The accident reconstruction model gig made my day, but that high only lasted one day. A day later, it took all the strength in me to fight off paralysis (triggered by my apparent inability to land a job). What other variable could I again change to improve the situation?

I called on my college friend Jenny today. She works in Portland but her company is national and it has vacancies at their CA offices. I asked her to pass my info to the right person regarding a marketing coordinator position downtown. Almost immediately, I got a call. The bad news is, the hiring manager said the job was really a “production assistant” more than a marketing person. In other words, the PA would be responsible for placing text into InDesign/Pakemaker to generate reports and such. While I could certainly become more familiar with both of these software applications, my preference is content development. And she stressed there was no technical writing or content development involved. Her voice was doubtful: she questioned whether the job would be challenging or even interesting. Way to sell the position, right? I mean, maybe she was saying I was overqualified? Was that supposed to be comforting? I don’t know.

Regardless, this afternoon, after looking around this tiny apartment, forever littered with dirty, cluttered piles of clothes, dishes, and junk, I was suddenly overwhelmed by the endless cleaning and washing required to keep this raft barely afloat. I felt tired– the constant job hunting, the pathetic combing of job boards, the brief optimism of new finds, and the depressing blow of rejection that followed.

And then my mom called. My parents are always calling me… maybe only once or twice a week but already, it feels like too much. They’re always like, “Well since you’re not working now, maybe you can read through all these contracts since our English isn’t good…” or “Well if you have nothing to do, maybe you can post more ads for our condo…” As if I were sitting in front of the tv eating bon bons all fucking day. Ok, yes. I watched Laguna Beach. For like 10 days. That trend died weeks ago. During the day, I don’t even turn the tv on anymore.

So anyway, mom had called me a few days earlier. She had heard about some intensive EFL program for native Mandarin speakers at Georgetown. The program was highly competitive and covered by scholarship. After the program, fellows were assigned to a government job, I assume in some kind of Department of Homeland Security post. Despite my disgust with anything DOHS, I tried to be supportive. After all, this was a great educational and motivational opportunity for my mother. Learning’s always good, right? So she sent me her application essays. They were decent but, as expected, far from native level. So I spent three hours editing them, making them more fluid. Emailed them back the same day.

This morning? She called and said she decided not to apply. WHAT THE FUCK? So her reason is that she doesn’t want to be a spy or an employee of the CIA. Ok, back it up. Jesus Christ. Mom, you’re not going to become a goddamn spy following a 6-month English program. Puhleez. I mean, first off, you need to be fully knowledgeable of government and politics, which most you (and most people) aren’t. Second, you need to have security clearance. Third, you need to meet like a spy profile or whatever. I mean, the government isn’t going to just pick some random citizen because she has native language Mandarin, you know? I was so frickin’ pissed off. People did a lot of work for her application. Someone wrote her a recommendation. I edited essays. The LEAST she could do is apply. If she gets the spot, THEN she can think about declining or accepting. I swear, my mother frustrates me to no end. It’s not just this application. It’s so many other things. She’s like one of those people who bitches and complains and then NEVER does anything to change or improve her situation. And she doesn’t give a damn about anything outside her backyard. You’d think she herself actually experienced the Depression or something, with her whole paranoid, dog eat dog attitude. Seriously, she is a captive of fear.

Yeah, I know. These aren’t particularly nice things to say about my mother. Well, the way I see it, this is my blog and I tell it like it is. Frankly, my family– like many families– is fucked up. I’m not blaming anyone or anything. I’m just being matter-of-fact about it. We don’t connect. I haven’t spoken to my brother in like three years. For some people, that’s hard to understand. But to me, anything closer than distant is uncomfortable. Even growing up, we like never ate meals together. Dad was working, mom was in school or working, Johnny and I did various afterschool activities. To this day, regular family dinners is a bizarre concept. If my family dines together now, we just eat. We don’t talk. People who like tell stories and joke around and ask about each others’ days? What the hell is that? Weirds me out. The purpose of a meal is to eat. I shovel my food in and that’s that. Next.

Oh, I almost forgot. Maybe I should stop surfing Craigslist. Take a look at this garbage. No wonder I’ve been in a pissy mood:

Oh. my. fucking. god. Ugh!

