bad metaphor

Back over Christmas break, the family and I took a day trip to Philadelphia. After spending a good part of the morning running around the grimy, decaying Chinatown, which interested no one in particular besides my mother, my good-natured brother-in-law was kind enough to take me to a yarn store (which, of course, interested no one save yours truly), and purchase some yarn for me as a Christmas gift! The store (Rosie’s Yarn Cellar, for those in the area) featured a collection of hand-dyed yarns named after female authors and other icons. It was a tough choice for me between the Louisa May Alcott yarn, which more closely suited my color palette, and Edith Piaf because, well, it’s effin’ Edith Piaf. In the end, practicality won:

The Louisa May Alcott yarn is the bottom front one. The gorgeous strawberry and chocolate skein in the back was also part of the gift. The other two skeins are some white silk wool blend, leftover from the knitting of my sister’s gloves.

While I loved these two yarn choices (and still do), the question was, what to do with them? I mulled over the LMA yarn, debating about whether to just do a big chunky scarf or some mittens, until I finally decided that I wanted a kitty hat:

Meow!

I’m mostly pleased with the end result, though I’m not entirely sure that this kittyhat is not ugly. None of the other kittyhats I’ve seen have been made with variegated chunky yarn. I think I’ve settled on it being cute, in kind of an ugly (oogly) sort of way, so naturally, it suits me just fine!

I am, however, at a loss as far as what to do with the other skein. A lacy shawl? Stockings? Any suggestions?

Currently there is some sort of horrible germ wending its way among my circle of friends and acquaintances, devastating us all. Oddly, it seems to have struck during a bout of really good (re: warm) weather, instead of in the middle of the bastardly ice storms we’ve been having here. I will, rest assured, suitably freak out if I see any more random dead birds on the streets. Otherwise, I’m fairly upbeat, having heard from a little (not dead) bird that a boy I’m kind of interested in might sorta kinda be interested back (!), though he might have also been the source of contagion for this current phase of illness. C’est la vie.

I’m also floating on a cloud of tea and cold medication, because yesterday, two packages arrived at my doorstep:

These boots were made for walking. With proper insoles for my flat duck feet, of course.

1) A pair of boots from Zappos.com (free overnight shipping on all shoes if you order before tomorrow! bye-bye, bank accounts, hello shoes!)

2) A copy of “These Boots Were Made for Walking,” a complete set of recordings that Lee Hazlewood did during his time at MGM Studios.

Now who in the heck is this Lee Hazlewood character?, you might ask. He is the Svengali-like figure responsible for Nancy Sinatra’s career. A mix of campy pop and psychedelic country, his music is exactly what my ear has been straining for my entire life, and I didn’t even know it. I got turned on to him by my friend Louise, when we drove up to Chicago together. She’d made a mix CD and this song came up:

If you know anyone named Phaedra, this song is the reason why.

“What is this song?”

“Oh, it’s a duet of Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood. Weird, isn’t it? My friend and I consider this our hangover song.”

I honestly can’t say I’ve heard anything like this. Johnny Cash comes close, because of the similarities of voice, but there’s something quite bizarre and ethereal about this particular song. Hence began my recent obsession with all things Lee Hazlewood. And then I came across this article, from the end of January:

Lee Hazlewood is ready to die. Suffering excruciating pain from renal cancer, Hazlewood, the reclusive singer, songwriter and producer doesn’t have much time left, maybe a year if he’s lucky. So he has been preparing for what he calls his impending “dirt nap”.

I do seem to have a tendency for getting into artists just before, or right around the time of their death. Kurt Cobain in middle school, Elliott Smith, Jeff Buckley, Johnny Cash, and now Lee. So, let this be a caution to you, if you are an artist: if I begin to express interest in your work, write up your will now! Get your things in order before the cold hand of creatively-spurred death grips your shoulder. I’m looking at you, members of Arcade Fire! (kidding, please don’t go! You’ve already had your Funeral! )

Up until high school and beyond, I suffered from a debilitating case of social anxiety. That may come as a surprise to those of you who know me now, given the absolute social butterfly that I am now (so social, in fact, that I am positively thrilled about being sick today so that I have an excuse to stay inside, away from all the scary friendly people). I was basically mute from kindergarten through fifth grade, due to some now unmemorable traumatic incident at school. For some reason, at the age of five, I had gotten the idea that my voice was not feminine enough. The proper solution to this dilemma was to permanently seal shut my pie-hole, until I changed schools. Some time during high school I decided that being lonely sucked a fat one, so I worked to get over it. I started answering questions in class, became competitive in debate and forensics (two-time nationals qualifier for oration, holla), and even got some friends.

Thankfully, I’m mostly over the whole social anxiety thing now, and am not afraid to look terribly foolish in front of strangers and friends (and do so on many occasions). The one little thing I can’t quite seem to get over, however, is that peculiar modern invention known as the telephone.

One of the many beautiful doodles over at a beautiful revolution, that I find immensely relatable.

It’s certainly not for lack of practice. I’ve done reception work for over four years now, and that work involves taking phone calls. Also, having an immigrant mother whose English is halting, it had often fallen to me while growing up (and after my sister left for college) to make phone calls to places like utilities on behalf of my mom. I can talk on the telephone, and competently at that, if I must. But why is it so that, after so many years, I still instinctively dread the sound of that terrible tintinnabulation*?

