Monthly Archives: February 2011

Jet Lag is a Bitch

It’s 2:46 am here in Taipei. I have been awake since 1, lying quietly next to the exhausted boys who passed out at 8 pm, which means they’ll be up and ready to go any minute now.

Jet lag sucks ass when you are traveling with kids.

I am also typing this on my stupid iPhod with my nose hovering above the screen because genius here packed a pair of glasses with NO prescription when my eyes are so effing bad (9.80 and 10.20). Wearing contact lenses 24/7 is simply not an option for me; I’d be blinking the whole day like Sarah Palin, I mean, winking.

I still have some work to do for work, and I would have gladly been working on them except I don’t know how to work on Excel while you are effing half- blind.

Except the above loser glitch, and the fact it’s going to rain the whole week, everything is nice. It’s nice to be here with my folks. Awesome to rub the tummy of my nephew’s wife (Yes, that means I’m going to be a GREAT aunt soon… Shut up! If I’m a great aunt, you all are great aunts and uncles according to the Chinese rule of familial osmosis.). Awesome to see my 12-year-old hovering above my parents (I’m the black sheep in my family: different in every way including effing poor eyesight). Wonderful to watch my dad watching Mr. Monk eating and my oldest doing homework with a content smile.

I’m being a bad blogger. I thought I should drop you this note and let you know why it is all quiet on the WESTERN front…

Love, from Taipei

How he feels about the REAL Chinese food...

PSA: I am a walking liability

This just in: Apparently I cannot say the word BOMB either.

This came up because Mr. Monk, my 8-year old, was crying before bedtime due to some teasing on his brother’s part and yelling on my part. When I put him to bed, I asked him why he cried so much and he said, “Because I am sensitive.”

“So you are like a snail?” I said, jokingly, hoping to cheer him up. Utter fail, I know. Snail? WTF, right?

“Why? Because you think I am slow?”

“No. I mean snails are sensitive.” Beats me really. I have never actually looked at a snail longer than one second before I ran away screaming let alone touched one.

“That’s dumb.” He said, with half a smile.

“Ok. Fine. You are sensitive like a bomb.”

“What?”

“A bomb.”

“A bong? What?” No, I don’t think he knows what a bong is thank you very much. It is hard for me to spell the onomatopoeia as Mr. Monk heard them because I could not tell the differences so please simply imagine the variations of what could go wrong when a foreigner is trying to pronounce the “M” sound.

“No. A BOMB.” I said it louder. Yeah yeah I know.

“A bon? A bom?”

“No.” I sighed. “A bomb. A bomb. You know. Like a walking time bomb?”

“Oh. A BOMB.” Ugh, that’s exactly what I have been saying for the past 5 minutes. Apparently not so as far as a native-English-speaker is concerned.

“You are saying it wrong. Make it less…. um… bointy. You know, less Boin’ in it.” Now he’s making up words to teach me how to pronounce a real word.

“Hey, now you know why I can tell the 4 tones in Chinese apart but you can’t. Remember how everything sounded the same to you and I kept on telling you you’re doing it wrong? I really cannot tell the differences between what you are saying and what I am trying to say. They sound the same to me. Isn’t it amazing? Now let’s take a moment to appreciate the wonder that is the human brain.”

The truth is? I gave up on trying to say the word BOMB correctly. I mean, it’s not like I am giving up much; after all, I HAVE managed to learn to pronounce PORN CORN perfectly.  Anyway, I won’t be using the word BOMB that often right? I just cannot be a terrorist, you know, if I were one, I probably would need to go into a store (probably Walmart) to buy a bomb some day and hilarity would ensue. Terrorists are people with no sense of humors so that would not work out.

I left the room and went to check on the 12-year-old. “Hey, guess what? I cannot pronounce the word BOMB either?”

“What?”

Oh for fuck sake, not again.

“BOMB. I cannot say the word BOMB.”

“Ohhhhhh you mean Bomb as in a time bomb”

“YES.”

“Say BA.”

“BA.”

“Now say M.”

“M.”

“Now say BOMB.”

“&*%$&” <– I thought I said BOMB but obviously I did not so I do not know how to spell it out.

“Wow. Way to fail mom.”

“Thanks.” Taking a mental note to make fun of him when he speaks Chinese. “Well, it’s not like I am going to buy a bomb or anything.”

