December 2017 – Page 2 – hannah ananas

Family times

Good family is like good friends… so far as I described good friends before, anyway. I have good family.

When we are together, there can be silence, if so desired, but there is never want for something to discuss. There are no awkward pauses. The space is open for discussion of just about anything we’d want. At the end of an evening together with my family, if someone were to ask what we discussed, my answer likely would be something to the effect of, ‘Uuh… I have no idea… all sorts of anything?’

Yes, my memory is quite functional, and I could sit down and figure out almost every topic discussed and most comments said throughout the evening. However, that isn’t what someone would be wanting to have happen with such a question. ‘Oh, we talked politics,’ or ‘The stock market and country clubs, mostly,’ are examples of family conversations I hear regarding the families of acquaintances. Not my family. We might have a brief chat on politics, but it is equally likely that we will discuss dog breeds, logical fallacies, and farts. And it never will be just one, but many topics of discussion, and usually knowledgeable discussions, too.

Whenever I leave time with my good family, I feel very conversationally and informationally satisfied. It is always a good, loving, and fulfilling social interaction. Yes, I have good family. And I am grateful for them all.

Post-a-day 2017

Forgotten Decaffein

Trembling from my stomach outward, I place my hands on the keyboard. They move as though shuddering, convulsing ever so slightly, unable to remain still. They do not know what stillness is. None of me does right now. It is something of a vague memory, floating casually in the background, commenting, “How odd,” at the body that cannot pause in this sedentary position… It is resting on this bed without rest.

Post-a-day 2017

Cultural Pants with Mom

Have you ever gotten creative with your clothing? I certainly have. Tonight was just an average ‘work with what you’ve got’ kind of night with clothes. For tomorrow, I’d chosen to wear an Indian tunic – I think the actual name might be kurta, but I’m not sure. However, I don’t have any pants or leggings that really go with the colors of it, and black is totally not an option, because its bright colors are just too happy for black.

So, I asked my mom if she had any leggings or pants I could wear with the top. At first, she brought me Vietnamese yellow pants, which almost look Indian, but the color combined with the style was just not passable. The tunic is a sort of reddish pink, with orange and green embroidery and stitching. Bright yellow, baggy pants just weren’t the look I was going for. I wanted the focus to be the top, not the bottoms. I will wear said pants, however, on a different occasion, you can be sure.

After checking greens and purples, all to no avail, my mom brings in a skirt that is the exact color of the green embroidery and stitching of the tunic. The fabric is different, but the color is darn near exact. “But it’s a skirt,” I declared and repeated, somewhat laughing. I tried it on. My mom said it looked all right, but it totally was not the look I’d wanted. ‘This is what we call “cultural confusion”… I was going for “cultural fusion.”‘

We both laughed and stared at the perfect match of color and utter clash of styles.

And then I saw it. “Aha!” I bent over and grabbed the center of the skirt, both the front and back of it, through my legs. As I stood up, my mom knew exactly what I was doing.

Five minutes later, we had it. I eventually had to take it off and turn it inside out to make it all balance properly, but we knew it would work after the second knot I made while still wearing it. We tied the skirt in a few places in the center to give the illusion of one type of traditional Indian pants (think Indian yoga pants), and it worked marvelously. No, they don’t look exactly like the real thing, but they do look like what I’d wanted: cultural fusion and fabulous.

I wonder how it will go off tomorrow, in a world of latino heritage. I look forward to the opportunity to respond to something like, ‘Cool pants!’ with a, ‘Oh, thanks. I’m not wearing any.’ Or something silly like that. We’ll see. Whatever the case, though, I’ll be in an outfit that I love and that has been created with love from me and my mom. I think that’s the best part, as usual, of course.

P.S. I’ll see if I can get a photo of it all tomorrow at some point.

P.P.S. Okay, so it turned out that I wore the yellow pants to bed, because it was so cold, and they were soft and comfortable. Not what I’d had in mind when I considered wearing them soon, but oh, well… 😛

Post-a-day 2017

Nighttime Window

I open my window at night… late, late at night, when I am awakened to heat by the sounds of someone climbing the stairs to go to bed in the middle of the night, though I never know it at the time, and neither does the stair-climber. My room is hot, too hot for comfort, especially in the middle of winter, even though it is Houston. I crawl to the edge and climb out of my bed, down to my shoes, and stumble to the bathroom to relieve my suddenly compressed bladder. When I return, the heat hits me like a physical wall of warm fabric floating just inside my doorway. I stumble back to my bed, letting my shoes fall as I climb into it. I sit for a moment, considering… The lights are off, so it is all right.

