Category Archives: therapy in session

Things I Missed

I have been back to my real life since two Sundays ago. After a week on the beach, doing nothing, having no appointments to make, no place to rush to, I find it hard to adjust back to life in the suburbia 100%. On the first few days after The Beach, I caught myself thinking that I was about to get ready to go to the beach. I got a bit disoriented when I was driving because I was expecting to make the right turn and go into the development where the beach house was. In an almost imperceptible way, memories from the beach (even when I did not know I was remembering specifically any scene, any event, so perhaps it is more aptly an “aura”) seeped into reality as I am trying to adjust to life back to normal.

Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man.

Disorientation. It happens every year after The Beach. Naturally it does get better as the week of post-coastal ~~coital~~ tristesse advances.

Perhaps because I now have a ~~Tamagotchi~~ blog to keep, I am even more self-reflective; I was caught by surprise by how I reacted with happiness to some of the things back home. Things I hadn’t realized I’d missed while I was doing The Beach… in addition to the Internet and robust Wireless coverage, it goes without saying.

My bed. Ok. Our bed. And I did consciously miss it during The Beach. At least my aching back did. A lot.

When we moved into our current house ten years ago, my husband and I made a conscious decision to get ourselves the best bed we could afford without going against our principle, “Only losers pay retail”. Considering how on average human beings spend one third of their lives in bed (i.e. 8+ out of 24 hours every day in theory), a firm and comfortable bed that allows you to wake up refreshed is one of the best investment with the highest ROI a person can make. Our bed is one of those memory foams similar to Tempur-Pedic, and true to the marketing claim, we seldom disturb each other when we lie down or get up from the bed. The downside of having such an awesome bed is 1) We feel like going straight to bed most of the time, and 2) We are so spoiled now that we find it hard to fall asleep, stay asleep, and wake up without kinks or aches when we travel.

My car.

Raise your hand if you’ve ever heard a joke about driving while female? How about driving while Asian? Now put those two together, you got? Me.

I have to write about my love for driving one day, but for now, it suffices to say that I missed my car even though we had a nice and clean rental car, a Toyota Camry, that week. I didn’t realize that I missed my tiny hatchback. In fact, after a long absence, I tend to be hesitant when I put my foot on the gas pedal, feeling like a virgin driver. I supplied pressure with my foot tentatively and my car purred (the way a small, non-sporty car does anyway). I thought, “Oh how I have missed you!” I love the familiarity. The comfort and ease. The confidence I exude when I am behind the steering wheel of my itty bitty car. Possibly the smallest, everyday car, used to transport kids on a regular basis within the 15-mile radius of Suburbia. The pride, most likely undeserved, I feel in my heart when I am surrounded by gas-guzzling SUVs. Especially when I encounter a Cadillac Escalade on the road (which for some reason happens more often than I wish), I see my itty bitty superduper hatchback as a finger extended in its general direction.

Booyah!

Chicago. Or any other larger city with a diverse population where I will not be stared at like a zoo animal. Where I do not stand out. Where I blend into the mosaic tapestry of life effortlessly. Where I will be ignored, just like everybody else.

For one reason or another we end up in the northern most tip of OBX every year where even the groundskeepers are white. No shit. Even the seasonal workers they employ in the stores and restaurants are of Eastern European origins. This year, for the first time, I saw two Asian cashiers at the supermarket, and (I did not imagine this!) they looked startled when they saw me at the checkout line.

Yeah, I am going to sound like a reverse-racist but it gets on my nerves every single year on the beach, this lack of diversity. This pervasive whiteness. I am never the only person of color there because my sister-in-law is of Asian Indian heritage. (Born and bred in the U.S. of A.). Although she laughs every time I mention how 1) this has got to be the worst week for their property value, 2) the two of us double the population of Asian descent instantly, 3) “I am going to integrate now!” before I head towards the local super market, she may not be as sensitive as I am. I, the product of years of Ivory-Tower immersion in race theories, American histories, cultural histories, identity theories, racial politics, post-colonial literature and theories, what have you. Every year I counted the number of people of color I saw on the beach, in the pool, in the general area. This year I saw on the beach one African American family and a family of white parents and their children adopted from Asia. Then there were me and my sister-in-law. That’s it. Never more than a dozen.

The staring. The surreptitious looks. Sometimes became too much. Without knowing it, I became edgy, stressed, and bitter because I was on display.

I whisper-yelled at the kids to behave more than I should have done, I didn’t know then but I do now, because I wanted to make sure that THESE PEOPLE not walk away with ANY false impression of Asian people. God forbid if I were the only Asian person they have come in close contact with in a shared environment, i.e. outside of Chinese restaurants, dry cleaners, nail salons, [fill in stereotypically Asian-owned businesses]. I certainly don’t want them to draw any negative conclusions about Asian-looking people because of the mistakes I made. (Great! Now they are going to think that Asian mothers yell at their kids too much! Fuck!)

