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. 

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:

(source)

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.

(source)

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.

(source)

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

(source)

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.  

Simple Rules.

{photo credit}

This isn't uncommon.  You meet someone, but things are immediately complicated.  One of you isn't entirely available, location is a hassle, or you're just not into each other enough to make it legit.  So you fall into a casual half-life, seeing each other occasionally without a definition of what you mean to each other or where you're going.  The idea of the Two of You is likely doomed from the start, so instead you entertain the distraction of a Someone to scratch your back and bridge you to wherever you're really going.  Now, I'm not saying this is an innovation in the human condition or anything, but we all do it, and I don't know why certain practices aren't universally understood.  So I shall impart my wisdom. 

Here's what needs to said:  when in casual dating encounters, responsibility is on both parties to remain emotionally neutral and relationally distant.  

My proposed guidelines, or the Let's Have Fun, but..... List:

1. Keep the details.  I don't want to know the sordid specifics of your family dynamics, and I'll spare you the comprehensive list of my food allergies.

2. No ex girlfriend talk.  I don't want to compare myself to your Goddess that Got Away, or think about you using me to fill the her-shaped hole in your life.  We're using each other to feel good, not inadequate.

3. Be polite.  At the very least, we are both people who know each other.  Don't be a d*ck.  Respond when I reach out, leave when prompted.  I'll do the same, and remember that you're still a person.

       3.a. Get over yourself.  I am NOT TRYING TO WIFE YOU.  I know we aren't in a relationship.  I know this isn't going there.  You don't have to intermittently be an ass just so I don't fall in love with you.  Eyeroll.   

4. Keep our mouths shut.  We probably know some of the same people.  We're keeping it light, so let's not broadcast our silly flirtation to the masses.  Do YOU want to explain this?

5. Don't. Get. Romantic.  This is the most important.  I am really well evolved to keep emotions at bay, be light and breezy, but it takes some effort, man.  So we both have to be realistic.  Romance clouds the confines of what this isn't, and confuses us both.  No calling it a date.  

                                          It's not a date.  

The Skinny, Fat, and Smelly.

I've been staring at this screen for an embarrassingly long time, just staring at the sentence 

"I've been staring at this screen for an embarrassingly long time..."

A lot has gone on, guys.  I just can't know where to start and which events are the most important to jot down on this silly little outlet.  After a series of several thousand desperate distractions, I remembered this email I sent to a friend in September.  He had noticed some strange photo patterns on my Instagram, and just sent a "hey, what's going on with you?" text message to find out my deal.  He got way more than he asked for, and I am now gifted with a quick and dirty synopsis of my current state of being.  If you have the patience, this is the recap (mind you, this was written in September.  Should've posted it then.....):

Hey Hey-

6 months ago:

I start to feel.... itchy.  I've never been great at staying put anywhere but LA has been providing needed stimulation and distraction for three years.  I love the standup and my improv team.  I become obsessed with hip hop dance classes.  I also start to loathe my job and coworkers.  Not sure where I want to go or what I want to do, but just feeling discontent.  Tried distracting myself with new activities and people, and it works for a minute.

4 months ago:

I start hearing that 4 years in LA is the point of no return.  I sweat.  I think maybe what I need is a change in neighborhood.  As much as I loved my little place, I spent all of my time in Silver Lake and Echo Park.  I already had arranged a month off of work in July, so I figured I'd pack up all my stuff before I left and find a new place when I got back.  New start, etc etc.  I start telling people that I'm just waiting to be pulled somewhere, in a new direction.  I toy with getting certified in yoga, going off the grid and volunteering on a medical ship in Africa, writing a novel, dating comedians, etc etc

3 months ago: 

My friend Adam makes me read this book, "The Defining Decade".  It's basically a book speaking of the cultural phenomenon that defines our twenties as a throwaway decade, and how that's a load of crap.  Our thirties are NOT the new twenties, and being happy in your middle years comes from learning how to not be an assface and make anything of yourself in your twenties.  My discontent flares into full on existential crisis.  Conveniently, my intended month vacation to Europe trip falls apart.  I end up needing to be up in the Northwest for a few weddings in July, so I decide to take the time to do a long drive up there, take the 101 along the coast, run on my aunts farm, play in canada, unplug my devices and plug my ears, etc etc.

