I Know You Know I Know

In the Bay Area, there are over 400 Asian restaurants. I just looked it up on sfgate.com. I’ve often walked by little neighborhood Mom-and-Pop joints and wondered if they were any good. It’s a well-known fact that if there are a decent amount of Asian folks chowing down inside, it’s probably a safe bet. Last Saturday night, my family decided to meet at Three Brothers from China, a Chinese restaurant in Pleasant Hill, near Sunvalley Mall. We were celebrating my sister A.B.’s 41^st birthday. They do a mean Honey Walnut Prawn dish that I highly doubt is eaten in China, as it is flavored heavily with mayonnaise, but since I’ve never been to China, I can’t really know for sure. In any case, there’s always a fair amount of Asian people in there—a safe bet.

We’d been there before and since we had an “in” (my brother-in-law knew the owner), we always were treated extra-special-nice, often scoring a free sweet red bean dessert after dinner. The northern California contingent of mi familia showed up in full force. My oldest sister (A.J.), Moms, Pops, Brother-in-law (B.O.L.), the birthday girl (A.B.) and her daughters, Big S, and L’il S. I sat beside my S.O., with my back against the wall, imagining myself to be a steely-eyed gambler in the Old West, always watching the door.

I thought to myself, Who am I kidding? I can’t bluff worth a lick. Earlier, I toyed with the idea of downplaying the news of my impending freedom (call it unemployment, if you’d rather) to my family, who I knew judged my actions to be less than wise. Could I possibly contain my emotional grab bag of terror and excitement and keep them from rallying together and issuing a group finger-wag? Could I possibly bluff them into thinking I’m cool, calm and collected about this whole quitting-my-job-business?

They already knew, it wasn’t a secret, just my first family “public appearance” since the event. I told A.J. immediately after I had given notice at work and assumed (correctly) that the news would trickle down. Later, I remember speaking to A.B. about it only to immediately regret it. “I should have kept it a secret.” I told her. “You can’t keep anything a secret in this family. You may think you can but we would have found out.” She replied so matter-of-factly that it pissed me off. But in truth, I conceded she was right. Secrets have a way of spilling out in my family. The tricky part, though, is that when we find out a secret, we won’t let on we know. It turns into a game of Who’s-Gonna-Fess-Up-First? Currently, I am wringing the shit of out my hands, sitting on a big secret about one of my sisters. And no, I wouldn’t tell you, even if you promised you wouldn’t tell a soul.

Toward the end of the evening, I scanned the dinner table, looking into the eyes of every single family member there. I knew in my heart, that even if I could act as though I wasn’t terrified I’d fall flat on my face, they would never let on they knew. In some weird way, if they were to acknowledge the fear and doubt they see me trying to hide, they’d be legitimizing its power over me. That’s something they’d never knowingly do. I know they know I’m scared shitless. But they know me well enough to trust that I’ll always land on my feet and that’s good enough for them. My family’s a pretty safe bet that way.

Kumquat Coulis

I had a good food weekend. Come Monday morning, when you’re begrudgingly reacquainting yourself with your 5-ft by 5-ft cube and nodding hello to your neighbors’ heads as they pop up and down from their cube walls, the question “What'd you do this weekend?” inevitably arises.

I’m sure you’re familiar with the answers. The kid weekend: “Oh, I was team mom and my kids had three basketball games.” The house project weekend: “I re-tiled my bathroom.” The errands-only weekend: “I did sixteen loads of laundry.” The banana slug weekend: “I rented ten DVDs and stayed home.” But the good food weekend is close to the top of my list of favorites.

Friday night, my friend C hosted a “girls’ night in”. It was obvious C had put some time and consideration into making M and I feel at home. We had three courses with two different wines. The cheese course included a selection of French cheeses (and a Spaniard): double-cream brie with green peppercorns, camembert, roquefort, chevre and manchego with sweet baguette, walnut levain and water crackers. C made Boeuf Bourguignon that took four hours to braise. Oh, it’s pronounced “buff” not “beef”, you philistine. And coconut sorbet with kumquat coulis for dessert. Fresh kumquats have only just recently made it into my fruit repertoire but never in its coulis incarnation all tangy and sweet…sublime!

C’s home did not present the cool, modern aesthetic you may associate with a woman of her sophisticated taste. Bold yet warm colors dominated her walls; every piece of furniture and art had a story that started with, “a woman I met in Singapore…” or “my brother and I took those photos…” Large floor pillows beckoned guests to stretch out, lay down and prop their heads up with a bent arm. As we lingered over a bottle of Bordeaux, our conversation flowed languorously. The evening’s flow chart of topics sprung with spokes of conversation that surprised even me. Each time I get together with C and M, they manage to nudge my perspective just a little bit wider than it was before. That night, we covered some serious girl-talk ground. It was nearly midnight by the time M and I slipped out of C’s comfy cocoon. I drove back to Oakland with the heater blasting, sadly aware of the delicious wine buzz slowly dissipating from my system.

I love good food. I have been known to bookmark certain restaurant’s websites just to track when my favorite dessert (chocolate budino with vanilla ice cream) makes it on their rotating menu. I can sit for hours leafing through beautifully photographed cookbooks, imagining what small miracles I can produce in the kitchen. I can keep a circle of dark chocolate between the roof of my mouth and my tongue for a good two minutes, savoring its crazy-good mouthfeel. I look forward to an evening’s promise of gastronomical adventures almost as much as the company I am about to keep.

Almost. In the case of C and M, the company will always be the main course.

Breathing Easier

For the last two days, I have been conscious of my breathing. A faint asthma-like wheeze had developed in my chest since my Valentine’s Day car wreck. I suspected that my belabored breath had something to do with the accident but later I decided it was due to good ol’ fashioned life stress. I had made my mind up that I would quit my job (without a new one lined up) and give notice to my boss at the end of the day. Because that’s when people quit jobs or fire people, right? At 4:45 pm on Fridays. It lessens the chances of drama being played out with freshly fired employees shoving picture frames and dying plants into cardboard boxes. And, if you quit too early, the water-cooler chatter about who’s just quit may incite the malcontents to follow suit and cry “Revolution!”

In my attempt to quiet the gurgling in my chest, I bumped up my 5:00 pm target quitting time and sent my boss an instant message at noon. The conversation took about eight minutes. A company veteran of eighteen years (unheard of!), employed straight out of high school, this Company was the sole source of income for this woman for little more than half her life. Amazingly, for the most part, she remained bitter-free. I imagine my boss was a World War I sergeant in a past life. I picture her in full soldier regalia, face dirty and determined, dragging the half-alive bodies of her subordinates into fox holes, dodging bullets and grenades and crawling through circles of barbed wire. But in this life, she sat across from me, a woman so petite you could put her in your pocket, her head tilted to the left and the corner of her mouth slightly turned up. “It’s really okay,” she says. “You need to find out what makes you happy.” Unbelievable, I thought, she saw this coming a mile away. I am amazed at my own transparency.

For the last few months at work, my body spoke what I could not. My mother would have been greatly disappointed with the slumpy posture I adopted and she would have been appalled (but not really surprised) at the Grumpy-Gus face I wore, as I dragged my chunky black heels through the cube maze day after day. I rarely took off my coat, always ready to bolt out the door. K, my cube neighbor to the right, was a sixteen-year veteran of the Company. She had designed a diorama depicting her life story using 3-in picture frames, company plaques, commemorative cup-and-saucer sets and refrigerator magnets on the shelf above her cube. The only “decoration” I had in my cube was a $2.99 plastic wall clock from Target. I never really made myself comfortable.

It’s 12:08 pm and I walk out of my boss’s office, relieved of the letter of resignation still warm off the company printer, and breathing much easier, thank you.

