Monthly Archives: October 2010

Sundays in My City – Halloween Edition. Naturally.

This has got to be the best week for Sundays in My City hosted by Unknown Mami.

Halloween is our favorite holiday and here are all the reasons why…

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The sun has set. The day is coming to an end. Back to reality people!

As Mr. Monk, my youngest, said to me when I was trying on my wig, again,

“Mom. You need to stop walking around the house wearing wigs.”

Rally to Restore Sanity: Perspective is everything

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This is today.

I wish I were there. But I am here at home, trying to restore my own sanity, in a very personal, trivial way.

Some dear friends that I have the honor of getting to know were there on the Mall in D.C. witnessing history: Nancy at Mature Landscaping. Renee at Life In the Boomer Lane who actually wrote an excellent post about WHY she was going to the rally.  “Dufmanno” who was there with all her family who traveled from New York, New Jersey and Maryland. I cannot wait to read their recounting of this historical day!

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While we are waiting for our blogosphere personal news reporter to take a breather and share with us their stories, here is the most basic, yet important, piece of information about Rally for Sanity that got me all excited and scream BOOYAH! to the monitor:

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According to CBS, an estimated 215,000 people attended the rally today. This means:

Sanity, 215000. Crazy, 87000.

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Sanity won. Who knew?!

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Jon Stewart’s closing speech deserves to be quoted in full as Rolling Stone has honorably decided to do (Note: You can find a nearly comprehensive transcript of Stewart’s speech on Rolling Stone since they did not want to reduce the 10-minute speech to a mere sound bite. Or you can watch the 12-minute video here). I am however guilty as charged since by Ctrl+C & Ctrl+V I hope to be as close to awesomeness as I possibly could…

There are terrorists and racists and Stalinists and theocrats, but those are titles that must be earned. You must have the resume. Not being able to distinguish between real racists and tea partiers, or real bigots and Juan Williams and Rich Sanchez is an insult — not only to those people, but to the racists themselves, who have put forth the exhausting effort it takes to hate. Just as the inability to distinguish between terrorists and Muslims makes us less safe, not more.

The press is our immune system. If it overreacts to everything we eventually get sicker. And perhaps eczema. Yet, with that being said, I feel good. Strangely, calmly good, because the image of Americans that is reflected back to us by our political and media process is false. It is us through a funhouse mirror, and not the good kind that makes you slim and taller — but the kind where you have a giant forehead and an ass like a pumpkin and one eyeball.

[As a metaphor] These cars… Everyone of the cars that you see is filled with individuals of strong belief and principles they hold dear — often principles and beliefs in direct opposition to their fellow travelers.

And yet these millions of cars must somehow find a way to squeeze one by one into a mile-long, 30-foot wide tunnel carved underneath a mighty river…And they do it. Concession by concession. You go. Then I’ll go. You go, then I’ll go… Sure, at some point there will be a selfish jerk who zips up the shoulder and cuts in at the last minute. But that individual is rare and he is scorned, and he is not hired as an analyst.

Because we know instinctively as a people that if we are to get through the darkness and back into the light we have to work together and the truth is, there will always be darkness.  And sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel isn’t the promised land. Sometimes it’s just New Jersey.  But we do it anyway, together.

If you want to know why I’m here and what I want from you I can only assure you this: you have already given it to me.  You’re presence was what I wanted.  Sanity will always be and has always been in the eye of the beholder.  To see you here today and the kind of people that you are has restored mine.  Thank you.

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here are some of the signs that made me chuckle:

no images were found

(Sources: HuffPost, National Post, Chicago Press Release)

And, drum roll please, here’s my favorite one, hands down, or inside…

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I was able to watch Saturday Night Life on television (as opposed to on Hulu) tonight while I folded the laundry, as part of my “Restore My Sanity” one-woman rally the eve before Halloween… In the cold open, Joe “The Veep” Biden (as hilariously played by Jason Sudeikis) asked Americans to gain some perspectives by comparing themselves to the Chilean miners. They sang their national anthem every day while trapped underground. They prevailed. And when they were rescued they wrapped themselves in the Chilean flag as if Chile had just won the World Cup.

For people that complain, Biden/Sudeikis has a checklist for them:

Are you above ground?

(Long pause)

That’s it. That’s the only item on the checklist.

Don’t be the whiners. Think of the miners!

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Courtesy: www.maturelandscaping.com

Update: Here’s the post by Nancy at Mature Landscaping about her experience at the Rally. Here is the sign sported by her group. It is awesome.

Thank goodness Halloween is here because I look better in drag

Disclaimer: Objects in the mirror are both closer and farther than they appear.

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Preamble: I have no idea what the point of this post is or whether there is any. Except to demonstrate the power of Picnik, the danger of believing in profile pictures in social media (Think Catfish), and the fact I look much better in black and white which is why I secretly long for living in Pleasantville before those stupid kids ruined it for everybody, and I will gladly trade places with Tom Baxter in The Purple Rose of Cairo, incidentally a movie I also watched multiple times hoping Tom would turn and address me directly, “Hey you!”