2 months ago:

I pack up all of my shit and leave it in my friends garage.  I set out on my road trip, just blaring Mariah Carey and bawling my bloody eyes out.  The drive is beautiful, and I reaffirm my love for the NW, and come to terms with the fact that I might just want to end up there. Its everything I love, and the place I want to be when I get old and ugly.  One major takeaway from the book is that if you know where it is you want to end up, GO.  Don't wait to get what you will want eventually.  Go get it now.  I get up to Seattle, hike in the mountains, wade in the water, and just decide I'm ready to be back here.  The fear of shame in leaving LA kept me there for a while.  I let go of it in July.  If I have to choose between being 'right' or being happy, I EFFING CHOOSE HAPPY! 

So I sent a breezy email to a few of my travel nurse recruiters, asking them to just let me know if anything in Seattle or Portland comes across their desk.  No rush, but think of me.  I immediately get a response for Seattle Childrens', which is a dreamy top 5 facility.  I submit for the position but don't hear anything.  I dont stress, wasn't in any rush. 

1 month ago:

I'm on my trip, darting all over the NW to get to all of the events I was committed to.  Had made several plans and re-plans to see my grandma over the span of 2 weeks.  Lost passport, surprise concert tickets, plans and fall aparts pushed and pulled me to finally go and see her on a Friday.  She passed away pretty suddenly that Sunday night.  She was feeling weird after a colonoscopy Friday night, pain came and went all day Saturday, and I finally just took her in late that night.  She had been bleeding from her spleen, and required surgery to stop it and clean out the blood in her abdomen.  She did great in surgery on Sunday afternoon and crashed 2 hours after coming back from surgery.  I was in her room and watched them code her for way too long.  My family was devastated.  I have never felt so much like I happened to be exactly where I needed to be in the world.  I extend my trip another 10 days to attend her funeral.  Hollywood has never seemed so vain or futile.  

Right after she passed, I got a cold call from the nurse manager at Seattle Childrens'.  We talk for an hour, and she offers me a job and surprises me with day shift, which I was not expecting.  Crying again.  Snotty and giggling at the same time.  

2 weeks ago:

I come back from WA to LA, with a dopey grin on my face the entire way because I just feel so damn good despite all the devastation I had just been through.   On my first day back to work, I hand in my two weeks and can hardly be bothered from then on. 

Last week:  I packed all of my shit in LA into a pod, to be stored til I find a place in Seattle.  My friend Coco comes to LA for an OC wedding, and makes the drive back up with me.  

We spend two nights on the Lost Coast, this crazy wilderness conservation area in NorCal. Google it, it is utterly breathtaking.  We hiked and swam and changed our brains forever.  Another night in Salem, OR with my sister, and then Coco and I met our third bestie Molly at the Gorge in Washington.  Dave Matthews does a three day concert series there every year on Labor day, and Molly is a tour manager who was working there that weekend.  We spend yesterday swimming in the Columbia River and hanging out backstage at the most incredible concert venue in the country.  

Today, I was up before the sun and sat on the edge of the river canyon, watching the sunrise and humming DM songs.  We hung out with Molly and the kids, caravan-ed to Seattle, and stopped by a sparkly lake for a swim to round out the trip. 

Tomorrow, I start at Childrens'.  I am exhausted but never happier.  I need to be here.  I also have been starting to think that maybe I do want to meet a dude and have a throng of screaming half-Asian babies in the more-near-than-far future, and maybe that dude should want to be in the NW, also?  So I should be here.  

I just reread all of this and cant believe how fucking wordy I am.  SORRY JOE, YOU ASKED FOR IT.  Let's still be friends even though if you've made it this far, you're probably so annoyed with me that you're currently online, trying to ruin my web reputation.  Leave those pics alone, JOE!

So that's the basic story.  Guess what.  I still have no idea what the hell I'm doing.  As is my life mantra, I have no answers.  Just balls.  

Love Love Love. 

I Cut the Power.

SO, for all of you unaware out there, let me just explain to you a little bit about Being an Asian Girl:  

{illustrated by me, all rights reserved. ha.}

We are not known for our bodacious bods.  The truth is, the bust and butt of my clothing is often full of nothing but air, and my beach looks can only be described as "She Might Be Carrying a Load Back There/Hey Diaper Butt".

