sometimes, it's the small things.

A friend just emailed me out-of-the-blue and asked: if I was (1) feeling crazy? and (2) up for a 8-day, spur-of-the-moment trans-Pacific cruise. And even though my work schedule will keep me firmly grounded in SoCal--crazy though I may feel--it made my day that someone randomly wanted to spend eight days on a boat with, you know, me.

That, and it's nice to think that I might be that person that people think of for such things. Randomly have an opportunity to live for a week with indigenous peoples in Peru? Call Miwa!

Yeah. That's me.

even if you're far away

In a few weeks, Birdie and P are leaving for the opposite coast. They are there for the winter and spring.

Me? For lots of reasons, I am staying behind.

Me, and the boat.

What happens after that, is a bit unsure.

"Bird, you know we'll be kind of far away from each other this winter."
"But you'll come visit, right? All the time?"
"Of course."
"And, Bird, no matter how far away I am, you know I love you, right?"
"You'll always be my Miwa."
"Yup. You know I'll always be your Miwa."

Mountains can be moved and great canyons dammed. Canals may join oceans. But some things can't be changed, no matter what the geography looks like.

reading is fun.

P and Birdie try to read the word "olive oil" on the tricuit box.



"ahhhhhhhhhh-live."

"Good, Bird! What does that sound like?"

"ahhhhhhhhhh-live. Olive?"

"Good job! And what do you think O-I-L spells?"

"oh-eeell. oh-eeeeeeel."

"Good! Olive oh-eeeel. What does that sound like?"

"oh-eeeell. oh-eeeeeeeeeeeel. oh-eeeeeeeeeeel. I don't know!"

"Bird. What do you like to dip your bread in?"

She pauses to think.

"Cheese?"

bull haircut.

Birdie and I are listening to a piece on NPR about a boy and his grandfather, a barber.

"What's a bowl hair cut?" Birdie asks.
"It's where someone puts a bowl over your head and cuts all the hair below the bowl."
"And what does THAT look like?" She seems a little incredulous.
"It looks kind of like you have a bowl over your head, only made of hair."

She looks at me skeptically. I think to myself that it does sound a little ridiculous.

"What KIND of bowl?"
"Just a bowl. Any bowl, I guess."

She turns back to her coloring for a few minutes. She sighs, tapping her forehead.

"But, like any BULL? With horns?"

And suddenly the whole conversation feels uncannily like a lot of the phone conferences I've been on lately.





Me and my brother at my grandfather's cabin, and the closest I've ever been to a bull haircut.

my box.

Through a set of somewhat convoluted circumstances (involving a 72-year-old Puerto Rican woman, two Spanish-speaking Jehovah's witnesses, a fried fish, and a Star Wars fanatic in Florida who really and truly named her only son "George Lucas"), a box of my personal files and photographs ended up yesterday in the hands of a DJ out in the Inland Empire.

He called and left a message, saying hesitantly, "I think I have some stuff of yours. I looked through it, and I don't think it's stuff you meant to give away. So I'm calling you."

He was SO right.

This morning, before hitting my parent's house for turkey and gravy, P and Birdie and I headed out to the Ontario Airport Starbucks to meet DJ A and get my stuff back.

It was a little strange to think about meeting someone whom I did not know and had never met, who knew so much about me. From my files and photos, he could have known about the things I had bought with a credit card in the past few years, what kind of camera I have, the classes I took in 1999. How I am registered to vote, and that I had lived in Tanzania. He may have seen the drunk pictures of me in Beijing. He might have known that I like to eat at a place called "Mr Ramen." He might have seen my plane ticket to Puerto Rico and the obscene amount of money (I am ashamed to admit) I spent on a cocktail dress at BCBG.

P googled his phone number and spent an hour on the internet trying to establish that the guy wasn't a registered sex offender. We talked in worried voices about who he might be and what he might want. My mom--molehill mountain-maker of the universe--spent half an hour on the phone warning me of the dire implications. We even considered having my poor dad--a 5'3, 64-year old Japanese man--follow us as back-up. Because, uh, you never know the damage a small Japanese man can do when he is really really, er, focused.

When DJ A finally arrived, he had a crooked, easy smile and his head was shaved bald. He wore a white hooded sweatshirt, and when I took his hand in mine, his handshake was light.

