Monday, February 28

day 10315: Spiderman

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! There's a spider in the shower! Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!!!" The shower is still running. Water drips onto the floor. "Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!"

"It's only a spider." He looks a little too nonchalant.

"WHAT?! You knew it was there and you didn't TELL ME?!"

"Yep, saw it earlier when I was in the shower."

"And you didn't kill it?"

"He just wanted to take a steam bath!"

Friday, February 25

day 10312: can of worms

Once upon a time, a friend came up to me and said, “I hardly ever talk to you anymore. Why don’t you ever call me?”

“I try,” I replied, “But, time difference. Anyway, you never call me either.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said. “Well, call me sometime.”

“You call me, too.”

She never called. I never called. I sent emails for a while, but rarely got one back. I visited, she visited. Times were fun when we were together just hanging with a group. But it wasn’t the same. Things were different.

We had become strangers…once-upon-a-time friends who shared a history, common friends and that’s about it.

I’ve been thinking about writing this for a while. Type, delete, type, delete… it wasn’t something I necessarily wanted out in the public airwaves. I tortured myself with the what-if-she-sees-this-what-if-it’s-just-me-etcetera-etcetera, just like I did when I was agonizing over whether or not I could write off a long term friendship.

I’ve come to the conclusion that it isn’t just me, and that even if she sees this, it’s probably for the better. Open a can of worms and maybe you’ll catch a fish.

People change. Life’s circumstances and our day-to-day actions make us into who we are. Things happen between people that they don’t necessarily agree upon. Expectations are set and occasionally people are disappointed.

I’m not mad, upset or angry. I’m just disappointed at the bad-timing, self-justification, and the night ending with her conclusion that just because she had her say, everything was fine and peachy. Everything was not fine and peachy – it’s still stuck in my mind.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve wasted enough time grouching about it, and have spent too many minutes being disappointed in her. I no longer care.

Once upon a time, she said, “I’m glad you said that, because I’m worried that we won’t all be friends down the road.”

“We’ll always be friends,” I replied. I was innocent and naive buoyed by holiday spirit.

I never thought I’d see the day where she’d say “If you can think that I’d do something like that, then you don’t know me at all.”

To which my initial thought was… you’re right, girl...I don’t know you at all. Not anymore. Actions speak louder than words. You've done it before, you can do it again.

But it's true, actions speak louder than words. So I will make one last ditch effort to resuscitate a once-upon-a-time-friendship. I will be the bigger person, send out that one last email and ask her for coffee or tea so we can try to talk things out and maybe restore what once was.

One last ditch effort. I can do that. I think.

Wednesday, February 23

day 10310: non-ex-pat

"Business or pleasure?" Business...
"Where did you go?" Connecticut...
"Who do you work for and what do you do?" Monkeyco... finance...
"What alcohol are you bringing back?" Sapphire...
"That's not one of your brands, is it?" *whisper* No...
"Figures. You paid too much for it too. NEXT!"

Monday, February 21

day 10308: who knew????????????

Who knew nine months ago that my monkeyco would be my downfall. Maybe I should have expected it when my boss told me that I wasn't allowed to quit drinking.

I have yet to return "home" to my hotel room unscathed from a night out with co-leagues from my monkeyco (and monkeyco senior). It's only Monday night, and already, I am blushing a rather becomingly-drunken pink (complete with blood shot eyes). I've tettered on my three inch heels, and you can consider all the chocolate chip cookies officially stolen from the front desk.

In Connecticut less than 24 hours and already "what happens on the road stays on the road..." has become a favourite saying. But just to tease you...

"Are you going to fry my pie?"
"I've got to peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee... someone open a window!!"
"Is the seat warm?"
"I'll strangle you gently..."
"Yo, this must be one HELL of a drinking town."
"Let's go visit MARTHA!!!!!!!!!!!"
"You can chimmy anything? What about my Guinness?"

Sunday, February 20

day 10307: ex-pat

Going through US immigration...
US immigration-dude: This is a picture of you?
J: Yes
USID: What the heck happened?
J: I lost a bit of weight
USID: Damn, girl, you look good... how did you do it?
J: Starved...
USID: Must of... you look real good...

