February 7, 2010

  • School started again.  I got the 4.0 I wanted last semester.  I quit my job; my last day was January 27th.  I’m in school full time now.  It seems odd, ironic even, that after about 10 days unemployed, I feel busier now than I did before I quit.  People seem to think I have a ton of free time on my hands but it’s just worse; I’m trying to continue writing, do all my schoolwork, study, maintain that 4.0, and move forward with life, but it’s just getting harder. 

    Honestly, since I started Project 365, most of my updates are on Feisty Foodie.  Especially the minor day-to-day ones…

    I need sleep. 

October 31, 2009

  • I dreamed last night

    I dreamed I was sitting in a Chinese restaurant with my father, watching a really old fashioned/homemade lotto machine flip the numbers. He smiled at me and told me to chant.

    4! 4! 4! the numbers flipped. Everyone in the room seemed to get excited. I was excited. He was excited.

    The numbers flipped and eventually, they were all down, most of them 4′s, and we’d won.

    Apparently no one else in the room had any 4′s, so no one won but us. I didn’t understand why they’d been so excited, then; I looked around, confused. Everyone had fallen deadly silent. My attention was drawn back to my father, who was clutching his ticket (I guess) and waving it excitedly. I asked,

    “What did you win?”

    and he told me 15.

    15 thousand dollars?!

    No, 15 dollars.

    Now I was even more confused. All this for 15 dollars?

    I woke up.

    After giving it a lot of thought, I’ve attributed some meaning to certain events in the dream. 4 is a homonym of sorts in Cantonese to the word for ‘death’ – my father died this morning, 9 years ago, at about 4 am. I’m still confused where the 15 comes in. What did he win? 15 more minutes with us? 15 more minutes with me?

    I don’t know.

    There was another part to my dream that I’ve forgotten. Maybe I’ll remember later.

    Love you, Dad.

September 30, 2009

  • Happy

    HAPPY XANGAVERSARY TO ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    8 years.

    Holy crap!!!

    Struggling with my life a bit right now and the strain on my time, but I will persevere. 

    So that’s all you get.

    Happy :)

August 31, 2009

  • Hellooooooo~

    I started class this past Saturday.  Yup!  My schedule is going to be

    Saturdays 9am – 12pm, 12:05pm – 3pm
    Mondays/Wednesdays 8:30pm – 10pm
    Tuesdays 8pm – 10pm

    Not too bad, I guess.  (For any new readers – doubt I have any – I also work Monday-Friday, 9:30am – 5:30pm, so it’s not like there’s tons of free time around classes.) 

    I will power through and finish this semester… keeping my 4.0 from last semester intact, I hope! 

    Aim high, right?

    Right!

    See you in a month for my update… haha

August 2, 2009

  • Why?

    It’s 2 am (my time, of course; why would I give the time of somewhere else?). 

    The title of this post, “Why?” is the question that people ask time and again.  Why?  And there’s rarely ever a very good, solid reason… especially when it’s so damn emo to ask why, why so many things…

    Anyway, I’m trying not to be emo (or rather, not trying to be emo), and just wanted to blather a little bit into the ether.  I haven’t been doing that enough lately.  Thoughts swirl in my head and I haven’t been sharing them, and sometimes, that bothers me.  Maybe that’s why my head is hurting a little right now; too much bottled up within.

    In just under 2 months from now, I’ll have been a Xanga member/user for 8 years.  Xanga has seen me through a lot.  It missed out – rather, I found Xanga a little less than a year after my father died.  It would have been nice to have known Xanga through that time, but hell, it took me forEVER to deal with that (and, I could argue, I’m still dealing with that loss, so), and you can’t go back in time and change things.

    Xanga saw me through that awful relationship I had at the time, too.
    Adopting my lovely puppy (who is now, unfortunately, a “senior citizen” says the vet… oh man, I don’t want to talk about that, I know I brought it up, but no)
    The crush of a lifetime (who, coincidentally, later became my boyfriend/love of my life, and today marks our 6th anniversary!)
    loads and loads of drama that isn’t even important anymore, but it’s fun sometimes going back and reading what was sooooooo important to me back then

    Shit, Xanga’s basically seen me go from that 20 year old girl to the 28 year old woman I am now.  It sounds so silly but really, Xanga’s the best friend I’ve ever had, because… Xanga listens no matter what, and Xanga NEVER wants to talk about itself.  Xanga (which almost became the name of my dog, holla!) is just… I don’t know.  I’ve always kept journals and diaries growing up – I am a girl, and a verbose one at that, and a writer, all adding up to lots of journals throughout my lifetime – but Xanga.  It’s always been Xanga. 

