My Nose

I don't know that this is a story. I don’t think so. Really it's just a complaint that the various orifices on my person are, evidently, not my own. I mean, to the extent that my body is not mine now that I don’t have just one but two children, is a given. It is exponential. I do not know how women who have multiples naturally do it. I just don’t. I’m certain that I’d be driven to take a very long drive off a very short bridge. 

I mean, I recall two years ago when I had pneumonia for seven months, through all the end-of-year major holidays and I had to sleep downstairs because my coughing kept everyone awake. I got so that I kind of liked it, which is definitely disturbing because amongst the many discomforts that were involved was the one where I was continuously awoken each morning by the really unpleasant smell of a catbox that had been, how shall I put it, “bombed.” Every morning. It was delightful. Anyway, during that time my four year old used to use me as a bed. All 108 pounds of me. 

Where was I? I lost my train of thought. I was complaining about so many different things I forgot the original complaint. 

The thing is, my one-year old is cute so I constantly feel manipulated into tolerating whatever indignity I am currently experiencing if her fat face is smiling at me. It's unfair, really, and if I could lodge a complaint, say with the Bureau of Manipulative Fat Babies, for instance, I’d be first in line to do it. As it is I am left to depend upon my own wits which are, most days, extremely limited given my average of 3 hours/night of sleep. For example, the other day in a conversation, I was trying recall a word that my friend thought was some technical architectural term. After ten minutes had lapsed, i recalled the word and he realized it wasn't a technical term. It was "beam." He snickered and just stopped short of, I think, calling me a bonehead. What are friends for if not to point out precisely how pathetic sleep deprivation makes you? I'm grateful, really I am. 

On to the main topic. Orifices. Specifically ones on my head. Ears. Nose. Those, apparently, are my neckless wonder’s favorite targets.

The Natural History Museum

People tell me the darnedest, most intimate details of their lives. You might not think this is unusual. Well, I suppose I wouldn't either if every single one of these people was not a stranger.

My husband often jokes when we go out by warning me, "Now, honey, try not to get pigeon-holed by some random man who tells you his life story, okay?" Because he knows it's an inevitably, as certain as, well, you get the drift.

I always, always, look like that RCA ad with the guy in the chair and his hair blown back? That is sooo me.

Today I was at the Natural History Musee with a friend and his sons and the minute, I mean the absolute minute we walk into the main atrium, I get pigeon-holed by a, it turns out Pakistani man. How do I know? He told me. Along with a lot of other things.

I asked my friend later if this happens to him a lot. Because before he abandoned me to my fate, the man was speaking to both of us. You see, I've often wondered this: is it a gendered thing or is it a race thing? And since we're both East Asian, and he looks nice, I thought I'd perform an spontaneous and informal sociological study. His answer?

"No! That never happens to me!"

"Oh I just wondered. It always happens to me."

He laughed at me. "Well I guess you just have an open, non-judgmental face. All I know is, that *never* happens to me."

So there you are. Apparently it is a fairly unique phenomenon that occurs with some frequency with me.

Gee. I feel so fortunate.

"So what did he tell you? Like about what he did at UCLA?"

"No! He told me, like, the most intimate details of a very sad period in his life!"

My friend laughed so loud, he startled my younger daughter into crying.

"Whoops, sorry! Dude, that is so funny."

"Yeah, well, haha. You're the one who left. And you know what? All I said was that he was young! You know, cuz he kept saying how he didn't want to say how old his son was because then we'd know how old he was? And then he went ahead and told me how old his son was. You know, after you left."

My friend showed absolutely no remorse. None. "And?"

"So his son's in his 30's and he's only 56 so I said he's young. That's it! And then he told me his life story!"

Well, it turned out that…you know what? I’m saving this story for another time because this story has a very amusing denouement. 

Clearly, someone was looking out for me that day. Now, I’m not a religious person but I have experienced one too many incidents of déjà vu and serendipity to reject the possibility that there is something, some kind of phenomenon, that is, in a word, awesome. 

First was lunch. Now, because I like to cook, well, I have this actual passion for food. I find it so ironic that at one point in my life, I was anorexic because I just adore food. I realize that I’m one of those supertasters, people who have more taste buds per square inch on their tongue. I often don’t care what the atmosphere is if the food is awesome, and I find that shunning chains and glitzy restaurants is the way to go. Except, admittedly, for Patina group. But on the whole, this is a good rule. 