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For our graduate production, my undergraduate class staged M. Butterfly by David Henry Hwang. The play calls for an Asian man to live in drag, pretending to be a woman and fooling the self-delusional French diplomat (based on a real scandal!) None of our male classmates stepped up to the plate, and therefore we had a woman playing a man playing a woman.

Although I suspect that how we did it due to necessity was not optimal for the theatrical production, I later learned that there is a term for this: Faux Queen, aka Biologically-challenged drag queen, Female female impersonator, or Female impersonator impersonator.

When I was young, I fantasized about dressing up as a man because being a man gives you a lot more freedom (Think Mulan). I wanted to be a swordswoman in one of the Wu Xia novels or movies (Think Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon), dressed up as a young warrior scholar so I could roam the world and right the wrongs.

To this day I look forward to rainy days before or after it actually rains. It gives me an excuse to walk around with an umbrella.

I was fascinated by Victor Victoria and (still) believe that Julie Andrews looked much better as Victor.

For the majority of my high school career, all girls school, hello! I did behave and dress more towards the male end of the spectrum: closely cropped hair, asexual clothing, and let’s not forget, aviator sunglasses. I was known to make young girls blush when they mistook me for a dashing young man. Well, I was relatively tall and lanky and handsome. In a manga-character-like, pre-sexual, innocent kind of way. For a bunch of high school girls with similar lack of exposure and access to the other sex.

When I said I peaked at the age of 18, until then I had been living an arguably cloistered life, I was not kidding. Being naturally feminine has never been my strong suit. And of course, who’s to say what defines femininity any more, and the distablizing ambiguity suits me fine.

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CODA: You know, I’ve struggled with this post since Monday. Normally if I am having such trouble with the direction I have been going in a post, I’d scratch it. Just as I was ready to give up and start anew some other time, I realized that Monday was the day when I bought my plane tickets home. This rambling on gender roles and prescribed femininity came from my anxiety of going home home next week. As much as I feel unease sometimes in this country, I feel/fear that I stand out like a sore thumb (and to some extent literally since I am tall by the local standard) over there. Oh well. I will be a woman playing a woman. Thespians, we are good at it, eh?

“I am so happy you’re alive”

The most exciting, most surreal, yet most unnerving, and embarrassing part of the evening with David Sedaris (yeah this totally sounds like I spent some intimate hours with him, doesn’t it? THIS is why I have a blog: so I can alter reality with the power of my words) came when, more than half way through the book reading, he said that he often would get 10 copies of his books in a foreign language and would keep a copy while giving the rest away. “I just got this book today. It is in…” Chinese. Please let it be Chinese! I thought hard. My fists tightened. “… Chinese. So if anybody here who can speak Chinese, please come to the book signing table after this, just come to the front of the line and I will give the book to you.”

Oh my god! I cannot believe this is happening! oh my god oh my god oh my god!

“Me!” My heart pounding, my head spinning, I forgot I was in the middle of a jam-packed auditorium, I shot up, yelling, my right hand outstretched. Fortunately, the theatre was darkened. As fast as I stood up and made a fool of myself, I sank back down in my seat again. Fortunately I was surrounded by  the enlightened, liberal type so I only detected smiles and shared joy from my seatmates.

When the show was over, I stood up and immediately was crushed: the crowd swarmed the exits and there was simply no way for me to make a quick getaway. I decided to resign myself to the inevitable fate: I would be late to the table and the book would have been claimed, for shirley I cannot be the only Chinese person in the whole theatre…? If I give up hope now, it will save me from some debilitating disappointment. When things are too good to be true, you know it is too good to be true…

When I finally inched my way to the lobby, I got into a line that was surprisingly short. When I congratulated myself for the relatively short line, the lady in front of me kindly informed me that the line was for purchasing the books. I fought the crowd that were leaving the theatre to the other side of the lobby and saw a line that snaked along the corridor all the way back into the auditorium. As I accepted my fate and walked towards the end which I could not even see, something clicked. I did an about-face and marched to the front of the lobby where the table was.

“Excuse me, sir.” I said to the man that was at the very front manning the line. “During the book signing, he said he had a book in Chinese to give out and if anybody speaks Chinese, they should come to the table and ask for it.” I was so relieved when he did not dismiss me as an opportunistic nutjob and instead referred me to a lady who seemed to be in charge of the event. I repeated my line and she said, “Oh yes! Let’s see. We need to talk to his, ugh, his…” And she ushered me to the table as Mr. Sedaris was sitting down at the table.

I wish I could tell you that we had a sincilating scintillating conversation. Or that we hugged. Or that I took millions of pictures of him with his arm around me. (“Absolutely no photography allowed.” Several signs were strategically posted around the theatre, with one right by the table). Or that I licked him for the gals (after all, there was NO sign that said “Absolutely NO licking allowed!”)

