La La Land theme

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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

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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

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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.

2017 goal planning

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After a slow morning of sleeping and recovering from last night’s early birthday celebration escapades, Chris and I finally made it out of the apartment mid-afternoon to have lunch at a favorite neighborhood Turkish spot. Then, we took a leisurely walk in Central Park. As part of our traditions as a couple, we also discussed our goals for the year. Pretty much every aspect of my life is as good as it could be for me personally, but it’s hard to get away from the bad work situation. I guess I am the typical American that Marcus Buckingham talks about: when you have ten things in your life and nine of them are going really well, but one is not, I focus on that one bad thing. What can I say – I want everything to be great. But I just got complacent last year and settled due to laziness and ease of the overall job. Sometimes, that really comes back to bite you in the butt.

Given my unfulfilling job situation, I think we all knew last year that 2017 would be the year to look again — but we needed to narrow down what I was looking for. We outlined the requirements for my next position to be “ideal.” And now that I have somewhat of a plan, I need to carry this out and move forward with life in the direction I want. I need to start being intellectually stimulated at work again, and that frankly has not happened in years now. I’ve been trying to rely on outside of work activities and reading to keep my brain going, but that is no longer enough. I’m at what most people say is the prime of my life now when my career should be flourishing, so I need to get at this to not waste my 30s away.

31st birthday dinner

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Tonight, I hauled Chris and me out to Elmhurst to have an all-you-can-eat Chinese-style hot pot dinner with eight of my friends. Chris never likes leaving the borough of Manhattan during the winter because it’s cold, snowy, and dreary, but he makes an exception for my birthday. Eating in Elmhurst is always a great idea for a birthday because a) it’s always affordable compared with any Manhattan location), b) there’s a very tiny or nonexistent cake-cutting fee to bring in an outside cake, and c) you rarely get rushed in and out because of the Manhattan crowds. In Queens, no one cares. And this year, I found a Thai bar within short walking distance of the restaurant, so it worked out for boozing it up afterwards, too.

All of my friends brought me gifts, even though I never ask for them and never expect them. Even my friend’s new girlfriend, who I just met two months ago, brought me a small gift. As the years go by, I want far less “stuff” than I just do experiences and time with my friends. That’s all I really want or need. But being inundated with wrapped gifts and bags tonight, I felt grateful for their overwhelming generosity. Every year as I get older, I am more and more grateful to have the special people I have in my life. I don’t have a huge friend group, but I’m at a point in my life where I’m completely comfortable with it. I value the quality rather than the quantity. I may not see them that often or talk to them as often as I’d like, but when we’re together, you just know you have something amazing with them because everything feels comfortable and like no time has passed. I occasionally nitpick them and get annoyed with their foibles, but at the end of the day, love is what bonds us together — the love and affection we have for each other.

Authentic eating

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I was sitting in my favorite wonton noodle soup joint in Chinatown the other day, enjoying my freshly made noodles and wontons, when a white couple came in and sat down next to me. They clearly did not feel comfortable dining there, and they kept looking around as though someone was going to jump them any second. They debated whether they still wanted to eat there and finally settled and decided they would stay.

The both of them seemed a little perplexed as they are scanning over the menu, also glancing around to see what other diners are eating. “I think this place is supposed to make all their noodles and wontons in house,” the man said as he watches the open kitchen workers in front cutting fresh noodles and dumpling them into a massive boiling water-filled vat.

“I want to eat dumplings. Let’s get the vegetable dumplings; they sound good,” the woman said in response, clearly ignoring what her partner just said. The man insisted they get the steamed buns, or the char siu bao, and so that’s all they ordered.

The dumplings and the buns arrive at the table, and they started picking at the buns as though they are foreign goods to them. “I thought these were supposed to be Chinese pork buns, but the outside of the bun is sticky,” the man remarked. “It must be made with sticky rice. I had no idea that Chinese steamed buns were made with sticky rice.”

I’m not sure why you would go to a Chinese restaurant known for wonton noodle soup and order buns and dumplings. I’m also not sure why you would think that your steamed buns were made of sticky rice just because some of the dough stuck to your fingers.

Actually, I do know why. Foreign things always feel foreign to those who keep “foreign” concepts at bay, so it feels “safe” to order and eat what you know and are comfortable with and stereotype a culture to be. These are always the moments that I’m really grateful to be part of two Asian cultures that are rich in their history and food and not part of a generic categorization that gets ridiculed for not having any real culture.

