As if two months of stressing about a possible mouse invasion wasn't enough and then having my cabinets shoved out of their slots and the under-the-sink walls patched up, two afternoons ago I was sitting in my room reading when I heard what sounded like teeth pecking at a ceramic plate. A feeling of dread washed over me...the same kind from a couple months ago.
My "circus" of pots and pans had been removed ever since the holes were said to have been closed up with aluminum sheets. But I knew a mouse was scurrying across the kitchen counter top...I could hear the pitter-patter and you could say I was thoroughly disgusted. What did I do? I was ready to just leave my apartment. Take my reading outside. Instead, I called my dad . Yes. I called my dad to tell him how freaked out I was. There wasn't much he could do, seeing as he was in California overseeing a construction job, but he actually listened to me be sad and gave me advice. "I'm sorry there really isn't anything I can physically do to help. But why don't you pull up some images on the internet of mice and just look at them? Just face your fear of them. They are 10,000 times more scared of you than you are of them. Plus, they aren't snakes so they can't hurt you unless you try to catch them with your bare hands," he said. I don't recall really saying much because I just sat in my room just feeling sad, on the brink of madness of having to deal with mice again. "Don't sit in the corner of your room cowering, ok?" he said at last. "Oh and make a lot of noise because that'll scare them away. Start screaming or something. Sorry again that I don't have any better ideas. But really, look at what you fear and you'll be surprised that when you face it, you'll overcome it." Half of me must have blanked out because I cannot for the life of me remember any words that uttered. Possibly because I didn't say anything as I sat frozen in anxiety. We hung up and after a few minutes of rational thought, I peeked out of my "room" to investigate the scene of the scurrying. Nothing. Ok, I took one big breath and then another. I stepped out.
I walked up to the sink. No mouse. I re-washed all the dishes in the drying rack and proceeded to re-build the pot "circus" above the stove. I bleached the counter top and tied up the garbage to throw away in the basement. The phone rings. "Are you ok now?" asks my dad on the other end. "Yes, thanks. I just re-washed the dishes. No mouse yet," I reply.
Now, I bet you're expecting a surprising ending, a giant mouse of some sort appearing at the stove eating an ice cream cone or something. But no, no mouse appeared. I haven't heard one in the past few days. But per my dad's suggestion, I took it to heart to look fear in the face. Because I did choose to leave my corner and confront the more-than-uncomfortable possibility of actually seeing a mouse running loose in my apartment. To my luck, I didn't but hey, don't I get points for putting myself "out there" for the worst scenario?
Looking back at the phone conversation with my dad makes me laugh. It wasn't about being scared of losing my job, dealing with a problem as severe as a disease or even being evicted or being a failure at something. It was actually about silly mice! However, I'd say the strategy is applicable to various areas in life. Maybe I should start applying it in every part of mine.
Lesson of the day: Preparing for battle, even if the enemy is only a tiny, gray, furry animal, is halfway to victory.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Trying to look fear in the face...Part 1
A couple months ago I had a mouse meltdown. I had nightmares thinking they were crawling over my bedsheets, ripping open bags of food in my kitchen and basically taking over my apartment. I sometimes slept with my iPod playing through the night so that my heart wouldn't wildly speed up at the sound of any slight noise (be it the rustle of leaves outside the window or the wooden floors creaking). When day broke, I usually ran out the door, finding things to do as long as I could avoid being at home for fear of hearing anything at all (much less see a rodent dart here and there). Any type of sound could set off an anxiety attack, sending waves of nausea from head to toe.
Dan has seen one mouse and caught two mice in my apartment. The first time he saw one was when I was in the bathroom. He heard munching and decided to inspect the noise only to find that a tiny creature had gnawed through the layers of Saran wrap covering honey cereal bars I had made and left out on the kitchen counter. The second time, I was in the bathroom again. I came out and Dan said: "Ok, now don't freak out. It's going to be ok. " "What happened? Oh no! Tell me now!" I remember saying, feeling alarmed though his facial expression was completely calm. I don't recall his reply, but I do remember that he hugged me as I panicked and was thanking god that afternoon that he was there. A mouse had stepped into a glue trap on the counter and was going nuts trying to break loose with no success (you can bet it was screaming to set itself free). He took the trap, peered inside and said: "Aw, he's kind of cute! It's a baby one." So we trekked over to Central Park with the mouse-still stuck to the trap-in a plastic bag. As Dan held the bag with the squeaking mouse, I held a bottle of extra virgin olive oil. It was quite a debacle once we reached a grassy area at the park because releasing the mouse was not like scraping scrambled eggs from a frying pan on to a plate. Dan hunched over some grass and with a tiny branch, tried to gently nudge the mouse off the sticky contraption without killing it. I managed to dump fancy olive oil over the poor thing in an attempt to loosen the glue without squealing myself. After some time and lots of patience and determination on Dan's part, the ever-so-oily mouse scampered away into the bushes. Victory!
