Friday, May 30, 2008
Out of the office
And you're thinking to yourself, "Finally. Something new." Because this was from a couple of days ago.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
A few of my favorite things
This is the first post I wrote this past weekend. See how happy I seemed? What is the lesson learned? When one needs a relaxing weekend, one should not answer phone calls from family members. That's what voicemail is for.
Imagine my surprise on Thursday when I came into work toting the tart only to discover that one of the guys had brought in pupusas for the office. I haven't had a pupusa in many years. Now I'm asking myself why this is the case. It was the perfect breakfast.
Part of the fun of watching Dumb and Dumber is this fascinating little thing. I've never seen a corkscrew like this one. Knowing Marin, it's something that has been in her family for some time. Her family has been in California for a number of generations.
Another thing I like about my weekends with Dumb and Dumber is the proximity of KC's Bar-BQ. Boris and Natasha are a bit fascinated with barbecue. The smell of it drives Dumb and Dumber into a near frenzy. And no, I do not share.
Imagine a photo of the lemon tree in Marin's backyard here. Most of the weekend, there was crappy weather. So no lemonade. And no photo.
Nothing says joy like the ability to go and grab some lemons to make a pitcher of lemonade. Now if only the weather could be warmer -- like it was a week ago.
And the next post should be completely fresh material. Ya know. Something that hasn't been marinating for a bit.
Imagine my surprise on Thursday when I came into work toting the tart only to discover that one of the guys had brought in pupusas for the office. I haven't had a pupusa in many years. Now I'm asking myself why this is the case. It was the perfect breakfast.
Part of the fun of watching Dumb and Dumber is this fascinating little thing. I've never seen a corkscrew like this one. Knowing Marin, it's something that has been in her family for some time. Her family has been in California for a number of generations.
Another thing I like about my weekends with Dumb and Dumber is the proximity of KC's Bar-BQ. Boris and Natasha are a bit fascinated with barbecue. The smell of it drives Dumb and Dumber into a near frenzy. And no, I do not share.
Imagine a photo of the lemon tree in Marin's backyard here. Most of the weekend, there was crappy weather. So no lemonade. And no photo.
Nothing says joy like the ability to go and grab some lemons to make a pitcher of lemonade. Now if only the weather could be warmer -- like it was a week ago.
And the next post should be completely fresh material. Ya know. Something that hasn't been marinating for a bit.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
The memory of gifts
This is one of the posts that I wrote this past weekend before the other stuff. I'm feeling better -- sort of -- so I thought that I would start off with this one.
Normally when I watch Dumb and Dumber, I catch up on my DVD viewing since there is no cable in the house. And the thought of watching nothing but network TV on a holiday weekend? Ick! But Friday night I was sucked in by a series on the local PBS station, "Becoming American: The Chinese Experience."
Throughout the series, I found myself thinking how POCs have so many experiences in common living in the United States. Not that theses were new thoughts for me.
One woman talked about her two close friends in school; one was black and the other white. It reminded me of my two closest friends from high school. We told people that we were sisters who had the same mother but different fathers. Do you know how many idiots actually believed us? And my sisters? I'm still friends with them today. One is the friend for whom I made the layette a couple of years ago. And we were all heartbroken when that baby was stillborn. But a few weeks ago she gave birth to a healthy baby girl.
And there was this one kind of bold woman and by what they said about her college graduation date, she's about my age. She talked about how the joy of being American is that you can decide who you want to be. She pointed out that others may not be happy with your choice and try to make you define yourself in another way but the decision is still yours. She also talked about going to Cal and how everyone lumps all of the Asians together but how they're not all the same. She pointed out to Bill Moyers that there were terms that white America might not know that were discussed within the Asian community -- FOBs, ABCs, Twinkies. And I thought to myself, "But I know these terms because I had friends in high school and college who used them.
Now we get to the why of the bracelet. It was a gift from a family friend when I was in high school. Often dinner at her house involved looking through her jewelry after the meal. And when you said, "This is pretty," you would be told, "It's yours." Or she'd come back from a trip to Hong Kong with a new piece of jewelry for you. When I moved into my apartment three years ago, I had to sort through things. I came across this bracelet that I hadn't worn in years. I had forgotten that I owned it. And while watching the show, I remembered my bracelet and the rest just flowed. Because it was about a lot more than jewelry.