So we can't share closets with Beyonce, and sometimes our bodies are compared to that of 12 y.o little boys.  But hey, we have HAIR.

{photo source}

Every gal has her source of power, and for us slantys, it's usually all tied up in our shiny straight locks.  It's always sleek, grows like crazy, and requires no de-frizzing.  As long as my hair is clean, it's done.

Well, then I went and did this:

I cut off my source of power.  What can I say, it was a crutch.  Now I really have no physical feminine wiles to display; I'm gonna have to be liked for my personality.  Gulp.  I can't even pretend like I had the idea; I was only inspired when I sat down in Coco's chair for my usual reshape and she asked if we should really just do it.  

Well of course we should!  After all, the benefit of taking risks is usually not in the result of taking it, but in the practice of rocking your nerves, ya know?  I wasn't so much interested in having short hair; I just wanted to make myself feel weird about it so that I can continue learning to tolerate feeling weird.

Let me tell you, I sure ain't gettin fat with this haircut.  Having above-chin hair means that you lose the option of having a supple neck and face.  I just keep remembering that if I get fluffy, I might look like this guy:

{photo source)

                                                     .......and thereby lose powers completely.  Double Gulp.

So My Husband has a Boyfriend.

{Here we are, watching his BF Aaron do yardwork}

Hey Gals!  Unattached with no prospects?  Yearning for male company without the threat of sexual exploitation?  You need a Gay Husband.  My Gay Husband is the best and I bet you want to know why:

1. He likes to do most everything I like to do.  We love to travel, hike, eat great food, ride bikes, gossip about all of the crazy bitches we knew in college, and argue over which men are more attractive than other men.  
2. He's super handy to have around.  When we went to Peru together, he knew enough Spanish that I never had to worry about getting voluntarily sold into slavery through language barrier induced miscommunications. 
3. He claims he doesn't want kids, but I know he would spoil the crap out of mine.
4. His sister is the same age as my sister, so the "This is the Annoying Thing my Sister is Doing Lately" conversations are basically endless. 
5. He'll tell me when I'm being a dumb wench, and I need that.  I tell him when he's being a snobby brat.  He needs that, too.  

Extra Extra Read All About It

The headline reads:  Maid of Dishonor appalls unsuspecting wedding guests; wears otherwise classy dress scrunched up at her hips.

When questioned, she squawked that she needed the added range of motion in her legs that the restrictive sheath silhouette could not provide.  Furthermore, she blamed the wedding DJ for playing beloved hits from the 90s that she could not merely shuffle ladily-like to.  She cited reasonable logic in her decision making, as children had not been welcome at the celebration, and thus were not in danger of being influenced by the surface area of her exposed thighs.  It should be noted that all of the fun guests were understanding, but the boring people took offense.  At the end of the night, the MoD showed remorse only that she would look like a giant hair scrunchie in all of the wedding photos, and it will probably lead to her dying alone in her impeccably furnished beach house.  

An Immigration Story.

{Can I Instagram on this thing?}

As a post grad, Dad was thrilled to get to come to the States as an exchange student to the University of Minnesota's graduate school.  

This was a huge deal; he grew up during the Cultural Revolution, and was the first person he or anyone he knew had ever heard of that was able to leave China.  Literally no one he had every encountered had ever had any reference for moving beyond the Land of the Not Free.  

So when he made his travel arrangements, he had to get the flight information to the university staff who were coming get him.  Dad had no idea how to place an international phone call; didn't even know it existed as an option.  So he sent the UM Dept of Agriculture a telegram, detailing his arrival time and flight number.  A TELEGRAM!  Like Dr Quinn, Medicine Woman!  This was 1985!

He got on the plane (requisite small amount of cash in his pocket) and arrived at MSP, looking around expectantly for someone who might be looking for him.  Nothing.  After a while of waiting, no one was there for him.  So he wandered over to the payphone area of baggage claim, busy with bustling travelers calling family and making plans.  He spots a young mom trying to place a phone call while keeping hold of a rambunctious toddler running circles around the phone booths.  As he tells it, he strikes a deal with her through a series of pantomimes and broken Chinglish:  he will watch her kid so she can place her phone call, and then she will help him call someone to come get him.  The arrangement worked perfectly, and dad was able to get ahold of the professor who was in charge of him.  Two weeks later, this same professor comes by my dad's desk in the research lab where he was working.  He chuckles, and drops the telegram my dad had sent in front of him.  He told him it was the first telegram he had ever received.  Ha!  Isn't that embarrassing?!