Monkey Wrench

Remember that movie 9 to 5? It was an early ‘80s movie that starred Jane Fonda, Dolly Parton, and the great Lily Tomlin. They played administrative assistants (They were called “secretaries” back then. Can you believe it? Crazy!). They kidnap their miserable boss, keep him captive and in his absence, proceed to give the office a visual and professional makeover. They give the joint a “woman’s touch”, painting the walls warm colors and sprucing up the place with ferns and other foliage. At the same time, they increase their office’s productivity, start up work-share programs and even provide the holy grail (to this day) for working parents—an onsite child care facility.

Dolly Parked rocked. Lily Tomlin ruled. Even Jane Fonda smoked the ganja. It must have imprinted a feminist sensibility on my ten-year-old psyche because ever since then I have always harbored a desire to stick it to the Man. I delight in poking, prodding and digging my digits into the Man at any opportunity.

“The Man” are the cops who ransacked our house when I was eleven searching for evidence. Keep looking, motherfuckers. He’s also my English teacher who told me I shouldn’t take my AP English exam because if I failed it would bring the schools test scores down. Bitch. He’s my high school counselor who told me the only way I’d get into UC Berkeley would be if they still hadn’t reached their quota for minority enrollment. Asshole. The Man struts around my office, Executive-Ken-like, brandishing his race, sex and good looks as if it were an all-access back stage pass at a rock concert. I just wanna bash your face in.

Sometimes, I’ll stick it to the Man in little ways. I won’t fast-food it. Ever. Period. Have you read Fast Food Nation? The fast food chains and the industries that support them are willing to sacrifice the health of the world for, okay, trillions of dollars. They’re creating a lot of little Happy Meal junkies who’ll grow up to need insulin shots, angioplasty and gastric bypass surgeries. No, I’m not helping the Man in that effort; he’s not getting my $1.99 for my Burger Royale with Cheese.

In my mind, tomorrow, I’m sticking it to him in a big way. The Man wants me to be beholden to him for giving me a job and wants my sweat, blood and tears in exchange. Well, guess what, Man? That’s an unfair barter and I’m not playing. I’m out. I’d rather take my chances and hustle to pay the rent than feel like someone’s extorting my life away. Tomorrow, I’m firing the Man and giving him a pink slip, but most likely, he won’t even notice I’m gone. He’ll just notice a blip in the system, look up long enough to grab a replacement drone flying down the conveyor belt, then reset the machine to keep the cogs turning. But one day, the monkey wrench I will have left there so innocently wedged, deep in the machine, will have rusted. It will have caused millions of dollars of irreparable damage. So much damage, in fact, that their shareholders will lose faith in them and force them into filing the largest Chapter 13 bankruptcy in the history of the world, after which, the highest court in the land rules in favor of them righting the wrongs they have inflicted upon the country by paying out billions of dollars in reparations to every single person they’ve ever affected in any negative way. Wow…all from little ol’ me. Poke-poke.

Off-kilter

The last few weeks I’ve been waking up before the alarm. 5:48 am, 6:02 am; this morning, 5:56 am. It is not as if I have been getting to bed any earlier, usually around 11 pm or midnight. Sometimes, I will feel awake enough to get up and out the door and get my run out of the way for the day. Sometimes, I’ll feel alert enough to sit and write and get my blog entry done before heading to work. But most mornings, I just lay quietly, waiting for my sleepy body to catch up with my wide-awake eyes.

Lately, I’ve been feeling…off-kilter. February has been an eventful month in my highly-regulated and predictable routine of a life which I have so carefully designed. Things have happened as of late that have given me pause. Not a “pause” as in a Joycian epiphany-scaled pause or a giant-fluorescent-light-bulb-turning-on-above-my-head-type-of-pause. Wouldn’t that be convenient? For me, a random string of events have slowly unraveled to reveal…what? I’m not sure. I squint my eyes to try and make some sense of my life right now but my feelings about the last few weeks still hover over my head like fireflies impossible to catch.

It’s 2:30 in the morning and I slipped out of bed because I hadn’t submitted an entry for the day yet. Somedays, you just have to wait to see what happens. Today was one of those days. I wanted to wait and see how my day and evening would unfold before I sat and finished this entry. But now it’s already 3:25 am and it is officially Thursday, February 24. A lifetime of watching 22-minute episodic television has lured me into thinking the chapters in our lives should have a denouement. Shoot! I know better than that. People spend years trying to figure out their lives and it’s ridiculous of me to expect answers…now, right now, please, for the love of Pete!

We are imperfect creatures. We want, we desire, we disappoint, we struggle, we question, we ruminate, we plan, we act, we succeed, we fail, we love, we hate. It would be so easy to slip into a self-imposed paralysis, for fear of…everything. If I was to take a piece of paper and split it down the middle, one side being “Things I’m Unsure Of” and the other side, “Things I’m Sure Of”, I would come up with the list of a hundred “unsure things” and maybe one or two “sure things”. Sure things rarely happen in real life. But when you do come across them, like the love of good friends or the unbelievable luck you had in ending up in a loving family, you’ll want to hold that knowledge close to your heart.

Do you really need that much more?

GUEST CONTRIBUTORS - BETH and JOANY

Readers, don't be surprised I am sitting here at almost 4 in the morning because look at the precious gems I discover when checking email! My good friends, Beth and Joany, have sent me pieces they've written to post for the blog and I am glad to bring it to you, verbatim. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did. If you ever have the need to express yourself in a semi-public-private way (because c'mon, it's just us here), please send me something. I'll gladly post it!

GUEST CONTRIBUTOR - BETH

Bittersweet chocolate

I had a premonition it was coming before I actually knew it. Like when your intuition or gut tells you something but you choose to brush if off as paranoia, like when see your own shadow behind you because the moon is making a reflection, startling you for a minute and you laugh it away but you still find your self looking over your shoulder. I could feel and sense that the change was coming even before I was ready to accept the situation. I tried not to see the changes in my girlfriend’s body language or the furrow in her eyebrows and her slightly lower eyes that were usually bigger especially when she clowned around doing her ghetto fabulous dance moves that always made me laugh in appreciation while I felt like a klutzy, white girl.

In the past few weeks she seemed to be burrowing more deeply in her orange pea coat, like she was protecting herself from the bullshit corporate politics, possible racism and doldrums while creating a cocoon around her in the same coat to keep in the things that make women survive. Protecting her inner dreams and hopes that cannot be destroyed by boredom, complacency or a disappointment in not hearing from a company she hoped to interview with. Surviving a corporate office where she never really belonged, which crushed her creativity, but she made the best of it always knowing she had the power to change it, to change her destiny. She gave me a gift, a gift that I can fly too. I have so much respect for this woman.

All the women in my life that lift me to a higher place that sometimes I just cannot see until they give me a boost so that I can see the beauty on the other side. Fearful that the other side will be barren until I place my feet into their palms as they heave me over the side and I roll, laughing and landing in plush grass and fragrant flowers. It’s an extraordinary gift in my opinion, which I hope to never take for granted that we all take turns giving each other a boost when we most need it. And there is always one of us on the side to catch us if we fall!

I have been feeling a shift in my own consciousness in which I made a decision to be willing to open myself up to the possibility of trusting that I am and will be taken care of. Taking a leap from fear to faith is a difficult one. But I know that I am being guided by my good friends and I certainly trust and learn from them. I have sense of peace recently that I used to struggle with constantly. But how can I live with such uncertainly when I am surrounded by women of integrity, kindness and love. So instead of making this a pity party for myself which I could easily do knowing that I will not have Lucy there everyday to listen to my pessimism (and foul mouth), I embrace and honor her friendship as all my friends. I have faith that Lucy will find and get just what she needs allowing her to write and be creative which gives me the courage to write as well and not be afraid to share my own ideas while knowing that my feelings of vulnerability are safe.