“Yeah. But what if you are in a movie theatre, and you see a bomb, and you yell ‘BOMB!’ and people are like, ‘What? What did she say?'”

FUCK.

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Now you know why I don't call you Da Bomb any more... Nothing personal.

The Antidote to VD

I received the latest issue of Bloomberg Businessweek this Saturday and I could not have been happier.

Such a great antidote for Valentine’s Day Blues.

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Cover of Bloomberg Businessweek, 14 February 2011.

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After reading the well-written article, “Cheating Incorporated”, still aghast and shaking from the get-go by the tagline “Life is short. Have an affair”, I went and checked out the front page of the website, and the front page only. I swear. There is NO wink wink this time.

I don’t know what to say. I feel like crying but not the self-pitying kind wont to happen on Valentine’s Day. No. I feel like crying because I am so tired. I feel besieged.

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"Affairs Guaranteed"

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Well, I guess now we know what many people would be doing the day AFTER Valentine’s Day…

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Now we know what people do the day AFTER...

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I am rather intrigued by this chart really, what would your hypothesis be for the reasons for the spikes?

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Defiance

If you are out and about this past week, it will take a lot of resilience to not be carried away or affected by all the pink and red hearts, the flowers, the chocolate and candy in pretty pretty heart-shaped boxes wrapped in red ribbons tied into perfect little bows, the flowery typeface all over shop windows and billboards. On my way home on Friday evening, the second I stepped in the train station, I sensed the collective nervous energy from the crowd. People were swarming in front of the Fannie May counter, all of them men. The same with the flower stand. As I walked through the train to find an empty seat, I saw many, men, awkwardly trying to keep the flower bouquets upright and in check.

I have to confess: With all the talk of “Bah Humbug! I don’t care about Valentine’s Day. Won’t people please shut up about it already?” my heart was caught in my throat and tears began emanating from behind my eyes, stinging them, when I settled into a seat and noticed a balding middle-aged man in a pedestrian outfit in front of me holding a lovely rose bouquet.

Luckily for me, it so happened that on the same day, I discovered at the CVS right outside the train station one of the best inventions known to women, especially commuting women, Juice Box Wines. I was also not without a box of chocolate in my possession because Mr. Monk, my 8-year-old, had asked me that morning, “Mommy, would you give me a box of chocolate for Valentine’s Day?”

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I was disappointed when I asked, half jokingly [ONLY half!], The Husband before he left for his month-long trip abroad, “So, you are going to send me flowers right?”

“Are you crazy? That’s a total waste of money!” He said, NOT joking at all. “They are expensive and they won’t survive longer than a week.”

Fine. I knew I was not married to Mr. Romantic when I entered the deal, and I tend to agree that flowers ARE expensive and impractical. [It just seems easier to tell myself that.]

Isn't she sexy?!

To be honest, I am kind of relieved that once again he’s not here for Valentine’s Day. I would have been the person that planned everything and stressed myself out. Without expectations, there will be no disappointment.

His absence makes it a non-event and I get to do whatever I want: So I decided to ignore it but not before I went and got myself a Valentine’s Day present, and The Husband was more than happy to take the credit: “See? Isn’t that an awesome Valentine’s Day present? Much better than flowers?” I had to agree.

All’s well that ends well.

The Cuckoo and The Choo Choo

I am at the train station again. The one with the Starbucks.

I come here almost every Saturday morning when the kids are in Religious Ed. Free babysitting provided by the Catholic Church. That’s the least they could do for me really.

When I was waiting for my non-fat Venti latte, I heard “Hi, Mrs. Absence!” and barely recognized A, a boy who lives in the house across the street from us. I was pleasantly surprised for surely most kids his age (13, the same as my oldest) would have preferred to slip by without having to say hello to a neighbor lady whom his family does not socialize with other than “Hello!” when we chance to see each other outside. When I walked into the train station with my coffee, my oatmeal, my laptop and my iPhod, I realized that he was with a group of a good size, comprised of fathers and children. One of the fathers whom I have never met before explained that A’s grandfather organizes such a group outing for the dads every year around Valentine’s Day so their wives could have a grand day off.