I was ON the whole time. I was on my best behavior. I made great efforts to speak with as little hint of my foreign accent as possible because FUCK if I wanted to perpetuate the stereotype of Asians as perpetual, inscrutable, foreigners in this country. (The irony of me being indeed a FOREIGNER was not lost on me. Thank you very much. And I hope you all American-born people of Asian descent appreciate my fighting this battle alongside you so please no more making fun of people speaking in a foreign accent so you can feel, you know, American…)

As soon as I stepped off the plane at O’Hare Airport and emerged from the jetway, I was greeted with faces of varying shades in the bustling gate area. I let out a sigh of relief. The tension in my shoulders, which I hadn’t known was there, dissipated with such force it was physically perceptible to me. The chip on my shoulder melted, figuratively and physically even though I hadn’t realized I’d been wearing one. I was able to relax. I did not become fully aware of it until I no longer felt subconsciously the need to represent.

Yup. I missed not having to represent.

What ya doin’?

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If you don’t count the works that were not supposed to be mine but when it all of a sudden became mine three precious days had passed and there were only two days left to work on it.

If you don’t count the general assholery that’s thrown over the wall to my cubicle.

If you don’t count wolfing down the rest of the Sookie Stackhouse True Blood Series because 1) I needed to escape reality so much that even blogging and twittering would not do, 2) the sex and the description of it just gets hotter and hotter between Sookie and Eric, and 3) I believe I have developed an addiction to voyeurism.

Nuthin’ much. Really.

I'm going to Disney World y'all. No. Not really. I've always wanted to say that.

I suspect that Dilbert has been following me around at work otherwise how can every single one of these recent comics be so accurate in telling what I am going through??!!

no images were found

Oh, yeah. I realized that using the time it took me to work on the picture of me announcing my trip to Dilbert World, I could have written a better post. Shut up. Thank you. xxoo

The Girl in Her

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She did not want to come back the last time she was there.

She wanted to stay home. Home.

When she was there by herself, she was not a mother. She was not a wife. She was herself.

More enticingly, she was her younger self. She was a daughter. She was the much adored and lauded miracle child. The family legend.

The one who ~~would be~~ could have been “The Doctor”. The real kind.

She realized much to her sadness and guilt that she has not been a daughter since 1993 when she left home for graduate school. The first time she went home, she brought her American boyfriend with her.

She stopped being just a daughter to her family. She has never been back by herself ever since.

When she went home by herself, everybody treated her as if she had just left and then returned. They treated her as if she were only 24, how old she was when she left.

Time stopped.

It was disorienting. A discontium of time and space.

You are here in the U.S. and 24 hours later, you are in a different world. The same skyscrappers. The same modern technologies. Cars. Material goods. Yet different.

Time also reversed. Her family treated her as if she were only 24. She was a daughter again. The unwed daughter. The pearl in their palms.

She looked at her parents who have aged more since she saw them last. She wondered how she could have done this to them. Rid them of their daughter. All these years of separation they seem almost like strangers, yet she remembered. It’s as if life in between simply were not there. She left. She came home. As simple as that.

Now she’s 24.

She has a pretty face. In 3 D. She knows it. Yet nowadays she does not like to look at herself in the pictures. She dares not search for her own face in them. She cannot recognize herself in any of them because the image she has of herself inside her head is different from the face that is staring back at her.

It’s like whenever you hear the playback of a recording of your own voice, you are startled by the strangeness of it.

Is this really how I sound to other people?

Oh my goodness. I should never open my mouth again.

The girl in her is puzzled by how she could have possibly aged so much.

The girl in her did not know at first that being addressed as “Young lady!”, as in “Now, what would you like, young lady?” and “Bill, this young lady here would like an Amaretto Sour!” is actually a sign that you have passed a certain age threshold. People assume that you ought to be grateful for the subtle compliment.

She gives herself a long, uncomprehending look sometimes when she walks by office buildings with glass walls.

The girl in her is surprised by the unfamiliar physique when she looks in the mirror.

Who is that middle-aged woman? If I feel like a P.Y.T. then who is this matron with thick arms and middle bulge?

The girl in her saw the repulsion in her husband’s eyes. Just for a fleeting second. But too late. She’s seen it. You cannot unsee it.

The girl in her says, with defiance, Wow. It kind of sucks to be you because I am not changing myself for anybody but myself.

The girl in her does not know how to navigate space in real life now that she can no longer be classified as slender as her younger self.

It is as if her spatial sensory has never evolved with how her body has evolved. She keeps on bumping into corners. Door frames.

When she looks at pretty young things, she thinks to herself: Yup. I can look good in that too. Imagining her 18-year-old body in the same polka-dotted sundress.

The girl in her forgets that she no longer enjoys the luxury of youth and therefore is no longer as attractive as she remembers. This is not self pity. This is the truth as told by time.

The girl in her behaves as if she were still young and attractive and therefore she winks and smiles as one would.

Sometimes people see the sparkle.