Everything happened so quickly that I had no time to mentally prepare myself (and yes I knew I would meet him at book singing but I was expecting to psyche myself up when I was waiting in line! And no, I am not complaining about being able to skip ahead hours of waiting…) I was simply tongue-tied and brain-dead.

“So you speak Chinese?” He cocked his eyebrow. *melting*

“I can actually read this book. You see the two words literally means ‘Fire’ and ‘Flame’. And this is in traditional Chinese which means the book is from Taiwan and that’s where I came from!” I rattled off. He did not seem impressed or interested actually.

“I’ll give you this book and I can sign it for you. What’s your name?”

“Lin. L-I-N.”

“So Lin. What are you doing here?”

HUH? Is this a trick question? Should I say “I am here for your book reading?”

“Uh. I… live here?”

Certain that this answer was not enough, I added in rapid succession, “I came in 1993 and got my Ph.D. in theatre, got married and I’ve never left since.”

UGH. WHY did you tell him this? What the fuck does he care about this?! You are such an idiot!

“Is this book for you too? And it is Lin, L-I-N?” He asked as I handed him my copy of Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk. I nodded and idiotically pointed to myself.

I had an out of body experience right then and there observing and criticizing myself and yet there was nothing the out-of-body me could do to change the course.

“So, Lin, what are you doing here?”

I want to die. Ok, maybe that’s a bit too dramatic. I want to cry. I have no idea what he means by this question. Is it philosophical? Existential? Is he asking me about the meaning of life?

“What are you doing here?” He asked again.

“I came, I got married, I had kids, I never left. And now I am in suburban hell.” I said, barely able to catch my breath.

THAT. is my best shot. W.T.F, Self?!

Now I want to die.

“Well, it’s very nice meeting you!” He extended his hand and I shook it. After that there was nothing else I could do but leave, trying to ignore the murderous daggers shot from the long line of people waiting to be up close and personal to brilliance.

I walked out of the theatre and I began to cry.

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I know this is what you are thinking right now... I am sorry, ok?!

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On the way home I could not concentrate on driving at all. I kept replaying everything in my head (Yeah, like you haven’t heard that before…) obsessively going through every tiny detail in my less than one minute of face-to-face with David Sedaris.

It felt as though I was given the chance of a life time and I blew it.  <— Yes, I am a drama queen. The Court Jester in the Kingdom of Hyperbole. The rational side of me could see this perfectly. Now.

I wanted to kick myself but of course I couldn’t because I was driving, speeding away in the darkened highway besieged by sudden torrential rain.

What are you doing here? What does he mean by that? And why did he ask me the same question more than once? Is it a code? Did he want me to tell him a joke? Did he want me to tell him something more than mundane?”

Then it hit me. I wish I had made up some sort of story about my ending up where I am. I should have said I was an acrobat. A magician. An origami artist. I should have said that I ran away from the circus I was traveling with and I am currently hiding in middle America, trying my darnedest to blend in.

I could picture his mind going, “Damn. How come of the 2 billion Chinese people in the world, I gave my book to the most boring one?!” <— Yes. This is gross self-aggrandizement. The rational side of me could see this perfectly. Now.

All I wanted was a do-over. To turn back time so I could regale him with my wittiness. The bizarre, funny, yet strangely universal story of how I landed here. In this way, the story I told would be eerily similar to his.

Instead, I raced home and collapsed in my conviction that I would never be given an once-in-a-lifetime so grand as this one and the self pity that I had gone and wasted it. <— See above. Thanks.

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It took me the whole day staring at the autograph, and finally asking my son to decipher it for me, to realize the word is not feces or feeble but feeling.

If anybody needs me right now, I’ll be wallowing in my chamber with my smelling salt.

O, woe is me, To have seen what I have seen, see what I see!

A Night with David Sedaris

When I learned that David Sedaris is on a tour for his new book Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk: A Modest Bestiary, I knew I had to do something. I checked his agent’s website and saw that he would be in Milwaukee, Wisconsin for a book reading, in addition to book signing. Since I did not think I would be able to fight the rabid fans in downtown Chicago for the book signing, the book reading at Riverside Theatre in Milwaukee sounded like something worth driving 1.5 hour to. So I did.

I am glad I went. First of all, when I asked the bar tender at the bar in the basemen which was EMPTY how much a beer cost, she said with a sheepish grin, apologetically, “4 dollars…” I tried to suppress my smile. This theatre is not called PABST Theater for nothing! What’s more: a cranberry with Grey Goose cost $6, $2 more and you got yourself a double! I fell in love with Milwaukee right then and there.

