Category Archives: random

Can’t Hardly Wait

54 Replies

 

 

Some random associations from a picture I took this Sunday.

Budding.

Can’t hardly wait.

Spring Awakening.

Frank Wedekind

Frank Wedekind who in 1906 gave us a play criticizing the sexually repressed society with depictions of group masturbation and other subjects that scandalized theatre goers.

This quote attributed to Wedekind which made me chuckle because now whenever some trivial disaster happens in my otherwise mundane life, I think, “Yeah, a blog post has written itself!”

Any fool can have bad luck; the art consists in knowing how to exploit it.

 

The Lulu Plays by Wedekind.

Lulu, the complicated, contradictory femme fatal and victim, in a play that scandalized the audiences in the late 19th / early 20th century with its nudity, implied and not so implicit sex act, rampant confessions of lust and obsession, and an openly lesbian character.

Louise Brooks. Playing the role of Lulu in the movie adaptation of Pandora’s Box.

Louise Brooks. Writing a memoir many decades afterwards, so uncannily described how we feel now when we sit in front of our computers and pour our hearts out…

For two extraordinary years I have been working on it – learning to write – but mostly learning how to tell the truth. At first it is quite impossible. You make yourself better than anybody, then worse than anybody, and when you finally come to see you are “like” everybody – that is the bitterest blow of all to the ego. But in the end it is only the truth, no matter how ugly or shameful, that is right, that fits together, that makes real people, and strangely enough – beauty…

 

 

 

 

Apology, Pet Peeve and Two Horses’ Asses

14 Replies

Dear Internet,

I miss you.

Yes, in these past two weeks, you still see me coming around once in a while, reading articles online, sharing random pictures on Facebook and Twitter, and flirting with my lady friends with my witty one-liner tweets. It has been still only Drive-by Interneting, which in my book does not count as taking care of my second life, my Social Media life.

I have been a bad blogger friend. I am very sorry.

I had to get on the plane for a business trip the day after I got my root canal, which I later realized was only Part 1. The 3-day trip turned into a 4 day trip when I was assigned to a new project. I got home on Friday night, unpacked and then immediately packed for our trip to the Wisconsin Dells. In case you don’t know, Wisconsin Dells is where Kitsch is defined.

“Kitsch is the inability to admit that shit exists.”   Milan Kundera

 

A visit to one of the giant indoor waterpark complexes, actually Ginormous would be the right word used to describe these monsters, is a definite renouncement of hipsterdom, of coolness. Something that declares, “Resistance is futile. The middle America will get you.” A surrender to suburban, bourgeois, parenthood.

There ain’t no shame in that. I guess…

“No matter how much we scorn it, kitsch is an integral part of the human condition.”   Again, Milan Kundera

 

Onward, suburban soldiers!

I enjoyed an hour under Novocaine and laughing gas this Monday to finish my root canal, and as a consequence, for the next couple of days I was keenly aware of the existence of my tooth that’s supposed to be now nerveless (Is that NOT the point of root canal?) while I did the road warrior thing again. On Wednesday night, my flight home was delayed and I have not slept in my own bed for a full night for almost two weeks by now. But of course. I found mouse poo in our pantry. All over. Even on the top shelf. WTF? Flying mice? I spent two hours cleaning and throwing half of the stuff in the pantry away. I set up a trap and yes, I have blood on my hand. Figuratively. The Horror. The Horror. Still, I took a picture, but of course. Maybe soon I will write a post about how I felt like the Mafia this morning and a serial killer by night fall. For now though, before I go upstairs to be with my bed for (oh shit now only) 5 hours, could I just share a pet peeve of mine with you?

 

This has been bugging me forever... Is it just me?

 

As for the two horses’ asses in the title… I should not have fact checked. Because I did, I now cannot in good conscience post this interesting FACT about railroad gauges, wagons, wheel ruts, Roman Chariots, horses’ asses, and then back to train tracks and space shuttles. SNOPES.com ruins all the spamming fun… FACTS are sometimes quite inconvenient indeed.  Sheesh. I am going to bed.

