to this song.

People always tell me that I look younger than I am, and while that is probably true (the Asianness) I always wonder if that’s why people treat me like I’m younger than I am. I wish people wouldn’t dumb down conversations or feel the need to explain Sesame Street fashion. I’m not trying to take anyones dance partner or even try to pick the songs, I’m just trying to learn the steps.

Life is hard enough as it is, and I’m afraid that John might be wrong about how it’s nothing to worry about when you don’t know something, because eventually it’s going to come and bite you, and you better be ready for it. I’ve seen people in their 40’s and 50’s still struggling to learn dances, or they have been doing the same dance for so long that when a new song comes on they can’t handle it and they turn their favorite song back on. So what do you do then when you are forced to learn someone else’s favorite dance or when there doesn’t seem to be any music on at all?

I guess all I can do is take it easy, learn one step at a time and hope that I have it right, because in the end, all I’ll have is the memories of getting to know the dance of my own life.

I am missing a lot of socks. They disappear and I know that my laundry machine is the culprit. It just stands there, looking all innocent, but I believe that deep down there is a cold-hearted kidnapper. I believe that my laundry machine stalks my socks and when I’m not looking, snatches it and kidnaps it.  But this is what I’ve been trying to figure out: where does my laundry machine keep said socks? I think that instead of keeping them in tact, it tears up the cotton fibers, then stashes them in a secret compartment towards the back of the machine. Once the fibers have been freyed enough it passes them onto the dryer who in turn slowly integrates the frayed fibers into random cycles, at which point I find them collected in the lint collector at the end of a dry cycle.

What I don’t get is the obsession with socks. I never see a t-shirt or a pair of jeans lost in the washing machine. I never am wanting for sweat pants or gym shorts. Why socks? Are they the lowest of the laundry kingdom? Do they not matter or can they be tossed aside? Are they like rocks, to be thrown around? I loved my white and yellow socks with the ducks on them. Now I only have 1 to my name.

Thus is life, I guess.

My roommates and I have decided to make bucket lists and blog about the adventures they lead to. Check it out here.

I love a song by

I managed to not let Hilary Duff’s catchy tunes grab my attention, but “Party in the USA” by Miley Cyrus is a song I just can’t stay away from. I tend to stay away from teenie bopper girls who can be a bad influence on society or are just in general too young to be wearing make-up, but Miley has pulled me in and there’s no turning back. I’m going public with my love for this song.

Maybe my cold heart does know how to beat. “noddin’ my head like yeah, movin’ my hips like yeah.” boom boom. boom. boom.

Archie, my skateboard, gifted to me on my 20th birthday by my friends, has been stolen. He was last seen in September 2009. He was in the storage unit of 1019. He has black on top and had a picture of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on the bottom. It looked similar to this:

Also stolen was my DVD player–a cheap Sony DVD player, but still only 1 year old and in perfect condition.

Jennie lost her entire snowboarding ensemble. She had her snowboard, boots, bindings, everything in her case, and the perp took all of it. Now Jennie can’t look like this:

If you have any information or have seen any of these products, please contact your friends. There is a reward of a free home-cooked meal and possibly cash reward for the returned items.

We don’t suspect any foul play has been involved in the kidnapping of these items, but if the skateboard or snowboard have been used, there may be some abuse to the top of the skateboard or the bottom of the snowboard. It is imperative that these items be returned to their rightful owners, and the families will not stop looking for them until they have been recovered.

In an earlier interview, Jennie was noted stating that it’s the mere act of stealing that makes her angry–and the fact that to replace the stolen goods would be more expensive than it is worth. Why people feel the need to take things that aren’t theirs is beyond me.

A search for the items on Craigslist began on October 31st, but it came up without any results and no new evidence has presented itself.

If you are the one who stole these items from our storage unit, please, bring them back safely. All we want is our recreational equipment back, safe and sound.

Last night Tristan and I had a discussion regarding the prounciation of the word “crayon.”

