Normalcy

In the late morning today, I sat in the Intercontinental hotel lounge while working, waiting for my parents to pick me up. My mom was hell bent on taking me to one of her favorite Vietnamese restaurants in the Tenderloin, which I admit is good, but is on the dodgiest street and has questionable sanitation based on the latest San Francisco health violations report. Then, we’d eventually go home to that cold house on the hill in the Richmond which I have so many negative associations with; “home sweet home,” as some would call it.

This is what I am used to now, as my friend marveled yesterday, a life of four- to five-star hotels, travel, and most importantly… freedom; freedom from having every action I do get scrutinized and criticized, freedom from being told that my showers are too long or that I’m using too much toilet paper or that the brownies I made are too sweet and bad for my parents’ health (even when they asked me to make them). Life now is a strong contrast to what it used to be while living under their roof and their senseless, suffocating, and irrational rules. My “normal” now is vastly different from my “normal” as a child growing up in this house.

That’s why it’s always so frustrating and embarrassing every time I come home and get reminded endlessly of all the insipid things that happen in this house: the constant food waste because they both insist on cooking enough food for 6-8 people when it’s just the two of them; the shower head that won’t adjust to pull down because my dad is too cheap to get a removable shower head installed, the kitchen that was technically expanded but never fully finished because he decided to put the project on hold.. for the last seven years; the piles of junk he’s accumulated from ex-tenants who never cleared out their apartments (that he insists on bringing home) and the hoarding from Craigslist; the constant sorting of “compost waste” from paper from plastic as what appears to be a daily hobby, or in my eyes, a complete and stupid waste of time; my parents eating dinner “together” while my father sits at his computer like a child and watches YouTube videos while my mother actually sits at the table eating by herself. Other than the carpet that my mother had installed 17 years ago and some cheap plastic “dressers” in the two bedrooms, this house is almost exactly like what it was when my dad was a teenager; slightly dilapidated, completely free from renovation, and freezing as hell. He never moved out of his parents’ house. This house is pretty much exactly the same as then.

But this is what is “normal” to them. It’s “normal” for them to sit like that at the dinner table. It’s normal to have a peeling kitchen counter when they could afford to have it replaced. It’s normal for them to hoard junk so that beds and chairs are no longer places where you can sit or lie down without clearing everything off them for five minutes.

My version of “normal” was once that, but even as a young child, I knew so many things here were not normal. I know that the “normal” I have in my mind now will never, ever be achievable in this house with them. Ed tried to believe he could somehow get there, and he realized at the end of his life it was impossible. The only way to have a “normal” life is to separate myself from all this as much as possible.

Thank God Chris comes here for work, otherwise I’d have zero buffer and zero normalcy.

 

La-dee-da

I set up time today to meet with a friend at a nearby coffee shop to the hotel where Chris and I are staying at in downtown San Francisco, but after some thought, I realized… why am I asking her to meet me at a crowded coffee shop with terrible acoustics when I could just invite her to the hotel lounge during prime afternoon tea time hour, where she could have access to whatever food and drink she wanted? I called her and asked to meet at the hotel instead, and as soon as she walked into the lounge… I wish I recorded her facial expressions changing. Like me, my friend is very expressive, and she shows all her emotions on her face. I’m sure Chris might have likened it to my face when I first walked into the British Airways International Lounge at JFK airport, when I’d never been into a single airport lounge in my life other than the terrible and bare-bones United lounge in LAX. She was blown away by the food setup, the access to drinks, the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, and the overall decor.

“Is this the life you are used to?” my friend marveled, as she sat down to enjoy her just-made latte and crustless mini egg salad sandwiches. “So la-dee-da, aren’t you? I could get used to being you! Can I just stay here even after you leave?”

We ended up staying in the lounge for about three hours, and Chris was even able to join us and meet this friend for the very first time. Chris made the fancy hotel and lounge seem like no big deal, like this was what he was used to given his hectic work travel schedule, and my friend marveled even more. She was not used to this type of travel. And for the longest time, neither was I.

