I called my mom's house on Thanksgiving Day to wish her a happy thanksgiving. No one picked up the phone. I called her cell phone, twice, and left her a message. No returned call. I also called my brother and left a voicemail. Again, no returned call.
The day came and went, and I hadn't heard from any of them. Then I thought, maybe they were in a terrible accident and they're in the hospital. But wouldn't someone have called me?
I called the house again on the Friday after Thanksgiving. My mom picked up.
"Hello?"
"Hey, mom."
"Oh, hi." She then proceeded to answer a question I had asked two voicemails ago.
Then I said, "So how was your thanksgiving?"
"Oh it was good. It was just your brother and I so we went to Old Country Buffet," she said. "It was so crowded. How was yours?"
"Oh, it was good too. Had it with another couple, and we brought some side dishes."
"Oh, good to hear it was good."
"So, um, why didn't you call me back yesterday?"
"Oh," she said. Then she gave a huff of a laugh and said, "Oh, cell phone reception is bad here."
That's funny. Cell phone reception seems to work fine the other 649,932,091 times you've called me to ask about how to turn on the computer or change your screensaver.
"Oh, um, okay," I said. "Well, talk to you later."
"Take care," she said.
"Bye."
So my mom is lame. Emotionally unavailable and lame. Which I hate to admit, but I am too sometimes. I suppose I could have called my mom out on her lameness and stated the italicized thought above. But then would I have wanted to hear the Yellow truth? That she didn't want to call me back and wish me a happy thanksgiving? That these holiday sentiments are a product of my American assimilation and only encourage maudlin triteness? That, quite frankly, she didn't want to talk to me that day or the day before?
I told the Fiance this and he is always hesitant to rag on my mom. He just hoped we wouldn't be like that with our kids.
Here's to hoping that emotional unavailability is a cultural trait, not a genetic one.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Super ordinary
I am a fan of superheroes. I'm not a supernerd or anything; I don't collect comic books or study the genre and all subgenres of superheroes. I'm just a general fan of stories involving people with extraordinary powers.
Superheroes seem to be born with their powers, or acquire it later in life. Also, their powers are sometimes alien or chemically-induced (or supernatural) in nature, or an enhancement of their own naturally existing skills. Like Superman versus Batman. Wolverine versus Iron Man.
On the History Channel, Stan Lee (creator of Spiderman, X-men, among others) has a show about superhumans, which explores the premise that there were (and are) people with "superpowers."
So I asked myself the question anyone who has ever read or watched a superhero story line would ask herself: What would my superpower be?
Hmm. I can make my eyes, hands, and feet water at will. Not exactly appetizing, I know. But I never need rewetting drops. And when I'm at the supermarket and I encounter those superthin, plastic produce bags that are nearly impossible to open, I make my finger moisten at will and then am able to open the bag.
Okay, so it's not really a fantastic superpower, unless I could produce amounts massive enough to stop a bank robbery or prevent a truck from exploding.
I can also remember details of things that I hear about or experience. At first, I thought all my friends had early onset of Alzheimer's because they couldn't remember all the details I remembered. But it turns out I just have a better memory than most people.
If I see a movie once, I can recite lines from it. If someone tells me a story about someone at a random cocktail party, I can recall all the details of that story years later.
I don't forget people I meet, so frequently, I'm in the situation of meeting people for the second time, and they don't remember me because the encounter was so brief.
My old buddy the Naysayer has dated countless women over the past several years. And I remember all of them--even better than the Naysayer himself.
"Who was that girl I dated with the nice hair?" he asks me.
"Was it first year or second year of grad school?" I respond.
"First year."
"Okay, that was Rita."
"What about that girl in college I met at a party?"
"The one who baked you cookies?"
"Uh...yeah..."
"Allison."
I'm not sure how this "power" really helps either. It's not that I'm a superlearner. I remember "human" facts, like stories about people, faces, and events. And it's not that I was great at history in high school--in fact, I disliked history. I think it has to do with experiencing the human facts as they happen.
Okay, okay, so I'm not going to be a superhero anytime soon. But it's nice to think that if some interstellar, cataclysmic event occurred...I could be.
Superheroes seem to be born with their powers, or acquire it later in life. Also, their powers are sometimes alien or chemically-induced (or supernatural) in nature, or an enhancement of their own naturally existing skills. Like Superman versus Batman. Wolverine versus Iron Man.
On the History Channel, Stan Lee (creator of Spiderman, X-men, among others) has a show about superhumans, which explores the premise that there were (and are) people with "superpowers."
So I asked myself the question anyone who has ever read or watched a superhero story line would ask herself: What would my superpower be?
Hmm. I can make my eyes, hands, and feet water at will. Not exactly appetizing, I know. But I never need rewetting drops. And when I'm at the supermarket and I encounter those superthin, plastic produce bags that are nearly impossible to open, I make my finger moisten at will and then am able to open the bag.
Okay, so it's not really a fantastic superpower, unless I could produce amounts massive enough to stop a bank robbery or prevent a truck from exploding.
I can also remember details of things that I hear about or experience. At first, I thought all my friends had early onset of Alzheimer's because they couldn't remember all the details I remembered. But it turns out I just have a better memory than most people.
If I see a movie once, I can recite lines from it. If someone tells me a story about someone at a random cocktail party, I can recall all the details of that story years later.
I don't forget people I meet, so frequently, I'm in the situation of meeting people for the second time, and they don't remember me because the encounter was so brief.
My old buddy the Naysayer has dated countless women over the past several years. And I remember all of them--even better than the Naysayer himself.
"Who was that girl I dated with the nice hair?" he asks me.
"Was it first year or second year of grad school?" I respond.
"First year."
"Okay, that was Rita."
"What about that girl in college I met at a party?"
"The one who baked you cookies?"
"Uh...yeah..."
"Allison."
I'm not sure how this "power" really helps either. It's not that I'm a superlearner. I remember "human" facts, like stories about people, faces, and events. And it's not that I was great at history in high school--in fact, I disliked history. I think it has to do with experiencing the human facts as they happen.
Okay, okay, so I'm not going to be a superhero anytime soon. But it's nice to think that if some interstellar, cataclysmic event occurred...I could be.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
A not good guy
I was chatting with Yellow Mom on the phone today. She asked how the Fiance and I are doing. "Good," I said.
"Things are good? That's good," she replied.
"Yep, things are good."
"You know, that's good that things are good," she continued. "You're not an easy person to live with."
I laughed. "The feeling is mutual."
"You need to be with someone good. Especially with your personality."
Normally, I would take this as a blatant attack on my lovability; but I understand exactly what she's talking about.
I know I get cantankerous sometimes for no reason at all. I take things out of context, take things personally, or respond sensitively to random remarks. Yes, these are my flaws, and sometimes I'm amazed that there's someone out there who will put up with it.
"You know," she continued, "it's good that Fiance is a good man. The number one quality to look for in a husband is that he is a good man."
Well, duh, I thought to myself.
"Money, education, intelligence," she said, "those are secondary to being a good person."
"Okay," I said.
"I mean, those are important," she qualified, "but goodness is number one."
"I get it," I said. "Yes, Fiance is a good man. He tolerates me and is patient with me."
"Good," she said.
I never really thought it would be a question: every chick wants a good man, right? I mean, isn't being a good person a fundamental trait that the One must have?