I grew up saying “cran.” In an effort to prove my correct pronunciation of the word, I went to dictionary.com. Indeed, the correct way of pronouncing crayon is “cray-on.” 2 syllables. Cray-on.

I was wrong. I’ll admit it, but I can’t get myself to split up the word in two separate syllables.

No. Not the band. The good ol’ group of girls getting together to chit chat about life, love and the rest.

A trend that I have noticed is that most women who get together with their girlfriends is that of voice change. When women are around their closest friends, they have a tendency to sound a little stupid (for lack of a better definition). A slight bit of vapidness enters their range of vocabulary, and I do believe that they forget that other people are around them, so they tend to speak a little louder than normal.

Also, the topics of conversation range from love-lives to jobs and onto complaining. There is typically a friend who is a little more vocal than the others and a friend who has some sort of crisis going on. Case in point:

I was in the nail salon this morning for a quick manicure when a woman clutching a baby in her arms rushed past me and yelled “hi! sorry we’re late!” to her two friends who had already started their mani/pedi combos. Nail salons are prime places to observe girl talk. These three women in particular would be a great case study on women and the way they interact.

The first two women were already at the salon when I came in. They had (I learned very quickly via their “I want to be loud enough so everyone knows I was at the gym but not really” conversation) done like, the 30 seconds running, 30 seconds walking thing for like 30 minutes then, like, 20 reps of 5 pound barbells, and like, you know, did the bike for 10 mins and, were, like, already sore and it had like, only been like 20 minutes since they liked stopped working out. It was like, a total butt-kicker. The third woman who joined them, daughter in tow was the most narcissistic person I have heard in a nail salon. She clearly had a lot going on for her, but was also annoyingly showing it off to the world. She, I gathered, was a VP of a division of Microsoft and her husband (bless his heart) was also a VP of a division of Microsoft, and they were, hey guys, trying to buy a new house but didn’t know if they wanted to sell the other house or keep it for renting, right guys? And she said (this is a direct quote): “I hope [my daughter's] hair stays this color. It’s like champagne, right guys? But it doesn’t matter anyway, because I’m taking her in to get highlights next week.” Her daughter had just turned 11 months.

Another example taken directly out of these clearly educated women’s mouths:
Crazy Mom: “I saw Will the other day at an MS VP conference.”
Workout Girl #1 and Workout Girl #2: “No way. How is he doing?”
Crazy Mom: “He’s good. He lost a lot of weight. I mean a lot of weight. I didn’t even recognize him except for his face.”
Workout Girl #2: “I know, I saw his facebook profile the other day and he looks really good.”
Workout Girl #1: “I know, right?”
Crazy Mom: “I know, guys, right? and I’m over here goin’ I wish you looked that good when we were married. And you know, he had his partner with him there too.”
Workout Girl #1: “You mean the googly-eyed one?”
Crazy Mom: “Yeah, the one he left me for.”

Their conversation didn’t get much deeper than that. Workout Girl #1 was dating Mark, who didn’t want to give up his X-Box and didn’t know if he wanted to get married, but said he would think about it. Workout girl #2 was single, but hoping to find someone soon. (she seemed a little needy to me and was probably the friend of the group that was just happy to be invited to go to the nail salon with the other two). Crazy Mom was looking for a replacement for her nanny. “So I interviewed this chick who didn’t have any experience nannying but when I asked her you guys, if she had experience she did. So I knew something was wrong and I asked her to leave my house. You guys, I mean, you have to be honest if you’re going to be a nanny. I mean, come on. So, I’m thinking about interviewing Lona’s nanny, but I don’t know anything about her, have you guys heard anything about Lona’s nanny?”

Yes. I am guilty of having shallow girl talk from time to time, but I hope that if recorded, I wouldn’t want to jump off a bridge for how stupid I sound.

All you Samanthas, Carries, Marandas and Charlottes out there, watch want you say, Jyl’s ninja hearing skills might end you up on her blog.