Saturday was a beautiful, beautiful day. Because I had us scheduled for a Taiwanese meetup in Sunnyvale, John and I were up early for a Saturday. The event was a BBQ Potluck, and I volunteered to take hummus and pita (Oddly, I think I was the only person there eating hummus). We hit our new fave hummus place (good old Trader Joe’s), and then off we went on a scenic drive down I-280. I suppose I’ve really grown accustomed to urban development, because I couldn’t help but be wowed by the vast open fields and big trees, courtesy of the Stanford University endowment (which is over $20 BILLION, but I just got btw). With the backdrop of a clear blue sky, the landscape was breathtaking…

Even so, I still have to piss on the parade: well, I mean the fields were all burnt! No dense, lush, green foilage (as on the East Coast). Zippo. All yellow, frizzy, and crunchy like a perm job gone seriously awry. Then again, who’s really complaining. This place gets no rain; that’s part of the CA charm. 🙂

Anyway, John and I arrived at Ortega Park right on time. In the end, probably 40 people showed up. Final vote? The event turned out less promising than expected. First, as John pointed out every half hour, he was the ONLY white dude. In my defense, how the hell was I supposed to know? I mean, yes, it’s a Taiwanese meetup, but surely some Taiwanese hook up with whiteys??! Or what about people who study abroad or people whose families are stationed in Asia? Seriously, my assumption should have been solid.

My second guess (that was also incorrect) was that there would be singles and couples at the meetup. Nope. I dunno what was up… There were older, mommy-looking types there, but they acted single. What the hell? Not that relationship status matters, but I’m just saying again, sometimes it affects the vibe, you know? About the whitey thing though, John should just get over his whole “Outsider” hangup. After all, welcome to my world.

So the meetup was ok; I met some nice people actually. Maybe like two with whom I actually conversed longer than five minutes. They were friendly, nice women, but in the end, I didn’t get their contact info, so what does that say? Same deal with John. Met maybe one dude he thought was ok (from Maryland, no less), but again, no contact info. And by 12:30, John was harassing the shit out of me about leaving. He had eaten his two sausage dogs and apparently, that signaled the end. So damn impatient, I tell you. I wanted to say goodbye to my two “prospects” (for lack of a better word), but they were talking to other people and god forbid John wait another five minutes for me to butt in and get numbers. Yeah, so in conclusion, meetup 3 was a total bust. So far I’m 1 for 3, the one being the anti-trafficking group. There’s a lipstick and politics meetup tomorrow in the city… not sure if I’m ready to take that on. The discussion question was, “What does it mean to be a woman?” Oh god, let me dig up my Women’s Studies 101 notes. Shit, I didn’t sign up for deep issues like that!

I have to admit though, my whole meetup experience has given me new insights. Now I totally understand the frustration of my single friends. Meeting new people for fun is such a fucking chore; I can’t even imagine meeting people for relationships. Ugh! Sucks, man!

But the larger picture is this: commonality is overrated in terms of connecting with people. Proximity (physical) is the answer. That’s why I feel closest to my friends made during my years in school. Oh god, how old does that make me sound? Middle school, high school, college, grad school. Sure, all of that was years ago and we drifted in and out of touch, but in the end, that spark lived on. Why? Because the foundation was strong. Weird, sorry that phrase conjured a Papa Gou image.

And more and more, I’m thinking that the bond isn’t just there from the start; it’s something that forms through repetition– seeing these people in class, living next door or down the street… I don’t know. All I can say is I compare each prospect with a tried and true, and very rarely do I believe the crossover will eventually happen. What does that mean??! I’m a skeptical beotch, man. And the high standards never die. What can I do.

So last couple weeks, I’ve been going on and on about making concerted efforts to meet people. I talked about finding activity groups and about joining Meetups. In fact, I signed up for like five groups– Mandarin language, anti-trafficking, Chinese professionals, etc.

So on Monday, the San Leandro Chinese language meetup scheduled their third get together. Seeing as one person confirmed, plus there was the organizer, I assumed that meant at least two people. Five others (including myself) RSVPed “maybe.” Well Monday night rolled around, and I felt myself getting lazy about driving to East Bay. I reasoned that maybe no one would show or that maybe they’d be a bunch of middle-aged bores (which I am NOT!). In the end, I knew I had to go. How else was I supposed to make friends?

