Print me a mango & a comb

I went to bed last night having wedding invitations lingering in my head. I opted for the enticing bed rather than finish up the last couple of prints. The completed invitations would have saved me the frustration this morning.

The beautiful, 3-month-old Canon printer was working divinely when I turned it on at 7:00 AM and printed some practice sheets, but on the last run, it decided to get paper jammed and took its last breath in my presence. I strongly felt the printer was remorseful of my decision to leave it last night when I chose my bed over it. I tried everything I could to revive it, I even tried to throw it against the wall, nothing worked. That was the end of my printing excursion. I packed up all of the stationary and prepared for plan B, whatever that may be.

My coffee cup is filled to the brim, making it my second cup for the morning, and eggs heating up in the stove oven. If I couldn't get the damn invitations to print, the least I could do is get something to eat. This will fuel my body and get me ready for a hairstyling meeting that is waiting for me at 10AM, followed by a visit to the photography studio to secure our date, and finally the tailor.

I was introduced to something new today. It is a new invention that takes haircutting to the next level. Over the years, haircutting industry encompasses lines and sections, precision and classic cuts, editorial & commercial, avant guarde, as well as fashion integration. But it neglected one segment of the foundation that even Vidal Sassoon was missing. Focusing mainly on the "the missing link", is Joaquin Regalado's genius invention, the engineering aspect of hairdressing -The Comb.

I've seen The Comb once before, but never as closely and well examined as I did today. It is approximately 8 inches in length and its architecture is no different than the conventional comb, its unique leveling tool is built into the comb to provide accurate haircuts that require measuring of 0 degree, 45 degrees, and 90 degrees relative to the ground. I am now the proud owner of The Comb and a couple of education DVDs.

This is a beautiful tool and it is something that I am currently intrigued about and will spend the next few weeks studying it, becoming more familiar with it, really owning it, and using it on my clients. I will then decide how I like it and whether it is something I can integrate into my client world as well as the creative world.

It is 3:00 pm and there are a couple more things I'd like to complete before Dan's arrival home at 7:30pm. My printing frustration escalated even more compared to this morning. And I have conluded the printer was cheaply produced, and I am determined to not blame myself for once. I am now craving a ripe mango that is cooling in the veggie draw. The rest of my day remains at home and I'm looking forward to it and can't wait to see Dan later.

A Skill I do not own

It's just a few minutes past 1PM, the house is empty, the dishes rinsed clean of spinach & mushroom omelette that was served with a little too much salt, stacked in the dishwasher, and one completed math homework abandoned on the dining room table, I make my way to the couch for a mini break. "Autumn in New York" is my movie of choice, realizing that I may not have time to finish the entire movie, I watch anyways.

Laying on the couch I laid on last night when I listened to the beating rain, instead, I hear the wind roaring loudly like the sound of Dan's voice when DirectTv isn't operating at its best, encouraging the trees to dance aggressively, almost out of control. I can see through the open shutters the leaves from those trees swinging at each other in a rhythmic melody. And the pleasant music from the movie is a perfect complement, making me feel relaxed, yet uneasy.

I daze off for a moment, critiquing my current cooking skills and plotting ways to improve on a skill I never had. I have read a hand full of recipes, know about some common spices, and even how to prepare foods to be cooked on the grill, but apparently this is only enough to satisfy my own taste and no body else'. Rachel Ray's 10-minute meals will only hold us over, but it is a meal prepared with experience, knowledge, and time that will yield maximum happiness to a family. I am determined to gradually improve.

Soon the wind will subside, the movie will end, the floor will be mopped, countertops will sparkle, and math homeworks will be completed. But before my cooking skills will be polished, we will head to Sit n' Sleep and Macy's home store to do some detailed investigation on some of Dan's favorite mattresses made by Stearns & Foster. By the end of the day, we would have laid on every single type of S & F from Luxe Estate to Luxury Latex.

I'd like to end this blog with a quote from the movie, "Food is the only beautiful thing that truly nourishes".