Then I thought about it. There are some women who are drawn to bad guys. Yes, there are really bad guys, like the ones who molest kids and moonlight as hitmen. Then there are bad guys, like the ones who cheat on their women. And then there are not-really-bad-but-bad guys.
My friend, "Angela," is dating a guy whom she is absolutely crazy about. She thinks he's super good-looking, intelligent, and funny. They've talked about marriage and kids. They've even looked at rings.
But there's something about him that rubs me the wrong way. I'm not exactly sure if he's a not-really-bad-but-but guy, or just a guy who is not good for my friend. Here's the background:
When they first started dating and hooking up, he started kicking it to a mutual friend of ours, "Beth." While still dating Angela, he sent text messages to Beth, asked how she was doing, and wanted to chat with her some time. He said lately he had been just staying in these past weekends, keeping it low key. He called her nicknames, like "shorty."
Later, we find out that he had been "staying in" all right, staying in and hooking up with Angela.
Now, technically speaking, the guy didn't do anything wrong. Angela and the dude weren't exclusively dating at the time he started kicking it to Beth. Until a couple Defines The Relationship, both parties are free agents. And even if they were in a relationship, he still didn't do anything wrong. He was just being "friendly" with Beth.
Still though, a little shady, no? Why would you kick it to a girl while having sex with her friend?
Notwithstanding this blip, the couple proceeded to Define The Relationship and became an official item.
I, however, noticed other red flags. For one, he constantly checks out other girls in front of his girlfriend, Angela, points out how fine these other women's tits/ass/legs are, and then proceeds to encourage Angela to hit the gym more often.
Is this "bad" behavior? He isn't abusing her or cheating on her.
When I hang out with him in a group (and Angela isn't there), he frequently begins his sentences with, "Man, if I were single":
"Man if I were single, I'd be going out every weekend instead of staying in."
"Man if I were single, I'd get a Porsche."
"Man if I were single, I'd be dating 18-year-olds." [Note: plural 18-year-olds. Also note: he is 35 years old, and so Angela.]
Now, he has never said, "I wish I were single." He simply fantasizes about being single.
I typically counter him by saying, "Dude, I've been single for 99% of my adult life. Dating is awful. Painful. I can't wait to not be single."
"Dating is not hard," he said. "You girls just don't know where to look, or you try too hard, or your standards are too high."
"I just I feel like I've been there, done that," I responded. "And I'm done. Done with the mind games, the Rules, the high hopes and the disappointments. Done with weeding through socially retarded guys. Done with dating. It's time for the next phase of my life."
He didn't seem to get it.
So is it me? Or does it seem like my friend's boyfriend isn't ready to settle down? More than that, he seems a little disrespectful towards her. He doesn't abuse her. But checking out a hot chick, pointing out her 36-DDD breasts and 23 inch waist, and asking his girlfriend why she can't hit the gym more just doesn't strike me as something that a "good" guy would do. On top of that, in front of our friends, he nagged her about hitting the gym -- I repeat, in front of her friends. Bear in mind, she is in no way FAT. Just because she isn't Jessica Alba doesn't mean she's FAT.
Angela loves him so much and seems almost grateful that she "has" him. Her sister, who is a clinical psychologist, met the boyfriend. Afterward, Angela asked her sister what she thought.
"He's a nice guy. Charming, good-looking, likable," the sister said. "The only thing is--I'm only saying this because I love you--"
"What?" Angela said.
"He strikes me as the kind of guy who would cheat on you."
"Oh," she said. Of course, the sister is just being overprotective...or jealous...or right.
A year later, they're still dating. He hasn't proposed yet. And some of us hope he doesn't. I think that might make me a shitty friend. We should hope for the best for our friends, and if this guy makes Angela so happy, we should hope for the best for both of them, right? We have talked to her about the guy's shadiness, but she brushes it off. After all, there is no strong evidence that he is a bad guy.
He just strikes me as man who isn't exactly good.
"Things are good? That's good," she replied.
"Yep, things are good."
"You know, that's good that things are good," she continued. "You're not an easy person to live with."
I laughed. "The feeling is mutual."
"You need to be with someone good. Especially with your personality."
Normally, I would take this as a blatant attack on my lovability; but I understand exactly what she's talking about.
I know I get cantankerous sometimes for no reason at all. I take things out of context, take things personally, or respond sensitively to random remarks. Yes, these are my flaws, and sometimes I'm amazed that there's someone out there who will put up with it.
"You know," she continued, "it's good that Fiance is a good man. The number one quality to look for in a husband is that he is a good man."
Well, duh, I thought to myself.
"Money, education, intelligence," she said, "those are secondary to being a good person."
"Okay," I said.
"I mean, those are important," she qualified, "but goodness is number one."
"I get it," I said. "Yes, Fiance is a good man. He tolerates me and is patient with me."
"Good," she said.
I never really thought it would be a question: every chick wants a good man, right? I mean, isn't being a good person a fundamental trait that the One must have?
Then I thought about it. There are some women who are drawn to bad guys. Yes, there are really bad guys, like the ones who molest kids and moonlight as hitmen. Then there are bad guys, like the ones who cheat on their women. And then there are not-really-bad-but-bad guys.
My friend, "Angela," is dating a guy whom she is absolutely crazy about. She thinks he's super good-looking, intelligent, and funny. They've talked about marriage and kids. They've even looked at rings.
But there's something about him that rubs me the wrong way. I'm not exactly sure if he's a not-really-bad-but-but guy, or just a guy who is not good for my friend. Here's the background:
When they first started dating and hooking up, he started kicking it to a mutual friend of ours, "Beth." While still dating Angela, he sent text messages to Beth, asked how she was doing, and wanted to chat with her some time. He said lately he had been just staying in these past weekends, keeping it low key. He called her nicknames, like "shorty."
Later, we find out that he had been "staying in" all right, staying in and hooking up with Angela.
Now, technically speaking, the guy didn't do anything wrong. Angela and the dude weren't exclusively dating at the time he started kicking it to Beth. Until a couple Defines The Relationship, both parties are free agents. And even if they were in a relationship, he still didn't do anything wrong. He was just being "friendly" with Beth.
Still though, a little shady, no? Why would you kick it to a girl while having sex with her friend?
Notwithstanding this blip, the couple proceeded to Define The Relationship and became an official item.
I, however, noticed other red flags. For one, he constantly checks out other girls in front of his girlfriend, Angela, points out how fine these other women's tits/ass/legs are, and then proceeds to encourage Angela to hit the gym more often.
Is this "bad" behavior? He isn't abusing her or cheating on her.
When I hang out with him in a group (and Angela isn't there), he frequently begins his sentences with, "Man, if I were single":
"Man if I were single, I'd be going out every weekend instead of staying in."
"Man if I were single, I'd get a Porsche."
"Man if I were single, I'd be dating 18-year-olds." [Note: plural 18-year-olds. Also note: he is 35 years old, and so Angela.]
Now, he has never said, "I wish I were single." He simply fantasizes about being single.
I typically counter him by saying, "Dude, I've been single for 99% of my adult life. Dating is awful. Painful. I can't wait to not be single."
"Dating is not hard," he said. "You girls just don't know where to look, or you try too hard, or your standards are too high."
