Category Archives: random

Old Rules. They just need to be said again.

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I don’t have any new rules to share with the world like Bill Maher and his team of writers. What I have though is a list of OLD rules that I just want to humbly scream out loud into the abyss of the Internet.

  • Old rule: Don’t say that you do your own laundry if you do NOT fold the clothes. Throwing in the dirty laundry into the washer and then moving the clothes from the washer into the dryer is like you accidentally getting a girl pregnant in the back of a Chevy. The real work is in carrying the baby to term and giving birth.
  • Old rule: It does not count as doing the dishes if all you do is rinsing the dishes and stacking them on the kitchen counter.
  • Old rule: Please stop telling people you enjoy cooking. Try cleaning up the kitchen next time and we will discuss how much you still like cooking afterwards.
  • Old rule: Turning on the turn signal AS you are making the turn is the same as NOT using the turn signal, and it makes you a law-breaking d-bag.
  • Old rule: If you drive a sporty car, DRIVE it like a sporty car. Don’t go under the speed limit. It is not Cruise Night. Listen. Your car is crying.
  • Old rule: Just because you can see me, it does not mean I can see you. You can see me because I am driving in a car with its headlights on; I cannot see you because you are effing riding a bike wearing dark clothing at night.
  • Old rule: Just because you can see me, does not mean I can see you. You can see me because your back is towards the sun; I cannot see you because I am driving dead west at five o’clock and the sun is attacking my eyes with its giant laser beams.
  • Old rule: Adding a smilie face at the end of your curt email only highlights the passive aggressiveness of it.
  • Old rule: If you don’t know the back story, don’t tell someone, “Don’t be a bitch.”
  • Old rule: You ask me to have coffee and catch up. Please refrain from scanning the room the whole time seeing who else comes and goes. I don’t know about you, but the whole networking approach taught in B school is really getting on my nerves. You’ve climbed far, more power to you. Next time, please feel free to fail to contact me. It will save us both time.
  • Old rule: It is extremely rude to make that “hurry up” gesture when someone is talking no matter how long that person has been droning on.
  • Old rule: Be nice to people who do not matter, e.g. servers, doormen, delivery people. Your true character shall be judged on this.
  • Old rule: It makes you an asshat if you do not hold the door open for the next person if they are within “the courtesy zone”.

 

Whenever I find myself in the awkward zone, I hurry up so I could get into the courtesy zone asap

 

  • Old rule: When you find yourself in the awkward zone, DO hurry up so the person that’s holding the door for you can 1. stop feeling awkward, 2. move on with their life. He’s not your doorman. You are not god’s gift to men. And for goodness sake, thank them!
  • Old rule: When someone says “Thank you”, the proper response is “You are welcome” and not “uh huh”. It makes you sound bitter.
  • Old rule: Use Please. Thank you. Excuse me. It is really that simple.

 

I know there are a lot more. It’s 4 am. Old rule: Stop telling people what time it is when you are banging out gibberish on your keyboard. Just go to bed already. Anyhoo, would LOVE it if y’all wouldn’t mind adding your own in the comment section.

O rly?

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I don’t remember ever sign on a labor division agreement in which I am the designated parent in charge of school projects. Learn from my mistake: Before you get married, in addition to the pre-nup, AND the chore chart, make sure you and the other party agree on 50-50 should you ever become parents, including tackling school projects. Not including school projects in your negotiation would be a serious oversight IF you plan to bring up your children in the U.S.

The panoramas, the volcanoes, the cardboard box buildings, the solar system models. You will come to dread all of them and learn to schedule your family’s weekends around the deadlines. Although the teachers include in their notes to warn parents against TAKING OVER the projects, which I am more than happy to oblige, as parents, we are still expected to be the supervisor, the  “creative director”, the material supplier, the general contractor. And more often than not, our role turns into that of a bootcamp drill sergeant, “Shut up. Stop crying. Just finish what you are doing!”, and also, that of a motivational speaker, “You will be fine. Your thing looks good. No, it is not that lopsided. And of course it looks like a _____ . Your teacher will not give you an F. This is not the end of the world for Christ’s sake!”