This friend proudly proclaimed herself to be ABC. Unlike her parents. She was like having the cool older sister around. When she came to dinner at our house, she'd peruse Seventeen magazine with me while my mother cooked up soul food. At her house, she introduced me to cranberry juice. And showed me how to fold wonton wrappers to make potstickers. Sometimes we would go to Clement Street for dim sum where she would order everything in Cantonese. And then she would say, "Just taste it. I'll tell you what is later." The item that I remember the most was shark. After she told me what I had just eaten, I said, "You could have told me what it was. I still would have eaten it." When she got married, I got to attend my first Chinese wedding banquet. I told my mother that I simply had to marry someone Chinese because I wanted one of those banquets. (She later divorced this husband after she found out he was cheating on her, if I remember correctly.) Over the years she also gave me numerous books to read. In fact she is responsible for my love of the hard-boiled detective genre. Later when I was home from college one summer, she took me to dinner at the cafe at Chez Panisse. (My mother had been invited as well but my mother can be rather opinionated about food and refused to go.) I remember what a wondrous place it was. And every time I walk past the place I remember that evening.
In remembering this friend (I'm not sure what has become of her. My mother had one of her infamous arguments and this friend disappeared from our lives as so many of my mother's friends have over the years.), I remember how so many conversations in trying to close the cultural divide centered around food. And maybe that's why I go back to food so often here. It's often a comfortable common ground. Except for maybe that pineapple thing. Or maybe that is as well.
Oh, and today marks three years of this blog.
Normally when I watch Dumb and Dumber, I catch up on my DVD viewing since there is no cable in the house. And the thought of watching nothing but network TV on a holiday weekend? Ick! But Friday night I was sucked in by a series on the local PBS station, "Becoming American: The Chinese Experience."
Throughout the series, I found myself thinking how POCs have so many experiences in common living in the United States. Not that theses were new thoughts for me.
One woman talked about her two close friends in school; one was black and the other white. It reminded me of my two closest friends from high school. We told people that we were sisters who had the same mother but different fathers. Do you know how many idiots actually believed us? And my sisters? I'm still friends with them today. One is the friend for whom I made the layette a couple of years ago. And we were all heartbroken when that baby was stillborn. But a few weeks ago she gave birth to a healthy baby girl.
And there was this one kind of bold woman and by what they said about her college graduation date, she's about my age. She talked about how the joy of being American is that you can decide who you want to be. She pointed out that others may not be happy with your choice and try to make you define yourself in another way but the decision is still yours. She also talked about going to Cal and how everyone lumps all of the Asians together but how they're not all the same. She pointed out to Bill Moyers that there were terms that white America might not know that were discussed within the Asian community -- FOBs, ABCs, Twinkies. And I thought to myself, "But I know these terms because I had friends in high school and college who used them.
Now we get to the why of the bracelet. It was a gift from a family friend when I was in high school. Often dinner at her house involved looking through her jewelry after the meal. And when you said, "This is pretty," you would be told, "It's yours." Or she'd come back from a trip to Hong Kong with a new piece of jewelry for you. When I moved into my apartment three years ago, I had to sort through things. I came across this bracelet that I hadn't worn in years. I had forgotten that I owned it. And while watching the show, I remembered my bracelet and the rest just flowed. Because it was about a lot more than jewelry.
This friend proudly proclaimed herself to be ABC. Unlike her parents. She was like having the cool older sister around. When she came to dinner at our house, she'd peruse Seventeen magazine with me while my mother cooked up soul food. At her house, she introduced me to cranberry juice. And showed me how to fold wonton wrappers to make potstickers. Sometimes we would go to Clement Street for dim sum where she would order everything in Cantonese. And then she would say, "Just taste it. I'll tell you what is later." The item that I remember the most was shark. After she told me what I had just eaten, I said, "You could have told me what it was. I still would have eaten it." When she got married, I got to attend my first Chinese wedding banquet. I told my mother that I simply had to marry someone Chinese because I wanted one of those banquets. (She later divorced this husband after she found out he was cheating on her, if I remember correctly.) Over the years she also gave me numerous books to read. In fact she is responsible for my love of the hard-boiled detective genre. Later when I was home from college one summer, she took me to dinner at the cafe at Chez Panisse. (My mother had been invited as well but my mother can be rather opinionated about food and refused to go.) I remember what a wondrous place it was. And every time I walk past the place I remember that evening.
In remembering this friend (I'm not sure what has become of her. My mother had one of her infamous arguments and this friend disappeared from our lives as so many of my mother's friends have over the years.), I remember how so many conversations in trying to close the cultural divide centered around food. And maybe that's why I go back to food so often here. It's often a comfortable common ground. Except for maybe that pineapple thing. Or maybe that is as well.