Even though she will no longer be my partner in crime at work, I’ll be sure to see her down at kickboxing (an easy guess) and swing that fucking stick at her while she gracefully twists it out my hand and turns my arm into a pretzel. Oh you know you have it coming–a couple of right round houses to your leg–but no fair hitting me with the stick until my shoulder comes out of the sling. Seriously sista I will selfishly miss you. You made the grind and monotony of work a little more tolerable. By the way, does this mean no more fat free scones from Peets and who the fuck am I going to kick under the table during those snoozing meeting? Oh Lucy – will I ever get my Hot Sex book back from you now? I’ll trade you for The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe! Hey Sister, thanks for holding my hand so many times when I was afraid to walk alone. XOXO Beth

GUEST CONTRIBUTOR – JOANY

Olympian

After work today I went for a run from my house, up wildwood road to the piedmont high school track. It’s one of the nicest tracks in the bay area. Several top athletes train there and tonight Regina Jacobs was finishing her work out about the time that I got there. She's a tiny thing (I’m 5’9” and 150 #, most women are tiny in comparison to me) and moves like a wave on the ocean, as though the sole purpose of the earth's creation was for her to run on it. The stadium lights were thankfully turned off tonight lest I be even more humiliated with full exposure. It was safe to run because there was light cast from the parking lot and street lights and several other people were on the track. Yet, there was also a feeling of seclusion and anonymity because of the way the darkness eliminated the details of individual features. So I fantasized that I could pass for Regina Jacobs, albeit a little slower, until someone got close enough to see the details. Who’s gonna notice a five - inch and 50 - pound discrepancy on a night like tonight?

As I was lollygagging and slogging along on my next to last lap, I heard "coming behind you". My reaction was to look over my right shoulder, which meant that I veered into the left lane. Again, she said "behind you", as she then passed me on the left as though I was a power bar moving through your colon.

It’s reminiscent of the time in 1994 that I shook the hand of Mohammed Ali or recently when I said hi and shook hands with Andre Ward. They’ll never remember me amidst the hoards of people they meet in their lives, but they’re athletes, and I’ve admired and honored athletes my whole life. I love their bodies and respect them because of the discipline and training that it took to get where they are in their individual sports. Tonight, my excitement was that I was passed by Regina Jacobs. I’m thinking, “She only lapped me twice in my three miles here. Of course, it's nearly pitch black and she's probably been here for XX hours already. But hey! She knows a challenge when she sees one.” Oy vey! I guess that’s what’s kept me going all these years: the hope and desire to be an Olympian, if only in my mind.

I Wanna Be An Asian Action Film Star!

“The next Asian action star will be….my friend P!” Years from now, I will be able to say that I knew P when he was a still a struggling checker/coffee jockey at Trader Joe’s/Starbucks. He’s auditioning today for an action movie but come to think of it, I’m not sure if he’s auditioning for an Asian action movie or your standard Jerry Bruckheimer action movie. P happens to be of the Chinese variety and I have chop-socky action movies on my mind because S.O. and I went to see Ong-Bak yesterday at the AMC gazillion-plex in Emeryville.

Ong-Bak is about a country bumpkin (who happens to be Muay Thai kickboxer of the highest ass-kicking order) who ventures into big bad Bangkok to retrieve a stolen Buddha head that apparently holds the key to his villages’ prosperity. It was released a couple of years ago and is finally now being shown in the U.S. The delay for its U.S. release is typical of most Asian action movies, I suspect distributors want to make sure it’s a moneymaker before issuing a wider release. Oh, don’t get S.O. started on Asian action film stars.

I understand his beef. It seems that all Asians in movies have super human, wire-walking, gravity-defying abilities. Make no doubt, I’m a huge fan of the “sword-and-silk” genre (i.e. House of Flying Daggers, Hero, and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon) but it’s true, you don’t see the talky, indie movies with Asians in lead roles. You won’t see an Asian version of Garden State at your local movie house any time soon. I ask the question but I know the answer. If you put an Asian actor in a movie and not address her ethnicity at all, it leaves a taste of inauthenticity in your mouth. You’ll wonder why no one brought it up and suddenly, the whole movie’s integrity is jeopardized because…it’s an issue in real life! A person’s ethnic background IS an issue. Honest to God, I wish it wasn’t, but it is. People deal with big, bold issues everyday--you hear someone say something so racist and bigoted, straight out of 1950 and it makes your jaw drop and renders you speechless. But it also can hit you from the side, slyly, when you hear someone refer to Filipinos as being “shifty”. I think to myself, Should I be offended? It sets off a dialogue in my mind, “Well, I do know some shifty Filipinos…” “But you can’t label a whole race of people as shifty…” “But look at the history of corruption in the Philippines…” See? Someone’s off-the-cuff statement made me disparage my entire race! It’s no wonder why an undercurrent of cultural self-loathing insinuates itself throughout my psychology.

So, yes, I find it unfortunate that female Asian actors rarely find work outside of playing domestics, prostitutes, superheroes; their male counterparts busy, too, perfecting either the super-nerd or super-hero character. Hollywood seems like they can only process our Asian faces in one, two, three ways, max. That’s fine…for now. In the meantime, I’ll continue to support projects and movies that feature Asians in a (hopefully) positive light. If that means paying $9 to see Michelle Yeoh fly-run effortlessly over rooftops, I’ll gladly fork over the dough.

My Trusty Honda

I said good bye to my 1995 Honda Civic today. My adjuster, Randy, called me this morning and told me, “I’ve judged the car to be a total loss. It wasn’t even close.” Dang. He had visited my car at Baron Von Frien’s autobody shop in Berkeley and judged it not worth repairing, a total loss. My car, my trusty little car for the last ten years, was sentenced to the scrap heap.

S.O. and I went down to Baron Von Frien’s to collect my possessions from my Honda. With a couple of white garbage bags and a cardboard box in tow, we began the task of sorting through the peculiar mix of junk and precious mementos that found its way inside my trunk, in the glove compartment and in random pockets and slots of my car.

The functional. Emergency car kit. Contents include jumper cables, flashlight, flares. Plastic, duffel bag with more car stuff. Bungee cords, maps, motor oil with funnel, towel. Extra box of organizational, wire cubes. Intended to bring some semblance of order to my closet in anticipation of the arrival of the S.O.’s stuff. The recreational. A variety of CDs earmarked for trade but never making it to Amoeba. A small representation includes Arrested Development’s 3 Years 5 Months & 2 Days in the Life of…. The System’s Don’t Disturb this Groove, Aswad’s Greatest Hits. More CDs that better represent my recent taste in music, ones I’m not embarrassed to admit I own. Joss Stone’s Mind, Body and Soul, the Isley Brother’s Greatest Hits, Jill Scott’s Beautifully Human. A Radio Shack brand tape to CD adapter, rendered useless when my car radio’s digital display went dim. A box cutter. A Philips head screwdriver.

The nutritional. A box of Lo-Carb Solutions protein bars, chocolate brownie flavored. Unopened. A box of Atkins Advantage bars, Mocha crisp flavored. Half-opened. Kept in the trunk of my car because of a need for a well-timed post-work, pre-workout snack. And, because I have, in the past, demonstrated poor judgement with chocolate-flavored items stored in my kitchen.

The sentimental. Renderings depicting Disney princesses, dolphins, seals, flowers and houses, me, rainbows and salmon dinners. Most common medium would be Crayola crayons and colored pencils. Artists include Samantha and Sydney, now ages nine and seven; works recovered from my car include pieces from their younger selves, as early as age 6 for Sam and age 4 for Syd. A coin purse shaped like a cat head from Olivia’s trip to Japan.

The recoverable. A factory model in-dash radio. A 6-CD changer mounted in the trunk. Two JBL front door side speakers. The S.O. has designs on these items, being as his car was stripped clean of any music-enabling equipment months ago. The screwdriver and box cutter came in quite handy.

The unexpected. Three pillows. A variety of used medical books. A microbiology textbook. A pocket guide on nursing. A green binder containing a study on cultural sensitivity in the Lao Community.

