My favorite freeway? The 24. (Not just because I am a fan of 24…)

People have often called this the rich man\’s freeway because it links 680 and 880 together through the Caldecott Tunnel where no trucks carrying hazardous materials are allowed (they can explode). As a result, most of the vehicles here are passenger cars. The luxury kind. Usually people from the Lamorinda area.

Today, I drove to San Mateo (note to self: showing up a person\’s door in an apt building even with prior warning the night before is still very surprising in our day of cellphones), Mountain View (buffet lunch at Passage to India; amazing mango soft serve), and Palo Alto (I got to help my friend pack by carrying bags to the car and lifting a vintage bathtub) again. The third time this winter break and the second time this week. For some reason, this time, I was too tired. Evidence that I probably can\’t endure a commute back and forth from the East Bay to the South Bay. Three summers ago, I had an internship in Santa Clara and hated the commute in the dry heat.

I like the way the 24 winds around the rolling hills as if I am going into the country. The way I can exit the freeway and go straight onto a road when the light turns green. And how, the dark streets (no streetlights where I live) give that sense of comfort that I am home.

Of course, this is all indication that I have grown to love what I grew up with. We miss the festering wound when it finally heals. We say to ourselves that the reason we miss it is because it made us more alert and that it made us feel real. But that\’s not the case, we just can\’t handle change.

Take the fruit of a neighbor\’s tree?

When my dad was in graduate school in Davis, he went to the campus fruit orchards with a few friends at night to pick fruit. Apparently they were caught once, but that hasn\’t stopped the urban foraging that is in our family.

When we were young, my sister and I went for \”adventures\”. In a \”ravine\” nearby, we picked blackberries. On routes throughout the neighborhood, we found ripe plums and loquat trees. The well-kept treasures were the guavas, easily hidden in the greenery. After living in Lafayette so many years, everyone in my family knows where the closest fruit trees are. We should start something like fallenfruit.org

As I grew older, I lost my thick skin. My parents apparently haven\’t. They have asked neighbors if they could pick loquat or the plums. And according to city ordinance, any part of a tree leaning over a fence to public property is free to the public. There\’s still questions of whether fruit on the tree can be picked. But nonetheless, my parents today stopped by a tangerine tree brimming with small orange fruits. They filled up a bag they happened to have in the car.

Save a penny now, save a dollar in the future? Another man\’s trash is another man\’s treasure? Sometimes. Most of the time, I would rather pay $4.99 for a box of tangerines than to suffer through the anxiety of being \”caught\” by the owner.

Right now, the lemon tree in the front yard is full of fruit. We have too many. Too bad nobody can see our lemon tree from the street. The bane of a private driveway.

Advice for a trip to the Peninsula/South Bay from the East Bay: leave the East Bay around 10:30 am (bypass the Caldecott buildup that happens at 11), take someone\’s FastTrak pass, and leave for the East Bay late late late at night.

Every time I drive (especially long drives), I wonder what would have happened if I decided to take the right lane, if I decided to take the other exit, if I took the wrong path. It\’s as if my life has been split into two? How would my life be divided into alternate paths? What if I made a decision that impacted my life in other ways?

How would the Jenn that took the right exit turn out? The same, happier, better, or sadder?

I drove to the Peninsula and the South Bay for the second time this winter break. After almost 2.5 years, I met up with a friend for lunch in Palo Alto. She was one of those friends I had made as a result of an ex. We gossiped about how he was a jerk and bonded well as a result. It was nice seeing someone after so long, but yet always picking up where we left off. Even if she is from Stanfurd.

Then I went with Carol and Dave (and his gf) apt-hunting around Sunnyvale and Mountain View. Surprisingly, I was shocked that the apartments there (at least the one we looked at) looked just like the places in Berkeley. Small and a touch of old. Furthermore, the rent was high. A two bedroom was going around $1300/month. My room in my parents\’ house in Lafayette is so much bigger. After living in such small spaces in college and grad school, I envision my place of living to be…expansive. A bedroom of my own. An office of my own. A sufficient kitchen and a real dining area. A living room. At least. I don\’t want to live in the same style I lived while at Berkeley. I split a one bedroom with a housemate then, me with a living room with only my shoiji screens providing privacy. No more of that.

And then to San Mateo to see friends from my grad program. Even if it\’s a totally different place, a state, everything was…as if nothing had changed. And it was nice for that one moment.

The doors of the Barnes and Noble in Walnut Creek squeak loudly every time they close. Last week when I was with my sister on the second floor, I was distracted by that sound as I was trying to edit a CHI paper. It sounded like whispers, like a soft scream muffled by a hand. I like the sound.

It\’s very odd how American culture regards those who love to read and write. In popular culture, they are the smart, but awkward types. The mousey intellect with glasses. They\’re not \”cool\” in a popular culture sense.

A few years ago, at the beginning of my social phase, I was at a friend\’s party. One of the first parties I went to. I was still in a period of my life where I couldn\’t comfortably socialize with random people. A girl approached me, taking a break from chatting and gossiping. I was staring at a magazine on the coffee table, a glossy one smattered with celebrity photos, wondering whether my stay at the party was long enough to warrant coming up with an excuse to leave.

