Recycling Trash: a New Perspective

So the past two days the fatty has been getting into a lower cupboard where I keep my older daughter's  snacks which incidentally the Fussy Fatso occasionally shares. She has discovered the granola bars in an orange foil wrapper and has decided that they make excellent, squishy toys. 

Now the recycling bag--we use tj's bags for trash and recycling--had an empty wrapper. As aforementioned, the fatty also knows that the drawer in the cupboard is where they are kept. Thus, after playing with the trash for a bit--I really don't know why people bother buying things since trash also makes excellent toys (though perhaps this is just a genetic thing)--she decided that she needed to  put away the empty wrapper. In the snack drawer. You know. For later. Then she closed the cupboard door.

Low Blood Sugar Stupidity or Don't Try This Without Eating First

I should know by now. I mean, I've lived with myself, literally, my entire life and normally I am brutally honest about things. I look at all my figurative and actual warts and I work on them, confront them so I can constantly improve my behaviors, thinking patterns. Wine and beer consumption.

Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Because clearly I have an enormous blind spot when it comes to food and my brain functioning. Specifically I am convinced that I am lucid no matter how low my blood sugar goes.

Patently this is not the case as you will see from the following incidents. Now I don't like to blame my poor judgment on hormones or whatever people always point to when they describe women who are a) mothers and b) spend most of their time fulfilling the myriad activities entailed in that role and appear slightly scattered. I reject that. It is not hormones. It is a lack of food.

It's been occurring with an alarming frequency of late. The first time I met some friends and their children at the local park so we could all play. In parental parlance that means the older folks sit around and chat about how they were once cool, before children, while said children actually do play. I suggested a picnic because I wanted to share this great Mediterranean sandwich recipe and I also make these amazing chocolate cupcakes that are like ding dongs except they're filled with chocolate ganache. Well the meeting was at lunch to accommodate one of my friends who is perpetually late.

Of course I'd eaten nothing since I planned on immediately attacking the food upon arrival.

Mistake. One should not forgo food when one has two children to look after. Especially not until eleven-thirty. This is a rule. One that I seem to constantly forget.

After meeting my friends, I was informed by my daughter that she wanted her scooter. This was right after I'd asked her at the car if she wanted it and she'd said no. Obviously.

"Well, okay, but you're going to have to wait while I put this on the table, alright?"
"Okay," she answered angelically. I do hate being manipulated.

I pushed my other daughter, aka Bustle Butt, towards along the sidewalk ringing the large sand area and aimed for the picnic table. Now, the grass that surrounds the actual picnic table has grown very thickly, and its created this "curb" that is about four inches higher than the sidewalk. I'm smiling, rather stupidly, at one of my friends who had arrived at the same time as us. He's waiting next to said table. I observe the grass curb and think, "Well, we bought this ridiculously expensive stroller to roll all over the uneven streets of Beijing. Surely it can take this measly little grass curb."

Nope. Instead, I ram head-on into the curb and literally jolt my babe out of her chair. Thank heavens for safety straps.

I'm not certain if my friend laughed, but I was quick to defend what was clearly a stupid move, "It's not my fault!" I proclaim, "I'm experiencing low blood sugar!"

Now, this occurred only a few weeks ago and you'd think that I'd keep this in mind. But you see, I think my brain has slowly deteriorated over said weeks because I have since that time embarked upon a slight calorie reduction program. Only slight, mind, but given that my body is really sensitive to this sort of thing evidently, the results have been dramatic.

To wit, I've had several more episodes of "Low Blood Sugar Stupidity." Oh, the diet? That's working too. Sort of.

The other day, for example, I was driving my friend and myself to Ktown for some twice-fried in Olive Oil chicken at the original LA Kyochon, of which I've written about earlier. Seriously. The best ever. As  a salve to my conscience, I first drove us to the Galleria to go food shopping. I think I bought seven items (in my defense, I may be experiencing said LBSS right now).

I go to fast. I'm driving along Western Ave towards the mall where the grocery store is located.