As I thought more about it as we sat down together for that time, I started feeling like somewhat of a disappointment, like a Stepford bride who relies on her husband for all the money and luxuries and pleasures she enjoyed. I don’t get this type of experience or treatment on my own or through my own work; I get these privileges because of the work and accomplishments of my husband. And what’s worse is that he’s had it way harder than me as someone who isn’t even a U.S. citizen and had to prove himself as a foreigner; I’m natively born here and I’m nowhere as accomplished as he is. He’s set in his career and enjoys every minute of it; I’m still wandering around, figuring out what the hell I’m really supposed to be doing and what my purpose is.

These are the first world conflicts of someone who is privileged, or “la dee da” as my friend said.

 

First of many fights

Every time I come home, I can always anticipate at least one fight for every three days I am here with my mom. They are usually about stupid, inane things that she gets upset about, and here was today’s.

I’m working in downtown today, and Chris picked a restaurant for us to eat at tonight with my parents and aunt. I can’t get through the land line to my parents, and the cell phone is shut off (because they love to keep it off), so I called my aunt to tell her the restaurant address and time to meet, and asked her to tell my parents all this information. She agreed and we hung up.

I called my mom just now, and she’s obviously angry and speaking in an icy tone. “Why didn’t you just leave a message? Why did you have to tell your aunt that we didn’t answer and that you couldn’t get a hold of us and get her all in our personal business? You’re causing all kinds of trouble. All I want is peace. Don’t you realize I’m in pain? I’m in pain!”

She’s always in pain. That’s her excuse for everything.

I never realized that asking my aunt to give my parents a simple message would cause so much anger and resentment in my mom. She yelled and said she only invited my aunt to dinner tonight because my aunt offered to take the whole family out to eat this Saturday. Yep, that’s typical my-mom behavior for you; she feels guilty when someone else does something nice for her or me, so right away (literally, RIGHT AWAY) she has to do something to “pay back” that person. Otherwise, she says she has a “guilty conscience.” That makes a lot of sense. It’s the most unhealthy mindset when someone does something nice for you. Then again, she gets mad about everything, so this just adds to the list.

Evolution of the mind

When you have been friends with your friends for over two decades, it’s easy either to note the evolution in their characters and beliefs…. or not. Sometimes, we turn a blind eye to our friends’ changes because we want to see them how we always saw them — as the great people we originally loved and became attached to. But for me, I think what’s been a very strange change is seeing one of my closest friends, who I’ve always considered a deep thinker who has shared her feelings, stop doing that and stop probing to find out more about why I think the way I think. Before in high school, she used to always challenge my behavior or voiced opinions. She always cared about the family drama I had to deal with at home. She always seemed to want to understand. Now, she seems to zone out when our third friends asks questions to find out more about anything about me that may be sensitive or personal. It’s like a lesser desired level of understanding. Or maybe she just wants to remove herself from understanding because it takes too much effort, is too tiring because a lot of the facts are negative, or just wants to have more superficial relationships now. I’ll never quite get it.

Water heater out

Just my luck: the morning before leaving on a flight to go home, the water heater in our apartment building broke and needed to be fixed, and I couldn’t shower before heading to the airport. I rushed through security and arrived at the AA lounge to find out that both of the two showers were occupied and would not be free until about half an hour from that point — that was only fifteen minutes before boarding. When I got notified that the shower was cleaned and ready, I had a quick shower, washed my hair, and dashed off to board the plane. I got there at the exact time boarding for business class began.

It’s funny to see how my flying habits have evolved. Before Chris, I didn’t even know airport lounges existed (if I passed them, I’d just ignore them since they were then irrelevant to me). Now, I take advantage of them and their showers when I can, and especially in events where the apartment is having issues. These are like the secret habits of the privileged jet setting to all areas of the earth in luxury. I’ve become spoiled. And my parents are even used to hearing about my upgrades and just expect me to get seated in business class. When they pick me up from the airport now, one of the first questions they will ask me is “did you get upgraded?”, followed by, “what did they serve you to eat?”

