What's worse than getting a bad haircut? Flipping through your 8th grade yearbook in a gust of nostalgia and discovering that you have the same haircut as you had back then... I will never go to the Hair Cuttery again (shaking fist in the air with bitter scowl on my face).

Last night, my family packed into the car to go check out the movie Ratatouille. Although everyone in my family is past their cartoon-watching prime, we had all been wanting to see this movie either to observe the cooking prowess of the cute animated rat or to laugh along with the french stereotypes. We can laugh at ourselves... really.

Walking into the building, my mom's attention immediately turned to the arcade oasis a few feet from the entrance. "What is that?" she asked wide-eyed looking at two teens' jerky jumping routine. "Dance, Dance Revolution!!" I exclaimed, surprised that she hadn't witnessed the phenomenon yet. "Boh," she said shrugging her shoulders. We walked into the theater.

The movie was great, but really not very entertaining for children, I would think, beyond the animated rats. I say this, because there are so many references and jokes about the culinary world. Maybe kids who watch a lot of the food network or shows like iron chef or who grew up somewhere like the Bay Area immersed in foodie culture would like it- ie: kids who could appreciate and celebrate a thimble sized portion of food with excellent presentation and inventive blend of flavors as a satisfying victory for the furry protagonist. Maybe I'm wrong and this is in fact a cartoon which finds a balance between pleasing children and the adults, but it seemed as though the kids in the audience were getting restless. Evidence of this were the huge mounds of popcorn that whe had to hurdle while exiting our row... or maybe this is just a common result of bringing kids to the movies.

My family loved it. Especially my mom who loves to cook. My dad liked it. His one complaint was that he could not understand the thick exaggerated french accent of Colette, the no-bullshit love interest of Chef Linguini. This is funny considering that my dad has a thick french accent of his own. Leaving the movie, we were all extremely hungry. So we packed into the car again and went to our favorite pizza place.

goin to Miami

I decided to break my month 1/2 stay in Chicago with a visit to Miami. The decision to go was a little torturous because of my indecision. Weather.com predicted rain all week and so I wavered between thinking that rain would totally ruin a beach-side vacation and deciding that a little rain never hurt anyone. Being indecisive seems to be a forte of mine. But I booked a hotel and Reggie booked a flight (I'm hoping...) and soon we'll be beaching it, checking out Miami's art deco architecture, and hopefully sampling some delicious cuban cuisine. I'm looking forward to it!

Today was hot and humid in Chicago, so I put on my swim suit and grabbed a beach towel and headed to the lake front. When I tell people that I swim in Lake Michigan, they look at me wide-eyed and immediately start scanning me for signs of extra appendages that may have started sprouting. It's true that a city lake intuitively, seems as if it would be dirty- replete with toxic waste, car parts, 3-eyed fish...Lake Michigan (though I'm sure it's not as pristine as it could be) is beautiful and on clear sunny days, shines various shades of aqua and emerald green, which make it as inviting as the Mediterranean. This is especially true on thickly warm days like yesterday and today.

I laid out for a while and watched the swooping birds and dragonflies. Before seeing a dragonfly in real life, I always assumed them to be graceful and dainty like butterflies. Observing them today, hovering and swooping in the wind though, they seem much more like tough army machines- their wings jutting out like helicopter blades and their quick, jerky movements making them look as if poised to attack.

When I got hot enough, I ventured towards the rocky edge to go take a swim. Unlike some beaches, the transition from "rocks" (which on the edge of lake Michigan are actually cement chunks mixed in with some rock) to water isn't as smooth as one would like it to be. The rocks are rough and at the point where they are submerged by water, are covered in algae, which makes them very slippery. Beyond the rocks, are wooden slats, splintered and covered with weeds from years of wear. There are also huge rusty nails that jut out of the cement rocks, that make handy grips when getting back in from the water.

All of these obstacles started to deflate my confidence a little as I started to think of things that could happen like slipping, getting my leg stuck somewhere, having the mutant lake algae coil itself around my arms and legs and pull me down. I didn't used to have so many fears about stuff like this. When I was younger, I would have jumped right in. Today though, I sat for a bit on a submerged rock and let the cold water wash over me. Step 1: acclimation. Then I started getting myself used to the idea of jumping in... now?.... mmmm... now? ok.... now! SPLASH!!!! It was definitely not the most graceful of dives- in fact it was more like a flop- but I was in!

The water felt wonderfully cold in contrast to the outside heat. I started swimming North, towards an increasingly gray sky. The sun had just been veiled by a long white train of clouds and the water was now dark. I couldn't see below me and began to breathe quickly as I imagined a corpse surfacing (a friend working at the beach in high school had witnessed the finding of a slain person bobbing along the shore). I reassured myself that nothing of the sort would pop out and relaxed as I swam laps back and forth along the lake front.

When I got out shortly after, a strong wind picked up and there was an announcement to clear the beaches due to incoming "extreme weather." I gathered my things and walked home, a few minutes before the dark skies drained themselves of rain. Hopefully the rain won't last for too many days- I was hoping to make swimming in the lake a daily summer activity.

