Gray and Glory

Now, anyone who ever hears that I moved to Seattle always wants to talk about the weather first.  Before they ask about my new job and new life here in the PNW, there are always words in reference to the reputation this city has earned for the rain and gloom that dictates the majority of the year.  In these months, I have lamented to locals and transplants alike how mundane the trend is.  I've wanted to bark at all inquirers:

"SEATTLE has borne some of the best modern music of our lifetime!  Seriously, anything you like, I bet it's from Seattle.  (Other than Lucius)"

"SEATTLE is chock full of wonderful food and earth/body loving ways to get it! CSA farms! Fishermen!  Organic dairies!"

"SEATTLE is surrounded by water!  We have two highways that go over Lake Washington!  There are islands!  There are whales!"

"SEATTLE makes tons of beer!  Doesn't everyone want to talk microbrews?!  I know about IPAs!"

"SEATTLE JUST WON THE SUPERBOWL.  I see Russell Wilson almost every week, if I work on a Tuesday!"

"SEATTLE is where Grey's Anatomy is set.  I work in a hospital.  Don't you want to make some irritating reference to that?!  I'll bite!"

Months have gone by, and no one ever asks about orcas or Damien Jurado first.  They all want to talk about the gray clouds and the constant drizzle.  It drove me mad, almost as mad as the actual gray clouds and drizzle did.

Well here I go, eating my words again.

Sigh.  So, I want to talk about the weather.

The weather in Seattle is a miracle.

Let me back up.  For most of October-May, it's horrendous.  Horrendous in the mildest way possible.  It's horrendous because it's not really anything.  The weather for most of the year in Seattle is impotent, passive, and gutless.  A seemingly endless chain of mildly cool temperatures, thick cloud cover, and just enough breeze to annoy the snot out of you and mess up your hair.

On top of that, it's humid, thereby cementing the guaranteed Bad Hair Months.  You bumble around, not needing an ice scraper ever, but also not being able to roll down your windows in the morning.  Light comes in your windows during the day, but not enough to keep the lights off by mid afternoon.  Most days of the week, there will be a slight drizzle in the air for a few hours.  Not enough to count as real rain, but just enough spray to feel like your hairdresser is constantly misfiring her water spritzer into your face.

Have I bummed you out enough??  No wonder why I've been so moody and full of feelings.  I have no choice but to be indoors with them!  Now, to be fair, we have had a particularly mild winter, and I have also had lots of days outside playing in the beauty of the PNW, but more on that later.  For now, I complain.

(It could be April, it could be November.....)

I moved from LA, if you recall, where the weather is 78 and sunny for basically 300 days a year.  I could commit to an outfit 6 months in advance.  (For the record, cotton collared tank, cuffed twill pants, low cut converse sans socks, and a knitted long cardigan.  Works January-through-January.)  I always knew the sun would be out, and I could be in the hills any day that I wanted.  Honestly?  Of course I didn't cherish it.  Sure, I experienced a lot of Sun Guilt (feeling anxiety to get outside when it's sunny), but the morning discovery upon opening my door and feeling the sunshine on my face didn't exactly get me aflutter or anything.  I just put on my yoga pants and went about my day, unruffled.

Seattle will ruffle you in the most diffuse way.  It's the weeks of choosing this Patagonia puffer or that Northface fleece.  It's the constant dissatisfaction with your wiper blades, and the ever present mud on your boots.  You just bundle up and introvert, everyone does.

Here's what 5 months of dreary and inept weather has taught me:

The weather should make you feel something.

There should be ups and downs, a melody if you will, to your days!  No one will notice a note, even if it's the most beautiful note ever played, if that same note gets played every day.

But the miracle is here.  All of a sudden, there will come a day.  A day of glorious sun, where the air feels bright and virile, life giving and soul-patching.  Maybe that day was February 26th.  Maybe it was 61 and sunny.  Maybe the sun, in combination with the water, the farms, the whales, the Seahawks, and some great tunes (albiet from Tennesee) will create just the combination to make you absolutely drunk on your surroundings.  Maybe it will seem like the first time you've felt anything outside yourself in months.  Maybe, the gray impotence serves the purpose of providing the contrast to highlight glory, when it comes.

(Windows down, Sunroof back, biggest grin since September)

Favorite Texts From Nick Lately

"Do men still wear leather jackets?  I mean, I wouldn't."

He was asking for advice on a gift for his partner.  Aaron can thank me later that he did not have to feign enthusiasm at the arrival of an expensive bomber jacket that he would inevitably let the dog use to insulate his bed.  