 

Affectionately yours,
Signed The Third Horse’s Ass

“Give Me Novacaine!”

35 Replies

I have had problems with my teeth since young. Actually one of the dentists I saw in the U.S. flat out told me that it is largely hereditary, that I would have developed problems with my teeth sooner or later, that even if I were born and grew up here, the land of BEST DENTAL CARE IN THE WORLD, I would have had bad teeth. Long story short, I have had numerous root canals done back home when I was fairly young. I am pretty sure they were all painful since dentists back then seemed to not believe in anesthesia, and the patients assumed that pain was just part of the deal.

The only thing I recall now is that once the pain was so excruciating that my entire body tensed up, my hands clenched tightly into fists , and it took more than an hour for my hands to relax to uncurl themselves. When it happened, the dentist simply told my mother that I was too hyper-sensitive and she could seat me in one of the chairs in the waiting room until I could function normally again.

I remember feeling guilty about not being able to sustain the pain.

I only started remembering all these yesterday when I went through my first root canal here in the U.S.

I also recalled the first time I saw an American dentist for a, relatively, trivial tooth decay. When I winced because of a slight discomfort, she immediately stopped whatever she was doing, “Did it hurt? I am so sorry. Do you want a shot?”

I was startled by her genuine concern over a pain so minor that I laughed. I wanted to tell her how happy I was but I did not for fear that she’d think I had gone mad.

 

This time the pain started last Friday evening. It was not really pain per se, but more like a dull sore that made my skull chamber hum. All day and all night. I finally was able to see the dentist this Monday and was given the bad news that a root canal was necessary.

“Could I have the laughing gas?”

“Of course you could!”

Laughing gas + Novocain. I was set. No, I did not dream Britney Spears or even John Stamos. But, I did see colors, and patterns. Generally enjoying myself in such a legally drugged up state. All of a sudden, I saw bursting colors, and the straight lines in the patterns curving at the end and breaking into flowers with brilliant colors.

At first I could not pin point the sensation. Neither what nor where. The colors were ricocheting all over inside my head. Then gradually I felt it. It was emitting out of the spot where the doctor was sawing with an endo file. Gradually I realized that sensation that I was feeling? That sensation was PAIN.

I should say something, I thought.

I should at least make the noise, OUCH.

But I did not care. I could still see the colors bursting while the end of the straight lines curving upwards into a floral shape.

Maybe pain is normal. I thought. Maybe for a root canal, I am supposed to feel pain, I thought.

Bursting. Pain. Boom. Colors.

I could not make myself care.

 

Unfortunately I was not allowed to walk around hooked up to the laughing gas. As soon as the mask was removed, the pain became more and more acute. “Was I supposed to feel the pain?” I asked the dentist.

“Oh my goodness. Of course not!” she said apologetically, “Some people are hyper sensitive to these kinds of pain. You must be one of them. Why didn’t you tell me? I could have given you another shot. Do you want a shot now?”

I had missed the window of making this root canal a pain-free experience. Wouldn’t have made any difference then, I am guessing. The persistent pain seems to be what comes afterwards. For the rest of Monday and today, I live in constant awareness of the shape of my skull.

But no colors. No bursting flowers. Just blinding white behind my eyes when I squeeze them shut.

 

 

 

 

WTF Wednesday? Duh. Winning!

77 Replies

This is a cheap shot and oh so predictable. But I need to pay homage to the latest Interweb sensation and not only an awesome Internet meme in the making but a generous provider of meme material.

Yes, my friend. I am talking about Charlie Sheen. My apology indeed. I know most of you are tired of hearing/reading about Sheen’s latest antics by now, but allow me to have some fun.

For two days now my co-worker and I have been saying,

Duh. WINNING!

to each other when something, um, AWESOME, happened at work, i.e. we have been saying this to each other or playing the sound wav. file a lot.