As to the food, wherever I am, I adapt. I enjoy fried foods as much as the next person—possibly even more, though let it be said for Bostonians that Woodman’s is not as good as Farnham’—and so the Natural History Museum’s café offered some sort of fried chicken sandwich (uh, yum, and yum, I’m thinking) and so my oldest daughter chose Mac and Cheese while I ordered the fried chicken sandwich with, of course, French fries. Well, evidently the man at the counter was used to parents ordering children’s meals for themselves as well as their children because he thought I said “grilled cheese sandwich.” How fried chicken became grilled cheese is anyone’s guess, but when I excitedly went to the front counter to retrieve our food, it was with intense dismay that I discovered my fare was to be of the American-mystery-cheese-melted-between-two-very-white-slices-of-bread. And they didn’t even use real butter. 

Sigh. 

However, at that moment, a random woman who noted that there were three children between my friend and I came up and offered a perfectly good, uneaten, still in its container, child’s meal of a hot dog and French fries. She tried reassuring us it had not been partaken in, but I was already reaching for the thing. “Oh, yeah, I’ll take that!” I think I may have been a bit unseemly, actually, with how enthusiastic I was. 

Royce Hall

Royce Hall is a venerable institution. It isn't? It should be because UCLA sure isn't. Yeah there I said it. And I got all three of my degrees there so I should know. I think the last nail in the coffin has been a series of painful basketball seasons. That was my refuge when grad school was seriously wayyy crappy and it was crappy a lot. Basketball got me through. Let it be said now that I am probably still one of the last people amongst Bruin fans who thinks Ben Howland is great. I just think that as the pressure has grown, he’s forgotten what he’s best at: getting his players to mount a formidable defense that keeps the other team to really low points. Through man-to-man.

What was I saying? Oh, right, Royce Hall. It is that last bastion of grandeur, one of the original four buildings on campus. And I have always been lucky enough to major in subjects whose classes were offered in that storied hall. There I called it a hall not an institution. Satisfied? 

I like all the nooks and crannies it has. I even like the bathrooms. Yeah, it’s kinda weird. But I think it’s so darned cool that this hall is where a lot of venerable performers and performances take place. I personally loved my Bobby Ferrin experience because the  Alvin Ailey performance was one that can be summed up by an overheard comment at  said really elegant bathroom during intermission, “I’m not sure if I was supposed to laughor not at that last piece.” The “piece” was a bunch of dancers gallivanting around on the stage hooting. Yes, hooting. It was a really unfortunate rendition of modern dance. Of course, the Paul Taylor Dance company’s encore of the eponymous Mr. Taylor doing “Caught” is of course the most absolutely awesome dance piece. Ever. I mean, using strobe lights, he’sjumping across the stage so it looks like he’s floating? Are you kidding me? That kicks some serious you know what and whenever I see it, I go  nuts.  I mean, it might as well be UCLA taking out Stanford for how cool it is. 

In my opinion, the best, absolute best thing about being a graduate student in East Asian Languages and Cultures at UCLA—I don’t care that they’ve gotten rid of the “East” part now—is that it was housed in Royce Hall. Pretty darned cool. The office was on the second floor,and while my advisor was not the best of advisors, he was able to somehowwrangle almost the entire second floor to our department, much to the dismay ofeveryone else who, before the earthquake retrofit, had laid claim to it. Our TA room was in the bowels, which while it may not sound awesome, was because itwas also on the same side as the performance entrance. Hence those super bathrooms I was talking about. And just in case you’re wondering, yes, I like nice ones because too many of them absolutely suck. Dirty. Gross. I was once told that I was never, ever going to get the hang of walking all aroundthe Nepalese  mountains if I didn’t get over my obsession with nicely appointed bathrooms. Well, guess what? I’m too out of shape anyway, so that is two strikes against that proposition.

First Words

Thefirst words my two daughters spoke are very interesting and have very uniquestories behind them.

Butin order to understand the humor of my second daughter’s first word, a littlecontext is necessary.

Context, after all, is everything. For example, when myfirst daughter spoke her first word, it was “a fan, a fan” in which the word“fan” is pronounced “f-ah-n” because “chi fan” means to eat in mandarin. Sobecause I had this annoying neighbor who was her manny briefly, between themonths of six and eight, and when I had begun writing my dissertation for allthree hours a week—it’s a miracle I wrote it in a year—he would indulge in hisown whimsical fantasies.

You see, he was a massage therapist who had a formerlife as a navy pediatric nurse, and yes that was is job. He loved talking abouthow he could make infants pee by putting their butts against cold steel. Incase you’re wondering, it was because they needed urine samples. 