"I just I feel like I've been there, done that," I responded. "And I'm done. Done with the mind games, the Rules, the high hopes and the disappointments. Done with weeding through socially retarded guys. Done with dating. It's time for the next phase of my life."
He didn't seem to get it.
So is it me? Or does it seem like my friend's boyfriend isn't ready to settle down? More than that, he seems a little disrespectful towards her. He doesn't abuse her. But checking out a hot chick, pointing out her 36-DDD breasts and 23 inch waist, and asking his girlfriend why she can't hit the gym more just doesn't strike me as something that a "good" guy would do. On top of that, in front of our friends, he nagged her about hitting the gym -- I repeat, in front of her friends. Bear in mind, she is in no way FAT. Just because she isn't Jessica Alba doesn't mean she's FAT.
Angela loves him so much and seems almost grateful that she "has" him. Her sister, who is a clinical psychologist, met the boyfriend. Afterward, Angela asked her sister what she thought.
"He's a nice guy. Charming, good-looking, likable," the sister said. "The only thing is--I'm only saying this because I love you--"
"What?" Angela said.
"He strikes me as the kind of guy who would cheat on you."
"Oh," she said. Of course, the sister is just being overprotective...or jealous...or right.
A year later, they're still dating. He hasn't proposed yet. And some of us hope he doesn't. I think that might make me a shitty friend. We should hope for the best for our friends, and if this guy makes Angela so happy, we should hope for the best for both of them, right? We have talked to her about the guy's shadiness, but she brushes it off. After all, there is no strong evidence that he is a bad guy.
He just strikes me as man who isn't exactly good.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
You reap what you sow.
Okay so I'm not running tonight. Looks like I'll be running a couple 9-mile days.
Not putting on my running shoes
I don't particularly feel like running tonight. But I know I should. I try to run at least 25 miles a week, and I've got to do 18 more miles by 11:59 pm this Saturday. I can do a couple 9 mile days, but I'd rather not.
Sometimes I feel like I have to work off a debt. Like if I eat a piece of red velvet cake, a couple slices of pizza, or a few too many corn chips. I feel like running is the non-bulimic way of purging the bad calories. Exercise is the poor man's plastic surgery.
Sometimes I'm in a pissy/anxious/melancholy mood, and I run with the hope that it will lift my spirits. Exercise is the poor man's xanax.
And sometimes, I don't feel like running at all. I have to force myself against my will to wear my ratty t-shirt and shorts, pin my hair back in the most ridiculous yet effective way to keep the stray hairs from sticking to my face, slip on my double-knotted shoes, and step on the treadmill. I force myself to push the start button and force myself to listen to my iPod and run.
Run even though every fiber of my being rebels against it.
Run even though the song I paid 99 cents to download is doing absolutely nothing to motivate me.
Run even though it feels completely and utterly futile.
Run because I have to.
Sometimes, I ask myself while I'm doing it, "Why am I doing this? What exactly is compelling me to get on a machine and voluntarily subject myself to discomfort?"
Then I tell myself to just stop thinking about it. Accept the fact that you're going to run x miles, and it's gonna happen. Just run.
Sometimes I feel like I have to work off a debt. Like if I eat a piece of red velvet cake, a couple slices of pizza, or a few too many corn chips. I feel like running is the non-bulimic way of purging the bad calories. Exercise is the poor man's plastic surgery.
Sometimes I'm in a pissy/anxious/melancholy mood, and I run with the hope that it will lift my spirits. Exercise is the poor man's xanax.
And sometimes, I don't feel like running at all. I have to force myself against my will to wear my ratty t-shirt and shorts, pin my hair back in the most ridiculous yet effective way to keep the stray hairs from sticking to my face, slip on my double-knotted shoes, and step on the treadmill. I force myself to push the start button and force myself to listen to my iPod and run.
Run even though every fiber of my being rebels against it.
Run even though the song I paid 99 cents to download is doing absolutely nothing to motivate me.
Run even though it feels completely and utterly futile.
Run because I have to.
Sometimes, I ask myself while I'm doing it, "Why am I doing this? What exactly is compelling me to get on a machine and voluntarily subject myself to discomfort?"
Then I tell myself to just stop thinking about it. Accept the fact that you're going to run x miles, and it's gonna happen. Just run.
Asian Standard Time
We all know about "Asian time." It basically means "being late."
If something starts at 5 pm, Asian Standard Time (AST) is probably 5:45 to 6 pm. If someone says they are ten minutes from your house, they are probably half an hour from your house.
It's something I've grown to accept from other Asians; and others have grown to accept that about me.
In any event, my fiance is the quintessence, the epitome, the personification of Asian Time.
It is maddening. For example:
Today, he tells me he'll be home around 8. Okay.
So I -- naively believing that he would be home at the time stated, even though every other time proves otherwise -- start the process of cleaning the pots and pans, cooking the brown rice, preparing veggies, and seasoning and heating chicken breasts.
8 pm rolls around and he's nowhere. I eat alone, watch some Hulu, and look at the clock. It's 8:30. At this point, I text him when will he be home. He doesn't respond.
At 8:50, I call him. He doesn't answer.
I call him again. He finally picks up. I ask him when he'll be home. "Yeah, we're all still hanging out," he says. "Maybe around...9:30?"
9:30? 9:30? In AST, that probably translates to 10 am the next morning.
I get annoyed and tell him, "If you weren't going to show up until 9:30, then just TELL me you're not going to show up at 9:30. Don't lie to me and say you're going to come home at 8 pm."
"Okay. Sorry." He then hangs up and proceeds to hang out at the bar he is at.
Now if this happened once or twice, I'd be whatevs about it. But it happens ALL THE TIME! I explicitly asked him to tell me what time he honestly things he'll be home, and if he's late, to give me a heads up. That's it. I don't care if he stays out until 11 pm -- just don't tell me you'll be home at 5 pm and show up at 11 pm. that's all I'm saying.
There's Asian time and then there's rude Asian time. I myself run on Asian time, but at least I text/call and say, "Sorry, I'm going to be fifteen minutes late." He doesn't.
I googled the subject of one's significant other coming home later than the time stated (yes, I googled it) and this woman was complaining on a message board about her husband doing a similar thing. All the other commenters chimed in and agreed. I felt slightly validated. It's not me. And it's not just me.
That's it. Just had to vent.
If something starts at 5 pm, Asian Standard Time (AST) is probably 5:45 to 6 pm. If someone says they are ten minutes from your house, they are probably half an hour from your house.
It's something I've grown to accept from other Asians; and others have grown to accept that about me.
In any event, my fiance is the quintessence, the epitome, the personification of Asian Time.
It is maddening. For example:
Today, he tells me he'll be home around 8. Okay.
So I -- naively believing that he would be home at the time stated, even though every other time proves otherwise -- start the process of cleaning the pots and pans, cooking the brown rice, preparing veggies, and seasoning and heating chicken breasts.
8 pm rolls around and he's nowhere. I eat alone, watch some Hulu, and look at the clock. It's 8:30. At this point, I text him when will he be home. He doesn't respond.
At 8:50, I call him. He doesn't answer.
I call him again. He finally picks up. I ask him when he'll be home. "Yeah, we're all still hanging out," he says. "Maybe around...9:30?"
9:30? 9:30? In AST, that probably translates to 10 am the next morning.