    Yeah, I’ve moved away from Xanga a bit in the past year, because of getting busy with things, and finding another spot to host my food blogs, but my personal blog has always been on Xanga, just so. 

    I don’t know, I didn’t have a point really to this post, I just wanted to say… thanks for always being here, Xanga.  Even in the beginning-ish, when you were starting to get really popular and your servers would go down and I would get so frustrated with you, you still rocked.  I can’t say I’m always happy with the updates and improvements that you’ve taken, but in the end, you’re still Xanga, and that’s what makes you awesome. 

    Yea, these are the sorts of things I come up with at 2:07 in the morning…

    yawn. 

    Oh, and before I go:

    let’s go Mets!!!


June 18, 2009

  • The Irony of Being Asian American

    (I’m sure there are other ironies, and I’d love you to share them with me… I’m just pondering this one for today.)

    One of the great ironies of being Asian American has been, for me, the notion that other Americans don’t consider me American.

    Despite that fact that I speak English better than what I underestimate to be 90% of the country’s inhabitants, despite the fact that I feel no national pride greater than American, despite the fact that I have never even been to the country of my parents (nor even, really, Asia), despite all these things, I am frequently asked where I’m from or spoken to as though I don’t speak/understand English, or things are said to me that imply I’m not from the US.

    Born and raised, sweetness. Born and raised.

    Most of the people who imply this to me are white – though there have been a fair number of black people to do the same, they are usually men trying (and failing) to hit on me, because I don’t know what crazytown you come from, but where I live, anyone coming up to me and speaking gibberish to me in what you think is Chinese… that’s grounds for a slap in the face, not a “oh, hehe, here’s my number, call me you big stud” – and I have to wonder where THEY are from that a person with Asian features is automatically considered not American.

    Of course, even those of us from big cities, where we’ve been exposed to Asian people en masse, are not immune to being this ignorant. I was reminded recently of an incident during high school; a coworker who also attended my predominantly Asian high school was lamenting her score on the writing SAT II, which I’d also taken.

    I mentioned that I’d gotten a discouraging score as well; she responded, “Well, that’s alright, considering you weren’t born here.”

    My head snapped up. If you know me at all, you know of my great love affair with the English language. I adore the English language with a passion; it indulges me insomuch as it allows me to use and overuse it. My English is impeccable, flawless, and what did you just say about me?

    “I was born here.” I looked at her.

    She stumbled, stammered, and finally went oh um I should check on the kids (we were camp counselors). Yeah… okay there buddy. I only got 30 points lower than you.

    Sometimes people will take it upon themselves to ask me where I’m from and when I respond New York, they tell me “Oh, you have an accent.” Really? What accent is that?

    I’ve discovered that when I get really excited, I’m all Valley Girl. When I’m really upset, I stutter. When I’m among friends, speaking casually, I speak with a Queens (New York) accent, which is most evident when I’m surrounded by non-New Yorkers.

    Nowhere do any of these accents say “Hi I’m not from America.”

    I find it a bit sad when, for whatever reason (sometimes none), other minorities will choose to scream racial slurs and epithets at me. It would almost be amusing to recount the innumerable times that Latino immigrants, possibly illegals (!!!) have screamed at me to “Go back to your country!!!”

    Go back to my country? I’m already here.
    (In more heated moments, I’m tempted, so tempted, to scream back “You go back to YOURS!!!” and other assorted wonderful sentiments, but I have made sure that unless it’s relevant to the conversation, I do not bring another person’s race [or religion or sexual creed] into the insults. For example, when I’m feeling a lot of road rage, there’s no reason to yell at people and use their race/nationality/gender/(assumed) sexual orientation/religion. I can easily just scream “ASSHOLE!” which transcends all of that – and let’s face it, no matter what you believe, every group in the world has at least one asshole in it – and keep above resorting to racial slurs. It isn’t because of your race or gender that you’re in my way on the road [all jokes aside], you just suck!)

    So, living in my own country and being constantly placed in this slot that says “Not American” – are my eyes not big enough for you? Is my hair too dark? Are my eyes too black? My skin not pale enough? Am I too short?*** – is fucked up enough.

    But the ironic part comes when I travel abroad.

    I’ve been to a couple of countries: Spain, Greece, Turkey, and Argentina. Not a lot by anyone’s count, but in each of my trips, I have been pegged right away as an American. Maybe for a small, initial moment, a brief glance, someone might assume I’m an Asian tourist. But as soon as they take a minute to see how I’m dressed, how I look, or I open my mouth, it’s a given that I am American. My behavior marks me as an American (yes, sometimes I AM the asshole-American-tourist, but I try to notice that and fix it ASAP). I am treated like an American.

    Which, as some of you well know, is not always with respect or open arms.

    While in my own country, I am occasionally treated like an outsider, assumed to be not American.