Friday, February 18

day 10305: the trouble with me

The trouble with me is that I like instant gratification. I’m not the wait-and-see kind of girl. When I want something, it usually means that I want it now. I don’t like to wait. I don’t have the patience to wait.

Take emails for example. I ask a question, I need an answer. Send me an answer within a thirty second time frame and I’ll be perfectly happy. Anything more than that, and I’m not so happy…

Or boys… if you’re interested, suck up your ego and don’t wait the two days to call. I lose interest really quickly… I think that’s what went wrong with Serious Boy… that and we have absolutely nothing in common…

Or medicine… take two and call me in the morning… well, if my pills don’t work after an hour, can I take a couple more? This one usually backfires on me. Four extra strength Advils, four tylenol cold tablets... I think I'm rather doped up. Flying high as a kite. Still feeling really rather crappy, but hey, at least I can breath…

That’s all I’m saying…

Thursday, February 17

day 10304: if there could be anything worse than your mom walking in on you when you and the boy are *hmmm*, it could be accidentally calling her in the middle of the night when you and the boy are *hmmm*

Need I say any more? ... oops...

Monday, February 14

day 10301: there were no black olives on the pizza…

It’s V-Day…

I suppose that as a member of the fairer sex, it is my duty to sigh, bat my eyelashes and expect an armful of red roses to be delivered to my door by a knight in shining armour. Gifts of chocolate, lingerie, expensive day trips to the spa, a romantic candlelight dinner in a five star restaurant overlooking the water… *sigh*…

Alas, it’s not to be. Not for me. Not this year.

We are spending V-day apart. Just like last year.

The boy is wallowing in the quagmire of solitude (a.k.a. he’s self-exiled to the 6’x4’x5’ hole under his kitchen floor, running miles of electrical wire and attempting to home-repair his hot water heater), while I am making the drive ALL THE WAY OUT TO SUBURBIA to drop off darling-princess-poop-a-lot at my mother’s house because I’m flying out early tomorrow morning.

There are no flowers, no candies, and no undying vows of love and admiration BECAUSE I PROCRASTINATED TOO LONG and couldn’t decide what to get him. I still can’t decide. I STILL HAVEN’T BOUGHT ANYTHING!!! (I NEED IDEAS!!!)

(I’m still expecting flowers, btw… from last week’s not-so-subtle questions about my favourite flowers…)

Uh-oh spaghetti-o… Yikes…

I tried to make amends. I ordered him a pizza for lunch so he wouldn’t have to dodge the HOLE between exclamations of “Fcuk!” and “Terry… can you turn the water OFF!” It being V-Day and all, I thought I’d get some laughs by having them arrange the toppings in the shape of a heart.

But Bitter-Customer-Service-Chick cut me down for being corny. And when I called back to try to get the number for the individual store, I was told that my pizza was already in the oven.

“Do it with black olives, then.”

“I’ll call the store and see if they will.” I crossed my fingers and hoped. She sounded a lot friendlier than Bitter-Customer-Service-Chick #1.

Yeah right.

She put me on hold and then hung up on me instead.

End of story… there was no black olives on the pizza.

But he still thinks I’m “wonderful.”

Happy-hallmark-holiday-Valentine’s-Day. Hope you have a good one. Even if you’re going to be like me – sitting in front of the tv.

Friday, February 11

day 10298 1/2: yawwwwwwnnnnnn...

I think I sleepwalk. Can you sleepwalk if you're only half asleep?

Last night I woke up in the middle of the night with the overwhelming urge to shower. I have no idea what I was dreaming of... mud wrestling, perhaps?

Anyway, next thing I know, I'm in the shower soap in hand wondering... how the heck did I get here...

Like I said... I think I sleepwalk...
day 10298: get with the times

So Charles and Camilla are getting married. And the world has gone into a righteous uproar whipped up by a media bored with disaster and war.

Should they? Should they not? What kind of title is she getting…princess…duchess…?

Who really cares.

Good for them that they finally have the guts to stand up and marry for love. Everyone deserves to be with someone they love. Circumstances of birth aside, they’re just people – ordinary people who are entitled to leading their own lives and making their own choices.

When it comes down to the nitty-gritty, being “royal” is just like being born into a job.

