Tag Archives: neurosis

Scary Movies

The boys and I are still awake.

We went to bed at around 10:30 pm. Or rather, we started getting into bed at around 10:30 pm. When my husband is out of town, both boys like to sleep in the big bed with me. I let them. You know why? Because I am scared. I want to keep both of them in the same room with me, with the bedroom door locked. If I remember, I’ll have my Blackberry with me in case the phone line is cut off.

THAT is always the first thing to go.

You know what I am talking about. The movies. The scary movies.

I never watch them. Except the few movies I watched when I was younger before I knew better. I stay away because I know my brain will choose to replay the scenes at the most inconvenient moments. Even the ones that are not billed specifically as scary movies, the thrillers, now add to my psychological burden.

Just as we were finally settled down, after I had threatened hundreds of times that I would send the boys back to their rooms if they didn’t go to bed, RIGHT NOW!, we heard a noise. Something had fallen.

No. Some object was knocked down.

There is a difference, isn’t it? Inside my head. Fallen vs. Knocked down

The heater started up at the exact moment. Ok. So maybe it was just my overactive imagination. Wouldn’t be the first time. I decided to ignore it.

“What was that?” My oldest sat up. “Did you hear that?”

“Yup. I did.” Resigned to a restless, probably sleepless night. Again.

He lied back down. Thank goodness. I waited for the deep breathing that signals their drifting to sleep. In the mean time, I became more and more alert.

I am so exhausted, I thought. I really should try and fall asleep. That was probably nothing. Yup. It was NOTHING. Go to sleep, you crazy woman.

As on cue, all of the movie plots involving home invasion rose up to my consciousness, scenes after scenes played themselves out behind my tightly squeezed-shut eyelids. The consequences became more and more dire because my kids would be in the movies. I am ashamed to admit this, and I was shocked by myself, but at that moment, as the plots unfolded in my frenzied mind’s eye, each one worse than its predecessor, I thought to myself, “I wish I had a gun. I wish I had bought a gun and practiced at a firing range,” because I would do anything, anything, including something that’s so against my ingrained beliefs, to protect my boys from harm. All of a sudden, I couldn’t wait for them to be all grown-up and no longer living with me. They’d be in their own apartments. Safe and sound asleep. Exactly how I like them.

“Mom? I am still thinking about the noise.” Great. I don’t need to pass on my neurosis to my children. Is it too late?

“It’s probably nothing. Just go to sleep ok?”

But we both knew we wouldn’t be able to get any shuteye, thinking that there was someone in the house.

“What are you doing?” My oldest was alarmed as I got out of the bed.

“I am going to check it out.” I checked the cordless phone for a dial tone. Still working. GOOD! I handed him the phone, “Dial 911 if anything.”

“I am coming with you!”

“No. You are staying here with your brother!” I searched the bedroom for a likely weapon. Both the steel Samurai sword and the steel Excalibur are too heavy for me to wield with any convincing malice. The wooden Samurai sword would have to do.

I opened the door and turned on all the lights from the light switches by the door. No scuttling of footsteps. GOOD! The downstairs of the house looked exactly the way we had left it. Messy. Perhaps we should have deliberately left Lego pieces on the floor as deterrent. I surveyed their bedrooms upstairs first. Nothing out of order. Internal sigh of relief.

“Are you really going to whack the bad guy with the sword?” My oldest appeared beside me.

“What are we doing?” Mr. Monk caught up with us.

“I am just going to check downstairs.”

“I am coming with you!” My oldest handed me the phone while he took the sword away from me.

“Me too!” Mr. Monk shouted.

The next ten minutes we searched the house, trying to locate the cause of the noise.

“Ah I know. It is THIS.” “No. Not it.” “Ok. It must have been THIS.” “No. Not it.” “Could it be THIS?” “No. Not that either.”

(Wouldn’t you know that as we walked around the house trying to solve the mystery, I was picking up the house along the way! I seriously need help!)

Finally, I saw a picture frame lying on the floor by a bookshelf. “Here’s what happened…” As the real Mr. Monk on TV would have said: The books next to it had apparently toppled and knocked the picture frame to the floor.

