Pumpkin spice galore

I popped into Trader Joe’s today to see if they had the German grapefruit beer from Schofferhofer that Chris and I like, but unfortunately, it looks like the entire beer shelf was cleared out in favor of all things “autumn ale” and “pumpkin ale” related. Even a lot of the regular beers they typically carry were no longer there except for a small handful.

I’ve tried to give a few different pumpkin ale beers a chance quite a number of times, and I really just do not understand them. They may have pumpkin in them, but you’d really be stretching it or lying if you told me that you could immediately get that flavor out of a sip of that. The pumpkin spiced-everything is definitely on overdrive once autumn rolls around, but the pumpkin ale bandwagon is just pointless to me.

More departures

Our company is pretty focused on going public. As a result of that, all focus is on selling, selling, and more selling. And when that is the focus, what tends to happen is that culture tends to decline. As culture declines, people start leaving in droves. That can be a good and a bad thing. It’s good for the people who you don’t like because it means you don’t have to deal with them anymore. It’s bad when it comes to people who were genuinely amazing to work with, who you believe had high integrity and were just all-around great colleagues.

Another colleague on my team announced that he was resigning today. I’m not surprised, as I expected he would have left sooner if he had gotten the “right” offer. I honestly could care less that he’s leaving because as sad as it sounds, he ended up being one of the biggest disappointments I’d ever worked with. He was really smart and eager in the beginning, easy to get along with when he first started. When something didn’t go his way internally just a few months into being here (which had nothing to do with any of his peers, which includes me), he decided, pretty much overnight, to completely disengage with all of us. This meant not eating lunch with us, not speaking with us to our faces and only sending us messages over Slack, not joining any meetings in person in our conference rooms and instead “joining” by dialing in at his desk, and when approached in person, fully refusing to make eye contact and only looking down at his computer or phone. It was one of the pettiest, most immature treatments I’d ever encountered.

Good luck to him. It’s unfortunate to meet people who believe that the world should revolve around them, and that when things do not go their way that they should take it out on completely innocent people around them which had zero to do with the problem. The sense of entitlement is truly stunning to me.

Spaghetti squash

I’ve never been into the low-carb, anti-carb dieting (well, I’m not really into the concept of “dieting,” but that’s another story). But what I really could not stand that became trendy years ago was people who were trying to cut down on carbs in the form of pasta by replacing their spaghetti noodles with spaghetti squash “noodles.”Spaghetti squash is an interesting type of autumn squash in that when it’s roasted properly, its liquids evaporated and when you pierce through it with a fork, the squash fibers come apart like tiny little noodles that resemble very thin angel-hair pasta. One cup of spaghetti squash “noodles” contain about 7 grams of carbohydrates, whereas one cup of actual wheat-based spaghetti noodles contain about 43 grams.

None of the above is necessarily “bad,” but squash is squash, meaning that it’s mostly water. So, if you were to douse a bunch of squash “noodles” with a thick tomato-y sauce, it would immediately become soggy unless you were quick and ate it right away. That is just terrible to me. Why would you do this? Enjoy your spaghetti squash as a vegetable or grain/wheat substitute, but NOT as a replacement for noodles. Just don’t do it!

I feel the same way about “zoodles” or zucchini noodles. Just throw them in a salad. Stop using them as noodles, please.

Chinatown massages

This afternoon, we went to Chinatown for massages. I have not always really thought massages were particularly useful; they seemed more self-indulgent than anything. But in the last year or so when I have gotten injured from exercise, I’ve realized more how beneficial they can be and have enjoyed the experience much more. I find myself zoning out more and thinking about all kinds of different things during massages. Falling asleep during a massage, while that may sound relaxing, seems like a bit of a waste of money and time.

The other reason I think it’s important is that in a day and age when we are always so busy with endless distractions, social media, our love-hate relationship with our mobile devices, it’s important to have time for self-care and self-reflection. Massage time is perfect for both.

Queens International Night Market

Unfortunately for us, the glorious night markets that grace cities as delicious as Taipei, Kaohsiung, and Chengdu do not happen in the U.S. at all. But for New York City, we’ve come to address that by creating our own version of a night market right in Queens in Corona Park. It happens annually and runs from the summer months through the end of October and seeks to offer diverse foods from around the world. Tonight, we met up some friends and enjoyed some Burmese tea salad, Taiwanese pork belly buns, lamb skewers, among other tasty things.