A book reading by David Sedaris is everything that you may have expected and more if you have listened to appearances on NPR or his audio books, watched one of his appearances on David Letterman. Here are some random things I can still recall from last night while still overcoming the shock…

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  • Always bring a pen and paper with you. Mr. Sedaris did not say this of course. It was what I was thinking when I was sitting there in the dark, murmuring to myself, repeating all the brilliant things he said, hoping by doing so I could at least remember some of them. Afterwards, I raced home in the torrential rain, mind blank, hoping I would get home in time before I forgot everything. (Of course, utterly exhausted, I went straight to bed. So glad I did not get myself killed on the highway. Would have been totally not worth the sacrifice…)
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  • Here’s what I made sure to commit to memory by saying it over and over again in my head, with my eyes shut at one moment the way I did when I was memorizing school works:

“I want my hand to know what excellence feels like”

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  • After he finished most of his readings, Mr. Sedaris took out a book and told everybody to go and get it. Simply brilliant. Everything Ravaged. Everything Burned by Wells Tower. He read a very short excerpt from the book, sighed, in awe of the way the author used the words, or rather, arranged the words, “I would like to know how he came up with these?” Then Mr. Sedaris explained how he has this habit of writing down brilliant things that he comes across because

I want my hand to know what excellence feels like.

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  • He read the story “The Grieving Owl” from his latest book Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk, which was not, as would have been assumed, a collection of fables because “fables have morals.” Here’s the line that’s been etched into my mind:

It’s not just that they’re stupid, my family — that, I could forgive. It’s that they’re actively against knowledge…

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  • About having people he has always imagined to read his stories actually read his stories in the audio version, he could not believe that Elaine Stritch actually read his stories. “If you are gay, you know Elaine Stritch. I don’t care if you have sex with another man, if you don’t know Elaine Stritch, you are not a homosexual.”
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  • Mr. Sedaris walked up to the stage with a stack of papers. No Apple iBook for him. From the pile of paper precariously balanced on top of a wooden stool, he extracted a folder and read the audience a “whimsy” of his, because he did not know how better to label it, titled I Brake for Traditional Marriage. It started out with a “typical” middle-aged white American couple in a clearly disintegrating marriage and family unity getting outraged by the news of the overturn of Prop 8 this August. His tone remained humorous and irreverent, and that’s why we were all shocked when the man took a shotgun out and blew his daughter’s head off. It is a black comedy, so to speak. And though I should not have been surprised, for the first time I felt the anger in him towards the whole anti-gay sentiments exhibited by conservative America especially in their vociferous condemnation against gay marriage. Somehow this defiance, coming from him, the studious, introverted, “humorist” who actually looks more like a college professor, greatly moved me because it was burning the way quiet rage burns underneath the comedic story telling.

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  • I now wish I still had the subscription to The New Yorker so I could quote you some of the choice lines from “Standing By” which he also read last night. It started out as an innocuous story about disgruntled passengers stranded and lined up at an airport ticket counter and evolved into an insightful, even as it was laugh-out-funny, observation bordering on criticism of the current polemic political climate. On the sad state of traveling attire, in addition to freaturing a t-shirt with the words ““Freaky Mothafocka” in the story, here is another widely quoted gem:

“I should be used to the way American dress when travelling, yet still it manages to amaze me. It’s as if the person next to you had been washing shoe polish off a pig, then suddenly threw down his sponge, saying, “Fuck this. I’m going to Los Angeles!”

I laughed till tears came out when he said he would really like to know a person’s political leaning before he engaged in a conversation when the person made a comment such as “None of them want to work, that’s the problem”, and also when he realized the two men behind him were complaining about Obama (and not Bush/Cheney), “Isn’t it amazing how quickly one man can completely screw up a country?”  But Obama had been in the White House for 6 months! All that hate. You don’t think we can hate too? Think you can out-hate me, asshole?

  • Towards the end, he began reading his entries from his journal, the best part IMO, and therefore the following is strictly paraphrasing…

As I watched an old lady… I noticed her bumper sticker that said “Marriage = A Man + A Woman”. *pause* As I watched this old hag *The entire auditorium broke into a hysterical hooting* … … There should be a law against people parking at handicapped park spaces from making opinions. “You’ve got the best spot already. So shut the fuck up!” *More hooting and applause*

On upon learning about barn owl ring bearers which will swoop down to the groom wearing a leather glove and delivering the rings, and upon the delivery, will be rewarded with a live mouse or some other small animals…

For the first time, for all the right reasons, I really want to get married!

  • On doing book reading and signing in Raleigh, NC, his hometown: His brother brought boxes of bookmarks for him to pass out at these events, showing his brother completely nude with “Sedaris Hardwood Floors” covering the genital area.
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  • The audience were asked to share their best jokes as he signs their books, especially ethnic jokes, since he may as well be an equal opportunity offender so he needs to replenish his joke supply. I cranked my brains but could not remember any racist jokes. I really suck at being Chinese. Nonetheless, the following are some of the jokes he shared (and his introduction to the jokes, paraphrased of course):

Here is a great joke for you at an interview. You know how at the end of a job interview, they always ask you whether you have any questions? Ok, so here, here is the question you are going to ask:

What’s the difference between a Camaro and an erection?

I don’t have a Camaro.

I feel sorry for people who have a Camaro and women because you cannot tell this joke.