But it was only a week later when a second mouse was caught in a trap that replaced the one that imprisoned the "Central Park" mouse. This one was not so lucky as it was the morning Dan and I had to leave for our Bermuda cruise. There was no time to walk to the park, much less oil it and pry the critter off the trap . Setting our consciences aside and using logical reasoning (e.g. the cruise will leave without us, we'll miss the train to Jersey, packing won't be complete), this mouse was escorted to the garbage can in the basement. Eeks.
I was terrified of going home after our trip because Dan would be gone for a couple months in Asia. Who was going to come save me when something popped up in my apartment uninvited? For days, I left the "circus" of pots and pans that Dan constructed on top of the stove because before he left, he had a hunch the squeakers were finding their way into my apartment through the stove or under the sink. The "circus" was a rather complex tower of pots and pans held down with weights like a tea kettle filled full with water and layer upon layer of heavy kitchenware. To this day, I have a less-intense variation of it.
There was one night, I laid in bed drenched in sweat, drifting in and out of sleep. Something inside me cracked. Rationality, logic, composure...they all left me. I was all by my lonesome thinking that I smelled something dead and rotting in my apartment. Was it my imagination? A mouse body gone rancid under the bed? Possibly so. But I was too afraid to check and by no means had the guts to inspect the darkness beneath. At this time, I had left on the intro song to the movie '8 Below' on my laptop just so there'd be some sort of music to mask any other sounds. It ran for 9 hours straight. As I laid in bed sweating, unmoving and getting sick of the intro music, I couldn't think of a person I could call to put out the fire from my psychosis. Dan? DAMN...he's not even in the country. Hy? Chris? No way. It was 4 a.m. in N.Y. Dad? Lisa? Way too late in California and what could they do? What could I do? Be stuck in bed like dead-weight that's what.
It finally hit 7 a.m., so I text messaged Hy something along the lines of 'I needed help.' And some time around 8 a.m., she, my savior, arrived at the apartment to witness the me who I can only guess appeared to have not gotten a wink of sleep for years. All I remember was her telling me to take a nap and knowing that she was there seemed to have erased the worry that if I closed my eyes, a mouse would run all over my bedspread. What did she do while I slept? She actually scrubbed down my kitchen counter, including the dish-drying rack and the rice cooker, and inspected every mouse trap to make sure there was no mouse and nothing dead. It was the best 20 minutes of sleep I had gotten since I discovered mice were invading my space.
After being convinced that I should not have to live in constant agony over whether there were furry guests invading my tiny tiny tiny (for those who have seen it or slept in it know that this is an understatement) apartment, I sent a letter to the owner of the apartment complex telling him of my mouse troubles. Not only did he have "his men" come at 8 a.m. the next business day, but he had them remove my kitchen counters completely. What did they find? The dumbass who last did the plumbing had left HUGE gapping holes under the sink and behind the stove. It took over 4 hours to close those massive gaps. Two hours of thunder-lightning sounds as they cut up sheets of heavy aluminum, 1 hour of thick nails being driven into the aluminum against old old wood, and 1 hour of trying to slam my drawers back into place in line with the counter-tops. Fun fun morning but well worth it because it was a step towards doing something about my mice problem instead of cowering in utter fear and helplessness. It was trying to dispel the source of my anxiety...hence, looking fear I suppose indirectly in the face. Bonus: I was so psyched about getting those holes patched that I even asked for a new paint job in the bathroom, which was completed the same week!
Lesson of the month: When you need help, just ask for it.
Dan has seen one mouse and caught two mice in my apartment. The first time he saw one was when I was in the bathroom. He heard munching and decided to inspect the noise only to find that a tiny creature had gnawed through the layers of Saran wrap covering honey cereal bars I had made and left out on the kitchen counter. The second time, I was in the bathroom again. I came out and Dan said: "Ok, now don't freak out. It's going to be ok. " "What happened? Oh no! Tell me now!" I remember saying, feeling alarmed though his facial expression was completely calm. I don't recall his reply, but I do remember that he hugged me as I panicked and was thanking god that afternoon that he was there. A mouse had stepped into a glue trap on the counter and was going nuts trying to break loose with no success (you can bet it was screaming to set itself free). He took the trap, peered inside and said: "Aw, he's kind of cute! It's a baby one." So we trekked over to Central Park with the mouse-still stuck to the trap-in a plastic bag. As Dan held the bag with the squeaking mouse, I held a bottle of extra virgin olive oil. It was quite a debacle once we reached a grassy area at the park because releasing the mouse was not like scraping scrambled eggs from a frying pan on to a plate. Dan hunched over some grass and with a tiny branch, tried to gently nudge the mouse off the sticky contraption without killing it. I managed to dump fancy olive oil over the poor thing in an attempt to loosen the glue without squealing myself. After some time and lots of patience and determination on Dan's part, the ever-so-oily mouse scampered away into the bushes. Victory!
