Category Archives: Conflict

Vir Das in “Hey Stranger” at the Claire Tow Theater, Lincoln Center

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Oftentimes, when people think of the Lincoln Center, they think of huge theaters like David Geffen Hall or David Koch Theater. But there are smaller theaters within Lincoln Center that perhaps have less name recognition that are fun, classy, and intimate, with a seating layout that ensures you are pretty close to the performers and would have zero reason to squint to see them. Vir Das, one of our favorite comedians from Mumbai, is here doing his “Hey Stranger” show at the Claire Tow Theater at the Lincoln Center. He’s the first Indian performer to star in a show at Lincoln Center, so this was a pretty big deal. We went with my friend and her husband to see his show last night, and it was ninety minutes of near-crying laughing, but also with lots of serious moments spread throughout.

One personal thing he revealed during the show was that given the topics he covers in his comedy, he’s more and more not welcome home in India by the government, so he feels like he has no choice but to leave. And the U.S. has offered him a green card. Many people would see this as incredible, but for him, he’s quite torn. Moving to and living in America would mean… he’d ultimately become a different person. His comedy would not be the same. His identity would change. And he wasn’t sure he would like it that much. And we all know he’d end up being grouped with other brown comedians like Hasan Minhaj or Russell Peters, who are definitely talented in their own right, but their comedy is not the same as his. His jokes are what they are because he’s not in America living an American life. He can be critical about America from an outsider’s lens. And his comedy is all that much smarter for it because he has a bird’s eye view of how crazy and insane this place really is. Where you call “home” really defines us in ways we may not fully be aware, but he’s thinking about it long and hard now.

I honestly don’t want him to move here because I love what he says and produces just as he is, where is is from. He provides an intelligent, authentic voice that would not be the same if he lived here. But hey, what does my opinion matter? I’m just another fan of his living life in the U.S. He has his livelihood to consider, and he also has to pay bills and try his best to stay out of jail just for simply having opinions and speaking. Being a comic is hard, and he’s showing exactly how hard it is to do that job while living in India and having Indian citizenship.

Another year, another sickness

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The most amazing things about years 2020 and 2021 are that I never got sick, even a single time. In 2020, I was isolated from pretty much the entire world, so who was going to get me sick? In 2021, we were technically still in COVID times, but I was still fairly isolated. Then I got pregnant and had Kaia. And I was still in the clear. Then 2022 came and the world was open and free again. Chris went to Chicago for a big work conference, came back and gave baby Kaia and me COVID. My milk supply (temporarily, thank God) plummeted for those days, and I still remember every pumping session was painful and so sweaty that I had to change my top and air out my pumping bras each time. After he got back, he learned that over a dozen of his colleagues went home with COVID. He never tested positive, so he annoyingly claims, to this day, that since he never tested himself, he never had it.

In early 2023, Kaia caught Hand Food Mouth from a friend in the play room, and then gave ME my first case of HFM. I had it worse than she did. In the spring of that year, she got sick, and I got really sick, too, AGAIN: I was sick on and off for at least a month. I was so miserable, with my violent coughing fits. I went to see a primary care physician, a respiratory specialist, and even a gastroenterologist just in case. I took lung capacity tests and even a scan of my lungs for anything potentially more serious (all came back negative for problems). No one could give me any answers for why I was having these coughing fits. I still don’t know why I get them now.

Then memorably in November 2024, so about a year ago, I got a peritonsillar abscess as a result of getting hit by two rare strains of first the flu, and THEN strep throat. Because both hit me at the same time, an abscess developed on my left tonsil about three times the size of a quarter. Ever since that happened, I told myself I seriously needed to isolate myself and stay the hell away from anyone remotely sick. Although I am not sick anywhere as often as my colleagues who have young children, when I do get sick, I get REALLY sick, and I hate being nonfunctional. Inefficiency is one of the things that pisses me off the most.

About two weeks ago, I could feel a sore throat coming on. I did all the things I was recommended: daily salt gargle, daily evening nasal saline rinse, all the ginger-lemon tea. I even added a few TCM teas into the mix, like apple-fig-apricot kernel and ginger-aged tangerine peel-honey. While I clearly had a cold because I had some congestion and a cough, I was fully functional for the last week and a half. I did everything I’d originally planned to do and worked every day. I just skipped a few mornings at the gym. It felt like a standard, mild cold. I could deal with that. Then, we had two friends over for lunch on Sunday. I thought I’d wake up Monday morning being 100 percent. No, I did not: I woke up with a scratchier throat, a sharper cough, and more phlegm than I’d had the previous week. I had no idea what was going on. Today, I basically moved any meeting where I had to speak a lot, or joined meetings camera-off when I could, because my cough and phlegm were so bad. Chris got me some soup, and I increased my hot liquid intake and took a long, steamy shower.