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This post has taken me more than five hours to put together because I did not want to screw it up. Well, time spent does not guarantee quality but it surely adds to the quantity. It has gone on too long and it is already, in fact, 4 am on Monday. I should stop here and continue my tale of how I got the Chinese version of When You Are Engulfed in Flames from David Sedaris.

In closing, I will leave you with this to ponder…

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One of the best t-shirts David Sedaris has seen says this:

I’d call you a cunt but you lack the depth or the warmth.

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The Chinese version of his book puzzled Mr. Sedaris: for some bizarre reason, there is a cat, a dog, and an embossed pipe in the middle, on the cover.

Reality bites. No. Reality kicked my ass.

There is no other way around it: I am a hypocrite.

Isn’t it an ironic coincidence that after my holier-than-thou tirade against bullying and my immagonnakickyourpunkass battle cry, my 12-year-old son told me tonight that he has been called all sorts of names at school?

Names such as gay, nerd, retard. Hurled at him, in passing, on a daily basis.

And the worst perpetrator is the 13 year old son from a family we know (whose youngest child does the same extracurricular activity as my son and therefore we see and hang out with them very often).

As soon as I heard this, all the blood rushed to my head: I could see the Samurai sword in my bedroom and I could see, in my mind’s eye, me wearing a bandanna that says VENGEANCE, going over there right now to kick that little shithead’s ass. The visualization was so vivid my fingers curled around the imaginary sword in my hand and I felt my legs twitch as I kicked the door down.

Of course I did no such thing.

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Not able to coax more details out of my son, I did the only thing I could do: I went to his Facebook account and changed the setting so the little fuckhead and his mother could not see my son’s wall posts any more since, as you probably guessed, unfriend the little fucking curd is probably going to addle him more.

Finally after I put the little one to bed, I had some quiet time with my 7th grader before he went to bed.  I pretended to be calm (not very successfully since I mentioned samurai sword and kick ass and something about moving to Taiwan) and asked him more about what really goes on at school.

Son: Mom. You are over-reacting again! I am not going to tell you anything any more!

Me: Ok ok. I promise I won’t do anything crazy. I just need to get it out inside the house now so I can remain calm about this. I just want to know that you are ok.

Son: You are so lucky that I talk to you! Most kids don’t tell their parents these things…

Me: OK. I promise I will not do anything without asking you first. I will not even tell Miss _________ about [FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT]. I just want to know more and make sure that you are doing ok…

Son: I probably exaggerated a bit. I am not bullied, I guess. People just call me names… like gay, retard, nerd. [Fucking piece of shit] calls me gay all the time.

Me: (Taking a deep breath) Does it bother you?

Son: Nah… Well, it kind of bothers me because I don’t like it when people use those words. When my friends say ‘gay’ or ‘retard’ I tell them to not swear and they say, “What? I am not swearing! I just say retard!” Ugh.

Me: (Taking a really deep breath) Do they single you out? Or do they do it to the other kids?

Son: It’s what the cool kids do. In order to look cool, you have to casually swear all the time, call people gay and retard all the time, and talk about sex non-stop.

Me: (Thinking to myself WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK?! Taking a really really deep breath, and slowly) Ok. So… these kids. They call you names if you cross path. But if you stay away from them, do they seek you out to pick on you? (Wistfully) They don’t bother you right? Right?

Son: Not really… I just feel that they do it to me more. They call me nerd all the time.

Me: Does this make you not want to go to school? Are there other “non-cool” kids that you can hang out with?

Son: (Exasperated) Mom! I have a lot of friends at school! And they think I am cool. But even they call me a nerd. Well, because I am a nerd.

Me: (Exasperated. Hey, I am not Perfect & Wise Mom!) Why do you have to label yourself like this? [Yes, then I launched into a tirade against anti-intellectualism in this country and the stupidity of all this. ALL THIS! Probably did not help. I did say I am not Perfect & Wise Mom…]”

Son: It is kind of annoying that people think I am a nerd. I know Kung Fu very well and I can do a back flip, and I am probably stronger than a lot of them.

Me: Honey, I am not saying this because I am your mother, but I really really think that people are just jealous. I want to let you know that if somebody touches you, you have my permission to, wait, I’d better check with dad before I give you the permission…

Son: We are told this rule at school: If you are punched, cover your face. You are allowed to shove the person back but you are not allowed to make a fist and punch back. [Chuckles] I can probably shove the person back all the way to the locker.

Me: I just want you to know that we will not be mad at you for defending yourself. I also want to let you know that, although your friends seem to know better than to use ‘gay’ or ‘fag’ in front of grownups, if I hear them using these words, I will call them out on it.

Son: Just make sure you don’t do it to someone who can beat me up! Can I go to bed now?

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I am not sure what I should/could do. I am still in shock while at the same time feeling embarrassed by my naiveté for being shocked at all.