 

Getting older

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If there is one thing that unites pretty much all of my friends, it’s that they all love to eat. Some have smaller appetites than the others, but they all enjoy eating food and see eating as a pleasure in life, not something they do simply to survive. One of my oldest friends from middle school has always been a stick, and she’s always had the largest appetite. She’s also known for eating slower than anyone I’ve ever met in my life, and after you are done eating, she has just barely scraped the surface of her dish, and then slowly will inch her way to your leftovers on your plate. We were on the phone tonight, and she said that in the last two years, she’s realized her metabolism is finally slowing down, and she cannot eat as much as she used to. She’s managed to surpass me in weight even though she is two inches shorter than me, and the bridesmaid dress she wore to my wedding stopped fitting a month after the wedding. She asked me for advice on how to lose weight and what I did to lose weight four years ago.

This is part of getting older — realizing that you can’t do all the things you wanted to do and eat all the things you want to eat without consequence. It means recognizing that your body is changing and that you need to slowly adjust what you are doing to it to treat it right, otherwise it will come back and be very mean to you.

9th year

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This my ninth year in New York City. I never thought I would say that. I always thought I’d spend 2-4 years in New York, then move back to San Francisco, or at least California. It’s strange to think about how time has passed so quickly, and at the same time, I feel very young and old simultaneously.

In New York, I’ve made a handful of good friends, got laid off from my first job during the massive economic recession of 2008-2009, and since had two other jobs that have taught and exposed me to new things in life, for better or for worse. I’ve faced intense office politics and unfairness, sex discrimination, and subtle racial discrimination. I’ve had to compromise on ethics and when faced with the decision to be myself or suck up and be someone I wasn’t, I continued to be an adult and be myself. I’ve come to know when Jewish holidays are coming up because in this city, that is the expectation whether you are Jewish or not. I realize here that no one gives a shit about Lunar or Chinese New Year the way people do in San Francisco.

New York has hardened me. It’s made me a little more jaded, a little more cynical. But at the same time, I also have more hope. I have hope that even in the worst of times, I can survive and make it out alive and well. And in a Trump Nation for the next four years, I know that survival is key, and I won’t let Trump or any bad work situation prevent me from living the life I want to live.

Back to the gym

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I finally got back to the gym this morning after a month hiatus. It’s always hard the first day back after Christmas and New Year’s given the long break from intense cardio and weights. It was even harder this morning when during my run on my treadmill, the guy who happens to be running on the treadmill next to mine continually farts, over and over and over again. It’s like he thinks that the ventilation at the gym is so strong that people right next to him cannot tell that he is flatulating. How dumb can people be?

I finally had to stop my treadmill and move all the way down to the other end of the row. And I was not the only one moving away from this idiot. It doesn’t matter how many smart people you meet in the city of New York; you will always continually meet even stupider people.

“expecting”

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There is something about coming back from a warm, summer climate to a sad, cold, and dreary winter climate that is so depressing. I just spent about three weeks in warmth and sun, and I am returning to 20-25-degree-Fahrenheit weather, snow, and big waterproof boots. Nothing is exciting about this. All these people in my Facebook and Instagram feed, complaining that they grew up in warm climates like California and never got to experience a snowy Christmas — you guys are so short-sighted and delusional. I have no idea why you think you were deprived. In fact, I feel sorry for people who had to deal with snow and all the disgusting aspects that come with it. It isn’t all fun and games and sledding and snow ball fights when you have to deal with snow chains, salting and shoveling snow out of a driveway, and flight delays and cancellations because of low visibility due to snow. Stop trying to romanticize snow. It’s not romantic. It’s sad.

So, you can imagine how excited I sounded to talk to my parents. Talking to them regularly means I am back in New York, as negative as that sounds. Today, my mom asked me, “So, are you expecting?” WHAT? No, I am not expecting. I am not pregnant. I will not be pregnant this year. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with expecting or getting pregnant. You are married and at the age!” she exclaimed. Why do you think I am expecting? I asked her. I heard you may be, she said, oddly. “Who in the world would you ‘hear’ that from?!”

In fact, she heard it from no one. She was just hoping. And she also said I sounded so grumpy that she thought I was getting mood swings from pregnancy. Great.