 

 

Many of you would argue that this man is far gone, that he needs immediate medical assistance. But I read the highlights of his rants and I cannot help but be impressed by his creativity and command of metaphors:

What they’re not ready for is guys like you and I and Nails and all the other gnarly gnarlingtons in my life, that we are high priests, Vatican assassin warlocks. Boom. Print that, people. See where that goes.

I’m freakin’ bayonets. I’m battle-tested bayonets, bro.

I’m an F-18, bro. And I will destroy you in the air. I will deploy my ordnance to the ground.

I wish him nothing but pain in his silly travels especially if they wind up in my octagon. Clearly I have defeated this earthworm with my words — imagine what I would have done with my fire breathing fists.

These insults are the rocket fuel that lives in the tip of my sabre.

… People that don’t have tiger blood, you know, Adonis DNA.

I’m extremely old-fashioned, I’m a nobleman, I’m chivalrous. I believe that chivalry is not dead, it’s just been in a coma for a while.

I’m sorry, man, I got magic, and I’ve got poetry in my fingertips.

 

And yes, you have all heard this golden nugget:

I am on a drug. It’s called Charlie Sheen. It’s not available because if you try it once you will die. Your face will melt off and your children will weep over your exploded body.

 

And seriously, these gems, if they had not been spoken by Sheen, would have been on a t-shirt or coffee mug somewhere:

Can’t is the cancer of happen.

Dying is for amateurs.

 

There is something to be said about this unabashed optimistic confident outlook on one’s own life and oneself.

I am not bi-polar. I am bi-winning.

I cured it with my brain, with my mind.

The only thing I’m addicted to is winning.

 

To be 100% honest, once in a while, I’d like to be able to say something like this without any trace of irony in my heart:

I’m tired of pretending like I’m not special. I’m tired of pretending like I’m not bitchin’, a total frickin’ rock star from Mars.

 

Ok, so at the end of the day, I guess the above serves as further proof he’s manic–depressive. However it turns out, I am going to be WINNING-ing in the office in the near future. Beats the Sad Trombone that we have been routinely using.

Duh. WINNING!

 

p.s. You can generate your own Winning rant with the Stark Raving Mad Libs (which I found through The Bloggess). Here is mine.

p.s.s. I found many applications for this new Internet Meme of WINNING: for instance, I used it this morning when I found the parking spot right next to the train station entrance empty even though I got there late. It could also be used sardonically to explain what some people were thinking when they said something that made everybody else go “What what?!”

 

This could be used to explain what these people were thinking when they said something that made everybody else go "What what?!"

 

Double L for Loser

 

p.p.p.s. You know who gets to say WINNING for realz? Robert Downey Jr. That’s who.

The REAL Comeback kid from drug rehabs and embarrassing arrests

 

PSA: I am a walking liability

32 Replies

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

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

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

“Why? Because you think I am slow?”

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

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

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

“What?”

“A bomb.”

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

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

“A bon? A bom?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

Oh for fuck sake, not again.

“BOMB. I cannot say the word BOMB.”

“Ohhhhhh you mean Bomb as in a time bomb”

“YES.”

“Say BA.”

“BA.”

“Now say M.”

“M.”

“Now say BOMB.”

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

“Wow. Way to fail mom.”

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

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

FUCK.

.

.

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

The Antidote to VD

32 Replies

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

Such a great antidote for Valentine’s Day Blues.

.

Cover of Bloomberg Businessweek, 14 February 2011.

.

.

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

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

.

"Affairs Guaranteed"

.

.

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

.

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

.

.

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

.

Defiance

13 Replies

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

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

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

.

.

.

.

.

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

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

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

Isn't she sexy?!

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

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

All’s well that ends well.

Blame it on Chicago Blizzard 2011

26 Replies

I failed to call my parents on Chinese New Year’s Eve again.

I used to blame it on miscalculation of time zone differences between Chicago and Taipei.

This year I am gonna blame it on the 3rd largest snowfall (20+ inches) Chicago has ever seen.

We had to shovel in the blizzard almost every hour yesterday.

.

