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Housecleaning on this blog continues, with only a few more hours left until Chinese New Year. I've got two more posts to finish, and they are both memes!


Six Weird Things About Me

Each person who gets tagged needs to write a blog post of their own 6 weird things as well as clearly state this rule. After you state your 6 weird things, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names.

Alvina tagged me for this meme last March! Basically, I've got to list six weird things about myself. You'd think this would be easy, since friends are forever making fun of me for stuff—like that I like instant mashed potatoes, for instance. But “weird” is in the eye of the beholder, and none of those things are weird to me. (Instant mashed potatoes are good!) So I’ve had to think and think.

(I do love real mashed potatoes, by the way. I love all potatoes; I just don’t draw the line at instant. I'm very loyal to my brand, however [Betty Crocker Potato Buds]. They do something bad to those others.)

Here are six things I've finally come up with that I agree are “weird.”


1. I’ve listened to Mariah Carey’s debut album at least 10,000 times in my life (and counting)

This is an actual calculation Damon did after interrogating me on my Mariah Carey-listening patterns one day.

This would not be weird if I were a big Mariah fan (which would be a different issue), but, in fact, I have a very tortured, almost angry attitude toward her. It would never occur to me to list this album in my top ten, nor Mariah as one of my favorite artists, yet I’ve listened to this album far more times than I’ve listened to any Tori Amos album, for example, whom I obsessed over for years. I just like to sing when I drive, and I spend a lot of time in the car, and this is my biggest fallback CD—probably since my driving life began. It cycles on repeat forever.

A close second would be Mariah’s MTV Unplugged album from 1992. I listen to it just as much but only bought it five years ago, so it can never catch up. Her Daydream album ranks high on the driving/singing list as well.

I don’t even like to sing these songs at karaoke! (It's not like I sound good on them.)

Part of what makes this weird is my own lack of self-awareness of it. Every time Damon points out the Mariah phenomenon, I’m surprised, myself, all over again.


2. I make coffee almost every day but don’t drink it. I pour it out.

“Everyone’s” addicted to coffee, but I was one of those people known for it. So, for some, the fact I stopped drinking it is probably weirder than the fact I’m still making it. It’s been almost three years since I quit (2/21/05), yet, whenever I mention it, my friends have nearly always forgotten and freak out again.

(Back when I was a caffiend, people would ask from time to time how much coffee I really drank, and I’d be all, “Only a cup a day; sometimes I don’t even finish it.” And they’d go, “Wow, that’s nothing!” Then one day some friends came over and saw my “cup.” They really made fun of that. It was basically a stein. I hadn’t thought about that.)

When I first quit coffee, I also quit making it. My body quit very suddenly—not my mind—so it wasn’t a matter of self-control. I was just surprised, day after day, to realize coffee now made me jittery. But after a while I wanted it, anyway. But it still made me jittery. So now I make it and don’t drink it.

Sometimes I carry two full mugs—one of coffee and one of green tea—into my office before sitting down to work: the coffee for comfort, the green tea to drink. Sometimes I make decaf instead, hoping then I won't waste. Even with decaf, I drink about a fifth.


3. I throw birthday parties for Keanu Reeves, even though I don't know how to invite him

I’ve only thrown three, and the latter two were jointly instigated by my partner in crime Julie. The first party I threw in high school, when Keanu turned 26 and I’d just discovered how happy his existence made me.

More than one friend—and Damon, too—has reported back to me this recurring conversation they’ve had with coworkers and friends. “So what are you doing this weekend?” someone will ask. –“Oh. I’m going to Keanu’s birthday party.” –“Oh my GOD!! How did you get invited!?!” –“No, you see, Keanu won’t be there . . .”

I actually had the opportunity to tell Keanu about this once, but I went mute, which friends tell me is a good thing. I’ve also had the opportunity to possess his cell phone number twice, so, in theory, one could invite him. But I have refrained. (These are stories for another time.)