I did not grow up here. I did not experience anything like this: Not name calling. Not having words unapproved by adults hurled at you. To this day I cannot curse in Chinese; that’s how effective cultural and social conditioning combined with physical punishment, or simply the threat of it, is in disciplining children. And behold: Surprise surprise! All the news about bullying did not prepare me for when it actually happened to my own child. Obviously I had no idea what the fuck I was talking about when I was running my mouth. Please accept my sincere apology.

In all honesty, what my son is living with now is mild compared to some of the horror stories we have heard. But it still hurts. It hurts so much. My son is a part of me. When he is hurting, my heart hurts too. I can actually feel the pain inside my chest. It is already rousing all the primal maternal instincts I have. “You mess with my family? You mess with me.” And I’ve already had to calm myself the fuck down.

I cannot imagine having to deal with full-blown bullying as a parent. I cannot imagine having to deal with it as a child.

Deep down, I am wondering whether name calling truly is a lot more sinister: The school district does have a Zero Tolerance policy but only if there is physical contact. (And I am not going to spell out what is going through my mind right now. It suffices to say, IF they touch my son, it is open season). For words, mere words, there is nothing you can do about it, realistically. What’s the school going to do? There is no proof. And even if there is, what kind of punishment is the school going to dole out? Telling them to not do it again? “Be nice!” Slap the kids’ hands?

Hardy har har. Big fucking deal.

HOW FUCKING STUPID IS THIS?!

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I suck. I seriously do. Full of hot air. Nothing more. It’s been only one night, and I am ready to strike a bargain with the devil to make all this magically go away.

Why didn’t anybody tell me how awful it is going to be? Perhaps someone should have included this in the book “What to Expect When You Have Children”: Prepared to feel murderous rage against other teens but of course you cannot act on it and to feel the primordial urge to protect your young no matter what but of course you cannot do so when they are in school.

If I had known bringing up children in the United States of America means watching them being called names and not being able to do a fucking damned thing about it, I would not have married an American.

If I had known bringing up children means you have to sit and watch their innocence being stripped away bit by bit at the school yard where they are supposed to be fucking safe and protected, I would have hesitated.

I am most likely blowing everything up out of proportion. But this is how I feel right now.

“Vote for Pedro”: How do you decide who to vote for?

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On my way to dropping off my 7th grader at the junior high this morning, he asked, out of the blue,

“Where do you get a yard sign for the election?”

He meant the “Vote for XX” signs that some of our neighbors have started decorating their front lawns with since a couple of months ago. Just so you know: So far I have not spotted a single sign for a democratic party candidate in our subdivision.

“Why?”

“Well, I want to vote for this guy ________ or maybe this guy _________, ah, I can’t remember his name, who was running for the senate [He’s not; the person my son was referring to is running for the Governor]. He has been a congressman [Correction: He’s a state senator] for a long time, and now he’s risking it all to run for this, this thing so that he can help the country. He’s risking it all to run for this. And I want to vote for him…”

“Wow. I am impressed. How do you know all about this? Did anybody come to school to talk to you? [They’d better not, of course!]”

“No. I just heard it from all the political ads on TV.”

Seriously? When did they watch so much TV? I am not bragging but we have PBS on in the morning and after school when my 7-year-old watches TV. The TV is seldom on when I am home after work or even on the weekends. How many political ads are run within a two-hour window during prime time?!?

“Well, you know, that’s the danger of watching and believing these ads: what if you’ve only seen the ads from one side and then you would have only heard the opinions from one side.” I gingerly prodded him in the right direction, I hope, as I cringed.

“I don’t like all of those ads attacking people; they picked up one word from somewhere and then they just totally blew it up and made it into a big deal. This guy, what’s his name, did not do that in his ad and I want to vote for him.”

So there you have it: He decided on his candidate by watching the ads on one night when we were drinking too much wine at a fundraising event. Although my son is only 12 years old, I believe the way he received information about the candidates (Promises only with no evidence to back them up. Punchline rules!) and how he decided WHOM to vote for is not that uncommon.

The modern elections are still run, largely, by air time. And this election is going to see the massive impact by the Supreme Court’s landmark ruling this January to allow corporations to spend unlimited funds to elect and defeat candidates.

Before the Supreme Court’s landmark campaign finance ruling in January, nonprofit groups…, able to accept unrestricted contributions from individuals and corporations, had been limited to broadcasting ‘issue ads’ and barred from ‘express advocacy,’ advertisements that directly urge voters to elect or defeat specific candidates.

Now… third-party groups in growing numbers have been flocking to this sharper form of messaging in the closing weeks of the campaign.

“Groups Push Legal Limits in Advertising”, 17 October 2010, New York Times

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“Pedro offers you his protection.”

“Vote for me, and all your wildest dreams will come true.”

These campaign slogans still make me chuckle.

In the movie Napoleon Dynamite, the idea of uber-dork-100%-uncool Napoleon wowing the crowd with a surprise performance and thus helping his good friend Pedro win the class president election is rather endearing and satisfies our urge to root for the underdogs.