I keep maniacally checking my uvula to ensure it hasn’t deviated. It has not, fingers crossed. I also keep checking to see if I have any weird spots in my throat. I just want to be a regular person who gets a minor cold and then it goes away. Why is that so much to ask? In my twenties, I almost never took real “sick leave” because my colds were so minor that I’d just sleep them off. Now into my late thirties, it’s as though my body says, nah, you can’t have it easy anymore! Now, you have to suffer because you’re getting older and you have a child, muah hahaha!

Kaia tried to wake me up earlier than I wanted this morning, and I told her to be nice to mama because she’s not feeling well. She pat me on the head and said, “Mama, why are you sick?”

“That’s a good question, Pookie,” I said back to her. “Why am I sick? Is it because of you?!”

The Nor’easter that postponed this year’s AFSP Out of the Darkness Manhattan walk

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On our Wednesday evening Walk committee call, everyone was wondering about whether we should be postponing the Manhattan walk this Sunday given the weather report citing a Nor’easter on its way to us. For those who are not located in the northeast of the U.S., a “nor’easter” is a large-scale extratropical cyclone in the western North Atlantic Ocean. The name comes from the direction of the winds that blow from the northeast. Usually, storms like this go for over a hundred miles and can result in flight delays/cancellations, as well as large wind and flooding advisories. Every time you hear about this in the news, it’s probably a good idea to stay indoors and not be walking along a waterfront in lower Manhattan. On that evening, we said we would still have the event, rain or shine… until the city came to us and strongly advised us to postpone the walk until November 9 due to wind and flooding advisories. Since the Walk would be on the waterfront at Pier 16/17 at the Seaport, it was just too risky to put all of our volunteers and walkers in a potentially messy weather situation. It was likely a good call; I wasn’t sure how many people would come with the nor’easter in the weather report. Plus, this is actually Columbus Day/Indigenous People’s Day weekend, so many people who would have attended the walk were already planning to be out of town. We’ll be in town November 9, so when our co-chair called to let me know, I told him we’d still be at the postponed event next month.

All I could think when I saw the weather reports about the impending nor’easter was: how ridiculous is it that I’ve been participating in this same walk for the last 12 years, and this is the first year that weather is a problem. There were only two years when I was not physically there: the first was 2020 when the walk was completely virtual due to COVID-19 precautions. The second time was in 2022 when Chris and I had a communication snafu, and he booked an autumn Delaware road trip the same weekend as the Manhattan walk. So the one year I finally join the Walk committee and am officially volunteering at the event, it gets postponed due to weather. Oh well – c’est la vie.

Either way, we still had our usual Saturday outing. We spent the grey, drizzly day in Park Slope indulging in handmade campanelle pasta, a number of Chinese-French fusion pastries at our beloved Breadivore, and then admiring all the Halloween decorations already up at many of the neighborhood brownstones. Once the weather cleared up a bit later in the afternoon, Kaia spent time running and climbing at the huge Washington Park Playground in the ‘hood while I explored the tents at the fiber (yarn!) festival surrounding it. I’m still happy the walk is postponed as opposed to cancelled. I’m proud of the two TV segments I got to be on to represent AFSP and share why I walk. So regardless, this year’s participation is definitely a win for me personally — and the walk hasn’t even happened yet!

Commentary on the evolving definition of “etiquette” or “manners”

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I had two onsite meetings at the same company downtown today. So instead of my usual work-from-home routine, I actually had to get dressed to meet customers in person and was out the door this morning for in-person meetings starting at 11am. I try to get to onsite meetings well in advance of the actual start time for multiple reasons. First, as a sales leader I worked with at a previous company said, “If you are not fifteen minutes early, then you are fifteen minutes late.” Secondly, a lot of buildings have security protocol like government ID checks, bag scanners, metal detectors, etc., that they need to go through before they let you through their doors or into their elevator banks. And thirdly, it’s always good to get to a meeting early, feel composed, straighten out your shirt/wipe off sweat/use the restroom well in advance of the official start time. But when I met my three colleagues at the check-in desk today at 10:40, one of my colleagues had a look of disappointment on his face and asked if I had checked my email in the last two minutes. I had not. He told us that our main stakeholder, who had actually invited us to this onsite meeting, simply emailed and said he was not going to be in the office today, and gave the first name and phone number of the person who should get us in and check us through security.