Agreed, there are certain responsibilities, images etc that they have to maintain, and a lifestyle they have to commit to. But, at the end of the day, when the lights turn off and they go to bed, they just want to reach out for someone they love to cuddle up with.

They dream just like everyone else does.

So get off their backs. It’s no big deal. What they may have or may not have done when Di was still alive is moot. Forgive and forget and let them move on.

Go bug someone else for a change... save the whales, preserve the rainforest... and whatever else we haven't heard about for a while...

Thursday, February 10

day 10297: “yesterday was plain awful…”

Ten years ago, yesterday, my father dropped dead in front of me. We were at a fencing class that I made him go to despite the fact that he had just gotten back from a business trip earlier that evening. He was tired and stressed and clearly didn’t want to go. But I did, and that was enough for him.

He had just fought a match. Win or lose, I can’t remember. He shook his opponent’s hand, turned to walk away and collapsed, epee falling to the ground. I can still hear the sounds… the clatter and the thud. And then the silence before anyone could react.

Someone went to call 911. Someone else came and started administering CPR. I didn’t know what else to do, and ran to find an old law teacher who used to be in the army. In my panicking mind, he was the solution and the salvation. I abandoned my father to complete strangers who I thought didn’t have a clue about what they were doing, and tried to find help. Little did I know that one of them was actually a medical resident. Poor guy, he must be scarred still.

Three flights of stairs up, I burst into a room not remembering that it was Thursday night, and that law was taught on Wednesday. Blank stares all around… it was a Mandarin class, and no, she did not know where Mr. Halloran was and went back to talking about the characters she had written on the blackboard. The characters spelled out barbeque pork.

I ran down the hallway, anxiously looking into the classroom windows, trying in vain to find him. He wasn’t there… not on the third floor… there was no way I could comb the school looking for him. There was no time. I had to get back. I needed to find help.

And then I ran into Andrew who kept asking me where his girlfriend was and didn’t hear my whispers for help through my unsteady breathes. I don’t remember what I said to him afterwards, but I think I told him to fcuk off. I hope I told him to fcuk off.

When I got back to the gym, I could hear the sirens. Fire trucks, the first to arrive… I kicked away the dropped epees and face masks. I didn’t care if they broke. I just wanted them out of the way. I dropped to the ground beside him, rocking and whispering “I’m sorry.” His eyelashes fluttered once, maybe twice and that was it.

The firemen came. The police came. One of them played with the dial on the oxygen tank despite admonishments from the firemen. Some of them chatted about budget cuts and why they didn’t have defibrillators on the firetrucks.

I wanted to yell at them for being so callous. My FATHER was DYING on the floor and THEY WERE TALKING POLITICS. But I didn’t and kept rocking and kept apologizing for dragging him there.

A teacher came and led me out of the room to the school office to call my mother. I was brutal when I told her. Not knowing what to say... had I thought of it beforehand, I could have softened the blow instead of saying that something had happened and everyone was there and that we were all going to go to NYGH. There must have been something else that I could have said.

But I didn’t think. I couldn’t think… I should have thought.

The drive to the hospital was a blur. They put me in the back of a police cruiser. I wanted to ride in the ambulance. I remember thinking that they were idiots and why didn’t they drive any faster, and that there was surprisingly little leg room in the back. I guess criminals don’t need to be comfortable.

We drove by the house. My uncle was just pulling into the drive way to pick up my mom and my sister to take them to the hospital. Ever practical, and not really knowing the situation, my mom got my sister to bring her homework with her. Just in case.

I remember the waiting room – the private room they reserved for the “really special cases” - the ugly grey chairs, the nurse in the pink uniform who tried to hold my mother’s hand. I remember slamming my fist into the wall, angry and frustrated that we weren’t hearing anything and that I couldn’t do anything to make things better. It was the first time I lashed out in anger, but not the last.

Later that night, my uncle drove me back to the school to pick up the car. The streets were muffled by the freshly fallen snow. Everything seemed so still, as if the world knew that my heart was broken, and it grieved along with me… tears that no longer could be shed, a mind trying to grasp at whatever memories remained.

