When I lived in San Francisco and attended schools that had what felt like anywhere between 40-60 percent Asian students, I never really thought much about race, whether it was that of the people around me or my own. When you’re surrounded by people who look just like you, race is not an obvious thing to think about because your world is more or less homogenous. Race becomes something you think about when you are the minority, when you are the one who stands out or is different than the rest. Because of that, when I am in work meetings, whether it’s onsite with a customer or in group meetings where a lot of our leadership team is present, I’m always deathly aware of not only my race, but also my gender. Oftentimes, I am the only person of color in a room, and in addition, I am oftentimes one of very few if any women in the room. It’s not uncommon for me to be sitting at a conference table fully surrounded by white men.

I was telling this to my manager, who is leaving the organization soon for another role. He’s ethnically Chinese but born and raised in Ohio, which is obviously a very white part of the country. He was surprised. “Really? Wow. I never really think about that that much when I’m in meetings,” he said. “But to be fair, you do have a lot of customers in the South.”

While that’s true, our company is headquartered in San Francisco, which is not in the south. I work out of our New York City office, where everyone who is considered a member of the leadership team is white and male. Plus, it’s strange to me that he, as an Asian male from a very white part of this country, would not think much about race, given that he would have stuck out as a minority where he is originally from. It’s the exact opposite mindset of what I would have assumed.

It’s a luxury to never have to think about race and gender. But that luxury usually belongs to the white males of the world, doesn’t it? And I suppose in this case, it also applies to just males of the world who may have been predominantly surrounded by white males, so then he suddenly becomes race-blind, as well?

Tonight, we had a farewell dinner and karaoke night to send off our colleague and my boss, who is leaving us for another tech company. While stuffing my face with barbecued pork belly and ribeye and getting my throat sore once again from all the belted singing at Karaoke City, I reveled once again in what a good crew I have at work. At my last job, I was always waiting to leave. I didn’t want to spend any time outside of work to see anyone off ever. Happy hours? Forget it. You’d never see me there, and I always made up some excuse. Here, it actually is fun to spend time with colleagues outside of work and to do silly things like karaoke together. And funnily enough, as I was having these thoughts, I was reminded that the last company I was at just had a massive layoff where so many of the people I despised got let go. It’s amazing they are still even in existence as a company given how unethical, sexist, and racist they were. But I will say…. Schadenfreude. Mmmm, that tastes good.

A colleague who has recently joined my team is probably one of the bluntest people I’ve ever met in the workplace. She has very little filter on her, but I actually kind of appreciate it. She was venting to me the other day that all sales people are just phony and opportunistic, that they rarely do anything to help you unless they expect something from you.

While there is some grain of truth to that, it would be nice if that person proactively offered to do something beneficial for you first. I’ve felt like I can’t really have a relationship with any sales person that is just because they want to know me or stay in touch me. The case in point is a call I had today with a former colleague, also in sales, who was in a sales role here and is now doing sales at another company. Out of the blue, she texted me last week to ask how I was doing, to catch up…. and of course, that she heard I was working on a certain brand she was prospecting and wanted to get some information from me. From the outset, when you meet her, you do think she is genuinely kind and well, genuine. But there’s always something else that she wants from you other than just to “catch up.”

I’m still waiting to meet a sales person who I can say is just a truly good, well meaning, and not opportunistic person.

Chris won’t let me go to Costco on my own anymore. After two trips accompanying me to Costco last year, he still won’t admit he loves exploring the aisles and seeing what new goods are for sale there, but I know he loves it even if it won’t admit it out loud. On average since I’ve gotten my dad’s Costco card, I’ve gone about once every three months, and so we were due for a visit this time around. He insisted that I couldn’t go by myself, that he needed to be there to help me… whatever that means.

He did his thing, scrutinizing potential carry-on luggage rollers carefully, walking up and down the candy aisles in search of his much beloved Maltesers, which I happened to find the very first Costco trip I ever took on my own when he didn’t accompany me on Veteran’s Day in 2017. My husband is so cute when he really likes something but won’t admit it out loud. But I could just tell he was enjoying himself.

Then, when I was in line to pay for our relatively small number of purchases, he got into the ready-made food line to get me my nostalgic chicken bake. When I arrived at the table to meet him, he had also gotten a slice of the infamous Costco pizza. “I wanted to see what it tasted like,” he said. His Costco curiosity was peaking. “Tastes like Dominos,” he eventually said between bites.

You know your love is really getting real for Costco when you want to eat the food there and stay there in order to eat it.

Last summer, when I finally got my much coveted Instant Pot, I was a bit too ambitious and thought that I could handle doing something more complex in the IP than just boiled eggs or steaming rice, so I decided to make vegetable biryani as my first Instant Pot experience. Needless to say, it was probably the worst choice I could have made, as I used the pot for sautéing, ended up overheating the pot with the dreaded and then not understood “burn” signal, and then created an inedible brown mush out of all my spices and three cups of basmati rice. Chris freaked out and thought it was an Instant Pot issue and suggested we even return the darn thing.