These are the moments when I long for the rigid education style back home that emphasizes mostly rote memorization, i.e. your children do all the work and all you have to do is to intimate the prospect of a good beating.

Mr. Monk, my 3rd grader, has to make a realistic, life-size model of an owl for his class. We had our first breakdown when he read in the teacher’s instruction that the owl has to be within one inch of the actual average size of this specific type of owls. The modeled owl also needs to look realistically similar to an actual owl: coloring, existence of tufts, toes, claws, tail. BUT you are welcome to use ANY material you want, for example, things you find around your house, for the construction of this life-like owl.

Maybe I am dense. Maybe my house is not appropriately stocked for necessities. I looked around the house after I put down the instruction sheet, and I could not think of ANYTHING that resembled any parts of an owl.

Because my son is fortunate enough that his parents’ discretionary income could afford it, off to the crap craft store we went. Since we had no idea whatsoever, we wandered up and down the aisles, looking for inspirations and ideas, bits and pieces to put together into an owl. Kind of like MacGyver. With a glue gun. [Remember: You NEED a glue gun as soon as your child enters grade school]

 

I always get lost, in more ways than one, when I am in one of these stores. I walk in with fear as I am unfamiliar with most of the material and tools sold there. It is wilderness, uncharted territory, the final frontier, as far as I am concerned. As I peruse the exotic goods in each aisle, I am delighted by all the discoveries. “Wow. You can do this yourself?” “OMG. You can make this on your own?” “Ooooo. That’s such a neat idea! What are they going to think of next?”  At the same time, a sense of loss and longing would take hold of me. “I wish I were a domestic goddess. I wish I knew how. I wish I had time to learn the how. I wish I were good with my hands. I wish I had delicate hands and no stupid fat thumbs.”

Soon I am being pushed along by the DIY, Can-Do, “Even I can do it” spirits that fill the air.

Stencil French phrases on plain coffee mugs? Yup. I can do it.

Personalize napkins with monogram stamps? Oh yes. I need those.

Frost a cake with fondant? I would love to do that!

It’s like I have stepped into turbo HGTV land, a dream world where anybody could be a regular Martha Stewart.

Thank goodness I usually come to my senses by the time I get to the cash register. Laziness wins.

 

For the owl project I had to go back three times. I came out unscathed despite the self-doubt each visit to the store elicited in me. It was a good dream while it lasted.

 

Mr. Monk finished making his owl after I brought back the final piece of the puzzle: yellow pipe cleaners.

 

 

Shield

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Someone asked me today, quite bluntly but I appreciate her directness – she started our conversation with this question, “Are you happy in your marriage?”, whether I get hit on a lot when I travel.

Have you hung out at the hotel bar? Airport lounge? And nobody ever hit on you?

Frequently. All the time. Never.

Let’s assume that I’m totally hit-worthy. I believe the reason why I’m never hit on is because I always seem like such a regular at the bar, and I enjoy talking to old bar tenders very much.

image

I’m at the airport now. My waitress told me that I’m waiting for “someone” because she’s not supposed to bring me two drinks at once.

Another reason why I’m never hit on could be that I just took a picture of my drinks, and I laughed out loud at some posts on Facebook.

Alcohol consumption + Crazy friends on Facebook = Preservers of marriage sanctity. Who knew?

By the way, I think I may be playing my role of an uptight, reserved worker bee too well? I don’t understand why some people at work are so confused after seeing the two Vodka Lin. They’re convinced that I was drunk and needed to be reined in. Really, honey? You’ve never met people who behave differently at work and outside of work?

How do I convince them that what they are witnessing is the real me in all its glory?