For years afterwards, I believed that I killed him. I believed that it was my fault that he died, and if I had not forced him to go to class with me, he would have lived until he was 82. I harbored it deep inside, believing that I had killed my father, and for that reason, rationalized that my life wasn’t important and that I deserved to die early too. I didn’t care what happened to me. I didn’t care about anything. I just went with the flow, let things carry me along and did the minimum I needed to do in order not to excessively worry my family.

I didn’t want to die. But I didn’t want to live either. I had been daddy’s little girl for a very long time, but things changed, and I grew up. I was forced to grow up. It was my responsibility to be strong which is why I’ve never told anyone what happened that night; bits and pieces, but never in its entirety.

I spent part of last night sitting in the parking lot where the old school building had been. The gym is gone now, smoothed over and paved, while the new school stands not too far away. Dark, silent… just watching as I sat there thinking about the past ten years… going over in my head the “what if’s” and the “whys.”

There were no answers, no easing of the pain that I feel whenever I let myself think about that night. There was only silence just like that night ten years ago. The world hushed by sadness, blanketed by the falling snow that covered the bouquet of flowers I left behind.

Wednesday, February 9

day 10296: hypothetically… “what about jet li or maybe a porno…?”

“Baby, I have an idea… and it’s entirely up to you. But how do you feel about having dinner with my mom tonight?”

Scary. Scary. Um. Yeah. I’m ok with that. Phew.

You can’t blame me for trying. I was feeling guilty for not wanting to make the trek into suburbia for New Year’s Eve dinner. I only wanted to go to Chinatown, wander around buying candies and flowers and absorb my one dose of Chinese culture for the year. But then someone said that Chinatown was severely lacking in New Year’s decorations this year, and that the only place worth going was Pacific Mall…

Pacific Mall it was to be. Except that it’s even further into suburbia than the maternal one’s house and so I compromised to appease my guilt. Snacks and time with my mother, and then later in the night he’d pick me up when he got off work and we’d go to the mall.

(I think they’re warming up to each other…)

She made him a New Year’s package to put beside his bed – lucky red envelope, candies and special tangerines with the stems and leaves still attached. He gave her a hug and a “Hope you feel better!” and off we went, care packages in hand…

“I can’t believe we got the first spot!!! Right by the door!” he is positively crowing with excitement, “I MUST tell someone… maybe Candy… she’d think it’s cool…”

We wander the mall, walking from one closed store to the next… peering into windows and laughing at the yellow happy-face condom lamp in the “18 and over, ID will be checked” store.

“Damn, I don’t know what I want. I don’t know how to buy bras without my mother…” I NEED A TRANSLATOR. I finger a lacy one, and shake my head at the saleswoman when she tries to hand me a beige plastic-cup-looking one. I was thinking more along the lines of something red, silky and “hmmm… yummy…” reactionary.

“How do you usually buy them then?”

“I stay in the dressing room and try on whatever they throw at me.”

“I could critique them for you…” He smiles, pretends to leer at me and off we go in search of snacks, candies and the world’s worse bubble tea (note to self… never go to Bubble Tease at the top of the escalators EVER AGAIN!).

“I don’t like any of the flowers…” I’m disappointed by the lack of decorations, things to see and things to buy. Somehow I remember it being a lot more festive, glorious and happy. It looks like no one wanted to go through the hassle of trying this year. I had wanted it to be perfect and cool, something wonderful to share with he-who-is-openly-uncomfortable-because-he-is-a-token-white-guy-in-a-completely-oriental-mall.

“What is your favourite flower?” he asks. Pink roses… I can see where this is heading. I think I know what he’s planning… mmmm…

We wander around upstairs. We wander around downstairs; into the $5 dvd stores browsing selections of *hush* non-legit dvds. It’s hard to resist. It costs less than renting.

“I don’t know where to look.” I snicker. “In the other store, Debbie Does Da World is on the top shelf… in this store, it’s Co-Ed Consorts on the bottom. I drop a dime, bend down to pick it up and look up to see nothing but tits and teeth and ass…”

He hands me three dvds… we need one more for the 4 for $20 “bargain deal.” He scans the shelf, “What about Jet Li?” Turns to me and grins… “Or maybe a porno…”

I laugh, toss him Beauty and the Breast* and move on to the next aisle…

Kung hei fat choy… wishing you happiness and prosperity in the year of the Rooster… and all that jazz…

[*ed note: Beauty and the Breast was not a typo. Not was it porn. More like some idiotic Chinese-director thinking he’s oh-so-funny with his awesome, hilarious play on words… just because his movie is about breast-enlargement cream.]