Mystery solved.

Back to bed for the boys. My oldest insisted on staying by my side “To guard you!”

“Please go to bed with your brother. He needs to be in bed.” For once, he left with his younger brother without arguing.

As I conclude this post, they are both sound asleep. I hope they were not traumatized by this incident. As for me? Well, when I picked up my Blackberry to bring it to bed with me, Never again without! I saw that my boss had sent out an email marked URGENT. Sleep is overrated anyway. At least in my neurotic world.

And I will never, ever, ever, watch another scary movie in my life. I scare myself enough.

The strength of not giving a damn

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We have all been asked of this quiz question before:

What Super Power do you wish you had?

I still don’t know what my answer should be.

Flying?

Mind control?

Teleporting?

“The ability to eat as much as I want without gaining any weight”. Yeah. That’s what I am thinking right at this moment.

You all know The Bloggess. She of the power of turning everything into a hilarious nature. Really. We should send her to the frontline, protected inside an armor car of course, and give her a microphone. She has the Super Power of turning people into a howling, thigh-slapping, LMAOROTF, Dionysian mass. And believe me: I normally do not like touching my own thighs. Except one thigh would always inadvertently touching the other, but that cannot be helped. I sometimes would get mind-clarifying, “Come to Jesus” moments when I read her blog. It ain’t all fluff.

A line I heard from the video embedded in one of her posts still haunts me till this day:

“I have the intellectual confidence to appear stupid sometimes.”

THIS, is one of the best quotes I have learned in my whole life. Now, please repeat it with me:

“I have the intellectual confidence to appear stupid sometimes.”

I believe, by internalizing this line, we can all be liberated from self-consciousness and self-censorship. I believe this will be especially helpful for women climbing the corporate ladder, especially if the work place is predominantly male.

At first I thought that men are so good at “chiming in” and “making their points” at any meeting because they somehow were privy to this secret. Nah. Based on my years of ethnographic study of the male species in the corporate jungle, I believe that they are so good at “speaking up” because, unlike women who are often self-reflexive, most men never even consider the possibility that what comes out of their mouth may just be flat out the stupidest thing someone has ever heard of. See, they never apologize before they speak. The strength of not giving a damn. THAT is the Super Power I would like to have.

Today’s BOGO special:

In addition to the quote above that can serve as an awesomely witty throw-away remark when someone suggests that you are intelligence-challenged, AFTER you sucker punch them of course, here is another motto for you to use in your role as Truth Seeker:

We are entitled to our own opinions; we’re not entitled to our own facts. — Al Franken

Don’t say I didn’t warn you…

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I was thinking since I am all over the map going from warm fuzzy pictures of my kids smiling like angels to crazy ass inappropriate jokes and cursing to crazy ass all-out ranting on people/events/things that piss me off. I either have ADHD or Bi-Polar, I realized, or as my husband would gladly tell you, “Insane in the Membrane”. I was thinking, perhaps I should create a Warning System for my blog.

Don't you wish there is such a system for everything in life?

I really like how Homeland Security did the color coded chart because, as we all know, homo sapiens (“Not that there’s anything wrong with it.”) are visual animals. Really, when I see the ORANGE color at the airport, I become appreciative and understanding of the 1-hour wait at the security line. When disaster strikes, nothing is going to get my fat ass moving faster than seeing a RED flag waving in the air.

Won’t it be cool if I have a Warning System for this blog, before you start reading a post, you would know what to expect:

Blog Advisory System: Don't say I didn't warn you!

Of course, after an hour of working on my Blog Advisory system, I realized that no Advisory System is going to reach the goal of MECE: Mutually Exclusive and Collectively Exhaustive. Mock ye not. This is something the McKinsey & Co. consultants live and die by. And they get paid big bucks for being anal retentive. No shit. For instance, it worries me that the heartless dicks and grouchiest bitches amongst you will need a special warning such as this one:

Danger Ahead

Well, like I said, don’t say that I didn’t warn you…

Freedom from Want, Or The Case of the Golden Turkey

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Even if you don’t know its name, you must have seen this iconic painting by Norman Rockwell:

The name of the painting is Freedom from Want, by Norman Rockwell in 1943. Ever since its appearance and subsequent permeation into the pop culture and the collective American consciousness, it is also known as Thanksgiving Dinner.

