Everyday Should Be Mother's Day

As I share another story that I helped contribute for KoreAm: the May Mother's Day feature where we had celebrities and their moms share stories about each other, I can't help but to think about my own tumultuous ride with my stubborn, bossy, indecisive, vivacious, kooky, super-cute momma with the movie-star looks and a heart of gold.

My mom is a very special lady. All moms are. Mine has marked every part of what made me the way I am today. The good and the bad. She is why I am the epitome of someone with "mommy issues." And you know what? I don't mind it all that much. We may have a "hate that I love you" relationship but it's one all my own.

Hot Mama

My favorite childhood memories that encapsulates the essence of my relationship with my mom are of a particular kind of road trip.

We didn't drive cross-country to see some spectacular crater or visit loud, distant relatives. The road trips don't even involve a pit stop at some wrecked restroom in the middle of nowhere.

Our family road trips treks all the way over to the good ol' city of Los Angeles. The reason? To accompany me or (more commonly) my sister to an audition. There's so many of these snapshots of our family past that they've all jumbled together but I'll paint you a scenario.

We're on the road. My father's driving, my mother's in the passenger seat. My sister and I are sprawled along the back. It's a usual sunny Californian morning.

"Have you memorized the script?" My mom asks my sister.

"Almost," she replies and hands the script back to me. I pretend to be any of the variety of characters she has to play opposite; a lovesick boyfriend, a wise old teacher, a snide best friend.

We rehearse until we get sick of our voices and the car silences for a moment.

"Are you guys done? Hmmm... you need to start practicing singing then. Why do you always wait for me to tell you to sing? Why don't you sing yourself?" My mom turns on the radio and a crude rap song pops on.

In chinese, my mom laments, "This is ugly-sounding to death" (aka“ 難聽死了”）She shuts off the damn thing. Okay, you guys sing now. Janice, you sing first."

In my annoyance, I purposefully whine my way through a Mandy Moore ballad. I can't carry the high notes, I forget parts of the song, I trail into a whisper after only a few lines.

And that's when the trigger goes off.

My mom starts yelling at me for not caring enough. Her voice is shrill and high and pierces the ears. I stare out at the window and wonder when the dogs will come. I yell back about why she always wants me to sing when I don't want to be a singer. In my anger, what starts off as Chinese collides with words, pieces, then whole sentences of English. My sister interjects. My mom yells at her. My dad chimes in with his own observations of his poor excuses for daughters. Some tears are shed, some voices are lost, mention of my fatness is brought up somehow, all tempers are fuming.

After a few minutes of deadly silence, I begrudgingly apologize. I say I will try harder. Mom tearily says that everything she does is for my own good. "If you weren't my daughter, I wouldn't care if you were dead or not." I tell her I understand.

We get to the audition and my sister does her thing. But not before my mom fusses or complains about why she didn't choose a different top to wear, how she needs to straighten her back, how she needs to give the casting director three different photos of herself. Finally, with an annoyed look on her face, my sister goes in, my mom and I trailing after her. My dad waits in the car. He has this (cute - or rather sad) superstition that his presence is bad luck at auditions. Or maybe he just feels uncomfortable around all the perky blondes and surfer boys. Or maybe a family of four walking into an audition room is a little bit uncomfortable for everyone else?!

As we wait for Jessica's name to be called, all three of us Jann women glance around the audition room, whispering - or speaking loudly in Mandarin - about how there's a majority of blondes at the casting call or how we recognize another actress on a Disney Channel show. Despite not having an agent, my mother pushes me to try out for the role as well. I sigh and sign myself up. Better than to make a scene.

We both try out. Afterwards, my mom asks for every detail of our audition --three times. She has to reiterate, replay and repeat every part of the experience in order to fully absorb it. I didn't perform too well and my mom is disappointed but never discouraged. She lists all the things I should have done that she's certain would have guaranteed a call back. I roll my eyes and say, "okay, okay, next time." After a long silence, my mom sighs. "Yea, okay. Next time. Next time you'll get it." We go get some McDonald's.

As we sit at the golden arches, my mom with her chicken nuggets, my dad savoring his oft-dreamt about, not oft-gets to eat Quarter Pounder, me with a fish fillet and my sister sipping her ever-present Coke as fast as she can so she can get another refill, the dynamics have completely shifted. We chit chat and joke. We get ready to go home, and on the car ride back, my sister and I sleep as our parents listen to some 80's Chinese pop. To the outsiders, we're an enviable family. We're telegenic, we're bubbly and we look like we genuinely enjoy each other's company.

