Today, for the first time in the longest time I can remember, I arrived at the gym at 6:45am. I’ve been going to the Upper East Side Crunch for the last several months, but I haven’t gone this early until now. With my new job, I want to get to the office earlier (yes, this is what I do now that I actually care about my job), which means I need to get to the gym earlier.

So, you can imagine my absolute horror when, for the first time in almost eight years of having a New York City gym membership, I arrived to the cardio area to find that every single cardio machine was occupied. The entire row of treadmills was full of people running; even the ellipticals and rowing machines were all taken. I went to fill my water bottle and came back, and lucky for me, two ellipticals were freed up, so I grabbed one of them immediately. It wasn’t ideal, as I’d prefer to use a treadmill, but this was better than waiting in the mini line that started to form for the treadmills in the next few minutes. There was no way I was going to wait in a line for a treadmill this morning — or any morning, for that matter.

Upper East Side residents… total over-achievers. What time did these people arrive at the gym, 6 or 6:30am?!!!!!! I really need to get my butt there earlier now.

I came back to see my hair stylist this evening after work to have some additional highlights done, and as she’s adding toner to my hair, she is gazing lovingly at my face (she always has this look of love on her face. I swear it’s true).

“I have something I’ve been wanting to ask you, but I don’t want you to get offended,” she began. “So I’m just going to ask you straight. Do you get lip injections, and if you do, can you refer me to the doctor who does it for you?”

I immediately started laughing and told her I had never had any lip-plumping injections in my life, that my lips are naturally like this. Yes, I wear lip gloss or lip balm, but that’s all I ever really do. I don’t use any of those fancy Sephora lip plumping products, nor do I take any of the crazy pills on the market that are supposed to fatten your lips.

“Your lips are naturally like that? Who do you get this from – your mom or your dad? And you’re Chinese? Chinese people have lips that are so plump and luscious LIKE YOURS?”

I guess so. 🙂

Over 3.5 years ago, I started a new job at a social media SaaS company. That day was about 2.5 weeks after my brother died, so I wasn’t feeling the greatest. That day was also pretty terrible because it was obvious I was not wanted.

Why would I say this? Well, let’s see. Only a handful of people knew I was starting, including HR, and when I walked in at the 10am time I was asked to come in, the two guys sitting around me both exchanged a very obvious and not subtle in any way, “Who the hell is this girl?” look as I sat down and got settled in with my computer. Two women from HR took me to lunch because they felt sorry no one on my “team” (I had no one on my team other than my then-boss, who was supposedly busy, as I was the first person hired to be on this new team) was taking me out. No one introduced me to anyone. Maybe one or two people came to introduce themselves to me. Other than that, I was pretty much ignored. I came in late and left at around 5. It was a pretty boring and uneventful first day. I should have known that day that this was going to be a really crappy ride, but I stuck to my guns and rode it out.

Today, I’ve started a new job, one with a company that I can actually say I am proud to be a part of. Before I even began, a welcome email was sent to all relevant teams announcing that I would be joining. I got a massive influx of email to my personal email address to welcome me, over a dozen LinkedIn connection requests, and many schedules detailing my daily events of what to expect. When I arrived today, a number of people came up to introduce themselves, saying they were greatly anticipating my arrival, and the folks who interviewed me bear-hugged me nearly to death. Several people sat down to have lunch with me, and we chatted about random things from CrossFit to slowing metabolisms to genetics to chocolate and cookies.

It is so basic, but it feels really good to feel wanted.

The apartment or apartment building search continues. We wandered around the Upper West Side this afternoon to see what we could potentially find and explore. When you talk to different doormen around the city, you realize exactly how insane different buildings can be. Here’s a sampling of some of the things we were told:

• This building is a co-op building, and the rules are such that if you buy a unit here, you have to live in it. If you do not live in it, you’re allowed to rent it out only up to one year.
• We have a swimming pool, but only you and your husband may use it. No guests allowed. And no pool parties.
• Each of you will have to pay an annual gym membership of $1500 (!!!!!!!!). (THIS IS ON TOP OF YOUR RIDICULOUS RENT).
• We don’t have rentals here; we’re a condo building (comes with smug look that says, “You don’t belong here because you’re not worthy of us”).
• How much are you looking to pay… because the units in this building are very, very expensive (Okay, asshole, I probably make a boat load and a half more than you do, so no need to be such a presumptuous jerk). It’s amazing when the building’s residents are snooty; it’s even more amazingly stupid when the doormen are even more so.

More fun awaits.