This is the quintessential image conjured up whenever a family feast/celebration is mentioned.

Books, movies, TV shows. Countless re-presentation of this painting serving as emulation, improvement, critique, parody, and commentary of the definition of (“an American”) family, the imagining / celebration / debunking of it.

Mr. Monk asked me to make a turkey for Thanksgiving.

“But I am ordering it from Honey Baked Ham. Just like last year. And actually, just like every year.”

“A real turkey?”

“Hmm. Yes…. Turkey breast.”

Truth be told: the whole family, including my parents-in-law who visit us every Thanksgiving, will NOT touch the dark meat, except me. We are also not big meat eaters. Therefore a small turkey breast makes perfect sense. Waste not. Right?

“That’s NOT a real turkey then.”

“What do you mean it’s not a real turkey? You ate it last year and you liked it.”

“But I want a real turkey. You know, like they show on TV with a lot of people around the table…”

“You mean a whole turkey with skins and bones on a big plate? With the wings and legs and everything?”

“Yup.”

“And there are things tied around the legs and the turkey is surrounded by pretty, fluffy, green, things?” It’s obvious I am woefully unaware of cooking jargons…

“Yup.”

So, he does not really want a turkey, he wants what the TV shows and movies depict as a proper family celebration. I may be able to produce a golden turkey, with silver things and red strings tied around the legs, BUT I would still be unable to produce LOTS OF PEOPLE…

Here is his expectation:

Here is what I plan to deliver:

Clearly there is a gap.

This conversation sent me on a trip of soul-searching: Am I not making enough efforts to create the “right” family memories for my children? Am I guilty of depriving my children of living the “American dream”?

You have to forgive me: being a foreigner or maybe just being plain neurotic, I am forever self-conscious of “depriving” my children of the proper “American experiences”. Deep down, out of pride (which as I am well aware is one of the Seven Deadly Sins…) and sheer vanity, I want them to grow up just as American as the next kid can be, in addition to all the global perspectives I am trying to instill in them as well. I don’t want my foreignness to become somehow a liability. Well, like I said, sheer pride and vanity…

I was all ready to make Mr. Monk the turkey after an one-hour long conversation with my lone co-worker who drew diagrams, even a cross-section one, on the white board to explain step by step how to prep and cook a proper Thanksgiving turkey, including where and how and when to put on the silver things on the legs. I asked Mr. Monk again:

“Mommy will make you a turkey if that’s what you really want for Thanksgiving.”

“He’s not going to eat it!” My husband stepped in.

“Mom. I am NOT going to eat it. Just so you know.” Mr. Monk said somberly.

“So you just want to look at it?”

“Uh-huh.”

Note to Self: Do not watch cooking shows with Mr. Monk again in the hope that he may be tempted to widen his palette beyond plain pasta, white bread, and rice. So far, it has not worked.

Note to Self II: Check Mr. Monk’s Letter to Santa in case he asks for Martha Stewart to be his new mom. Not that I could do anything about it. But it would be good to know if I totally fucked up by not cooking him the golden turkey…

If you keep a “life” blog and therefore experience existential crisis on a regular basis…

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You have got to read this:

Blogging for Dummies by Aunt Becky (she’s actually young and hot) over at Mommy Wants Vodka. As someone who has experimented with making my own bacon-flavored vodka, she had me at the name of her blog…

When I stumbled upon her genuine, honest, tell-it-like-it-is advice about blogging and perhaps more importantly, keeping your sanity while blogging, I was in awe. She has such a Zen attitude towards this whole life blogging adventure, arguably one of the most daring things each one of us, for one reason or another, has decided to embark on by baring our souls, putting ourselves out there. The agony first about who will be reading this thing that you meant for yourself, and soon turning into how come nobody is reading it…

To see the entire list, please do the bunny hop over to her post. The following are the ones that really struck a cord and have been keeping me thinking since last night:

“Blogging for Dummies” – selected gems from Aunt Becky’s MOST USEFUL BLOGGING ADVICE, HANDS DOWN, EVA.