My parents are the cutest when they dance...

The truth is, we really do. We're not putting up a front. A family can be like that. There are good moments, there are bad. The dynamics go up and down like a roller coaster.

I never dwell on the dissonant times. I always miss the road trips. My sister and I both drive now (and more often than my parents) and I'd almost give up my license just so we can revisit those days when our family would all go to support one daughter on her one audition of the day.

And when they hold hands with each other down dark alleys.

Yes, my mom has to pick at every single fault of mine like it's a hard piece of booger. Yes, she has changed my Chinese name 3 times in the past 3 months. Yes, sometimes she makes me stand against a wall to develop straight posture. But she also cooks me special meals and makes my favorite soy sauce braised pork when I used to come home from college on the weekends. She goes shopping and always looks for stuff she'd think I'd wear. She gets really giddy when I go on dates. (Maybe because those are rare occurrences?) And she's really really really pretty. At the end of the day, I know that all she wants is the best for me. She loves and cares for me and just wants me to reach my highest peak. I can't wait for the day when I'll buy her a big ol' house with 30 maids obeying her every whim.

Don't you just hate it when your mother is always right?

Ready, Set, Go!

After nearly a month and a half of being "funemployed" (and lemme tell ya, it sure was fun), I'm slowly starting to buckle up and crawl my way to my career goals.

Today, I readied my first batch of hard copied applications to be sent to four (very lucky) news stations in America. Though I've already applied to a couple stations on-line, it's always best to also mail applications in, especially when dealing with reels and what not.

Whewph, the hard copied applications took quite a bit of time to prepare! Much like cooking, you have to get all the ingredients ready, prep it, let it simmer and wait for the results.

After spending over $70 on office supplies (printer ink costs a pretty penny), I was ready for the prep. I think after awhile, the applications will be quicker to send out because I'll have adopted an assembly-line-styled system. Then, news stations all over America, watch out! I'm coming for ya!

My Mom Wouldn't Let Me Smell the Cookies

When my aunt came over to visit from Hong Kong, she brought over one of the most delicious and authentically Chinese delicacies ever: the 月並, a.k.a. the mooncake.

This mooncake is no ordinary fare.

It's not some muddled sugar and flour concoction you can find at any old 99 Ranch Market. No, no, no, this mooncake is Hong Kong's finest. Boxes selling for more than the price of your head. And boxes of them are currently chilling out in my grandma's freezer. So that's like... a bunch of heads hanging out in the freezer, hmm... not an appealing thought.

There were two different types of mooncake. One was the original, with the buttery egg yolk in the center of a sugary brown armor. The other is gourmet: mooncake made out of bird's nest. It has to be chilled like it's an ice cream mooncake.

My sister has already devoured enough of them that her waistline is crying for her to stop but I have managed to miss every previous mooncake tasting event.

And yes, it is quite an event.

Let me tell you what goes down. Basically, all the parties interested in tasting the mooncakes gather around our round dining room table. The mooncakes are placed on china plates and then cut into slivers of ten.

Because I am currently watching my weight, I am on heavy-duty fatty-foodie-watch by my policewoman of a mother. Her general assumption is that I will wolf down anything delectable regardless of the time, place, my hunger level, etc. When I'm sitting at the dinner table, she'd hide behind the counter by the fridge and sneakily drink her green bean soup, for fear that I would pounce on it or something. It's working though. I am 10 pounds down and counting.

So back to the mooncake. Of course my mother was not too happy that I would be placing in my body these little bites of heaven that roughly amount to 100 calories each. (I'm going to remind you that we had already cut them into pieces of 10, so...you do the math for a whole mooncake.)

For the past couple of days, she had been like, "NO NO NO" anytime the remote possibility of me trying a piece of mooncake comes up. But after much persuasion by my aunt, she had finally relented to me trying a piece of the bird's nest one.

I ate that lone piece while my svelt size -0 sister had two of the regular ones and one of the white one (life is so unfair). It was good but too sweet for my taste. For some reason, all the other knights of the round table were hesitant to tasting the mooncakes. Save for my aunt gobbling up a piece, none of the other touched it. So there were a few choice pieces remaining at the table with my sister and I tragically eyeing them.

Finally, at one point of pushing a piece of mooncake unsuccessfully into my grandma's unwilling mouth, my sister surrendered to her demons and, while screaming, "if you're not going to eat it, then I will!" stuffed the piece into her own mouth instead. Luckily, my mom was too busy reading the newspaper and debating whether a Miss Hong Kong beauty contestant had gotten a boob job or not to notice.

