No I'm not lucky, I'm blessed, yes

I am thankful for so much. (Including out-of-context rap lyrics that serve as appropriate titles to my photo albums and blog posts.) But really, I'm often overwhelmed by how much I've been given in this life that I can barely fathom taking up the task of returning even a fraction of it back. Here's to trying.

Resilience

So many people to pray for. Just keep in mind this too, will pass.

"What is to give light must endure the burning." -Viktor Frankl

A list of grievances

Things that have really pissed me off this week:

1) Backlash against the public mourning of Steve Jobs' death - Like, really? He pioneered personal computing and brought the world to our fingertips, making it accessible almost anywhere we go. YA'LL ARE JUST HATIN'. America can't claim dominance in many fields these days, but two resources we've always had in abundance are creativity and entrepreneurship. We thrive on this. And Steve Jobs was both qualities incarnate, leading one of the most innovative companies ever made and retaining the outsider spirit that made him iconic. Can you please give the man who literally changed the way we live more so than any other figure in recent memory some freakin' respect? Sheesh.

2) Dismissive criticism of Occupy Wall Street protestors - Not everyone who's rallying for the wealth disparity in this country to be erased is 'lazy' or 'privileged' or 'whining about problems people in third-world countries would be ecstatic to have.' Some people have done all the right things, worked to the bone, sacrificed any remote luxury and even basic necessities, and still barely scrape by. Look at this. Be moved. Understand.

3) How infuriatingly small hors d'oeuvres are at fancy parties - OK so maybe this says more about me than any perceived fault of the catering service, but if you want to avoid the mass of hungry bodies swiftly pouncing on every defenseless waiter who's holding a tray, I must insist on supersizing that shiz.

Husband-hunting, Part 1

Ever since I left school four months ago, my mom's favorite topics of conversation have narrowed down to two: find a job and find a husband. Now that I'm somewhat inching closer to the first, she's refocused all her efforts to the second. The same person who adamantly insisted that my distraction-addled brain couldn't possibly afford to think about anything else besides getting good grades for the past four years has now morphed into a vocal advocate of my marital fortune. She's also come to terms with, and graciously supported, my "writing aspirations" and is most likely (re: definitely) banking on me marrying rich, if she doesn't want to worry about me contentedly living off cup ramen for the rest of my adulthood. Despite having had relationship-resembling-but-not-really-a-relationship-type-things in the past, I've never brought home anyone to introduce to my family in that implied way and I think that is starting to be cause for concern. Though I've explained to her and my equally worried grandma that "serious" dating is a drag on my life that I don't have the tolerance to deal with right now and that I would only bring home someone who I already knew they'd approve of, their fears remain ever so fervent.

On the other hand, my dad, thankfully, still doesn't seem to consider me as someone who would be remotely interested in the opposite sex and gets extremely uncomfortable whenever my mom starts in on this angle of conversation. Hardly ever at a loss for musing commentary, he falls silent and waits for the moment to pass so we could get back to talking about Obama's reelection odds and the latest Newsweek cover. I'm actually quite scared of the day that I'll have to break it to my dad and say, "Surprise! I'm a girl! With a boyfriend!" More scared for whoever said boyfriend will be who has to face paternal inspection, but I guess meeting the parents is just one of those romantic rites of passage. A necessary evil. An appraisal of goods. A nerve-wracking, ego-crushing, soul-numbing experience. Look forward to it, guys!

A discussion over dinner at Syracuse, when they came to visit for the day:

Mom: So, what kind of qualities do you want in a guy?

Me: Why, are you going to find my husband for me?

Mom: Well, I just want to know in case I meet someone!

Me: Someone without too many emotions or feelings. Smart and responsible, but also playful. Christian, obviously. Good hygiene. Kind of tall.

Mom: So... someone like your dad!

Me: Uh, I guess.. (Dad laughs awkwardly)

Mom: Men like your dad are hard to find though.

Me: Well, I think I just need him to be kind of calm and mellow to balance out my crazy obnoxiousness.

Dad: (emphatically nods) I agree. That should be the first thing you look for.

Don't know if I should be insulted by his immediate (and rare) input, but I'm glad we're on the same page?

Paging Madam Pomfrey

Confession: I still have a debilitating case of Post-Potter Depression. Not even a little bit ashamed.

“After all this time?”

“Always.”