No one will read you for a couple months. It’s okay. Soldier on.

If you want people to read you, read other blogs.

If you want more comments then comment until your fingers bleed.

And finally, this advice that made me forever in her debt since it reminded me that I am an adult and thus saved me from reliving schoolyard clique nightmares…

There will be bloggers who will NEVER visit your blog no matter how many amazing and witty comments you leave. Period. Move on if it hurts your feelings.

There are a lot more on her post. Do check it out. I have a feeling that the list may give you the peace of mind you don’t even know you are searching for…

p.s. Wondering whether she has considered making a poster out of this? I need one on my wall for late night musings.

Day 5 of NaBloPoMo: When in doubt, talk about phobias…

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I suck. It is only the fifth day of National Blog Posting Month and I am already wanting to quit. Life and work seem to have a way of getting into the way of daily blogging…

I am totally kidding up there. Blogging should be a supplement to life: a conduit to reflect on life and stuff. It should not become a substitute for life. Blah blah blah. Oh, who am I kidding? Blogging now consumes my free thinking hours. I agonize over what I should blabber about throughout the day. That is why the whole NaBloPoMo is very stressful for me. I seem to have a pathological desire to run away when there is something expected of me. How did I ever finish school?! More importantly, how did I manage to raise two children?!

Ok. Phobias. The real ones. The irrational fear of something to the extent that you cannot function normally. I will talk first, and then you join in with yours, ok?

I have a couple of fears that are definitely irrational, but fortunately, neither interferes with my ability to function in a civilized society:

1. Frogs. I kid you not.

Like many ladies, I am not fond of squirmy things such as snakes, worms, earth worms, silk worms, caterpillars. As a matter of fact, I am dastardly afraid of earth worms and silk worms. I cannot stare at them for longer than 5 seconds before I am absolutely convinced that I have hives breaking out all over my body. Silk worms especially bring back traumatic childhood memories:

For some reason, many Chinese schools make it mandatory sometime during grade school for children to raise silk worms and observe them turning into cocoons. (Hey, it is one of the 5000-year cultural heritage that we get to talk about over and over again. We will remind you whenver the opportunity presents itself that, WE INVENTED SILK.. ) When it was my class’ turn to keep the silk worms in the classroom, I did not want to go to school for several weeks. One day when the teacher FORCED me to pick one up, I broke down into hysterical screaming. Soon red spots started appearing on my arms and my neck. Can anyone say “psychosomatic”?

But I digress. I meant to talk about frogs. Frogs are something else.

I cannot even look at them in the pictures. Posters. On TV. On the computer monitor. Nope. My breath will quicken and my heart beat will start speeding up.

I believe I made my husband swear on his life that he will never never ever threaten me with frogs for any reason. I wonder whether he has forgotten his oath. I need to administer a Spanish Inquisition on him as soon as I am done here.

The funny thing is, I actually loved playing with frogs when I was in kindergarten. I remember catching frogs in the rice field bordering the edge of my school (yes, stereotypes aside, there were indeed rice fields behind the kindergarten…) and throwing them at the boys. One day, we read the book “The Princess and the Frog”. The long passage where the Princess describes how disgusting the frog is left such an unshakable impression on me that, I believe, I internalized the fear deep inside my psyche. From that day on, I cannot stand being in the same room with a frog. Even if it is in captivity.

Wanna guess whether I will go see Disney’s upcoming The Princess and the Frog?

(I am SO grateful I have only boys for this matter. I am not suggesting that boys should not see Princess movies. If I had a daughter, I would really NEED her to watch this DISNEY movie featuring an African American PRINCESS, despite all the controversies already surrounding it, and I would really want to watch it with her; I would have been caught in a bind then since I don’t think I can sit through 90 minutes in the dark with gigantic frogs projected on the screen… But of course, I digress again…)

2. White Milk. For real.

I cannot bring myself to put my mouth to a glass of white milk. Everybody told me it tastes like nothing. At least skim milk does.