I lean forward on my hands and knees, and I slide open the large window a few inches, before sitting back and relaxing, waiting for the cool air to stream firmly into my room. I always consider going to sleep with the window left open. I always close it after only a minute or few, so that I may go back to sleep, at ease. I want the cooling air, but nothing else is welcome. In Houston, many a thing might aim to make itself welcome through an open window at night. And I really don’t want to wake to a rat diving between a stack of boxes. I want to keep this room clean, please. And so, I shut the window every time, even though I’m never quite cooled off enough for good rest. Each night, I silently wish for a screen for the window, while disregarding the wish, because I wasn’t to see the world clearly through the window, whether closed or open, just free of screening… so it cannot be.

So, I open my window at night, out of practical reasons, but silently wish to experience the magic I feel is waiting just outside, waiting in that cool, crisp, winter wonder air.

Post-a-day 2017

Unpaid, at last?

I realized today that right now is the perfect time for one of those necessary unpaid internships designed to get into a field of work. I have a place to live, and am mostly provided food and water, and all without immediate cost to me. And I have support from family to pursue what I feel is best. I just need to keep up my end of the semi-agreement for the next toward a half (-ish) months, and I expect that the food and shelter will remain available to me at the same cost for quite some time… giving me the perfect opportunity to test out those jobs that have intrigued me, but would not offer money for the first little while of working in them.

We shall see..

Post-a-day 2017

Mortification after Consideration

While on a summer symposium in high school, I had a very upsetting and memorable experience. See, we had a presentation-turned-almost-meeting one day with a man who had done highly valued things with his life so far, – it was a world youth leadership symposium – and he started off the presentation by asking us as a group, ‘Who are you?’ I was near the back of the room, and that was how the trouble occurred for me.

The first kids answered by the standard social behavior of giving his name, etc. I instantly commented mentally that he hadn’t answered the question. The man had asked who he was, not what his name was or where he lived. The talking went along, one by one, around the seats in the room, heading back towards me. Occasionally, the man repeated his question, asking who people were, but not always. No one strayed from the name-giving routine. I grew anxious about how to answer. Was the man being the way so many people seemed to be, unaware of the actual words he was using, really only want to know our names and ages, and a bit of our backgrounds? Or did he mean what he was asking? Was he genuinely asking who we each were?

Considering how everyone else had responded and reacted to his question, I was leaning toward the former. Taking into account that my mother and I were not exactly normal, and that we would have meant what we’d asked with such a question, I leaned even more towards the former. I determined that I would answer his question, should he ask it to me directly. ‘Who are you?’ he would ask, and I would reply nervously with an honest, ‘I don’t know.’

My turn arrived. I waited a few moments before speaking, waiting for his question. But it didn’t come. Thrown, I faltered and defaulted, stumblingly, to my name. However, I was very specific with my words. Rather than everyone else’s phrase of, “I’m [insert name here],” I said, “My name is Hannah.” No, it was not an answer to the original question, but it seemed to be the expectation. And I had answered honestly and consciously. I was not carelessly declaring that my name was who I was, but consciously stating that my name was, in fact, my name. I didn’t want to be any more isolated than I had already felt in the group of the symposium, by giving an odd answer. And especially when the person asking the question hadn’t wanted such an answer.

I never liked my answer, nonetheless.

After we finished going around the room with the lame (in my opinion) introductions, the man took up speaking again. He stated how it was interesting that he as asked us ‘who we are,’ but everyone had automatically answered with their names, as though he had asked their names – we had all unconsciously answered a question that wasn’t even asked, but assumed, instead of answering the question asked.

I still feel a huge sob within me, whenever I think about it, actually. I was simultaneously inwardly mortified and furious. I had made the incorrect assessment of the situation for one thing, and my conscious care of words had gone seemingly unnoticed. I felt scolded, and angry, and I just wanted to spit at his assumption and leave. And I still respected him and his work. I just hated how he had tied me to being unconscious. I’m not sure I have ever been unconscious about such things…

The things that stick with us…

Post-a-day 2017

Church, bras, and tangled hair

I was discussing with a co-worker this evening a church that my family attended when I was a baby, and it brought to mind the last time I attended Mass there. We had moved elsewhere for church when I was still quite little, but occasionally still went to Mass there for a while. Eventually, though, we had stopped altogether going there, and always went to one of two other nearby churches. Therefore, it is easy for me to remember the last time I attended Mass at this particular church, because it was a singular event, with no other occurrences within years of its happening.

My youngest brother and I were tasked with going to church together on our own. He was probably 16 or so, making me 12 at the time. I remember how we were hanging out at home, and how he was playing games on the still-new PS2. And I eventually finished getting dressed at the last minute, and we rushed off to Mass.