All of us were shocked and dumbfounded. It was so rude to be told about 20 minutes ahead of an in-person meeting that our host would not be showing up. And for me, it was even more rude to a) not apologize, b) not give any reason for the sudden change in plan, or c) express zero remorse or regret. It was beyond ridiculous. Either way, we went ahead with our onsite meeting; 16 people ended up coming from their side, so it was certainly not a wasted effort. But the whole thing left a really bitter taste in my mouth and did not make me feel good about this person.

I later texted Chris to tell him what happened. And he said that yes, it was terrible, but it was not simply poor manners; it was just flat out unprofessional. This person has most likely done this with other professionals in his time in the workforce, so this would not be an isolated incident. It’s just really upsetting to hear that people actually think it’s okay to operate like this. It should not matter if it’s your boss, your peers, your vendor partners, your friends — this behavior should not be acceptable, period.

It made me think about the concept of “etiquette” or “manners,” and how people seem to be so loosey goosey and nonchalant about things like this today as though it’s not a big deal. And it reminded me of a conversation I had with my friend earlier this week, when she told me that she spent several hours writing out recommendations on how to change the pitch deck of her friend’s new organization (this would be fully unpaid work, done as a favor for her friend) given her work background… and the friend never thanked her or even gave an acknowledgment of receipt of the work. It really upset my friend, as this happened over two weeks ago, and she was still fuming about it.

Sometimes, I think I might be “getting old(er)” for even getting annoyed at things like this. But these things aren’t done by people younger than me; they are usually around my age or in this customer’s case, clearly much older. So it’s really not about age. It’s about a general lack of etiquette and sense of professionalism, or even common decency, that apparently we’re just supposed to “accept” today.

Under mom’s control

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Sometimes, certain objects, images, conversations, or current moments remind me of things from the past that I thought I’d forgotten, but were just buried deep into the back of my psyche that it’s almost like I chose to forget them. And there’s probably a reason I might have subconsciously chosen to forget: they were not healthy and likely did not serve me well at all.

In the few weekend days I’ve been at my parents’ house, I was reminded of how controlling my mom was even with the most basic things. If she knew that Ed or I was home and even when she and our dad had their keys (which is… always), she’d ring the bell multiple times and demand that we open the door. If we didn’t come within seconds, she’d ring the bell multiple times at once, indicating her impatience. And by the time we got to the door to buzz her in, she’d lash out at us and asked what took so long, as though we were just standing by the door idly, simply waiting at her beck and call to let her in right away. If she needed help with anything, whether it was with something that went wrong with an appliance, clearing dishes from the dish rack, or even locating a missing Tupperware lid, she’d yell one of our names and expect us to come to her immediately and do exactly as she said. It wouldn’t matter if we were on the toilet, in the bathroom, studying, reading, or really anything — she always expected us to drop everything that very second and do exactly as she wanted. And if we didn’t, she’d rush us, yell at us to come right away, and then get angry that we didn’t come fast enough. “I called you several times,” she’d say in her icy tone. “Didn’t you hear me?” It was infuriating as a child into my teen years, and I really started resenting it in my college and then post-college years. And this time, Chris noticed it. “Why is she ringing the bell when they have their keys?” he asked, annoyed, as I was helping out with Kaia as he was washing her up. “We’re in the middle of something. She has a key and can let herself in!”

That’s the thing, though. Nothing we ever did mattered, and she didn’t care if we were in the “middle” of anything. Everything we did had to revolve around her and what she did and wanted. And it seems that she operates like that now with her Jehovah’s Witness “brothers and sisters.” She doesn’t have any kids under her roof to control anymore, so I guess she had to move onto another group, which is her JW crew, all of whom have no spine to stand up to her. A JW friend of mine in her congregation revealed that my mom is even controlling about which seats people sit in when she’s in one of their cars, which is one of the stupidest and most senseless things ever.

It’s okay, though. Oftentimes in the last ten years to be passive aggressive back, I just ignore her when she calls me and expects me to come right away. Depending on what I am doing, I let her call my name anywhere from six to ten times before I actually come. She can wait until I am done with what I am doing. I am not in a rush for her. And when she gets mad now at this, I am just indifferent to her face.