"So you know you can turn right here," my friend points right.

"Oh, yeah, okay."

And then I drove right past the turn.

The Casual Mother

This is not something I normally brag about, but it turns out that I am a tad casual as a mother. I was first given an inkling of this possibility a few weeks ago during my older child’s two and a half week Spring holiday.

It was taxing one because most of the time my daughter was either injured—sprained ankle and mild whiplash—or sick, in this case with whooping cough. Pertussis if you’re fussy about titles. What transpired was that most days, I spent it in her room,  keeping her and my baby company. It’s not a big room. She has a lot of energy. I had also been sleeping with her every night. Yet oddly, when asked about it later, I was flooded with a joy that made me grin like an idiot and I would confess, “Welllll, I didn’t do a lot because Jl was sick, butttt…” 

The days were broken up by the occasional outing, one of which was to a friend’s house in the Valley. No, not the Asian valley, San Gabriel, where I was born, the famous one. You know, the one whose accent was made famous by that awful song, Valley Girl? Yeah, that one. So there I was, traveling “over the hill” as those from the Westside of town call it towards the great unknown. Thank goodness for the GPS which is absolutely  useless and guided me towards the mall. Um, wait, that might have been my internal compass seeking the local Bloomies…

At any rate, upon arrival, she proceeded to ply me and my children with all sorts of gluten-based foods and I continue to blame her for making me recall just how much I love crusty bread. Italian, rustic, French style, I love it all. *ahhhh*

My baby was going through a bout of intense stranger anxiety so I *got* to be her high chair for the entire seven hour visit. That was a joy. No, really, it was. She’s awfully cute and fat. At one point, my friend offered me a tangerine to then offer her. She would not accept food directly from this stranger, which of course provided me with an endless supply of embarrassment. No matter how much people will insist that they understand, parents with half a conscience feel constantly embarrassed by the people their babies are frightened by. I met one woman who said that her sister’s new boyfriend frightened the bejesus out of her youngest because he was rockin a dome. So there you are.

Russell Peters

 Now I hate to disappoint you but in reality this is not some  411 on his next secret gig in LA or anything. Sorry. No instead this is a story about how I am bringing up my younger child to provide me with an endless supply of humor. 

The thing about Russell Peters is that he gets not just accents but different cultures so well. And the one thing he has taught me is how to do a Cantonese chinese accent. You see, being a fifth gen American Chinese I just don't get how to do it. I didn't have anything against it, mind, it's simply that even though my mom is a naturalized citizen, my dad was a fourth gen from Sacramento. His family was part of that first Chinese diaspora from a little village in Taishan and you guessed it, they spoke taishanese. 

Well that is the Chinese accent Russell Peters does sooo well. I can't do it. Well, actually, now I can. Because of him. He just gets it spot in. Embarrassingly sometimes when walking around Monterey park and I hear someone talking who sounds like him I bust out laughing. And then of course I rapidly walk away because I've just been an asshole. He does this routine--it's a 45 minute routine on YouTube that I highly recommend--where he pretends to speak Cantonese and later he has a bit where he is imitating a Cantonese guy speaking chinglish and telling a really bad joke. Well he and the joke are hilarious.

Now after that extremely diverting little background we're all set to proceed with how I've made my baby a source of comic gold. The joke, which I've adapted to fit the present circumstances--my fat baby--goes like this and you must simply imagine a Cantonese chinglish accent because I can't reproduce it and do it justice in the written word: "This baby so fat, when she jump for joyyyyy, she get stuck. Ok, thank you." Now like I said, the punch line of the joke is the accent.

We have been repeating this to the Shaggy Fatty for several months now. And just like she had previously grasped and imitated both the tone and context of my irritated "Guyyy!" she's clearly been processing the context and hence humor of this as well. We enjoy recycling humor in our household, especially when it's been inspired by Russell Peters.

Afterimage of this she now thinks it is very amusing to hear this little routine which she a) clearly understands is a celebration of her and her fat, and b) that it is funny. Because upon hearing it she smiles.