Rain Drops Fallin'

"Rain Drops Keep Fallin' on My Head", written by Hal David and Burt Bacharach in 1969, is for some odd reason the first song that welcomes itself into my empty mind. I haven't heard this song on the radio, nor has it been played on Spotify. I am not sure the reason for its visit, and I don't care. My day happens regardless.

It is 82 degrees ferinheight and sunny in the midwestern part of the U.S., but 54 degrees in the west coast with heavy rain showers lasting the entire weekend. This type of weather behavior is unusual and almost alarming. The weather has switched its roles, playing the part of its opposite, rather than sticking to its predictable forecast patterns.

Thanks to this odd swap of weather, we put on a lazy mood, drive ourselves to the nearest restaurant, Mimi's Cafe, where Dan enjoys a plum sauce pork chop and I enjoy an asparagus chicken asiago spaghettini, accompany by a New Castle and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. No dishes to wash and no clean-ups, just a reasonable gratuity is all it takes.

Being given a break from the heavy rain, we head over to Alberton's to grab a couple of half-gallon Dryer's ice cream, a couple of 12-pack Guinness, and a few essentials before heading home, where we will nest and watch a movie.

After fiddling with a number of movie channels, we arrive at "Hall Pass", a comedy starring Owen Wilson, where he gets a hall pass from his marriage to do whatever he wants for a week.

This movie entertains us for a couple of hours, while being occasionally interrupted by the rain drops blastin' on the skylight in our kitchen. It is loud and disruptive. This made me think of the song that came into my thoughts today. Laying near the window, I can clearly hear each drop hitting our house beneath it, washing way all the dirt and residue accumulated over the years, cleansing it thoroughly, and feeding the plant life surround the house in the meantime. The movie ends and the entertainment officially begins to the wee hours of the night.

Madness happens at Fuddrucker's

Today I wake up owning only 5 hours of sleep, tiredness takes over me as I feel the subtle Madness rumbling around me. The house is quiet, and through the cracked door, I can hear Dan's conference voice, probably checking off his list of meetings for the day so he can flop himself on the couch and indulge in the twenty basketball games that are all showing simultaneously, and for twenty four hours straight. It is only 8:00am.

DirectTv provides hundreds of channels, most of which are in high definition and each channel is always available to watch at any time of the day. But today for some reason, it decides to freeze for a minute or two. Apparently, the two minutes of freeze time occurred this morning, and I am certainly notified of it by a loud frustrated scream in the living room that travels to the opposite end of the house, reaching the master bathroom where I'm resting over a porcelin toilet. This is when I understand the seriousness of what today will entail.

It is two days into a four-week college basketball championship tournament, and if you have a husband or a boyfriend or a brother, you know this day is as important to a male gender as it is to a female gender giving birth to her first child. This is when men can be men, fill in brackets, bet on their favorite teams, and drink til they can't remember your name. there are countless places that host this special event,NCAA, formally called "March Madness", such as St. Louis, Las Vegas, and New Orleans just to name a few. This tournament has naturally evolved into a

holiday celebrating men and their skills of 'guessing'. With the exception to every rule, Dan for example, has his teams well studied and carefully examined over the years, tracking their scores and records, so his choices are more valid than most of his fellow competitors.

For me, my day is far from madness. March is no other than another month of the year, and it is one month closer to my big day. Today will be easy. A little homework to catch up on, a tasty beer, and dinner with the family. The only madness I will create today is my personalized, killer burger that will happen at 7:00pm at Fuddrucker's in Lake Forest.

Season my day with a sprinkle of time

A note taped to the outside of a blue door that I consistently enter every Tuesdays and Thursdays at 12:45pm had the words "class dismissed" written on it. I am free for the day. Two and a half hours of class time can now be spent doing anything my heart desires.

I've told myself weeks on end that when things start to slow down and I have freed up some time, I would revisit the gym. And this is the first thing on my to-do list today and it is my priority. I'd like to believe that class cancellation is merely a gift of time. Someone above is definitely listening to me and I am lucky enough to recognize it.