New York theater, like Hollywood and the mainstream pop culture, is primarily based on the lives of white people. It’s just the way it is. They may be white and Jewish, but at the end of the day, they’re still white. There of course are groups that are focused on specific ethnicities; black theater seems removed from Asian theater, which seems removed from white theater. There are the occasional theaters, like the Flea, which oftentimes mix races (which is really refreshing), but for the most part, they’re generally focused to one race, and the one race is usually white. So it’s amazing to see theater that is focused on an ethnic group that is certainly getting a lot of attention in the mainstream media today: Middle Eastern cultures, like those from Palestine or Iran. We were at Playwright Horizons tonight and watched The Profane, which is a play about two Middle Eastern families and their clashes in religious and cultural beliefs. One family is supposedly modern and Westernized; the second family is traditional to the point of displaying a Koran in their living room and regularly using a prayer rug.

The most appalling part of the play was when the “modern” family visiting the traditional family started making a ruckus in the living room, and the father actually took the traditional family’s Koran off their shelf and ripped pages out of it. I gasped, along with a huge chunk of the audience, when this happened. It doesn’t matter whether you are Muslim or Christian or Jewish or anything else; an act like this is shocking. And as one of the actors said during the talk-back after the show, this shock and disgust is not actually about religion or culture or any set of beliefs or morals; it’s really about respect or disrespect. When you are in someone’s home, you should be respectful to that family for inviting you in. To do something so egregious as to rip their sacred text’s pages out is to show intense disrespect for their humanity. You ignore the fact that they are human beings with feelings, and that all human beings deserve respect.

I’ve never really had anyone regular who has cut or styled my hair. Up until about two years ago, I didn’t even know the difference between a “blow dry” and a “blow out.” I figured that since they both had the same first word that they must mean the same thing (then I had the ugliest “blow-out” done by my friend’s friend’s cheap mother in Woodside and also got charged an additional $25 for it, and I hated it and immediately combed it out when I got home). But then Chris hooked me up with Astor Hair Stylists, this dingy basement full of interesting and eclectic (and well priced) stylists, and I found a beautiful Sicilian woman who has given me many great, reliable, and affordable cuts in the last three years.

My Sicilian stylist gets bored easily. I’m pretty sure that every time I have seen her, her hair has been different; curly, wavy, straight, stick-straight; pink, strawberry-blonde, bright fiery red with bleach-blonde tips. She’s unfailingly happy and excited all the time. The very first time she saw me, she asked if I would be interested in coloring my hair. “You would look fabulous with some lovely highlights!” she exclaimed gleefully. You could see the thrill going through her head as her eyes lit up, feeling up my strands of hair and my scalp as she twinkled while looking at me in the mirror. But I’ve rejected her one time after another. And she scolds me sometimes because on average, I get my hair cut only twice a year (I must really have the cheapest annual spend on hair imaginable among women). So I tend to come to her chair with frazzled and split ends, and she has to tell me that I need to trim more often to keep the splitzies at bay.

I finally took her up on her offer. I texted her a couple weeks ago to ask her how much she’d charge for bayalage highlights. They’re supposed to be more natural looking when they grow out, and also less harsh than regular highlights. She was obviously ecstatic, especially when I agreed to come in. So I came in today, we talked over what we thought we would do, and she did it. And when the moment came for her to blow-dry my hair and dramatically have me flip my head up, I looked in the mirror and thought… What? I can barely see them. And I’m wearing my contacts today.

Then, I went to dinner, and Chris barely noticed until I pointed it out. And neither did two of our friends until I told them I literally just got this done an hour ago. And I felt so dejected. This isn’t how this was supposed to be.

It’s okay. I’m going back next Tuesday to “dramatize” my new look. Hopefully then, when I do the dramatic head-up, I will actually have a dramatic reaction.

It’s been almost five years since I moved to Manhattan — that’s five years of living with Chris, five years since I lived in Elmhurst, Queens, and also, five years since I visited my beloved Tortilleria Nixtamal in Corona, Queens. When I used to go to Nixtamal, I took a quick bus ride about 20 minutes to get from my apartment to the small restaurant, which used to be very small, humble, and unassuming. I don’t remember their accepting credit cards the first or second time I visited, but now they do. In the last several months, they’ve gone through some pretty extensive renovation according to what my server said today, and the interior and exterior are so different than what this place used to be. The tiling is really colorful and fancy, just like in slightly nicer Mexican restaurants and kitchens in Mexico. The service is all warm and friendly, and the staff is so much larger than it used to be. The feel is still the same as before, just more colorful and ornate now.

The prices have gone up on everything except the freshly made tortillas, which are still $2/pound. But the food is just as tasty as I remember. Their tortillas are just as perfect and authentic as I had in Mexico, as they’re made from fresh corn ground up in their trusty masa machine that’s on display right in the window (in Mexico, they’d never tolerate the cornmeal-based tortillas most grocery stores and restaurants use here). The al pastor has all the right flavors and crunchy bits as I remember, without much fat or gristle. And the freshly steamed tamales are still the best I’ve had in the U.S. I just couldn’t believe exactly how popular they have gotten; it was around 2pm on a Thursday today, and after I was seated,  an actual wait formed outside the restaurant! It was a mix of tourists, locals, and others who clearly came from other boroughs and had never been to Corona before.