"Got to ride upper deck biz on a new 747."

Translation:  He was upgraded on a flight from Istanbul to Denver to business class, and got to travel upstairs in a brand new plane.  My gay husband is an elite flyer, and I love the nerdy excitement he gets over flight perks. 

"Stop trying to be like Ming!"

ah hahahaha! This was in response to a message I had sent him, telling him that my sister's new boyfriend's name is Nick.  I love how he gets me, fully and loudly.  

"Perfect.  We'll have a book in a few months.  Primary target: teen sluts."

He had sent this to me when I told him that I started a secret Tumblr full of poems.  He's actually the most supportive husband outside of the Clinton couple.  He would actually market my book to teen sluts.  He would go to the mall.   

"Santy Clause don't visit the undertaker, kid."

This was in reference to a particularly serious conversation we were having about futures and getting what we want.  We were both pondering decisions, satisfaction, and how the hell we're gonna get everything we want out of this lifetime.  Doesn't seem like there are enough hours or beers, but we sure as hell can't be wastin' any more time. 

"You know the shit is real if the dude doesn't even have a tight physique."

This is basically the most profound romantic advice he has ever given me.  He's completely right.  When the shit is real, you find yourself tossing aside the checklist.  My gay knows my heart.  Come at me, bros. 

We Should Talk...

Hey guys,

Don't think I'm not aware of the 4 month blog silence.

I've been kinda uninspired by this medium.

This fall was pretty tumultuous and maybe I was too wrapped up in my nonsense to really put work into writing.

I've been cheating.

The truth is, I started a secret Tumblr page several months ago.  I don't know what my deal was, other than I just had some thoughts I wanted to say anonymously.  For the first time since I can remember, I've felt the need to keep myself and my thoughts a bit private or maybe just separate from myself?  I've been wanting to say things and process things but not necessarily under a snarky heading or with animated GIFs to accent.  So I started this secret Tumblr to post all of the things I find too annoying to let people I love read.  I'll let strangers find my rantings and yearnings obnoxious, eh?  The Tumblr is not linked to my name at all, although there is a non-identifying photo of me in its banner.  It is also entirely made of posts of poetry, or lists.  Some of it is really fun and silly, and other postings are heart breaking and wrought with way too much emotion to take responsibility for.

I hope someone out there reads it and finds it funny, sad, well-written, and annoying. 

 In that order.

Ways My Parents Tried to Make Me Like My Race.

I grew up in the whitest town in America, and often was the first Asian friend any of mine had. I hated it. I just wanted to have blonde ringlets and freckles like Shirley Temple (ah, RIP) and sing John Denver songs at the school talent show.

My parents were idiots about it. Well, my mom mostly. My dad is a eye rolling butthead, and never gave any thought to forced cultural connections beyond learning enough english to order a steak properly. My mother, on the other hand, clearly flailed with how to convince me to find pride in my straight black hair and slanty eyes. A few tactics that have proven to be ineffective:

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1. She told me that I was related to Kristi Yamaguchi. As a child of the early 90s, I was, like so many girls, completely overtaken by figure skating. I would put on the sparkliest garb I had, strap on my clunky mint green roller skates, make my dad move all the furniture in the living room, and crash around on the hardwood floors while she was on TV, trying to imitate her every axel and toe loop.

Why it didn’t work: As soon as I went and told all of my friends the crazy and wonderful connection I had with the Olympian, they all told me I was full of shit. If no one has written the book on what happens to 6 y.o.s when they are found to be un-faultily full of shit, I will. Let me tell you, finding out that your supposed figure skating cousin is the WRONG RACE (Japanese) and isn’t related to you, will ruin your year.

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2. She told me I was named after a Chinese princess. I have a name that’s really Chinese and relatively hard to say for the common white man with common (none) language acquisition skills. I just wanted my name to be Sarah, so that my teachers and I could both stop sweating through every first week of school. Or Rebecca, after the Aunt in Full House. (She had the best outfits and got to make out with Uncle Jesse). Instead of telling me to embrace my name because it was given to me by my Grandfather, it wasn’t my choice, but it’s uniquely mine, she just told me I was named after royalty.

Why it Didn’t Work: Well, even as a child, my precocious and over confident nature already predisposed me to feelings of misplaced-royalty. A kid like that doesn’t need to be told she actually is the namesake of a monarch. Really? I needed to be brought down to earth, and she just ignited my rocket fuel. I admit, that this ruse did bring me some inner pride albiet temporary. I believed it for years, until one day when I was in Jr High she casually mentioned that it was made up. I haven’t stopped having regular identity crises since.