Sometimes people don’t and are therefore startled by a not-so-slim not-so-young woman carrying herself as a young beautiful woman would.

The girl in her is saddened and disappears when she recognizes the startled look in people’s eyes.

The girl in her never really leaves. She sits by the wing. On a stool next to the stage manager’s, waiting for her cues.

The girl in her sometimes wonder when it will become inappropriate, or whether it will ever, should ever, to swing your arms while walking because you feel happy, or want to fabricate the sensation of happiness.

To look forward to a rainy day so you could walk around holding the umbrella as if it were a sword: palm open and up, with the blade pointing up and the sword against your back, and envision yourself as a swordswoman, wandering and righting the wrongs in the world.

To dance in the rain.

To breathe deeply in the smell of rain. Fresh-cut grass. And let out a loud Ahhhhhhh——-

To roll down the hill.

To skip.

To be barefoot.

To jump in a puddle.

To say the word, Puddle, her favorite word, out loud for no reason because she likes the sound of it.

To talk to random strangers, and wink at them.

To flirt shamelessly.

To jump up and down while clapping your hands when you are excited.

To take off your shoes and throw them into the tree.

Just because.

To behave as if you had not aged since you turned 18.

This is how she sees herself when she closes her eyes.

This is how she sees herself when her eyes are wide open, as a matter of fact.

Sometimes this is the only thing that feels real.

The girl in her.

You did not heed the warning from the man in Chinatown

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There. You did it again.

Remember in the movie Gremlins? No water. No food after midnight. And of course the rules were immediately broken, WTF that nobody EVER EVER listens to those who live in Chinatown? Seriously? monsters were created and hijinks ensued.

Do not feed a closeted egomaniac.

You never heed the warning.

Blame this raging Navel Gazing post on Silvia @ A Bourbon for Silvia and Trish @ Patty Punker. They gave me water and fed me food after midnight. So to speak…

So after they broke the feeding rules, they now want ME, the monster they have created, to follow some rules… Fine. You have to at least obey your own Dr. Frankenstein(s), eh?

Thank the person who gave you the award.

If you have never visited A Bourbon for Silvia, please do. “From here – Under the water” is one of my favorite posts. Ever. It makes you want to go skinny dipping. Not in a drunken teenager and Imma gonna live to regret it way. But in a good, self-realization way.

If you have never visited Patty Punker, please do. She has a foul mouth and is proud of it. But underneath that hardness is one of the softest and truest heart. (Now she’s going to kick my ass for saying this about her…) Her “wtf work bathrooms” is epic. She’s my kind of working woman.

List 7 things about yourself your readers do not know.

Awww. You want me to talk about myself? No. I can’t possibly. I clearly do not like to talk about myself and that’s why I have a friggin’ blog!

Award 5 bloggers who you’ve recently discovered.

Well, this has to wait until I am done talking about myself! Because this post is all about me. ME. ME!!!!!

*Cue maniacal evil laughter* <— For real. Do NOT click if you are at work!

It took me a while to come up with things that I have not shared with you already…

Ok ok. This is a good one: I am an oversharer. And then I feel guilty for oversharing because I don’t want to burden people with my oversharing. Rinse and repeat.
I am full of contradictions. I am a Closeted Extrovert and a Closeted Introvert rolled into one. Implosion any minute now.
I am hormonal all the friggin’ time. I swear I am affected by the movement of the orbiting Moon. I never fake cry. I can force myself to cry. And when I cry, it is for real.
This is going to make me sound crazy, but I am the most self-deprecating egomaniac ever. EVER!
Like Patty Punker and Wicked Shawn, I *heart* polka dots, so much so that I created a tumblr dedicated to polka dots in May.
I may have minor OCD, as evidenced by my obsession with going through ALL pictures with polka dots in them on google (current count: ~5,900,000). Once I start a task, I cannot stop until I am done. The way I deal with this? Start nothing. Can you see how blogging is seriously affecting my mental health? There is no end in sight to this thing!
I am cynical and gullible at the same time. Or maybe I am just an idiot who has been lucky so far. My brother once told me that he could hear the music by twirling a cassette tape with a pen through one of the holes. I believed him. I was in junior high then, and coincidentally I was the Valedictorian-equivalent in my class.

Sadly, the time alloted for me to talk about myself, again, has come to an end, today. Now on to passing this award on to five beautiful human beings I have recently met…

Ok. Pause. One more thing you need to know about me…

I suffer panic attack whenever I need to do something like this: choosing, and by this act of choosing, excluding others. THIS has got to be the hardest part for me as a blogger. If I read your blogs, that means I think you are beautiful inside and out. I have very limited time so I am very selective. I may not be by for a while but it is because I have decided to have more sex. Or the attempts any way…
Another thing you need to know about me: I am a sneaky bugger. I have figured out that if you tell people you cannot do something because you need to have sex, people will understand. Oh god, please do not let my kids read this. Or my blog in general.

*Cue maniacal evil laughter* <— Seriously. Do NOT click if you are at work!