I get annoyed and tell him, "If you weren't going to show up until 9:30, then just TELL me you're not going to show up at 9:30. Don't lie to me and say you're going to come home at 8 pm."
"Okay. Sorry." He then hangs up and proceeds to hang out at the bar he is at.
Now if this happened once or twice, I'd be whatevs about it. But it happens ALL THE TIME! I explicitly asked him to tell me what time he honestly things he'll be home, and if he's late, to give me a heads up. That's it. I don't care if he stays out until 11 pm -- just don't tell me you'll be home at 5 pm and show up at 11 pm. that's all I'm saying.
There's Asian time and then there's rude Asian time. I myself run on Asian time, but at least I text/call and say, "Sorry, I'm going to be fifteen minutes late." He doesn't.
I googled the subject of one's significant other coming home later than the time stated (yes, I googled it) and this woman was complaining on a message board about her husband doing a similar thing. All the other commenters chimed in and agreed. I felt slightly validated. It's not me. And it's not just me.
That's it. Just had to vent.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Hankering interrupted
I was visiting Medium-Sized City in the Midwest and had a hankering for Korean food. One of my friends from law school (non-Asian) was born and raised there, and so I decided to ask her for restaurant recommendations.
"Hey," I asked her, "do you know any good Korean restaurants in Medium-Sized City?"
"Hmm," she said, "Korean restaurants?"
"Yeah, Korean restaurants."
"Hmm," she said again. A long pause. "There's a Benihana's."
"Really," I said. "A Benihana's."
"Yeah," she said.
"Benihana's isn't Korean."
"Oh, well, I don't think there are any Korean restaurants."
Something about that conversation bugged me. First, I later learned that there were in fact Korean restaurants in Medium-Sized City. She just didn't know (or didn't care to know) about them. Maybe it bugs me that the extent of "exotic food" people will try is the Olive Garden or, if they're particularly adventurous, P.F. Chang's.
Second, a Japanese chain is not an acceptable substitute for Korean food. Maybe all East Asians "look the same" but their cuisine is not.
Yes, I realize my post reeks of coastal snobbery. I know not all Caucasian girls born and raised in a medium-sized city in the Midwest will be completely ignorant of Korean restaurants or find that Korean food and Japanese food are interchangeable. I'm sure there are some who are probably very adventurous and have tried eating bats in Cambodia or marinated raw meat from Ethiopia.
I just haven't met any of them. But maybe I just need to make an effort to find them.
"Hey," I asked her, "do you know any good Korean restaurants in Medium-Sized City?"
"Hmm," she said, "Korean restaurants?"
"Yeah, Korean restaurants."
"Hmm," she said again. A long pause. "There's a Benihana's."
"Really," I said. "A Benihana's."
"Yeah," she said.
"Benihana's isn't Korean."
"Oh, well, I don't think there are any Korean restaurants."
Something about that conversation bugged me. First, I later learned that there were in fact Korean restaurants in Medium-Sized City. She just didn't know (or didn't care to know) about them. Maybe it bugs me that the extent of "exotic food" people will try is the Olive Garden or, if they're particularly adventurous, P.F. Chang's.
Second, a Japanese chain is not an acceptable substitute for Korean food. Maybe all East Asians "look the same" but their cuisine is not.
Yes, I realize my post reeks of coastal snobbery. I know not all Caucasian girls born and raised in a medium-sized city in the Midwest will be completely ignorant of Korean restaurants or find that Korean food and Japanese food are interchangeable. I'm sure there are some who are probably very adventurous and have tried eating bats in Cambodia or marinated raw meat from Ethiopia.
I just haven't met any of them. But maybe I just need to make an effort to find them.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Sunday, October 10, 2010
The inevitability of familial nagging
I see my life as temporal increments of nagging from my mom, other Yellow relatives, and family friends. Through their Yellow lens, life is not a series of achievements or milestones. It is defined solely by what is deficient and lacking.
When you're single:
How come no boyfriend?
Why are you still single?
What's wrong with you?
When you're in a relationship:
When are you two going to get married?
Has he proposed yet? Why not?
What's wrong with you?
When you're engaged:
How long before marry?
Why is your engagement so long?
What's wrong with you?
When you're married:
When are you going to have your first baby?
How long you wait before having kids?
What's wrong with you?
When you have you first child:
Congratulations - when is the next child coming along?
Have you begun saving for Harvard yet (Yale, safety)?
What's wrong with you?
When you have two children, one boy, one girl, both Harvard-educated:
Your son and daughter married with children yet?
How come you not ask them why not married? They should be married by now.
What's wrong with them?
And what's wrong with you?
When you're single:
How come no boyfriend?
Why are you still single?
What's wrong with you?
When you're in a relationship:
When are you two going to get married?
Has he proposed yet? Why not?
What's wrong with you?
When you're engaged:
How long before marry?
Why is your engagement so long?
What's wrong with you?
When you're married:
When are you going to have your first baby?
How long you wait before having kids?
What's wrong with you?
When you have you first child:
Congratulations - when is the next child coming along?
Have you begun saving for Harvard yet (Yale, safety)?
What's wrong with you?
When you have two children, one boy, one girl, both Harvard-educated:
Your son and daughter married with children yet?
How come you not ask them why not married? They should be married by now.
What's wrong with them?
And what's wrong with you?
Saturday, April 17, 2010
So
I'm engaged! It's only been a few weeks since he popped the question. It's pretty exciting stuff, and I'm happy.
We're beginning the wedding planning process which, judging from my few engaged friends who are frantically wedding planning, does not sound like a walk in the park. I acknowledge though that it is probably a rite of passage for those of us who don't want a city hall or Vegas wedding. (Though every bride has told me that at some point during the wedding planning process, she is tempted to elope. Eek.)
So things are, all in all, very very good.
One day last week, however, I get an email from my ex. The same ex whom I haven't spoken to since my last post about his snideness towards me. I told myself I'd never talk to him again because he contributes absolutely nothing positive to my life.
Well, he emailed me, basically asking me what was up and updating me on what was going on with him. For some reason, his email struck me as being pitiable. I kind of felt sorry for him. Like, the guy had to be pretty lonely to be contacting me out of the blue after about a year. And I don't flatter myself, I don't mean in a romantic-longing kind of way. For all I knew, he could still be dating the same girl he was dating when I last spoke with him.
It just struck me as being inexplicably sad.
So, should I respond? Should I ignore? Shouldn't I at least tell him I'm engaged? I thought I should.
So it was a matter of email or phone call. The Naysayer harped on me to call instead of emailing. Yes, it is tacky to tell someone you're engaged via email. But that rule applies to a friend or relative. This Ex is a scornful human being. Did he deserve the same courtesy that a normal decent human being deserved? Particularly if I told myself I'd never talk to him again?
Well, as the Naysayer pointed out, he was at one point a huge part of my life and a potential husband-to-be.
FINE, I decided to call him. And, yes, I got his voicemail. I left the most awkward voicemail ever.
"Hi. This is Yellow. -- um, Yellow Gal. I got your email and I'm returning it. With a phone call, I guess. Um. Yea, I have something I want to tell you. I'm at 555-555-5555. Talk to you soon. Thanks."
Dumb.
He called me back, and finally, I caught him on the phone.
"Well is it good news or bad news?" he said.