What My White Uncle Taught Me About Travel

There’s something very significant about the first time you leave your country without your parents.  Likely, you are of an age where your parents’ habits and principles are familiar to you; you might already know how they will want to experience the trip.  You know what will thrill them, what will annoy, and what they’ll want you to remember.  

In contrast, when you embark on a trip without your parents, the opportunities for new and unfamiliar are just that much more wide.  Enter Steve and Terry Foster, my adopted Aunt and Uncle whom I was gifted the opportunity to experience Thailand with for my first sans parent international trip, several years ago.  While I embarked on this journey with all of the know-how from my father tucked safely in the carry on appropriate compartment of my brain, the lesson that I use most every day of my life since then came from Uncle Steve.  

Uncle Steve taught me what it means to observe.  Sounds rudimentary, right?  It’s no revelation that international travel is a shock to the senses.  Everything you see, hear, smell, and touch is different, and you can experience it all almost by default.  Simply existing in another place will force you to live through the new and unfamiliar.  For someone raised in a Western society, a busy Asian marketplace will provide enough stimulation to fill a stack of travel journals.  So seeing new things is a given.  Whatever else you pick up, is your own responsibility.  

The first memory of this on my radar came a few days into our Thailand trip.  We were gathered with our group of students, debriefing and recounting.  Steve sat up and started to speak.  Now Uncle Steve is a pretty serene person, he’s not one to chatter about, so when he speaks up, I listen.  He said (something like) this: if he had one gift to give our generation, it would be the ability to observe.      We can be in the most incredible places in the world, but the experience of it lays in noticing.  It’s something that you can do always, and has the greatest potential to teach you.  Keep your head up, look at things.  Touch them, ask questions.  Take note of things you see that are different, or don’t make sense to you.  They make sense to somebody, and you should know why.  When you’re on a bus on your way to something, don’t just merely be on your way.  You’re already away from home!  So you are always already Somewhere!  Look around!  There’s no such thing as killing time when you travel.  It’s all noteworthy.  

At the time, I thought it was a beautiful sentiment but obvious.  Well duh, OF COURSE I am observing things!  My eyes work!  I am watching in front of me!  I am having the best time!

But then these words would hit me like this:

We are walking on the street on our way back from the night market.  We had just filled our bellies with food off the street carts, delightful buns, stews, noodles.  The storefronts were closing down as we gingerly sidestepped past locals wiping tables, stacking chairs, and locking doors.  We walk past a noodle cafe, similar to one we had stuffed our faces at, hours earlier.  A Thai woman had propped an assortment of plates, bowls, and cutting boards on the sidewalk up against her the wall of her restaurant.  She was rinsing the food off of them with an old garden hose.  There were no soap suds in sight.  She smiled at us as we avoided her murky water, and we kept walking.  As soon as we moved past, Steve let out a chuckle and said, “Those’ll probably be the plates we eat off of tomorrow.  Anyone else still using Purell?”  You see, Steve sees things, he considers them, and he finds meanings in what he sees.  Observation.  RIGHT?!

On the same trip, we were all sitting around the breakfast table as Steve approaches.  Being a farmer most of his life, he’s always first up and on this trip he had usually made a lap around the block and through the morning market by the time the rest of us emerged from our rooms, bleary eyed in search of thai coffee and a mango lassi.  This particular morning, he was all grins and giggles as he slid in next to us.  He had been to the market, and noticed a group of Thai men his age sitting around.  He saw that they were just hanging out, having breakfast and chatting before they went off to start their workdays.  They saw him there, and in ever Thai people fashion, waved him over to share in their breakfast potluck and social hour.  A regular Ol’ Boys Club, on the other side of the planet.  When this happened, I really perked up.  Well SCOFF!  I wanna sit around with the locals, be in their club and giggle together!  Why the hell wasn’t I at the market, making the most of my time there?!  Steve laughed as he quickly pointed out that had I been with him, neither of us would have been invited.  No girls at the Ol Boys Breakfast Meeting.  The missed opportunity was not a waste, however, because it didn’t take me but a mere moment to realize that these things happen because he paid attention to where he was, and who was there.  Uncle Steve has no throw away moments.  He observes. 