Here are five of the beautiful bloggers that I would like to introduce you to, if you didn’t know them already:

Mature Landscaping – Southern and liberal. Come on. You know you want a piece of it!

IslandRoar – I swear it is because she is a good writer and not some ulterior motive for being invited to Martha’s Vineyard one day…

Fuck Yeah, Motherhood! – Anybody that uses single motherhood and long-hour job as an excuse for not parenting well should read this blog. She makes it sound so easy even though you know it cannot be easy.

here where i have landed – She came from Asia to the US around the same time I did. She lives in beautiful downtown Chicago. She is a working mom. Not hard to see why I lurv her, eh?

Bar Mitzvahzilla – Jewish and liberal in Arizona. She is fighting a good fight there!

Becoming American

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The Monster Birthday Month Bash continues…

July 3rd.

Happy Birthday to Franz Kafka, Dave Barry, and one Thomas Cruise Mapother IV aka Tom Cruise.

Kafka is dead. Cruise will live forever.

Dave Barry used to be funny. Tom Cruise is still scary.

My oldest’s gymnastics practice is right by where the Hometown Fest carnival is taking place. Last night when I drove to the gym, I was able to drive past the police barricade with the obvious excuse of picking my child up and park right next to the carnival. As in, HERE is the parking spot. 30 steps later. Oh lookee here, we are at the carnival!

I am always appreciative of an awesome, once-in-a-lifetime parking spot, mindful of the hapless souls circling the residential area looking for a spot within a humane radius we encountered along the way. Naturally we went back to the carnival again tonight. We had to. You simply CANNOT waste a good parking spot like that. It’s bad karma.

The carnival on Friday night was a completely different beast than the one we saw on Thursday night. The one on Thursday night was docile, leisurely. Carefree. And sober. The carnival I went to last night was frantic, full of teenage angst, yet at the same time going through midlife crisis. Everyone older than 21 apparently had one drink or more.

Who says suburban life is all repression? We let our inner demons out once every year, under the watchful eyes of carnival workers.

FREE BIRD!

I am pretty sure whoever taught me about the historical significance of shouting FREE BIRD at a concert regretted it. This random act of kindness has created a monster who yells out FREE BIRD! whenever she has the guts and chance. Probably done inappropriately 50% of the time. But I LOVE bellowing out, FREE BIRD! because it makes me feel… I don’t know, intrinsically American. Like a secret handshake that someone was kind enough to show me. Perhaps I imagined this, but I swear that as soon as people heard me shouting FREE BIRD! — even at the most inopportune times — they no longer see me as foreign, despite the accent. I became, instead of standing out like a sore thumb, instantly one of the in-crowd. It’s like a code. I have cracked the code. One of them anyway.

It’s no wonder why I am fascinated by American pop culture and see it as a personal imperative to understand all pop culture references known to man. These are little bits of mosaic puzzles for becoming American.

The same can be said of

“We need more cowbell!”

“These pretzels are making me thirsty!”

“420”

These however are more esoteric pop culture references that need to be used and appreciated by specific audiences.

Every time I walk into a room, I integrate.

Every time I walk into a room, I represent.

At least that’s how I feel. On some days, it makes me feel empowered and shit. On the others, it just makes me feel like shit.

Last night at the carnival was one of the better days.

The July 4th carnival is where I get to see the real Americans.

Not the over-educated, pampered, (forced to be) politically correct, self-conscious people I have chosen and am able to surround myself with, including affording a house in a certain type of neighborhood. There is no need for me to prove my American-ness to these people. They should know better. They have all agreed to live with multiculturalism, no matter how begrudgingly. That’s part of the baggage of being the bourgeois. They have signed the contract.

The kind of real Americans I imagined I would have met if I ever drove down Route 66.

Naturally, when I make such a statement, I am seeing the “natives” as exotic creatures from the perspective of a tourist.

At the Hometown Fest, I felt schizophrenic: on one hand, more than ever, being outside of my usual comfort zone (home, work, home, work), I sensed that my foreignness was on display. After all, it is Hometown Fest, not Tourist Town. Insiders only.

On the other hand, as I chugged down my third beer, sweet-talked the carnival guy into giving the kids a bigger prize (yes, I used “the wink”), watched the kids having an all-out battle with inflatable hammers and inflatable baseball bats against a football player who looked like a stereotypical football player whose girlfriend affectionately called the “meat head”, joked with the said girlfriend who looked like a stereotypical (former) cheerleader and Queen Bee, chitchatted with random bystanders, and in general, hung out, I felt “vindicated”. Strangely at home. I have hit the motherload: the real Americans, the ones who did not have to be nice or be politically correct or be tolerant and shit, thought I was just one of the regular Joes. I have managed to sneak past through the door and now I am looking from the inside out. I am one of the townies.

On second thought, maybe not completely 100% townie. Not yet. At least, not until I attend one of these…

Warning: Do not read this if you are my husband

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The Kitchen Witch tagged me for an interesting exercise…

No tan lines?!