My S.O. says to toss his pillows. I find myself feeling a little relieved because I take this to mean he’s planning on sticking around for a while, and that pleases me. As I move the rest of his stuff into my “keep” box, I realize how lucky I am to have walked away from this accident essentially without a scratch. Wish I could say the same for my Honda.

Food Coma at Ranch 99

For the uninitiated, the Pacific East West Mall in El Cerrito is Ground Zero for all kinds of Asians. The Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Vietnamese, Filipino and a host of other Asian flavors congregate, eat, shop and hang out there. We suck down mango-flavored bubble teas from thick straws, slurp up cheap bowls of pho and pick out bean-filled pastries from the shelves that cover the walls of the Chinese bakery inside the mall. S.O. and I cruised the parking lot, looking in vain for a spot to park my Ford Escort rental car. After fifteen minutes, I was ready to settle for any space in a yellow, white, or green zone, the lot maxed out with an inordinate number of Hondas, Toyotas and Lexuses.

Ranch 99 is the grocery store that anchors the mall. Since it’s an Asian store, instead of getting two choices of rice to buy, you get twenty. You may be accustomed to buying whole roasted chickens or have a sandwich made for you at the deli section of your local grocery store. Ranch 99’s “prepared food section” sells ducks and chickens hanging from hooks; the counter across the way sells tripe stew, among other intestinal delicacies of cows and pigs (over rice, of course).

Yes, we are standing in that line. S.O. waits patiently for his Stewed Pork Taiwanese-style over rice. It comes with spongy tofu, a whole egg and some type of preserved greens. (“Excellent!”). I’m craving animal protein and have reached my carb-limit for the day so I order a whole soy sauce chicken. The man behind the counter asks if I want it chopped. I nod my head yes and he proceeds to unhook a caramel-colored chicken from the dozen or so birds hanging by their necks behind the glass. Deftly and quickly, he hacks that sucker into bite-sized, uniform pieces on the large wooden block that looks like a cross-sectioned slice of a tree. I think to myself that my dream kitchen will have a butcher block just like that one. I’m sure that block of his has seen a lot of action.

Two dozen or so teenagers with Styrofoam containers (“3-items-over-rice”) descend on the small cafeteria setup just as we settle into our lunch. It must be an Asian church group or something like that because there were two adults (who didn’t look much older than the kids) doling out bottled waters; they were the last to sit and eat.

A collective steamy cloud rises, as the kids open up their containers. I look around and take an inventory of what everybody is eating for no particular reason; it’s just what I do anytime I go out to eat. The young chick next to S.O. is a slip of a girl, her eyes rimmed harshly in black liner and her lips, freshly glossed, about to get glossier from her lunch. Chow mein noodles, deep-fried crab croquettes, chicken drummettes, battered, fried and covered in a smoky-smelling sauce. Over rice. She also has a large eggy-looking bun wrapped in plastic next to her. For dessert, maybe?

I, being the age that I am, and knowing what I know from the countless articles and websites I read on nutrition and food, can recite the rules (sorry, I mean guidelines) they tell you should follow for a happy, healthy life. Don’t get me wrong—I am not a “hater”. So I can say this from experience and completely without bitterness, One day, her metabolism will catch up with her...

My S.O. and I eat until we’re just a little too full and I consolidate my leftovers into his Styrofoam bowl. He and I are both feeling kind of drunk from the meal and we make a pact to talk ourselves out of it next time coming to Ranch 99 sounds like a good idea. We bounce out of there, our thirty-something metabolisms, rapping us on the ass.

Rocket Man

My S.O. has agreed to carry a rocket on his back during the Chinese New Year’s Parade. I reluctantly sit inside a Starbucks on 1^st and Market Streets in San Francisco. Outside, it’s pouring. Inside the belly of my enemy, it’s warm and dry. I am temporarily placated by the free cup of coffee the Starbucks “barista” has accidentally poured. This parade will happen, rain or shine; it’s a San Francisco tradition. I have tried to convince my S.O. to BART back to Oakland with me, but for some reason he feels obligated to walk the mile and a half parade route with a rocket on his back. I try and convince him to be a gong bearer instead but I think he has his heart set on carrying the rocket. The Lao Association (San Francisco chapter) is a small, group of individuals dedicated to keeping Lao culture alive. I admire their dedication to their cause. If it were me, even the promise of down-home Filipino cooking at the end of the parade route would not provide enough incentive for me to walk a mile and a half in the rain with a rocket strapped to my back.

In college, I never even attended one PAA meeting. That’s “Pilipino American Association”. Pilipino, with a “P”. Somewhere along the line, the “f” sound made its way into the mutt language of Taglish (English and Taglog), even though there is no “f” sound in Tagalog. My Mom calls my Pops, “Prank” for “Frank”. I never really ran with the politico-Filipino set in college. They’d all hang out at Sproule Plaza, passing out flyers and being pro-Pilipino. Fatima, Charles and Amy were my Filipino friends. They were a year or two older than me and I met them, not through the student Filipino association, but because we all worked at the student-run store on campus selling Cal-themed sweatshirts and baseball caps. They’d invite me to attend; I’d politely decline. I wasn’t a “joiner” in college but now looking back I regret not going to at least one. At the very least, I could have swapped adobo recipes or found out where the best turo-turo Filipino joints were.

We take advantage of a reprieve from the rain that has pounded down all day and step out from the protection of my new best friend, Starbucks. Market and 1^st streets are the main staging areas for the parade. Beautiful, young asian faces are everywhere. Rooster-headed children and pretty, teenaged girls in Asiatic costumes are corralled and set in formation by adults wielding digital cameras and whistles. A float with a giant gold Buddha waits for the signal to move forward. I wonder how the dragon troupes wearing only T-shirts and pants will survive the cold, wet weather as they wind down Market St. A heavy wool coat and an oversized umbrella doesn’t seem enough protection for me, as I huddle as close to my S.O. as possible. In a move that belies his mid-western constitution, my S.O. has wisely chosen to skip marching in the parade, opting instead to be a spectator. He walks, rocket-less, along side me, as we weave through groups and troupes waiting to take their place in the spotlight.

"Cherry Plum. To Prevent Losing Control."

At 3:00 pm this afternoon, I have an appointment with a chiropractor. I had a vehicular mishap earlier this week and consequently, my body, little by little, is unleashing all sorts of neat ticks, twitches, aches and pains. This particular chiropractor came highly recommended by a couple of women at work who’ve been seeing him for quite some time. I’m a little worried that this may be the beginning of a long, rocky relationship. I’m worried that I won’t know how to break up with him once I get what I want. I’m worried that it might get a little weird.

He’s not my first one, though. I went to see a female chiropractor that worked out of her home in the Diamond district of Oakland a few years ago. The circumstances under which I came to need her services were not as dramatic as a car accident. I think I just bent down funny one day and couldn’t straighten up. Ah! Don’t you love getting older? One side of her house she had converted to her office and exam room and the other was her living space. You’d walk through the side entrance and enter a little reception area, complete with a small counter, chairs and copies of Sunset and Highlight magazines. She had a small water feature on the counter. This one had a little bearded Asian man with a fishing pole.

The walls were texturized a butterscotch-yellow to convey a warm and homey feeling. So very HGTV! Is that Yanni playing over the speakers? “Yanni” has come to mean “New Age music” like “Oreo” means chocolate wafer cookie with white cream filling. The room smelled of lavender. She was a middle-aged, blondish woman, soft around the edges. She reminded me a bit of Linda McCartney, if Linda had eaten refined carbohydrates. She was a little hippy-dippy, if you had’t already guessed.