Why yes, I did just use a classic and emotionally charged exchange between two of the main characters in the series to properly reflect my melancholic feelings about being unable to let go.

OK, maybe it’s time to lower my head.

UPDATE: My perpetual adoration of the most hipster house at Hogwarts has finally been validated -- I was sorted into Ravenclaw on Pottermore (beta). I also apparently brandish a 10 3/4 inch wand made of laurel and phoenix feather.

SUCK IT MONKEYS. Lemon, out.

On race and religion

For the first time in a while, I encountered and was incredibly enraged by a racist person tonight.

I don't know if he would describe himself as such, since he was of obviously foreign descent and maybe only yells racial slurs at people he deems to be harmless, in places where he feels safe and justified in his irrational anger.

But how you act and what you say when you're upset is the most telling of one's character and so to me, he is -- to the core -- racist.

Situation: I pulled out of the library and made a sharp left turn on to a local road. It was close and I probably could have waited for his car to pass, but there was still an ample amount of space left between our cars. Suddenly, he zooms up and drives in the opposite lane in order to move in front of me and stops his car (a Mercedes, no less). I give him a long beep from my horn. Instead of continuing forward, he gets out, slams his door, and stalks over to my window. Before I can even lower it, he's fuming.

"I have a 9-month pregnant woman in the car! What the fuck do you think you're doing?! Do you know what you could have done? You people.. you people are fucking insane!"

Ah, "you people." He was clearly delighted that not only could he swing his big metaphorical dick around by posing as this lady's knight in cotton-clad armor, but also that he'd be able to pepper his rant with illogical asides meant to offend my ethnic self.

"If you have a 9-month pregnant person in your car, shouldn't you get going instead of stopping in the middle of a road and coming over to talk to me?" I reply.

He catches himself. Wait, I speak English? Without an accent? And articulate myself better than him?

"Yes, I'm going but I could SUE YOUR ASS. You're lucky I don't call the cops right now because what you did, they would give you BIG TICKET. BIG TICKET!"

He then says some other variations of suing me in increasingly nonsensical terms, because you can apparently sue people now based on hypothetical scenarios where an accident COULD have happened and in which there were no other witnesses present to verify either side's account. In short, he's trying to intimidate me with empty threats.

Blink, blink. "Okay," I say.

I tell him we would not have gotten into an accident. He yells at me some more. I stare. He's almost done with his tirade. Oh, but of course he can't just walk away. No, his inflated sense of self-worth and manhood won't allow him to silently retreat. As he turns from my window, he releases one last blow, a vain attempt to lace his argument with provocation. The one I'd been anticipating, but hoping he wouldn't be so base enough to say: "I see where I'm going, because I don't have small eyesack like you."

That's when I lose it.

I scream. I lean my head out the window, cursing at his back. He doesn't turn around. He has been spewing hateful bullshit at me for the past two minutes, but can't even give that final slight to my face.

He gets in his car and I want to crash into it so badly, want to reach inside and drive my fist to his mouth. Do anything to get the sure-to-be-smug expression off that coward's face. Instead, I speed past him and take deep breaths, try to tell myself that I'm better than that, better than profane thoughts and ad hominem attacks.

But I'm not.

I spend the next ten minutes speeding down the highway, driving the same route twice because I don't know where I'm going, I can't think about anything else except how senseless and stupid everyone is. When the only thing they have left in their arsenal to support a floundering argument is a desperate jab at someone's appearance. Real classy stuff.

I'm not going to lie -- I've made sweeping racial generalizations and said impulsive, superficial comments about people to hit them hard. It's easy. It rolls off the tongue. Anyone can look at someone and say the first judgmental thing that comes to mind. Especially when you're angry and especially when you can later attribute such casual cruelty to "the heat of the moment." That's not really who I am, you say. That person had it coming, others tell you.

Who's going to stop this cycle of hatred, then? If the users continue using it and the victims retaliate by lashing out at the user and to future offenders too, how does any sort of acceptance occur? Let alone, dare I say it, love? Speaking as a Christian, one of the hardest things to follow and implement is the commandment to love your enemies. Loving people who love you is expected. Enemies are different -- they should be crushed. Primally, it's self-preservation and logically, it's only fair. An eye for an eye is justice in its purest form.

