Klee5389’s Weblog

If you’re a fan of Paolo Nutini, you should know where my title is from.

Well, yes indeed I am now in Seattle. The past few days have been absolutely hectic. I start class in about forty-some minutes, and my stomach is feeling quite strange (maybe too big of a breakfast + butterflies with extra-large wings isn’t too good of a thing) so this blog is going to be a doozie.

• My apartment–good. Having a kitchen and private bathroom (with three other people) is fantastic. The bedroom is somewhat cramped but ok. There is one walk-in closet. I must add that there are four girls leaving here. But we are coming along just fine I suppose.
• My roommates (the said three other people in the first bullet) are good as well. We’re going to get along pretty well I think. Sorry to you male readers, there have been no cat fights thus far.
• I think I have walked the most the past few days than I ever have in my entire life. I miss being in a car.
• I rode a bus for the first time (ever) on Monday to the IMA (gym). Today, I missed my ride back. I’m considering changing buses because it feels as if I am walking a lot more than actually being in a bus–my purpose for riding the bus in the first place was to walk less. The results are disappointing.
• My mother has called me every day. I do not mind.
• During the freshmen welcoming thing at the Husky Stadium, we had to stand back to back with someone and link arms and dance erratically. I was always paired up with someone a lot taller than me (no surprise there) and had his/her behind rubbing against my back.
• Food at the Eleven01 isn’t too good in my opinion. My roomie had a strand of hair in her pasta. Ewww.
• There’s a pretty good Korean place on The Ave (UDub lingo…I’m so cool), so we’re not completely hopeless.
• I waited for an hour in the freezing cold, at about 10 pm, for the bus (school bus, mind you) to go to Fred Meyer. We came home at about 2 am.
• I have tripped about 388 times when coming back from Terry Hall to my place. Same spot every time.

I have just come to realize that this post is completely dull and pointless. I’m embarrassed. Therefore, I’m going to stop here and make myself some coffee to add to the discomfort of my stomach.

Let’s hope that I don’t decide to update this post with more dumb bullets.

P.S. If you’re from The Daily, I can write better things, I swear.

I realize that I already posted a blog reminiscing this past summer. Also, it’s my belief that people shouldn’t write a post dedicated to looking back at the past more than twice in one week. It’s redundant and boring. By the way, you should sense a “but…” coming along right after this.

But it seems like it’s only today that it has finally hit me that I’m leaving in a mere day. The first “Rewind” was written while being distracted by a violent, 9 year-old, video game player who called me a tramp for not helping him kill a gigantic minotaur. Sweet kid.

Today I hit up the local mall with a friend A.K.A. “butt lover,” ran around to random stores, chit-chatted about things and stuffs, drooled over condom-dispensing Halloween costumes, hugged and kissed a few witches, ogres, and monsters, and went fishing for green and yellow fish. It was great and amazing times. Always keep in mind that malls are not just for shopping for jeans and sweaters.

Rewind: when I was four years old, give or take a few years, I was getting my ears pierced at a store that was located next to Nordstrom’s on the upper level. I was completely terrified, scrambled out of that highchair, and ran to the entrance as fast as my short legs could carry me. I stood there bawling my eyes out, looking left, then looking right–I so desperately wanted to run away, but the mall was a big, scary place that day. I vaguely remember an old man staring at me curiously while walking by.

*****

Later today I went to the Nordstrom Rack with my mom to run an urgent errand: return shoes my mom got for a wedding but didn’t end up wearing. An hour or so later we finished our oh so important errand and left to walk around randomly in downtown. It was late and it was already dark.

Rewind: a few years ago my mom took me to downtown to hang out, shop, and get some Starbucks. We sat at Pioneer Courthouse Square and listened to the music–something jazzy and Latin. It was hot. Too many people, too many bodies. I had an iced-coffee instead of my usual mocha frappuccino. I was grumpy because she was leaving that weekend to go to the beach with her new boyfriend (her current fiance). She felt bad–this was her way of trying to make me (and herself) feel better, but I was still pissed. She yelled at me for complaining.

*****

Then we went to the post office–I don’t know why…we were just there on Monday. There was only one other lady there…she stood for an abnormally long period of time in front of her post office box. We only got three new letters today, insurance stuff, hospital bill crap, and a Cache coupon for 25% off.

Rewind: I wasn’t actually here for this, but during the fifth grade, my parents went to pick up a Korean CD that I was waiting for for weeks. They told me someone took a crap in the recycling bin. I’ve always loved the post office. I love walking past the walls covered entirely of little post office boxes, opening ours, which was located at the perfect height, and pulling out our mail and sifting through them to see if I got anything.