[A’s mother does not work outside of the house. Both kids are old enough to take care of themselves and are away from school between 8:30 am and 3 pm. They have house cleaners that come every other week. What will she be doing today that is going to be different from her Monday through Friday? I cannot help but be curious…]

The stranger dad asked, “So are you going downtown today?”

I wondered what he made of me: me in my Aerosmith t-shirt, jeans, black boots, thick black eyeliners, and a choker necklace at 9 o’clock on a Saturday morning, oh, and I just noticed now, no wedding ring. (I often leave my ring at home together with my bracelet and watch. I get allergic reactions from metal easily…)

“To the Auto Show?” He added. Perhaps that’s somewhere he would rather go instead of the show they are taking the kids to?

“No.” I had not realized yet that it might have sounded odd to people that I come and hang out at the train station. I joked, “I am not going downtown. I am trying to get away from the kids,” taking for granted that he would know what it was like, what I meant.

Of course he did not. He looked downright uncomfortable, not knowing how to respond to my impromptu confession. Laughing awkwardly, he said, making a sweeping gesture towards the kids in his group, “Getting away from the kids? Sorry about that then.”

I laughed. “No, no. I am not getting on the train. I am not going anywhere. I am just here.”

He looked puzzled. “Here? The train station?” His eyebrows arched. Was that a cloud of horror passing through his eyes?

“Yes, I am here for the Starbucks. You know.”

Judging from his quizzical eyebrows, I doubted that he did.

I was baffled. What’s wrong with being at the train station? I thought.

At this moment A’s dad made his way across the train station and spotted me. “Hey! What are you doing here?” I gave him a hug and told him in mid-hug, “Well, I am coming with you guys!” Feeling sorry for the confusion visible in his face when I released him, I quickly added, “Just kidding. I am just here at the train station.”

“The… the train station?” He looked so confounded as if I had told him that I had been there for, oh I don’t know, a rally for the democratic party. Actually, he would probably have been able to understand that. It is this “hanging out at a train station with no specific purpose by myself” that caught him off guard I suspect.

“You know. They have a Starbucks here,” I added with an emphasis, “The ONLY Starbucks in town.”

“Surely there is a Starbucks closer to our houses, no?” He insisted, unconsciously attempting to steer me away from the train station perhaps.

After I rattled off the alternative locations, he concurred that this is indeed the closest Starbucks we’ve got.

“But…” He still could not let it go, “The train station?”

“Well, you see, when the train leaves, there will be nobody here. It is quiet and very nice. The Starbucks is here. And there is free Wi-Fi.” I could tell that he was not convinced that this was the most logical choice, or a logical choice at all, so I shrugged, “Well, I am strange this way in case you haven’t figured that out after more than 10 years…”

Now it’s his turn to reassure me my normal-ness. “Nah. Nah. You are fine. You are fine.” We both chuckled.

Fortunately the bell started ringing to announce the arrival of the commuter train.

“Have a nice day downtown!”

“Enjoy the train station!” He said, and I thought I detected a tinge of the kind of tone that people use to someone who insists on, say, rummaging through a junk yard. “Have fun at the junk yard even though I cannot for the life of me understand WHY but hey this is a free country so go for it!”

I did. For another hour until I had to pick the kids up. But I could not shake my own puzzlement over how they were so befuddled and possibly, amused.

So my dear Soren Lorensens, do you know, what is so strange about hanging out at a Starbucks inside an empty train station?

Red Envelopes

For Chinese New Year, instead of wrapped-up presents, children are given cold hard cash inside red envelopes for good luck.

We are a practical people.

I still remember the excitement on Chinese New Year’s eve: after the big dinner, my parents would call me to their bedroom and hand me a red envelope. My parents never bought me any presents partly because birthday celebrations for children had not been a popular concept although people do celebrate the elder’s significant birthdays such as when Grandma finally hits 80 and hasn’t kicked the bucket yet, and partly because we were not poor but not wealthy either.

That New Year’s Eve red envelope was IT.

Of course, every other adult that you see during the 15 days of Chinese New Year is expected to give you a red envelope. The more relatives and friends your family have, the more red envelopes you get. The more red envelopes you get, the higher your net worth becomes, that is, until your mother takes them all away, “I will save it for you!”

Of course, you never see that money again.

