Three year olds know best. How cute!

For the last few months ever I moved into my swanky apartment in San Francisco, I have been thinking about how I could make this place look good without breaking the bank. Of course, my creativity doesn’t extend beyond the computer and I was at a loss, leaving the living room and bathroom pretty much in a minimalist state (as Chris describes it).

But I discovered Ikea Hacker, a blog devoted to making those oh-so-cheap materials into design reality. I can’t say too much on transforming pillowcases into clothing (um, I wouldn’t). But I was impressed by some of the hacks—namely bookshelves in the style of charlotte perriands and an upside down man lamp. I mean, I don’t want people to come into my apartment and say “HEY THAT’S FROM IKEA!”

I always do like meeting new people. To me, it’s a path of the unknown. Perhaps I am somewhat addicted to the blank slate—the fact that whatever I did in the past doesn’t matter.

I am trying to keep my connections with people I knew 5 years ago…intact. If ever possible. But it’s years like these that you find the people you like being around and then the differences make it difficult to spend time with those you used to spend hours and hours with.

Today while in the Marina, I ran into two people I knew from high school. Actually not quite “ran into”. I had seen them before at the Irish bar in Walnut Creek last summer. I saw one at Chow in San Francisco and later walking in Trader Joe’s in Lafayette. This time though, I saw them at Crunch Fitness on Chestnut while I was contemplating my fitness demise. I never talked to either of them during high school, but now that I had social skills, do I say something? Do I acknowledge their presence? Before I did anything, one of them waved to me, probably because of my intense staring while contemplating my moves. I waved back and stepped forward. They were both teachers—one teaching first grade and the other teaching high school. I was surprised that one remembered my sister. And as we figured out our current statuses and locations, we became silent again tending to the reasons why we were at Crunch in the middle of a Saturday.

As I was leaving, I said that perhaps I’ll run into them. A polite gesture toward a moment of recognition. Maybe I will though. What have I got to lose?

In other news, I met Suki today! Having spicy Korean food in Parkside. The list of people I know online but have not met in person is dwindling. The only person I haven’t met is Viv—oddly enough, the online friend I have known the longest since 1997 right on the tip of my onlineness.

At what point, would you give up a seat for the elderly? At what point can you tell whether they’re old enough to have the seat you were sitting in?

Sure there are people with gray hair and slightly wrinkled skin. However, would it be an insult to say to the standing person in question, “Would you like my seat?”

Especially if it’s someone who obviously has gone through procedures of health and fitness. Or plastic surgery. All in the effort to look young. You look 50, but I know you’re 65+, have my seat.

Hikaru (or Perci, as I have learned recently) pointed this out to me today: A man got run over after getting into argument on 16th and Valencia.

Only several blocks from where I live. Yay for living in the Mission. And for road rage. Of course, then there are people who have anger management issues. Serious anger management issues.

Today, I went to see “The World, Complicated”—the shorts program part of the San Francisco Asian American Festival.

Every short was amazing. In particular, the ones with Cantonese—only because I partially understood it and the words said make it oh so more funnier. Particularly, I liked The Last Chip and Windowbreaker.

But Going Home was probably the most heartbreaking. It was also the most nauseating. That is, the shaky camera movement. Like how I felt sick after watching The Blair Witch Project, I basically stumbled out of the theater. This time, I rode a bus back to the Mission…feeling the waves of motion sickness.

They should have warnings in addition to the MPAA ratings. Warning: Severe motion sickness possible.

I have an uncanny knack for recognizing someone I met. Usually I would remember where I met them, but nothing more than that. And yet today, I went to my friend’s BBQ in Berkeley (mostly grad students) where I ran into someone I recognized. Across the lawn, I noticed him, not sure where I knew him from.

As I was talking to two other friends, I asked if they knew anybody else from CMU. They pointed to a pair in the corner—one of which was the guy I recognized with sandy brown hair. I said stupidly aloud, “Yeah…I don’t know who he is, he looks like someone from TV. That’s probably why.”