However, as I bit my lip to refrain from going into a tirade in the car, I questioned how scary it would be if this idea were to apply to real politics:

Let’s see who can put up the best show and have it run over and over again until repetition turns the message into the de facto fact because the alternative has been droned out.

Wig Out

I took a nap today from 2 pm to 4 pm.

(Wait. Let me jot down the date for today. On October 17, I TOOK A 2-FUCKING-HOUR NAP, RELATIVELY UNINTERRUPTED, AND WOKE UP ON MY OWN!!!)

When I woke up, I was completely disoriented because I thought it was morning. At first I was confused, then I went into a panic: I thought I had overslept. This seems to happen every time I (get to) take a nap: I need an hour to recover from the grogginess, not to mention the residual memory of the said panic attack. Sometimes I am not sure it is worth it.

The house was absolutely quiet when I stepped outside the bedroom. The kids were outside playing, I remembered them whispering in my ear, asking for permission when I was sleeping. Strewn on the floor were the wig called “70s Dude” and the John-Lennon-esque sunglasses my 7-year-old “Mr. Monk” just got from the annual trip to the (overpriced and crappy-quality) Mega Halloween Costume Shop. I thought, “Why not?”

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The Bloggess was right: Wigs rock!

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I screamed when I turned around and saw Mr. Monk quietly sitting in front of the computer.

“I didn’t know you’re home.”

“Is that my wig?”

Should I be concerned that he was completely unfazed by my behavior?

All of a sudden I heard a commotion: my 7th grader and his friends were running across our backyard, passing the open windows and barreling towards the back door. I pulled the wig and the sunglasses off right before they came in sight. I smirked as I remembered this line from Sara Gruen’s Water For Elephants (one of the books sitting on my nightstand and inside bathrooms which I hopefully will be able to finish by the end of this year)

Keeping up the appearance of having all your marbles is hard work but important.

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I actually tried on several wigs when we were at the said Mega Halloween Shop Stuffed With Mass-Produced Crap. In fact, I believe I tried on ALL of the non-blonde wigs they had: Elvira, Rebel Witch, Lolita, Hot Pink, Flapper Girl, Shirley Dimples, Sexy’n’Trashy, French Kiss Cheyene, Seductress, 60s Babe, Sultry, Punk Girl, Glamour, Madam Destiny.

Here’s the thing. My kids tried to talk me out of every single one. They must have found it unnerving. In fact, I KNEW they found it unnerving and that was why I stayed away from the blonde wigs. Mr. Monk kept on wanting me to try on the wig called “Mom” because

“That’s you. You are a mom!”

My 12-year-old tried to steer me towards the BLACK wigs.

“You should try this one. Or that one.” he pointed to the Egyptian Princess wig and Sassy Black Wig. Finally after the third pink wig that I asked for his opinion on, he said, “You really should just stick with a black wig, you know, because it does not look out-of-place.”

Yes, clearly, they did not understand the concept of Halloween when it came to their own mother.

And yes, though I am not proud to admit it, I sulked. I swallowed an entire speech right then and there and suggested that it’s time we check out and head home.

As we passed by the “Asian” aisle (labeled as so), the 12-year-old pointed out the wall with various geisha, China girl, Far Eastern girl costumes (black wigs included of course) “Mom, look! Yikes!” I turned towards him,

“Did you see? This was what I heard when you told me that I should stick with a black wig: A white woman can choose to be whoever she wants, having whatever color of hair she wants, whereas I have to stick with being Asian. With black hair.”

I sometimes feel very sorry for my children. “Other moms” don’t wig out over wigs, I bet.

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This was the fortune I got today:

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I once read that Fortune Cookie fortune writers have to strive to come up with messages that are neutral, offend no one and appeal to everyone.

What are the odds of this fortunate being “Absolutely not applicable – I am telling you honey, sweetie pie, no, I swear, this is just a stupid fortune, not going to come true, and of course I am not sad that it won’t come true” to whomever receives it.

I carry your heart with me

I have been giving this a lot of thought ever since I started getting readers/commenters who, more often than not, became friends:

Why do the relationships I have forged online with people I have never met often feel a lot more authentic, real and immediate than those in real life?

This was what Wicked Shawn and I talked about yesterday when we met for the first time.

Me: We have just met. Why do I feel so close to you already?

Shawn: But honey (in her sweet sweet Kentucky twang. *melting*) we have known each other for a long time!

She’s right of course.

Just because we communicate by words, over the Internet, it does not make the connections any less valid. People used to have pen pals. Did they feel embarrassed when they told their family and friends about their pen pals? Did they worry about being mocked when they traveled to meet their pen pals in real life?

In fact, y’all know me, what I really think, what I value, my fears, my aspirations, and yes, my neurosis, a lot better than 99% of the people I know in real life. You may not know the names of my husband and children, you may not know where I live or what my house looks like, but you know the “real” me. I am not saying that in my “physical” life I am walking around faking or pretending. My existence here as words in the Interwebs is the essence of my being. Stripped of all adornments.