Ok. Maybe I do get a bit self-grandiose after a couple of drinks… But maybe that’s just me, coming out of my insecure crab shell?

I am from the Internet

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I’m waiting for the day when, if you tell someone ‘I’m from the internet’, instead of laughing they just ask ‘oh, what part?’                        

xkcd

I met a fellow blogger yesterday.  It no longer feels weird to me to meet someone who I have been talking to online, “sight unseen”, for a long time, in real-life 3D.

The Internet is magical in this regard.

Velva from Tomatoes On The Vine and I saw each other in real life, flesh and blood (thank goodness it was all flesh and no blood), for the first time. It did not occur to me how amazing it was that there was no awkward moment at all. It certainly helped a lot that both Velva and her husband are absolutely lovely and warm and easygoing. As soon as we found each other outside the restaurant (no red rose necessary) and gave each other a big giant hug, without a beat, we launched into a fabulous night of great food and even greater conversations as if we have known each other for a long time.

And we have indeed. I guess that is the point.

When we are participating in the blogging community, and its extension on Facebook and Twitter, what I like to call “the greatest social experiment that nobody knows they are in”, we inevitably suspend our suspicion, or rather, we give in to our natural tendency as human beings to trust each other. Although a healthy dose of wariness towards strangers must have helped guarantee the survival of the human race, I believe that the basic trust in people’s goodness must have played just as significant a role. The virtual social network is an interesting arena for us to exercise that push and pull, and if you are lucky, you found yourself getting pulled into the inner circles of some absolutely fabulous people. When that happens, it feels so natural, you don’t even hear the bang when your virtual world and your real life collide.

It is strange how it is not strange at all.

 

I love what xkcd said: "I'm waiting for the day when, if you tell someone 'I'm from the internet', instead of laughing they just ask 'oh, what part?'"

 

Hostage

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As soon as I stepped into the house from a business trip, I heard a moan from a heap at the corner of our sink-and-swim sofa. Shit. I thought to myself.

“Dad was not like this a second ago. He was ok before you came home.” Mr. Monk, my 9-year-old, informed me with mischievous glee.

“So he’s like a little kid? Now that his mommy’s home and all of a sudden he’s feeling a lot sicker because he wants his mommy’s attention?” I babytalked (which I seldom did to my kids even when they were real babies).

I wish I had kept my mouth shut. To this, The Husband launched into an indignant speech about how

1. He’s so sick the whole time I was gone. READ: It’s my fault.

2. There is no medicine in the house. READ: It’s my fault.

3. His throat really hurts. READ: It’s my fault.

4. There is no lemon. READ: It’s my fault.

5. His co-workers said, “Oh, your wife is going to take care of you.” To which he replied, “She doesn’t care. She never takes care of me.” READ: The Passive Aggressive meter was shot so I could not read the score on it.

Sometimes I am convinced that if I were one of those submissive wives, everybody involved including myself would have been a lot happier. So maybe those crazy people do have a point? My natural, confrontation-averse inclination would have led me to simply ignore his tirade. Let’s move on. But my years of immersion in women’s lib made it hard to not stand my ground and make some sort of comment. Eventually I bit my tongue. I bit my tongue because Mr. Monk was watching our interaction like a hawk with bated breath, and I simply could not do that to him. So I swallowed the sharp comebacks that were swarming inside my head.

 

What do I have to do to take care of a grown man who’s suffering from symptoms of a common cold?

I am genuinely sorry that The Husband is sick. But I am stumped. “What do you want me to do to take care of you so I won’t be accused of not caring?” Ok. In hind sight, that’s really not the best way of making a conciliatory move… You can take the sharp words out of a bitch’s mouth, but you can’t change a bitch’s tone of voice.

“Forget about it!” He ended our conversation abruptly like a petulant child sans door slamming. I had to stifle a laugh (and made a mental note to watch The Man Cold on YouTube again and also to, of course, blog about this)

Why is it that when he is sick, he commits the error that men (e.g. he) like to accuse women (e.g. me) of: I am not going to tell you what I want because it would devalue the things you do for me if I have to ask for them. 

