In a longing to meet different kinds of people beyond the tech-savvy crowd I surrounded myself with too much, I decided that I wanted to atted the holiday cookie exchange. For whatever reason, I was not invited to a single personal holiday party at all this year (despite more than 5 I was invited to last year). And I needed to make most of it.

First, the idea came in this form. What cookie do I enjoy eating? What cookie does Chris like the most? And the idea came after 10 minutes of brainstorming. Cookies ‘n cream. Specifically the kind of from Anthony’s Cookies down on Valencia. But wait…there are no recipes for such a cookie. How about homemade oreo cookies?

Then over the course of a week, I bought the ingredients. I directed Chris to buy bulk granulated sugar, bulk unsalted butter and bulk confectioner’s sugar from Costco and Walmart, respectively. Then I headed to Safeway…then Whole Foods to finally find the expensive dutch-proccessed unsweeted cocoa powder essential for the cookie. Then later in the week in a sudden inspiration of getting ambition, I walked all the way to Foods Co to buy Crisco in sticks.

On Saturday, I made a test batch. On Sunday, suddenly stricken with a horrible cold, I busied my hands with making everything else. And not because of my cold, but just…because of me I accidentally left the plastic bag of powdered sugar resting on the stove. Normally this would be fine, but the oven/stove combo…the stove was cranked to 450° and we were already making the batches. And I left the bag near a vent for the oven. Now let’s stop here and ask why there is a vent for the oven into the kitchen and not directly to the outside? I don’t know the answer. I think my landlord is cheap.

So as a result of a misjudgement, the bag melted spilling powdered sugar all over the oven surface and into the vent. I didn’t notice it until I smelled something odd. And I looked to grab more powdered sugar. *cough* lack of counter space *cough* And it was everywhere. Less than 90 minutes before the cookie exchange was supposed to start!

I was stone-cold anxious. Chris thankfully swooped in heroically cooled down the stove and vacuumed reachable powdered sugar. When cooled, he lifted the stove top to peer at the spillage. Is that cotton candy? he mused pointed at white threads near the vent. Since cotton candy is made from powdered sugar. I grabbed a small piece and tasted it. Nothing. It didn’t even taste sweet. He vacuumed as much as he could. I was somewhat frantic now…did this mean that I ruined the stove? Maybe I’ll just move out and say nothing as thoughts ran through my head.

Then Chris said the “cotton candy” was insulation for the oven.

We wiped down the burnt confectioner’s sugar in the oven. And after a long 30 minute delay, we continued and ran as quickly as possible to Bliss Bar.

I was embarrassed that I hadn’t come up with fancy xmas packages for the cookies. As we each stood up to show our cookies (we were to make a few each for over 30+ attendees), I said my name, the name of the cookie, and my dramatic story. I hate speaking publicly, but apparently Chris wildly flailed his arms behind me, demonstrated the great kitchen disaster.

“And there was powdered sugar everywhere!” he was exclaiming as my public speaking nervousness clouded the chances of me hearing a single world. “The house was almost burnt down!”

I left about an hour later with lessons on how to use a pressure cooker to make beef brisket and over 40 kinds of cookies that we slowly carried in a Yelp bag down 24th street in the dark night.

I have been always used to a very quiet Christmas dinner. The kind where it would be like another weeknight dinner with my dad, my sister and me. Perhaps there might be some turkey in there as if to note the holiday. My mom would work—after all working on holiday brought in automatic overtime pay. In the morning, our parents would give us some treats. Perhaps chocolate hidden in a stocking that my sister and I would pretend that Santa Claus would come.

And this year, surprisingly it was different. I signed up to work, thinking it wouldn’t be a big deal. But my cousin and his wife had recently moved to the Bay Area. And my cousin’s parents were flying all the way from Chicago. And! We were going to have a huge feast at my grandfather’s house. Wait, is this so?! And so with this surprisingly change of events, I was boggled.

