The Story That Didn't Make It Here

I was going to tell you a story of a battle with my mom where I had fought hard, ultimately won, and constantly regretted.

But instead, I'm going to squirrel that story away and stay up late this Christmas weekend so I can spend hours figuring out how to do justice to some hazy adolescent memory. And that will definitely be one for the private blog or future boyfriend.

One thing I will tell you is this: I think I found it tonight when I was gingerly dipping my toes (with Santa red polish) into the bath. For some reason, it finally hit me - why I had always tried to do everything Sisi-possible to try to make my parents proud (and still felt lacking) even when I had known all along that they were already proud of me simply because I was their daughter.

Too bad that there is already a Jung Chang, an Amy Tan, and now an Amy Chua*. I can definitely write volumes on Chinese American mother-daughter dynamics and spin stories so that readers will believe that I am simply 'principled' and not stubborn.

Well I guess that's what blogs are for.

* Chinese American authors who wrote about their relationships with their mothers and left children like me obsessed with how much my childhood resembled 20% of character X, 35% of Y, and 45% of Z.

Incoherent

I was in charge of the Young Women personal progress activity tonight. Then I caught myself making one of those "I'm not quite that old you guys" jokes. Epic fail. That's exactly what makes me that old.

I once heard somebody say that animals go to heaven too. I wonder if that includes mosquitoes. Because if they retain their earthly appetites for blood but the spirits don't have blood, then it must be heck for them in heaven. Guess it's payback time.

Missing somebody makes my body feel funny. I don't enjoy it. But obviously you do.

The themes of the week

Chinese TV shows. Brochure content. Manipulation. Not necessarily in that order.


And if two people tell you that it's true, then it's probably true. But then I guess I knew it all along.

Digesting Memories

Growing up, I've always hated eating boiled eggs. The yellowish-blue ball of hardened yolk would lodge in my throat and had to be washed down by gulps of water. When I left for college, I swore that I would never touch another boiled egg except during Easter. But every day during the summer in Beijing, I would wake up to sugared tomatoes, steamed buns, chewy wooden ears . . . and two boiled eggs. Waipo would faithfully repeat the secret to her father's longevity (he died in a traffic accident when he was ninety), and watch me patiently until I squirmed and ate everything on my plate.

But after the summer, when I returned back to America and had to figure out my own breakfast every morning, I would always reach for the eggs and start boiling my water. I still grit my teeth when I ate them, but somehow I wanted to keep doing it. To show her that I hadn't forgotten.

When Chelsea left for college, I also took it upon myself to continue her idiosyncratic habit of mixing cereal with yoghurt, even though I used to tease her about it.

Other times, I was obsessed with baklava, barbeque chicken pizza, subway chicken teriyaki sandwich and co. because each bite was a way of holding onto them and pretending that they're still there to force me to eat those things.

And right now, I would really like some Pear and Gargonzola.

Garage Door

A barrier.

A dissolution.

An ending.

Sand

This is us.

1977

That was absolutely beautiful. Thank you. Now I think I understand a little better.

I miss you

That's all.

Exasperation

Right now, I really wish I were a boy.

Karma

What goes around really comes back around.

And it sucks.