Somehow a couple of minutes later, cookies were mentioned, and my aunt, a ginormous foodie closeted within her bony frame, brought out a tin box filled with supposedly some of Hong Kong's best. I was curious as to whether they really did lived up to their names but I dare not even think about consuming it in front of my eagle-eyed mother so I just requested to smell it. My mother said no. I was just going to smell the damn thing!

She gave in after my aunt wisely informed her that inhaling the smell would not go straight to my thighs and uncovered the tin box for me. I stuck my head out and took a deep breathe. Just as the aroma of coffee and mocha was about to waft into my nostrils--my mother yanks the box away from my face.

"That's enough," she curtly demanded and smacks the cover over the tin with a resounding thud.

Yep, my mother wouldn't even let me smell the cookies. Welcome to my world.

Oh, and apologies for the lack of food shots. The pix above was about as close as I could get to the culinary delights.

Write On

The whole Hollywood writing and pitching process confuddles the hell out of me.

Because writing is not a very tangible skill and depends on a variety of things coming together--things like luck, timing, inspiration, motivation et. al.-- it's one of the toughest jobs in the industry that often receives the least amount of recognition. And there's also the romantic misconception of everyone in Los Angeles thinking they can take a shot at putting words to paper and striking it rich with a sold screenplay. Just take a look at the nearest Coffee Bean stocked full of artsy spectacles hunched over silver Macbook Pros.

As someone who has had the fortune of seeing my words play out on stage, I can say that it can definitely be worth suffering through months- possibly years- of poverty, frustrating writer's block, and mind-blowingly scathing critiques to watch audience members react to your vision, your story. It's an indescribable feeling - good or bad.

But no matter what, the key element of making it as a writer-at least in Hollywood- is to have someone take a chance on you.

That someone can be a Hollywood hotshot or a newbie intern, personal friend or stranger off the street. But if they know someone or are someone themselves, they can make things happen. They can lift your words off the page and onto a screen or stage. They can bring your vision to life.

How do you get them to raise you out of said Coffee Bean and onto a red carpet?

Well, first, write something.

Then, you suck it up and ask them to read your work.

However, one person I wouldn't dare ask to read my stuff is this guy...

A History of Violence penner Josh Olson may look all smiles and jellybeans here but you and your script better stay far far away from him.

The Oscar-nominated screenwriter repeatedly proclaimed to a recent Village Voice the annoyances of having people approach him with their works hoping to get his professional opinion on it. Olson retells the story of one particularly horrifying incidence through which an awful script dared pass through his oh-so-professional eye-line.

Though at times his reasons for not touching the scripts are valid, like how he has stacks of scripts by his bedside from agents and personal friends to finish and how sometimes people are really unappreciative and can't take criticism, I dare say he is a bit brutal into going on and on AND ON about how this amateur writer produced a terrible piece of trash and wasted a year of his life working on something that should have never seen the light of day. Can you say ouch?

I've always been terrified to have other people read my work (ironic, eh, Media Maid readers?) and Olson's piece only heightened my fears. But Olson-that cocky son of a gun-is right. He says:

If someone can talk you out of being a writer, you're not a writer. If I can talk you out of being a writer, I've done you a favor, because now you'll be free to pursue your real talent, whatever that may be.

You're a writer if nothing else can nourish your soul. You're a writer if writing makes your life move forward, makes your world go round, makes you feel alive, makes you feel like you're contributing to society. You're a writer if you have a story to tell and only you can tell it.

I sure fit most of those criteria.

I guess I'm a writer.

{ Deadline Hollywood }

Holy hotness! After much delay, I finally have digital copies of all my work for KoreAm Journal and Audrey magazine! Yes! I will slowly upload articles on days when my brain can't think of anything witty to blog about.

I feel the articles should be introduced in chronological order so you will be able to read the first pieces I started from when I was a lowly intern to where I ended as this almighty fancy schmancy contributor.

Here is my contributor bio. Look! I even have my picture in the mag! *squeal

So how did I end up here? Well, it all began with this little piece. Apologies for the outdated pop cultural references. It has been a few months.

Working...

Since quitting my job, I have been keeping myself preoccupied with an abundance of activities. Ballroom dancing (finally got my dance shoes, yay!), gym (muscles shown upon request), job hunting, chinese learning, family bonding, website-building, Jesus-learning, the list goes on and on.

The past month has taken me on some pretty interesting adventures.