She had me fill out a new patient form that had the usual medical history questions. Do you smoke? Do you drink? Allergies? Previous medical conditions? I quickly ticked off boxes and filled in the blanks. No. No. Hay fever. None. The next few questions were harder to answer. Vaginal or cesarean birth? Were forceps involved in pulling you out? Were you delivered at a medical facility or home birthed? I write in “Can’t remember, need to ask mother.” But, I seriously doubt my mother would remember either.

The exam lasted a little more than an hour. She told me to envision a bright fuchsia dot, floating over my neck and think of the word “family”. “Concentrate on feeling of the word, without judgement.” Okay. She gave me a pair of tricked-out Mary Janes, black shoes that had the front half cut off so all you really wore were the heel portion of the shoes. I put them on, laid face down and she proceeded to do some tap, tap, tapping on the heels while she pressed certain points on my back. Was I feeling better? I couldn’t tell yet. After telling me to think of a few more floating colors and to feel a few more words, I sat up, wondering where all this would lead. She had a cabinet which housed a collection of oversized, colored plastic glasses from which she picked out a pair of violet ones for me to wear. I felt very Elton John-ish. She told me to put them on while she excused herself for a moment. She returned holding a Dixie cup of water and a book on flower essences. “Drink this,” she said. “Cherry Plum. To prevent losing control.”

We continued to see each other for several months. I wanted to believe her treatments were helping but I think I just really liked laying down for an hour each week, thinking of colors and smelling lavender. It was't hurting, in any case. I eventually stopped going when I realized I could be putting that $50 per session on something else, like new running shoes or a gym membership. When I looked at it that way, breaking up with her didn’t seem weird at all.

GUEST CONTRIBUTOR - ANDRE

Lucky readers! My open invitation for friends to post their musings has been accepted by my good friend Andre! There is no end in the delight I take in learning more about him, especially since the usual context of our association takes place at a kickboxing class. One learns so much when reading his piece. Enjoy!!

My Two Cents

I decided to begin my day this morning to put to virtual paper, my first Blog! As I type this I feel a bit guilty. After all, I really should be going forth with my daily routine of doing what people pay me to do; make their dreams come true! Ah, what a romantic way of viewing my job. I can get almost dreaming thinking of it until, the alarm clock that is my phone wakes me up to my reality. Mine is a routine of juggling decisions and tasks which seemingly define the future fabric of other people’s lives whilst not having a moment to reflect on the profound complexity of my own life. But, this departure from my routine is exactly what has driven me to my Blog premiere.

I was talking with May (our esteemed hostess) last night and got to thinking, (yes I do think)! How many times in our lives to we ignore opportunities for change? We become a caboose pushing forth incidents, passengers and emotional baggage, all of our own creation along tracts of life, again our own fabrication, towards some virtual destiny which we perceive as our future happiness. That is, until some poor begotten soul disillusioned by their own self prescribed fate decides to park their vehicle on OUR tracks! Thereby forcing the derailment of our prized caboose and sending our lives into a whirlwind of change. This change that our own infallibility has caused us not to embrace, if nothing else, is invariably the doorway to growth.

Coming from a third world country, in an economy that is like a slot machine with the IMF at the helm, I have been forced to develop an adeptness for change. When ever this becomes curbed by routine albeit self-imposed, I can immediately feel the effects in the rate of my personal unfoldment. Which right now incidentally is coming to a halt and I need to make a change pretty quickly before one is made for me. You see I have this pact with GOD, the big man, my inner self, whoever! someone pulling my cords. I must have made this pact before I came into this life ‘cause I certainly don’t remember. Nonetheless it says that if I stand still spiritually I’ll get kicked in the ass by one of several spiritual masters. Now trust me, these guys can kick! They’ll put their foot so far up my ass I can taste leather! I never know who it is going to be or how hard, sometimes a nudge, sometimes a spinning backfist. Usually though if I can catch myself in time though I can examine my life and make the necessary changes before that. My father always said “Son, you can either go on your knees and pray or wait for life to take out your kneecaps, either way you’re going down unless you practice humility”. Actually it was more like “Do you want to end up selling cane on the side of the road? I don’t care either way but you better get your shit together! Sleep and eat, that’s all you do and I should have to pay for it? Well you’ve got another thing coming…”

The thing is, I think we all have made such a pact. Only some of us realize it and some of us don’t. Some people just wonder why they keep getting kicked in the ass. Well why do you ignore the constant nudging of life edging you to make the changes necessary for your growth? Why do we embrace the comfort of routine and strive for the financial freedom to just sleep and eat? Why would life reward us with that when we are in this place to grow? Two more things, one perhaps we must first learn to become one with the flow of life and embrace change, and two I’ve become too Morpheus-like in my musings and must get back to my routine. PEACE!

The Art of Being J

There are some people who I just can’t stay mad at. I’m sure you have at least one person in your life to which this applies. No matter how inconsiderate, selfish, or pig-headed they are, there’s something about them that makes it impossible for me to sustain any angry feelings toward them. I met my sweet, sweet friend, J, in college. Let me make this clear: J is neither inconsiderate, selfish nor pig-headed. I am convinced that if you were to meet J, in your generally cynical and suspicious nature, would think her natural disposition to be false, fake, somehow all an act because no one could maintain such a light-as-meringue, lemony-sweet attitude 24/7. I walk around, everyday, like a gunslinger with a permanently raised eyebrow, skepticism and incredulousness safely holstered at my sides. They’re cocked and ready to fire any time I get a whiff of someone trying to pawn something off on me.

I assure you, though, J is sincere. She will be the first to offer kind and encouraging words when you’re feeling down; she is ever-vigilant of a cloud’s silver lining; and, she is a firm believer in an ant’s ability to move a rubber tree plant. Why, I’d slug anyone in the eye before I let them disparage J in any way!

However…

Tardiness is the monkey straddled to J’s back. An hour, two hours, three hours…one never knows when J will arrive. You can’t really claim to know her if expect her to be on time. Don’t ask her to bring food for a potluck—unless it’s dessert! And don’t ask her to drive for a road trip, unless you pad your schedule at least two hours. Friends who’ve known her since high school say she’s always been this way. Yet, as maddening as it is to have a friend who is perpetually late, all of us have silently and collectively, accepted this trait. We look at each other, we look at our watches, we look at the food getting colder, we nod our heads side-to-side and turn up one corner of our mouths, and then we go about our business.

We accept and love you, J! And she knows this, of course. She’ll make a grand entrance, schlepping an overnight bag, a pillow, an air mattress and a rolling suitcase for an overnight trip. “So sorry! You wouldn't believe the traffic out there!” she’ll say breathlessly and toss out a giggle worthy of a 15-year-old. J must be a master of human behavior because how can she possibly—so consistently—push the tardy envelope without fear of being ostracized and given a collective cold shoulder? J is like a new puppy, eager to please but inadvertently knocking down lamps and vases; she’s like a 6-year-old who makes a mess in the kitchen trying to make you breakfast. I dare you to stay mad at her!

I’ve stopped trying to explain to J what they say about the pathology of people of who are perpetually late. The experts say they are egomaniacs; that they think the world will stop and wait for them; that they hold their needs above all others and are selfish. I can’t say these things to J because it simply isn’t true. When it comes to J, I have to believe there really was a lot of traffic.

Bitch-Slapped!

You know you have a bad attitude about work when you start off each day asking yourself questions like, “How much can I get away with?” and “How much can I put off until tomorrow?” and “How can I leave early?”

I’m waiting for my friend B to pick me up in her brand-new-used blue GTI. B and I work for the same company, doing essentially the same thing, except she’s been with the company longer than I have and can explain to people what it is we actually do. We’re carpooling to the Sacramento office today for a training. Yay! At least we’re not in our regular office. At least we’ll work an abbreviated day. At least we'll be back in Oakland to make it to kickboxing at 5:00 pm.