But it was only a week later when a second mouse was caught in a trap that replaced the one that imprisoned the "Central Park" mouse. This one was not so lucky as it was the morning Dan and I had to leave for our Bermuda cruise. There was no time to walk to the park, much less oil it and pry the critter off the trap . Setting our consciences aside and using logical reasoning (e.g. the cruise will leave without us, we'll miss the train to Jersey, packing won't be complete), this mouse was escorted to the garbage can in the basement. Eeks.
I was terrified of going home after our trip because Dan would be gone for a couple months in Asia. Who was going to come save me when something popped up in my apartment uninvited? For days, I left the "circus" of pots and pans that Dan constructed on top of the stove because before he left, he had a hunch the squeakers were finding their way into my apartment through the stove or under the sink. The "circus" was a rather complex tower of pots and pans held down with weights like a tea kettle filled full with water and layer upon layer of heavy kitchenware. To this day, I have a less-intense variation of it.
There was one night, I laid in bed drenched in sweat, drifting in and out of sleep. Something inside me cracked. Rationality, logic, composure...they all left me. I was all by my lonesome thinking that I smelled something dead and rotting in my apartment. Was it my imagination? A mouse body gone rancid under the bed? Possibly so. But I was too afraid to check and by no means had the guts to inspect the darkness beneath. At this time, I had left on the intro song to the movie '8 Below' on my laptop just so there'd be some sort of music to mask any other sounds. It ran for 9 hours straight. As I laid in bed sweating, unmoving and getting sick of the intro music, I couldn't think of a person I could call to put out the fire from my psychosis. Dan? DAMN...he's not even in the country. Hy? Chris? No way. It was 4 a.m. in N.Y. Dad? Lisa? Way too late in California and what could they do? What could I do? Be stuck in bed like dead-weight that's what.
It finally hit 7 a.m., so I text messaged Hy something along the lines of 'I needed help.' And some time around 8 a.m., she, my savior, arrived at the apartment to witness the me who I can only guess appeared to have not gotten a wink of sleep for years. All I remember was her telling me to take a nap and knowing that she was there seemed to have erased the worry that if I closed my eyes, a mouse would run all over my bedspread. What did she do while I slept? She actually scrubbed down my kitchen counter, including the dish-drying rack and the rice cooker, and inspected every mouse trap to make sure there was no mouse and nothing dead. It was the best 20 minutes of sleep I had gotten since I discovered mice were invading my space.
After being convinced that I should not have to live in constant agony over whether there were furry guests invading my tiny tiny tiny (for those who have seen it or slept in it know that this is an understatement) apartment, I sent a letter to the owner of the apartment complex telling him of my mouse troubles. Not only did he have "his men" come at 8 a.m. the next business day, but he had them remove my kitchen counters completely. What did they find? The dumbass who last did the plumbing had left HUGE gapping holes under the sink and behind the stove. It took over 4 hours to close those massive gaps. Two hours of thunder-lightning sounds as they cut up sheets of heavy aluminum, 1 hour of thick nails being driven into the aluminum against old old wood, and 1 hour of trying to slam my drawers back into place in line with the counter-tops. Fun fun morning but well worth it because it was a step towards doing something about my mice problem instead of cowering in utter fear and helplessness. It was trying to dispel the source of my anxiety...hence, looking fear I suppose indirectly in the face. Bonus: I was so psyched about getting those holes patched that I even asked for a new paint job in the bathroom, which was completed the same week!
Lesson of the month: When you need help, just ask for it.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
How to kill an appetite
I went down to Chinatown this morning to get a much-needed haircut. To my dismay, my favorite hair-cutter has up and left. This means I will most likely never ever get my hair permed again because he was the only one this past year who I willingly allowed to get close to my hair with a pair of scissors. Ok, maybe not never ever, but it sure won't be soon. The only explanation I got from the owner was that he decided to "change professions." Oh dear. Good for him, sad for me. Anyhow, I took a tiny risk today and let another guy "xiuli" (fix) my hair a bit to get the dry ends cut off so I'd look less shaggy. He did a decent job as my hair was evenly cut on both sides and he didn't chop off 4 inches like most Chinese female hair-cutters usually do. And for 12 bucks including tip, it's always a bargain to make a trip there.