My mom also loves leaving bedroom doors locked, but she gets angry when we lock the doors. She constantly would lock her bedroom door while I was in the house. She insisted it was because Kaia kept coming in to mess up things, to take their candy (why are there bowls of candy in their room, anyway…?!), but I think it’s because she just didn’t want to expose all the crap she stores and hoards in there. But if we locked the door because we were changing clothes, she’d get mad and passively aggressively say in yet another cold tone, “There’s no reason to lock the door.” Actually, there is, since she and my dad have zero sense of what the word “boundaries” mean, and they constantly open bedroom and bathroom doors without ever knocking or asking. I think we’ve lost count of the number of times both of them have walked in on Chris. I don’t believe in bedroom door locks (they seem very excessive to me: once you have broken into someone’s home, what’s stopping them from breaking your bedroom door lock?!), but I use them in my parents’ house because I know if I don’t, they will walk in on us at the most inopportune times.

My mom has always liked to pack me food when I go back to the East Coast even when I’ve told her I don’t need anything or I don’t have luggage space. I know food is a big love language for her, so usually I try to humor her and take what I can. But sometimes, she legitimately just buys too much stuff, and I have to be honest and say I don’t have the space. She called me while we were at the playground on Saturday to tell me she bought six zongzi (THAT IS A LOT) and wanted me to take them back to New York. I told her I didn’t think I’d have the space for all of them, but I could maybe fit two or three. She got really angry at this and responded, “Okay, okay, fine! You do what you want! I am not the troublemaker here, so you just do what you want!” and then hung up. The irony of this statement is that in more cases than not, my mom is most definitely the “troublemaker,” but she not only refuses to see it, but almost no one in her life is willing to call her out on it. It’s only in the extreme cases, like when she tried to endanger my daughter’s life, that I have to yell at her and call her out on her genuine bullshit. And even then, it still doesn’t get into her head.

It’s okay, though. Once I leave their house and go back to my new and adopted home of New York, I get back to my own calm and slowly forget all that stupid and unnecessary trauma from the past… and then get reminded of it once I step foot in that house again the next time. And then again, I feel grateful I was able to escape and live my own life free of their control and toxicity.

San Francisco Columbarium – changing hands, charging higher prices, and reducing quality of service

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Back in July 2013 when Ed passed, the San Francisco Columbarium was owned by the Neptune Society. About a year later, it changed hands and got acquired by Dignity Memorial, the primary brand of Service Corporation International (SCI), which is North America’s largest provider of funeral, cremation, and cemetery services. They own over 2,000 locations across the U.S. and Canada. I never realized it changed ownership. My parents took care of all of Ed’s arrangements plus their future arrangements ahead of time. I wasn’t even aware of the change of ownership until today when we visited Ed.

Over the years, the service has been really strange and inconsistent. They used to provide a decent coffee/tea machine in the main lobby. That has been taken away. They also had a really practical and logical digital directory where you could look up a loved one to see exactly where and in which hall their niche was located. All of these things have been removed. There was a period when they actually closed as early as 3pm (WHAT!) on random days of the week, and we were rudely greeted by a locked and chained up gate when we tried to drive in. Today when we visited, the main door to the Hall of Olympians, where Ed is, was locked. The sign on the front said to sign in at the front desk before getting admitted. It made no sense to me. We did enter through a side door that was closed but unlocked, and an employee was walking around from the main office and asked us to keep it closed for security purposes. But, there’s no ventilation or air conditioning inside, so I started sweating almost immediately upon entering; it wasn’t even that hot outside, as it was likely 69 or 70 F when we arrived, but inside that hall felt like a sauna. Chris insisted to the employee that the door at least be kept open during our short visit, so the worker relented and said it was okay just while we were there.

This annoyed me for a few reasons. Clearly, vandalism was a concern here, but the security guard who used to walk in and around the Columbarium in previous years was gone. So this led us to the conclusion that they probably stopped paying for security services (because they want to cut costs) and instead wanted to keep all the doors locked. That’s extremely unwelcoming and creates an uncomfortable visitation experience for families and loved ones of people who are interred here. My parents paid over $20K for this niche, and the service has declined over all these years to the point where it feels like we’re getting ripped off. Yet there’s nothing we can do about it.