I invited John (we were meeting at a Denny’s, after all) but even the Grand Slam breakfast wasn’t enough to entice him. He declined, preferring instead to watch Monday night football. I figured. So I made the trek across the San Mateo Bridge alone. When I arrived, the Denny’s was empty, save for three tables. There were three Chinese adults at one of the tables. Maybe they were the meetup members? I started approaching until I noticed they were fully engrossed in conversation, AND they had their food already. I arrived at Denny’s exactly on time… the members wouldn’t be so rude as to order ahead, right? So I waited. And waited. And waited. They weren’t looking for anyone either. I called the organizer, but he didn’t answer. Ten minutes passed and the three Chinese up and left.

The organizer finally called back and apologized. He had just started a new job, so he couldn’t make it, blah, blah. And the other “yes” person (the assistant organizer, btw), seeing as he was the only one confirmed, decided to cancel. Well gee, maybe he could have notified all the “maybes” that the damn thing was canceled? Wtf?! You know, I’d heard the accusations before, but I didn’t want to believe them. But shit, the evidence is overwhelming now (my case PLUS many others’): SFers are fucking flakey, man. They just decide last minute not to attend something and they don’t even bother to tell anyone else. Selfish bastards. Yeah, I’m bitter about it. Still.

So anyway, I called John to tell him no one showed. Ever the cynic, he just laughed in his “I told you so” kind of way.

Fortunately, the evening wasn’t a total bust. I had eyed a Nordies Rack on the way in, so the night was salvaged with me-time shopping. Of course, I didn’t find jack shit, but I guess I got to look around (and feel totally disenchanted by today’s fashion).

My second meetup occured last night in the city: the anti-trafficking meetup. You gotta give it up for feminists, man. They have their shit together. We got handouts, a mission statement, goals statement, a goddamn agenda! Sure, the topic was depressing as hell, and I got a massive headache learning about the abolitionists vs. regulationists points of views but still, it was cool to just be around people with passionate, you know? People who really believe their personal actions matter. Some consider them foolish idealists. I don’t care what you call them. I’m just glad I found them.

Haha, hehe, I got a gig yesterday. Yes, my job hunt has slowed to a screeching halt so I spent a brief time combing online for gigs. Something to do, some extra cash, maybe even a potential “in.” So what’s the job? I’m an accident reconstruction model, or as John calls it, a crash test dummy. Not exactly, but anyway, I answered this ad calling for a female weighing X lbs (within a 5-lb range) and measuring Y inches (one-inch range) tall. Hallelujah, I fit the profile! Called the engineer, went to the office to verify my height and weight, and bam, I’m booked for next week. Aww yeah, baby! $100/hour. Not. too. shabby.

In the mean time, I gotta watch my weight. You never know, that Chipotle burrito could just push me over the edge. I’m telling you, day to day and morning to night even, I fluctuate +/- 2 lbs. No big deal, but with this gig, it could be a tight rope to walk. I think it just means no huge pigfest this weekend.

But I do laugh, thinking back to high school when the wrestlers were always fretting about “making weight.” I remember before the big matches, Joe Ottinger and Sean Grunwell would pile on three to four heavy winter coats and run laps around the gym. For like an hour! They were insane. I had even heard rumours of guys puking themselves. Ugh. What horrible, horrible thoughts that conjures. Two close friends plagued so severely by anorexia, they were hospitalized. And so many control-freak perfectionists on campus at college… so sad. I mean, I probably have more obsessive tendencies than most, but thankfully, weight has never been a huge concern.

Well, we should have known it was too good to last. When John and I moved to China in December 2003, our Reston townhouse sat vacant for FIVE MONTHS before we finally got tenants. Part of the problem was a totally incompetant property management company (the agent we originally hired retired after a company bought his business). Then, I had to shop around and locate another agent– all from overseas. In May 2005 though, we finally landed a renter. And that family has lived in our house ever since. They re-signed a lease last May, but then last month, they said they were returning to their native country in October. What a bummer. For us and for them. They don’t even want to leave, but the wife couldn’t get her immigration papers. Thanks a lot, Uncle Sam. A perfectly fine, upstanding couple… the husband has lived and worked in the States for two decades, and now they have to uproot and go. And it’s not just my tenants. I know others… like my friend Matt who married a Japanese woman. Her papers took a damn eternity– all in the name of homeland security. Total BS.