Well, I am going to contradict myself: sometimes when I think about this whole thing, I see this as my essence being digitized and so I am seeing all of us running around like Tron… So maybe not stripped of ALL adornments because you know, we’d be all carrying a flying disc…

Here, I am not so and so’s wife. So and so’s mother. Weird Asian lady who lives next door. My odd co-worker I have to put up with. The woman who works for/with me. The person who could not pronounce “Doug” (Thank you all!). The person who also apparently cannot pronounce “Don/Dawn” but somehow can “Shawn”. etc. etc.

You get to know me before your judgement/impression/evaluation/or whatever it is that people do when they meet a person of me is influenced by any visual or audio cues.

And this is why when we finally met (and hopefully meet) each other, after the first 30 seconds of awkwardness, we are going to behave as if we have known each other, like, forever.

I just want to thank each and every one of you that has ever visited, commented or emailed me; you have contributed to my improved mental health and self-esteem. The therapy sessions are working, and they are free! Thank you for letting me mooch off of you… Sometimes when life gets me down, I think to myself, “Hey there are people who actually think I am fucking awesome!”

Case in point: Attending conferences by myself is one of my worst fears. Today I had to do so for work. First I was afraid / I was petrified/ But then something clicked: I remembered my “secret identity” as the coolest awesome ass-kicking hot babe that you somehow led me to believe. (Fine. So what if I made the avatar myself? You are a bunch of enablers a girl can ever ask for!) So I behaved as one.

I carry with me your blind faith in me like a protective shield as I go about my daily life.

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happy birthday, e. e. cummings.

Disclaimer: I look nothing like the avatar I made.

Opening up a can of whupass

I am fuming. Ok, what’s new, right? But this time it is something personal. It may be trivial but it has consumed me ever since I had the following exchange with my son this past Friday. After a whole weekend of thinking it over and calming down, my anger and indignation has been only stewing and seething… Oh my dear friends, the Mama Bear inside me has reared her ugly head. Hold me down please before I get ourselves run out of town with pitchforks and torches…

In a casual conversation last Friday, my 7th grader brought up that he was reprimanded by the lady of the house at the bottom of our street to “Get off of my driveway!” He in passing mentioned something else the woman said to him which got my attention. I did not think that I heard it correctly or that he had remembered accurately so before he went to bed, I interrogated him. Hit them when they are groggy and sleepy.

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Me: Can you tell me what happened at Mrs. S’ house today?

Son: Me and N (another 7th grader from the same block) were racing and he was on his motorbike and I was on my scooter. He said that he won, and I said that I won. And then he said the F word. [F _ g] Then E [Mrs. S’ daughter who is also a 7th grader] came out and she’s like, “Hi Guys.” Then she said, “Don’t say that. My mom is here.” We kept talking and then Mrs. S came out and said,

“Hey, get off of my driveway. I don’t want you here, especially you, [First Name of my son] [Last name]. One of these days we’re going to look in the newspaper and see that you are in jail.”

Me [taking a deep breath]: And you are very sure you are not the one that said the F word?

Son [looking me in the eyes]: I am sure.

Me [taking another deep breath]: And do you think she said that because she thought you were the one who said the F word?

Son: I have no idea. At first I thought she was sarcastic. She said, “One of these days you are going to get into big trouble, mister!” But I don’t know. She did the sarcastic thing wrong because she was not smiling. I didn’t say anything bad though.

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I really thought long and hard about how this could have happened and what to do about it. I of course tweeted about this already and several of you have offered to put a foot (or two feet) in her ass, beat her with a shovel and a riding crop. (Thank you m’ladies for getting my back!)

It’s possible that she was upset because she heard some kid using the F word and she totally went berserk? If she is such a strong proponent for LGBT rights that she has such a strong reaction from hearing this word spoken right outside her house, perhaps I should give her the benefit of a doubt?  I tried to put myself in her shoes but still I can’t see myself saying anything like that to anybody’s child. I would have admonished the kids, told them to not use such hurtful languages and possibly threatened to have a talk with their parents.

What do you think?

And I’ll own up, yes, I want to open up a can of whupass on this woman who will not know that I am opening up a can of woopass on her right here.

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cartoon from nataliedee.com

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Hey, it’s making me feel better already so it works, and that’s all that matters, right? Sigh. Parenting sucks. Parenting sucks ass when you are forced to see other parents as adversaries.

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p.s. Although children do lie to save their own behind and my son is definitely not a saint, he knows to not use the F word or even the word “gay” in the “wrong” way. I monitor all his email communications, IM and Facebook, and although he’s constantly surrounded by kids using the word “gay”, he has never used it even when other kids use the word to diminish him and his possessions. It is possible that he does after all take my “death by wrath” threat to heart. As for the other kid, N? Oh he knew he was in trouble. Or he thought he would have been in trouble since he told my son before he ran home, “Ok, I said ‘Fatty’, ok? That’s all I said!”