After work, I had to stop by our friends’ house to pick up glasses that Chris left the last time we came over. Our couple friend, who we met just two years ago, have become regular hangout buddies for us in Manhattan. We really don’t have that many couple friends we see on a regular basis, and we’ve bonded pretty well over the last couple of years. The guy of the couple has been in a deep job search switching industries for the last ten months and hasn’t had luck in securing a role.

Although I intended to stay only about 10 minutes, I probably stayed over 40 given that he was so down about the search and how long it’s taken, especially given that he’s trying to switch industries. I can empathize given that I’ve had periods of unemployment before, and I do truly feel bad for him given that I know he has been actively searching, applying, prepping, and interviewing, so it’s certainly not due to a lack of effort at all. But what made me the most sad about the conversation is how I’ve realized that for so many of us here in the U.S., our jobs are our livelihood and so much of our identity, even if we are not the Steve Jobs or the Elon Musks of the world who are creating massive changes and are billionaires. We’re just everyday workers soldiering on. When we don’t have a job, we feel as though we are worth less, and we need that job, that income, that form of stability to feel “worthy,” as though our lives truly matter. He said he’s felt ashamed and embarrassed a lot during the last ten months. I get that, as I’ve had similar feelings in the past. Would people coming from other cultures feel the same way if they were unemployed for that long? It’s not really about him as much as it is about the society we are born into and live in every single day. When Chris’s cousin’s wife from France didn’t work for over a year and half between the time she graduated from business school to our wedding, we spoke and texted often, yet not even once did she mention feeling bad about not working, not making money, or feeling like being jobless made her feel like she was worthless or incapable of being.

I told him what I really think, which is — I’m not friends with him because he was working at a large company before and because he had an MBA; we’re friends with him because he’s a good, interesting person who is enjoyable to be around. That’s why most of our friends are our friends. He’s the same person to us now without a job as he was before when he was working full time. None of that really matters to us or to anyone who really should matter to him. It just makes me sad that so much of what we all do is tied to paid work that at the end of the day, probably isn’t going to matter a lot when we’re all on our death beds. All of us may work really hard, but there are plenty of people higher on the ladder who do less work who will inevitably get compensated more and think they are worth more. Work, work, work; money, money, money. The capitalist way. That’s our world.

Chris’s cousin is in town from London for work, so we’ve been spending our evenings with him and took him to the Comedy Cellar tonight. During one of the comedian’s acts, he talked about the Pride parade that just happened and how although he didn’t go to the parade, he was still a supporter of gay rights. He doesn’t actively do anything for gay rights, but he doesn’t actively do a lot of things; he just knows that he doesn’t really care about what other people are doing — as long as they aren’t harming anyone.

So the argumentative points here are: how do you define “harming” others? Someone could argue you are harming an unborn child by having an abortion. Another person can say that by not preaching the Bible’s words that you are harming others by not giving them the chance to be saved. Smoking cigarettes could be “harming” others by exposing them to second-hand smoke. There’s too much grey area on a statement even as simple and well-meaning as that one.

Today, we had brunch with my cousin’s cousin and her family visiting from Montreal. The funny thing about my cousin’s cousins is that although they are technically not my cousins, they seem to enjoy seeing me more than they want to see their own blood cousins. So the times they’ve come to New York since my New York cousin’s wedding, they’ve always reached out to me first to see if I’m available, and sometimes they don’t even see their own cousin here.

Chris always thinks the situation is odd, and he knows it’s odd primarily because when these group meals happen, the table tends to get very divided, as we’re not all actually interacting with each other. My local cousin and I barely speak, mainly because I find him one-dimensional, boring, and always a complainer who thinks his life is the worst of the worst (never mind the fact that there actually are people living in poverty in New York City, much less the world, but he seems to think he’s the worst off since he lives in a working class neighborhood where people oftentimes gets his takeout order wrong). I really only see him when it’s his little son’s birthday, or when we have family visiting from out of town. He is the kind of person who makes the best situations seem the worst (one of the latest texts from him includes “(my wife) doesn’t get that New York sucks” simply because his train is delayed going home). Sounds like he really fits into my bloodline, then, right?