After this, I couldn’t stop noticing Steve observing.  He’s the first to remember street names, the first to recall what the corner bodega carries.  He picked up the rules of all the playground games the local girls played, and never failed to spot the Thai monks we loved so much, walking on their way to the temple every morning.  He could tell you exactly what time they would start appearing, the direction they went, and when they started their walk back.  He saw patterns in the way people conducted business, and how the school children interacted with each other.  The way he noticed everything was intoxicating, and I started picking up on his habit.  I gleefully began to realize that the simple skill of observation adds meaning to everywhere you go.  It’s pretty powerful stuff.  

I have a hope: 

After I die and I greet the Notorious G.O.D. at the pearly gates, I hope I’m exhausted.  I hope that I show up worn, wrinkled, muddy, greasy, and gigglin’.  I hope I’ve run myself ragged, spending a lifetime collecting observations and allowing the internal shifts to steer me to all corners of the wide world.  I hope the Lord tears open the door and laughs at the sight of me, shrieking “Geez, you look TERRIBLE!  You must want to sit!”  I hope He pours me a gin and soda, we sit on the couch, and wants to hear me retell all of these stories.  I hope He’s proud as I recount all of the things I saw, people I hugged, and weird things I ate.  

What My Asian Dad Taught Me About Travel

My dad, among so many other things, loves making the distinction between what it means to “Know How to Travel” and to “NOT Know How to Travel”.  Among my childhood memories, there are a smattering of times that I remember being in trouble for being of the latter category.  Mr Sun, you see, has been a Seasoned Traveler for decades, and to travel with him, is to get nonstop lessons in “Knowing How to Travel”. 

1.  You carry your own bag.  So don’t ever bring anything you can’t carry.  If you ignore this advice and pack a bag you can’t carry, you’re still carrying it.  

2.  No complaining.  Ever.  Complaining accomplishes nothing, gets you nowhere faster, and only makes things worse.  He grew up in communist China.  If you have something to complain about that tops that, submit in writing later on your own time. 

3.  Eat whatever there is.  Especially if it’s weird.  Weird food is usually even more delicious than not weird food; it had to overcome its weirdness for anyone to ever want to serve it.  Especially while travelling, there is no such thing as a diet.  THE VERY WORD "DIET" MEANS FOOD.  That's typed in all caps because it's been yelled in my face.  

4.  If you ever hold up a line for ANY reason, you will be left there.  There is no excuse for ever holding up a line.  By the time you get to the threshold of a line, the very truth of having a line exist means that you have stood in said line and watched several people get through.  You should know what to do, and prepared for your moment.  If, for example, you experience a sneezing fit while in line and inevitably hold it up due to a compromise in your health, you will be skipped in line.  If you are then still able to see and hear, you will see a Chinese man roll his eyes and mutter under his breath, “Some people just don’t Know How to Travel”. 

5.  Consider the value of your time.  As a first generation immigrant from China, the easy assumption to make about my travel education would be that Price Trumps All.  We’re a race of penny pinching money savers, right??  Not so, young grasshopper.  Mr. Sun makes it very clear.  Travel time is finite.  The opportunity to acquire money is not.  Nothing is worth wasted time.  Spend the money, save the time.  Bribe the taxi driver to wait for you so you don’t have to waste time finding a cab back.  Throw the security guard a few bills to keep the gate open a few minutes longer.  Money is a fluid aspect of life, time will run out.  

Weird. Word. Woof.

Isn't this a weird hood ornament to have on your car? 

This is what I've been thinking lately.  People all over think I'm a real weird.  Friends and strangers alike think it's odd that I seem to be such a contradicting personality.  I am so outspoken and social, yet I lose my mind with loud crowds and shopping malls full of people.  I am the most non-committal being Ever; not being able to plan trips more than a few weeks ahead, yet I own a house have been maintaining a mortgage since I was 24.  I love LOVE men, and yet I only can stand to keep up with one for a little over 72 hours.  I can make Big Decisions just with nothing but a snap instinct, but DAMN, I can never decide what flavor of gelato I want.  

Also, people think LA is weird.  It's so sunny and warm, but there's constant smog and the temp hardly ever reaches swimsuit weather.  There's so much innovation here, but the roads are disastrous and the prominence of strip malls gives the impression that there's no one in charge of urban planning for this city of 4 million.  Beautiful people are aplenty, and yet the obsession with beauty also makes you cringe as you pass horrendous altered faces and plumped body parts. 