Seriously?

This has been how it feels like this past week: I am held hostage by “care police”. At every cough and every moan, I made sure to remember to ask, with exaggerated worry in my voice so my good intention is obvious, “Are you ok?”

 

When the kids are sick, I give them cold medicine, and tell them to stay in bed. I offer ice cream or some other treat. That is it. Sometimes the kids get mad at me when the medicine is not working. “Make it go away!” “Why won’t you give me something that works?” “It does not work. I am still feeling ______!” At that point, I figure they are either hungry or tired so I either feed them or tell them to go to bed, or both.

Now that I think of it, “You don’t care!” seems to be a common accusation. I have only myself to blame since I never do these things that TV/movie parents do – Sitting by the bed and singing them a lullaby. Putting my hand on their foreheads and looking into their faces with concern. Bringing them breakfast in bed on a tray with a red rose in a vase. Maybe I should watch politicians’ campaign videos: most of them got that “I care so much about you RIGHT AT THIS SECOND because the camera is rolling” look down, and practice in front of the bathroom mirror my “I do care” face. Apparently the “I do care” face speaks more volumes than the calm “I just cleaned up your puke without a complaint for the Nth time” face.

 

By the 4th day of violent coughing, the frequent complaint of “It’s not getting better!”, and the occasional hint at “I am so sick and you are not doing anything about it!”, I suggested that The Husband seek out professional help (instead of waiting for me to perform a medical miracle).

I called him from work on Monday. “Did you call a doctor yet?”

“No.”

Face palm.

Today I prodded again. “You should call a doctor.” No response.

Seriously? WWFRGS? (What would Feminist Ryan Gosling say?)

 

In the holy name of keeping a stable home for my children, because it is *MY* job to maintain a happy family environment, I extended an olive branch. “Would you like me to call the doctor? If I call the doctor and make an appointment for you, would you go?”

He nodded.

And he was happy(ier).

 

I want a wife.

 

Father and Daughter

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I’m sitting in the train station with the only Starbucks in this town. This has been a routine of mine for Saturday mornings when the kids are at religious class. I like to think it’s free babysitting service provided by the Catholic church for me.

“Awwwww. How cute!” I exclaimed to myself when I saw the father sitting at the table in front of me trying to put up a ponytail for his little girl. The grandmothers from the table next obviously thought the same as they commented on how adorable the scene was.

image

I immediately caught myself, wondering WHY, why is it deemed universally adorable whenever we see fathers (attempting to) take care of their OWN children, and whether I ever go “Awww” when I see a woman taking care of hers.

Sometimes, the more clumsy the attempt, the more adorable it appears. The man clearly is trying his best. He gets points for the effort. Do we ever give mothers credits for simply trying without passing judgment?

It’s not what it’s cracked up to be.

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I feel so naked without a working cellphone with me when I am out and about. Vulnerable. I did not know how dependent I have become, at least psychologically, on having instant access to the world.

They changed the configuration of the plane: I was able to get a window seat in the Economy Plus section. After I settled into my seat, I started Instagramming. I stopped when I saw a long string of rosaries dangling near my face. No way.

Way.

It was a real Sister. I don’t know why I was so surprised. Sisters fly. My Sister immediately took out her well-worn Bible, with margins filled with notes in neat handwritings, and started reading silently to herself. When she put the Book away, I thought, what’s she gonna do now? She took out her rosaries and a tiny book filled with pictures of saints (I assumed) and continued to pray.

I felt so safe on this flight. And so content.

Sister is not going to steal from my bag when I go use the bathroom. Sister is not going to judge that I have not one ounce of makeup on. Sister won’t care that I have an erupting pimple at the base of my nose. Sister probably won’t judge me. Period. Besides Sister is all skin and bones and she keeps to herself physically so I have both armrests! Sign me up from now on!