I have two stories about the role Point Break (a Keanu movie) has played in my life, that I promised to blog two posts ago. The first is from when I sold Cutco knives. (Selling Cutco is not weird! Lots of college kids do that!) So, you know, the Vector Marketing people would tell you, anytime you had a sales presentation, that you should watch your favorite scene from a movie or listen to a favorite song first, to get you pumped up. So I would watch the big skydiving scene from Point Break. Afterward, I’d be all, “YAHH!! LET’S GO SELL SOME KNIVES!!!”

My second Point Break story actually makes my next item.


4. Before I saw Point Break for the first time, I had only cussed six times in my life

Afterward, that very same day, the number shot up to thirteen. I was fifteen. We were in a mall. I stayed mute for the first forty minutes after we came out—overwhelmed by the universe that had just been revealed to me (and by the miracle of Keanu's existence). What came out when I finally opened my mouth was seven explosive f-words in a row. Followed by another twelve minutes of silence before I could start interacting normally.

I am not one to get attached casually. But I’m very loyal. Keanu is my man to this day.

I know, to a lot of people, the point of interest here is that I kept count of how many times I cussed. Until early freshman year of college, I could tell you exactly when and for what reason each instance occurred (there'd been 17 by then)—and exactly which words were used. Most of the first six were experimental—just to hear what they sounded like in my voice. (Ditto, the only time I've ever used my middle finger, it was to see if my hand made the shape.)

After college began, life got a lot more stressful. I lost track around 21 or 22 (which was during the third week). Then there was no more counting.

(I don’t really cuss today.)


5. I think I can’t see

I get my eyes tested regularly and supposedly can see just fine (with contacts). Damon, however, has better than 20/20 (uncorrected), so he can read road signs from much farther away. His whole family is used to this, but it bothers me.

I recently realized, I think I can’t see to the point where I don’t even try to see. Like with my camera. I trust my camera to see, so I point the camera and tell it where to focus. Then Damon looks and says, “Hey! This is blurry!” and we discover the diopter (which corrects people’s vision in the viewfinder if they want to not wear glasses) has gotten spun around. This happens often, but I never notice, because I don’t try to see. (The camera takes the same pictures, anyway; it’s only the viewfinder that changes.)

There is a bit in the book Tangerine where the kid can see fine (through his thick glasses), but his mom thinks he can’t, so she keeps filling out disabilities forms for him when he transfers schools. It almost keeps him off the soccer team. That’s like me, except I’ve internalized the mom.

Last year I told Damon he can make fun of my vision from now on only if he uses positive language. So he has to say, “Because you can see,” instead of “Because you can’t.” It’s subtle, but it works.

I can see!!


6. Even though I know nothing about sports, I am good at choosing winning teams

Woo hoo!! I am awesome at this! I have two methods, and they make my sports-savvy friends nuts. The first is if I know nothing about the teams except their names. I go unfocused and listen to the background chatter in my brain—that ceaseless sports commentating I usually try to tune out. Then I pick the team name that sounds more like what a sports announcer would say. “So-and-so beat the So-and-so’s today in a something-something upset.” Or, “So-and-so trounced the So-and-so’s in a stunning yibba-yabba victory!”

This method is not great (I wouldn’t bet money on it), but it works a heckuva lot better than whatever the guys are doing when they pick their March Madness seeds (or whatever that chart is called that Damon puts in front of me). Heh. And they do bet money.

(Mike once told me they've done experiments where trained monkeys also do better at choosing those winners. Nice.)

My second method is more accurate. I believe in the Power of Story. That is to say, I believe sports games operate according to the same laws of the universe that govern the rest of our lives, and that all these highs and lows, triumphs and defeats, setbacks and buildups are mysteriously calculated to add up to great stories. To keep you hooked. So if you tell me a little of the two teams’ backstories, or even how the game's been going so far, I will tell you the outcome based on what would make the best story.

I have won bets with this. I took a bet with Damon’s stepfather once, second-to-last inning, that the Angels would . . . um, still win in spite of the fact they were currently losing by six runs. How Damon’s family jeered! That was one sweet dollar D’s stepdad gave me. (The backstory there was that the Angels were winning miraculous games-from-behind all season and were headed for the championships; it seemed too early for the pattern to stop.)