So today, I was a bit apprehensive again of using the Instant Pot for biryani. But if so many other Indian cooks have mastered endless biryanis in their Instant Pots, even my same model, then why couldn’t I? This time, instead of browning my spices and chicken in the pot, I did this step separately on the stove. I caramelized my onions over the stove, as well. After browning my marinated chicken, I then dumped it into the pot with some of the onions, the rice, the water, and cooked it to pressure. And it all turned out perfectly this time. I probably should have gotten extra long grain basmati rice and caramelized the onions for much longer, but taste-wise and appearance-wise, this is what I was hoping for. I guess second time’s the charm. At this rate, biryani could easily go into a regular rotation, especially if we aren’t always marinating and using meat!

Tonight, we went to see the show Good Friday at the new location of the Flea Theater. We used to go to the Flea all the time, as they are one of the many independent theaters in New York City that are known for pushing the envelope with more controversial themes and imagery. The show’s general story is that it depicts a school shooting here in America, but one that is actually perpetrated by a woman. It touches upon issues around sexual assault, gun violence, school shootings, and society’s general sexist attitudes against women.

Oftentimes, when we read or hear about school shootings in the news, we tend to hear the same pathetic story all the time: the shooting has been perpetrated by men, always white, who were isolated, depressed, a bit “different” from their classmates. It was a “lone wolf.” It was a hermetic man. He didn’t have many friends. Whatever you want to call it, that’s how the mass shooter is characterized. I’m not saying that there needs to be justification for a mass shooting because nothing can justify killing multiple human beings with a spray of bullets. But there’s never really a known motive for the mass killing other than the potential depression or psychotic state of the man perpetrating it. In this show, there was: a woman who was repeatedly raped by a whole team of male rugby players at her school and wanted to get revenge.

I don’t really know if this is something I should be admitting publicly on a blog, but when I realized her motive was for revenge for getting gang raped, I kind of thought… well, in that case, maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe men really do need to reap what they sow and take responsibility for their hateful anti-woman actions. Maybe they really do need to have the fear of death instilled in them to prevent them from perpetrating such disgusting acts that we all are aware happen every single day.

Yesterday morning, after chatting with Teledoc, I had to go to Duane Reade to pick up a few prescription medications I was prescribed. And as I walked in, I had completely forgotten today was Valentine’s Day until I noticed a hoard of people gathered around the Valentine’s Day Papyrus card display, all frantically trying to choose the best card to give their partners. Then, as I entered the doors, all three of the people who exited and walked past me were carrying Duane Reade bags, where I could see that all they purchased was a Valentine’s Day card, bright red or pink and gold.

The heart-shaped Valentine’s Day candy box stand was nearly depleted. Even the cards were almost all gone, even the plain Jane looking ones. This is the mad rush for everyone to fulfill the stupid Hallmark need to have a commercialized day to prove they appreciate their significant other when they probably don’t do enough of that the rest of the year. But hey, all power to the companies who reinforce this desire. If I want to give my baby a card, I will make it. Take that. No more money for them.

Once I hit 30, I knew my body was going to start changing, if it didn’t already start changing in my late twenties. At around 26, I could feel my metabolism slowing down, as I could not eat as much without gaining weight, which meant that I had to exercise twice as hard to keep the physique I wanted. That was also when I had to train myself to start eating less, especially at lunch time. Then in my 30s, I started noticing the skin on my face and neck changing, indicating my maturity and that I wasn’t my twenties’ self anymore. I don’t necessarily have wrinkles, per se, but there’s definitely a matureness to my face and neck that I certainly did not have when I was in my twenties.

So a few of my friends and I started statements with, “you know you’re getting old when…” The latest for me? Well, that happened today. In the midst of one of my coughing fits, I stopped coughing and felt a sneeze coming on. When the sneeze came, I blew so hard that somehow, I managed to pull a muscle in my lower back, resulting in back pain pretty much every time I move. And it only got worse every single time I would cough, as the pain would be re-ignited. So, you know you’re getting old when you can sneeze so hard that it can pull a muscle in your body.

This actually happened to one of my friends. Her muscle was so distorted that she had to go to a massage therapist to get the knot out. I hope I just need tiger balm, stretching, and rest for mine, though.

After work today, I went home to eat dinner and start packing for my visit home for the next week and a half. I don’t know why packing to go back to San Francisco is so annoying and tends to take me longer than any other packing. Part of it is because I don’t really know what the weather will be like since it’s so unpredictable, and the other part of it is that I usually bring gifts home for my parents and friends, and I have to sift through all the things I’ve collected since the last trip and make sure I don’t forget anything. That process is really annoying. I also get annoyed thinking about what my mom will say about what I bring her back. Sometimes she seems satisfied, while other times, she asks, “That’s it?” as though she was expecting more things or other things. That’s certainly not the most grateful answer/response, but well, that’s who she is.

Then, I have to think about all my parents’ new dietary restrictions. In theory, they love Tim Tams, but my mom has been told she is pre-diabetic, so she’s avoiding most sugars, even cutting out rice and bread. The bread part wasn’t an issue; the rice part certainly is. My dad complains about pretty much anything that isn’t a vegetable or fruit since his bypass surgery. But he will still eat most things. In those cases, I usually ignore his complaining.

We’ll see how this round of gifts are received this time.