Last night, I met my friend Dave at Improv Olympic. Since I biked and greatly overestimated the time that it would take me to get there, I ended up locking my bike and leaning in the doorway of IO, taking in the continual stream of people coming my way. They were all heading to Wriggley Field, not for a Cubs game, but for a Police concert. I tried to observe people unnoticed, but since the sidewalk was so narrow, I locked gazes with many of the passersby- both caught in mutual examination. To my surprise, many people smiled... and I smiled back. Seeing the parade of bright colored outfits, matching jewelry, stylishly covered pregnant bellies, successful meet-ups, was fascinating. I only wished that my enclave would have given me the privacy of unrestricted staring, where I could have taken in the details of a person from head to foot, the subtle interactions between people, the collective euphoria and excitement, without engaging in an eye-to-eye dialogue once a stare met mine....

I saw a woman who was a friend-turned-foe of my sister's and we mutually avoided each other's stare. One glance tagged the other, signalling the eyes that it was time to look away, not wanting to be caught looking- an intentional missed connection to avoid awkward "catching-up" that no one wanted to engage in. She was the kind of person who called everyone, including my mother, "sweetie." This to me always oozed with sugary condescension and on top of being fake, seemed completely inappropriate. Some people can pull off calling you "sweetie" and "honey"-- even if they are younger than you and even if they are not waiting on your table at the local diner. It rolls off their tongue with ease and fills you with warmth, draws you closer to them and conjures thoughts of peach cobbler and ice cream. Some people have that touch. The rest of us should just refrain from using those in place of someone's name until we have reached grandmother status.

I noticed how many people in Chicago smoke. In San Francisco, I have gotten used to a landscape free of cigarette smoke, where at times the smell is unidentifiable for a few minutes until I see someone pumping the thin white stick back and forth from their mouth. The few smokers that still dare to smoke in public in California get stares of contempt from passersby- god forbid they are too close to an outdoor restaurant patio- and are submitted to quiet 'tsks', shaming their poor decision. I have to admit that as a non-smoker, I have grown to absolutely love the predominantly smoke-free environment and boast about it to my friends here in Chicago-- who receive these boasts rather cooly, usually, insisting that smoke gives bars character and other such nonsense. One thing that most women will agree on is how nice it is to take a shower the next morning after having gone out to a smoke-free bar and not having a suffocating steam cloud of stale cigarette smoke smack you in the face, reminding you that all of your clothes smell the same way and making it harder to ignore the coming headache.
Well, Chicago is still a smoking city, I confirmed as I watched smoker after smoker bring a cigarette to their lips. The first few times I stared, as if they had not been holding a cigarette in their hand, but something shocking like a severed finger or perplexing, like an extinct Dodo bird. Pretty soon though, the smoking became as commonplace as black flip-flops in the crowd, and I didn't notice it anymore. Well, except for the girl who all but spat her smoke in my face as she turned back to answer a friend behind her.

After almost 40 minutes of observing the crowd, I caught sight of my friend dave, coming to a halt on his bicycle. We were some of the only people not going to see The Police and headed to purchase tickets to the improv show. After the show, we went and caught the tail-end of The Police, sitting on the surrounding sidewalk where many ticketless fans had gathered, immersed in the crowd, and ejoying the hot summer night.

"You know, it's funny," the man behind the counter said as he rolled up my three sheets of paper in brown protective paper, "The size of the vehicles that people use to transport things that they by here seems to be directly improportional to the things that they buy..."

As he taped up the brown parchment, he clarified, " If a guy comes and buys 8x11 paper, he'll come in a minivan. But if a guy comes and buys 38x40, he'll bring a bicycle."

"Right," I said as I remembered the time last summer that I tried to balance a 38x46 canvas on my bicycle and then ended up walking, rolling my bike in one hand and holding the heavy canvas up with the other.

The man chuckled as he recounted a similar scenario. "My arm was so sore after holding that canvas up for so long!" I smiled as I remembered my sore arm.
We exchanged a few more lines, and I went to the registers to pay for my materials.

As I was leaving the store, I realized that I had in fact come on a bicycle. I hadn't initially intended to buy paper- just small things that I could fit in my backpack. I could carry it under my arm, I decided. When I tried to balance on the bike, however, it was clear that this would not be a solution. Since I've been in town, I've been using my brother's bike, which has a man's frame and requires me to lean forward and though the seat is as far down as it will go, I still strain to reach a toe to the ground. I have trouble keeping my balance when coming to a stop even when my hands are free, so riding home with a large tubular package did not bode well. Finally, I grabbed one chunk of the brown protective paper that had been tucked in at each end of the tube, with my left hand, while the tube of paper dangled dangerously close to the wheel, and just started to pedal.
"Hey, It's working," I thought as I slowly pedaled towards home. The journey home was going well- the wind blew in my favor, cars didn't cut me off, people even smiled at me. How wonderful it is, I thought, to live in a city where the people are so friendly. I passed a plant nursery and wondered if they were selling carnivorous plants, watched people go about their business, not even minding that a biker was going the wrong way down my bike lane. As I turned on the smaller tree-lined street where I live, I admired the houses. I turned my head to look at the most ornate house on the block, which is painted in many different pastel colors and looks like a dollhouse, and wondered what its residents-whose kids I knew in high school- were doing for the summer.
Then I heard a sound like someone had just sent off a whole machine gun round in my direction. RATATATATATATATAT. It shook me right out of my daydream in a panick. Looking down, I registered what was making that dreadful sound. The bottom of my paper tube had gotten stuck in the spokes. I yanked it out, while still maintaining my balance and biked the last block home, remembering the man's words from earlier and shook my head at my own impracticality.