Clarification: A writing/blogging exercise. Not the kind of exercise being vigorously practiced by Barbie and Ken as shown in the photo.

“If tagged, you need to list (and then explain your reasoning) 5 characters you’d like to do the horizontal whiplash with,” according to the bewitchin’ lady lording over the Kingdom of Cookery.

As an over-thinker and an anti-over-sharer when it comes to businesses in my own bedroom, I have been ruminating and debating on my choices.

Digression: Alas, this sort of explains why no fireworks are coming out of my bedroom, or my crotch for that matter. (Hey, I figure I need to throw you some TMIs so you won’t cry foul…)

I am embarrassed to say, yet obviously not embarrassed enough to lie about it, the first character that came to my mind was…

Father Ralph de Bricassart in The Thorn Birds. Do you remember this popular mini-series in the 1980s? Richard Chamberlain played the tortured priest? Man oh man, for a young teenage girl in Taiwan, that show had some of the most erotic, passionate scenes I was able to witness.

Digression: Ok, my mother did bring me to The Blue Lagoon with Brooke Shields by mistake. Fortunately for my mother, I was too ~~dumb~~ young to understand any of it. The realization of what goes on in that movie came to me out of the blue one day while I was sitting in the classroom in COLLEGE. I went, “Ohhhhhhh………. I got it!”

Forbidden love between a Catholic priest and an impressionable young girl whom he had known since she was four? COME ON! How hot is THAT?

This was of course before the world learned of the prevalanec of child abuse conducted by the Catholic clergy. Looking back now. YIKES. I think I really did throw up in my mouth when I watched again, for the purpose of researching for this post (Seriously, the sacrifice I make for you guys…), the long awaited consummation between Meggie (Rachel Ward) and her relationship with Father Ralph.

The following scene, in 1983, was called “the most erotic love scene ever to ignite the home screen.”

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qc0bF2HMP_E

Mr. Rochester in the BBC Mini Series, Jane Eyre, played by Timothy Dalton. Another one of my earliest fantasies. This was before Dalton had the misfortune of being James Bond for two measly Bond films and immediately became UNCOOL because almost everybody hated him as Bond.

Mr Rochester

This mini-series was also aired in 1983. I am now convinced that 1983 was a watershed year for me. The year of my sexual awakening. Now that explains the sudden urge to pee when I watched these mini-series. “Ohhhhhhh………. I got it!”

So… to begin answering the question for realz… I have to start with Fitzwilliam Darcy from Pride and Prejudice. I don’t know why: I seem to have a thing in my fantasy for the aloof yet secretly passionate and protective type.

And I was VERY happy with BBC’s adaptation in 1995 with Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy.

Mr. Darcy

A dripping wet Mr. Darcy. This is a bit too much IMO.

To further prove that I have a thing for aloof yet secretly passionate and protective type, the one character that gets my panties really really wet is the vampire Bill Compton from The Southern Vampire Mysteries by Charlaine Harris. Oh my lord. I have never ever read romance novels except these books. And oh my lord, let me exclaim again, they are bordering on porn, or at least my over-imaginative mind received similar amount and severity of stimulation from reading these pages.

And it’s not just Bill the Vampire. All of Sookie Stackhouse’s lovers are hump-worthy on the pages: Eric Northman, a vampire that is depicted like a Nordic god, a viking in his past life, with a gorgeous body built like rock and an insatiable appetite for “fun”. Her third conquest, Quinn, is a friggin’ “SPOILER POTENTIAL so I cannot say what kind of animal he is here”! It suffices to say that whichever animal Quinn is, the sex scene as penned by Harris definitely lives up to the said animal’s reputation. Grrrrrrrr….

I read the first six books in the series non-stop last year when we were on the beach for a week. I was addicted. Obsessed. Like a sex fiend. Only came up for air when reality called.

There I was, sitting on the beach in bright daylight, between my mother-in-law and my father-in-law, surround by screaming happy children, reading these words: (And mind you, I am leaving out the MORE explicit parts in this paragraph…)

As I squirmed uncomfortably in my beach chair, I wondered why there was not a sticker on these books (or on any of the romance novels…) and whether anybody could tell that I was being aroused…

“His fingers and his mouth were busy learning my topography, and he pressed heavily against my thigh. I was so on fire for him I was surprised that flames didn’t flicker out of my finger tips. I curled my fingers around him and stroked… I reached between us to put him at just the right spot… I tried to yank him back, but he began kissing his way down my body… His mouth was talented… he turned his face to my inner thigh, muzzling it, his fingers moving steadily now, faster and faster…”

Oooo child. I need to go take a break. Be right back.

I’m bbbbaaacccckkkkkk! Thanks for waiting. That wasn’t long, was it? So where was I?…

Of course, HBO later, much to the dismay of my panties, adapted these books into the cultish True Blood. Oh yeah, baby. Bill you can bite me any day. Or night for that matter.