Two days ago we also discovered she has been doing a little deeper processing. At five in the morning, she began babbling as she does. According to my husband--it was a night I "got" to spend with my older daughter in her twin bed--it went something like this: "babble, babble, babble, so fet (the accent here is absolutely necessary to fully understand the humor), babble, babble." It was five-thirty so initially he was going to try to remain in bed for as long as she didn't cry. The "so fet" however put an end to that and he was practically propelled out of bed. Either to celebrate of stop from laughing I'm not certain which because he didn't specify.

Well after hearing about this hilarious and adorable display of language acquisition, I began repeating that little routine to her. All day. You know, as a prompt.

It worked. That afternoon, in the middle if the routine, when I was about to say, "She get 'tuck'" she did it for me. And then she grinned.

Obviously she knows when to be proud.





     

Graduate Seminar

In case it’s unfamiliar to you, graduate school, well, in the non-sciences, anyway, consists of a couple of things. First, immense fear. Quickly thereafter, boredom. Last, and usually during seminars, a plea for mercy to end the mind-numbing effect of seminar which often results in bleeding out of your ears. I exaggerate? Please. If that were the case, then there wouldn’t be such a high dropout rate amongst Ph.D. students. They can’t take it and do you know why? Because they be smart. 

Keeping in mind that I tend to lead a bit of a hapless life, strange and amusing incidents seem to just pepper my life. I’m not certain whether this is significant or not, but it really seemed to take shape in grad school. Now, I’m perfectly willing to concede that this is because prior to that, I was not really conscious but sort of floating through life, but on the other hand, the incidents did seem to grow distinctly more colorful.

For example. Seminar. Now, I’ve written several stories about my time as a grad student. In fact, I wrote an entire volume of short stories, each a scene out of my life. Fictionalized, yes, but marginally. Although there were characters who simply begged to be fleshed out and there I did take some liberties. Like the fellow buddhologist whose name I shall forever recall as “The Saint Bernard”—he looked like one, shook his head like one and he always wore comfortable sweats. Perfect. 

But this time, I was stuck in a deadly seminar. Wait, what am I thinking? That’s repetitious! They’re all deadly. Every single seminar has but one, no, wait, I exaggerate, they have two functions. First, seminars fulfill a professor’s teaching obligation in a venue wherein s/he has to do very little of aforementioned teaching activity. Two, it is always, and I do mean always, about a subject the professor is writing about. Some imminent volume. In this case, he, has got to fill the last two hundred of a three-hundred page book and you know what? He’s plumb out of insight. 

It’s pathetic when you think about it, but there he was, plumbing the depths of first to third year grad students for some brilliant insight into, oh, let’s just say how Buddhology inflicts a slow death upon graduate students?

At any rate, and I do wish I could make this up but I am simply not that creative, we were discussing some rather complex, no, I should be accurate here, we were discussing some tedious micro-point about Indian Buddhist archaeology or something and one particularly dim-witted art history student actually said, “Do you think we can compare this to the freeway system?” 

And before you ask, no, I did not want to kill myself. I contemplated killing her, for some time because the professor’s response was sincere. I concluded at that moment that art historians are stupid. Yes, I know. Me. Indulging in generalities while I’ve grown up being victimized by racism. But honestly. How in the world did she get accepted to UCLA? What’s more since she obviously was accepted, I could only conclude that the standards for art history grad students is significantly more flexible than for other Humanities fields.

This was just my lucky day because the seating arrangement was such that I was crammed in between some woman to my right who wasn’t all that friendly—another art history grad student—and a fellow 

Buddhologist  on my left. Another classmate, who began the Ph.D. phase the same year I did, and who incidentally liked me was, for some reason, seated across the room. He kept sending me these knowing grins but honestly, if you’re going to be a bonehead and not save me a seat, I really don’t think that you should take any liberties. That one he took later, well, let’s just say I was really enjoying my Guinness on tap—tasted like chocolate beer—so not really my fault.