He said that he had gone through my things. And that he liked my life. He liked the way I had lived and spent my time. He thought my job was "admirable." He had gone through my things, and he hoped I didn't mind.

It was as if he felt this strange connection to me. That he knew me. Even if that knowing was not reciprocal. He hadn't told me his name, or where he lived, or even what he did for a living. But he, he knew me.

I put my boxes in my car, and gave him the bottle of Myers Rum that I had bought him as a thank you. He seemed pleased.

After he had driven off, he called me again, inviting Bird, P, and me over to his house for Thanksgiving.

"It's a crazy idea," he said, "but I thought I'd ask."

I felt suddenly ashamed of my suspicion, of assuming the worst of him. Why is it so hard to have a little faith in a stranger? Why do we so often feel so out to be got?

We had to be at my parent's house in a half hour. I declined, but said I hoped we could keep in touch.

And meant it.

I hope one day, we are able to get a drink together, he and I. I'd order a gin and tonic, and maybe he'd order something like a Bushmill's and ginger ale. I'd like to know what his drink of choice is. I'd like to know his name, and where he lives, and what he does for a living.

Mostly, I'd like to tell him how glad I am that he knows what he knows about me. I'm not exactly sure why. He went through my things. I'd like to tell him, that: Me? I don't mind at all.

instead we collide

This drawing was a collaboration, her drawing, my writing. Together on an overcast beach day at Emma Woods.

She and I talked about atoms and how we are made of atoms and how atoms are mostly empty space. Which means that we are mostly empty space. I told her that I had heard something about how we might pass through each other--her hand through mine--except that our atoms are misaligned in just the way that the protons and neutrons in us collide. And that is the property of us that makes us solid.

"It would be fun to walk through things. But then I couldn't give hugs. So I'm glad I'm a solid."
"Me too, Bird. Me too."



Me and Birdie on the beach at Emma Woods.

oh, so that's how they do it.

My friend Sam has known me since we were just twelve-year old nerdlings. (That's fifteen years, for you who are less up on the mental math.) Fifteen years later, she is a little less nerdling, more high-powered, and very successful--but still Sam.

Case-in-point: Sam, to her boyfriend, at our traditional late-night, after airport-pickup chinese food run.

"How do you think they make this boba stuff, anyway?" asked her boyfriend, pointing to the small squishy balls in the bottom of his glass.

We all paused and looked at it for a second.

"Hamsters," she replied. "Very. Large. Hamsters."

stop it. no, really.

I just discovered that there is someone out there wiring themselves cash with my credit card!

What might they be doing with this ill-gotten cash?

While I like to think that this hard-up soul is buying organic fruit for starving children and gas to keep their dog rescue operation afloat, in reality, they are probably doing something with my money like shopping at Forever 21 while drinking out of a polystyrene cup and pouring oil down the stormdrain. Possibly all while driving a stolen Hummer, or something. And, you know, paying their membership fees for the Paris Hilton Fan Club.

ARG.

clueless.

What is a BSTAT?

I have two degrees in economics, which I use but rarely. I sometimes marvel at all the econ I used to know, and how quickly it trickled out of my ears to make room for more important and useful things like this and this.

I spent this morning in a university office with an econ professor, discussing some joint-project possibilities. This econ professor had an office with a view I would have killed for, straight out onto the Pacific. And there was surf. So I was already having trouble paying attention.

Academic-types always make me a little nervous. (This, despite the fact that P is one.) I feel a little like the junior higher hanging with the ninth-graders who smoke behind the cafeteria, who at any moment will say the thing that will reveal just how totally uncool and seventh-grade he really is.

Mostly, I smiled and nodded.

He said things like: "You know, we could find the new [arcane statistical term, possibly the BSTAT or something...]! The BSTAT for humans! Wouldn't that be a riot?"

It appeared he expected me to laugh at this, so I did. Yes, yes, Dr. Professor, quite the riot!

While my mind raced backwards trying to fire the lost synapse in my brain which once knew what the hell a BSTAT is and why finding one for humans would be just too hilarious.

But really, I have no idea.

muny, huny.

Last night, I find Birdie wearing my old hiking bandanna around her head as a kerchief, and holding a sign that reads: "muny."