Anyway,to amuse himself and since he was never going to have children—he was alreadyin his fifties and was liaisoned with a woman whom he had rescued from amarriage to a wealthy doctor and who would dump him the minute she got herdivorce settlement—he tried to teach my daughter various things. Like how towalk. At seven months. This was terrible. He thought it was very funny. The moreI protested, the more skills he taught her.

Soat a year old, she could already walk quite well, even run in that clumping waybabies do, and I was determined to have her be bilingual. Ok, it’s true that I speakEbonics when it comes to Mandarin. Can’t help it. But my husband, now he’sfluent. ‘Course, he was working at the time, but indulge my fantasy, will you? Becauseit made perfect sense to me, in the midst of my addled, I’ve just had a childand now I’ve got to write my dissertation state of mind. At any rate since I don't actually speak mandarin but my husband does and despite that he worked and I was the one spending all the time with her , somehow that he was her father despite that he was always working seemed relevant to her language acquisition. And since she already walked I figured I'd make her binlingual too. I know, it doesn't really make sense to me now, either. Anyway when she knew it was time to eat, she'd run to the high chair, all the while squealing "A fan! A fan!" In joyous anticipation. 

Fortunately,I did not have to worry about any potentially overachieving physicality on thepart of my second child-no manny. I also firmly believe in underachievement. I mean, whywould I want to chase around a cute walking fatso everywhere? Bad enough with hercrawling and getting into the catfood. Which, by the way, makes her so proud,especially when she’s able to sneak a bit into her mouth. Her fat little facejust absolutely lights up with satisfaction. Come to think of it, she does actlike a kitty in so many other ways so maybe she’s on to something. 

Wherewas I? Oh, right, underachievement. I simply do not understand motherswho want their children to walk as early as possible. It’s certainly notpredictive of anything. Except maybe wrinkles on the mother’s forehead. Oh, andback pain. Lots of back pain. My thought is that these women are either a)uninformed in that they don’t actually read and understood the lack ofcorrelation between walking and intelligence, b) they are stupid, or c) theyare gluttons for punishment. I personally favor a combination of b and c. 

Besides,the fact is, she spoke her first words at around seven months. Sort of like myfirst daughter walking at seven. What’s with the number seven, anyway?

Hermes scarves

one of the things i do no matter how poor we are, which thank goodness is improving since my husband began pursuing consulting more seriously, is that i was determined to never, ever, deprive my children. i grew up extremely deprived. people laugh because everytime someone says, "oh, hey, i remember that toy! i say, "oh, i always wanted one of those..."

i was deprived because of a few things. my father grew up poor. i mean, depression era, eat-all-the-leftover-rotting-vegetables-in-the-little-store-we-live-above, six brothers in one bed, kind of poor. in sacramento. and so he shared that delightful upbringing with his children. by, of course, replicating it so we knew exactly what it was like to cherish a steak once a month, cut up into small chunks, chinese-style in a what do they call it in american? oh, right, stir fry dish. also, when i was really young, my dad was working on the b-1 bomber. and i don't know if you remember, but they scrapped it. he was one of hundreds suddenly out of work. ironically, like my husband, for two years straight.

so when we got gifts, my dad would wrap them up. in plastic. then he would put them away, carefully mind, in these very ricketily-constructed storage units he built into the garage, saving them for when we're older, don't want them, and they're covered in cobwebs? he certainly never would have imagined selling them.

so i knew this was not something i would do. even during the height of our poverty, when i lost weight so i could feed her and my husband more than myself, i knew it was so important to impart normalcy. not that she has known anything different, but my parents made me feel we were poor, and that i, as the youngest, had to bear that burden most heavily.

all along the way, i've made active choices about what to buy, what bills to pay and how much of them, so that i could make strategic purchases for my daughter.

Shoes

There’s a type, yes, I’m veering into at dangerous area of “types” here, of black man who absolutely defines dapper. You know who I’m talking about. He’s got the swagger, the pants that fall just to the top of his shoes, the jacket that may or may not be worn depending on the weather. That nice sleek belt. And the shoes. He’s got the shoes. They’ve got a long toe, perhaps some sort of eelskin, cream flecked with black and grey. He’s sitting at the free jazz festival, by himself, just listening to those beautiful tones rolling out of that horn. Or at least, that’s where I’ve seen him.

Well, I want to be him. Actually, I am. Kind of. Except for the fact that I’m East Asian, racially speaking. And a woman. But my shoes. They always, always inspire admiration. Awe. And a little bit of envy. Not necessarily in that order, either. I’ve heard it said more than once, “I’d look great in those shoes!” To which I answer, “But honey, I already look great in them, why would I lend them to you?”