Now, I’m going to veer into some stereotypes here, but given that a) I’m American Chinese, and b) I’ve dealt with lots and lots of erroneous stereotypes in my life, I feel justified in throwing out one of my own. Especially if it’s about one of my people. Well, actually, he wasn’t. So here I venture forth into some daring stereotypes. You see, I’ve found that Taiwanese are rather prissy. Even the men. There’s a whole cultural thing. I read this book by David Halberstom before he died on the Korean War which does an abso-fucking-lutely faboo job on explaining how a few annoying missionaries with high government connections changed the entire American discourse on what is China (not, apparently, China, but Taiwan) because of a whole host of money, military-saving-face, and friendship issues. Annoyingly, lots of Taiwanese people like to state they are not Chinese. Fine by me is what I say. Too prissy for me anyway. And you people never seem to understand the subtleties of the hyphenated identity Malcolm X and, well, lots of other people I admire since him, have discussed. 

See? Told you it was daring! *koff* 

Bromances

My husband inspires many, many bromances.

This is not a problem. At least, it isn’t so far. But it is a rather curious quality and it began early on in our relationship.

However, it is a bit of a wonder that my husband immediately seems to bring out something different in various men, men who in other circumstances seem prone to, how shall I term it, womanizing? In fact, after my friend  heard one person’s exclamation about my husband, to wit: "Isn’t he the one who is really good-looking? Like model good-looking,” she wondered to me, “So, what’s it like being with a man other men want?”

And that is, after all, what this piece is about. I mean, I’d like to say it’s all about how open-minded I am regarding my husband being desired by other people, men or women. That it isn’t threatening to me and my relationship with him that other people find him sexually attractive. That’s what this should be about, right? Especially in this age of openness and understanding, of knowing that no one person sets the standard for normalcy when it comes to things like one’s sexual orientation. It should be about me being concerned about our relationship.

No. I confess that is not what this is about. It is actually a lament. About me. Yes, all about me. Well, let’s back up a bit.

So, this is what I think a typical male response is when other men find his female partner equally attractive: “Yeah, that’s my woman.” And it makes him feel virile. Triumphant. Veni, vidi, vici and all that. But women, I think have two responses. Yes, one is validation in her ability to “catch” such a sexy guy. Handsome. Attractive. Whatever word you want to use. She is sexy so she gets the sexy guy, right? 

But there is another response. Competitiveness. I don’t know, maybe it’s just me. See, that’s the thing. It might just be me. Who is thinking, “Hey, wait a minute! What about me?”

Yes, that’s exactly what I’ve thought. From that first encounter: “What am I, chopped liver?” Because I tell you what, that woman barely even acknowledged I existed. I might as well have been a worm sticking to the bottom of her high-heeled pumps as she clickety clacked her way down the Pasadena Crate and Barrel stairway towards the exit. She was on a mission and yet she stopped mid-stairway to accost my husband.

And no, I'm not thinking my husband as in I'm possessive. It’s more like, “Really? My husband?” And then immediately, “Hey, hellooooo! Yoohoo! I’m standing right next to him and you’re not even looking at me.”

I’ll be honest, I don’t consider myself smokin’ hot. But then I’m no ugly duckling either. I’m 5’5”, 110 pounds. Well-defined, though not actually muscular. But since I did gymnastics between ages 7 to 14, I’ve got some muscles I’ve never lost. My features aren’t lopsided. I’ve got a smile that allows anyone who so desires to count all my teeth. And I’ve got healthy hair. So, all in all, a decent package. 

She didn’t care. 

“Hiiiiiii!” she said turning her body straight to him. Wait, you’re saying. She’s flirting with him, you dumbshit. Yeah, okay, maybe she was. Do you think I gave a shit? Because I didn’t. What I wanted was for her to flirt with me. Hey, I’m not above women flirting with me, I like it, because as any self-respecting woman knows, if there’s one thing other women know, it’s which women are attractive. Perhaps not sexy, but they know pretty. And even beautiful. As a matter of fact, oftentimes if you speak to a hetero couple, the woman might say, “She’s pretty,” and her man will probably answer something along the lines of, “Yeah, she’s okay,” accompanied with a shrug. Because what he’s thinking is, would I want to do her?