“It tastes just like water.”

Uh huh.

The reason why it is categorized as a phobia is because I otherwise have no problem drinking chocolate milk, even the home-made one that does not taste chocolate-y at all (’cause I am too cheap to add a lot of chocolate sauce!) I can also drink strawberry-flavored milk, apple-flavored milk, fruity-flavored milk. I just can. not. put that thing to my mouth when it is white. I don’t know how to explain it.

“Would you drink white milk if someone offered you a million dollars?” My husband once asked me, out of exasperation. And I did give it some thoughts. I even slept on it.

No. The answer is no. At least right now when the question is only hypothetical. Then my answer is a hypothetical no.

Coda: What did I say about google? Google is your friend. Yours. Not mine. On a whim, I googled Frog + Milk. Although I did see entries as interesting as Frog Milkshake, as a fitting conclusion to my rambling, I found something called Amazon Milk Frog. I am attaching a picture of it here for your scientific education because I am generous like that. As for me? I need to go take Benadryl because I am absolutely convinced I have hives breaking out all over my body!

My arch nemesis: Look at his smirk...

p.s. If Robert Redford ever offers me $1 million dollars to sleep with him? You bet ya I would. In a heart beat. Naturally, I did not offer this extra bit of information to my husband. He would not be able to trust me again if we ever meet Robert Redford some day…

p.p.s. Is Robert Redford still alive? And if I have to ask this question, perhaps I should Not be so enthusiastic when he propositions to me…

p.p.p.s. Whew. Turns out he is still alive. And looking darn good…

For a 73-year-old… Darn. I wish he had propositioned to me 16 years ago right after he propositioned to Demi Moore… Too late now, Mr. Redford. Eat your heart out!

p.p.p.p.s. Dear Mr. Redford, you are fine. Please still proposition me and the answer is yes. I only wish that your buddy Mr. Newman were still alive since he was the one I really had the hots for. The more faithful a man is to his wife, the more desirable he becomes. I hope you have learned this from watching your friend.

How do you know what you are having is NOT swine flu? Waiting for the other shoe to drop…

Got Summer? Or, On the Agonizing Ritual of Closet Reorg

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Apparently not this year.

Despite its severe winters and famous 3-foot snow, Chicago has always delivered hot and humid summers. These two things are not mutually exclusive, I am sure, according to a meteorologist, but in my mind I always wonder, while either dying from motion sickness from all the shivering or from dehydration when my body turns into a water tank with holes, “Why out of all the cities did we choose this place?! WHY?!”

This year, we had a very cool summer. How cool?

I went through the whole year without seasonalizing my closet… I have basically been living on the clothes I hauled into my closet last fall. And it is LIBERATING!

You know the twice-a-year ritual:

You say goodbye to your sweaters and place your summer clothes on the hangers. Later you stash away your shorts and tank tops and bring out your t-necks and wool pants. The fat clothes, much to your dismay, are still applicable. You may or may not decide to look through the clothes you put away for when you lose weight. Probably better if you don’t. Since if you do, you will realize, by the looks and the styles, that they have been there for A VERY LONG TIME…

Although I love the changing seasons in the Midwest: the 2 weeks of spring, the 5 weeks of fall, I always dread the implications: Summarizing/winterizing the closets. More so because as soon as I am done reorganizing the closets, the temperature will drop/increase to be “unseasonably” WTF.

Every. Single. Time. Murphy’s Law.

I especially dread the re-organizing of my children’s closets: They are not like us. We get to wear the same clothes every year, or pretty much the same “fat” clothes in my case. They grow. Like weed. And they grow out of their clothes before they have the chance to wear them twice. Here is when I envy people with only one child.

Outgrew the clothes already? Pack them up! Haul them away!

When you have multiple children, now is the time to go through every single piece of clothing and agonize: Will No. 2 be able to wear this one from No. 1 two years from now? Will he have grown big enough in time to wear this sweater? Why can’t they grow in sync, as in, No. 2 will conveniently be able to wear No. 1’s hand-me-downs a few years later? Why do they have to grow OUT OF SEASONs? i.e. yeah, No. 2 can now wear No.1’s old clothes, but ooops, these are the sweaters, and we are now in July!