I had a real turkey—carved for the first time at my grandfather’s dining room. No apple cider, no pumpkin pie (although I dragged a pear cranberry pie from Bike Basket Pies), no stuffing. It was mostly Asian—buy the cheapest ingredients and all. In a sudden moment of enlightenment, I made corn casserole which surprisingly was a hit despite its American-ness. The spicy, the sweet and salty flavor grabbed everyone’s attention even with the plain palates of my grandparents and parents.

There was once when I wished to be like all the other kids, but then I often would rationalize it away. I don’t need a Christmas (or a Thanksgiving) like the others. Last week, a friend proclaimed that he didn’t even try to go to senior prom as I pointed out the hotel in downtown SF that hosted my senior prom. He didn’t care. I admitted that I went because I wanted to be like everyone else. Perhaps my desperation to fit in has seeped into every part of my life. But faced with surprise presents and a turkey…well, this is what Christmas was supposed to be. Dinner with family…with pleasant surprises of togetherness strewn throughout.

There’s this insane ripple of envy when I see film or read novels. And I start thinking about what could have been or what I could have chosen.

So many people would then say it’s not too late or it wasn’t meant to be So it’s risk or fate.

I read the wikipedia bios of the great filmmakers—the ones people criticize for their insanity, their perfectionism, their incredible dedication to art. I know that I have always yearned to be a people person—and that would be my first priority. And the second, to be an artist or creator.

I always wondered though—what if my parents had encouraged me to pursue my flights of creativity? Maybe beyond patiently watching my random disjointed films? Or to encourage me to participate in more writing classes, watching art films and the like—stuff that I have only done in the recent years.

But then I wonder, is it because I grew up with the understanding that an engineering degree rather than a degree in the arts was more valuable and certain? And that once I arrived at Berkeley despite a slight desire for creative writing and film, I never once thought about it? Perhaps it was my better skill at math—it was natural that my logic led me in that direction considering that I never did excel at English. No, it couldn’t be just that.

I was a latchkey kid started when I was 7. There were two hours where my sister and I would be home alone—our mom would pick us up from school and drop us off at work as she hurried to the hospital for her PM shift, then our dad would come back from work a few hours later. In those short hours, it was understood that my sister and I were free—perhaps to cause havoc. I would get the camcorder and create short clips of fancy—sometimes inspired by music videos or stories in my head. Always quirky, thematic around breaking free.

And yet, maybe it wasn’t meant to be. Right after I finished at Berkeley, I took a filmmaking class. I loved it and started a film. I had planned out each scene. But for some reason as I was heading to graduate school, I abandoned it. It’s unfinished—long scenes with intercut music of someone walking, a shot of signs, choppy script. Just like many half-finished projects that I have in sudden artistic pursuits.

Perhaps that was an opportunity. Or that I keep tricking myself thinking the doors are shut even when they were always open.

I used to include a disclaimer on all my blogs, all my journals.

You think you know me, but you really have no idea.

Several years ago in a book that I wrote in…in a fit of misery, I started listing all the negative things I didn’t like about myself: I am shy. I am anxious. I am angry. I am lazy. I am unambitious. I am weak. I am not confident…

And so it went on…

But looking back, because hindsight is 20/20, it was in a fit of self-deprecation. I do it so often in writing almost to justify my current actions. Words flow faster than my actual emotions. When I write that I am angry, it’s only because perhaps socially, I am supposed to feel that way. But perhaps I am only mildly irritated. When I write that I am satisfied and happy, it’s only a fleeting moment, fluttering away as quickly as it arrived.

Today, the managers gave me a holiday a gift. I was shocked to find what was inside. To suddenly feel like that they knew me pretty well. It wasn’t the fandango tickets, but a gift certificate to a cooking school. How did they know that I had been thinking along those lines even though I don’t want to define myself as domesticated? And it troubled me for a second that they knew me better than I knew myself.