I was this close to getting a job with a top-notch, He Who Must Not Be Named celebrity gossip website. I got asked to be on TV twice, once for Extra and once for a Korean Home Shopping Network, both of which I happily obliged (hey, gotta practice that anchor voice somewhere), I was almost going to tutor the child of one of the richest families in show biz (and that's... pretty rich), I have 90% of Guang Liang's beautiful song, Tong Hua memorized, and there are more projects coming but I'd rather disclose them at a later time.

Yet, none of these things brought home any bread for my family and shoes for my (imaginary) children. None of them qualified me as contributing to the society.

Oh--one did. A little. I freelanced. I freelanced as a journalist for KoreAm Journal and Audrey Magazine.

This is where I worked...

...Okay, so no. I didn't exactly work at the famous CAA building in Century City.
More like I worked in the amazing park outside the building. Nicknamed the "Savannah" by my working galpal, the savannah is by far the prettiest park this side of town (save for the Getty) and a completely zen and tranquil location to get some writing done.

I wrote about events I went to, people I spoke with, things I saw. All of which shall be published in the upcoming weeks and which I PROMISE YOU I shall upload to this blog soon. (In fact, just made an appointment to go into the office next week to get digital copies of my work so stop fidgeting impatiently already!)

But something I don't really get to write about in those articles, but which I do get to do plenty here, are what I learned from the events I went to, people I spoke with and things I saw.

what I learned:

I learned about the precarious nature of balancing being an artist and a "celebrity" from Linkin Park and Fort Minor frontman, Mike Shinoda. I had always been aware about the dangers of fame and the blurriness of mixing art with commerce but with the recent temptation of almost working for that famous celebrity blog, I almost tossed out my morals and personal beliefs just so I can receive a regular paycheck every month. Well, not tossed out exactly, but altered it drastically. That was a big NO-NO and I have Mike Shinoda (and JCrisman) to thank for reminding me that.

I also got to check out some of his awesome artwork. His exhibition Glorious Excess (Dies) runs at the Japanese American National Museum in Little Tokyo, LA until early October.

I was humbled and inspired to learn of White on Rice actress Lynn Chen's battle with eating disorders. As a former fat kid, most of my life consisted of fad diets and exercise regimes, overreating and complaints about my figure. I would always distastefully joke that I didn't have enough will power to develop a eating disorder but deep down, I knew that I do have one, as small as it might be.

The fact that Chen, as opposed to other actors and actresses who make remarks like, "oh, I had anorexia, like, five years ago" or the even worse, "I eat whatever I want. I'm just naturally skinny," is so open about her battle with anorexia and bulimia and has even taken to blogging about it to combat her addictions is admirable. It also gives me hope that not everything and everyone in Hollywood is as awful as my jaded view of the business might assume.

There are more. There were weddings and cute boys and "society girls" bonding time and oh yea --the realization that as amazing, free-ing and nourished I feel when I write and report, I don't think I could ever become a professional/full-time freelancer.

I would write for free if I could afford to but my parents don't really dig the idea of their college grad eldest daughter lounging around in pajamas, laptop permanently attached to her wrists.

So let's wait and see what else is in store for me...

Thanks Liz for the Shinoda and Chen snapshots!

Sexyface

Megan Fox is all over the place these days, what with her outshining Shia Labeouf in"Transformers" and her ultra-creepy but severely intriguing "Jennifer's Body" coming out in theatre soon. I can't flip a magazine, switch the channels or drive down Sunset without seeing her face somewhere. I was even watching the Chinese channel one day and she was plastered all over the background on the red carpet for some reality TV show. What the random, right?

Anyway, permanently attached to Fox is her trademark "Sexyface."

Look at that half-puckered pout, that "come-hither" stare, those devious eyebrows. She's got that look patented down!

I thought about all the ways people come across as. Guys often talk about how they distinctly label certain girls "hot," other girls "pretty" and other girls "cute." I don't think I've ever even touched the "hot" pot. (Har har, get it?)

But you know what, for the sake of... um... "investigative journalism," I will try. I want to be hot too!

Step 1: Making the Sexyface.

"come hither"

bored but oh-so-sexy

I like how my eyes get progressively smaller as the pictures go along. It's like I've even bored myself to sleep trying to make the "sexyface."

Oh look, I've actually fallen asleep...

Okay, so you're probably more amused by my stupid faces than turned on. Alas, the only time I have ever successfully made the "sexyface" might be once, a long, long time ago, back in 2007.

So it is possible. But I think I much prefer looking like this most of the time.

By the by, this was after Liz took a series of shots with me trying to pose a la that modely sketch girl in the art behind me. I failed. :D

Post inspired by { Jezebel }