"What are you supposed to be?"
"A peasant."
"Why are you holding that sign?"
"Because peasants are poor. I need money."
"I see. And what will you do for money?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"I'm poooooooor. Not bored."

level five.

"So. Does this mean I haven't already?"
"I believe you're still on level five."
"I think I may have plateau-ed."
"Ooooh. That's a big word, for a level five."

special demon power

"So, tell me about it, Birdie."

"It's a fire demon."

"And what does he do?"

"Nothing."

"But what's his special demon power? Anything?"

She looks at her picture for a moment and squints one eye shut.

"His demon power is that he never makes any promises."

"Never?"

"Never."

"Well, that is an impressive demon power."

"Because it's harder than it sounds?"

"Exactly. Because it's harder than it sounds."

my new best friend.

Currently obsessing over:
I recently bought a sprint broadband internet card. I have no idea how it works*, exactly, except that it has a cute little antenna and Sprint beams down internet to it. Anywhere. The car, the beach, the park, the train... That's right, ANYWHERE.

It has been, as P likes to call it, a total dork out. And the object of much joy, and intermittent clapping. (P: Are you APPLAUDING the internet card?)



"P, meet my internet card. He's my new best friend!"

"You're a dork. You know that, right?"

"Don't be jealous, baby. We can still be friends, too."

*Er, this guy might know more about it, but agrees that it is like crack for nerds. That's right. Crack. You know you want it.

drunk dial etiquette question.

I received a drunk phone message a few weeks ago, in the wee hours after my high school reunion. It was a nice drunk dial--a strange and drunk compliment from someone who confessed their high school crush on me. And then copped to being drunk.

If someone drunk dials you and leaves a message, are you supposed to call them back?

Is is impolite to ignore their call, or a form of grace that you are willing to pretend it never happened?

if only.

But then, it wouldn't really be the same anymore, would it?

lame.

P to Birdie:

"Stop being lame, sweetie."
"What's lame?"
"Lame is when you drape yourself over your breakfast and complain about everything that's wrong with it, instead of just eating it. That's lame."

Birdie pauses to think about this.

"But I liiiiiiiiiike being lame!"

Because some days everything really IS just too sticky, too soft, too hot, and just too hard to cut.

impulse control, it is overrated.

A couple of weeks ago, I needed to get away. I mean: really, REALLY needed to get away. I cannot overemphasize the "really" in that sentence.

Luckily, I have wonderful people in my life for just such occasions. People who will, at the last second, come to your door and drive 600 miles in a weekend, because they understand that some days you just really NEED to eat spicy pad kee mow in a totally different city.

Were it not for them, I would definitely have set my head on fire years ago.

And so, to all my above-the-neck fire-setting incident preventers: you know. thanks.

Golden Gate Park, Chinatown, and our taco stop in Pismo Beach:

letting go.

(*apologies--originally posted draft by mistake!)

I spent the morning with J, who has spent the last 10 years creating organic landscapes--parks and public green spaces that are pesticide-free. In the same way that vegetables and fruits can be grown organically, landscapes can be grown without the use of chemical pesticides and fertilizers.

J showed up in a tank top and a floppy canvas hat over his shoulder-length salt and pepper hair. We rode around in his beat up pick up truck and traded easy smiles.


We walked through at least ten of his park spaces, and he pointed out the trees that had done particularly well, and the ones that needed pruning. He talked about different native plants, and the owl boxes he had been experimenting with. He was toying with the idea that bringing back native predatory birds might be a good way to control rodent pests like gophers.

I asked question after question about how things worked, how much they cost, how decisions were made, and weeds removed. (Quite well, not much, collaboratively, and by hand--in case you're wondering.)

Organic landscapes are a different kind of landscape, less manicured and less managed--because you can't control what will grow and what won't with chemicals and fertilizers. At the core of J's philosophy about green spaces, was the idea that what will grow will grow.

What will grow will grow.

It is a different kind of letting go. Some kinds of letting go mean that you abandon a thing, that you stop caring. But letting go can also mean caring more deeply. It requires patience and careful attention--a willingness to think and watch and choose wisely where and how you intervene.

--

J talked at length about the oak moth which had been killing his oak trees. For several years they had sprayed. In the end, he decided to just leave them alone.

"And most of them recovered," he said, pointing to a stand of healthy oaks. "It was remarkable. We let it go, and they came back."