I am embarrassed to admit that, at least during Chinese New Year, you DO have a favorite aunt or uncle, the one who’s known to give out generous amount in their red envelopes. As soon as you wake up on the first day of Chinese New Year, you try to figure out WHEN you will be visiting them by asking your parents indirect questions such as,

“When are we going to visit this or that uncle/aunt?”

And then deny vehemently when your mother accuses you of wanting to visit them simply for the big, fat red envelope you know you’ll be getting.

You also will try and hide your disappointment when your mother strikes some stupid deal with an aunt of yours to NOT give red envelopes to each other’s children.

I don’t remember much from my childhood but I do remember counting the money vividly. It was a ritual in itself.

It was of course never polite to count the money right then and there and therefore I would stash the red envelopes away, in the pocket of my jacket, in my fuzzy poodle purse, in my oversized Japanese-style wallet, in my closet. (It has happened more than once, I believe, that I lost my red envelopes. The memory is fuzzy now because it was rather traumatic and I am pretty sure I have blocked it off…) The whole day the thought of those envelopes and HOW MUCH MONEY in each of them lingered, the way the burnt smell of exploded fireworks did, and those envelopes surely felt like they were burning a hole inside my pocket. I waited till the end of day to spread out all the red envelopes on the bed and counted out my loot. I took my time to take all the bills out, feel each one of them, take in the intoxicating smell of crisp new bills. I then return the money into the red envelopes, careful not to crease the bills. I remembered who gave me which red envelope by looking at the different design on each of them. This was important because later my mother needed to know who gave how much so that she could make sure to reciprocate next year. It’s amazing how she would remember the next year even though she did not take any notes when she was going through my red envelopes after Chinese New Year.

It was like a tacit agreement between us: She would grant me the pleasure of keeping the red envelopes and counting the money every night, and I would turn them all over when this was over.

Once I tried to stash away one of the red envelopes, and my mother asked coolly, “Aunt So-And-So did not give you a red envelope this year?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged with the studied casualness of a method actor, “I probably put it somewhere… Oh, yes, here it is.”

I never tried to fool her again.

Now in hindsight, as in right at this moment, I could have stashed away a hundred-dollar bill (40:1 Currency exchange rate, people, don’t get too excited) from at least some of the red envelopes. She would probably have never sensed anything wrong.

Nah. She would probably have caught me anyway.

Good times.

Being here by myself, I don’t really do anything special for Chinese New Year with my own kids. Although part of me felt guilty for sucking at bringing Chinese New Year magic to my children, some part of me felt this was merely nostalgiz playing an unfair trick. After all, according to everybody back home, Chinese New Year is not the way it was any more. Nowadays people take advantage of the 5-day holiday and travel abroad so you can hardly find anybody to visit during that week. Many overseas Chinese would also tell you that going back to Taiwan during Chinese New Year is the worst timing: your relatives and friends are probably out of the country, and most of the stores and restaurants are closed.

Perhaps because of its convenience, the tradition of giving children red envelopes remains, and it is the only Chinese New Year tradition I am consciously keeping. It was satisfying watching Mr. Monk’s eyes light up.

“You mean, you are just giving us this money?”

“Yup. This is Hong Bao. Red Envelope. It is for good luck.”

“Wow! You mean I get to keep the money inside?”

I wanted to say,  “And I am not taking it away from you when Chinese New Year is over.”

But it was late at night and this would entail a long story.

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Nostalgia is like a grammar lesson:  you find the present tense, but the past perfect!

— Owens Lee Pomeroy

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What do you know? Someone managed to kill my nostalgia for The Most Awesome Chinese Tradition aka Red Envelopes…

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The Chinese caption accompanying this picture says, "Kids, don't litter the envelopes otherwise the Monster, Year, will come after you!"

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Way to go rabid environmentalists for killing the happiness that comes with getting free money from every adult in your life!

Sundays in My City – SNOW! (What else do you expect?)

On February 1, 2011, at around 3 o’clock in the afternoon, snow started coming down together with the wind, fast and furious. The fortunate ones were able to stay in their own houses, waiting for the blizzard to end.

Before the sun came out again, the snow had stopped but the wind continued. When those fortunate people woke up on February 2, they were greeted with the aftermath of the blizzard and they picked up the shovels, started up their snowblowers and went to work.

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Unknown Mami