Tuesday, February 8

day 10295: show me some luvin’

Princess-poop-a-lot craves… no… DEMANDS attention. She paws at you when she wants to be picked up. She rolls over onto her back when she wants her tummy rubbed… she’ll even jump onto your lap when you sit down for a pee.

She knows the perfect way of achieving maximum response with minimum effort. She lies in wait, oh so patiently, for the moment that your eyes flutter open… then all hell breaks loose and she’s at it again… nudging her head into your hand and licking at your fingertips if you don’t react quickly enough to give her the morning pat.

And when you try to ignore her, because you’re “occupied elsewhere,” she runs to the garbage can, tips it over with a loud clatter and starts pawing and nosing nosily at the contents. You can’t help but stop doing what you’re doing to look over… and then all hell breaks loose again.

Monday, February 7

day 10294: yikes

[Note to self… if you think of something really good to blog about, make sure you do it right away. If you get sidetracked thinking about “something else” you will forget what the heck you were going to say. And any subsequent thing you write will be absolute crap.]

And now back to our regular scheduled program…


If you spend the whole weekend eating, you'll have no time left to nap it off. This will lead to extreme fullness and general grumpiness from lack nap-sleep.

Friday, February 4

day 10291: snippets

…on discussion of good v-day restaurants…

Bossman: Moral of the story is… if you’re ever having an affair, you should go to that restaurant.
J: Thanks, but I’m not into that kind of thing.
B: You never know.

… IdiotChick on the climb next to me while I try to lead a 5.10b (35’ off the ground)…

IC: Looks hard.
IC: And I’m stupid (tries to show me her long, perfectly manicured fingers)
J: Yup, you are…

…maternal one trying to schedule last minute “family” activities…

M: You can’t do it on Wednesday. It’s New Years…
J: But I scheduled it in for Wednesday. You can’t just spring something on me last minute… I’m fully booked.
M: So how long in advance do I have to give you notice?
J: (looking at calendar) Three weeks.

…in the locker room at the gym …

J: (pinching newly-noticed stomach jello-roll)Do you think I look any chubbier?
T: Is that an “Am I fat question?” How can you possibly expect me to answer that?
J: Honestly.
T: Yeah right. I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t.
J: No really… I promise I won’t hit you.
T: Then no. Not that I’ve noticed.
J: Good, cuz I’ve been constantly hungry for the past couple of weeks and I’ve been stuffing my face.
T: ARE YOU PREGNANT? Have you noticed any other changes in your body?
J: (SLAP) NO! But I think my boobs are getting smaller.
T: Yeah, I’ve noticed that too.

…to a co-worker…

J: Sooo hungry all the time. Been constantly hungry for the past couple of weeks.
J: Hell no! Why does everyone keep saying that?
S: Just to bug you.

…in the locker room at the gym, part II…

J: Why are you looking at me that way?
T: No reason… (starts laughing)
T: (snicker) Because it kills you not knowing.

…KC calling from San Fran…

J: I was going to call you Sunday to say Happy Birthday.
KC: It’s not my birthday.
J: Damn, I already messed up on Paul’s B-day this week. Not another one.
KC: Haha… you’re losing it.
J: Yeah, I’m forgetting things… must be age. So when is your birthday?
KC: Sunday.

Wednesday, February 2

day 10289: oh to be witty

If only I could be witty, or funny, or even spectacularly brilliant, I could dazzle you with words and let everyone think that I am a literary superhero with tons of lovely things to say and actual interesting thoughts to read. Scores of random strangers would shower me with love and praise every day and tell me how envious they are about my wonderfully exciting life and how cute my dear little puppy dog is and how much they just want to cover her up in bbq sauce and gobble her up.

I could be interviewed by The North York Mirror or The Bayview Post (because every semi-decent newspaper seems to be doing an article on blogs), and they’d do a perfectly inspired article on me, my life and the secret identity behind this site, which would not remain secret for very long, I supposed. I could even have my own column and be the Asian-Canadian version of Carrie from Sex in the City. Oh joy of joys.