We ended up having the Mass time incorrect, so we weren’t just a little bit late to Mass. But we stayed, anyway, and attended what little was left of it once we arrived. When we arrived back home, a very unique experience happened, and one which I feel shows how loving we are, my brothers and I. I had worn this top that went on like a tube top – yes, there were sleeves of some sort, or else a sweater that I wore over it, but it went on like a tube top. However, it wasn’t the usual stretchy material of tube tops, but rather a somewhat set-size material with elastic around the top piece to help it stay in place. (I’m almost certain that it had wide-ish straps, but nothing like actual sleeves to it. I remember specifically that I had to wear a strapless bra with it, because of the strap situation, but that is all of which I am certain about the straps – strapless bra required.)

When I went to remove my top, changing out of the nicer clothes and into comfy, regular clothes, I got myself stuck. You know the feeling… pulling it upward first, and, at the pivotal point, feeling the fabric stop sliding and suddenly hold tightly to the width of your currently-expanded shoulder blades… and being incapable of pulling the top back down, because your arms are now stuck up in the air, because the fabric really just doesn’t give almost at all.

So, what could I do but get help? I remember having the slight concern of going to my brother for help, because he would see my bra! my thoughts shouted in whispered tones. It took almost no time to accept the social standard as just that, and then to let it go. I was beginning to panic at being stuck, when I was walking back out into the living room for help from my brother. He easily stopped immediately what he was doing, and came to the rescue. I think it might have actually taken us a good bit of effort to free me, but we eventually succeeded, and I was grateful for his help.

And, what is amazing about this, really, is that neither of us was uncomfortable with the situation. Sure, it was an odd situation – I was already at the point of having been able to dress myself alone successfully for years. But it was still easy for us both, because of our love and care for one another.

As another brief anecdote, I remember a time my oldest brother was babysitting me, and I went to use my mom’s rounded brush, typically used for curling hair while blowdrying, to brush my hair. I did it in a sort of hurry, and somehow twisted the brush while it still had my hair running through it (I had long hair at the time), and began brushing a new spot on my head… ultimately knotting a big chunk of my hair into the brush.

My brother was able to reach my mom on the phone, and she said to check with the neighbors, because the mother there might be able to help unknot my hair. A good, long while later, the neighbor was convinced that my hair had to be cut, in order to remove the brush. I remember my mom’s voice on the phone declaring, “Do not cut her hair,” to my brother. I think it took over an hour, possibly longer, and I don’t remember who finally did it (though my brother, the neighbor, and I all worked on it at times, and my mom might even have had to finish it up when she got home later), but my hair eventually was freed. And I was concerned about ever using that kind of brush in my hair again.

Obviously.

You know, I think those were the worst that ever really happened when my brothers were in charge of babysitting… not bad, I think. 🙂

Post-a-day 2017

Just…oh, man…

Today, I have been in an area that feels like the end of my whits in terms of toleration of things. Even the little things, the ones that usually are very oh, well, whatever to me, evoked strong reactions from me today. To be fair, I did have a good amount of nonsense and frustration today with school. And I am quite tired. I struggled driving home tonight, and it was hardly after 8:30. By 9:00, I was sort of an angry emotional wreck, desperately prepping and eating some food, in a state of distress. Now, showered and sitting on my bed, I have tears edging their way out of me, though I haven’t felt any in waiting all day. (Except for during the really good bits of the opera, of course, but that’s totally different from the rest of the day’s events and emotions.)

I am angry, to at least frustrated, and I’m not sure why… and I worry that it is for health reasons that I am so stressed. Part of me wants to be right, but I think more of me wants to be wrong… and I worry that I am right, anyway.

I’m hardly making sense, I think, so I’ll just go to sleep, possibly sobbing a bit to relieve whatever this is coming up right now. I had a similarly-strong-emotion day this past weekend, and I wonder if they are related to the same underlying concern to which I have considered attributing today’s emotional state.

Anyway… goodnight, please.

Post-a-day 2017

Asian-English teatime with the bff sister

This evening, by a wonderful unfolding of events, I ended up having tea with my best friend’s little sister. As my best friend’s little sister, she holds a sweet spot in my heart. What’s more, the fact that she’s the first person I’ve seen go from little kid, singing nursery-rhyme-type songs, to a mature young adult (and soon full-blown adult), makes that spot even sweeter.