His cousin from Montreal is a world away from him, though. She’s actually really fun, positive, and enjoyable to speak with. She has four kids, and they’re all upbeat and healthy. “How is someone normal like her related to the rest of your three cousins?” Chris asked me. I don’t know?

One of the joys that awaits me in the new apartment is finally being able to use so many of my kitchen items again that I haven’t used in five years — so since I lived in Elmhurst. There, I had a full sized oven, stove, and refrigerator, and here… well, I don’t. So things like my cookie sheets and baking racks just didn’t fit into the oven here. So I’ve stowed them away in the back of our closet in hopes that one day when we moved, I’d be able to use them again. That time is very close now!

The cookie sheet that doesn’t fit into this oven was given to me by Ed as part of my birthday gift in 2012. It’s a very solid, non-stick sheet that even has rubber grips on it. And it still looks brand new. It only got a handful of uses before I moved into our current apartment. Thinking about it makes me sad that he’ll never be able to see me use it in the new apartment… or ever again. It’s an odd thing to remember when thinking about what I’ll be able to use again in the new apartment, but the thought still lingers.

The white Macbook I bought with a fairly considerable Harvard student discount back in 2009 is now no longer mine. After several failed attempts to remember the password last Sunday, I was able to get it after remembering the number patterns I used to use for my passwords. Once I unlocked it, I changed the password settings and posted to Craigslist, and the first response I got was willing to pay $100 for it. It feels like I have my own little side business going, selling my used items on Craigslist from now until July.

This guy not only arrived early at the apartment, but he paid me in two $50 bills; who carries around $50 bills? He was friendly and told me he was planning to use it for some programs that were compatible only with my operating system. I still can’t believe I got $100 for this eight-year-old Apple product. Now, if only everything I owned that I wanted to sell before our move had that type of resale value…

I hauled a bunch of flattened boxes and bubble wrap from my office back home this week. I figure that since my office move just happened that our office manager would be fine to give me all the moving supplies that she’d inevitably throw out, so that was a big bonus for me. And today, I finally sold our first item, our coffee table. The guy who picked it up apparently had some freak accident in his apartment and broke his coffee table in half, so he was looking on Craigslist for a cheap but sturdy replacement. After inspecting our table and looking at the few scratches on top, he paid me and took it out of our building. I’ve sold another item on eBay, and someone is coming to the building to buy one of my old computers tomorrow.

We’re making progress on the move, and we’re still over a month away from moving. This is feeling pretty good so far.

I spent the late afternoon and evening tonight hanging out with my colleague who is temporarily in the U.S. until August. He’s based in our Amsterdam office, but is relocating to the Cologne office due to an office restructuring. He’s actually originally from Germany, anyway, and lucky him, he got a Green Card through the Green Card lottery, which is why he’s in the States for a few months. He’s ethnically Armenian, but his family roots are in Turkey, but he was born and raised in Germany. I am ethnically Chinese and Vietnamese, born and raised in the U.S. He grew up thinking racism was the norm while in Germany, and I grew up in a bubble in San Francisco, never truly experiencing racism until I moved to the East Coast. When you give two people of different ethnicities and nationalities about five hours together, a lot ends up being discussed around culture and each culture’s idiocies.

“Why do people call Asians yellow?” he asked me. “I don’t get it. At the lightest they are whitish skinned, or they look like you… what are you, like tannish?”

“I have no idea what color I am,” I said. “You might as well call me beige.”

“In the American education system, do you guys get taught that Hitler was actually Austrian and not German?” he asked.

I told him that I remember learning he was Austrian, but it is likely it gets lost in the shuffle of how awful of a person Hitler was.

“I’ve been asked all kinds of questions that I think are dumb since I’ve come here… one person asked me what the capital of Germany was. Another asked me what the official language of the Netherlands is.”

And here’s the real thing that stung: “I realize that I’m really lucky to have a green card… and that so many people want it. But the major thing holding me back from wanting to live here is… I just don’t understand how any rich country like the U.S. doesn’t have universal health care. That should be illegal. What kind of developed country allows people to go bankrupt because they get cancer or some other life-threatening illness? Or why should my university education put me $200K in debt? That makes zero sense to me.”

It makes zero sense to me, too.