Ah! Muay Thai kickboxing at Gold’s Gym. When I had first joined the gym, I had taken every single class except for this one. Cardiofunk, step aerobics, afro-caribbean aerobics, tae-bo class….I’d make my way up from the back of cardio room and eventually end up front and center, having memorized the choreography and the dance mixes for each class. Melissa would yell out, “Watch the girl in the red T-shirt, she knows the steps!” Yikes, I’m the girl the red T-shirt, so of course, I flub up the steps right when she yells this out. Damn performance anxiety.

I walked by this kickboxing class many times before. I spy the petite spiky-haired platinum blond girl in the corner. She’s wiry and muscular and kind of scary. Doesn’t crack a smile at all, that one. Like Alice, I grow curiouser and curiouser about this class but still can’t work up nerve to walk in.

“Do you want to go with me to the kickboxing class tomorrow, you know, the real kickboxing class?” Carmen, a pretty brunette in tae-bo class, asks me one day. “Really? Sure, I’ve been wanting to try it,” I answer. I am surprised at my eagerness to agree. But upon reflection, I’m not really surprised. Carmen’s offer to hold my hand was just the impetus I needed. So often I rely on outside forces to compel me into action.

A few weeks ago at work, our Director had an afternoon all-branch meeting. Afternoon? We usually had them in the morning. Whisperings of something bad about to happen were pinballing across cube walls but that afternoon, the Director felt no need to whisper. He spoke loud and clear. Apparently, we did so awesomely bad in 2004, change was underway. Massive, painful, ugly, excrutiating change.

Let me synopsize his message for you: CHANGE. COMPLACENCY KILLS. RENEWED URGENCY. MORE INSPECTION. And if you don’t like it, thank you but buh-bye.

Father knows best after all and what does a parent who subscribes to tough love do when his naughty kids misbehave? He takes away their privileges. Suddenly, no one can work from home anymore or have flex-time. No exceptions. (But, of course, there are always exceptions, but that’s a whole ‘nother blog entry.)

I sat there, my temperature slowly rising, eyes glazed over. All I could think was Goddamn it no more kickboxing. Shit goddamned white boss motherfucker. How dare he tell me what I can or cannot do?

I received no sympathy for my S.O. “So you have to work 8:30 to 5 every day in Walnut Creek? That’s what most people have to do…” his voice trails off.

He doesn’t understand that for the last four years I’ve always finagled a way to take this kickboxing class at least three times a week. I’ve always been able to design an argument to prove that the company would actually benefit if they would allow me to continue with my class. For the last year, the flexible schedule was the only reason I was sticking to this godforsaken soul-sucking job at all.

As much as I hate to admit it, the Director doled out a necessary bitch-slap to my face. His words urging us to change for the betterment of our company incited me to change the stagnancy of my own job situation.

Thanks, boss man.

CHANGE. COMPLACENCY KILLS. RENEWED URGENCY. MORE INSPECTION. Suddenly these words, when contributing to the betterment of May V. Espeña, made so much more sense.

Faith in Man Restored

There are many things that go through your mind when you’re sitting in your car by the side of the road. I could have been crushed by a Mac truck. I’m going to make all these people late for their Valentines’ Day dates. I could have killed a car full of people. I sat in my crumpled 95 Honda Civic waiting for the second cop car to come and stop traffic so I can get back on the freeway. The first cop, an Asian officer in a yellow rain slicker, was 100 feet away with his high beams shining directly at me. I fell into a stupor while I waited, hypnotized by the lights of oncoming traffic and the sound of the rain hitting my windshield.

I lost control of my car driving home from Walnut Creek yesterday. No one’s bad, just an accident. I’m guessing I slipped on an oil slick on the freeway, coaxed out by the rain, and I just careened. My car, from the fast lane, did a 180 and I crossed all four lanes and crashed into the right hand barrier of 24, facing oncoming traffic. Wow, I thought…that was just like in the movies.

I still can’t believe I didn’t fucking kill anyone or kill myself. I slammed my head against the side of the car pretty hard and I scanned my body quickly for any visible blood. Thank God, there’s nothing. A young Filipino guy with a beige knit cap tapped on the passenger side. I rolled down the window. “Are you okay?” “I’m fine, I think.” “Do you need help?” “I think I’m going to call 911 now.” “Do you need any help?” “I think I’m fine, thanks.” He goes. A little later, a white dude comes along, except he asks if I’d like him to wait with me until 911 shows up. Under normal circumstances and if I was, say, by the side of the road, out of gas or with a blown out tire, my mind would think “Hells no, sucker, move on!”; my mouth would say, “No, thank you, I’m fine” and my hand would whip out my AAA card with an efficiency that said, See? I’m a-ok, thank you very much.

This situation was surely not part of the Monday night I had scheduled for myself. Five o’clock, leave office. Five-thirty, get home. Six o’clock, run for an hour. Six-thirty, back at home to spend the evening with my S.O. to commemorate this Hallmark-sanctioned day of love. You thought you could have your first good Valentine’s Day? Ha-ha, my mind sing-songs in my head.

“Really? You wouldn’t mind waiting with me?” asks the girl, while the woman in me takes a nap in the back seat. We’re chatting away, as I half-listen to the hold message 911 is looping in my ear. His name is Frank and he’s a young college kid going to art school in the City. He’s on his way to a soccer meeting, postponing his Valentine’s Day date till Wednesday. In a surreal way, it felt very first-date-ish.

Another dude with glasses taps on my window and asks if we needed a flare. Sure, that sounds like the thing to do. Frank gets out of the car to help him light and set it on the road. I’m dazed, still, cursing the fact that now I’ll never be able to get my run in tonight. Shit goddamn it. Beef for lunch yesterday, pork for dinner…I had way too many meat products yesterday and I really needed to run. Ah well…

I watch as Frank and the guy with glasses get smaller as smaller as they place the burning flare in front of my car. One hundred yards, two hundred yards…I have no idea, actually, how long a yard is.

This is the point where the Asian officer pulls up. We all congregate outside in the rain, discussing what exactly, I don’t remember. But after a few minutes, Frank and the guy with glasses drive off. The officer instructs me to wait in my car for the second cop car, and the obedient girl in me quickly complies.

A great many things ran through my head that night. Could have died. Could have killed someone. Could have ended everything… But three strangers came and asked me if I needed help that night and restored my faith in man.

I’ll leave you with that thought.

Costco and Valentine's Day

I was brushing my teeth this morning and thinking about the layout of my day. I’m out of toilet paper and paper towels and liquid hand soap. Mulling the possibility of getting a new bathroom rug since the unfortunate Loreal Black Pearl hair dye incident a few weeks back. I need to go to Costco today and stock up on various household items for the next year! But it's also Valentine’s Day and I suddenly have to negotiate my day a little better considering this made-up holiday. I’ve always been a pragmatist and I walk around with a slightly cynical taste in my mouth so if something makes sense to do it, I’ll probably do it, but if it doesn’t make sense to do something, I won’t. Valentine’s Day is a holiday for romantics, not pragmatists, and I wonder what’s a pragmatist supposed to do on a holiday for lovers? I put on some rose-colored glasses and look around.

This morning, I saw makeshift Valentine’s Day gift kiosks set up at gas stations and grocery store parking lots. Stuffed animals and balloons, red floral arrangements and rose bouquets, pink-cellophane-wrapped baskets with chocolate and sea scrubs. The burgeoning romantic in me says “Don’t forget your sweetie, today!” The pragmatist in me chimes in, “…if you know what’s good for you!” Ouch. Sheesh. What’s with the bitterness? And when am I going to find the time to even get a card for my S.O.?