I love this place. And so do so many other people now.

I was planning to go to my favorite Mexican spot in Corona today to get some of my beloved tamales, tacos, and horchata, but given that the trek to get out to Corona, Queens, is not a short one, I figured I would call and check their hours to make sure they didn’t have some random day off in the middle of the week. Well, it’s a good thing I did that because I found out that they are closed not just Monday, not just Tuesday, but Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday! This place has become so intensely popular since I lived in Queens that it’s now only open four days a week! This is a place that used to be open seven days a week! Ever since all the celebrity chefs came to check the place out and were on TV showcasing it, the popularity of this spot has no bounds. They even opened a Mexican rotisserie chicken not too far away and distribute their fresh masa and freshly pressed corn tortillas (from fresh corn, not cornmeal). They are a true success. And this wife-and-husband team are from Mexico, so I hope President Dipshit doesn’t try to deport them.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy that they’re doing very well for themselves and that people who consider themselves borough snobs who live in Brooklyn and Manhattan (also known as ignorant assholes) will actually come out to Queens to try their food, but I was just having a selfish moment because I wanted their food for myself. And now I have to wait until Thursday.

Three days off per week, though — that’s a really good life, isn’t it?

I have friends who like to call me a foodie. I also have friends who call me a food snob. One friend always loves to bring up that it’s annoying that I can’t just go to IHOP with her and appreciate the pancakes. My response back is always the same: the pancakes at IHOP would be fine, but they won’t be anywhere as good as ones I make at home or some amazing independent breakfast spot we’d want to check out. And if I have a finite number of meals to eat in my lifetime, why do I want to waste it on a generic and tasteless chain like IHOP unless it’s purely out of convenience?

I don’t consider myself a food snob, though. I don’t look down on people for not knowing more about any number of cuisines. I don’t expect everyone to spend their entire Sunday afternoons cooking the way I like to. But one thing I will say is: if I am talking about something food-related I care about and you try to correct me, you better watch out because there’s very little chance I will be wrong. I know that sounds arrogant, but let’s say this: I don’t bullshit about things I care about. If you tell me about a current event and I’m unaware of it, unlike some people I know, I will not pretend to know what you’re talking about and babble on and on and pretend like I understand everything when I know nothing. I will admit I don’t know and listen. I will only talk when I really know what I am talking about. However, if I am passionate enough to go on and on about something and you try to correct me about something very basic, I will pounce on you.

Here’s a case in point. Tonight, I’m at dinner with my friend and his girlfriend. We’re discussing buckwheat pancakes, and I tell my friend that buckwheat pancakes are actually gluten-free because buckwheat is not actually wheat or grain; it’s a misnomer and comes from a seed. He immediately freaks out and insists I am wrong.

Friend: It’s not gluten free — it’s a grain! Wheat! Buck-wheat! Wheat!

Me: That’s just its English name and is a misnomer. Buckwheat is made out of ground seeds. It’s closer to quinoa than it is to the wheat in your bread.

Friend: It’s buck-wheat! (turns over to his Japanese girlfriend, because apparently Japanese people eat soba noodles, which is made of buckwheat, so of course she has to be an authority on this). Right? It’s wheat!

Girlfriend: Yes, it’s buck-wheat. (She’s speaking way too slowly and both of us are getting antsy).

Friend: See!

Me: (there’s no way I’m letting this go) No, again, it’s in the name. Buckwheat is not wheat. It’s closer to a fruit than it is to wheat. Why don’t you just Google it and you’ll find out. Why do you think gluten-free people are using buckwheat flour now?!! Do you think they’re trying to kill themselves? These are all facts. There’s a reason these “ancient grain” flours are so popular now.

Girlfriend: (timid) It’s not a real wheat.

Friend: Ooh, okay. (decides that I am now right)

It’s always nice when you can claim authority of a food just because of your country of origin. But hey – even if she didn’t agree with me, her passport wasn’t going to be a reason for me to stop arguing. That’s what Google is here for.

That’s the other takeaway from this, though. A name doesn’t always mean much, particularly when the name is an English name. If it’s an Asian name, chances are the meaning is there. English – meh — not so much. Here is another case to illustrate this: buttermilk. THERE IS NO BUTTER IN BUTTERMILK. My father-in-law loves to mention how caloric and unhealthy buttermilk must be for you because of how much butter is in it — no fail, it happens every time the word comes up in conversation. I always remind him that it’s just soured milk. Back in the day, buttermilk was the liquid that remained from butter churned into cream. Today, it’s literally just soured milk. You can even made it yourself by adding a vinegar or lemon juice to a cup of regular milk.