Bill Compton: the Un-Vampire from True Blood

As I am coming… to the end of this post, I want to be really really really honest with y’all. Like 120% honest: I fantasized about having sex with one of the aliens from the movie Cocoon. I don’t even care that the object of my lust shown in the following clip is female so I may be entering the realm of homoeroticism inadvertently. I am pretty sure these aliens can assume any shape they want to be. Maybe I’ll ask that the alien morphs into Mr. Darcy.

Yes. I am lazy. Didn’t I tell you that? I love how in this fantasy of mine a la Cocoon I do not need to do anything. Not even lift a finger. Nada. Oh man. I am excited just thinking about doing absolutely nothing.

The best part of this award? I get to pass the award along and tag the others to play this game so I can live through your fantasies vicariously. (Yeah, I know. That makes me an uber loser for having to live my fantasies through your fantasies…). What I really wanted to do here is to copy and paste my entire blogroll. Instead, I am going to beg you, implore you, beseech you, “puppy eye assault” you to go ahead, accept this award, own this challenge and write about the five characters that give you that “tinkling” feeling. Or please share by leaving a comment.

In addition, I’m going to round up the usual suspects who I assume would DELIGHT in such an opportunity to talk about the objects of their sexual fantasies. PLEASE DO consider this as my sincere adoration rather than an accusation, ladies! Yes, my darlings. I am putting you on the spot. The G Spot.

Andrea @ A Little Bit Rock n Roll

Gorgeous @ A Vapid Blonde

Elly @ Buggin Word

Mrs. Sexy @ Mrs. BlogAlot

Mary @ Pajamas and Coffee

Patty @ Patty Punker

She who is “NOT Kaiser Sose. Spartacus. or Your father” @ The Sky Is Falling

And I seriously would have been the most egregiously remiss if I did not tag Wicked Shawn @ Wicked Girls Think It for this one.

I think we are all in for a treat.

*Rubs hands* EXCELLENT!

Waiting

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Let's go. We can't. Why not? We are waiting for Godot.

I have been thinking about this exchange in Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot a lot lately.

ESTRAGON: Let’s go.
VLADIMIR: We can’t.
ESTRAGON: Why not?
VLADIMIR: We are waiting for Godot.

End of Act I. They do not move

This exchange recurs throughout the play. No progress is made. Nothing is changed. Both acts end on the same verbal promise for action that is never carried out:

VLADIMIR: Well? Shall we go?
ESTRAGON: Yes, let’s go.
They do not move.

It depressed the hack out of me when the lights dimmed on the two figures in the center of the stage: the same way they started; the same way they ended Act II. Immobile. Engulfed by the darkness, the unknown, eternity. The image and the thought haunts me.

They do not move.

A lot have been written, theorizing the allegorical meaning of Beckett’s tragicomedy. The meaning of Godot.

To me, I’ve always thought that Beckett made a mistake; he should have turned the label the other way around – a comictragedy. This is a tragedy about Didi and Gogo who are the prisoners of their own misplaced hope. This whole waiting thing causes the inaction. It would have been better if they have come to the conclusion that no one is coming. Things are not going to be better. Nothing is going to change their situations for them. But themselves.

I didn’t even realize I have been waiting. Waiting for something, for what I have no idea yet.

What are you waiting for? If you knew what you are waiting for, perchance an event, a sign, the other shoe, will it make everything more tolerable?

I compartmentalize. By spouting random nonsense here I am able to continue to not think. To forestall the unraveling. To keep it together. To carry on with no resolution in sight. To wait. Not remembering that I have been waiting.

For what I know not yet.

Let’s go.

We can’t.

Why not?

We are waiting for Godot.

Because I Didn’t Get to Say Goodbye

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I never really look at it this way: I had ~~an unusual~~ a non-standard childhood. My family was poor. It just felt normal to me since I did not know any other way of living. I never gave it a second thought that I slept in the same room with my parents next to their bed on a comforter folded up on three dining room chairs lined up side by side. To this day, I require minimal space when I sleep; I never realized the cause and effect. I did not know to be embarrassed by the fact that my mother worked as a hotel “concierge” who happened to also clean the rooms and change the sheets. I was always well fed and nicely clothed, with lots of fancy stuffed animals and chocolate and candies from Japan. I later learned that my classmates in grade school thought my parents were college professors and we were wealthy.

What do you know? Kids are dumb.

It had never occurred to me how generous and kind it was for my aunt to take me in and to bring me up when my parents couldn’t take care of me themselves. They had to hold down jobs that did not allow raising a young child: odd hours, overnight schedules, long stint abroad, while their older boys though old enough to look after themselves, not old enough to care for another child.

It was the most natural thing. I had never once felt not being part of my aunt’s family, probably because I was not the only niece that she took in. There were always quite a few children living in her house. Some for a couple of years; one cousin was under my aunt’s care until she reached her adulthood. I stayed until I was in the second grade: I remember threatening my mother that I would walk back to my aunt’s house whenever she scolded me. I believe I did quite a few times much to her annoyance.