Anyway, my place is posted on Craigslist. Know anyone interested? If so, please spread the word. Thanks!

I forgot to mention that pretty much as soon as I had arrived in Maryland earlier this month, my parents again sat me down for the “appearances are very important” speech. Despite wearing what I thought was a stylish outfit, evidently, I had disappointed them again. And boy did I receive an earful about how, for example, my father doesn’t want my mother to dress poorly: it’s important that she look good (Why? Is she his arm candy or something?). Whatever. I know appearances are important, but please, to suggest that John is embarrassed or ashamed by how I dress is just plain annoying. It’s yet another example of how my parents simply don’t get my relationship and my marriage. Anyway, partly I think their clothing comments will continue so long as I wear jeans (they consider denim “student clothing”). After all, my father is someone who used to play tennis in a suit! Still, I was a bit curious: what about my outfit that day triggered their comments? I actually thought the embroidered jeans and delicate top were well-paired. Nope. My mother said my top was totally wrinkled in the back. Ok, fine. I guess that is a tad frumpy. But Jesus, give me a frickin’ break: I shuttled around Boston for three days, and I just got off the plane! These style people, man. No mercy!

Later that day, my mother began sifting through her closets, pulling out clothes to give me. Mind you, she and I are about 30 years apart: we have totally contrasting styles, not to mention different body types. Nonetheless, she insisted that I try on all her mommy suits and flower-print, boxy tops. I mean, come on, I underwent Pamela’s program for a few months– in the very least, I now can look at something and tell whether the cut will work on me. My mother’s stuff is ALL WRONG. I’m talkin’ no butt pockets, high elastic waists, and shoulder pads! I’m not on Dynasty, for Crissakes! She refused to listen. After wasting two hours changing into all her mommy pieces, we finally both agreed that nothing looked right on me. She then explained her logic: she thinks I’m too damn cheap to go buy myself nice clothes, so to her, the next best thing is her stuff! Disturbing, on so many levels.

Clue #2 (suggesting my style emergency) came from my grandfather, Yebbie. I was prancing around in my new shoes, which I had purchased in Providence with Grace, when Yeb asked, “Aren’t the pointed-toe shoes in style now? With the spikey heels?” Nice. Guess he didn’t like my new rounded-toe wedgies. Sigh. Gettin’ style advice from gramps (who’s 80 plus)! A bad sign indeed.

Luckily, one good thing did come from my mother’s closet. You see, I’ve searched far and wide for a decent purse. Nothing ever fits my criteria for color, pattern, AND inside organization. Lo and behold, my mother had a purse she bought two years ago and never used (tags still on!). I have to say, it’s pretty cute, and it has good sectioning. Yay. Definitely an upgrade from the $3 USD Carrefour bag I previously lugged around.

When I returned to Cali earlier this week, I decided I needed to be more proactive about this apparent style dilemma. I decided to attend the upcoming clothing swap. I loved the concept of a clothing swap, but I was wary of (and uneasy about) the nightclub venue. But, I had to go: my peeps were giving me bad vibes, you know? I had to take action. So, I dragged my friend Karen to the swap.

An unfortunate restaurant pick caused us to arrive 20 minutes late, but I still got some decent pieces: two short skirts (black and gray), a stretch top, and brown ankle boots (to replace my SH ones). Sadly, Karen left the place empty-handed. Maybe (likely) her wardrobe is more extensive than mine. Sigh. My self-improvement program continues…

Another Labor Day gone. Tomorrow John and I are flying back west on a 6:30 a.m. JetBlue flight. Sigh. I’m exhausted and disappointed. I began the journey with high hopes of visiting my long lost friends. I was going to catch up with my FMF peeps, some college buddies, some CDM folk. I apologize, because that just didn’t happen. John and I spent most of our four days in a car, shuttling from DC to Frederick to Rockville to DC to Rockville to Frederick to Potomac to… you get the point. I know, we really need to allot more days next time. I guess this visit was particularly busy, because well, we’d been overseas the last two and a half years, so there was a good bit of catching up to do with family. My in-laws insist they’d forgotten what I look like…

John says we’ll return again for Christmas (yikes); hopefully he’ll use vacation days then, and we’ll actually get to see people. In the meantime, if anyone’s traveling to the Bay area, please give us a holler.

