Epoch: November 2010

This post title? Another quote from the venerable Professor Dinh. He was addressing a classmate of mine from Southern California in a conversation about racial socioeconomic barriers. What do you think? Should she make it her official nickname?

I know, readers. I know. I know I just began this post without addressing the serious hurt and abandonment complexes I've left you with in tarrying for so long with updates. Truly, I've been surprised that enough people are invested enough to verbally lambast me. Some of my favorite hate mail/texts include the following:
"You were the one thing I could trust, Kayla. The one thing."
"Every week that passed I thought, 'Surely she'll update this time? Surely she'll change...' But no. Always the same entry, mocking me with your commentary about how you could sue someone. Well I should sue you for emotional trauma."
"I have become addicted. As this is your fault, it now falls to you to feed my addiction."
And, my personal favorite: "Your blog sucked anyway. I'm glad you were too busy to update it."

I'm sorry, friends...I'm sorry. Unless you hated my updates, in which case, you're welcome. But really- I won't make excuses. I've been remiss. I've been irresponsible. I've been a deadbeat. And I won't tell you that I'll never do it again, because that would fall right into the next step of the cycle of abuse laid out by so many psychologists. I can only give you more of what I haven't given you for a month and...wish you...Happy...Thanksgiving?

Our first hearth-side Thanksgiving tale centers around this woman: Sophia Simpson, my lovely stepmom. She looks pleasant enough, doesn't she? Well...not when you mess with her mother. Then she sheds her Clark Kent common identity and becomes Sophia "Spitfire" Simpson.

The place was Vietnam. The year: 1967. Or 66. Sophia's father was attempting to fund a business venture, so he had been carefully courting a set of investors for quite some time. One night, he invited them to his house for a night of wining and dining. All was going well. After some time, one of the poor fools got comfortable around the Mai family- his first mistake: an innocently relaxed filter. As they were talking, the banker mocked Mrs. Mai's height. Exit Sophia. Enter Spitfire. She saw red, clenched her fists, marched into another room, got a stool, put it down in front of him (he helped her adjust it so it was very close to him), climbed up on it, and punched him in the face.

Yesssss!! That's what I said.

Her mom forcefully removed her from the room, and said:
"Why did you do that?"
"I had to get the stool. I was too short to reach his face."
"Uh, NO. You should not have attacked the guest!!!"
"He called you shorty, mom."
She was grounded for the unforeseeable future, but I'm sure glad it happened. Stories like that have to be told, and to be told, they have to happen.

Next: so, my cousin Stephen (age 20) is a world-class jump-roper. I'm not kidding. No, really. And it's not the jump-roping that you make fun of, either. He trains almost every day, has qualified for nationals 11 times, competed in world tournaments in Toronto, South Africa, and London. He does things with a jump rope that few people can do without one. He made a believer out of me, and I make fun of EVERYTHING. Here he is, just a visual-

Who knew, right? The competitive world of jump-roping, the participants of which bring shame to their mockers. I give you this background because it's crucial for you to understand this next heartwarming Thanksgiving story. I walk in to Grandma's house in Texas, hug many, many people (I have a magnificently large extended family), and eventually come around to my cousin Stephen. We talk for awhile, joke around about nonsense, and then he tells me that he's spent the last week on a maiden-voyage cruise ship. With Adam Sandler, Katie Holmes, and the entire crew of Adam's next movie. As a stunt double for Adam. For a DOUBLE DUTCH ROUTINE. Yes. Doesn't that sound like something I just made up to mess with you? I didn't, though, and you will all know that if and when you see this flick. Here's a little enticement for you to go: Adam is playing twins...of different genders. Hijinks will ensue. Here he is as a woman, with Tom Cruise's woman.

So where do we go from here? I'm not sure. I have much to write about in the black hole month that has claimed my attention: friends have gotten engaged (yeahhhh Josh!), studied, Dinh took some of us out for drinks at a bar across the street from the law school, studied, marched against modern slavery, I was Tom Cruise's (man, did he get two mentions on one blog post? Weird...) character from Risky Business for Halloween, I turned 24, went to a DC United soccer game, studied, went to Austin, turned in a memo (read: complex legal analysis that serves as a final for one of my classes) saw Citizen Cope, jumped in big piles of leaves...it's been a wild ride. I recommend it, honestly. I'll close the only way I know how: with an open letter to mosquitos, and a barrage of pictures. Happy Thanksgiving...! :)

Dear mosquitos,
I hate to tell you this, but no one likes you. Serving as a food source for bats and some random aquatic creatures is, honestly, a really lame ecological purpose for existence. None of that should permit your blood thievery. If the United States government cannot sample my DNA without just cause or permission, I don't see why you should have the privilege. The only redeeming possibility for your itchy little lives is if you were to somehow have collected dinosaur DNA for really awesome, not at all dangerous cloning purposes.

Stopping Modern Slavery.