(Damon told me immediately, however, based on the backstory of his own family, that it would not be a good idea to gloat.)

This past Sunday, Damon asked me, “So who do you think will win the Super Bowl today?”

“Who’s playing?”

“The New York Giants and the New England Patriots.”

Hm. Both sounded like winning announcer-voice names. “The Patriots have won a lot lately, right?”

“Yes. How'd you know that?”

“One of my writer friends keeps sending me incomprehensible Patriots references—like, for the last couple years. I think the Giants will win. I think everyone’s tired of hearing about the Patriots.”

Damon got some kind of cat-that-just-ate-the-mouse look on his face. “Does it change your answer to know that the Patriots are on the verge of making history with this game? They’ve been undefeated all season, so if they win the Super Bowl, . . .” (I don’t remember the rest of his explanation. It went mushy in my ears.)

“No one’s ever done that before?”

“One team has. The Dolphins.”

“How long ago was that?”

“In [the 60s or 70s].” (Again, I don't remember what he said. But it didn't sound that long ago.)

“Has anyone else been in the running since? Like had a perfect season and gotten to the Super Bowl?”

“Nope. It’s really hard to go undefeated all season.”

“Then the Giants will win. It’ll be more heartbreaking for the Patriots to lose, and it will make it that much bigger a deal when the next team wins. I predict the next team to have an undefeated season will win the Super Bowl.”

“But that might not happen again in our lifetimes!”

What does that have to do with the Power of Story??

“Let’s bet,” I said, now that I had gone to the trouble of picking a winner. “What are the odds, like that bookies are giving?”

“[Friend’s name redacted] [Benji] says the Patriots are favored to win, four-to-one.”

“So whatever I win has to be four times as good as whatever you’d win?”

“Yes.”

(Note: I have since thought about this, and this is not right at all. If I bet $1,000, I would win $4,000. But if Damon bet $1,000, he would only win $250. So whatever I won should have been 16 times better than what Damon would win!)

(Wait. Is that right? We don’t have a bank or outside party to pay us. That seems too indirect.)

“What should we bet?” Damon asked.

This question kept resurfacing over the next couple hours. Even by halftime (none of which I watched), we still had not decided. “Favors,” Damon finally concluded, “to be named and claimed whenever.”

Wow. “And if I win, you have to do four favors for me, and if you win, I only have to do one?”

“Yup.”

I liked that.

“Well, you were right!” Damon’s voice came booming up the hall later, which meant the game had ended. “The Giants won!”

“Did you doubt me?”

Damon chortled, even though I was being serious. “No,” he denied. “I didn’t know.” (Which means he doubted me.)

Now I get four favors!

What should they be??


(Okay!! I totally figured this out! If I had bet one favor and lost, then I’d have had to do one favor. But if I had bet one favor and won [which I did], Damon—as the favor bank—would have to pay out four. But if Damon had bet one favor and won, he’d only get one-fourth of a favor! So it wasn’t like we each put up a favor, because then he’d owe me five favors; or I’d owe one-and-a-fourth. It was like I placed my one bet against Damon, who was the favor-gambling bank.)

(Whew! Sports betting is hard work!)


I'm done with this post! Now, to tag six people!!

Brian (aka "Money")
Bus
Lee
Jennifer
Stella
Annie
and, for bonus, even though she doesn't have a blog, I'd like to hear six weird things about "e!"

If you don't want to do this in your own blog because your content is too focused, you can just post the answers here, in these comments! I don't mind. ;)

Love,
rita

One more post left. Go! Go! Go . . .

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Thank goodness I'm Chinese.

The window of opportunity between New Year's and Chinese New Year has always given me an excellent, extra grace period in which to ramp up for the new year, and I always need it. Damon has three families, all of whom have super intense holiday traditions, plus my family does Christmas, too. By the time January 1st comes, I am worn. Out. It takes all my energy every year not to become a Bah, Humbug.

(I love the actual people in these families, which is what ends up saving me.)

Some years, if Damon and I don’t get to do holiday cards, we send out Chinese New Year cards instead. I always like to take this time to clear my “debts” (here redefined to include whatever things I still want to finish in the old year), clean my house (literally and figuratively), brainstorm resolutions, and go!