*****

The final destination of the day was stopping by at our old house. Yes, I admit it. I was curious to see if anything had changed, if there was an unfamiliar car parked in the driveway, if the lights in the house somehow looked different. Surprisingly, everything was the same. There were no lights on at all aside from the driveway lights (the right side was still burned out). Our neighbor reported that he hadn’t seen anyone moving in. No trucks. No furniture. No boxes. Strange.

Rewind: I used to hit tennis balls against the garage there. I used to collect cool rocks beside the driveway with my neighbor. I used to ride my tricycle and thought I was going faster than the cars. I used to chase my old German Shepherd in the yard. I used to pretend I was a princess in a forest. I used to just sit there and read. I used to watch Jackie Chan movies my dad rented from Blockbusters. I used to pick plums from the plum tree. I used to have a fish pond and a sandbox in the backyard. I used to dance and sing in the front yard. I used to help my dad paint. I used to help my mom cook. I used to live there.

*****

I’ve been rewinding this entire summer. I want to hit pause. I’m scared, but excited and anxious to push play. I want to know what happens at the end, but I don’t want to fast forward.

But it doesn’t matter–I’m going to have to hit play in about thirty-six hours whether I like it or not because…

I MOVE TOMORROW!

Yesterday I went to the post office as I always do on Mondays (one of my favorite errands of all-time…something about going to the post-office is very comforting) and received a letter from the Vancouver Parking Division regarding my “delinquent account.” Apparently they’ve tried to contact me several times before. I owed $50.72 for a parking ticket. Ouch.

Now this is all quite interesting…seeing that my only means of transportation are my own two feet, the bus, taxi, and my parent’s vehicles (which I am not registered under). On the occasions that I did drive my dad’s Honda or my mom’s Acura,  I was a good citizen, obeyed the law, and parked where I was supposed to. But nevertheless, how the hell did they get my name anyway?!

I had a dentist appointment afterwards, and the hygienist, doctor, and receptionist were as dumbfounded as I was. Ditto with my future stepfather. The only solution: to call the Vancouver Parking Division.

My mom ended up calling for me while I was in the shower this morning (she knocked on my bathroom door and handed me the phone right in the shower…thanks, mom). The lady on the other side, evidently, only wished to speak with Kimberly Lee. Obviously I was a bit busy at the moment and gave the lady authorization to speak to my mother.

According to my mom, the lady wanted to know if we lived at 3737 NE something-something. Our former address was 2613 something-something.

She then wanted to know if I owned a registered vehicle. I do not.

She called back later, confirming this was a case of mistaken identity. As a matter of fact, there are four other Kimberly Lee’s in Vancouver.

I am 110% absolute that they just used “Eenie, Meenie, Minie, Moe” to pick me out of the four other Kimberly Lee’s.

It definitely is all routine. Things are somewhat looking up now–I’m settling into my dad’s apartment and I think he has finally calmed down a bit after the whole fiasco on Wednesday. Overall, I’ve decided that I like living in the apartment better than the townhouse. Maybe it’s just because I’m used to living in a small house, but the townhouse seemed way too huge– after eating, I had to go all the way upstairs just to get my chapstick. How inconvenient. It was, I must admit, excellent exercise to climb up all those stairs.

I finally have one more week until I haul my butt out of Vancouver, up North, and to Seattle. So, here is my agendum for this significant and final week (even the most trivial errands are listed):

1. Clean up the old house so that the buyers can move in. I must say that I am very excited.

2. Pick up my pants from alterations at Nordstrom’s.

3. Hang out with some comrades.

4. Do some last-minute shopping for the apartment up at UW.

5. Go to Tacoma

6. Pack

7. Replace the hard drive in my old computer. Yes, I know how to replace the hard drive. I took apart my computer this morning with a screw driver. I should work for the Geek Squad.

Excited much? Good God, yes. This summer has pretty much sucked to say the least. There were ups and downs, although it seemed like there were much more downs. A good roller coaster, I suppose.

The Ups

• Selling the house and the moving process was pretty fun actually–meeting the real estate agents was interesting–real characters, they are–fixing the house up, reorganizing the furniture, showing it around, etc.
• Getting Lasik done and finally having 20/20 vision. My surgeon, Stanley L. Crews (he’s located on Mill Plain across the street from the New King’s Buffet) rocked. Honestly, he is the coolest man alive. If your vision sucks, tell him Kim Lee sent ya.
• Spending good quality time with my mom.
• Went to Seattle a lot.
• Played tennis and worked out like crazay.

The Downs

• My parents’ divorce. It brought about way too much crying, fear, lies, secrets, jealously, migraines, anger, frustration, and sadness. I am not exaggerating when I say this was the worst time of my entire life.

But it’s nearing the end. I just have the future to look forward to.

So let’s push play and let’s keep rolling.