And then I appreciated the thought.

There are some people who think they know me well because of my journal or blog. They say, “I know what you would say.” As if I am purposefully transparent in this writing. Then there are others who know me because I interact with them daily. And yes, perhaps the me they see is who I am. But in both cases, I have been greeted with a that’s not who I thought you are.

In those rarer moments of tantrums, I suddenly become whoever I want to be. Just like the other twin of a Gemini.

In a money blog that I used to regularly read, the adage was that if you want to have more money, then find ways to make more money.

And yet, after some failed attempts, I don’t really know exactly what that is. I dabbled in doing user experience design as a consultant—but I find that I can only do it 8 hours a day. I don’t have anything valuable that I could rent out? I don’t like the idea of spending extra time away from what I enjoy doing.

And so then that’s the rub. I am pursuing my own idea of happiness. And so why do I need to pursue more $$? I am perfectly happy in my own world of cooking, writing, and planning the next exciting thing. I am always looking to connect with others in hopes of increasing my connections that could lead to something bigger. And improving myself.

Why does it have to be about money?

In frustration last week, I asked twitter almost in a moment of venting, Doesn’t everyone know who they want to be when they grow up?

Oddly enough, a friend—a former roommate who spent a summer during college at CMU and now is attending graduate at University of Chicago—responded that it was still difficult and that she wish she knew.

I think I was alluding to success. To the pursuit of happiness.

But how do I know? Or at least…why do I at least…think I know?

I always talk about a time in the 7th grade when I saw a girl who seemed happy and chatting with her friends during an assembly. At that time, I decided that I wanted to be just like her. I wanted to be confident and popular. And so I could say that with that goal in mind, I spent the next 15 years trying to be her. Or that I would watch a movie and suddenly fixate on a character—I suddenly want to do that, I want to be as awesome.

I always knew what I wanted to be. A writer, a singer, a scientist?

Was there ever a period that I didn’t know what I wanted to be? Sure. While in college, I realized that I didn’t enjoy computer science. But for several years, I refused to believe it and figured that if I just got better at it, things would turn around. Fortunately, I discovered human computer interaction in time, I was able to squeeze myself into the field and ultimately got my masters in hci. Perhaps it was fortunate—because I did find something that was very close but perhaps not perfectly what i wanted to do.

What happens to everyone else who doesn’t find their niche? Do they wallow and wonder? Perhaps, because they don’t know any better? Perhaps because they have punched themselves over and over again…saying that they can’t be as good as…that they are just unlucky.

It’s what you make of it, I would say. And yet even in 5 years, I am still not sure where I want to be. All I know is that I want to be happy.

In summary: I will never go to another music festival. I will never go into the mosh pit. And if I go to a concert with someone, we will discuss what will happen if we get separated.

The last time I went to NSSN was in 2006. At that time, I even knew even though it was all my favorite bands at the time—The Shins, Silversun Pickups and the Killers. I hadn’t even planned on going then until a friend emailed me:

How’s it going! I just bought two tickets to Live 105’s Not So Silent Night, forgetting that I can’t actually make the night of the concert (I’ll be in Dublin, Ireland :0) ). If you haven’t heard, details are here. I was going to sell them online since I think the show is going to be sold out in a little while, but feel free to let me know if you’d like them for what I paid ($114.10 for the pair).

I thought sure why not. The music of course was great. And I went with Chris—it was one week before that fateful day. We didn’t get separated, but we found ourselves squished against the grate, without room to breathe. I decided right then that I wouldn’t ever go to another festival like this again.

But then I found out that two of my favorite bands—Metric and Muse were playing at NSSN this year. And a band with a lot of buzz…Vampire Weekend. I could not pass it up after almost slapping down my cc to go see Muse in NYC at the Giants Stadium. And so we got floor tickets. But Metric’s set was short. And during AFI (the set before Muse), I couldn’t hold onto Chris anymore and let myself be swept away. I could feel the elbows behind me. The tightness of people pushing forward and backward.