"Um, it's good news," I responded. I was inexplicably nervous. "I'm engaged."
"Ah, that's what I guessed," I could hear him fake-smile on the phone. "Congratulations."
"Thanks."
"Is it because you're pregnant?"
"What?"
"You're pregnant, right? That's why you're getting married?"
"Um," I said, trying not to let him get to me, "judging by the fact that we're aiming for a spring 2011 wedding, no, it's not because I'm pregnant."
"Are you sure?" he said. I couldn't tell if he was stifling a derisive laugh or just being incredibly self-deprecating. "It couldn't be...for love?" Then he chuckled awkwardly.
Folks, this man is 38 years old. Thirty-eight years old. He has practiced law for 13 years in a large law firm. And he has the emotional maturity of a 12-year old.
Another gem from our conversation was his question, "How much is the ring?" And, oh yeah, he asked me if I was pregnant another ten or eleven times.
And by the way, he is still dating the same he was dating from last year. So why the snide comments?
Anyway, while the phone call was unpleasant and irritating, I'm ultimately glad I did it. I know now, more than ever, that: (1) I dodged a bullet when I broke up with him, and (2) I am so incredibly lucky and fortunate to be with an awesome guy like my fiancé.
We're beginning the wedding planning process which, judging from my few engaged friends who are frantically wedding planning, does not sound like a walk in the park. I acknowledge though that it is probably a rite of passage for those of us who don't want a city hall or Vegas wedding. (Though every bride has told me that at some point during the wedding planning process, she is tempted to elope. Eek.)
So things are, all in all, very very good.
One day last week, however, I get an email from my ex. The same ex whom I haven't spoken to since my last post about his snideness towards me. I told myself I'd never talk to him again because he contributes absolutely nothing positive to my life.
Well, he emailed me, basically asking me what was up and updating me on what was going on with him. For some reason, his email struck me as being pitiable. I kind of felt sorry for him. Like, the guy had to be pretty lonely to be contacting me out of the blue after about a year. And I don't flatter myself, I don't mean in a romantic-longing kind of way. For all I knew, he could still be dating the same girl he was dating when I last spoke with him.
It just struck me as being inexplicably sad.
So, should I respond? Should I ignore? Shouldn't I at least tell him I'm engaged? I thought I should.
So it was a matter of email or phone call. The Naysayer harped on me to call instead of emailing. Yes, it is tacky to tell someone you're engaged via email. But that rule applies to a friend or relative. This Ex is a scornful human being. Did he deserve the same courtesy that a normal decent human being deserved? Particularly if I told myself I'd never talk to him again?
Well, as the Naysayer pointed out, he was at one point a huge part of my life and a potential husband-to-be.
FINE, I decided to call him. And, yes, I got his voicemail. I left the most awkward voicemail ever.
"Hi. This is Yellow. -- um, Yellow Gal. I got your email and I'm returning it. With a phone call, I guess. Um. Yea, I have something I want to tell you. I'm at 555-555-5555. Talk to you soon. Thanks."
Dumb.
He called me back, and finally, I caught him on the phone.
"Well is it good news or bad news?" he said.
"Um, it's good news," I responded. I was inexplicably nervous. "I'm engaged."
"Ah, that's what I guessed," I could hear him fake-smile on the phone. "Congratulations."
"Thanks."
"Is it because you're pregnant?"
"What?"
"You're pregnant, right? That's why you're getting married?"
"Um," I said, trying not to let him get to me, "judging by the fact that we're aiming for a spring 2011 wedding, no, it's not because I'm pregnant."
"Are you sure?" he said. I couldn't tell if he was stifling a derisive laugh or just being incredibly self-deprecating. "It couldn't be...for love?" Then he chuckled awkwardly.
Folks, this man is 38 years old. Thirty-eight years old. He has practiced law for 13 years in a large law firm. And he has the emotional maturity of a 12-year old.
Another gem from our conversation was his question, "How much is the ring?" And, oh yeah, he asked me if I was pregnant another ten or eleven times.
And by the way, he is still dating the same he was dating from last year. So why the snide comments?
Anyway, while the phone call was unpleasant and irritating, I'm ultimately glad I did it. I know now, more than ever, that: (1) I dodged a bullet when I broke up with him, and (2) I am so incredibly lucky and fortunate to be with an awesome guy like my fiancé.
Monday, August 24, 2009
All right.
So it's been ages--yes, AGES--since I've last blogged. I have to say, not much drama going on in my life. I've been at my new job for several months now, and I'm so much happier. I'm no longer practicing law, but am working in a company. So now my role is not so much based on dealing with shit that has already hit the fan (litigation) but rather, preventing the shit from hitting the fan in the first place (compliance). So sort of legal. But not practicing law, exactly.
I'm so much happier.
And I'm still with the same guy. It'll almost be two years in a month. It's weird. Life is strangely drama-free when you're in a normal steady relationship without mind games. I'm not saying we don't have our share of arguments; but I don't feel that anxiety and neurosis I typically feel when I really like a guy. (See past 283,549 blog entries.)
So to the extent anyone is still reading this, I'm doing aight.
I'm so much happier.
And I'm still with the same guy. It'll almost be two years in a month. It's weird. Life is strangely drama-free when you're in a normal steady relationship without mind games. I'm not saying we don't have our share of arguments; but I don't feel that anxiety and neurosis I typically feel when I really like a guy. (See past 283,549 blog entries.)
So to the extent anyone is still reading this, I'm doing aight.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Seriously
I called my ex today just to update him on some good news. He was snide and dismissive. I really have no idea as to why I keep in touch with the guy. Is it delusional to think one can be friends with an ex? Obviously we each have moved on - he with his girlfriend, I with my boyfriend. And it's literally been six years since our relationship ended.
I suppose a part of my visceral reaction stems from his ability to get under my skin. He is very sarcastic and snide. Beyond David Spade.
Well, I always say we should cut out people from our lives who add nothing positive to our lives. I've done it before, and I'm more than happy to do it again.
I suppose a part of my visceral reaction stems from his ability to get under my skin. He is very sarcastic and snide. Beyond David Spade.
Well, I always say we should cut out people from our lives who add nothing positive to our lives. I've done it before, and I'm more than happy to do it again.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Not PMS
I feel fat. I know, I know, every girl no matter her weight or waist size will think/say those same words, except maybe Olympic athletes and the starving kids in Africa my mom always talks about.
But yeah. I feel fat. I look down at my thighs and each of them are enormous. Gargantuan. I can literally feel the fat bulging against the inside of my skin. It is a palpable pressure of mass, pressing against my skin, threatening to burst from my body. Sometimes I imagine poking my thigh with a needle, thinking a stream of fat will explode from my thigh.
If only it were that easy.
I feel disgusting and fat. I look in the mirror and see fat. Thighs that curve outward, thighs that touch each other, thighs that humiliate me on a daily basis. Every time I walk in front of someone or stand in an elevator with someone or walk up the stairs, I feel like my thighs and butt and thickness are just huge big signs that say "Fat Girl Walking." I feel like they're looking at me and thinking, "She can't pull off those pants. Chunk."
And there's my belly. Oh, Belly. Muffin Top. Flabby. It is an entity of its own, yet forming an alliance with my thighs to make me feel and look fat.