It is actually a bit frustrating that as diverse as Queens and all of New York City are that there aren’t more and better Burmese, Cambodian, and Malaysian options. There are a number of Malaysian spots that just haven’t lived up to their hype. Burmese restaurants are pretty much nonexistent outside of pop-ups and night market stalls. And Cambodian… they are mostly pseudo-Cambodian that have mostly Thai or semi-Vietnamese menus. The best Cambodian food we’ve had to date in the U.S. has been in Cleveland, Ohio, of all places. I still think fondly about that meal and how delicious it was, with herbs and fermented fish pastes that I’d never quite had before.

LA traffic = the worst

Every time I’ve come to LA over the years, I’ve always looked forward to it and enjoyed my time here. I love the endless diversity of the people here. The beaches are gorgeous. The weather is pretty much always sunny and warm. The diversity of people also means that the food here is represented from probably every culture on earth somewhere in the LA/Orange County area. There’s too much good food here in nearly every neighborhood and at every single price point. Al fresco dining is the norm. It’s hard to beat the quality of life in Southern California.

But then, I think about the number 1 thing I cannot stand about LA: the traffic. Every time I come here, I constantly wonder why there are always so many cars on the road, all this gridlock everywhere. It doesn’t seem to matter if it’s 3pm or 6pm; there’s always a traffic jam. It makes zero sense to me.

On a ride from Santa Monica to Hermosa Beach to meet my cousin and his family, the distance was only about 15 miles, yet the ride took nearly an hour! This is an everyday occurrence. In no traffic, it shouldn’t have taken more than 20 minutes, but once traffic hits, a 20-minute ride can easily become 1.25 hours long. And today, on the ride from Santa Monica to LAX, my initial Google Maps estimate said the ride should take 17 minutes given I was leaving at a quieter time. In the end, we got unlucky and hit traffic, and so that original 17-minute estimate ended up being 40 minutes.

I understand why people love LA; I love LA as a visitor. But I also understand why they hate it. This traffic is truly out of control and could easily suck the life out of me if I had to deal with it every single day.

Boredom as an adult

When I was young, I got bored a lot. Depending on the time of my childhood, I would read books, do chores, play with my toys, and then be done with them, and then I’d have nothing to do. So the words “I’m bored” came out of my mouth a lot then. Once middle school started, though, it was as though the word “boredom” was no longer part of my vocabulary. There was always something new to learn, to study, more homework to be finished, yet another test to prepare for. I started reading even more voraciously in my teen years, and there was always something new to crack open. Since then, I haven’t spent any period of time really thinking that I am bored… except in random moments, such as in pointless work meetings or being stuck in awful, mind-numbing conversations with people who are either too busy bullshitting or who are extremely high in their self-orientation. And now, in my adult life, I’ve always felt like there are endless things I need to get done or want to do, and that there is never enough time for any of them. Even on the weekends, even on periods I’ve had off from work… it all seems to go by too quickly, and while a lot of my “to-do” list may have been completed, there was still a half dozen or so more things I wish I could have gotten done “if I had more time.” As I’ve gotten older, the to-do list only seems to be growing longer and longer. The endless cycle of news also doesn’t really help with that, either. My reading list for books is officially out of control (though I am way ahead of my reading goal this year, having read 17 books in full, and we’re not even halfway through October yet! 12 was the original goal for each year).

So it was weird for me to hear someone tell me as an adult that she is bored all the time and that she oftentimes finds herself with nothing to do. Nothing to do as a grown adult — this idea is so puzzling to me and in some ways, maddening. There are always current events to keep up with (as insane as it has been in recent years with politics), new topics to explore, new places to visit and see, new neighborhoods and foods to experience. There are people you could be donating your time and energy to via countless nonprofit organizations in New York. Where is one’s intellectual curiosity if you are bored? If you have no curiosity, there will no creativity to create and do new things that will ultimately benefit others and the world around you. And you won’t be fulfilled.

There are lots of people out there in the world who would kill for the privilege of being us, living in a rich country with extremely comfortable, cushy jobs in the tech industry, which not only afford us benefits and perks, but also flexibility to allow us to come and go to the office as we need to. We have no clue as to what it would be like to be poor, to be an immigrant at the border stuck in squalor, to have some life-threatening illness. Especially since Ed died, I’ve intentionally thought about my life’s privileges often, pretty much every single day. I am thankful every day for what I have and think about it every morning and every night before bed. Even though I’ve certainly encountered my fair share of discrimination, lack of equity, and horrifying experiences, I’ve lived a very comfortable and privilege life, and I’m fully cognizant that most people in this world have not had even a fraction of the level of comfort I’ve been afforded. But it’s people like me who have these privileges who shouldn’t be wasting our lives on frivolous pursuits like filling our free time with endless shopping and video games, and should be focusing on what we’re passionate about, what will help the world be better. Ed’s death pushed me to think about how precarious life can be and how quickly it can all end. I don’t want to waste my life away, and I’ve intentionally thought since his death that I want to prove to him that life is worth living through the way I will live my life as long as I am here.