On our way back to the condo/townhouse (condo? townhouse?) from about three hours of cleaning my old home (the utility room is now as good as new, thanks to my cleaning prowess and a good ol’ bottle of Multi-Task Windex), we were waiting at a stoplight when I began to hear one of the cars behind us over on the next lane blasting amazingly loud music that one couldn’t even begin to distinguish it, although I am sure that it belonged to the rap genre, with its driver yelling indistinguishably. Windex, I might add, is underlined with a red, squiggle line on my browser as I type this. Windex, evidently, isn’t an established-enough company and word to be recognized by the Firefox browser (Firefox, of course, is).

The stoplight by the Chevron gas station turned green after about a minute and 14 seconds and we allowed the loud-music-playing car to catch up to ours. I automatically turned my head to catch a glimpse at the fellow who decided to share his music with the rest of the people on Fourth Plain Blvd at 1:30 PM, preparing to restrain myself from sighing and shaking my head.

There to my right I saw a white car (for those of you who believe that “white” isn’t enough to describe a car, which I totally understand as there are many, many white cars on this Earth, it also might’ve been a Honda…or a Saturn, a Toyota, or a Kia), with a pale guy in his early twenties, a cap turned in that gangsta-angle sort of way on his head. Gangsta, also, appears not to be a well-established word; Honda and Toyota are, while Kia is not. That’s interesting.

Seeing this guy turned out to be the greatest thing I saw in my entire day (obviously, considering that I’m dedicating an entire post to this total stranger I saw on the street). There he was, beaming right back at me like he had the sun in his mouth, yelling (presumably singing) the words of the song he was listening to, waving his left arm up and down in that gangsta-style to the beat of the song, his head bopping up and down simultaneously. From what I saw, he was completely alone in his car.

He continued driving down the boulevard, all the way past Alberton’s and the Grocery Outlet, in this same manner, yelling (singing?) at the tops of his lungs, left arm waving out the open window, his head bopping up and down. We caught up to him again, and again, he grinned right back at us, not ceasing his enthused singing, arm waving, and head bopping. Drivers on the opposite lanes stared at him curiously while riding by. An old couple in a blue Mustang convertible driving in front of them shook their heads as they eyed him in their rear view mirrors. In the opposite lane, a young red-headed girl sitting in the passenger seat caught sight of him and started waving her arm and bopping her head as well, laughing and grinning at the guy while her mom smiled.

I admit I was endlessly entertained. I’ve never seen a guy so happy. My mom said “It’s hormones.” I wanted to video-tape this guy and follow him (I think he would’ve been a success on YouTube), but most unfortunately, we had to stop by at ARCO for gas.

“Zegewhechu Kassa is just a typical sixteen girl in Ethiopia. She had the typical childhood, a typical family. When she was six years old, she was married to a man she did not know. Two months after her wedding, she was divorced. At age nine, she was married again and became pregnant when she was twelve. Her child died after three days of labor, but Zegewhechu miraculously survived with an obstretic fistula. Her second husband divorced her, her family left her in seclusion. Zegewhechu is not alone with her type of story—50% to 70% of girls under the age of eighteen in developing countries have similar stories to tell.”

The above is the introduction to one of my English essays from last year. I type this post only to enlighten, to help some random reader become more aware about something that I’m passionate about, rather than just coming across my blog, clicking on my “Facts and Random Stuff” page, and learning that I like clocks and gummy bears. In-depth details and statistics are pretty much non-existant–if I wanted a post slightly shorter than Anna Karenina then I would include them. Sources aren’t included (hopefully you’re not an English professor), but I assure you, all of this information is totally true. But if you want sources and stats, then no worries, I’ve got them.  

Moving right along… 

Recall what you were doing at the age of five. Playing dress-up, chasing girls if you were a boy, running away from boys if you were a girl, wearing light-up shoes with cartoon characters on them, eating grape-flavored chapstick, waking up early to watch those cool Saturday morning cartoons, pretending you were the Power Rangers (I myself was the pink one), etc. You get the idea. Life was bliss. Your only worries were catching cooties and eating yucky vegetables at dinner. And those monsters in the closet?! Yikes. A whole year later at six, you were probably STILL watching Power Rangers. Maybe, just maybe, you still are. 

But at age six Zegewhechu Kassa wasn’t doing any of the above–she was married.  

“What?!”

Yeah, I asked myself the same thing when I first learned about her. The explanation: in some cultures and countries, it’s normal for parents to marry their daughters young without their permission—it’s a way to better their reputations and their futures. It’s the parents’ way of showing that they love and care for their children. It’s the only way. 

Early marriage itself seems like an absolute preposterous idea here in the United States, but its effects is really what is unbelievable: early pregnancy, obstetric fistulas, and quite possibly death if proper (and simple) treatment is neglected. For those who are forced to marry young, it is inevitable that she will become pregnant from forced sex. Zegewhechu herself became pregnant when she was twelve years old (during her second marriage, by the way…she divorced two months after her wedding).  