There was always a lot of food. Elaborate dishes. My aunt was an accomplished cook, capable of whipping up an entire banquet of twelve full courses on her own. Extravagant dishes worthy for a wedding party. My mother subsequently accused me for ruining her interest and drive for cooking because my taste buds were so well-trained (Spoiled!) during those years that there was simply no way my mother could ever match it.

Amongst all my aunts and their friends, my aunt was the prettiest. The most talented. She was not supposed to become the work horse of the family. One of my vivid childhood memories was the first time I saw the picture of her and her best friend, both members of some society for young ladies, all dolled up in classic dresses. It was taken at one of their musical performances. She was gorgeous. “Svelte”. That image of her is what comes to mind whenever I see this word. There were fourteen children in my father’s family. Being the oldest girl, as many of these stories went, my aunt was married to a wealthy businessman, twenty years her elder, which brought a lot of relief to the family.

Family lore has it that she spoiled me rotten: always making my favorite dishes, , taking me everywhere with her, showing me off to all her friends. I wanted to think that I was her favorite, but I know that she managed somehow to make all of us believe that we were her favorite. She was always joyful, and damn it if this woman was not loud. Loud and spunky. Her laughter brought life to all the family gatherings, especially at the numerous wedding banquets.

“Is she going?” We would ask each other, relieved after confirming that she would be present.

She was definitely the favorite amongst all the aunts and uncles.

Every time when I went to visit her, she bragged about how the pearl powder she paid with top dollars and fed me when I was living with her still shows its positive influence.

“You have good skin because of it.” She cooed. So we made my husband thank her that I did not turn out to be a complete dog. “But you really should put on some make-up and lose some weight.” What can I say? That’s the way we show love for each other in this family.

Three weeks ago I found out from Facebook that my aunt was taken to ICU. I immediately called home and learned that they had intubated her and she remained unconscious. Since her organs have been failing due to old age and a myriad of health issues, we knew that she would never fully recover. We were told to get ready for the inevitable, but when, the doctor could not say.

Could be months.

I told Mr. Monk about my aunt, and also my contingency plan of going home when the day comes.

“Why do you want to wait until she’s dead? Why don’t you go home now that she is still alive?”

I have been crying on and off ever since. It took a child to see and point out loud the absurdity of this. I fantasized about going home this June to visit my aunt and also to celebrate my dad’s 80th birthday with him, in person. The thought gave me some respite from crying.

Yesterday I got the phone call. Even though I was prepared, I was not prepared at all.

Yes, she has passed away. No, she never regained consciousness. The doctor had known her time was near and had informed the family to gather around to see her off.

The family. Not the “immediate” nuclear family in the U.S. sense. The entire, friggin’, family. There are no second cousins. We are all brothers and sisters. Nephews and nieces. And for some of us, like-daughters and like-mothers. We are ALL immediate family.

And they did. They were there with her when she went home.

On the phone, my mom kept on telling me that I wouldn’t have been able to do anything even if I had been there. That my aunt wouldn’t have known I was there.

Mom is supposed to say things like this. But I know. I will bear the burden of not being there in my conscience.

Forever I will wish that I ~~got~~ took the chance to say goodbye.

Throw Up

27 Replies

Preamble

If you have a very sensitive gag reflex you probably should skip this post. Or read it with a bucket nearby.

To the warriors I know and love, Kate and Elly, nobody could know what you and your loved ones went through. Chemo-induced nausea is no laughing matter. And I hope my not-so-amusing musings on throw-up does not offend.

We all know that eating disorder is debilitating and sometimes life-threatening. If you or your loved ones suffer from bulimia, I hope you are not offended by this post either.

Oh, by the way, just to save you from disappointment: I am NOT pregnant.

If I feel compelled to include a long preamble before I feel comfortable talking about a subject, why do I even do it?

Because I am sick and tired of throwing up. I am sick of feeling sick. And I need to purge some knots and bolts inside my cranium shaken loose undoubtedly when my body was rejecting whatever was inside me, with brutal force. This is my mental throw-up. Again.

Let’s start from the beginning, and I’ll share a secret with you. I can hold my liquor really well, and I believe that I can drink most people under the table. Two tricks: will power is Number One. If you are determined to get drunk, you will behave like a fool after downing a non-alcoholic beer. When I feel the buzz, the glittery invitation to Happy Land, “Just let go!” I tell myself, “Do not get drunk. If you feel like screaming, just smile. If you feel like howling, just cry.” The second trick, the Secret, is GO THROW UP. I am a champion at throwing up. No shit. Any businessman (I used the gender-specific term for a reason) worth his weight in Taiwan (and I suspect in many Asian countries) knows how to force himself to throw up when he finds himself no longer able to hold the liquor. You go throw up, you come back, you keep up the good fight at the table. Drinking and deal-making (or whatever it is that you are going after) come hand in hand. Whoever lasts the longest wins.