Of course, it would embarrass my mother to no end. We couldn’t have that. But it could lead to some literary agent (or editor or similar person with equally good connections) calling me out of the blue and demanding to see the first three chapters for a book I have yet to even begin thinking of writing… and definitely do not have time to even start thinking of. And the money would roll in.

If only.

Then I’d be filled with a sense of wonder and purpose and oh-my-god-I’m-so-popular-amongst-strangers thoughts. My life would be perfect and rosy and so-oh-my-god-I’ve-found-my calling. My site meter would soar to infinite numbers and I’d have my fifteen minutes of fame.

Except that I’ve already had my life-time-allotted-fifteen minutes of fame. You see, I was a child television star.


At the tender age of six or maybe it was seven or maybe even five, I made my first appearance on NATIONAL TELEVISION.

[insert wild studio audience cheering and clapping]

Yes, I was on… are you ready for this…? I was on Just Like Mom. The game show that every kid wanted to be on just because you got to spin the wheel and try to win the trip to DISNEYLAND. Because DISNEYLAND is the happiest place on earth and only the very lucky of lucky children get to go to DISNEYLAND.

Joy of joys.

They bundled me up in my television-best… purple sweatshirt and a matching purple skirt (with white hearts… ooooh), safety pinned a white pompom to my chest (oh, so cute), curling-ironed my hair to try to get my cowlick to stay down and sent me (and my mom… get it… Just Like Mom) trotting off to the studio.

Think of it like the Newlywed Game , only you’re laughing at children instead of blonde-sex-hazed bimbos. Oh, and there's a bake-off.

I was sleepy, I was tired. I was confused like a penguin in Florida. I didn’t answer a single question correctly, didn’t know the meaning of the word “pasta,” baked an amazingly mayonnaise-filled chocolate chip cookie (I love mayo, so everyone else must love mayo in their cookies) and ended up losing to a girl named Allison. Allison, who looked like she was from California and was a good couple of years older than me. WHO DIDN'T EVEN SPIN THE WHEEL PROPERLY SO SHE DIDN'T WIN THE TRIP TO DISNEYLAND!!!

[gasp... horror...horror]

I would have won. Instead, all I got was a bunch of soap, a watch and t-shirt that said “I was on JUST LIKE MOM” which I wore when I went to DISNEYLAND later that year anyway. Which reminds me... I think I was five.

So what was the point of all this? Oh yeah… if only I was witty.
Overheard at Shoppers...

I need to buy a crapload of condoms, cuz I've been having tons of sex recently!!

Thanks for sharing... you must be what? thirteen?

Tuesday, February 1

day 10288: what to say to make the hurt go away?

It was a whole day of self-inflicted mental torment. It was something I didn’t want to do, but knew it had to be done. Last night, I told Serious Boy that he and I could never be, and that dinner and a movie was probably not a good idea.

I rehearsed the conversation in my head over and over. I discussed it with BMW. I tried rehearsing it with Bo, but ended up hamming it up and making jokes about eloping with my highest-bidder over the weekend and how my newly-wedded-bliss would not approve of me going on a date with another man. She said it would be a learning experience and so long as the conversation didn’t turn into coffee and coffee didn’t turn into lunch, then I’d be fine.

Just go with the flow and tell him the truth, she said. I tried. I really tried, but ended up mucking things up and making sad little excuses about how I wasn’t comfortable in the situation and how he was JB’s friend and how it was wierding me out a bit.

I probably should have told him about my weekend instead, and how I spent in on the beach with my highest-bidder… maybe he’d make some sort of conclusion and save me the agony and guilt.

He said he didn’t really understand. And quite honestly, I couldn’t even begin to explain it to him. I don’t really understand either. I babbled and blurted so many random things that I really couldn’t keep track of what garbage came out of my mouth. I should have just been honest with him from the beginning… I am flattered, and while I like you as a friend, I don’t think our relationship will ever progress beyond “just friends.”

At the end of it all, we agreed to be somewhat friends and if I should ever change my mind, then to let him know. He made it clear that he wasn’t hung up about his ex-es and that he was just very open and forthcoming if the topic ever came up… except that he brought the topic up in the first place and he shouldn’t have known that it was a concern of mine to begin with if JB hadn’t told him that I asked about it…