Maybe it was as a test for me that soon I found out that my seat did not recline at all. And the new personal screen I was so psyched about was broken. Somehow I was not agitated. I probably would have felt really embarrassed if I threw a tantrum over something trivial like this after overhearing that Sister was flying to China to work in an orphanage. #TrueStory

Sigh.

Luckily I’d packed every single electronic gadget I have: Android phone, Kindle, iPhone, iPad, and a Mac, even though what I really wanted to do on the flight was to sleep.

So far I have seen the airport and the hotel.

I broke my glasses so I am in trouble at night after I take out my contact lenses. I have no idea what I am going to do for my return flight as I cannot wear those dastardly things in my eyes for 13+ hours. My eyes will be like dried plums.

Anyway, it is almost 2 am, and I am supposed to be up 4 hours from now.

 

But before I jump into this,

 

I need to take advantage of this:

 

 

Oh lord.

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Really, I should not be complaining. My original flight(s) to Beijing tomorrow had me leave the house at 4 am so I could catch the 6 am flight to SFO, with an almost 5-hour layover, and then on to my next flight to Beijing. I would have been in the back of the plane, in the middle seat, for both legs.

Last night as I was freaking out and crying inside about my 4 am EDT on Monday morning, I decided to see whether there would be a way for me to get on a later flight to SFO. What do you know? Up popped a non-stop flight to Beijing! Woohoo!

My original seat on this flight was 42F. After refreshing the page many many times, I moved up to 31F. Bulk seats do come with extra legrooms, yes. But they also come with increased chance of being seated next to a baby. (I am NO baby hater. But if I have a choice…)

More refresh. Refresh. Refresh. And now I am where I am.

I pray that 25E will be empty so I can fully recline (“Recline” in the cattle class is an exaggeration) without feeling guilty.

It is really sad that I will not be able to take advantage of free alcohol on international flights… (Drinking = Needing to “use the facility”)

 

I need to go to bed

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If only The Internet would let me…

It’s been tough and crazy at work. I have been trying to wrap up as many things as possible in preparation for my business trip to China next week. Word of advice: Always have a valid passport. AND make sure you renew your passport one year ahead of the expiration date. I had to get my passport renewed before I could get my visa to China. There was a lot of nail biting. What did I get for a last minute trip? How about 6 am flight on Monday, back of the cattle cabin, middle seat?

Good thing I have a blog right? All calamities are blogging fodders.

 

When I came up for air on The Twitter, The Facebook, and ok, let me throw in The G+ also [placeholder for disclaimer], I realized that maybe it would have been better if I did not spend time on the Internet at all. Ignorance is bliss right? I want to bitchslap some people so bad. Let’s start with the panty-twisted bunch over at Concerned Women for America who are now anti-anti-bullying because apparently picking on gay kids at school (and everywhere else) is their children’s GOD-given rights, literally. They are fighting against anti-bulling measures in congress at state level in the name of religious freedom. Simply typing the above paragraph is making my chest hurt.

With or without religion, you would have good people doing good things and evil people doing evil things. But for good people to do evil things, that takes religion.
— Steven Weinberg

 

On the other hand, The Internet has also brought good things into my life. For example, Jeri Ryan, Seven of Nine of Star Trek fan, became my friend on Google+.

Ok, technically, she did not say “Hey, let’s be friend.”  BUT she plussed and shared one of my posts, i.e. she read my post and knew of my existence! Woohoo! +100 to my geek cred and coolation (cool+ration)! I of course took a screenshot as proof right away just in case she changed her mind and withdrew her favor.

It’s my first brush with fame. Please be as impressed as I am.

 

It is rather embarrassing how excited I am about this latest development…

Here, this is the reason why I have not responded to your email/tweet/comment/like.

I have been contributing to the Internet with my own crapshot snapshots, documenting my oh so exciting life. Really, how many pictures of Chicago River and the caption “Y’all. I am on a boat!” can I take before I stop having friends?