This year, I've decided housecleaning includes this blog. That is why, with the Year of the Rat only a couple days away, I'm going to blog about Christmas.

Christmas was actually not as long ago for me as it was for you. Damon's three families did the whole thing on time, but my family just did Christmas two weeks ago, with the meal and everyone and presents. For ritual, we just have four stockings—unmarked and unpersonalized—tacked over the fireplace very gingerly, in a way that won’t support any weight. Those stockings represent me, my brother, and our two spouses.

The stockings always look sad and empty, and two of them aren’t even “stockings”; they’re red-and-green velvet wine bags that my parents got at some holiday party. (The wine bags actually look nicer than the other two, “real” stockings we got for $1.99 apiece from a drugstore twenty years ago, so even though I make fun of them, I appreciate them, too.) These stockings excite little interest in my brother and me every year, which disappoints my mom—every year. She always has to urge us to go look, and when we do, invariably, there are red envelopes waiting inside, each containing 50 bucks—sometimes 60—in crisp 10- and 20-dollar bills.

“Ohhh!!!” my brother and I and our spouses always say, surprised all over again. “Thanks, Mom!”

“Don’t thank me!”

Thank you, Santa!!

This year, after so many years of her hinting, “Santa might have left your something. Don’t you want to look?” we finally knew what to expect. The four of us gamely went over to the fireplace and did a whole round of, “Heyy! Here’s one for you! And here’s one for you!” handing out red envelopes, my mom beaming on.

Then, at the end of the night, we discovered that one of the envelopes was short. (One of the stockings had 40 dollars, not 60.)

“MAMA CLAUS! MAMA CLAUS!” three of us sounded the alarm, my brother protesting and laughing the whole time (“It's not a big deal!”). My mother came running. I don’t think she liked the “Mama Claus” moniker much, but she liked our message even less. “One of the stockings is 20 dollars short!”

“What?! NO!!” She looked aghast, her eyes growing huge. "I put it back!!"

“Busted! So busted!!" we howled. "Dipping into the Christmas stockings!” But my mother was adamant, taking the red envelope jointly in my brother’s hands. “Are you sure you looked? Look again!” Accusing my brother of total incompetence. And lo and behold . . .

“Oh! OH!” my brother cried out, whipping out a crisp twenty. “A-HAHHAHA! It was stuck in the lining!”

We were dying. Why is my family always like this?

“Awwww,” my mom said, shamefaced. “Why’d you trick me to confess? I needed cash one day,” she confided, now triumphant. “But it didn't make sense. I took much more than twenty.”


A recent blog entry by my friend Julie gave me food for thought on the cultural mishmosh of our lives. She mentioned, just in passing, that Santa Claus brings presents for her two (soon to be three!) kids. “Believing in the chubby bearded guy was Kevin's tradition growing up, not mine, but the kids hear about Santa from school, daycare, and pop culture, and I don't see any harm in it, so we're preserving the tradition as long as the kids keep believing,” she said.

That’s all she said, but it was the first time I’d ever considered the Santa dilemma from the us-as-parents' point of view. Usually, I think of it from the kids’ perspective. (Santa still leaves me presents, after all—at three households these days, no less—and with very different cultural implications at each. The Santa that brings socks and underwear is different from the Santa that individually wraps little toys and chocolates, who is different from the Santa with the red envelopes.)

When I think about the Santa dilemma, I always think back to the raging debate I first heard in the halls outside my first grade classroom, back in the day. Some of my classmates argued—violently, ganging up with each other—that Santa wasn’t real; others still believed.

I don’t remember actively believing in Santa as a small child, myself. I don't think I'd even considered the question up until that point. Presents from Santa appeared in my house, too, but without a lot of fanfare, and for some reason I'd never been that curious. So when I heard my classmates arguing—with all the scorn and hope that came on both sides—I felt neutral. Unsurprised. I hadn’t put that much thought into it, but the explanation (“my dad says it’s all our parents!”) suddenly made sense.