Oh, and today marks three years of this blog.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Here
Sometimes there are so many thoughts floating around in my head that I have to write them down, to say them. Because then I can get on with my day.
All I have left of my partygirl days are colorful memories and stories. Not much else. And when the blue days hit, it all seems like such a monumental waste. Proof to myself of how I fucked up my life. Because in the end, I'm still alone. And that's my own doing. The partygirl days were filled with superficial relationships. Don't get too deep. No one wants to hear it because it could potentially ruin their buzz. No, just sit at home by yourself if you feel like crying. Then wipe away the tears and put on your happy party face once more and go out and see the rest of the world.
One day the parties stopped and you woke up here. And while here is OK most of the times, there are times when you think, "And now I understand why they used to say, 'Die young and leave a pretty corpse.'" But that won't really work now. Because here you feel old and stupid and unattractive. Not always but on some days.
People say that I'm really good at keeping in touch with others. I have to. I just don't believe that left to their own devices that they'd bother. Might have something to do with all of those times I used to run the "test" years ago. I'm sure some of you have done it. You come home on Friday night and wait to see if anyone bothers to call over the entire weekend. They usually don't. Because they have better things to do than to be bothered with you. And then you eventually stop running the test because you know what the results will be.
And you wonder about these people who are busy out there living. How do they do it? Because in all those years during which you tried to forget about dying, you now realize that you probably didn't learn anything about living. You simply exist. And some days you feel cheated. Because in those years of wanting to die, everyone else would say, "But you have so much to live for." And now you think, "If this is it, then I think I may have been lied to." But maybe this is all that there is -- having an apartment that you like, a job that you like. Maybe it's childish and selfish to think that there should be more to it all.
Then you start thinking of watercolor washes. How when the brush first hits the paper, the color starts off strong and then it fades. And it's kind of how the blue days feel. In some ways the lighter days are the trickier ones. Because you never know when that little bit of blue will pop up. Some days you think to yourself, "I don't really want to feel this way." Others find you wrapping it around yourself like a comforter, not wanting to leave here.
And so today I think I'll just sit here. And maybe I'll finally figure it out. Probably not. So it will be just like any other day.
All I have left of my partygirl days are colorful memories and stories. Not much else. And when the blue days hit, it all seems like such a monumental waste. Proof to myself of how I fucked up my life. Because in the end, I'm still alone. And that's my own doing. The partygirl days were filled with superficial relationships. Don't get too deep. No one wants to hear it because it could potentially ruin their buzz. No, just sit at home by yourself if you feel like crying. Then wipe away the tears and put on your happy party face once more and go out and see the rest of the world.
One day the parties stopped and you woke up here. And while here is OK most of the times, there are times when you think, "And now I understand why they used to say, 'Die young and leave a pretty corpse.'" But that won't really work now. Because here you feel old and stupid and unattractive. Not always but on some days.
People say that I'm really good at keeping in touch with others. I have to. I just don't believe that left to their own devices that they'd bother. Might have something to do with all of those times I used to run the "test" years ago. I'm sure some of you have done it. You come home on Friday night and wait to see if anyone bothers to call over the entire weekend. They usually don't. Because they have better things to do than to be bothered with you. And then you eventually stop running the test because you know what the results will be.
And you wonder about these people who are busy out there living. How do they do it? Because in all those years during which you tried to forget about dying, you now realize that you probably didn't learn anything about living. You simply exist. And some days you feel cheated. Because in those years of wanting to die, everyone else would say, "But you have so much to live for." And now you think, "If this is it, then I think I may have been lied to." But maybe this is all that there is -- having an apartment that you like, a job that you like. Maybe it's childish and selfish to think that there should be more to it all.
Then you start thinking of watercolor washes. How when the brush first hits the paper, the color starts off strong and then it fades. And it's kind of how the blue days feel. In some ways the lighter days are the trickier ones. Because you never know when that little bit of blue will pop up. Some days you think to yourself, "I don't really want to feel this way." Others find you wrapping it around yourself like a comforter, not wanting to leave here.
And so today I think I'll just sit here. And maybe I'll finally figure it out. Probably not. So it will be just like any other day.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Altered plans
So here it is the holiday weekend and I have already possibly written my next two posts. Or so I thought. Because this was not supposed to be the next post but it is so I suppose that I should just get on with it. Because my next therapy session is more than a week away.
It was supposed to be a quiet evening of relaxation. I had eaten dinner and was sipping a second glass of wine while watching PS I Love You with Dumb curled up on the floor at my feet. And then my cellphone rang. I briefly thought about not answering but idiot that I am, I did.