What I've realized lately, is that I will always need to live somewhere WEIRD.  We go together.  I can't ever make up my mind about the direction of my efforts, the taste of my expression, or the depth of my interests.  I need classy and trashy, sassy and gassy.  

VIVA LA WEIRDOS. 

Why Travel Matters.

The thought first occurred to me as I shifted my weight and winced at a tingling knee in my airplane seat on a 747, bound for Lima a few years ago.  I had a backpack and a few friends, ready for a month in Peru.  Since then, the same thought seems to wander into my mind frequently whenever I’m en route Somewhere.  It bothers me, and I’ve never quite settled on an explanation and thus have spent a lot of time pondering. I’ve many a time sat in cramped quarters on my way somewhere, wondering how I would explain the behavior of travel to a martian.  “Well, people who live in modern societies pack up a small fraction of their belongings, get in various modes of transportation for hours and hours, convert their money and forgo many personal hygeine rituals, just for the experience of Being Somewhere.”  Ha!  I mean really, all that travel is is simply existing in another location for a little while.  At the core, you’re just breathing the air in another location, occupying space somewhere else.  The protons, neutrons, and electrons, that make up your body are simply conducting their processes in another place.  ISN’T IT SO WEIRD. 

On a very concrete level, it can be argued that travel really doesn’t accomplish anything.    Nothing is produced, nor eliminated.  When you go back to wherever you came from, you really have nothing to show for the money and time you spent.  People in your circle can peruse your photos, admire your trinkets, and hear your retelling of stories, but no one will ever Get It.  SO why?  We do we do this?  It’s expensive!  It’s inconvenient!  You look terrible for most of the time!  Diarrhea!

Well, the closest I have come to any sort of logical reasoning is this:  while I may not have anything to show for what I did while I was gone, I can certainly vouch for shifting.  Shifting in my mind, in my decision making, in my priorities.  Shifting in my perspective, in the things that I appreciate, and in my mood.  These shifts have led to huge changes, big decisions, and alterations of what I do, what I think, and what I love.  Life satisfaction is all in the shifts, and that’s why travel matters.    

City Life: Africa Style

Just some things I wanna tell you about Africa, poorly collected and type-vomited out to you.....

Money is everywhere.  You can see it in the shiny bank revolving doors, and the gleaming shop windows.  The grocery stores are stocked with produce and shiny bags of snacks.  People carry designer bags and drive luxury cars.  There is no deficit of funds here.

However, only certain people have it.  As much as there is a wealth disparity worldwide, it is HUGE here.  I was constantly noting the farmers/laborers carrying bundles and holding children while walking alongside the highway, past shiny shopping centers and car dealerships.  No one else seemed bothered by the disconnect, as far as I could see.  The poor are dirt poor, and the rich are FILTHY rich.  It really doesn't take much (by my standards, of course) to make a living there, but if you aren't born into support and resources, it's a steep and arduous climb.

Africans know how to eat, quantitatively speaking.  I'm not making a joke about not starving in Africa, but people there know how to put food away.  Whenever I shared meals with locals, I was shocked and ultimately jealous about the serving sizes they heaped on their plates.  They don't, however, really know how to eat vegetables.  I was there for a month, and really only had access to real vegetables when I cooked them myself.  Otherwise, you'll be hard pressed to find a real veggie on the menu, let alone offered to you.

sidenote: also- everything is so SALTY.  My poor kidneys were in revolt this entire trip, constantly trying to clear my body of the pickled-person state I was putting it in.  Yikes,

There are no Asians.  I must un-cheekily report to you that Janni and I were a sensation wherever we went.  We would both report that alone, people would stare intensely and without abandon, but only some would engage.  Together, we were basically the Kardashians.  Locals came up to me and proclaimed that they had never seen an asian live in person before, and gee golly some of the men made sweet sweet comments about our body parts and faces.  I can still hear them turning their heads to sing "hel-loooo, ladies.", as we walked by.  In Durban, my taxi driver told me that to him, I was like a perfect apricot.  He had never seen a slanty before.  Sometimes, it's fun to be a novelty item.  Other times, it's just plain harassment.