 

I really need to go to bed now. Once you reach 40, you really cannot survive on less than 4 hours of sleep on three consecutive days. Your grammars will also start to suffer. If you miss me, check my page Life As I See It so I can tell you that I am on a boat. Again.

What makes reality real?

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I have not watched the new TV show Awake on NBC. I understand the story is about a police detective who “woke” up from a car accident and realized that he’s caught in two realities, or two dreams, or rather one reality + one dream. In one half of his life, his son died, whereas in the other half of his life, his wife. In order to keep both of his loved ones “alive”, he decided to keep living this dual existence, ignoring the clues threatening to expose one half as “fake”.

I am scared to watch it…

I’ve had realistic, vivid nightmares in which I kept on telling myself, “No, it could not be. This has got to be a dream. Wake up! Wake up!” but I could not wake up. Fear would quickly settle in as I realized (erroneously) that this was not a dream. I would cry out from the pang of despair, with real tears, in from my dream. Often the warm tears would startle me and I would wake up, completely disoriented. “It is a dream after all.” My relief however would soon be overtaken by fear, fear that maybe next time, I would not be so lucky. Next time, I would not have anything to wake up to.

On the other hand, I have never had a dream so enticing that I do not want to leave it. (Probably a sign for lack of imagination?) Yet, on some days, when I am wishing for a do-over, I felt I could somehow understand why “the wife” in the movie Inception felt that way about the limbo she was in. (I will stop here lest this becomes a spoiler… even though I assume everybody that wants to see the movie has done so already…)

Remember Cypher (played by Joe Pantoliano) in The Matrix? He basically said “Fuck this. Put me back in the dream because reality sucks!”

If a dreamscape is so real that you cannot tell, what makes it any less real?

 

You take the blue pill – the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill – you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes. — Morpheus in The Matrix

 

“Which pill would you take: red or blue?” I get a headache whenever I think about this.

 

You would laugh if I tell you what started this whole debate inside my head. It was the song Video Games by Lana Del Rey playing in the car on our way home after watching The Hunger Games. Now, a digression…

I am one of those empathetic people that cannot help imagining myself in the protagonist’s place when watching a film — That explains why I cannot watch horror movies — therefore I watched The Hunger Games with heightened alarm. The games would be a nightmare I do not want to be caught dead (or alive or sleeping) in. I KNOW, if I were there, I would be the first one to die. And that thought alone makes me want to hide a piece of cyanid in my tooth cavity. (I never claim to be brave so there).

Ok. I am back on track. (According to The Husband, this IS how I talk in real life…) When I heard Lana Del Rey’s voice, I remembered the big brouhaha over her flop on SNL. There was so much hype around her first ever TV/public appearance, on SNL nonetheless, people were shocked (or perhaps even outraged?) to find the Internet sensation could not deliver the promise in a live performance. It appeared that she could not sing nor did she know what to do with her hands. I cringed for the first few minutes and had to turn it off. It was painful to watch. I will admit: I liked her musical videos. I liked her voice in the videos. I still do. The videos were expertly produced, looking and sounding fantastic. The out-of-proportion backlash against her on the Internet (The Internet giveth, the Internet taketh) following her SNL appearance made me wonder out loud:

So what if the persona Lana Del Rey is fabricated? You liked her when you thought she was real, what changed now that you know her daddy is rich and her lips may have been undergone some cosmetic surgery, and that her voice may have been digitally enhanced during production? What if she had simply stayed a virtual Internet sensation a la the Japanese virtual pop star Hatsune Miku: a synthesized presence that, understood by all partaking in it to be “artificial”, yet fulfills something the audience yearns for that is not achievable in real life.

 

Here is Hatsune Miku in all her digital bits performing live to thousands of screaming fans. She is so real that she stars in commercials for Google Chrome in Japan, and of course, for Toyota.