The bus did not come for the second time in the last 2 weeks. When I had to go to work.

Did I ever mention how much I dislike Pittsburgh Port Authority? Unreliable and inconsiderate.

Out in the wintery cold of Pittsburgh, I stood at the bus stop waiting for the 64a. A busy interaction of cars and people. I saw Queenie, the administrator come by. She asked me if I needed a ride…to campus. Then I saw Kayre going to the bus to campus. I saw myself standing there for almost an hour, seeing people I know.

I apologized for taking up space in front of the Curves doorstep, eating my breakfast near the newspaper stand. Yogurt. My badly cooked cranberry pancakes drenched in syrup and butter to hide the taste. I had a weak smile on my face as I saw the 61D pass by me, then the 61C thrice.

I finally gave in and called my co-workers, feeling carless and helpless standing on that intersection of Forbes and Murray, surrounded by people going to work.

In my ideal world, I would be in Punxsutawney right now for Groundhog Day. But things don\’t work out and I don\’t have a car.

Perhaps, next year it will be important for me enough that I will come all the way back to Pittsburgh just for this event.

In life, living with regrets is the hardest thing to do. The I could have done something differently type thing. The What would I have done differently if I knew what I knew now… The If I hadn\’t so spontaneously spent over $500 in that store!

I try to avoid that, but one of my major regrets in the last 2 years is…

…dropping my powerbook.

I see no silver lining here (except that nobody will want to take my laptop now). The consequences varied from unsteady hard drive resulting in multiple reformats then a hd replacement to curious people always touching the dents wondering if they could push it back in. And of course, the consequential teasing which can be a little overt. Today, I installed a new battery and had to push it a little bit to get it in, accidentally painfully pinching my palm. Ouch.

It\’s my last day in the masters lab before we move to Craig Street. I remember the first day I came into this room was July 2004 a month before I started the masters program. So sad that…so much has happened here, so many memories.

The many meetings that took place in agony during methods and iid.

The times I sat here eating breakfast, lunch and dinner. And feasting on free food.

The naps that I took (not that many because I don\’t believe in making another place my \”home\”).

The windowless rooms where the days would pass by and I would never notice.

And more.

One of the first songs I ever downloaded was Blur\’s Coffee and TV.

At that time, I was more intrigued with the milk carton running around on tv. I must have thought Blur was a band that sucked, because it wasn\’t like the other pop songs I listened to. It just wasn\’t cool. Like BSB. Like the other top 40 music. Like the eurodance and other techno music back when I wanted to be a raver (ironically, I never actually got the chance to go).

More than six years later. I listened to it again on my powerbook, years after my first desktop crashed and burned. I appreciate the music that is Blur. And the music that I have discovered recently thanks to Andrew Rose\’s PopCast. My appreciation goes out to Out Hud, Parker House and Theory, The Arcade Fire, Caribou, Elliot Smith, Mogwai and the movies that made me love soundtrack music too much. Say hello to my former fascination of the LOTR soundtrack as well as Yann Tierson.

My music tastes have changed and I am not that afraid to find new music. Over the weekend, I went with a few friends to the Shadow Lounge in East Liberty, where I was impressed by the live music and the lounge atmosphere.

I can\’t sing. I can\’t play a musical instrument (well). I have very little sense of rhythm (ask my former piano teacher and people who have seen me dance). Yet, music has the power to capture the greatest essence of life for that moment.

As does anything aurally. Silence has its strengths too. This is why I can be found in the kitchen holding my tea (or hot lemonade) staring outside the window almost if I was watching something. But I am not.

Like many other American teenyboppers, I read the Babysitter\’s Club. I never did get a job as a babysitter however.

In that series, I learned that if you wet the bed and needed to go the bathroom, you have diabetes. I also learned about the traumas about family and friends. I also learned that there\’s always a token asian and a token African American in all groups. I learned that anybody from New York City is incredibly trendy and well-groomed. That all cities in the East were just like Stoneybrook, CT. All parents divorce at some point or another. And that people from California are big environmentalists even though I was born in that state. And finally, 11 year old girls and 13 year old girls have enough responsibility to babysit and run their own business (yet not caught by the IRS).

Plus, they always stayed in 6th and 8th grade for years. Yet they had at least 10 different xmases and 5 different thanksgivings.

So when I came across the movie playing free on Comcast on demand. I just had to see it despite the horrible acting involved. It reminded me of the nineties more than how it was like to be 13 years old (not a great time to remember even though now it\’s 10 years ago). The movie is about love, families, struggle as a preteen, and running a business.

I was on my laptop the entire time and used it as background noise.

When applying for undergrad, I attempted to write my personal statement about my step-grandmother.

I started, She was a small woman nearly eighty five years old. Her small brown eyes resembled the family eyes-eyes that looked away in timidity but at a moment\’s notice, returned bright and hopeful.
Clutching my grandfather, she came into the kitchen setting her bags on the floor . The bags were full of souvenirs and trinkets meant to gain the family\’s favor.

Then I couldn\’t think of anything else to write and wrote about a superficial aspect of myself.

It has always been like that. Despite my grandparents\’ major presence in my childhood, I never felt that they were any more than symbols, people to be revered. I didn\’t break that barrier.

Like my envy of typical Americans\’ celebration of Christmas and Thanksgiving, I also envy the relationships between grandchildren and grandparents. When I was younger, I read books and saw movies where the grandparents–the ones who would make delicious apple pies and the ones who told their grandchildren stories of the war–played an intimate role in the family. I was born in the states. First generation, resulting in a language barrier between my grandparents and me.

Today is the first day of the Chinese New Year–the year of the dog. Yesterday, I called my grandparents to wish them a happy new year. Gung hay fat choy! I said in my heavily accented Chinese. My grandfather, who I recently realized is rather reserved, said thank you and we exchanged a few pleasantries talking about weather. Then we hung up, a short conversation. I called my grandmother who I wished a happy birthday and a happy new year. She gave me a lot of advice in Chinese on how to succeed in life. And then, that was it.

I wish there was more and perhaps if I could, I can make it become more. I watched a Jackie Chan movie yesterday at Gary\’s in \”celebration\” of the Chinese New Year. It was ridiculous like most JC movies and contained much obvious CG.

Maybe I should ask about the Myth.

In the 11th grade in spirit of Valentine\’s Day for Spanish class, we were to write an essay on love. Anything. Anybody.

Simply to demonstrate and exercise our basic knowledge of the language.

I wrote about my current obsession that week. A boy. Who in my naivete, I believe there was something going on. (Turns out later, he used me for my \”intelligence\”, but that\’s another story completely.)

I wrote…Hablamos mucho durante la noche. Hablamos sobre familia, sobre amor, y sobre vida.

A week later, I got back the essay where my Spanish teacher simply wrote \”I am happy for you.\” By that time, I had lost interest and was embarrassed that I had written such an essay in a moment of teenage obsession.

But I am so like that. Sentimental and fickle.

Can we fall in love with a machine?

On other thoughts, what defines a hipster? How about a…poseur?

Despite a sleep-deprived week, I saw an opera, Albert Herring, today at the Purnell Center. An opera in comedic form, for one. Amazing for both the performances, the set, the costumes, and the performers.

Last night around 3:30 am, I woke up to hear a clink. My window or my door. I ignored it and tried to continue sleeping. Then it happened again. Then two minutes later, it happened again. Then again.

Finally, in a distracted sleep state, I got up and turned on the light to find nobody outside my third floor window (of course), the entire house in darkness and a muffled bass of music from the living room.