One of the workers who helped me cut flowers to put into Ed’s little vase made it pretty obvious she hated working here and wasn’t treated well. “But no one else would hire me,” she lamented in a bitter tone. Before she expressed this, she said that it was tolerable to work here, “If you do every little thing correctly and follow all the rules and make no mistakes.” Ouch.

In general, I have always hated the death industry. It’s a necessary one (sort of), but one that preys on the grieving, on the vulnerable mental states of those who have lost… and many who have lost too soon, like us with Ed. This whole experience was pretty infuriating. The only thing that made me feel better was when Kaia kept peering into Ed’s niche and waving to him. When I told her it was eventually time to go, she said “bye bye” one last time… walked away, but then ran back twice to look closely at her JiuJiu before finally taking my hand and walking out with me.

I don’t know when I will first have a real conversation about Kaia’s JiuJiu with her. I am sure that at some point in the next couple of years, she will ask, and I’ll have to figure out the right, age-appropriate way to explain this. But regardless of how the topic gets brought up or which way the conversation goes, I have a feeling that she will respond with empathy and love. She is not even four years old yet, but I can see my Kaia Pookie seems to care deeply and have concern for others, even those she has not even met.

Coming “home” and the “why” behind it

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“Are you looking forward to going back home… or, is that even an appropriate question?” my friend asked me over dinner on Wednesday.

“I’m… not really looking forward to it,” I said honestly. “It’s just something I do. There are parts I look forward to, but the idea of going home does not excite me at all.”

That sounds like a terrible thing to admit out loud, but it’s the truth. It’s like what a lot of people say about their family: they love their family, but they do not necessarily like them as people. Their bonds are due to blood, obligation, and history, as opposed to shared or aligned values or respect for each others’ respective lives. I want to see my parents in person, but for limited amounts of time to protect my sanity and mental health. I also want them to see Kaia, and for Kaia to know who they are and that they are her maternal grandparents. But I know the reality of them “spending” time together is very limited in terms of the type of interactions they will have — regardless of what age Kaia is.

After a bleary eyed 6am flight from JFK to SFO, we arrived in San Francisco just past 8:30am local time. After a car ride to my parents’ place, our driver stopped in front of the house, to which I looked up at and got really annoyed. “What the heck is all this scaffolding in front?!” The scaffolding looked precarious, as though it was so unstable that someone would fall to their death from it. Plus, there was this hideous sheer black tarp covering 80 percent of the house’s facade. And then when I opened the front gate… it would not open all the way because that wretched scaffolding was preventing me from doing so.

I hadn’t even entered my parents’ house yet, and I was already in a pissy mood.

Then we got into the house, and of course, it’s clutter central. There are so many rolls of toilet paper in the hallway that I cannot walk in a straight line to turn the corner and get to my bedroom. Frustrated, I took several bags of them and pushed them into the sun room. The door to the breakfast room is still removed, leaning against a large framed photograph of Hong Kong Harbour in the dining room. It’s been like that since pre-pandemic. All the cabinet doors are pulled out of the bathroom; the lighting has no covering, with the light bulbs exposed. There are so many cob webs hanging from the ceiling of the bathroom that I felt compelled to take out the vacuum and clean it all up — cob webs of a size that usually only exist in abandoned buildings or attics that haven’t seen life in ages. There are over ten dozen eggs in the fridge — for what purpose, who knows. And then there is a bunch of rotting fruit on the dining room table with fruit flies swarming it all. I looked out the window at my parents’ yard, and it looks like the same awful weed fest from last year. Nothing has changed. If anything, there is more garbage in the house and the backyard.

That’s not even the worst of it. At lunch, my dad barely says anything to us at the dining table. He’s mostly on his phone once again while Kaia attempts but mostly fails to get reactions out of him. My mom keeps telling my dad to talk to Kaia, as though my dad is a baby, but my dad doesn’t really listen and continues looking at his phone. Once he’s done eating, he gets up and leaves the table. Kaia then asks him why he’s not sitting with us. It’s funny and also tragic that Kaia not only notices this but calls it out. Children say things exactly as they are whether adults like it or not. My mom fusses around in the kitchen, sits for less than five minutes to eat, and then gets up and fusses around Kaia and the kitchen some more.

After some playground time and wandering along Clement Street this afternoon, we came back home. I had a shower after dinner, and it was, by far, the worst shower I can remember ever having. The water barely drips out of the low-flow shower head that my dad has installed; it’s no wonder Kaia hated her shower so much earlier in the evening. It was so atrocious that I ended up “showering” under the bathtub faucet. If that sounds awkward, it was, but it was necessary. Otherwise, I would have had a light drip down on me all night to get clean.