The world would be better off with people who choose to live their lives intentionally, meaningfully, instead of watching each day pass by, blankly wondering what the next day will have in store for them.

3.5 year gap

Tonight, I met up with my cousin, his wife, and their two young children, ages 3.5 and 5, for dinner in Hermosa Beach. The last time I saw my cousin was at my wedding over 3.5 years ago; the last time I saw his wife was about two months before that when she was about to pop to give birth to number 2. Their lives have changed quite a bit since then. Hopefully, it won’t be another 3.5 years before we see each other again.

My cousin and his wife seem to be doing pretty well; they seem quite content in their life, which is completely devoid of his mom, who is my aunt, my dad’s younger sister. No one in the family keeps in much contact with her because she’s always been an extreme drama queen, and he told me tonight that he had zero contact with her.

My mom knew I was going to see my cousin this evening, so she suggested I tell him to reconcile with her. I see no reason to intervene and suggest that with someone who is so toxic. If a person cannot find her own faults and admit them to her only child, then in my opinion, she’s not really worth being in touch with. She’d enrich none of their lives. She’d only create more problems and more anxiety for everyone. And my cousin’s fear is that she will not only have a negative impact on his children, her grandchildren, but that his kids will see their grandmother’s negative effect on their dad and be ill effected by it.

Being estranged from your family is hard to say the least. Everyone judges you negatively about it and blames you. But I genuinely think my cousin did the right thing both for himself and his wife, but also for their two kids.

Love languages

My mom never experienced much affection at all from her mom. Her dad died when she was only six, and my mom was the youngest of ten kids in a country, culture, and household where girls were deemed to be useless. My maternal grandmother looked at my mom as the lowest of the low: not only was she a girl, she was also the youngest of ten, so she was of the least importance to her of all the kids. I think my mom took this to heart and instead as a mom to me, always made sure to hug and kiss me and to remind me constantly that she loved me. I don’t believe she did it as much with Ed because he was a boy and therefore less likely to reciprocate with any of the above.

But the one way she always showed love to both of us was trying to get us to eat as much as possible. It’s an Asian parent thing, I suppose, that even if words and actions fail that food will always succeed. No food consumed was ever enough. “Are you still hungry?” “Eat some more.” “Have more of this.” <Adds more stew/stir-fry/dumplings/whatever is on the table to your plate>. The more we would eat, the happier she would be. When I leave home to go back to New York or wherever I am going, during the last meal together, she always insists on my eating more and more and more. And then, if that were not enough, she tries to pack me as many things as possible, whether it’s lao po bing (these winter melon cakes I like that my dad just bought in Chinatown) or more bao “just in case you get hungry on the plane.” This time, I can’t carry as much since I’m heading to LA for the next few days, so she is dismayed that she cannot add much to my luggage. So she insists as she does each time that I a) stay for longer and b) bring a bigger suitcase so she can pack more food for me.

It’s a little crazy and overbearing in some ways (she has legitimately tried to get me to pack 5 pounds of oranges in my luggage to take back from San Francisco to New York!), but in other ways, it’s extremely endearing and an obvious sign of love and affection, so it’s hard for me to tell her that she can’t pack me food because that’s almost like telling her she cannot show me love. To my mom, food is love, and it’s how she communicates she loves me… and how she used to communicate that she loved Ed.

Not coming back

Most of the time when I go home and back to my parents’ house, I always get this vibe that Ed is still there in spirit, that he’s lurking somewhere around the corner and that eventually I will see him. I especially get it in the bedroom where he slept when I go in to dust his old dresser where we keep a large framed photo of him on top. This time, though, when I went up to the dresser, I didn’t feel the same. He didn’t feel the same. It was as though his being gone has been made more permanent now. He’s definitely never coming back, and perhaps he’s at peace with it. Or maybe I’m projecting, and it’s really that I am finally at peace with the fact that I know for sure he will never come back ever again to this house, to this life.

Still can’t believe it’s been over six years now.