But get this: a twelve year old is usually only BEGINNING development. In addition to that, early marriage/early pregnancy is often linked to poverty–medical treatment is scarce and out of reach.

Both of the above lead to the following: days and days of labor without any pain medication….Zegewhechu went through three whole days of labor. If you’re a woman who has ever had children…three days of labor without any sort of pain medication. Chew on that.

Most often, the baby doesn’t make it. Most often, the mother also doesn’t make it. But those who do must suffer the consequences of her prolonged labor: an obstetric fistula. In layman’s terms, an obstetric fistula is a hole between either the rectum and the vagina, or the bladder and vagina. Is three days prolonged labor? I’d say so.  

The fistula causes constant leaking of urine and feces. Zegewhechu’s second husband, like most husbands with a wife with an obstetric fistula, left her. Her family shunned her because of the unavoidable smell. She is seen as unclean and dirty. She is humiliated and ashamed. 

The most disheartening thing of all with obstetric fistulas isn’t the fact that the victim can be left with nerve damage and paralysis in her legs without proper treatment, or that she may not ever have any other children again, or that the constant dampness causes rashes and blisters. The most disheartening thing of all is that the fistula repair surgery (with a success rate of 90%) is a mere $300–most cannot afford that much money or simply don’t have access to the treatment. As a result, fistulas are among the leading cause of death among those ages 15 to 19–70,000 adolescents die every single year because they are not physically ready for labor (ok, fine, so I threw out a few statistics for you).

• To read about Zegewhechu: http://www.pathfind.org/site/PageServer?pagename=Programs_Ethiopia_Stories_Zegewechu

•  The title of this entry is from http://endfistula.org

(I’d have a major guilt trip if I at least didn’t cite that). 

• Fistula video:

If obstetric fistulas aren’t devastating, then I don’t know what is.

Life is silly. Everything is routine and persistent–even those changes that you least expect, the changes that barge in and interrupt the precious flow of everyday life, the changes that people fear and worry about. Worrying is routine…it’s all routine. People worry too much about their current lives when their future-selves really could care less. Let me explain.

Due to certain circumstances that you either already know, will figure out, or will find out later from myself, my parents have sold the house we’ve been living in since I was born. Well, actually since I was two, but does it matter? Same thing, same thing. Who can disinguish anything during the period from when one is born to two years later? Maybe some can, but….I digress.

So, not only will I be moving into Stevens Court Building L up at the UW, but I will also be moving my belongings to yet another apartment and a condo–both pretty much simultaneously. At first I was ecstatic. Amazingly excited–a new condo AND two new apartments?! Oh, yes, a new adventure, new neighborhoods, new furniture, new cabinets that were built too high so that I can’t reach them, etc, etc.

But as I sit here typing this, with boxes stacked on my left, right, in front of me, and behind me, with three incredibly loud flies that I’m not even going to bother shooing out of the house buzzing around, with my clothes strewn about on the floor with a very likely chance of becoming wrinkled, I am absolutely dreading this move; in some ways, it’s funny, in some other ways, for obvious reasons, it’s not really, but understandable. This past week has been the most emotionally-draining week of my life. This next week will be exactly the same, if not even more or so.

About 80% of everything in this house have been sent to their new homes, and while I spend probably my last week in my home of sixteen years, I already feel like this isn’t home anymore. All the walls have been raped of pictures, mirrors, and paintings, there are corners of dust where dressers and desks used to be, and most horrifically, there are dead and shriveled up-spiders smushed into the carpet. It’s disgusting. As I’m typing this, one of the flies is staring at me. Anyway, it’s surprising. I thought that your home will always feel like your home, with or without the junk– it’s quite the opposite. Yet, when I went to the condo yesterday, which holds very familiar looking art that I despise but my mother loves and various other knick-knacks, it STILL didn’t feel like home. Truthfully, I felt depressed and mad that things had to end up this way. My head hurt.

But I realize that new memories will be created soon, along with new worries, new thoughts, new everything. Life rolls, it goes on and on. Two months, or maybe even one month down the road, I’ll be complaining about something else. I’ll come across this entry, roll my eyes and hate myself for publishing it, laugh embarassingly, then cast it away to idle by itself in the vast World Wide Web like a lonesome goldfish, just like the times when I thought the world would end because I didn’t get a 4.0 during freshman year. Hilarious. It’s routine, you constantly create worries and complaints, only to throw those out a month or two later to create new ones, ones that seem perennial and will last with you until your deathbed. But as I mentioned, life rolls. Down the road, you’ll laugh about it, think “What the hell was the matter with me?!” and worry some more about those new changes that you find yourself facing. No matter what happens, there will always be new thoughts and new worries. It’s all routine.

I’m done for now. I’m off to vacuum those dead spiders