Sometimes, I wonder why I even go to the trouble of dealing with all this. I don’t really enjoy it. I hate the shower, the clutter, the broken things that will never get repaired, the garbage, the mouse traps everywhere. “Why do I even bother?” I even said this out loud to Chris this afternoon while Kaia was playing in the sandbox at my childhood playground. But the “why” is always a complicated, not-straightforward answer.

When he doesn’t visit for a long time.

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For years after Ed’s passing, whenever the date of his death anniversary or his birthday would come, I’d get this sneaking feeling that he’d come visit me. It might be in my dreams. He might come to me in some other form, whether it’s through a message sent from someone, a ray of light through the window, or a gust of wind on a street. But when it would happen, I’d know it was him. Or at least, I’d think it was him. But most of all, I always longed to see him in my dreams because that would actually feel the most real. I tend to have extremely vivid dreams, so oftentimes when I am dreaming, it legitimately feels like it’s really happening. But as the years have gone on, I realize that this delusional thought that he will “visit” really is just that — a desired delusion of mine. And as each year passes, it makes me more and more sad. As each year passes, I get older and older, further away from the age I was when my brother died, further away from knowing what it was like to really know him and love him in the flesh.

In some ways, Ed was a really easy person to love. He was eager to please. He showed love and affection easily and eagerly. He is like the youngest, most innocent children of the world with their simple desires: he just wanted love, presence, and attention. If you gave him that, or even a smidgen of a semblance of that, he’d love you forever and always treat you well. But in other ways, he was a difficult person to love, and an especially hard person to get to know. Because of his depression and anxiety, it was hard to have a really deeply felt, thoughtful conversation with him that went beyond the surface. He also didn’t want to share that much with too many people because he was scared of being judged or misunderstood (frankly, that is for good reason because people in general really suck). It was almost impossible to have a continuous, free-flowing conversation with him. But it wasn’t because he didn’t want to; it was likely more that he didn’t know how to given his lack of socialization coupled with his depression and anxiety.

I’m about a half year away from turning 40. If life worked out the way it should have, Ed would be turning 46 in about a month. I was looking at the newly whitened hairs on my head yesterday morning, thinking about how today, I likely have more white hairs on my head than Ed did at 33 going on 34 before he died. Ed had a far more stressful and turbulent life than I did. He deserved more than what he got.

Every day, I think about all the privilege I have. Most of it is due to luck and just being born in a certain place to a certain family at a certain time. A little bit of it is due to my own hard work and diligence. Even though Ed and I were born into the same exact family in the same house, frankly I had more privilege than he did. I was the second born with less pressure. I was also born a girl, and as research has shown, families tend to almost always raise girls with more love, tenderness, and affection. I was also born 6.5 years after he was at a time when our parents’ financial situation was a lot more stable. When I got into my twenties, I started thinking about how unfair all that was: Ed never asked for any of that to be the case, yet he got the shit end of the stick. And I started feeling guilty for being treated better and being more respected by our parents. Why should I have ever been treated well at his expense? It never made any sense to me. To this day, it still fills me with fury, a deep seated anger that will likely never go away. I wish Ed had had just a tiny bit more privilege than he did so that he could’ve been treated a little better than he was — not just by our parents, but by society as a whole.

I wonder if Ed could talk to me now, what he’d say to me. I’m sure he’d be thrilled about Kaia, growing like a little weed both in size and in personality. He would likely marvel at the apartment in which I live and also gasp at how much I’m spending on said apartment. He’d applaud anything seemingly “indulgent” I’ve done for myself, as he always used to critique me for being “too cheap” with myself and never buying myself nice things or experiences. Funnily enough, he’d probably tell me he was happy that I got my laser treatments because sometimes, when you want something, you “don’t think about it so much and just do it.” He’d admire all the travel experiences I’ve had and tell me how brave I am to go to all these places. He would also probably tell me that he was happy and grateful I found the “right person” in Chris.

It still feels strange. Sometimes, I hear about people talking about their siblings even today, and I get this sad feeling because I know I can never talk about my own sibling and our experiences in the present tense. It’s like a different kind of loss now.