    While outside my own country, they KNOW I’m American. And they treat me like one.

    Oh, the irony of being Asian American. It almost makes one want to not be American… except for me, that’s part of the pleasure of being American. I embrace the realization that most Americans are assholes – hell, I’m one of them, whether they realize it or not.

    I wonder if I’ll ever live to see the day where I am so much part of the scenery, or people are less willing to jump to the assumption that I’m not American based on the slant of my eye or the color of my skin. I wonder.

    ***Note (for those who have never met me): that is total sarcasm; I have larger eyes than most Asians, lighter hair than most Asians, lighter eyes than most Asians, and I am pretty pale as well.  I also exceed the national average for the height of adult women. 

April 7, 2009

  • A bunch of random

    I wrote a few interesting things that I don’t feel like developing right now into something more than what they are, so I’m just going to put them here for the record:

    As further proof of my humility, it still surprises me when someone confesses to having those sorts of feelings for me.

    True story. 

    The other blurb amuses me to no end, but it’s not a true story… (or is it?):

    “Where is your boyfriend?” she demanded.  I stared at her, wondering what on earth would possess a girl I’d just met to ask me such a question, her voice filled with venom.  Why did she even care?

    “I don’t know,” I said slowly.  “I guess he’s around somewhere.  I don’t keep tabs on him.”

    “Why not?!” she demanded again, looking at me like I was the crazy one.  “Aren’t you afraid he’ll cheat on you?”

    I laughed.  She didn’t.  I laughed again, heartily, and then finally, I said, “Honey, have you looked at me?  What idiot would cheat on me?” 

    When she didn’t say anything, I sighed, rubbed my eyes a little, and added, “Fine.  You really want to know why I’m not afraid he’ll cheat on me?”

    She nodded.  I guess she felt insecure about her own relationship, a new one.

    “I guess your boyfriend didn’t tell you who I am.”

    She shook her head, looking confused.

    I looked to my left, then to our right.  Leaning in close, I whispered in her ear, “I’m a fucking mafia princess.  No one would cheat on me and expect to live.”

    Her eyes widened and she started to back away from me.  I watched her do this as a smirk spread over my face.  She stammered out some excuse about needing to check on something, then turned and fled.

    GOD I LOVE BEING ME

April 6, 2009

  • The rain is bittersweet, pt2

    I dreamed of you again last night.

    You asked me if I was happy, which surprised me. “Of course,” I responded. “My life is a good one, I do the things I want and rarely want for anything. When I do want something, I work for it and basically always get what I want. In other words,” here I smiled at you, “I’ve picked up where you left off in spoiling me.”

    You didn’t smile back, just a small frown that left me worried I’d gone too far in stating what was obvious to everyone when I was growing up; you’d doted on me, even favored me and definitely spoiled me. But instead of mentioning that, you said, “I worry that you are spending too much time working to achieve my dreams for you, and not enough on achieving your own dreams for you.”

    I consider this for a moment. It’s true that my dreams have never included attaining a degree, nor going to graduate school, but these don’t seem like unworthwhile goals. They put a purpose to my life, where one previously floated out of reach (or one that I would deem worthy enough to share with people without feeling an ounce of shame). To be honest, I’ve always planned on quitting at this point, and my closest friends – people for whom I feel the utmost respect, people who are incredibly intelligent, talented, and seriously have it all together (or project the facade they do, anyway, ha) – asked me what I would do after I quit. “I dunno,” I would shrug. “Write, I guess. Get married. Have kids. You know.”

    The more I think about this, school was always the obvious choice. I almost wish I’d realized that sooner, started this crazy trek towards self-betterment involving 18 hour days, 2 hour commutes, all of this craziness sooner, because then I’d be that much closer to done. I’d be that much closer to saying “Yeah, that period of time in my life really sucked, but it’s over.” But I didn’t, and here I am, just over a month away from finishing this hellish semester of too-long commutes, not enough time for myself, my dog, my friends, my relationship, my family. I am clinging on to the last shred of sanity I can claim to own, and even that is slowly slipping away.

    With that shred… I almost don’t even want to go to Vegas this weekend. Don’t want to go to Vegas?! Vegas is one of my favorite domestic cities! I didn’t go last year, which is a horrible tragedy for me, and yet here I am, almost not looking forward to it.

    You look on at me while I go over all of this in my mind, and you begin to look amused. I stare defiantly at you, and declare, “School is the answer. I’m not going to school for you anymore. It’s for me. It’s for MY future, of which you are sadly no longer a living part. There isn’t any other option, it just is the next step on this path.”