So with all this background in mind, there I am. Standing. Right next to my husband. Helloooooo.

Nope. Nada. De rien. Shit. 

She could not have given a tinier bird-sized pellet-shaped shit if she had wanted to. Okay, I know, bird droppings are pellets, but you get the idea. Smallest shit—not me. 

Here’s a thought. Imagine yourself. In an awkward situation. Now paste a smile on your face. For whole minutes. Let’s just pick a number out of thin air, say, fifteen. Now keep that smile intact. Sprinkle a few nods at intervals throughout those minutes, again let’s just be random. At 2, 4, 6, 8, 10, 12, and 14 minutes, just for fun. And because the person next to you is tall, and the person not talking to you or acknowledging your existence is equally tall, imagine that you are also subtly trying to lengthen your body so you can match their height. 

And then your stomach begins to growl. As the person not speaking to you is saying, “So have you ever been a model? What do you do? You go to architecture school? Because you could pay for it. Have you ever done any acting? Have any head shots? Here’s my card, I would loooove to represent you!”

After all that, after fifteen painstaking minutes of trying to draw attention to yourself and prove that you, too, are worthy, she finally turns to you. And says something crushing like, “Oh, hi. How are you?”

And then walks off. 

Drunken Baby

There are different martial arts styles--Taijiquan, Wushu--but the one I'm talking about is Drunken Style. Well, because my life cannot exist without references to other things, no matter how remote, this is what I was thinking of the other day. Caveat: not my fault! My husband brought it up first and since he is, amongst other things, a certifiable Kung Fu master and to his credit, he never ever talks about it, and so he thought of it.

It began when I woke up. These days, it’s been gloriously “late”—all of 7 am, whoohoo! I mean, hey, it is something to celebrate when one isn’t able to fall asleep until after one or two in the morning. And is then constantly woken up throughout the night by The Call of the Fat when what one wants is The Silence of the Fat.

At any rate, I walked down the stairs and immediately, I mean immediately when the cute Fatty espied me, she began to celebrate. First, she shook her fat up and downwhile sitting on her cute, fat butt, primarily because she is still a bit unsteady on two feet. For that I say thank heaven! Then she swished her legs back and forth on the floor as if they were wipers on a windshield. That is if wipers could be cute, fat, and stubby. And have cute little fat monkey feet attached to them. With exceedingly fat ankles that have folds. But it's a good analogy as far as it goes in terms of motion.  I knew that my job was to sit down and make my lap available. Which I did. She promptly crawled towards me very excitedly, mind, and proceeded to propel herself into my lap.

You can guess what happened next. She missed. In her excitement, she overshot my lap. Also her fat makes her top heavy. So instead, she tipped over on her face. Then she squealed, righted herself, and plopped her fat butt in my lap. You see what I have to put up with?

I observed that she was like a kitty curling up in a lap but rather than purring she was squealing as only babies can do. Charming the pants off me to boot.

My husband observed that she resembled a drunk. A cute drunk. A cute fat drunk. But a drunk, nevertheless. Drunken Baby Style, he called it. No, wait a minute, that was my mind simply elaborating on it.

Honestly.

I am training her now to "ignore daddy." My other daughter already understands daddy is a smarty. She enjoys smacking his butt when he has displayed this quality. It runs in the family.

A Shiny Coat

It's four a.m. and one of us has to get up. Today that was me. So I did what any normal parent would do who is up at four a.m. because of a bundle of lumbering fat: I took her downstairs and promptly gave her some exceedingly unhealthy, salty crackers because umami is really effective in silencing squawking. Then, I proceeded to ignore her.