I look around my desk at work to see if I can MacGuyver a homemade card or fashion some love token out of paperclips and colored paper. I see my sister’s birthday card, purchased in January, unsent and most definitely will arrive late now (her birthday is tomorrow). (Just because I fancy myself a pragmatist, doesn’t mean I’m organized.) I notice a Valentine’s Day card that a sweet, older lady dropped off at everyone’s cube. You remember, the kind that came 40 to a box. In grammar school, we used to decorate brown lunch bags with hearts and stickers that said “Be Mine” and “Stay Sweet” and tape them to our desks. We'd eat chocolate cupcakes with pink frosting and red sprinkles and we'd go around and drop these cards in everybody’s bag. And I do mean EVERYBODY. So we had to give everyone a Valentine’s Day card, even if we didn’t want to. Even Jason Randall, the kid who called me "fatty" in third grade. How fair. How…egalitarian.

I thought, Hmm….maybe I can give this card to my S.O. and just pass it off as mine? I open it up, hoping she didn’t personalize it. Dang! She signed it from “a secret admirer”. Well, maybe it would work…My S.O. and I have only been together for a few months. He doesn’t know my handwriting yet as I am not the kind of girlfriend who writes sweet little love notes on Post-its and hides them in his pants pockets. I’d write him a To Do list or a Things-To-Pick-Up-at-Target List before I wrote him a note that said “I wub you just the way you are!” Ew. I know they don’t sell cards at Costco. Unless I plan on sending Valentines to my 500 closest friends, I probably can’t kill two birds with one stone while I'm there. Damn. I think I need a stronger prescription for my rose-colored glasses.

A Pox on Me!

A couple of years ago I had the chicken pox. I think I may have caught it while temping at a hospital. Fucking hospital. Apparently, the sickness is dormant for a while before popping up as little hivey-looking bumps all around your body and face. This was right around the holidays when I and my entire family trekked down to southern California to spend Christmas with my sister and her family in her huge, new house in Ventura. I made it through Christmas feeling peachy and even managed to spend a lovely New Years in Santa Barbara with friends from college.

On my way back to Ventura from Santa Barbara, I decided that it would be fun to sneak in a couple of hours of “alone”time in before returning to yet another house full of people. Friends and family, I love you to death, but I needs my alone time! I ducked into a theater and caught Gangs of New York. It was packed. And later I realized, I was packing. The chicken pox, that is. Already headachy and sore all over, I thought my body was reacting to the hustle-and-bustle of the holidays, with the running around, the shopping and the eating, the entertaining. To this day, I wonder how many people I must have infected by walking into thatcrowded theater. I am officially sending out my apologies via the Internet. I’m sorry! My bad!

Feeling like crap, I lifted my arms while my sisters inspected my naked torso. They counted up the little hivey things (63) and jabbed a few with a pen, for what purpose, I’m not sure, I guess it seemed like the thing to do.

“Did Milan have cats?”
“No cats.”
“Was her house dusty?”
“No dust.”
“Did you eat anything weird?”
“Well, there was a cheese ball covered in nuts that I picked at…” That’s not what she meant, I know that now.
“Uh…then I don’t know. Girl, you’re SOL.”

So much for their clinical diagnosis. At this point, my feelings of crappiness were increasing exponentially and after 12 or so days of people all up in my grill 24/7, all I wanted to do was go home to Oakland and sleep in my own bed with my own pillows and my own dust mites. Thank God I had a plan to drive back to northern California instead of flying. The thought of possibly infecting a plane load of people would have thrown me into a guilt-ridden tailspin. Better was my plan to drive back to Oakland, behind the wheel of my parents new Lexus, hopped up on Benadryl and the sugar from a pound bag of chocolate trail mix (you know, a “healthy snack”).

If you’ve ever ridden in a Lexus, you must agree that that is one smooth ride! Driving it at 90 mph is the same experience except your foot is ever-so-lightly resting on the gas pedal. I actually felt like I was floating up Interstate 5. But in reality, I was half-asleep from the meds. By some miracle, I arrived in Oakland, casualty-free, and rolled into bed.

The doctor told me I was contagious and may be a danger to pregnant women and old people and that I had to be quarantined. “Oh God. How long?” “Till the last scab falls off.” What the hell kind of answer was that? It sounded like some lame movie dialogue: “Teacher, how will I know when I’m ready?” “When the last cherry blossom falls to the ground.” I was so miserable.

I stayed in my apartment for approximately one month and had to rely on my friends for food and DVDs. They’d buzz me, I’d let them into the building,they’d come up and leave groceries at my door and I’d talk tothem through an inch-wide crack at my front door. That was the extent of my social interaction with people. This was my ironic hell. I said I wanted some alone time…I got my alone time.

As much I think I am an independent creature, self-sufficient, don’t need anyone or anything because I hate people…depression and loneliness set in pretty damn quick. The view of my growing stomach from the laying down position on my couch became very familiar. After a while, I asked my friends to forgo bringing me real food and just drop off chocolate. Bars. Bags. Cheap stuff, expensive stuff. I didn’t care. Just bring it.A nd forget what I said about denying me chocolate no matter how much I pleaded. That was crazy talk, I was on the Benadryl and obviously delirious. In retrospect, this was not a good idea and I paid for it later at the gym, with hours and hours of working off the “pox weight”.

I wish I could say I emerged from my apartment with a renewed appreciation for life and some sort of enlightenment. But I came out more grumpy and pissed off than ever, with pock marks all over my face and body and an extra fifteen fucking chocolate-induced pounds.

Sweet Innocent Us

A good friend of mine, M, and I went to see Jill Scott sing at the Paramount Theater last night in downtown Oakland. Jilly from Philly, so she’s called. May from Oak-town. Doesn’t have quite the same flow. If you don’t know who Jill Scott is, I suggest you run out this very instant and get all her CDs. Go now. I’ll wait. You back yet? Good. Now put on her first CD, Who is Jill Scott?, Track 4, Getting in the Way. It’s about a woman, essentially, warning another woman to stay away from her man (who used to be her man but was unceremoniously dumped). At first, Jill tries being nice: Suga, honey girl fly fly away…But by the end of the song, she’s had enough and threatens a “smack down” and taking the girl out to the middle of the street to “whoop (her) tail.” Get her mad and that sweet-faced woman with delicate features turns into a pimp that’ll open a can whup ass on you faster than you can flinch. Tru dat!

Some would say Jill’s the most dangerous kind of woman. The kind you underestimate. If this were true, then all women are dangerous. Last night, I was sitting next to M in a pre-dominately African-American audience. We’re in the first row, to the right of the stage, in front of massively huge speakers. We’re waiting, excitedly, as folks file in, sharply-dressed couples, quartets of sassy girlfriends. Many women in the audience are gorgeous and soft-looking, and this being Oakland, drip with that urban, street sensibility that pulls off that tough-yet-sexy look to a tee.

I think of myself: a short, little asian woman with brand-new chunky black shoes (the kind thats popular with high school kids and the exact opposite of the super-pointy-toe style found at Ann Taylor) and M, a slim, blue-eyed, white woman with curly, dark hair and comfy, suede, brown clogs. Inside, my secret evil self laughs hysterically. Daaayuumm, we’re so innocent-looking, so unassuming. Who would ever suspect that if pushed hard enough, and I mean if our lives or our families or friends lives were in immediate and grave danger, we could probably kill anyone to protect and defend. And I’m not talking wussy deaths like slowly feeding someone poison until they got sicker and sicker and finally die. Because that would be cruel and doesn’t suggest the kind of urgency that would push us to kill. I’m talking swift and violent death brought on by our own hands, feet, arms and legs. The kind of death brought on by bones breaking and necks twisting. Does that worry you, Reader? Don’t be scared. I think that most women wouldn’t think twice about clocking someone with a frying pan if it meant protecting their one-year old from being snatched out of their crib. Just something to ponder the next time you’re thinking about stealing that parking space out from under that Soccer Mom’s nose.

Bloggin' on the DL

When I sent a mass email to my friends and family about my fresh new blog sandwich, I was touched by the sweet, encouraging notes I was sent back. Rock on, sistergirl! One sister of mine told me I should try and find work as a writer. Yes, yes…I thought, because writers are in such high demand these days! I argued: This is not the point of me doing this thing. I do not necessarily want to trick it out. I am merely trying to wring out a few precious drops of creative expression from my brain lest it dries out completely. This is just for me. I am enjoying the act of writing and I don’t need to whore it out so friggin ’fast, okay?