Generally, the family time on this trip went ok. Pretty much the usual, except that my parents surprisingly refrained from pressing my hot buttons. My father says he doesn’t care anymore about my barren womb outlook; guess the Johnny situation isn’t making any progress.

Our food safari went well– Chicken Out pot pie, steamed Maryland blue crabs, Ledo’s pizza. I also ate some incredible peaches from my parents’ tree. They say the tree bore 2000 peaches this year. I thought they were exaggerating, but apparently a ton of neighbors and friends got their share (and they kept coming back for more). Amazing, considering the tree was totally organic, i.e. neglected. Wouldn’t it be cool if my parents set up a roadside fruit stand??

John and I made some headway cleaning out our junk in storage. Gave away another nine boxes worth of crap. In my unpacking/repacking, I came across a book the ladies at work gave my mom years ago: American Slang. It’s just what I need. Btw, did you know that “scumbag” actually means condom? Interesting tidbit. After thumbing through the book, John finally acknowledged that my immigrant parents are a contributing factor to my cultural illiteracy… Jesus, you have no idea how long John’s denied my claim. Anyway, I think I’ll be mostly up to speed after I complete that book. And then a bit of MTV should round out the rest of my education.

I left SF a few days before John to hit Boston first on my East Coast tour. The last time I was in Boston was 16 or so years ago when my parents had taken me on an East Coast colleges tour: Harvard, Wellesley, MIT. Yeah, Boston was intimidating back then. This time around though, I got a really good vibe– maybe because with Shanghai now under my belt, navigating a new place is no longer as daunting as it used to be. I don’t know. Anyway, Boston is ultra cool. Guess it also helps that my friend Josh is there, and he’s an expert urbanite– he’s all up on the public transportation and major attractions. Plus, he gives the most accurate, concise directions ever. The weather was crummy, but we had a blast anyway. We saw Shear Madness at a small theater downtown, checked out the IMAX, went to a couple open houses in Charlestown. It was as if college were yesterday. Then again, I guess it hasn’t really been that long since Josh and I last met. No matter where in the world I am, we somehow manage to meet up a few times a year. Just kind of worked out that way, because John used to fly to CA for work, and Josh lived and worked in SF until last April.

Anyway yeah, public transportation in Boston rocks. Super cheap to ride the T (the metro/subway) and great access to all the major hubs– airport, train stations, etc. Day two, I caught the commuter train to visit my grad school roomie Grace in Providence. Again, the weather was shit, but she had the cutest little pad near Brown. We shopped (and purchased identical pairs of shoes), rented a movie, ate grilled cheese sandwiches, shared boy troubles. Was fun.

My final evening in Boston, Josh and I had dinner with my childhood friend Joyce. Joyce and I go waaaay back. Our parents are good friends. She was out in LA for a couple years and recently relocated to Boston to attend Harvard B school. That’s right, running with the big dogs. I enjoyed catching up with Joyce, but in retrospect, I think I yapped too much about me and didn’t get enough scoop about her. That’s what happens when you get into the danger zone– the brain doesn’t think straight. It was probably 9:30 p.m. or so by the time we got our food (hearty comfort food) at the Silvertone Bar & Grill. Not a bad find, thanks to my newest city resource, Yelp!

Is it antifeminist to say that I hate my vagina? In other words, sometimes I just really hate being female. I know, it sounds practically sacrilegious to say that; after all, I’m supposed to embrace my womanhood, feel the sisterhood connection, etc. Well, sorry. This was a bad week. And yes, I do hate when men bring up menstruation every time a woman shows any ounce of annoyance or impatience. Still, I have to come clean today. My period affects my mood– in a negative way. No fuckin’ doubt about it. But, I should clarify: women can make that statement. Men, on the other hand, just shouldn’t even go there.