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3. She tried to get my school involved. My poor mother was always offering to bring in Chinese food, teach the kids Mandarin, and decorate my classrooms with gold and red paper cuts for Chinese New Year. I wasn’t having any of it. Instead, I was always trying to convince them to hang Christmas lights early, write Valentine’s cards, and go camping. When my fourth grade music class was preparing for a concert celebrating the different nationalities of the world, we were being taught a song that was ‘Asian influenced’. The song was supposed to be a translation of an English song, but was so horrendously done that it was effectively asking a group of 8 y.o.s to sing “ching chang! bing bong! soy sauce chopstick!” to the tune of Yankee Doodle Dandy. My mother was wildly appalled and immediately marched me to my music teacher with an appropriate and accurate translation of the song in Chinese.

No one could sing it; they couldn’t pronounce any of it.

Why It Didnt Work: She made me the Weird Girl with the Annoying Mom who is Making Us Make Sounds We Can’t Do. While she was totally righteous in her actions, I was mortified. Afterward, I made an even more fervent effort to be white. I stopped going to Chinese school, wore my hair in a side pony at all times, and used any catchphrase that was featured on T.G.I.F.

So here we are, decades later, and I am still only starting to be okay with my name and straight hair. There are certainly days that I still wish that I was white, but what my mom might never understand is that I became cool with being Asian when I became a stand up comic and realized that my slanty ethnicity bestows me with a wealth of material that white kids just don’t get access to. Follow me to math camp!

A New Story.

{Complete Violation.}

You guys, I finally get the 'crazy bitch' distinction and I am just sick over it.  Men who call women crazy should be immediately separated from every last hair on their heads and assigned a women's department store to live in for the rest of their existence.

You make us crazy.

There's an introduction.  Classically, in my life, it happens within the construct of a gathering of people.  A music show, comedy night, a wedding, happy hour, a dinner party, a birthday, etc etc.  Maybe glances are coyishly exchanged from across the crowd, maybe not. However, the night progresses and one way or another he eventually declares himself as attracted (notice I don't say interested.  this is another word entirely.)  Well if I'm attracted as well, usually something will go down.  My sexual energy is more curious than meaningful most of the time, and I just want to know what your lips feel like.  So I find out.  I'm young! It's fun!

Sometimes there are more encounters like this in the subsequent weeks after this initial flurry of fun.  We might see each other again, exchange some conversation, have a few pints, and flirt further.  Maybe it gets a little out of hand, but good-naturedly.  Eventually, one of us loses interest or moves on and the other gets the Fade Out.  It's the Circle of Life.

This cycle is usually about 1 hour to 4 weeks in length.  Upon completion of this cycle, I usually merely roll my eyes and busy myself.  I'm not a dweller; I like to keep moving.  If I'm the fader, I hope he just assumes I met my Dude.  If he does the fade, I just assume maybe he's in a coma?  Either way, it's fine!  We weren't invested anyway!

Well, this post in particular is in existence because something different happened.  In relation to a dude, I finally felt crazy.

HE BROKE THE RULES.

In referencing the previous post of casual-relation situations, he effing broke every single one.  We spoke of a no-stress, let's enjoy each other while we can kind of a deal.  Life is weird and complex, but we clearly had an intoxicating chemistry.  Let's play science for a minute.

Well, he played too well.  This dude was on his gaaaaame.  In the few encounters we had together, he sent me into such a tailspin I could hardly blink.  When I saw him it was sweet, intimate, and wildly romantic.  He strolled me through neighborhoods in the rain, danced me under streetlights, and cradled my face in his hands.  He hummed in my ear as we soaked up gorgeous views, arms entangled and hearts pounding.

I will admit, I ate it all up.  He served it piping hot, and I could barely satiate.

Maybe it was just his nature, the aggression and passion.  Maybe he just fell into romance quickly, a muscle memory from his recent past.  Maybe he's just an ass.  But when the hard fade out hit, I went berserk.

Do guys really know what happens when they lay it on so thick and then blatantly deny any affiliation?  I didn't either, but it's dark and ugly.  My brain immediately went to A Beautiful Mind mode, a constant inner dialogue of trying to decipher the truth from my imagination.

{Do I even believe my own evidence? uh.....?}

"oh, cool.  I made it all up."

"Never happened.  No, it wasn't just you that kissed me in the rain and carried me up those cobblestone steps."

"That's just a movie that I watched once."

