All We Need Is Love

When you’re a self-proclaimed—and probably publicly recognized—Monica Geller, it’s extremely difficult to accept the fact that not everything is in your control.

While I do take almost obsessive control at times over what I eat, how my house looks, what shoes Randel can and can’t wear (just kidding—kinda), I really struggle with not being able to make all my loved ones happy all the time.

I have this almost uncontrollable desire to make sure my parents are taken care of, my brothers have everything they need, my friends know how important they are, etc.

It's incredibly hard for me to know someone is hurting/lost/insecure.

It’s even harder to know I can’t do anything about it.

I like taking care of people. I feed off helping others. I truly believe it’s what I was meant to do.

So in light of the devastating tornado that tore through Moore, Oklahoma, yesterday, I’m feeling particularly helpless.

I can’t help thinking how different life was yesterday morning. As I got ready for work today, I started crying thinking about how some people don’t have a work to go to. Some people don’t have a home to get ready in. Some people aren’t here anymore.

While I wasn’t directly affected by the tragedy (in that my house is still standing and all my friends and family are safe and accounted for), I have friends and coworkers who lost their homes.

I wish I could bring back everything they lost—including the taken-for-granted feeling that home is a safe place. I wish my two-bedroom house could hold everyone (and every animal) who was displaced. I wish I could hug them all and let them know that people around the state, the country, and the world are ready and more than willing to do whatever we can to help.

Generous corporations and OKC’s very own Kevin Durant have shown that with their monetary donations and ongoing support.

I don’t have a million dollars to give. I don’t have a pantry stocked full of enough food for all those who woke up without homes today. I don’t have a closet full of enough clothes for those who only have the ones they fled their homes in.

What I do have is a heart that’s full of hope, a desire to volunteer in any way I can, a brings-tears-to-my-eyes love for my caring and resilient state, and faith that God will see us through.

The Indonesian Copyeditors' Association

“What are you?”

I get asked this question almost every time I meet/sit next to new people. I envision getting all snarky and saying something like: “I’m a writer (not a copyeditor, as so many people mistakenly believe). I’m a huge Phoenix Suns fan. I’m a Zumba instructor. I’m a fur-baby mama. Anything else you’d like to know?”

 But I always just laugh awkwardly and give them the answer I know they’re looking for.

Lately, though, I’ve wanted to start making stuff up.

“I’m Djibouti.”

“I’m Malaysian.”
“I’m so exotic you’ve never even heard of my country. In fact, I’m a princess there.”

And judging by some of the way-out-there guesses I’ve gotten in the past, they’d probably believe me. Here’s a list of some of the conjectures people have made about my ethnicity:

Islander (I wish.)

European (Not any specific country, mind you.)

Hawaiian (Aloha, indeed.)

*White girl with a really good tan (see note below)

Indonesian (Um…)

Native American (The most recent incorrect guess.)

*I promise I’m not making this up. To be fair, I was working at a tanning salon at the time. But still… This hilariously incorrect theory worked in my favor, though. When customers asked what tanning lotion helped me get so dark, they didn’t bat an eye when I directed them to the $90 bottle. And for this broke college girl who worked on commission, their ignorance lined my pockets made me a few extra bucks.

But the reason I bring this up now is because I’ve recently had two uncomfortable what-are-you experiences with the same man.

Picture it (10 points if you can name the show I’m referencing here): Mustang public library. Two and a half weeks ago. In between Zumba classes one Monday evening, I was reading a book when the man sitting on the couch across from me interrupted me. The whole encounter was so strange that I don’t remember our exact conversation, but it went something like this:

Awkward dude: How’s work going?

Me: (thinking, Um…do I know you?) Uh…it’s good…

AD: (whispering) Good, good. (goes back to chicken pecking on his laptop)

*a few minutes later*

AD: Excuse me, but do you— (Here, he motioned with his finger in what I took to mean “sign language.” Which is to say, he touched his pointer finger to his lips and then out toward me.)

Me: (Utterly confused as to how he got the impression I was deaf) No… (not entirely sure what he was getting at)

AD: Oh. (looking surprised) You speak very well.

Me: Um…thanks. (I think?)

He asked another question or two, but I must have blocked the rest of the convo from my mind.

Fast-forward two weeks to last Wednesday.

Just to set the scene: I’m on my way to my usual couch, preoccupied with trying to quiet my squeaky gym bag (which is a whole other story), when I notice AD sitting on what is presumably his usual couch. By this point it’s too late to turn around and head for a different chair. I’ve been spotted. So I sit.

AD: Hi. How’s work going?

Me: (Seriously, does he know what I do???) It’s good, thanks. Busy, busy. (realizing how awkward and uncomfortable I sound but unable to do anything to hide the fact that I think he’s a complete wackadoodle)

*a few minutes later*

AD: Excuse me, but I just have to ask—are you Native American?

Me: No… (laughing awkwardly, for probably the fifth time)

AD: Oh. I just couldn’t tell. (smiling awkwardly)

Me: Don’t worry, I get that all the time.

Then I went on to awkwardly (apparently I can’t act any other way around strangers) tell him what I am.

And the not-nearly-as-exciting-as-being-an-Islander truth is that I’m black and white. Good ol’ chocolate and vanilla. 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an Indonesian Copyeditors’ Association meeting to prepare for. I’m the president, you see.

*If you’re wondering about the whole Indonesian Copyeditors' Association thing, please refer to paragraphs 1 and 6, sentences 3 and 5 respectively.

**In case the whole Indonesian Copyeditors' Association thing is still unclear, I made it up because people have mistakenly believed I am both Indonesian and a copyeditor. Just go with it.