Before heading to the gym, I stop by the house to dress myself in some comfortable gym clothes. Pulling up to the drive way, I gave my attention to the lawn and notice it needs some watering. I walk around to the front of the house, and located near the front door is a switch to turn on the sprinkler. A big plastic bag labeled UPS is sitting on the door mat and I knew right away the content that is stuffed inside of it. I have been craving it like I occasionally crave the stuffing of a turkey during the holidays. Just a day prior, in the break room at work, Lori asked me about this package, and my response to her was, "it's been a month and a week and the package hasn't arrived and I haven't received a reply to my concerning email a week ago". I'm excited to text her in a few minutes that it has arrived!

Trying not to be overtly excited, I do a few more things around the house before opening up the package. Inside the package was a lizlock bag protecting a white dress. My hands began to shake and I notice my heart beating faster than normal. Feelings of nervousness and excitement travels throughout my body, and my hands become firm as I straighten out the dress and spread it on the floor.

I can hardly visualize myself wearing it, contouring the shape of my breasts, waistline, and hip. It is almost too beautiful for me. The flowing train is elegant and breath taking. I am more than pleased. This can't be my dress! I couldn't resist the temptation of putting myself inside of it so I can feel the smoothness of the satin wrapping itself around my body. Through a mirror that is being blocked by a table and a chair, I can still make out the shape and over all look of this dress. It is stunning.

I will need my mother and sister Amy to give me a hand in tightening up the sash in the back of the dress in order to see it's true shape and appreciate the crafted details on the dress.

I just finished a fresh veggie drink that I made, and now I am getting ready for the gym. It's barely 2:30 in the afternoon and the secret ingredient that made my day special is time.

stuffy room & ice cold beer

I must have pinched a nerve in my back last night when I climbed on top of Dan to give him a kiss. But the pain in my lower back didn't keep me from weaving in and out of dreams last night.

I can remember one so clearly it feels like I was really there. I was in a small room, it had high windows some of them were closed and others were half open, bright florescent lights, and several rows of mix matched chairs that were awkwardly arranged throughout the room, occupying it from wall to wall. Filling each chair were a mixture of people, all of which were no different from the other. There was a long table placed against a wall near the door, there was nothing on it. The room was stuffy and warm. It was like being sardined in the Underground in London during rush hour and having to be squeezed next to man wearing a suit that hasn't been dry cleaned in years and the odor from his underarm attacked all of my senses.

Sitting almost center amongst the chairs is me, on one side is someone I thought I knew and on the other side is a stranger. In fact, no body in the room looked familiar. At the very front of the room are a row of four chairs facing us and in the chairs are four random people, one sharing a survival story and the other three fueled questions to help with the flow.

The brightness of the room intensified, making me feel like I was on the operating table and the surgeons were performing medical procedures on me while I was awake. It was almost terrifying. The smell was getting worse. I zoned out of the room for a little while as I looked down on my lap, at a notebook that has in it my hand-written notes from a Business Calculus class, I read it. I read it with hopes that I would do well on my midterm next Thursday. I started to envision getting all 19 problems wrong. I was obviously not ready. Losing interest of these math problems, a voice from behind me became clear, it is a girl, and even though I couldnt see her even when I turned my head, she sounded young but not naive, probably in her early 20's. She talked about her own survival story, describing her failed liver and pancreas and nearly died. She explained in details and although I couldn't remember the details, I could remember the pain in her voice. She said clearly that even though she would probably be better off dead, she would still choose life over death if given the choice. Once her voice faded, everyone stood on their feetwith back against the four walls, pushed all the chairs to the center, and held hands as the room began to vanish.

It is now 6:19pm on a Wednesday evening, daylight is still beaming through the shutters, the tv is turned to a movie that is showing its credits, fresh guacamole is chilling in the fridge, boiled eggs cooling on the stove, washed spinach is drying off in a colander, and grilled veggies are roasting in the stove oven along with grilled steak and chicken wrapped in tin foil. A light dinner and a greeny drink are coming right up.

