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

So our ocean shipment FINALLY arrived on Thursday. Air Tiger Express (aka Integrated Freight Solutions), my ass! Jesus fucking Christ! Those bastards– I’ve been wiping their butts from the beginning. Twice now, they’ve tried to overcharge me: once in Shanghai with the packers and now again in SF with who knows what kind of bogus fees. They have no idea who they’re dealing with. I mean, I record everything. I keep receipts, invoices, quotes for years. Needless to say, they tried but they failed. Not squeezing an extra dime out of me, especially with that level of incompetence.

The good news is, everything is intact, even my fragile pieces like my Chinese instrument and my beloved oil paintings. So the last two days, I’ve been in a zone. Serious, non-stop unpacking of 20 monster-sized boxes. Thank goodness for our storage room upstairs, man. What a lifesaver!

So things are looking good. During the process, I’ve sorted through everything again and managed to weed out a couple more boxes of stuff– books, more clothes, computer stuff. Craigslist, Ebay, Goodwill– it’s got to go.

I watched an episode of Neat on HGTV the other day. The featured woman was a total packrat. Majorly insane hoarder. The host made packrat chuck all this stuff, and then that night the cameras caught her rummaging through the garbage trying to recover a few pieces, including a stuffed bear. Very disturbing. After that, I went on an organizing frenzy. Moved shit off the kitchen bar countertop. Cleared out the bathroom shelves. Re-organized everything. Then after my shit came in, I put up the pictures… just had to get shit up on the walls. Didn’t want to wait for Bubbey. He’s super indecisive when it comes to picture placement anyway. So yeah, it’s been an intense two days. And I am sore as hell, because John’s been mostly MIA due to a super busy week at work.

But the place is shaping up. I’ve moved a few more notches toward the compulsive end of things (if you can believe that), which means I now believe in cleaning a little bit every day. I was skeptical at first, but what can I say, I’m a convert. Daily cleaning keeps the dirt under control. Dusting here, windows there, vaccuuming everywhere. The system works. Now I just have to figure out how to organize my cosmetics junk and office supplies. I’ve been using a lot of rinsed-out jars– for coins, pens, brushes… not sure if that’s the way to go. Takes up a lot of space. Any suggestions from my fellow organizing freaks?

OMG, the weirdest thing happened yesterday when I was out walking the dogs. At the intersection, I noticed this Middle-Eastern dude crossing the street. Of course I didn’t have my contacts in, but I thought he looked a lot like my college crush (pre-John, of course), Ali. We both did a few double-takes, but that was it. After all, Ali’s in med school at Penn; why the hell would he be in CA and in my neighborhood, of all places? Still, I thought it was freaky enough to warrant an email just to say, “I know this is unlikely, but maybe it’s possible??” Well turns out, that guy wasn’t him, but Ali actually IS in the Bay area– Menlo Park, just a few exits down. Isn’t that odd? He’s interning for some venture cap firm in Baltimore, and the company sent him to their CA office for two weeks.

The Chinese term yuan2 fen4, (缘分), comes to mind. 缘分 translates to “fate,” and it isn’t necessarily romantic– it’s just this connection between two people who are otherwise unlikely to meet and click. At least, that’s how I interpret it… Yeah, so Ali and I went to Duke together. He worked a bunch of summers in Bethesda, Maryland (not far from my hometown). Then, I went to grad school in his hometown, Gainesville. His girlfriend is from Baltimore, my birth city. Now I’ve just moved back to the States, and he’s on the peninsula? Well, I think it’s interesting anyway, especially considering I haven’t been in touch in like three years.

You know, my buddies in college used to tease me about hanging out or meeting up with Ali after I started going out with John. They warned that old sparks might fly and then, I would have a dilemma on my hands. Ha, ha. If only my life were as dramatic as Laguna Beach. Ah, everything worked out. In the summer of 1996, I revealed my feelings to Ali. He rejected me (quite bluntly, in fact) and a week later, I asked John out on a date. The rest is history. When the summer ended, I went back to school and everything was fine. The Ali crush was over– no messiness, no confusion. Hurray for Bubbey!