I mean, I might have been a little disappointed. Shocked, upset. It wasn’t like I was looking to be randomly disillusioned that day. But no one was paying attention to my reaction at that moment, so I was able to take my struggling emotions home in peace. And let's be honest: My parents never tried that hard to make it real. The “From Santa” tags were always written in their handwriting—something I was quick to point out in subsequent years. (Occasionally, after that, however, random unlabeled presents would also appear under the tree without “From Santa” tags, which would “surprise” my parents. This became a new source of aggravation for me.)

The darnedest thing was that my parents never gave it up, either. Just look at the stocking story I just told: my mom balked at us calling her Mama Claus. Even now, when Santa’s not bringing us wrapped presents anymore, you’ll never get her to say Santa’s not real.

(I'm sure I could get any of Damon’s parents to say it, in spite of how elaborately they do it up.)

I went through a phase in 2nd grade—and off and on even through 4th grade—when I was hellbent on proving Santa wasn’t real. I ransacked the house to find where extra presents or extra gift wrap might be hidden. I never found gifts, but I did eventually find extra rolls of wrapping paper that matched Santa's—hidden high-up in a closet in the guest bedroom. My parents were completely bland about it, admitting nothing.

I remember the wild, irrational hope coming to me at times during that campaign—long after the early years when I neither believed nor felt the issue was important. In that 2nd-through-4th-grade phase, it suddenly became important. I needed to prove it. Suddenly, I was going to make them say it.

But othertimes, because I couldn’t—and because they wouldn't—I’d still think, Could it be . . . ? And something huge in me would grow, irrational.

If I had a kid today, would I play Santa Claus? Would I—could I—dare to not?

I don’t know.

(Maybe my kids will have to be extra good, and I'll just hope irrationally along with them!)

I do have this philosophy that love—and magic—is created when two or more people play a game using the same special rules and definitions.

But that is a blog entry for another time.

love,
r


What do you guys think/ remember/ plan to do—about Santa Claus?

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Drat you, Julie. I saw your avatars on Flickr and before I knew it, I was at the Simpsons Movie Web site, too, making my own! Not only did I do one of me, I made one of Damon. Then I made one of Damon from before our South America trip last fall.

Me,
Damon after spending three months in South America,
Damon for the first 31 years of his life.
Go to www.simpsonsmovie.com to make your own!

As you can see, he came back greatly changed.

It's funny, because last year I was involved with a sit com I heard people describe as, "If the Simpsons lived in South Park and were Asian, you'd have Cooleyville." (Another tagline I liked was "We can be dysfunctional, too.") The main character I played was not drawn after me, yet some people felt moved to believe it. (I'm gonna take that as a compliment and leave it at that.)

The Web site is up at Cooleyville.tv. Maybe someday the show will get picked up again!

Cheers!
rita

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First of all, everyone head over to Alvina's blog post from last night and tell me what you think. Is this true? Have you heard of this?

If you haven't heard of this—as I hadn't, and as my resident Ask Everything Expert has already told me he also hadn't—then let's just contain this right here by not spreading it on. I don't want to start a rumor of a "phenomenon" that isn't. It's too upsetting.

Second, Alvina's story reminded me of a couple incidents from my own life, one of which is quirky and the other which just makes me angry—even now, a couple years later. MAN, it makes me mad!! (I'm not sharing that second one; ask me in person sometime.) (Well, when it comes to angry stories, I have more than just one.)

The quirky:

Once, I was at a gay dance bar (mostly Asian) with a couple friends (hi, Irvin! hi, Karen who is straight like me!) when a (white) (gay??) man went way out of his way to come up and tell me how attractive he found not only me but all Asian people and that this wasn't a fetish at all because he had a best friend who was Malaysian. Then my friends and I watched as this person proceeded to be all over a fairly unattractive Asian drag queen for the rest of the night. I couldn't help but wonder whether the man had mistaken me for a drag queen, too.

Third, me loves "Joy at the Gym" stories! Damon wrote a good one, a little while back, and now Irvin has written a hilarious one, too! I don't know why, but gym stories are great. Click on theirs and check 'em out!

Love,
r

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