"Why do you think that happened?"

"I don't know," he shrugged. "I suppose they were in the right spot, enough that they had what they needed to recover on their own."

We walked a little further.

"This guy probably isn't going to make it," he said sadly, touching the brown leaves withering from a smaller lone oak on the path.

"What will you do?" I asked.

"I'll let nature take it course."

He glanced at the tree again and he smiled. "And then I'll find a better spot, and plant two more."

career-oriented.

Thoughts on what we'll be when we grow up. (Some day.)

"You know what I'd like to be?"

"No, what?"

"Director of Expansion and Development for Taco Nazo. I'd direct them to build a Taco Nazo within one block of wherever I happened to be living at the time. It would be so..."

"Convenient?"

"...and delicious."

finally arrived.

P called me from a conference yesterday, with the gleeful news that he had finally worked the word "chickensh**" into a professional presentation.

"And this was a career goal for you?"

"Don't belittle my accomplishment, woman."

i heart taiwan.

My friend Motz took me to a new Taiwanese ice slush shop near his house--cryptically named bing bing konyac ice2. Ice slush is basically shaved ice topped with anything from cubes of unflavored gelatin, fruit, condensed milk, to sorbet and sweet red beans.

If the name bing bing konyac ice2 weren't enough to love, their ice slush was delicious and came with all kinds of strange claims to magical and health improving properties, explained in very poor English.



This one may or may not have: "improve gastrointestinal motility."

word from the wise.

E is in Chiang Mai, and sent along this pearl of travel wisdom:

Smiling and nodding enthusiastically won't necessarily get you far, instead people may just think you are slightly retarded.

birdie-isms.

Bird: Why do people people say "bless you" when you sneeze?

Me: People used to think your soul left your body when you sneezed. They would say "bless you" to help your soul return safely.

Bird: That's silly.

Me: Yup.

Bird: (rolling her eys.) Everyone KNOWS souls are too big to fit through noses.

the label didn't say anything about poisonous.

Trader Joe's was selling rambutan yesterday. I bought them for Birdie's school lunch, thinking she would like their strangeness, if not their taste. (Supposedly a cousin to the lychee--initial taste tests indicate they are similar in consistency, but much more tart.)



I now note that wikipedia warns:

The single seed is glossy brown, 2-3 cm long, with a white basal scar; it is poisonous and should not be eaten with the fruit flesh.

Poisonous? Hmmm. That was definitely NOT on the label.

Of course, Birdie never eats the weird fruit I send in her lunchbox. I just hope when she traded them for something like a twinkie, she traded with one of those bratty kids who really had it coming, anyway.

we begin at the begininng. ish.

I had a blog, once.

It was mostly for my friend E, and much of it revolved around the Boy--who was very normal, and very nice. (Of course: Normal + Nice = we lived on different planets.) The blog was generally filled with woeful tales of strange and hilarious conflicts between me and the Boy I loved but just didn’t... get.

Life at that time revolved around the Boy. So, when I broke up with the Boy, I sort of broke up with my blog, as well. It just didn't seem to fit anymore. The story I had been telling there had ended. And so I stopped writing.

E would still check it from time to time, hopeful. But there was nothing new to say there. The story had been told, the blog was... over.

And life went on.

--

I am twenty-seven now, a free-lance environmental policy mini-wonk living in Southern California. I spend about equal parts of my daylight hours surfing waves, surfing the web, and napping. On more productive days, I also actually do work.

I sometimes do work in a cubicle, and I live on a boat.

I share my life with my sweetheart P, and his five-year-old daughter, Bird. Me, Birdie, and P--we live mostly in the moment. Sometimes we do it well, and sometimes... we don't. We prefer beach to desert, and often marvel over the shapes of shells and stones. We are very bad at having houseplants.

My family also lives in the area. They are many, and they often make me want to jam my fingers in my eye-sockets. But they are also the ones who will take care of me when my eyeballs get infected and I go blind from all the eye-socket finger jamming. I love them with all my heart.

I also love libraries, the Colbert Report and scrabble. I am partial to small movies, big books, and beef jerky. I actively avoid Sodoku, cold weather, and taking vitamins. I have a long-standing crush on this guy, and my favorite color is green.

So you know: this blog is not about anything, in particular. There is no story or rationale. I will blog... because the internet says I can!