I run my 3-mile workouts, and it seems futile. I fantasize about taking a scalpel and carving out all the fat, jiggle and wiggle from my body, and leaving nothing but Angela Basset-esque toned athletic slender.
I feel the fat everywhere. On my arms. On my legs. Clinging to my neck, hanging onto my back, pressing against clothes that are threatening to tear at the seams.
ARGH. I feel fat.
But yeah. I feel fat. I look down at my thighs and each of them are enormous. Gargantuan. I can literally feel the fat bulging against the inside of my skin. It is a palpable pressure of mass, pressing against my skin, threatening to burst from my body. Sometimes I imagine poking my thigh with a needle, thinking a stream of fat will explode from my thigh.
If only it were that easy.
I feel disgusting and fat. I look in the mirror and see fat. Thighs that curve outward, thighs that touch each other, thighs that humiliate me on a daily basis. Every time I walk in front of someone or stand in an elevator with someone or walk up the stairs, I feel like my thighs and butt and thickness are just huge big signs that say "Fat Girl Walking." I feel like they're looking at me and thinking, "She can't pull off those pants. Chunk."
And there's my belly. Oh, Belly. Muffin Top. Flabby. It is an entity of its own, yet forming an alliance with my thighs to make me feel and look fat.
I run my 3-mile workouts, and it seems futile. I fantasize about taking a scalpel and carving out all the fat, jiggle and wiggle from my body, and leaving nothing but Angela Basset-esque toned athletic slender.
I feel the fat everywhere. On my arms. On my legs. Clinging to my neck, hanging onto my back, pressing against clothes that are threatening to tear at the seams.
ARGH. I feel fat.
Monday, May 04, 2009
Last night's dream
Last night, I dreamt that my father was alive, and my mother had died.
I was in the house I grew up in, and I was looking in all the rooms for my dad. I knew he was somewhere. I looked in the master bedroom, and someone was sleeping there, but it wasn't my dad. It was a relative, I think. I went downstairs to the living room, and saw someone sleeping on the sofa. But again, it wasn't my dad, but another relative. Then I heard my mom's voice calling to me, muffled and distant, but from somewhere in the house. I followed her voice, walked upstairs, and discovered it was coming from my bedroom.
I opened my bedroom door, and there was my mother (presumably her ghost), sitting on the carpet, next to my bed, telling me casually there was my dad. On my bed, my dad was sleeping. I remember looking at his face, and saw that he had this pink plastic-like stubble on his face. They looked like tiny pink transparent flowers.
Then I started freaking out to my mom's ghost. I started bawling and saying how I had so many regrets and how I wished I said and did so many things before she died of her sickness. I was hysterically crying and couldn't get everything out fast enough.
And then...I woke up. After a moment, I realized, it was a dream, and it is my father who has passed; and my mother is still alive.
I'm not sure what it means. Now that I think about it, I wonder if those who were sleeping yet "alive" in my dream represented the dead. My dad's older brother did pass away, as well as my dad's parents and his nephew. I wonder if those sleeping relatives represented those passed relatives.
Very strange.
I was in the house I grew up in, and I was looking in all the rooms for my dad. I knew he was somewhere. I looked in the master bedroom, and someone was sleeping there, but it wasn't my dad. It was a relative, I think. I went downstairs to the living room, and saw someone sleeping on the sofa. But again, it wasn't my dad, but another relative. Then I heard my mom's voice calling to me, muffled and distant, but from somewhere in the house. I followed her voice, walked upstairs, and discovered it was coming from my bedroom.
I opened my bedroom door, and there was my mother (presumably her ghost), sitting on the carpet, next to my bed, telling me casually there was my dad. On my bed, my dad was sleeping. I remember looking at his face, and saw that he had this pink plastic-like stubble on his face. They looked like tiny pink transparent flowers.
Then I started freaking out to my mom's ghost. I started bawling and saying how I had so many regrets and how I wished I said and did so many things before she died of her sickness. I was hysterically crying and couldn't get everything out fast enough.
And then...I woke up. After a moment, I realized, it was a dream, and it is my father who has passed; and my mother is still alive.
I'm not sure what it means. Now that I think about it, I wonder if those who were sleeping yet "alive" in my dream represented the dead. My dad's older brother did pass away, as well as my dad's parents and his nephew. I wonder if those sleeping relatives represented those passed relatives.
Very strange.
Saturday, May 02, 2009
The perpetual issues of Love and Marriage
I read a haunting article, aptly entitled "Why it’s OK to settle for Mr. Good Enough," written by Lori Gottlieb. It was forwarded to me by my recently single (and thus newly cynical) friend. Basically, the article advises single women to avoid holding out for Mr. Perfect/Prince Charming/Love of All Earth-Shattering Loves. Because that man does not exist. And fine, if a woman wants to spend her twenties and thirties looking for that, she's going to find out the hard way that he doesn't exist.
The author identified herself as one of those women who learned the hard way.
She waited for the perfect guy, and met a few great guys who never lived up to the Mr. Perfect/Prince Charming/Love of All Earth-Shattering Loves-standard. And now at age 40 with a kid (via sperm donor), she is beginning to realize that her chances of marrying Mr. "Okay" have dwindled, for various reasons including her age:
Ms. Gottlieb pretty much says this is b.s.
Talk about a cautionary tale. I'm not sure if I 100% agree with this article. It is somewhat inapt in my case given that I am in a long-term relationship; but I know from my past experience and my friends' experiences that Ms. Gottleib articulates some of the fears that single women today harbor, and really hones in on them. Kind of like the elephant in the room. Ms. Gottlieb pretty much takes the elephant out of the corner, shines one or two hundred spotlights on it, and yells through a megaphone, "Here is the elephant. Acknowledge it or die alone."
The author identified herself as one of those women who learned the hard way.
She waited for the perfect guy, and met a few great guys who never lived up to the Mr. Perfect/Prince Charming/Love of All Earth-Shattering Loves-standard. And now at age 40 with a kid (via sperm donor), she is beginning to realize that her chances of marrying Mr. "Okay" have dwindled, for various reasons including her age:
What I and many women who hold out for true love forget is that we won’t always have the same appeal that we may have had in our 20s and early 30s. Having turned 40, I now have wrinkles, bags under my eyes, and hair in places I didn’t know hair could grow on women.Really, these are things that single women do not want to hear. Single women want to hear that everyone waits for and eventually finds their True Love and it all works out in The End because that's how the universe works.
Ms. Gottlieb pretty much says this is b.s.
Talk about a cautionary tale. I'm not sure if I 100% agree with this article. It is somewhat inapt in my case given that I am in a long-term relationship; but I know from my past experience and my friends' experiences that Ms. Gottleib articulates some of the fears that single women today harbor, and really hones in on them. Kind of like the elephant in the room. Ms. Gottlieb pretty much takes the elephant out of the corner, shines one or two hundred spotlights on it, and yells through a megaphone, "Here is the elephant. Acknowledge it or die alone."
Not a book review
I just re-read The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald. The first time I read it was probably fifteen years ago, in high school, undoubtedly assigned to a class in an attempt to edify us about great American literature.
I could only remember two things about the book. First, it was boring. Incredibly, mind-bogglingly boring. And second, it had to do with rich people.
About a year ago, I attended an alumni event with a friend, and there they distributed complimentary copies of the novel. It was lying around one day and so I decided to re-read it for fun. This time around, I totally enjoyed it.