From 2005.08.11

I’ve been spending a bit of more time in the kitchen these days. I wouldn’t necessarily call it “cooking,” perhaps “prepping” is more accurate? Regardless, I give myself a pat on the back for effort. Ok, so I should also thank my buddy Joe (as in Trader Joe) for facilitating the inevitable, i.e. eating at home. You see, living in the ‘Teo ain’t nothing like living in SF. There’s not Zagat rating really. I mean, sure you find some gems here and there, but the stats certainly don’t work in your favor. So then it’s like, go out and risk it with hit/miss trial and error or aim for the surer bet at home. Despite my reliance on frozen foods and some processed foods (hey, I gotta start SOMEwhere), I still think eating at home is healthier. I know I get brownie points for rice, fresh veggies, and salad! So usually, the main entree is where Joe helps me out: pre-seasoned pot roast or frozen breaded chicken fingers or frozen scallops. But you know, the stuff tasts pretty damn good. I mean, definitely better than the dining out flunkies. And sometimes, I do actually go fresh– John buys steaks from Costco (who wants to join my Costco co-op?), I’ll get free-range chicken breasts. Yeah, my struggle with vegetarianism has ended. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’m going back, especially if I’m going to be prepping the meals for both John and me. Free-range is the current compromise. But damn, handling those raw steaks… I still get a little grossed out. And I always apologize to the cow.

So not to brag or anything, but I think we’re doing pretty well on our latest health kick. Granted, I haven’t returned to the gym (Gold’s Gym is just too intimidating), but I’ve been walking the dogs every morning– taking them on a long, brisk powerwalk. I know, it’s not the same as cardio and I’ve put on a couple pounds to prove it (boo!) but for now, I’m ok with it. And the doggies love it.

Yesterday was so hot that Marty, for the first time ever, plopped himself in a puddle. He was so cute. Normally, he’s deathly scared of the water. I don’t know what it is– he gets all skittish, especially when little waves come up a beach or when water spurts out intermittently from a fountain. Bizarro. Remy, on the other hand, loves the water. It takes her a while to plunge in completely, but once she’s in, she loves it (even though she can’t swim worth crap– she constantly chokes and gulps down water). My little angels.

From 2005.08.10

So John and I are heading to Vegas this weekend to celebrate his sister’s 29th birthday. We (along with his college bud, Brian) are meeting Susan and her posse out there. Interestingly, Brian asked me last weekend how I get along with Susan. Funny he should bring it up, considering she and I are pretty much opposites. In other words, I’m already on the grandma path but next to her? I’m freakin’ knocking on death’s door. Aside from being traffic-stopping gorgeous, Susan’s wild, crazy, and fearless. She’s just one of those people… you know, she tries everything and just has a good time everywhere she goes. On top of that, she has a Jennifer Garner figure PLUS she can drink any person– guy or gal– under the table. Seriously, she can, and with that kind of drinking stamina, you really wonder how she doesn’t have a huge-ass pot belly. Go figure. Guess she’s just tough, and it’s not just the multiple tattoos (including a huge one on the top of her foot), tongue ring (since removed), 330-mile Raleigh-DC AIDSRide AND high-level job that prove it.

Of course, I always support my fellow strong women. You got to give it up for people who balance work and play. It’s an art, for sure. Maybe I’ll learn something this weekend from the master.

In other news, I’m still stuck waiting. Waiting for EVERYTHING– my ocean cargo (which is now two weeks late), my wedding ring (still in repair), my new hair color and cut (the first opening for a hair model is AFTER Vegas–I know, I’m a cheap bastard), and a goddamn job (ANY job!). So what does this mean? Well it’s certainly not the end of the world, but I don’t have all my stuff for Vegas. Like my Pamela-approved outfits, my contact lenses, my magic poison… I’m still sort of living on a diet– it’s like I’m camping or something. Not a huge deal, but just kinda sucks. I don’t exactly want to be the butt-ugly duckling sitting next to Miss America while every dude in the house lines up to buy her free food and drinks, you know? On my own, sweats and sneakers are fine. But in public and next to Susan? I gotta do my homework… for me, for John, for the greater good! Ha, ha. Think I’m exaggerating? I’m totally not.

A few months ago, John was in LA helping Susan move in. They went to some swanky bar. The bartender/owner was instantly smitten with her, so what happened? Susan and the rest of the crew (including John and his former coworker) got tons of food, not to mention kickass, fancy cocktails… for free. Then, at some point during the evening, John went outside. When he tried to get back in, there was this huge line. He called Susan at the bar. She talked to the owner, he talked to the bouncer, and voila! John was in. And the bouncer was instructed to like recognize John and everyone else in the party, so they’d bump right up to the front of the line. Star treatment, I tell you. Just like Entourage.

I suppose if I’m really worried about Vegas, I could go out and buy stuff to feel better prepared. I’m not that uptight about it. My cheapie self still wins in the end. After all, I don’t need anything– it’s all in my shipment. In conclusion, I’m going to Vegas, and I’m gonna try my best to have fun. John will be there, and I’ll have Cirque to look forward to. Plus, my travel book says there are lots of local guides with coupons galore! That will keep me busy while everyone else is drinking and gambling… kidding!