Jesus didn't preach justice, though. He preached mercy and compassion. He preached forgiveness. The man who endured not only verbal spite but also repeated physical violence that culminated in his hanging above a jeering crowd for three days -- that man went to his death asking for God to forgive the very people who hammered the nails into his bloodied limbs. How can anyone do that? It's completely irrational. Out of his mind, some would say. Our culture thrives on comeuppance, on perpetrators getting what they deserve. When the underdog shoots the fatal bullet at his foe, we cheer him on and celebrate his rightful vengeance.

But that's why Christianity is different. That's why it's irrational. That's why it doesn't make sense in society. And that's why it takes a great leap of faith to believe it's true, and your efforts to make peace and reconciliation aren't for nothing. It accepts hypocrites like me who have been negatively affected by others (as you can clearly tell by the bitter tone of this entry) and impresses upon us to stop and reconsider what we think and ultimately say.

So at the very least, I forgive this man and the other racists that I'm bound to come across both personally and through other people. I ask for forgiveness for my own bubbling loathing of him and hope that I can reach a point where I won't have to exercise restraint on my hostility and can be naturally imperturbable. (Unlikely, but who knows?) And I pray to not be tempted into acting the same way he did to either stranger or friend. Whether you're a believer or not, I think we can all agree that racism is divisive and unproductive, and reveals the inhumanity of those who enable it. Trust me, racists don't need our help in looking utterly ridiculous when they do such a standup job of it themselves.

The upside of hurricanes

So unless you live several feet beneath the earth under a teetering pile of heavy rocks (to which I say, I'm sorry and you better GET THE HECK OUT OF THERE!) or haven't encountered any form of media or other human beings in the past 48 hours, here is your delayed newsflash (although if you're reading this blog over checking the news or looking outside your window, you need to reset your priorities): there was a hurricane this weekend. You're welcome.

Not only was there a hurricane, but it was apparently supposed to bring the apocalypse along with it. Fun!!! Or at least that's what you'd think from all the coverage this Irene character had been getting. I'll be settling down with a good book to read by candlelight once this hullabaloo has passed.. IF I LIVE.

My parents were supposed to get on a flight to Korea last night, but it got delayed until Wednesday. My dad's taking his sabbatical for 10 months over there, doing research with companies, teaching at the university, and generally embracing his full-fledged nerdiness. My mom is going for a couple of weeks to help him move in and make sure his apartment is stocked with more than just ramen packets and peanut butter (left to his own defenses, my dad would have the eating standards of a college frat boy).

So rather than spend the weekend getting ready to leave and wrapping up last-minute errands, my mom closed her store early due to the 'inclement weather' and came home while my dad had a teleconference with his colleagues to tell them about his updated travel plans. This resulted in all five members of my family (including my sister, who came to visit) being in the house together on a Saturday with virtually no plans of leaving it for the first time in a while. Our power was still on but we were anticipating losing it as we listlessly roamed around the house, looking out the window every five minutes to gauge the level of our impending doom. The only foray I made outside was with my sister to get ice cream from the nearby Baskin Robbins -- a must-have commodity during any natural disaster, really.

After we got back, all of us sat down in the kitchen while my grandma placed a steaming hot bowl of spicy broth in the middle. We slowly devoured it, intermittently chatting about the storm-hype, our relatives' health, and (nerd alert!) the efficiency of LED light bulbs. We dug into one of the two quarts of ice cream purchased and let ourselves happily languish around the table. No time-checks, no gotta-go's. We eventually migrated to the living room, where we watched the ongoing news reports of storm preparation and heard the raindrops begin to patter on the roof.

We lost power the next morning and the walls of our house gradually went from a chipper white to ashy gray, then became blanketed in black. As soon as we realized that our lights weren't turning on, my sister and I stared wide-eyed at each other and yelped, "THE ICE CREAM!!!" Racing downstairs, we rapidly distributed bowls to everyone and demanded that they keep scooping before the jamoca almond fudge devolved into a puddle of brownish goop (and THAT'S the proper word usage, Gwyneth). We managed to go pick up a large pizza pie amidst the road detours and brought it back home to have our second meal together this weekend.

I stepped out to go study at a friend's, my last familiar bastion of electricity left in town. Six hours later, I drove home through deserted streets devoid of working street lamps or traffic lights -- the scene, by all means, looked like the eve of a zombie outbreak. Driving past those dark houses was eerie but kind of nice, knowing that the families inside were hunkering down, getting ready to do nothing but sleep. Solidarity, I say! I got home, joined my own, and waited for the storm to pass. Just like everyone else.