As we sat in the tapioca teahouse, drinking our warm (Taiwanese style, I think – at least, that’s what a friend of mine saw constantly while in Taiwan, and which we haven’t seen much elsewhere) bubble tea, our attention somehow turned to the menu on the wall. Naturally, we hadn’t thought anything special of it when we actually were looking at the menu to order earlier on, but it was suddenly relevant to our conversation, so our attention turned to it. She is studying Mandarin this year (since August), and I’ve just moved here from Japan. So, we have some common ground on understanding Chinese characters. (For those who don’t know, Japanese kind of stole the characters from Chinese, and adapted them a bit, so loads of them look exactly or almost exactly the same and have the same or very similar meanings.)

We joyfully pointed out that “ice” was on the end of each name in the ‘Snowy Drink’ category, and that “little” was next to one other character on the “Snacks” sections – likely ‘little meal’ or ‘little food’. Something like that. And then we discussed how we were scouring the menu, picking out little pieces that we understood. It was like a fun little puzzle that we were putting together, piece by piece… one that we know will take months, even years, but the timing of which doesn’t seem to bother us in the slightest. We’re just excited that we’re able to make the little sense of it all that we already can. And we aren’t even using the same language to do it, technically, making it simultaneously that much sillier and that much more awesome.

So, we got to enjoy one another’s company and be nerdy language-lovers together, while sipping warm asian versions of English tea (Earl Grey) on a cold, cold night (for Houston, anyway). Blessings abound when open our minds and schedules to them, it seems. And I am grateful for this one in particular. 🙂

Post-a-day 2017

Singing, Showering, and liking you better…

Today, I sent a message to my best friend that read, “For some reason, I regularly think about messaging you when I go to the bathroom”

Her response was prompt and simple. “Lol,” followed by, “You like me so much better when youre naked”

“Duh,” was my casual response.

You see, the whole thing started back in college. Freshman year, I was Skype-ing with Christine one day, probably early morning. I had gone into the common room to chat with her, but, since we were in an all-girls dormitory, and it was too early for visitors to be around, I wasn’t fully dressed (probably just a t-shirt and underwear). When we started the call, she let me know that a friend of hers was with her, and that it was a guy (because it was already afternoon in Cambridge, England, so it was normal to be hanging out with people already there). So, I had to go put on some more clothing before we turned on the camera. (At least, I think that was the case… she might have just checked to make sure I was properly clothed, because I regularly would be not fully clothed. Either way, the next part did happen.) When I commented about this, the guy friend of hers made a comment about liking someone so much better naked (I forget if it was about Christine liking me, or what, but it was totally silly, and seemed such an odd comment.) We both were lacking in understanding at first, but he explained that there was an actual song (by Ida Maria), and that that was the line the girl used in it. (See, it made sense and wasn’t actually weird at all.)

The chorus goes like this:

But I won’t mind
If you take me home
Come on, take me home

I won’t mind
if you take off all your clothes
Come on, take them off

‘Cause I like you so much better when you’re naked
I like me so much better when you’re naked
I like you so much better when you’re naked
I like me so much better when you’re naked

We found it hilarious. We found the actual song and music video, and fell in a sort of this is silly and utterly ridiculous, but I still love it kind of love with the song.

I shared it with my hallway neighbor, who played guitar, and we tried playing it a bit on the guitar. I eventually played it for Christine one day on Skype. My greatest, proudest achievement with the song, however, was the time I snuck into the bathrooms (they were shared, and had loads of stalls and multiple showers) one day, just after Jessie, the neighbor, had gone in to shower. Once I knew she was actually in the shower, showering, I walked into the showering area (mind you, not into her stall, just in the showering section of the bathroom), and began playing the song on guitar, and singing it to her. I could hear her snorting, gurgling, guffawing laugher emitting from the shower stall as I sang and played. It was spectacular for the both of us. I shared the story with my best friend, too, and she loved it.*

So, the song has always held a special little place in our hearts, minds, and lives, all three of us. Everyone else probably just thinks we’re crazy, whenever they overhear us mentioning or quoting or singing it. 😛

Here’s a link to the music video.

*This reminds me… I sang to a friend of mine in Japan while she showered one night. We were chatting on the phone, just hanging out one night, after we’d both gotten internet, and so didn’t have to hang up after every five minutes anymore, and she really needed to shower, but we weren’t ready to end our conversation/hanging out. So, she set the phone to the side on speakerphone, and I sang to her while she showered. I had been humming and singing quietly already anyway, so what was the difference if I just did it a little louder, right? It was spectacular, of course. Then a night or few later, when I mentioned to another friend that this had happened, he complained that I didn’t sing for him and that that certainly wasn’t fair. And so I sang to him over the phone… and he fell asleep. 😛 Spectacular in a different sort of way, I guess, but still spectacular. 🙂

Post-a-day 2017