At some point as I swept backward, I lost my balance and fell into a pit of people who were dancing without any intent…in a circle. I screamed, but my ear plugs were in…so I couldn’t tell if anybody heard me. But immediately two strong hands grabbed my arms and picked me up. I put my hat back on and looked around…whoever it was…was already gone into the crowd. And as I breathed again, everything was swirling around me and I nearly blacked out.

Suddenly, I was alone in a place where nobody was pushing and shoving. AFI had ended thankfully where I spent most of the set trying to protect myself. Putting my arms in front. Self-preservation that I didn’t remember that set at all. I checked my phone multiple times and texted Chris. But he didn’t reply. My frustration was mounting. My anger at all of this. Why couldn’t I hold on? Why couldn’t he? And as I glanced around, I was jealous of the couples, the friends who never got separated. At this point, I saw a friend of a friend jump forward, dance forward, so excited.

And I realized how I hated experiencing things like this—music—all by myself even if I was surrounded by thousands of fans. I wanted someone to poke, to prod, and say hey don’t you remember this song and we would remember the same memory in two separate minds and we have a shared secret smile.

I was steaming. But when Muse finally started with Resistance, I had calmed down. And I started thinking methodically. Move forward. He’s probably pinned again like what happen in 2006 and that’s why he couldn’t reach his phones (he really had two phones). So when New Born started, I found an opening and squeezed forward. I saw a head like his—curly, but not a full head of hair. I leaned forward and reached my arm out in front of two people. I tapped his head—sweaty, obnoxious. He turned his head as much as he could and spotted me. His hands—usually never sweaty—grabbed mine and I could feel our neighbors were annoyed. But I found him, finally finally.

Earlier I had said that I wanted to be in a place where I could have personal space. But here there were arms all around me. I love Muse, but to be part of one single body moving right and left when the entire crowd felt like it…I couldn’t take it. And so we moved back…finally. And suddenly I could feel cool air. It felt good.

We stood back and listening to Starlight. Our song. And sang along.

This is where I would say that it was something I wanted to do again. But no, this I absolutely mean never again.

Companionship. Chris called it an “activity partner”, because that’s what he thought we were until the night at the opera house.

Chris had been disappointed so many times about flaking friends…perhaps dates gone wrong. As so many of us had. He only wanted someone to do stuff with. And when I said yes…absurdly yes to everything he asked me to do because I was in a stage in my life that I said yes to everything…he was happy.

Talking today with Joe, it is companionship that we’re all seeking. I used to say that I could survive with only friends and not a lover. Because the latter would always disappoint constantly. That was in college when I easily forged what I believed were deep and strong friendships—people who I talked to on a daily basis and even communicated in so many ways that I felt we were connected in blood.

As I got older, everyone I knew (along with myself) drifted into their own circle. Surrounding themselves with a select circle of friends. I did the same and yet I lament the so-called friendships I had during college and graduate school. As I sit hear on a couch in front of a large tv, there isn’t anybody to share my horrific failure on Fat Princess or the excitement I am having for the SF Food Wars. I sometimes say something on Twitter to expel the sudden loneliness. Or as I am doing now…writing a blog post.

But I am assured by the fact that tomorrow I’ll pick up Chris from the airport and my obligatory companion will be back!

In DC in October, I deliberately chose to tour DC by myself. And yet while at The International Spy Museum, I had felt suddenly lonely. I mean, it was an incredible experience satisfying the spy in me. Perhaps because I knew few people who would love it—the James Bond, the Jack Bauer, the international man of mystery. And that I saw more people experiencing exhibits together than alone like an art museum. My “>yelp review was flattering, but I had kept thinking…what if someone had came with me.

There was a project I worked on last year where the primary persona was a woman who would go to Disneyland by herself. Is that a Quirky Alone?