Whole Foods meat and fish guys

If there’s one thing I can consistently say about service levels at grocery stores in New York, it’s that in general, workers are rarely that helpful, especially when you ask questions about very specific, niche items, or you have questions regarding this fish type’s characteristics over another variety of fish. But the thing that always makes me happy is going to the meat and fish section of Whole Foods and getting served. I don’t know if the guys there just think I’m cute, but I always get good service and any and all of my questions answered in a friendly manner. Today, I came in to purchase the pork butt that was on sale in hopes of making a bo ssam slow roasted pork in a couple weeks, and the man helping me cut me a piece that was the exact weight I wanted. He even offered to do additional things to the piece of meat which I didn’t need and declined. If only all grocery store service could be at this level, then grocery shopping would be so much more pleasurable.

Queens “ghetto”

I’ve been living in New York for eight and a half years now, and since I lived in Queens for my first four (and not in the trendy areas of Long Island City or Astoria), I’m used to hearing all the backlash and negative reactions people have to Queens as a borough. To so many (white) people who are in New York, there’s really just Manhattan and Brooklyn, and that’s it.

Yet I actually was surprised yesterday night when I was at my mentoring session for foster kids when one of the Latina mentors said she was born and raised in Jackson Heights, a neighborhood in Queens, and still lived there, but had a very negative reaction when I told her I lived in Elmhurst for four years. Her face turned sour and she asked me if I liked living there. I said I really liked it a lot, still missed the food, but I much prefer the quick commute of living on the Upper East Side and the convenience of being in Manhattan. She asked me if I ever witnessed any crime, and I said no; my neighborhood was full of families, mostly Asian, Latino, and white.

She told me that growing up, she and everyone she knew in Jackson Heights always considered Elmhurst the “ghetto,” the area that was crime-ridden that no one ever wanted to go to. That’s so odd to me, I said to her. East Elmhurst has a lot of crime (and is really only accessible by car or bus), but that’s a very different neighborhood than Elmhurst, which is accessible by the R/M yellow train line that I used to take. She didn’t seem to know the difference and said that she wasn’t a fan of Elmhurst. What about Corona (the actual neighborhood next to East Elmhurst that is known for violent crime)? Her face completely went off. “That place is bad, really bad. I would never even consider going there!”

First, there was the negative reaction against Queens as a borough. Now, I’m getting negative reactions for Elmhurst supposedly being a dangerous and crime-ridden neighborhood from someone who lives in Jackson Heights, which is only two subway stops away from my old stop in Elmhurst. Yet, this person, despite never having lived anywhere other than Jackson Heights her entire life, doesn’t know the difference between East Elmhurst and Elmhurst as neighborhoods. Ignorance, even in your own borough, is just rampant here. And people are happy to be ignorant and not know what they don’t know and dismiss opinions from people like me who actually have “been around.” I can’t escape it anywhere. It’s no wonder Trump is going to be inaugurated tomorrow.

 

La La Land theme

Last night, since Chris had a mentoring event and a work dinner, I went to see La La Land with a friend’s girlfriend. I had been wanting to see it since I’d read about it and watched previews of it last month, and I figured a good time to see it would be on my birthday night.

It’s a bittersweet tale about an aspiring jazz artist and an aspiring actress in Los Angeles who fall in love, but in order for both of them to achieve their career dreams, they must do it on their own and cannot be together. The end is tragic in many ways because they cannot be together, and it’s clear that feelings are still there, but the positive part is that they’ve both gained what they wanted: she’s a famous actress, and he owns a jazz club as he always dreamed of.

“Mia and Sebastian’s Theme” — the haunting little piano tune that Sebastian plays that is an ode to their time together — somehow, it made me think of Ed when they played the song in the end, when five years later, Mia and her now husband happen to stop into Seb’s, the jazz club that Sebastian now owns, and they make eye contact while she and her husband are in the audience. It made me think of all the things I’ve achieved (or haven’t) in the last few years since my brother passed, yet this whole time he’s been absent from my life. It’s the big hole that has lingered that will persist. It’s also bittersweet. So much has happened in the three and a half years since my brother died, both good and bad, and time has moved on.