    You laugh, and we continue walking, this time with rainboots on (I’ve never seen you wear rainboots…), umbrellas up, holding hands once again, despite my being a grown woman of 28 and the fact that we’re holding separate umbrellas. My sleeve is getting wet, and any other time, any other person, I’d pull away. I hate getting wet. Why are we even walking outside?

    As I realize these things, as always, reality begins to intrude and it dawns on me that this is just another dream. You’re not talking to me, or walking with me, and these things will never happen again, except in my dreams. I hesitate, and you look down at me (down at me? at 5’8, I tower over you!), smile and whisper something. I lean closer, but I can’t hear you.

    You repeat yourself, “The secret to always getting your way is to make them think it was their idea in the first place.” Something Mom always tells me I need to learn when it comes to my relationships. Something I know to be true. Something I don’t understand why you are saying this now.

    But as you fade away, and the sun of reality penetrates my eyelids, I realize you have, once again, gotten your way.

    You’re a tricky one, Dad. Very tricky indeed.

April 3, 2009

  • The rain is bittersweet

    It is pouring rain outside.  Though outwardly, I curse the skies on days like this, I secretly like this sort of weather – if I can remain indoors for most of it.  I prefer it to be a day when I don’t even have to go outside (except to walk the dog, poor girl), but a day like today is almost just as well.  Go to work, go home.  Except today is a gym day, so I’m sure to be annoyed when it’s time to walk the half mile to the gym, avoiding puddles and trying not to be attacked by other people’s umbrellas.  But… close to perfect.  Close. 

    The rain pouring down with the window opened just a crack while I lie in bed: that is the setting for a perfect night of sleep for me.  Not a crazy hurricane storm; just pouring straight down, those late summer nights that are humid and then the skies open up, the rain comes down hard, but straight down, you can keep your windows wide open if you choose, and all you can hear is the sound of the rain falling.  It soothes and makes my sleep come quickly, deeply, soundly.  I love those nights.

    As I’m picturing it now, I feel myself slip into the bed; pull back the covers and lie down.  I always have my down comforter on the bed, even in the summer, because I am one of those people who feels like it cools me down and keeps me warm, depending on my need.  The night is hazy, I turn off the lights and stand between the wall and the bed, listening to the rain fall, listen to the small sounds of the night; my dog shifting in her sleep, getting more comfortable before I climb into bed with her and adjust her position so that she lies curled up against my chest.  The rain.  The rain like a faucet turned on, forgotten, but soothing. 

    I pull back the covers and lie down, this time with the lights off.  I slip into a deep slumber, one where you wouldn’t think you’d dreamt, but you have.  You just don’t remember it because the sleep was that good.

    I dream I’m walking towards you, and you’re smiling.  You hold your hand out, and I take it even though I’m a grown woman of 28, and we turn and walk through the field of flowers.  Magical flowers, because your allergies aren’t acting up.  You’re breathing fine and we smile and laugh and chat about everything life has thrown at us.  I update you on my life, because even though you’ve been watching, you can’t possibly know how I’d word things if you were here and I could tell you what was going on and where life had really taken me, places that neither of us ever even considered in the realm of my choices and opportunities when I was younger and you were still here. 

    I tell you how happy I am, and how even though things haven’t turned out quite the way I thought or you wanted, it is a good thing because it has all led me to be who I am today.  And that person is a happy person, with sure, her down moments, but an incredibly upbeat outlook in life, and … well, you can’t know how sweet a rainbow is until you’ve tasted rain first, yes? 

    All too soon, you’re telling me it’s time for you to go, and that we must do this again sooner than it’s been since the last time we talked at length, and I try to say, “We’ve never talked like this before,” but you just smile and hug me and something is wrong because this isn’t how it was, this is never how our relationship was, and you just shake your head and laugh that I could never accept things at face value, could I? and you turn and walk down a bit until I can’t see you anymore and then…

    I wake gently, easily, and it’s morning.  The rain has stopped, and the sun is shining, and I’m smiling but I don’t know why.  I feel refreshed, light, and I think how I slept so deeply, I don’t think I’ve dreamt. 

    I don’t think I’ve dreamt… but later that day, while doing something completely unrelated, your memory, faded, blurry around the edges, and completely out of focus, pops into my head, and a dull ache forms. 

    I miss you, Daddy.  It has never gotten easier, and I’m not sure it ever will.

April 2, 2009

  • Xanga

    Xanga was just down (for me, not sure if it was worldwide) for 2 minutes, so I clicked to the Wiki for Xanga and discovered that I’ve been with Xanga since before they even had 40k members.

    I suddenly realize the magnitude of my being a member since September 2001.

    I am seriously old school Xanga.

    Wiki has a really interesting timeframe of evolution for Xanga.

    And John?  Are you really an Xceptionally Awesome Ninja GangstA or is that urban legend?

    o_O