Reflecting on it some more, I realize I must still have hang-ups about my voice. In person, I can make up for whatever failings of my voice by batting my eyes and (attempting) looking pretty; via email, it’s a non-issue (also, I haven’t quite gotten the hang of this new-fangled text-messaging that all the cool kids are doing these days). I can sound competent on occasion, but I’m aware that I also can sound like a stuttering, stammering nincompoop. Not to mention leaving messages; the thought of my awkward and ungainly voice preserved on some chip or tape for posterity’s sake is unsettling.

There are other things I don’t like about phones, particularly cell phones. Of course there’s the higher likelihood of traffic accidents when driving and using cell phones at the same time. There are the profoundly irritating people who have their phones grafted permanently to the surface of their ears, not stopping to even engage in cursory conversation with the customer service peon expected to assist them. Besides all that, cell phones can kind of act as a short leash. The convenience of easy and speedy contact has become a necessity these days. Sometimes, though, it’s kind of nice to disappear.

My inspired pale imitation of the lovely andre’s talent. I suck at drawing convincing human figures in photoshop, so instead I have drawn a scaredy-cat.

So if I don’t answer the phone right away when you call, chances are that I’m not ignoring you, per se. Just send me an email or post a comment, and that might suffice to lure me out of my self-imposed gloom. Unless I’ve disappeared, of course.

* – Pseudo-classical Samsung ringtone.

I spent this past weekend in good ol’ Wichita, land of construction barrels and proliferating chain restaurants, ringing in the new year with the family. I’m referring to the lunar new year, of course, which, as any Chinese or Vietnamese child knows, is objectively way better than the piddling, backwards Gregorian calendar version. Instead of getting regretfully drunk, the thing to do for the lunar new year is to gorge oneself on as much delicious food as possible, and of course, pillage one’s relatives and any moneyed adult for shiny red envelopes.

Cha-ching!

Yes, being showered with lucky money is very much preferable to being astoundingly hungover the next morning. The tradition, for those of you not in the know, is that all the adults will distribute little red envelopes, stuffed with crisp new bills from the bank, to all the children running around on New Year’s Day. Luckily for me, the definition of “children” has been stretched in my family to include “young adults with student loan debts.” Heh heh.

Aside from the money, and the wonderfully delicious food, the best part about lunar new year is the chance to spend time my extended family again. My cousins are turning out to be funny, if rather quirky, people, and it’s nice to see them grow up. (Although terribly, terribly shocking. Some of these kids were busy wetting their beds not too long ago, and now they are driving around in cars. Cars!) The great thing about hanging out with my cousins is that I have someone else, besides chiaroscuro, to commiserate with regarding the wild eccentricities of the family: the strange things we used to do as children (like ducking and covering whenever someone rang the doorbell, melting plastic Barbie heads in the sun, etc). The conversation this time around revolved around the mysterious man who lurks in the basement of my aunt’s house.

Some time, probably four or five years ago, I accompanied my mother on a visit to said house. Now, this particular aunt has an even looser grip on sanity than my mother (who, by the by, believes I shouldn’t think about moving to Portland, Oregon because of the danger of tsunamis) – she’s quite paranoid and doesn’t much care for leaving the house, except to visit her less hermited sisters. Anyway, my aunt needed to get something from the basement, so we followed her down. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a shadowy figure moving in one of the rooms, behind a half-open door.

“Who’s that?” I asked. My mom didn’t say anything then, but later she explained that this was my aunt’s “boyfriend” (which, in Vietnamese adult vernacular, can really mean anything from ‘friend who is male’ to ‘life partner.’ In this case, she meant that they are married).

“What? How long have they been dating? How come he never comes to any of the parties?” My maternal extended family in Wichita has get-togethers roughly once a month, and I had never seen anybody accompany my aunt before.

“Oh, he’s kind of, how you say, mental?” said my mom. “He doesn’t like people; he just stays at home.”

Hence began my mini-obsession with the crazy guy who dwells in my aunt’s basement. Apparently he’s the brother of a friend of my aunt’s; they met when she was visiting his house. Being that I’ve never seen the guy in direct light, let alone any interaction between the two, I’m not sure of the driving force behind the relationship. I do know that my aunt collects some sort of social security benefits for taking care of him. I don’t want to assume that my aunt just married him to collect a government paycheck, but then again, I can’t dismiss that possibility when it comes to my notoriously stingy, penny-pinching aunt.

Anyway, he’d never really come up into conversation among members of my family other than my mom and I, until about yesterday. So I’m a bit relieved that it wasn’t some shared hallucination between me and my mother, and mildly amused at the notion that my family has a basement lurker. If I were any younger, he might haunt my nightmares, but now I kind of wish I could befriend him, and maybe lure him out of his basement lair somehow (according to one of the cousins, he does mow the lawn sometimes). Maybe if he would come to our parties, he’d get over his fear of people. He could sit at the “kids” table, with the children and the rest of us who don’t speak Vietnamese! He could get to eat New Year’s Cake* with us and laugh at all the adults. It would be a grand time.

* – Actually a savory dish made with rice, beans, and egg, wrapped in banana leaves. Really tasty when fried.