Mandoline sliced something other than zucchini today

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Today was Father’s Day, and I thought it would be a good occasion to put together a cohesive meal. Most of the time when I am making food, I am thinking in singular dishes or about how many vegetables I need to prepare. Since Kaia was born, the only times I’ve really prepared a cohesive menu are when we’ve had guests over. But I really do want to change that because I prefer it when dishes are supposed to go together. So today, I made kimchi soondubu jigae (Korean kimchi soft tofu soup) with pork ribs, japchae (Korean glass noodles with vegetables), bindaetteok (Korean kimchi mung bean pancakes), rice, and three different types of banchan: soy bean sprout salad, marinated spinach, and zucchini.

For the zucchini banchan, I decided to whip out the mandoline Chris got me during the pandemic. Honestly, I haven’t used it too many times because I am a little terrified of it. I have a mandoline section on my box grater, but I’d only ever used it a few times and didn’t really trust it (it seemed too dull, which would beg for more pressure, which is dangerous!).

The few times I’ve used the mandoline setting, I was very deliberate with each slice. I watched each cut go through. I was always determined to never get cut by it… Until today, when I finally got cut by it. I was talking to Chris. Kaia was making a ruckus nearby, and I was very clearly distracted. I kept slicing the zucchini until it got way too close to my fingers, and SLICE! A huge section of the side of my right thumb got cut off. The blood was literally getting everywhere. I was dripping blood and leaving small puddles on the counter and floor. It took almost an hour and endless tissue, gauze, and paper towels to stop the bleeding, along with applying pressure and ice. I’d never cut myself this deeply before.

Luckily, I don’t think I cut any nerve or tendon, but it’s been pretty uncomfortable. The few times I’ve knocked myself in that spot, it hurts like hell. I’ve been doing my best to not use my right thumb, which is obviously hard. But it’s so painful when something even taps it. I have a feeling this will be the worst kitchen wound I have had to date. My friend, who also cooks often, was marveling that this was just my first mandoline cut (it’s a VERY common kitchen injury!). She even educated me on “finger condoms” (today, I learned…) and how I may want to get some to protect myself from similar injuries in the future.

Next time, when I am brave enough to take out the mandoline again, I will not talk to anyone or have my child near me. I will need to be 120 percent focused. Wounds like these are not fun at all, and even typing this feels odd because I am trying to avoid using a thumb to type…

The ice cream date that did not go as planned

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Since we have now reached Daylight Savings Time for the year, and as the weather is slowly but surely getting warmer (or so we hope), I thought about how cute it would be if I took Kaia on brief little snack or dessert outings in Chinatown before we head back up to the Upper West Side. It would be a surprise, and given it would include food, she would surely be happy. So when I picked her up from school yesterday, I told her that I was going to give her a surprise. Of course, she lit up right away and got really excited. She eagerly held my hand and walked happily as we crossed Chrystie Street, went across the little park, and popped into an ice cream shop.

I chose Smoove Ice Cream, an Asian-owned ice cream shop with Asian flavors, since it was just over a block away, so it wouldn’t be too far from the train station. I let Kaia look at all the ice cream flavors and let her choose one. Of the ones she pointed at, she decided on lychee rose. We did a split scoop, so the second flavor I chose was black sesame. We got the split scoop in a cup and shared it in the small seating area that Smoove had. She was super happy, sing-songy, speaking all the Chinese I wanted her to speak. Then, when the ice cream was all finished, she got sad and ran up to the counter again with her empty cup. I told her that we were all done and that it was time to go home. She brought her empty cup up to the counter… so she could get MORE ice cream in it. She didn’t understand that this wasn’t like being at school or home — she couldn’t just ask for “more” and get it (without paying for it!).

I told her that we were done eating ice cream, and that it was time to go home. She yelled and said she wanted more and would not stop. So the worker behind the counter felt sympathetic and offered a sample spoon of whatever she wanted. Kaia asked for strawberry, so he gave her a massive sample sized scoop. As we walked out of the shop with it, she nibbled on it bit by bit, but of course, it was melting… and then, like a slow-motion crash, the big blob of pink ice cream slid down, and straight onto the ground. And the biggest melt down ensued. She immediately burst into tears and stomped her feet over and over. She tried to run back to the ice cream shop to ask for more, but I blocked her from walking back. Kaia refused to walk and just kept crying and screaming. I had to carry her into the subway and onto the train. She cried the whole way home until we exited the station.

Well, that was not how I envisioned our impromptu ice cream date going. But alas, things don’t always go as you’d imagine with a toddler, do they?