“Oh then, we’re going there now,” said my friend who promptly dragged me over.

She gestured to the guy in the sunglasses—a guy with black hair and said that I recognized him. In my embarrassment, I explained that it was the other guy and that I didn’t know how. And somehow that prompted nearly a 2 hour banter between the 2 of them. And by the end of the 2 hours, we discovered that we had another mutual friend in common. I had stared at him at this mutual friend’s birthday but we never interacted.

Maybe this means that I should stop staring.

On a day like this, I didn’t spend it with anyone in particular. I first went to have dim sum with family in Peony, headed back to SF for a nap and a viewing of Daybreak, then a quick walkthrough Civic Center of the St. Patrick’s Day “family” festival, catching the last part of Obama’s speech in Oakland and attempts to actually see him but only seeing the top of his head, experiencing the F line, walking around Pier 39, walking to Castro, missing a showing from the asian american film festival, and ice cream from Bi-Rite.

At Civic Center, I was walking behind a group of 4 college boys, obviously influenced by the non-family activities at the festival. They were laughing at how they had scared two girls by jumping in front of them. I must have been quietly laughing to myself at their immaturity. Then they turned and saw me. One asked if I wanted it also.

I laughed and said that I already saw what they did. As I was walking away, one yelled out, “Hey, do you have MySpace?”

I raised my eyebrows and said nothing, walking down into the station.

Alex tells me that when I turn 25, I will stop discovering new bands and will stop listening to music. I will download the podcasts of NPR and listen to them on a daily basis.

It’s just over two months away—the day I turn 25 and perhaps the world will crash.

Where I currently work now, people regularly have their headphones on. Before, I never liked listening to something while I worked because I didn’t like missing out on any conversations that would be going around me. However, I started conforming to the culture and listened to my ipod on a daily basis. Then at some point, my ipod started playing this episode from Montreal Popcast—one that was rather investigative about sex. Even though it was mostly talk, it was interesting and kept me awake while I drilled through a huge deck of wireframes. Unlike the music from Sufjan Stevens which as great it is…has the unfortunate tendency to drop a sleepy mood over me.

Is this a sign? Am I doomed to start listening to talk shows? The following day I listened to a show about Halliburton and its controversy in the Middle East. It was an eloquent and articulate conversation from the host and guests. But what is it? It wasn’t exciting enough like the beats from my fast-paced music. Or perhaps, I prefer the tastes of Savage Nation, which I grew up with my dad listening to it almost daily.

I discover a new band/artist every month. When I turn 25, will I suddenly grow up? I hope not. After all, not every conversation is worth listening to.

Yesterday, I went to my first Yelp-sponsored party at the Mighty. One highlight of the night was when I found random individual girls dancing alone to the live electronica band. I joined them swinging my bag about and drank up the pseudo-pretentious mood with a Yelp name tag that said “jenn n.”, which I had written deliberately in lowercase.

When you can walk outside without a (light) jacket, you know it’s time.

It’s the time to head to supermarkets because little girls are afraid of foreboding old-looking apartment buildings. Or because I live in the Mission where almost everyone is never home.

I found my thin mints. The last box. Melted and all stuck together. At the local Raley’s. But I gladly paid $3.50 for them. Then we went to Safeway and found a troop closing up. We sat in the car while they delivered it to us drive-in style.

When I was a girl scout, I am not sure if I learned many lessons. I can recall giving the order sheets to my parents. And they would come back with many orders from their coworkers. I would ask my neighbors. But would they buy them out of guilt? It was $3.00 then. So were they willing to give a small donation for cookies they really didn’t want? Or did they really buy it for the sweet award? Regardless, I don’t think I ever sold the most cookies in my troop—just shooting for average.

I rarely ever go to a store to buy cookies. Perhaps once or twice a year usually for a party. But I make an exception for Girl Scouts. It is the sweetness of innocence. And besides, the feeling of being satisfying sick from eating a whole box of cookies is enough.