As a woman you soon learn the trick. You drink them under the table. You beat them at their own game.

So I have that history with vomiting. To some extent, I see it is a way for your body to help you clear the mental department, get rid of whatever doesn’t jive with your insides. At the very least, your hangover won’t be as bad the next day.

With both of my children, I suffered from what they would call “severe Morning sickness” only that my morning seemed to last the entire fucking day.

I am sorry if I am not writing in paragraphs. I am just spewing out sentences now. A period makes a sentence, you see.

I actually lost weight during both of my pregnancies. More than 15 lbs. in the first two weeks. Big boobs, thin waist. What I had dreamed of having all along. Whoever is up there does have a wicked sense of humor. For my second pregnancy, I threw up from the first month until the day of delivery. So combined, I’ve had more than one year of daily practice, practice for feeling the urge, for keeping it down, for letting it go.

By the end, I was a master of it. It’s almost banal.

My husband called it, Worshiping at the porcelain throne.

By the end of the violent retching, I was literally hugging the bowl. I sometimes invoked the deity in the midst of tears, “What do you want? What else do you want? There is nothing. Nothing left. Can’t you see?” Still, the mythical force inside me tugged at the innards so I dry heaved, gagged, my mouth opened, my rib cage lifted and compressed, air rushed out along with one of the most dreadful, despairing sounds. I imagine I sounded like a banshee. Probably looked like one too.

And surprise, surprise, I have a theory for this too: if men could get pregnant, we’d have found a cure for morning sickness before we’d sent a man to the moon.

Lately my head is constantly inside a toilet bowl. After every meal. I am suffering from perpetual motion sickness as if I could sense the movement made by the Earth.

Somehow my current condition reminds me of the toilet scene from Train Spotting a lot. You know the scene I was talking about. The one when he fell into the absolutely disgusting, beyond description, you have to see it to understand the magnitude of what it means to earn the label “The Worst Toilet in Scotland”, toilet bowl.

My permanent nausea is caused by something decidedly unpoetic: allergy. The chain of reactions goes like this:

Allergy. Sinus. Ears. The little hair in your ears that I always imagine to look like Nemo’s anemone swaying in a vacuum. Dizziness. Motion sickness. Puke.

I walk around all day going about my daily routines, feeling transparent. I could tell the specific locations of my digestive track: Here is my stomach. Here my esophagus. Here my throat. Here my mouth.

Unlike the main character in Sartre’s Nausea who soon started questioning his own existence, the urge forces me to come to terms with my physicality. The whole lot of meatiness. The anatomy. There is no getting away from it. I feel my existence. And it is not really a good feeling to be acutely aware of yourself at all times. I am the red person under a special “Oh no she’s going to puke” detector.

I keep my mouth pressed tightly so nothing would come out by accident. I go about my business: making the kids dinner. Doing the dishes. Gesturing for them to eat their dinner otherwise there’ll be price to pay. Giving them “the look”. At the same time I sense the stuff being squeezed all the way into my brain. Through my cheekbone, the veins, into the temple areas. Behind my eyes.

“Sorry, kids. Mommy has to go throw up.”

“Ok, mom.”

I walk calmly upstairs, change out of my good clothes, turn on the radio, turn on the fan, spray Clorox cleaner on the floor and the rim and the bowl of the toilet, scrub the toilet, flush the toilet. And I get ready for the wave.

The toilet bowls are sparkling clean in my house lately. Because staring at a dirty bowl when I am throwing up makes me nauseous.

ETA: Wisdom gleaned from Christine‘s Comment: “Lesson learned: drink hard and vomit gently.”

“precisely ninety-one centimeters from himself”

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“Having been struck by a 150-ton meteorite, Henry has to adapt to living precisely ninety-one centimeters from himself.”

Once in a while, you come across something that so resonates with you to the point of altering your reality. Or your perception of reality. It’s like, all of a sudden, you can see yourself more clearly. You understand what is going on inside your head. You see what the root of your problem is. Yet to explain that something, or how or why, is completely beyond your command with words. Haunting. That is all you can think of.

Tautology: using something incomprehensible to explain something incomprehensible.

Exactly 91 cm away from himself…

I came across something yesterday. The Bloggess mentioned it as “Painfully poignant: you should watch this”. So I did. And I have not been able to stop thinking about it. Have not been able to stop crying actually.

If you have ever questioned who you are, where you are, what you are, why you are. If you live with the haunting that you may not be yourself. Or that if you are, then who is this other person. If you ever feel/fear that if you lie still long enough, you will for sure float outside of your body and look down back on yourself lying in bed, and you are scared that you may not recognize yourself. If you could almost precisely predict when you will have an existential breakdown.

If you wonder what it is like to have such chaotic thoughts inside your being. Watch this. “Skhizein“, written & Directed by Jérémy Clapin

Skhizein (short film) from Jeremy Clapin on Vimeo.

The Absence of Alternatives

My therapy sessions…