It’s strange that a lost love theme would trigger the memory of Ed for me. I guess in many ways, he’s a lost love in my life, just a different type from Mia and Sebastian’s.

Roses at the door

In my life, I’ve only had two different people ever have flowers delivered to me — Ed and Chris. Ed had flowers delivered twice to me, but to my parents’ house, which never really felt like they were a delivery for me as they were for the house, as bad or ungrateful as that may sound. “Every girl should have flowers delivered to her at least once,” my brother proclaimed, as he proudly admired the massive bouquet he bought for my high school graduation. It really was a spectacular display of all the colors of the rainbow… all just for me. It was a bit overwhelming to think about how much time and thought he put into this delivery and selection… because as I knew then and now, he would obsess over every last detail. The bouquet even came with a helium “Congratulations!” balloon. That was my Ed for me.

The second time I had flowers delivered for me, it was the first week of December 2011, and a large bouquet of white roses was delivered to my office. The office manager placed the open bouquet in a white pitcher at my desk, and when I returned from my meeting, they were sitting right there in front of my computer at midday. I was shocked. No one ever has flowers sent to me other than Ed. Did Ed send these? How did he find out my office address? Then I wondered if there was some mistake and that these really weren’t for me, so I checked the address note and confirmed that yes, these were for me. I opened the note attached, and the mysterious message with the funny grammar and punctuation was definitely not my brother.. and that’s when I knew for certain it was Chris.

That was over five years ago now, and now, in January 2017, Chris is still sending me flowers at the most random times on the most random days. Today, I cannot even count the number of times he has had flowers delivered to me. When I left my last job, I had so many vases that I had to give all of them away. At my current job, I have four under my desk and at least five in the office kitchen. Sometimes, he will send them for 538-day anniversaries or other random days of his choosing. Other times, he will send them the week of Valentine’s Day and not on Valentine’s Day. Other times, he will send them just to make my female colleagues jealous because that’s the way Chris is (“It’s always like it’s your honeymoon period!” one former colleague at my last company half-mocked, half-joked). Sometimes, I’d even catch myself feeling guilty opening yet another box of flowers for me — at my last company and my current company. “Your boyfriend/fiance/husband is always sending you flowers!” the women would exclaim. Yes, he certainly is.

Today, for probably the 40th time, I had two dozen long stemmed roses of assorted colors waiting for me from Chris. After a while, the novelty isn’t quite there anymore, but the same feeling of “Wow, do I really deserve this?” still comes. I don’t really think I am deserving of all these flowers and generosity in the same way I didn’t think I deserved it when Ed did it for me those two times, but I still never get over how beautiful these flowers are. These flowers are representative of love. I love my baby.

Awkward, and even more awkward

There are a lot of things I will never quite get over: that racism and sexism are still things in the 21st century, strangers who want to control my uterus and sex life, how people cannot like sweets, veganism (there, I said it), why Chris’s parents are always so freaking happy, and how awkward my dad can be.

Here’s a snapshot of today’s phone conversation:

Dad: So, what’d you do over the weekend?

Me: I had a birthday hot pot dinner in Elmhurst with a bunch of my friends. We ordered a cake and celebrated there.

Dad: Oh, okay. Well, that sounds like fun. Wait, whose birthday is it?

Me: Umm…. it was mine. For my birthday. Daddy, don’t you remember it’s my birthday tomorrow?!

Dad: Well, yeah, I do remember. But why did you celebrate on Saturday instead of Tuesday?

Me: Because not everyone is available on a work night to celebrate and stay out late!

Dad: Oh… I didn’t realize that. Okay.

Dad will never quite get it. Sometimes, it’s cute and amusing. Other times, it’s just flat out exasperating.