Last Sunday my father took my stepmother to the hospital because she had nonchalantly mentioned a couple of sores on her legs. My father took one look at them and took her to the doctor. They put her on penicillin. And then on Monday morning my dad left town on a planned trip. Tuesday, my stepmother's brother decided that things didn't look quite right so he took her to the doctor again. And then my dad took her again on Thursday. Thursday they said that everything was looking OK. And then they called yesterday. They ran a culture on the infection and discovered that it is a staph infection. Great. The woman with a compromised immune system, thanks to the steroids they have been throwing down her throat to alleviate the brain swelling, now has a staph infection.
Thank goodness I had had a couple of glasses of wine because I had less of a filter than usual. Because this whole discussion started because of my dad freaking out over my stepmother's diarrhea today. After hearing it all, I replied, "Well, of course she has diarrhea. She's probably now on a broad spectrum antibiotic because of the staph infection. That means it's killing all of the bacteria -- good and bad -- in her body. You do realize that we all have helpful bacteria in our bodies?" And then I started thinking about other infections. "You should get her some cranberry juice. And some yogurt. With live culture." Oh, but my openness did not stop there. My dad shared that his older sister, who has been known to be quite the bitch, told him that he should stop sleeping in the same bed with his wife because of the infection. I know that part of her is concerned because my dad is a diabetic. But you know it has to be in some part due to her dislike of my stepmother over all of these years. I asked my dad if the wounds were dressed and if he had changed the linens. When he confirmed both, I told him to ignore his sister for now. They have slept in the same bed for over 20 years. I know the infection is a danger to him but I also don't want him blaming me for choosing to sleep in a different bed once she's gone. I did say that I understood his sister's concern though since people can actually die from staph infections. And so for the first time in all of our conversations during this process, I actually said the word "die."
I don't know about my dad, but I think that I am making great progress. And now that the movie is over, I need to find another chick flick to pop in. So that I can pretend that that's the real reason why I'm crying. Because that last one totally sucked when you've either been in relationships with crazy guys or have completely fucked up every decent relationship you've had in your life and the highlight of your Saturday night is to watch chick flicks alone. Maybe it's time to crank up the Janis Ian once more...
It was supposed to be a quiet evening of relaxation. I had eaten dinner and was sipping a second glass of wine while watching PS I Love You with Dumb curled up on the floor at my feet. And then my cellphone rang. I briefly thought about not answering but idiot that I am, I did.
Last Sunday my father took my stepmother to the hospital because she had nonchalantly mentioned a couple of sores on her legs. My father took one look at them and took her to the doctor. They put her on penicillin. And then on Monday morning my dad left town on a planned trip. Tuesday, my stepmother's brother decided that things didn't look quite right so he took her to the doctor again. And then my dad took her again on Thursday. Thursday they said that everything was looking OK. And then they called yesterday. They ran a culture on the infection and discovered that it is a staph infection. Great. The woman with a compromised immune system, thanks to the steroids they have been throwing down her throat to alleviate the brain swelling, now has a staph infection.
Thank goodness I had had a couple of glasses of wine because I had less of a filter than usual. Because this whole discussion started because of my dad freaking out over my stepmother's diarrhea today. After hearing it all, I replied, "Well, of course she has diarrhea. She's probably now on a broad spectrum antibiotic because of the staph infection. That means it's killing all of the bacteria -- good and bad -- in her body. You do realize that we all have helpful bacteria in our bodies?" And then I started thinking about other infections. "You should get her some cranberry juice. And some yogurt. With live culture." Oh, but my openness did not stop there. My dad shared that his older sister, who has been known to be quite the bitch, told him that he should stop sleeping in the same bed with his wife because of the infection. I know that part of her is concerned because my dad is a diabetic. But you know it has to be in some part due to her dislike of my stepmother over all of these years. I asked my dad if the wounds were dressed and if he had changed the linens. When he confirmed both, I told him to ignore his sister for now. They have slept in the same bed for over 20 years. I know the infection is a danger to him but I also don't want him blaming me for choosing to sleep in a different bed once she's gone. I did say that I understood his sister's concern though since people can actually die from staph infections. And so for the first time in all of our conversations during this process, I actually said the word "die."
I don't know about my dad, but I think that I am making great progress. And now that the movie is over, I need to find another chick flick to pop in. So that I can pretend that that's the real reason why I'm crying. Because that last one totally sucked when you've either been in relationships with crazy guys or have completely fucked up every decent relationship you've had in your life and the highlight of your Saturday night is to watch chick flicks alone. Maybe it's time to crank up the Janis Ian once more...
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