You also need to separate them by sizes, by seasons, by the types of clothing: pants, shirts, shorts, t-shirts, sweaters, jackets, gloves, hats, snow boots, Halloween costumes.

I regret for not having planned the births of my children with precision whenever I am sitting on the floor, surrounded by piles of clothes, assaulting my anal-itis.

Don’t even get me started on the stress I go through, when in the middle of the summer, I receive the Overstock catalogue from Lands’ End: “50% off on Winter Jackets and Snow Boots!” How am I supposed to know how big/tall these kids are going to be 6 months from now? But I’d better get the winter equipments while they are on massive discounts so we won’t be caught with nothing when winter comes suddenly. Which happens in Chicago, it feels, every year. And why do I have to worry about winter when I am sweating like a pig? Curses, Lands’ End!

So, yes, this year I have been living in jeans and long-sleeved shirts when it is cool, and jeans and t-shirts when it is warm. I haven’t touched any skirts or shorts. I didn’t even pack my capris when we went to the beach for the summer. I lived in my swimming suit that week.

I did make the attempt to summarize my closet this August when I decided that oh, yes, the temperature is going to stay summer-y finally…

closet

The pile has been on the floor since…

This weekend I’m just going to box the summer clothes up again and hang up the sweaters, again.

And you know what? Maybe we will see Summer, again…

You can’t fight Murphy’s Law…

p.s. Here is if you need an explanation on WHY cool summers do not mean Global Warming is not happening to respond to snide comments from the deniers…

I went to get Starbucks and I got an Existential Crisis instead…

My Mother’s Day Phobia

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It is the Wednesday after Mother’s Day and therefore I figure it is safe to reflect upon the impact of Mother’s Day on me personally, without the risk of being accused as mean-spirited, bitter, spoiled, jaded, or worse, unfit-to-be-a-mother…

Although I have always been moved by the origin of Mother’s Day, an internationally recognized and celebrated holiday nonetheless (unlike Father’s Day…), I really do hate Mother’s Day, if I may be allowed to be facetious. For myself.

I do sincerely celebrate Mother’s Day for all the mothers out there who so rightfully deserve well wishes on their special day. The Collective Mother. The concept of motherhood.

I appreciate the opportunity to wish all the mothers happiness, a day of relaxation, of recognition. I appreciate the fact that my mother-in-law is probably one of the best mothers-in-law out there and I am blessed in this regard. I appreciate the reminder that I owe my own mother thousands of apologies for all the pains I have caused her, and that maybe for once I can talk to her on the phone without hanging up in a hurry because someone in my house screams as if his leg is being sawed off, or in a huff because my mother says something that does not jive well with my pseudo-feminist sensibility…

“What are you going to do with the kids when you travel for business?”

“Hmmm, they have a father too?” Click.

I hate all the commercials that unfairly raise my expectations of what my husband and children would do to “honor me” on Mother’s Day. I hate my own passive aggressiveness:

“What do you want for Mother’s Day? What do you want to do for Mother’s Day?”

“Whatever. I don’t care.”

I hate my husband’s taking my reply literally after so many years of marriage. Come on, man, you know the passive aggressive bitch that I am. DO SOMETHING. Anything.

I hate despite all my jokes of “lowered expectations”, I cannot help but have that smidgen of hope, that maybe this year, something would be done. A surprise would be planned. The secret conversations. The furtive exchange of looks. The stifled laughter as they worked on a conspiracy. And I would pretend not to notice.

Like I said, I hate all those commercials that plant unrealistic expectations even when I try to be rational about it.

I once read that, statistically, more people committed suicide on their birthdays than any other day of the year. (Or did a college friend of mine tell me that? After he phoned to check on me, to make sure that I didn’t do anything stupid. I was full of angst in my youth. Hermann Hesse. My husband would not agree on Demian as the name for our firstborn. Lucky kid…)

The same agitation I feel on Mother’s Days. I wish I could just forget about it. DON’T PANIC.

The Absence of Alternatives

My therapy sessions…