Mr. Monk vs. Chicago Blizzard 2011

.

.

When I finally got up this morning, it was already 8 am (i.e. 10 pm in Taipei), and this is what I saw outside the window:

.

.

.

Sigh.

I wanted to go right back to bed and hibernate until the snow melted away on its own, oh, say, a month from now. (Did I tell you that we do NOT own a snow blower? Out of principle? The Husband’s. Not Mine, thank you very much).

Still I dragged myself downstairs. I had to make the call, knowing that I had missed the opportunity to call during the Chinese New Year’s Eve dinner, arguably THE most important meal for every Chinese, when all my families got together. Getting my call when everybody was together having Chinese New Year dinner would make up, to a >0 extent, for the fact that I was not there physically. But I had missed the golden window. Sure enough, I found my parents back in their apartment.

“Your brother wanted to call you at 8. But I told him not to because it would have been 6 in the morning your time. Your father wanted to wait for you to call but then it got too late, we had to come home. Your father was tired.” Mom said.

Sigh.

Since I have a flair for the dramatic, I felt I had ruined Chinese New Year and I was more than happy to ignore it. If I did not mention it, my kids would not even notice that Chinese New Year has come and gone. So why bother. I’ve had enough to do all day.

At 5 o’clock, the guilty conscience finally got a hold of me.

“Hey, how about we go to a Chinese restaurant tonight. It’s Chinese New Year’s Eve.” I said to The Husband. “And how about you invite the two Chinese co-workers of yours who are here by themselves? It would make it feel more like Chinese New Year having dinner with them than with our children who would undoubtedly whine about the food.”

The roads are still treacherous and not many cars were outside. Almost all stores and restaurants were closed, including McDonald’s. Thank goodness for the cliche “Chinese restaurants are always open” because it is true.

I am glad that I made the last minute decision to have some semblance of a Chinese New Year’s Eve: We made it to Chef Ping’s and for once it was not crowded; I got to order a shrimp dish AND a whole fish; I did NOT eat one single piece of the stupid General Tsao’s Chicken that we have to order every single time for the kids; I said Happy New Year in Chinese to more than a dozen people in the restaurant and it made me feel so much better, that Chinese New Year is not ruined after all.

I am really deprived, I know.

When I came home, I saw the email from Amanda who told me that her kids get a day off tomorrow for Chinese New Year because that is how they roll in San Francisco. And she sent me this picture of a fellow Taiwanese celebrating Chinese New Year. She at least made Mango a hat. I guess I need to get it together.

I need to go find some red envelops to give to the boys tomorrow. I was supposed to give it to them on Chinese New Year’s Eve. Oh well. They would have had to kneel and kowtow to me and The Husband and wish us long life and stuff before we gave them the red envelops anyway.

I was supposed to buy them new underwear too. I guess what you don’t know won’t hurt you.

Here’s to The Year of the Rabbit!

In case you are wondering what 2011 holds for you according to your Chinese Zodiac signs, here it is.

And for some of you, you’d be excited to know that for the Vietnamese, this year is indeed The Year of the Cat. Yes, that song is for real.

Now… who wants to look at The walking Bunny again?

What is missing here?

18 Replies

This week according to Chicago Tribune

.

.

Oh, who cares about Chinese New Year right?

.

.

Honestly, I would not have been so indignant if they hadn’t made such a big deal out of Nathan Lane’s 55th birthday as “THE BIG THING” for February 3rd. Nothing against Nathan Lane: Love him in The Birdcage. And it is very easy to forget about Chinese New Year when you are not surrounded by other Chinese people; I myself have done so a few times and forgot to call my parents even. But come on. It is not even his 60th! I even checked to make sure that I didn’t miss the news of his untimely demise. So the Chicago Tribune folks sat around in the News Editing Writing Brainstorming Room and Nathan Lane’s 55th birthday is what they managed to come up with.

FAIL.

.

.

The year of the Rabbit is coming whether Chicago Tribune acknowledges it or not. Beware of Angry Bunny. Just sayin’

.