So this week was a tough one. Now that I’m convinced (despite my father’s expert opinion) that the pill was the root of all my skin issues, I’ve decided to stay away. Unfortunately, one of the bastardly side-effects of being drug-free is full-on, unmitigated menstruation-related discomfort. My. fucking. god. First, there’s the PMS. I’ve been the biggest denialist (?) out there, but no more. Last week, I watched Cast Away. Yes, generally an uplifting film about human fortitude. But the part where he returns and finds the wife has married another? So painful. Already pretty bad for a normal week, but last week? Jesus. It was as if Remy had died. Sobbing, wailing, asthmatic breathing, the works. Like a true masochist, I (we) followed Cast Away with The Notebook. Yes, leave it to Nicholas Sparks to gag you so hard with a love story, you practically feel the spoon touching your stomach. I was an absolute mess, I tell you. The whole sofa cushion? Drenched in my tears. And it wasn’t even the last part– where the couple died together in the hospital bed– that got me: it was the scene where she came to for a moment– such a tender, touching moment– and then suddenly, she was gone, screaming frantically at the “intruder” in her room. Holy shit. I was an emotional wasteland. And that was only Tuesday.

Yesterday was our tenth anniversary of togetherness. I know, all these silly milestones get a bit ridiculous (and nauseating). Sorry, I really am trying to cut the list down… Anyway, I was ill yesterday. You see, the night before, I made lemon-egg lamb chops. I was actually starting to feel good about the whole cooking thing, so I tried a new recipe. Needless to say, I managed to undercook the meat and then I grossed myself out after slicing through the pink/bloody chop on my plate. John insists his piece was cooked and tasted delish, but the next day, we both felt sluggish. I actually came down with my usual mysterious fever sickness and I was bedridden most of the day. Serves me right for getting overconfident in the kitchen.

John came home early, but I was still messed up at 5 pm. By the time I finally started feeling better, we were in the danger zone, so we needed food fast. We went across the street, stuffed our faces, and then John asked me what else I’ve done consistently for ten years. Say what? You know, like we’ve been together for ten years, so what else has received similar attention and commitment. Well, shit. I can’t be answering behavioral interview questions when I’m ill, you know? Ten years is a long time. I mean, we’re talking pre-Remy era. Uh well, ten years ago, I collected receipts… We laughed, and then on the walk home, my mystery illness came back with a vengeance. You know, maybe it has nothing to even do with the lamb… maybe it has to do with my period?? TSS even crossed my mind. I know, a little gross but I was checking like a madwoman to make sure I hadn’t left a tampon in for like three days or something (someone I know actually did that!). Ugh. Back to the v. It’s a damn inconvenience sometimes.

So the rest of the night was busted (sorry, Bubs). We watched March of the Penguins, another story about survival. And parental love. Blah, blah. Cinematically, the film was beautiful. And the story was also quite enlightening, but with a major belly ache, it lasted an eternity.

Ten years is a long time. And yesterday was a long, uneventful day.

So our storage unit is on the top floor of our complex. The Jefferson at Bay Meadows consists of several buildings, but each is only four stories high. And the elevator is confusing as hell– the least user-friendly elevator I’ve seen. Aesthetically, it’s a nice lift– roomy with a high-ceiling for super tall/long furniture pieces and it’s relatively new and sturdy. It has doors on two sides, but the buttons don’t make sense. For instance, I have trouble figuring out how to open the back door (on the opposite side, facing the visitor entrance). Anyway, when I first started moving stuff upstairs last month, the highest number on the keypad was 3, so I just assumed that was the highest floor the elevator serviced. I figured the third floor apartments were double-level, and you just had to go up one flight of stairs to reach the storage units on the top floor. I know, it sounded a bit off, but I didn’t give it much thought after that. I just went to the third floor and took the stairs.

Well when my monster shipment arrived last week, I noticed a P button next to the 3, not next to the 1. I thought about it and I knew that the parking garage (usually marked P) was the G button. Huh? Was this possible? P stood for Penthouse, maybe? Seeing as I had two really huge, heavy-ass boxes, I gave it a try. What do you fucking know? P is for Penthouse. Mother fuckers. I mean, this isn’t some swanky, high-rise like the Trump Plaza. Why couldn’t they have just used a fucking 4 button like any other apartment complex? Swear to god, these pretentious freaks. What the hell? John just chuckled, shook his head, and said, “Classic doobies.” He says he knew something was up when I told him the elevator didn’t go to the top floor. Well, I didn’t see him pressing the P button! How the hell was I supposed to know?

From 2005.08.21