"It couldn't have been real, because now you can't even respond to a message or make up an excuse why you've disappeared.  We're not friends.  Nope, it never happened.  I'm clearly delusional."

So then I just went on about my life, refusing to acknowledge those strange sensations that would course through my body whenever I heard a song on the radio that I knew he liked, or I drove by the restaurant where he pulled me into him on the sidewalk.  Someone told me once that these are feelings (sp?).  Well I have now had them and surely they are not welcome here.   Not only are they wholly unwelcome, but they are an outright danger to any semblance of progress in my life.  For the few weeks following, I was so distracted at work I was writing notes down three times before I knew what they meant.  I could remember nothing anyone said to me and forget driving.  I'm already Asian, I don't need some dude making me clinically insane as well thankyouverymuch.

 My thoughts were consumed with "Was that real? Was that real?  Was he even there?  Did he see what I saw?  What if it was all me?"

So yeah, I crawled into the crazy bitch brain space.  But I was lured and locked in, alone and in darkness before I had any chance to get out.  So the next time you hear someone accuse a gal of being a Crazy Bitch, consider first how she might have gotten there.  and check her garage for bulletin boards and newspaper clippings.

Lessons from Lorelai

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In a gathering of dear friends and casual acquaintances recently, we got to chatting on our favorite TV shows growing up.  The 90s classics were all covered; the Boy Meets World, the Wonder Years, what have you.  But I couldn't help but chime in that I've been pretty formed by my exposure of Lorelai Gilmore.  As the leading lady and matron of the Gilmore Girls, she (actor Lauren Graham) navigated herself and her daughter Rory (played by Alexis Bledel) through the ebbs and flows of Rory's adolescence while running an inn in a tiny New England town.  She was a teen mom, who got her shit together fast and kept enough of a twinkle in her eye to maintain some fun and fancy in her adult years.  She's my hero, and her very spirit is one that I carry with me always, every time I flirt with an old man at a farmers market or grocery store.

What she's taught me includes but is not limited to the following:
1.  If you can't be appropriately dressed, be hot.  When the gals were late for Rory's first day at her super fancy private high school, Lorelai didn't have time to adorn her power suit before throwing the two of them in the car to get there on time.  Instead, she grabbed the first thing at the end of her bed: cut off shorts and cowboy boots.  She certainly raised some eyebrows among the country club set that morning, but hell, she looked hot.

2. Know when to pick your battles.  Lorelai had difficult, stogy parents.  The kind of parents that make you run away to a tiny town when something scary happens, because they'd be more hardship than help.  However, as Rory got older, she learned how to navigate their past hurts and somehow still manage to create a healthy relationship with her daughter.  I've recently come to terms that my parents and I won't have the kind of relationship that she has with Rory.  I'm just gonna follow her lead and choose to be amused by them, instead of bruised.  Superhero status.

3. Coffee.  She was addicted to the stuff, and a percentage of the story line of every episode emerged from Lorelai needing coffee, being on her way to get coffee, leaving from getting coffee, having to change her coffee source, waiting for her coffee at a counter, or being interrupted as she drank her coffee.  The lesson here?  Have something that you love and allow that to dictate your movements.

4. Talk Fast and Wildly.  I cannot think of a single scenario that wasn't mediated or at least commentated by Lorelai's witty banter and snarky rhetoric.  She may not have gone to college or speak another language, but she damn sure had english down pat.  I love women with sharp tongues.  I have this idea that they are more satisfied with their lives, because they know how to get the things they want.  Maybe they won't ever be invited to a G8 Summit, but they sure as hell would be the best gal to get you backstage at a Springsteen show.  Put yourself on your death bed for a second.  Which would you rather?  I say, get me straight to the Boss.

5.  She knows exactly how much shit to take from dudes.  Don't get me wrong, this girl is no damsel in distress like, ever.  But she rides the fence perfectly between (Goddess of Self Sufficiency and Low Bullshit Tolerance Who Could Drop Ya Like a Bad Cell Signal) and (Human Woman Who Falls for Right/Wrong People and Likes to Be Kissed Passionately and Hold Hands).  She falls for a teacher at Rory's school, but makes it totally cool and is open about it to everyone.  She tries to fall in love with Rory's dad, riding the wave of nostalgia and girlish affection a few times again.  She finally concedes to falling for Luke, the local diner owner that has always been there for her.  She fights it hard, but gives in eventually.  It's weird, but right.  So she cannonballs in.  She is always the bigger person, defending herself when she's being mistreated, and in turn defending the dudes when others judge too harshly.

If only she were real.