I could see why as a high schooler, I wouldn't be intrigued by or fully understand the book. I think when you're a middle-class to upper middle-class kid in the burbs, you have little idea what it means to be rich in the city, other than that you can wear nice clothes, drive a nice car, and live in a big house. But I think once you grow up and walk among the educated elite in a large city, you really meet people who are rich and who have formed their own ideas on the world and life by virtue of being rich.
There are various scenes in the book where the narrator, Nick, is hanging out with people who talk a lot without really saying anything. These people are rich (obviously) and well-educated. But the things they say are painfully vacuous and ignorant. Their lives are filled with nice homes and nice clothes, but are otherwise empty. I guess not much has changed since 1922.
I admit it is easy for people like me who are not rich to vilify the rich. I think F. Scott had a certain admiration and awe for the wealthy and their materialism; but at the same time a distaste for the vulgarity and ignorance. There was something romantic and yet very sad about the entire story. It really resonated with me.
In sum, I liked it.
I could only remember two things about the book. First, it was boring. Incredibly, mind-bogglingly boring. And second, it had to do with rich people.
About a year ago, I attended an alumni event with a friend, and there they distributed complimentary copies of the novel. It was lying around one day and so I decided to re-read it for fun. This time around, I totally enjoyed it.
I could see why as a high schooler, I wouldn't be intrigued by or fully understand the book. I think when you're a middle-class to upper middle-class kid in the burbs, you have little idea what it means to be rich in the city, other than that you can wear nice clothes, drive a nice car, and live in a big house. But I think once you grow up and walk among the educated elite in a large city, you really meet people who are rich and who have formed their own ideas on the world and life by virtue of being rich.
There are various scenes in the book where the narrator, Nick, is hanging out with people who talk a lot without really saying anything. These people are rich (obviously) and well-educated. But the things they say are painfully vacuous and ignorant. Their lives are filled with nice homes and nice clothes, but are otherwise empty. I guess not much has changed since 1922.
I admit it is easy for people like me who are not rich to vilify the rich. I think F. Scott had a certain admiration and awe for the wealthy and their materialism; but at the same time a distaste for the vulgarity and ignorance. There was something romantic and yet very sad about the entire story. It really resonated with me.
In sum, I liked it.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
I seeee you
Yesterday, a curious thing happened.
I came out of my elevator in my building, and walked into the lobby area. The lobby connects directly to the foyer, which is enclosed in glass and connects to the street exit. Inside the glass foyer, the doorman sits at his desk with his security monitors and ushers visitors and tenants in and out of the building.
As I said, I was walking into the lobby area. The doorman was walking from another area of the lobby and walked toward the foyer. He spotted me also walking toward the foyer. He opened the glass door and entered the foyer. I was one foot behind him. Instead of holding open the door, or even giving it an extra push so it would remain ajar, he let the door shut behind him.
In my face.
Then I opened the door and looked at him over the security desk. But he wasn't there. No, he walked as far into the corner behind the security desk as he could, and cowered in the corner to avoid looking at me.
Yes, ladies and gentleman, my doorman was hiding from me.
Let's summarize: (1) He closed the door in my face, knowing I was right behind him, and (2) he hid from me behind the security desk. I couldn't understand why, when in the past, he had always been nice to me. Also, I had contributed to the Holiday Fund that administered bonuses to the staff during the holidays, so I know it wasn't because I was Scrooge McTenant. So why the Doorman Diss?
Then I figured it out: The man's in love with me. Now bear with me for a second.
Clearly, he freaked out when he saw me - donned in my t-shirt and sweatpants, my hair swept up in a loose bun, my face in its pimpled glory. What was he to do in the presence of such beauty? At that moment, when he saw me, he completely forgot who he was or what he was supposed to do. So he did what any insecure man in love would do: He ran. He decided to run inside the glass foyer and pretend he didn't see anything. But oh no, the hot pimply sweatpants girl was coming this way! What to do? Hide! So, despite the fact that the area behind the security desk was literally 10 square feet, he found the furthest corner of the security area, and cowered. "Hopefully, she didn't see me," he undoubtedly thought to himself.
Oh but I did, Mr. Doorman. I did. And now I know the truth.
I came out of my elevator in my building, and walked into the lobby area. The lobby connects directly to the foyer, which is enclosed in glass and connects to the street exit. Inside the glass foyer, the doorman sits at his desk with his security monitors and ushers visitors and tenants in and out of the building.
As I said, I was walking into the lobby area. The doorman was walking from another area of the lobby and walked toward the foyer. He spotted me also walking toward the foyer. He opened the glass door and entered the foyer. I was one foot behind him. Instead of holding open the door, or even giving it an extra push so it would remain ajar, he let the door shut behind him.
In my face.
Then I opened the door and looked at him over the security desk. But he wasn't there. No, he walked as far into the corner behind the security desk as he could, and cowered in the corner to avoid looking at me.
Yes, ladies and gentleman, my doorman was hiding from me.
Let's summarize: (1) He closed the door in my face, knowing I was right behind him, and (2) he hid from me behind the security desk. I couldn't understand why, when in the past, he had always been nice to me. Also, I had contributed to the Holiday Fund that administered bonuses to the staff during the holidays, so I know it wasn't because I was Scrooge McTenant. So why the Doorman Diss?
Then I figured it out: The man's in love with me. Now bear with me for a second.
Clearly, he freaked out when he saw me - donned in my t-shirt and sweatpants, my hair swept up in a loose bun, my face in its pimpled glory. What was he to do in the presence of such beauty? At that moment, when he saw me, he completely forgot who he was or what he was supposed to do. So he did what any insecure man in love would do: He ran. He decided to run inside the glass foyer and pretend he didn't see anything. But oh no, the hot pimply sweatpants girl was coming this way! What to do? Hide! So, despite the fact that the area behind the security desk was literally 10 square feet, he found the furthest corner of the security area, and cowered. "Hopefully, she didn't see me," he undoubtedly thought to himself.
Oh but I did, Mr. Doorman. I did. And now I know the truth.
Monday, April 06, 2009
Tale of a Second Grade Nothing
The three of stood in line at the elementary school library: a black boy, Tyrone, a white girl, Stacy, and a yellow gal, me. Tyrone turned around toward me and began pulling his eyes sidways and diagonally, saying "ching chong ching chong!" He then burst into laughter at my chinkdom.
Stacy laughed a little. She then saw me standing there unaumused. "Hey, Yellow Gal," she said, "you should say to him, 'At least I'm not black!' "
"Really?" I said.
She said, "Come on! He made fun of you, and you're just gonna take it?!"
"Fine," I said.
Then Stacy tapped on Tyrone's shoulder. He turned around. "Yellow Gal has something to tell you."
"What?" he said glaring at me.
"At least I'm not black," I said.
He then exploded. "Why you gotta talk about my color? Did I talk about your color?"
"No, but you talked about my race--"
"DID I talk about your color?"
"No, but you talked about my race--"
"DID I TALK ABOUT --"
"Excuse me, is there a problem?" A librarian hovered over Tyrone, Stacy and me.
"No," we all said.
"Okay then," she said, and walked away, leaving us alone in silence.