As it turns out, my paper was only minorly shredded and creased. Now I have all the materials that I need for my upcoming printing project.

In keeping with 4th of July tradition, Hannah and I met on the lakefront for a pre-fireworks picnic. This time though, our group which consists of a handful of friends from high school was much smaller. It was only me and Hannah this year, later joined by Jo, laying back on the planetarium's sloping little hill, chomping on bread, cheese, and guacamole, drinking wine, and taking in the incredible Chicago Skyline. I'm always shocked at how uncrowded it is there, considering the stunning view.
We watched the show and continued to sit on the grass when it started to rain harder and harder. After about an hour, we got up and biked home, weaving through the dense crowds still oozing from Grant Park. Getting home in the rain was a challenge and seemed to take much longer than I had expected. I finally made it, soaked and still a little buzzed from the wine. I collapsed into bed and woke up with the biggest poofball hair that refused to be tamed. Thunderstorms and hair teased by humidity - two other traditions of a Chicago summer.

The Fortune Teller

After agonizing and agonizing over my life choices (I know I'm on vacation and I should relax, but being on vacation also means having a whole lot of time to think and to torture myself with my own thoughts), I decided on a slightly different version of a coin toss- I decided to go to a fortune teller. A fortune teller, I thought, would be an unbiased opinion, something to tip the scales of my decision-making, which thus far have been unbearably even.

I remembered my friend Rebecca visiting a fortune teller a few years out of college at a small bar in Boy's Town called the Kit Kat Lounge. Rebecca raved about this woman, highlighting the accuracy of her insights. Back then, I was too freaked out by the idea of having anything laid out for me that would influence my next steps- afraid that I would interpret a reading as definite and that it would affect future choices in a negative way. Now, although I can be a little superstitious at times, can take a fortune telling reading with a grain of salt. So, I recruited my friend Bobby to come along and we made the excursion to the Kit Kat on Sunday night- which also happened to be half-off martini night.

We took a seat and I spotted her at a side table, leaning in close to the man whose fortune she was currently telling. There was no risk of his private thoughts being leaked, however, since the loud techno beats made it hard for me to even hear what Bobby was telling me across the table. This fortune teller, I noticed, had none of the stereotypical accouterments of her trade: no chiming bangles, no golden orbits hanging from her lobes, no scarf covering her hair. She could have blended in at the GAP, she was so plainly dressed. The locale was also not very typical of the dark and mystical atmosphere I usually picture when imagining a reading. Clearly, I watched Carmen once too many times as a child.

We chose some dessert-style martinis from the ample 2 page menu and waited for her to free up. Finally, it was my turn and I went to sit at her table. We introduced ourselves as she shuffled the tarot deck and I told her that I wanted to focus on my career. She passed me the cards to shuffle and then laid them out.
"It seems that you want to change jobs," she said after studying the cards for a little while.
"uh hum," I said, not wanting to elaborate too much just yet- it seemed like that would be cheating.
"But, you still want to continue in your profession, you just want to change jobs. Is that right?"
"Yes, that's right," I said, not sure what my role in this whole thing was supposed to be.
"What do you do?"
"I'm a teacher."
"Well," she said,"These are very favorable cards. I see that part of the reason that you might want to move is money, correct?"
"Yes," I confirmed.
She then described stress that she noticed in areas of housing and commuting, reaffirmed the positive overall message of the cards in terms of job and money, warned for me to hold back on accepting any offers until July 15th, and I just like that, my fortune was told.
I went back to sit down. It was now Bobby's turn, but we had to wait until the live drag lip-synched renditions of "I'm Every Woman," which was quite spectacular and "I Will Always Love You," were over. I ordered a Watermelon Martini, that tasted like a Jolly Rancher, while I waited and thought about the experience.
I have to admit that it was brief and very vague- the kind of vague words and themes that make horoscopes feel like they are tailored to your personal situation. Still, it somehow put my mind at ease.

Later that night when I got home, I checked my email and found one from Berkeley Unified, notifying me of current openings in elementary. The next morning, I got another email from a woman I had asked to work with for the summer. I felt a surge of excitement and the coincidental timing of the two emails and felt motivated to get the ball rolling on those two leads.... because, favorable cards or not, I'm the one who needs to make it happen.