I mean, I gave her three of those crackers. Surely that's enough to amuse any red-blooded dimple butt, right? Oh, plus, I had the infinite pleasure of just prior, turning her over on her tummy--on my crossed legs, mind--and removing her diaper (yeah, I smacked it, too!) and then putting on a fresh one.

So, back to that whole ignoring thing. I'm on my phone. Surveying the various news sites.

Things are suspiciously quiet. She crawls away. Oh gad. Is she in our books? No, I don't hear any papers rustling so I'm okay.

Then, I get up. And discover why she's been so quiet. She's over by the cat food.

Oh, no.

Butts

I was just telling a friend that you know your life has hit a new low when, after you put your babe down for a nap (and yes, you do say "Put her down," and yes, it does sound rather bad out of context) and she begins screaming bloody murder that a) you have to stop snickering because you think it's cute, b) you enter the room and say, "Ok, I have to check your butt," and c) you actually look forward to it. Checking the butt, that is.

It's because it's so cute. I can't help it.

I'm rather obsessed with baby butts. I mean, first of all, they are so cute, because they're all out of proportion. All round and they stick out like a bubble butt should. And then they're dimpled. I mean, how can anyone resist? Plus, the thighs attached to a cute little dimple butt (did I mention Miss Dimple Butt is one of her many nicknames already?), I mean, hers and her sister's look[ed] like the kind of dino thighs you see in cartoons. Or turkey thighs. Yes, I bite them too. Jealous, aren't you?

The other thing I just love doing is smacking them. I mean, giving it a seriously good whack. And then I say, "Smacka butt!" You see, babies don't care. You can squeeze their butt cheeks really hard or smack them equally hard and they don't bat a lash. Unless you teach them that, too, which of course I do. For my own amusement. And to devastate all the unsuspecting men at the local Trader Joe's.

One of my favorite photos--although it is true I have so many--is of me preparing to smack my older daughter's butt when she was about one, the same age as my younger is now. I have a look of mischief and of imminent satisfaction just suffusing my face. Pure joy.

Of course, I discovered with my first daughter that the strength I use in hitting them really does register because once she started smacking mine back, it hurt. Serves me right. I don't care. This is love. And I am certainly in love.

Money

We've been going through some hard times. When I was a little girl, I was fortunate enough to have some beautiful, truly lovely liberal people as neighbors. Their children were older than I, my siblings' age, so they all took me on as the pet project, as it were. Their house was enchanting, a oaken, dark, warm-wood home that was filled with treasures in every bookcase and hanging on every wall. The photos, before it was easy to print large-format photos from digital cameras, were poster-size and all from the husband's hikes throughout the world.

They are a truly extraordinary couple, and their children and grandchildren continue this tradition. My greatest memories of childhood are actually of them, the love and wonder they imbued in every word and conversation they engaged with me. Their parents, both ironically, had been missionaries in South Africa and like many who had experienced this, became very liberal as a result. I have learned more about how to live life from them than I ever shall from anyone else. At 92, the same age as my father would have been if he was still alive, they are the most vibrant, youthful, and adventuresome people I know.

I am so happy that I have had the opportunity to know them. They have taken me, clearly, under their wing. One of their favorite stories is that my family, the only East Asian-American family on the cul-de-sac, displayed a level of strictness that rivaled the von Trapp family in the movie, The Sound of Music. Except, evidently, when it came to me. At least, when I was a toddler, because once I was cognizant, my life became as hard as my siblings'. But for a while, I had a charm that commanded my entire family: "I remember your entire family would be outside, working under your parents stern eyes and you would come out and shout and everyone, just everyone, would drop what they were doing and come running!" And then she would laugh at the memory. It is, indeed, her favorite memory of me and I confess it is one of mine, as well. Through her eyes.

They knew that we were experiencing hard times, and so the husband, I'll call him Mr. Schuyler because I like that name, said that at one point early in his career, he had done some missionary work, too. Mind you, these are not religious people. However, he had done some. As a result, he receives a modest monthly stipend of $120.

He told us he was going to give it to us.

I was floored.

The generosity, the love, of these people continues to amaze and silence me.