As for me, I'm sitting on the couch, with my buttock pushed slightly near the edge, and feet resting on the coffee table, I glance at a beer -Independent Full Sail Amber- wearing a St. Louis Cardinal koozie and it is standing at a reachable distance next to my feet. I grab it and take a slow sip, filling my mouth, enjoying the bubbly texture while its flavor hits my taste buds. I am finally whining down. Life is amazing in my neck of the woods.

My parents are Artists

Sometimes during my sleep, flashed images from my childhood crawls into my dreams and it would be so vivid it makes me feel as if I'm reliving it. It's always hard to tell whether it is a dream or that it actually happened. And these images are random and in no particular time frame. Sometimes it all gets meshed together and becomes one incident, not able to tell where one ends and the other starts.

One night, after I went to sleep, I remembered when I was eight years old, tall and slender, dressed in a matching outfit that my mother sewed with her own hands and with skin so dark it looked as if I was from a different race, I was a tomboy. I played with only boys. I had one girl friend, but Since I hardly knew English it impeded the growth of our friendship. That feeling still resonates inside of me from time to time.

My mother always sent us (my two brothers and me) to school on a full stomach and with fresh clean clothes to wear. She went out of her way to wake up early, fix us something to eat because she knew even then the importance of breakfast. It was usually left over Vietnamese food she made the night before. Her and my dad would drive thirty miles to Fresno once every couple of weeks to pick up some Asian herbs and spices to make meals that resembled Vietnamese food. It was good. It was good because she made it. After breakfast, she would tie my hair into a tight pony tail. It was so tight it looked like I had a facelift at the age of eight, but it had to last the whole eight hours at school because I was more rough than most girls my age.

One morning, after my brothers had left the house and headed out for school on their bikes and my mother had finished my hair, there were a few minutes to spare until I had to head out myself. I heard my dad spoke loudly to her. I could tell it wasn't his normal voice and I could tell everything wasn't ok. I was eight. I wasn't smart enough to know what was happening. But the tone of their voices told me everything.

I remembered back at the refugee camp in the Philippines where we shared a 15 by 15 feet of living space in a huge warehouse that appeared to be the remains of what was once a building and the walls and roof top above us were made of tin. The ground was made of dirt and we were separated by neighboring families with only a sheet of fabric hung on a liner. One day, after the sun had gone down and I was coming home from a long day playing with the kids, knowing I was late for dinner, I ran as fast as I could. I collided into an older lady who had in her hands a pot of hot water. It poured all over my tiny body and hours later, my parents found me laying up against the tin wall in fetal position, holding myself tight. Even then, they told me everything will be alright, and took me to the hospital. Their kind voices were comforting and I felt safe. That night, I skipped dinner.

Their loud voices explained our weekly visits to multiple garage sales and the flea market that was located 10 minutes from where we lived. My overly worn second-hand Nike shoes with velcro bought from the flea market for a quarter was worn to school every day, and when I came home each day, my feet stunk so bad even I couldn't bare the smell. It was like something died in it. And when we bought expired food at the grocery outlet and grew our own herb garden so we could have fresh produce, were the reasons for their loud voices. Still they told us we were ok. My mother made the best dinners, filled the table with delicious meals every night at 7. We all knew to be at the dinner table at the same time each night. No excuses. This was where we exchanged stories from our day and laughed. It was one thing we proudly shared and looked forward to. When dinner was over, we were all stuffed and went to bed content and happy. My parents are not artists, but their paintings made us feel protected.

As I wake up from my sleep, I look around my room and noticed it is bigger than the space we all shared in the Philipines, on the shelf were 30 pairs of shoes I now own, all bought brand-new some even unworn, pressed dresses all lined up neatly with velvet hangers, and blouses organized by the style. My parents have their own closets and clothes hung according to the seasons, and while I'm just one city away, I no longer have them to paint me another picture.

My parents' paintings have laid a foundation for me to live a life filled with abundance. I've held these silent lessons tight and when I dream of them, I wake up being reminded that everything is going to ok.

Today, I met with Joaquin Regalado.