More than one person mentioned the flurry of news articles going around lately that spoke about people getting fired from their jobs for having blogs. Not sure what the exact circumstances were surrounding the firings (a dude from Kmart, a chick at Delta, another chick who worked at the Senate). It’s probably better that I didn’t come across them before I decided to make my own. I can’t help but think a little bit of writing, every day, is going to make me a happier person.

My Mom even called, panic-stricken, to warn me about getting fired from work because of my blogging. She never calls me. Well, hardly ever. And just for the record, No, Ma, I do not want to move to Las Vegas! I’d rather swallow glass. Phew, now I really feel like I just talked to my mother. I tried to comfort her: Mom, I’ve been fired from jobs before. It’s no big. She didn’t find comfort in that.

A friend of mine, let’s call her “Bolivia”, turned me on to dooce.com. A woman named Heather Armstrong actually did get fired from her job and looky there! Started her own website with ads by Google and everything. Heather is my new hero and is too-legit-2-quit. I can’t wait to dig in and see what I can pilfer. She posts photos every day. I think I can get fancy like that one day with my little Cannon A80. The best feature of this camera, hands down, is the movable viewfinder. Excellent for taking self-portraits. I took about 500 pictures during Christmas. Probably 300 were of me and maybe one other person.

I like Heather’s writing style. She is a self-described “Stay at Home Mom (SAHM)” or a “Shit Ass Ho Motherfucker.” She claims to do both equally well. What makes this especially funny is the sweet Hallmark-Kodak-Precious-Moment picture she has of herself with her baby’s hands gently touching her face. Awww! Shit Ass Ho Motherfucker…I likes Heather.

I can’t swear like that in my blog, I thought. My Mom reads this! I caught myself practicing self-censorship and quickly nixed the idea. I use swear words in every day language and I’ll be good-goddamned if I start to write in a high-falutin’ style that’s not my voice. The whole point of this writing exercise is to have a safe space in which to express whatever the hell I want. Unless it’s about Kmart, Delta or the US Senate, that is.

Aging Backwards

Today is my Significant Other’s (S.O.) birthday. It’s actually his fake birthday because apparently today’s date (February 10) is the date his father arbitrarily picked when filling out his immigration paperwork. I can tell you right now, I’d win the bet if I challenged my own father to remember all his kids’ birthdays. S.O. is 36 today (or sometime next month depending on whether you’re a stickler for paperwork). That’s not that old, I think. Still in the mid-thirties. Thirty-seven to thirty-nine starts to get a little sketchy because you have just wandered into your late-thirties. You’re suddenly late. Late for what? You’re moving along at a nice clip, enjoying life, still able to run occasionally, still able to indulge in a molten chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream every now and again; you have your 37th birthday and BAM! You’re in your late-thirties. Just thinking about being late for anything inexplicably makes my heart beat a little faster.

My S.O. spends a few minutes every day kvetching about his various ailments. I have heard, that as people age, talking about one’s aching and sore “fill-in-the-blank” takes up more and more of their day. I, however, am aging backwards. I look back at my 20s and think, Honey, you couldn’t pay me to go there again! I slept too much, ate badly, was generally lazy, that whole mind-body-connection concept was lost on me. Sorry, Oprah! People who’ve known me my whole life can attest that this is true. It is! You know it is! Those who’ve only known me since I embarked on my own little time-reversal experiment just have to trust me on this one.

The year I turned thirty was pivotal. I know…it’s not a very original age to get introspective. I may as well have bought a ticket for the Biological Clock Factory tour that runs every hour on the hour for Single Women in their 30s. But it wasn’t so much I was feeling an ache to have children (which I don’t really, not right at this second, anyway) because I still felt like a kid myself. I had a desire to do something drastic and over-the-top and slightly revolutionary. I wanted to show Nature that she did not have final say over me. That I could, in fact, bend her to my will and force her to follow my new and improved Biological Clock, the one that runs counter-clockwise.

If my life was Lifetime made-for-TV movie, the actual manner in which I accomplished this feat would be depicted in montage-format, scored to inspirational and female-centric music, probably an India.Arie song. You’d see me waking up at 6 am and slip my running shoes on, which were ready to rock-and-roll by my bed every morning. That image would fade and you’d then see me chucking packages of white pasta and Pepperidge Farm cookies into the garbage, then eating healthy salads with carefully portioned chicken breasts. The montage would end with me doing a full-fledged chin-up, eyes clenched in concentration…that’s some good TV. Cut to present day.

Supposedly, women get more confident, know what they want, become more assertive at this age. I’ll buy that, I’m sold. No need to show me the studies that prove this to be true. I know it’s true in my case and for the scores of girlfriends I have that are my age. Aging backwards for me means refusing to believe my body has to succumb to the ravages of time.

The desire to bitch-slap Nature doesn’t light a fire in my belly as much as it used to. As I make myself comfortable on the big, overstuffed couch that is my mid-thirties, I’m learning to coax Nature, more sweetly, into cooperating with me in my grand scheme, with a few chocolate covered almonds every-once-in-a-while and an occasional glass of merlot.

Keeping Mushy Brain Disease At Bay

I made a commitment to write about 500 words a day, every day, indefinitely. This is because I am trapped in a cubicle for seven and half hours a day, doing a job that to this day makes me shake my head in disbelief and say to myself, “I can’t believe this is my job.” When describing what I do for a living, inevitably, ten minutes later, the person I was describing my job to says, “So what exactly do you do again?” It’s the kind of work that takes any creative tendency you may have and squashes it; smooshes it, right out of existence. Suffice it to say, my job involves ticket numbers, billing issues and ever-present feelings of futility; I imagine it’s a lot like what purgatory would be like. That’s all you need to know because even if I were to talk in more detail about the job, you’d just come back with that same question everybody always asks.

So this blog is part of my effort to, as Jesse says, “keep hope alive.” And the hope is that I manage to regain that creative sensibility I used to have say, ten years ago, before I had rent to pay, credit cards to juggle, a car note, an Overstock.com addiction. In college, I majored in English and I wasn’t one of those wafflers who changed majors every ten minutes. As a freshman, I knew English was it. What other major could you read great literature, then write about it? Then get a diploma for it?

I remember as a freshman, I used to struggle with writing the perfect sentence. I sat, with pen and paper in hand (this was before PCs and my boxy little Mac Classic), and sweated out sentences, word by word. As my college writing career progressed and the pressure of more papers to write bore down on me, the flow of words from my pen gained momentum and suddenly I was able to bang out papers pretty damn fast. Need ten pages on the Nun in The Canterbury Tales? No problem. Would you like to know my musings on the lethality of mother-love in Toni Morrison’s Beloved? Love to share with you! What about the author’s use of Taglish in Jessica Hagedorn’s Dogeaters? I just happen to have twenty pages on just that topic.

Self-expression seldom makes it on the priority list of most people. Yet, ignoring that need in ourselves is surefire way to end up on a rooftop somewhere, picking off innocent bystanders and people who seem, by your standards, too damn happy for their own good. Hopefully it never reaches that point with 99.99% of the people out there. Unfortunately, people who lack a creative outlet participate in the routine of their lives with a dull, empty-calorie kind of feeling; I imagine, perhaps, that they cannot pinpoint the source of their malaise, maybe going through their entire adulthood without a clue as to why they’re not truly happy.

I don’t think that starting this blog will alleviate that gnawing, dull feeling that often plagues grown-up kids that are masquerading as productive members of society (like me). But, it’s my little attempt to keep my mind from turning into mush in a socially acceptable way. And, look at that! It’s 3 pm and I only have two more hours to go before quitting time!