2.06.2010

My Try

My effort on the left, Lancome arteest on the right.
I think I did a pretty good job with the eyes in general despite not having all those gorgeous brushes. I didn't have the right eyebrow pencil, so I used what I usually use, but tried to make my eyebrows thicker and longer.  I might have to buy theirs.  Can you believe he used Taupe?? I didn't buy the lip color so I used the closest that I had, which I think is a tad too dark.  The Lancome color was a mauve with a hint of gold that made it a neutral with a twist.  My attempt isn't bad, but I think it's that fine balance - the slightly lighter lips and the darker eyebrows that really give the impact of what the arteest did for me.

I'll be posting the whole story on Chic Critique one day soon so keep an eye out for the link!

Made Up

Top picture, before.  Bottom two pictures, after.   What do you think?

1.31.2010

Eruption Interruption

I love that Boo is old enough to do some things for himself.  At the same time, I love that he still needs my help - picking out a shirt that matches, putting on lotion, shampooing his hair.  But at 7-1/2, he can get on the kitchen step stool, pick out a glass or mug, get himself a drink.  He'll ask me if he can have a lollipop, and go in the cupboard where I keep his candy.

One morning last week, his dad found him on the kitchen step stool, looking in the cupboard where we keep bowls.  On the counter he had my box of baking soda and bottle of vinegar.

7 Years

Exactly 7 years ago, we traveled to our home in State College via Seoul, Taejon and DC.  He must have sensed we were at the end of our journey because he fell into a deep sleep, a deep sleep he hadn't known since 2 strangers took him away from his home the week before.  The journey, of course, was just beginning.

Happy Family Day, little boy.  You transformed one couple into a Family.
I love you.

1.28.2010

Allergy

I get a gurgly feeling in the pit of my stomach.  This subtle yet clear urge to, um, excuse me, but this urge to lurch.  I feel a sense of shame.  I've had it for decades now.  I should probably go talk to someone about it.  See if there's an antidote. 

It happened during the 80's, the Reagan years, the Bushes.  Now, with Barack Obama. 
Barack.  Obama.  MaMan.

Now I know for sure that I have an incurable allergy to State of the Union Addresses.

1.24.2010

The Message

/
Boo has been writing little notes.  To friends, our Pastor, his dad...to me.  He'll try to talk to me when I'm ...um...indisposed.  When I ask him for privacy, I'll hear his footsteps fall away.  Then return. Then a slip of paper get shoved under the door.

As an Only, he is always seeking for me to be his friend.  To play Firehouse with him.  To play Sorry.  To play anything.  Just to keep him company.

It's easy to spoil him because he is an Only.  I may spoil him materially, but I try to keep things in perspective for him; often making him work for the toy.  I try harder not to spoil him emotionally.  I baby him because I think he needs it.  I want to snuggle, buggle, smooch and knooch him as much as possible so that he doesn't feel needy when he's grown.  Be filled to over flowing.  Saturated.  With a deep-seeded sadness that I'm not sure will ever go away, I am trying to be the fertile soil of security for him.  But demands and manipulations and whines?  No way.  No room for that here.  Zero tolerance policy.

I try not to give into his demands and make sure he respects that I have my own life and will play with him when I can.  But then I get distracted.  By the computer.  Laundry.  The messy room.  Anything.  Because I don't really like to play.  I'm a serious sort.  But then a sad little note like this will wake me up:



I got the message, buddy.
/

1.23.2010

A Decade


The decade according to 9-year-olds from allison louie-garcia on Vimeo.

Peace


1.22.2010

Helllo Luvvah!

/
I want to sleep with you; hold your round smooth warmness against me.  I want to be with you everyday, washing brown rice or jasmine rice or short grain rice...steaming pork buns...making porridge together.  I know others will say you're too fussy, that you have expensive tastes.  But.  They don't understand.  They don't know what it's like to be.  To be.  East Asian.




You were good to me, but I've got to move on. I have brown rice and porridge to consider now.  Take care, and have a nice life.  I know you'll make someone else as happy as you made me.
/

1.17.2010

Pretty Poor

/
When I was young and idealistic, I lived in a big city.  I walked the historic cobblestone streets, walked through the public greens, attended a picturesque church.  A church painted by Arshile Gorky and Maurice Prendergast.  My leather heels would get caught between the cobblestones and my briefcase felt too heavy.  Passing by the reflecting pond in the garden, on alternate benches came the pungent smells of the homeless.  In plain view of the gold-domed state house, lined along the basement windows of this church lay huddled masses of gray rags, covered by fresh newspapers, steam rising around them from the subway grilles.

As a young professional living in a big city, I didn't make much, but certainly I had enough time and money to get some food for one poor soul.  I walked to the nearby fast-food joint and bought a sandwich and fries.  I approached one of the huddles of rags and bent down. "Here, I brought you some food."

This older woman looked up from beneath a blanket, her lovely face ashy with dirt.  Her eyes lit up, and she thanked me for my kindness.  She told me a heart-wrenching story of how she came to live on the street.  Her family owned a small diner, but one misfortune after another left them penniless.  She and her husband of 30 years moved in with their engineer son, but he died of cancer at 28 and her husband died of a broken heart.

No.  That's not what happened.  She was an older woman, yes, but her face was like dried carcass, purple and veined from weather, hardship and probably alcohol.  Her eyes glowed with hatred as she swatted at me with her rag-covered club of an arm.  She cursed and swore at me in a gravelly voice from a horror movie telling me to leave her alone and who did I think I was.

I almost fell back on my heels.  I looked around in embarrassment.  I re-rolled the top of the paper bag in nervousness and backed away.  I headed to the subway stop, on my way home and dropped the food into a city trash can.

I thought about that for a long time.  What I learned was that I can't know what others need.  Especially if I am no where near where that other person is in terms of experiences and hopes, or lack thereof.

I also learned it is easier to love the poor when they are a storybook version of "poor."  A story book version of the poor may be dusty but clean, thankful and sane.  The poor were hard working but misfortune befell them through no fault of their own.  They saved rain water so they could clean themselves and wash their clothes with bits of soap they scavenged.  Pretty children with large round eyes.  They were humble and appreciated whatever was given to them.  And they got back on their feet through the generosity of others.

When the poor are rancid, carrying around hidden bits of feces on their blackened rags?  When they laid around on side walks and scavenged in the dumpsters?  When their children are petty thieves? When they are the third generation living on welfare?  Smoking two packs a day? And damn they AREN'T thankful to you.  And chances are, they aren't going to get back on their feet.  In a month.  In a year.  Or more.

Maybe it's easier for some to give to Haiti, imagining these distant people.  Few of us have smelled them or seen them.  They believe in voodoo and do all kinds of things that decent suburbanites don't do.  But they're far away and they don't smell and we can't see if they're lazy or crazy.  But the poor in this country?  We've walked by them with their gaggle of children.  Seen them buy junk food at the stores.  Talk too loud.  Sit around.  They're not pretty.  They take up our air, eat off of our tax dollars.  But is it easier to love an idea?  The idea of the poor rather than the ones you bump up against?  The ones you can smell?

I don't know a lot about the poor.  But I think I know this:  I am not able to decide who is worthy and who is not worthy of my money and time and what it is that they need.  Maybe we need to be a bit more humble and say that we don't know what brought these people to this point - near or far - and give with a generous heart?