She gestured toward the social scene and asked with a smile, \”So this isn\’t what you like to do? What do you like to do?\”

I paused, thrown off by the question. More so the first part, than the second part. Finally, I said, \”I don\’t know if I can really say…\”

\”Oh.\” She had a confused look on her face. Perhaps, she thought that I was embarrassed or ashamed of my interests. Or perhaps she determined from my wallflower-like demeanor that I was interested in non-social things. Then suddenly as if a light went off in her head, she said with a big smile, \”So you like sitting and reading?\”

I was apalled, but I simply nodded. It seemed like she was treating me like a child–interests that she would not associate with. Back then, I was in denial of what I really enjoyed, always trying to adopt others\’ interests.

Interesting how nowadays, when stranded at a mall, I feel more comfortable in a bookstore than any other store. Although I spend most of my time reading cookbooks and just the first five pages of any book that appeals to me.

Just a thought. I realized just right now that nobody will ever accuse me of being shallow. A great bonus, huh?

Sure, I may misinterpret things, but everyone knows I think too much.

Wireless Cafes. One of the best things ever invented. With free wireless internet.

In the past year with my powerbook, I have absolutely fallen in love with these things. I like studying in atmospheres like this. Mugs clanging. Spoons swishing within the coffee. Looking for that caffiene kick. Quiet typing, lost inside a world static on a 2-d screen. Flipping of pages, a room full of concentration and strains of what did the professor say about this chapter? and what movie do you want to see tonight? I like sitting back in a comfy chair there with my laptop…or simply people-watching (or overhearing random conversations).

In Pittsburgh, I usually would be found at Panera during midterms/finals week (more so this year than last). And with my handy iPass (thank you CMU), I would sometimes be at Starbucks. The 61c cafe, despite it absolutely wonderful teas and music, just couldn\’t do it.

So during winter break, I have rediscovered the cafes in Berkeley/Oakland. At Cal, I didn\’t have a laptop and usually went to a cafe to study. I rarely bought anything, me frugal and cheap. Nowadays though, I go…and always order either a cup or pot of Darjeeling Tea, the champagne of teas. Usually black. I would usually get non-fat milk and sprinkle sugar (one lump please). Then end up losing myself.

Today after lunch and dessert time with Lulu in Rockridge, I had a few hours to spare before I was to meet with Chris. Driving back and forth from Oakland to Lafayette has never been very appetizing, considering the traffic at the Caldecott that can build up and disappear within an hour. So time for rediscovery.

Thanks to eastbayexpress.com, I am currently at Nomad Cafe in Berkeley. The service was surprisingly nice and friendly. Not like the common this-is-for-locals type of cafe. They have a small section with kid\’s books and best of all…many power outlets, usually lacking in most cafes. The cafe was completely full and I ended up sitting outside in the heat which cooled during the day. Finally some room was free inside and I went inside to a large armrest. The music inside is foreign with tastes of foreign…an ambience that lends to the cafe\’s name, yet comfortable at the same time. Like a new friend from another country, finding that you have something in common and the same sense of humor.

Dear Mr. Reader-Of-Cover-Letters:

I am an interaction designer. I am an usability analyst. I am a user experience researcher. I am an expert in human computer interaction.

I want to make an impact on people\’s lives. I want to create. I want to design a compelling rich product. I want to begin and finish something. I want accessibility and satisfaction I want to make a difference.

I listen to their frustrations. I empathize with their needs. I innovate. I imagine rich stories. I seek weaknesses to make them stronger. I watch them to understand.

I am what you need.

Sincerely,

Jenn

I was an only child for approximately 14 months until a small wrinkled being appeared in the house. I don\’t remember a single thing about that transition at all. Sometimes, it doesn\’t seem like I was ever alone.

How is being an only child like? To be the only one child, the target of parents\’ affections and nagging. Are they really that much more spoiled? And self-serving and self-centered? Or aren\’t they more mature? More independent? Are they satisfied with being an only child?

There\’s one only child I used to know. He always talked about having a big sister. In fact, within the first few years of college, he had many female friends. Older. \”Wiser\”. To serve his need of having a mother-like same-age-group sibling.

My friend described being an only child as: when i want to sleep, i\’ll go to sleep. when i want to eat, i\’ll eat. How\’s that?

Unlike most people, I have never thought how it would be like to be an only child. I have always wondered how it would be like if I actually was the younger one rather than the guinea pig. Some of my most horrifying nightmares have been when my sister went away. It would be so lonely, not to have an accomplice to understand my angst of my parents. To not have a sidekick when we end up in a boring family event. To not have someone who do things I like doing without having that pressure and anxiety of someone that doesn\’t know why I am the way I am. It\’s not blood, it\’s a mutual understanding.

Ordering silly putty in bulk is something I probably would get excited about. At work. To be delivered to my desk.

I am still looking forward to the day that one day I can go to see Groundhog Phil in Punxsutawney, PA. About 90 minutes from Pittsburgh. February 2, 2006? Anybody game? Anybody willing to get up early and stand outside in cold weather at 6 am? I am!!!!