This incident happened more than twenty years ago, and I still remember it pretty clearly. As I reflect upon this memory, I find it fascinating that it is so analogous - or perhaps applicable - to race relations today. "At least I'm not black"? Stacy was basically telling me to say "Yes, it sucks being a chink, but at least I'm not black." And I said it -- accepting my own inferiority but trying to assert some superiority over another race -- all under the lens of one blonde-haired blue-eyed white girl, who remained unscathed throughout this dialogue and division.
Perhaps a more sitcom ending could have been Tyrone responding to my racist statement "At least I'm not black," with "What's wrong with being black?" And I could have said "What's wrong with being Asian?" And then all of a sudden all three of us would get it, and then we'd throw our arms thrown over each other's shoulders, the frame would freeze on that image, and the studio audience would clap and the credits would roll over our faces with the theme music.
I guess life ain't like an 80s sitcom. But, I'd like to think that we're making headway. It is, after all, 2009, not 1986.
Stacy laughed a little. She then saw me standing there unaumused. "Hey, Yellow Gal," she said, "you should say to him, 'At least I'm not black!' "
"Really?" I said.
She said, "Come on! He made fun of you, and you're just gonna take it?!"
"Fine," I said.
Then Stacy tapped on Tyrone's shoulder. He turned around. "Yellow Gal has something to tell you."
"What?" he said glaring at me.
"At least I'm not black," I said.
He then exploded. "Why you gotta talk about my color? Did I talk about your color?"
"No, but you talked about my race--"
"DID I talk about your color?"
"No, but you talked about my race--"
"DID I TALK ABOUT --"
"Excuse me, is there a problem?" A librarian hovered over Tyrone, Stacy and me.
"No," we all said.
"Okay then," she said, and walked away, leaving us alone in silence.
This incident happened more than twenty years ago, and I still remember it pretty clearly. As I reflect upon this memory, I find it fascinating that it is so analogous - or perhaps applicable - to race relations today. "At least I'm not black"? Stacy was basically telling me to say "Yes, it sucks being a chink, but at least I'm not black." And I said it -- accepting my own inferiority but trying to assert some superiority over another race -- all under the lens of one blonde-haired blue-eyed white girl, who remained unscathed throughout this dialogue and division.
Perhaps a more sitcom ending could have been Tyrone responding to my racist statement "At least I'm not black," with "What's wrong with being black?" And I could have said "What's wrong with being Asian?" And then all of a sudden all three of us would get it, and then we'd throw our arms thrown over each other's shoulders, the frame would freeze on that image, and the studio audience would clap and the credits would roll over our faces with the theme music.
I guess life ain't like an 80s sitcom. But, I'd like to think that we're making headway. It is, after all, 2009, not 1986.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
L as in label
I just watched the pilot episode of The L Word, which seems to focus on the lives of several lesbian/bisexual professional women in L.A. It was only the pilot, and it was recommended to me by Netflix, due to my Sex & The City fanaticism and my favorable rating of the movie "Saving Face" (a film about a Chinese-American lesbian in NY). I wonder how accurately the show portrays 'real' lesbians. While I found S&tC entertaining, I don't think the majority of single professional women fall neatly into the characters and plot lines of Charlotte, Miranda, Carrie or Samantha. Part of me suspects that The L Word tries to sensationalize lesbians in L.A. the same way S&tC sensationalizes being single and straight in N.Y. Both shows seem to boast a cast of beautiful sexy smart women in a big city, just trying to be happy.
One of the story lines in The L Word focused on one girl, who was a transplant from the Midwest, and then 'discovers' that she is gay. I found it fascinating that a girl didn't know until she was in her twenties that she was gay. After some googling, I realized that there are a number of resources for people who discover later on in life that they're gay. I know it's nearly impossible for me to imagine because I've been straight my entire life. But I can't imagine what it's like to think you're attracted to one gender and only have sex with that one gender, and then later realize well into your twenties that you are attracted to another gender. I can't imagine how difficult it must be, and almost traumatic or shocking to one's identity.
Another interesting characteristic of the show was its lens: its focus on the fact that the characters are Lesbian. In a strange way though, I sort of felt like that by grouping them into this category, it sort of dehumanized them. Yes, they eat food and have sex and like good books and have friends. But the show seemed to reduce them to "Lesbian." When a woman is drinking a cocktail, it is a Lesbian drinking a cocktail. When a woman is reading a book, it is a Lesbian reading a book. I guess while watching it, I couldn't shake that label off.
The only parallels I can personally draw are from being an Asian American (not white) and a female (not male). Does my race or gender define my identity? Or do they only define it insofar as they limit or expand my life experiences? If I see a show with a woman drinking a cocktail, is it a Woman or just a person who happens to be female? I think different Asian American females including myself allow our race and gender define us on a wide and varying spectrum. Some Asian Americans no doubt find their race merely tangential to their identity, while others find it fundamental to their identity.
Anyhow, as a straight girl, I am curious about the gay experience in this day and age - no doubt analogous to the non-Asian in an Asian American history museum who is curious about a different culture. Maybe the show aims to humanize rather than categorize or sensationalize. And perhaps it aspires to enlighten 90% of the population that gays, as humans, are human and thus have the same desires - the need to connect, have good friends, have good sex, and find love.
As a side note, I asked the Boyfriend if he's heard of the show and if so, if he thought it was good. His review of the show: "Hot chicks having hot sex. Awesome show."
Yeah.
One of the story lines in The L Word focused on one girl, who was a transplant from the Midwest, and then 'discovers' that she is gay. I found it fascinating that a girl didn't know until she was in her twenties that she was gay. After some googling, I realized that there are a number of resources for people who discover later on in life that they're gay. I know it's nearly impossible for me to imagine because I've been straight my entire life. But I can't imagine what it's like to think you're attracted to one gender and only have sex with that one gender, and then later realize well into your twenties that you are attracted to another gender. I can't imagine how difficult it must be, and almost traumatic or shocking to one's identity.
Another interesting characteristic of the show was its lens: its focus on the fact that the characters are Lesbian. In a strange way though, I sort of felt like that by grouping them into this category, it sort of dehumanized them. Yes, they eat food and have sex and like good books and have friends. But the show seemed to reduce them to "Lesbian." When a woman is drinking a cocktail, it is a Lesbian drinking a cocktail. When a woman is reading a book, it is a Lesbian reading a book. I guess while watching it, I couldn't shake that label off.
The only parallels I can personally draw are from being an Asian American (not white) and a female (not male). Does my race or gender define my identity? Or do they only define it insofar as they limit or expand my life experiences? If I see a show with a woman drinking a cocktail, is it a Woman or just a person who happens to be female? I think different Asian American females including myself allow our race and gender define us on a wide and varying spectrum. Some Asian Americans no doubt find their race merely tangential to their identity, while others find it fundamental to their identity.
Anyhow, as a straight girl, I am curious about the gay experience in this day and age - no doubt analogous to the non-Asian in an Asian American history museum who is curious about a different culture. Maybe the show aims to humanize rather than categorize or sensationalize. And perhaps it aspires to enlighten 90% of the population that gays, as humans, are human and thus have the same desires - the need to connect, have good friends, have good sex, and find love.
As a side note, I asked the Boyfriend if he's heard of the show and if so, if he thought it was good. His review of the show: "Hot chicks having hot sex. Awesome show."
Yeah.
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