I’m currently sporting a splint on an avulsion fracture. No, it’s not from sex, it’s from an errant soccer ball and not worth posting about. But a month with my mangled finger has reminded me of various other injuries where difficulties about sexual expectations arose…or didn’t. (Ha! Sex pun.)
My Chinese-American husband and I live in Los Angeles. Since my husband is an excellent cook, we don’t go out that often. But when we do go out? There’s always a new Japanese, Indian, or farm-to-table restaurant to try. Andy’s up for anything, which is nice. Most of my white girlfriends won’t even consider sushi. And my friend JM will only go to one restaurant — the Corner Bakery.
When my in-laws visited, my husband and I cooked for them for weeks. Near the end of their visit, Sunny announced that they would take us out to dinner.
I cheered. “Yay! What kind of food would you guys like? A new bistro opened in the Village, or you could try our favorite sushiya in San Pedro.”
You know those big, dysfunctional but lovable white families you used to see in television and film? They were all about siblings being super shitty to each other. Yet when one member of the family was threatened, the family closed ranks and fended off the attacker.
I grew up in a huge, white, broken, dysfunctional family.
Tonight, as I walked in the rain (with the dog, not Andy, don’t go thinking it was all romantic and shit), I thought about New Year’s Eve. It’s supposed to be a big party, right? Champagne, dancing, party dresses, sparklers, kisses?
That’s what movies say. That’s what TV says. Hell, that’s what my Instagram feed looks like, anyway.
Merry Christmas to my marvelous readers from Nowhere, New Hampshire!
If you’d like to see some amazing pictures from the White Mountains’ winter wonderland, you can check out my Instagram. If you want stories about my battles with the 1970s kitchen equipment, it’s all on my Twitter.
As I am baking hundreds of cookies for the familial horde in spite of the cursed propane oven, here’s a Christmas post from the archives.
When my elementary school classmates found out my parents were divorcing, they showered me with horrified questions.
“Are you mad?’
“Are you sad?”
“Are you going to try and get them back together? Like The Parent Trap?”
That last one was clearly from a naïve only child in a loving home. (The Parent Trap is the stupidest movie ever, BTW. Yes, both times.) I heaped scorn on her, of course. “No way! They should never, ever live in the same house AGAIN!”
I debated adding, “Listen, girl, when your mom throws a pot of boiling rice at your dad, even a seven-year-old knows one of them needs a permanent time out.”
I decided that Little Miss Naïve couldn’t handle the truth. I fell back on the envy-inducing cry of broken-home kids everywhere: “Besides, I’m gonna get TWO Christmases.”
My posse subsided into appropriately jealous murmurs. Full Post
The ancient Sanskrit word “karma” began appearing regularly in the English language about 200 years ago. In Hinduism or Buddhism, “Karman” referenced the sum of a person’s actions, in both this existence and all previous states of existence. How a person acted determined who – or what — they would be in their next state of existence. In other words, if you were a shitty person, you might return as actual shit someday. Or at least a dung beetle. Continue reading A Question of Karma (#159)