 

Of course, what they’re really saying is they wish they had my shoes. To which my response is, “Well, of course you wish you did, but you neither have the taste nor the eye, so you never would have purchased them even if you had been staring straight at them.”

You see, I possess a combination of taste, the ability to find bargains to boot, and an eye, not just for what a shoe is, but what it can be. On me, obviously, but not just that. I mean if it’s not quite the right color, I can do something about it. How, you ask? Well, once, I bought a pair of BIS Charles Jourdan shoes at a Ross Dress for Less store, of all places, because no one had any idea what they were. Except me, of course. They are this beautiful square-toed ankle boot of diamond-quilted patent leather in a burgundy color. Unfortunately, I didn’t want them in burgundy, I wanted them in black. So I used leather dye and dyed them. The process took upwards of two hours, but after? I had a pair of boots that, back in the early 90’s, had my girlfriends drooling. 

A friend once told me that it was not normal to buy any type of clothing that are not exactly what one wants, whether they be too large, not the right color, or not “quite” the right style. That said, she is never dressed as well as I. You see, it is the eye. For what is possible, not what is, that makes my wardrobe, especially my shoe wardrobe, so unique. 

The other quality necessary? The ability to browse using creative search terms. Now I shop for shoes almost exclusively online. But I don’t just go to any large warehouse site and gaze at their suggestions. No. A much more refined approach is required. 

Let us say I am looking for a pair of flats. This is actually a true story of how I discovered my one-of-a-kind pointy-toed, gold, crinkled foil-effect Moschinos that inspire equal amounts of appreciation and desire by all who see me wearing them. First, I looked at the Saks and Barney’s sites to see which brands they were carrying. No, not the mid-range brands, I mean the high-end brands. I did not, however, look at the style of flats they were carrying. A woman with style does not follow trends, she looks for what is unique, pairs those elements together with her own clothes and creates her style. 

Of the brands I examined, I decided that I was appreciating Moschino’s designs most. I then began a combination of search tasks: looking at different discount websites that I know carry one-offs, samples, or past seasons, of high-end shoes, as well as putting in a search term for Moschino flats through various search engines. After about two hours of digging around various sites, I found these gorgeous flats that now I am the proud owner of for, mark this, only $75. They are a tad large, at size 7.5, but I also have bunions. And a friend of mine once told me that she avoided shoe problems by buying shoes that were a half a size too big, putting an insert into them, and once the day came to a close and her feet had swelled, she would remove the insert and voila! The shoe was still comfortable. 

Now, that handy parable, for that is the way I took it, informed me that I could buy a shoe that was half a size too large and still wear it. And I do. With, of course, an insert which actually makes them more comfortable. Plus, they don’t pinch, which for a pointy-toed flat, is a definite hazard.

These shoes make people, strangers all, stop me and comment: “I love your shoes! Where did you get them?” 

Skin

A friend of mine at the park was asking about my work in between taking care of the little ones and I said, “Oh, it’s going great. I just got to lecture people under the pretense of writing about a design program.” And flashed her a smile.

“Oh, really,” she smiles back. “What did you lecture them on?”

“Voluntourism and ecotourism and their perils. Like how after all these are consumer-based activities, not humanitarian ones."

“Oh, nice,” she says, “impressive that you got that all in there while talking about a design school. Did you get a lot of negative comments?”

“I thought so,” I said, feeling admittedly rather smug. “And no, I didnt get any negative comments. Well, to be honest, I didn't actually look though I did get retweeted.”

“You know, I had the most interesting conversation the other day, of all places at a birthday party.”

Now just as a little background, these birthday parties are deadly. Absolutely so. People are so dumb, now. They’ve got to invite all the parents for some reason only known to themselves. I had one where I specified that the parents were not invited and all the children were absolute angels. Because they knew their parents weren’t there to micromanage them I presume. But the wealthier the parent, the dumber they are, it appears, except of course for the few liberal ones I’ve befriended.

At one party, I was literally pigeon-holed on the way to the bathroom by two women who were discussing in depth and at length the virtues versus the drawbacks of the iphone 4 vs 5. Yes. This was a real conversation. I wish I was making it up. I must have looked more and more desperate as I tried to inch my way towards the bathroom and finally I blurted out, “I have to go to the bathroom.” When I emerged, this conversation was still ongoing. The two women looked at me expectantly and I said, equally desperately, “I have to go check on the baby.”

Thank god for babies.