After my hair cut, I stopped by Yeah Shanghai Dumpling House to grab a quick lunch because Eric says that their soup dumplings are "quite good." I ordered one basket of eight to-go and was told that it would take a few minutes to steam so I should have a seat. There were no diners at the restaurant and this was sort of strange as it was around 12:30p.m. I had forgotten to bring my book or any materials to busy myself with so I just looked around the restaurant. This was when I noticed a waitress pacing throughout the restaurant with nothing to do. With no customers to attend to or tables to set up, she chose the next best task - fly swatting.
From the back of the cashier's counter, she removed a white, plastic, long-handled fly-swatter and began to stalk the flies that came buzzing in through the front door. She slammed one, no two, on the mirror-wall. Some got stuck to the mirror and she had to scrape them off. She smashed another two on the glass dining table. Every once in a while she'd take the flattened bugs, now stuck on the swatter, to a back room to throw them in what I can only guess is the trashcan. But the flies came in one after another even after all her brutal executions. She shouted in Cantonese and while I did not understand her, I knew she said something along the lines of: "Damn it, there are so many flies today!"
This apparently was her breaking point. I think she thought she was being too nice because she abandoned the white, plastic swatter and instead picked up a restaurant menu. Dark green with gold lettering on the outside, it had LOTS more surface space and was easier to control with the grip of two hands. I swear she went on a fly killing spree. Her mind was set on exterminating every one last bug as long as she had no diners to serve because when the man at the front desk called to her to "jia yi ge tang, jia liang ge fan," (add one more soup, add two more rices) in Mandarin she replied: "Eh, xian zai bu yao gen wo jiang hua!" (Eh, don't talk to me right now!) She probably killed about 5 flies with that menu. At this point I could no longer count the numbers dead. She scraped guts off tables and the mirror-wall just as she had done with the first fly-swatter.
In come a party of 5 Caucasians, who look to be taking a lunch break from work. The waitress lowers the menu she has in her hand and replaces it at the very top of the stack of menus. She smiles widely at the newcomers. I should have looked to see but I have no clue as to whether she had selected 5 menus from the top and distributed them to the diners, meaning someone received the fly-guts one (possibly with wings attached). One thing is for sure, someone today or tonight will be getting that menu she used to flatten and discard those flies. And I don't think she wiped off that menu because she hadn't bothered to wipe the mirrors or the tables she had attacked those bugs on.
Anyhow, my soup dumplings were finally packed up. I paid for them and left with a chuckle because the man had given me a "look" that seemed to say: Yeah, I know. She's insane. Sorry. It may have been the fly swatting show that turned off my appetite, but I wasn't impressed with the dumplings. The skins were too thick, there was hardy any soup in them as the liquid seemed to have congealed and there was too much vinegar in them. They tasted sour. However, they were rather easy to eat because I managed to bite and chew while navigating the crowded streets of Chinatown. And not even once did my foot get rammed over with a granny cart, walking cane or stroller. I still have 3 out of 8 dumplings left and I don't know what to do with them. I'm glad I tried them because I'll never go back to that restaurant again for more than one reason.
Lesson of the day: Touch a menu at a Yeah Shanghai restaurant, and you better wash your hands just in case. In fact, maybe it's better to wipe not only your cups and chopsticks, but your tabletop too. It's ok to take small risks. Not all soup dumplings are created equal. Joe's Shanghai in NY and Din Tai Fung in L.A. are still top on my list.
After my hair cut, I stopped by Yeah Shanghai Dumpling House to grab a quick lunch because Eric says that their soup dumplings are "quite good." I ordered one basket of eight to-go and was told that it would take a few minutes to steam so I should have a seat. There were no diners at the restaurant and this was sort of strange as it was around 12:30p.m. I had forgotten to bring my book or any materials to busy myself with so I just looked around the restaurant. This was when I noticed a waitress pacing throughout the restaurant with nothing to do. With no customers to attend to or tables to set up, she chose the next best task - fly swatting.
From the back of the cashier's counter, she removed a white, plastic, long-handled fly-swatter and began to stalk the flies that came buzzing in through the front door. She slammed one, no two, on the mirror-wall. Some got stuck to the mirror and she had to scrape them off. She smashed another two on the glass dining table. Every once in a while she'd take the flattened bugs, now stuck on the swatter, to a back room to throw them in what I can only guess is the trashcan. But the flies came in one after another even after all her brutal executions. She shouted in Cantonese and while I did not understand her, I knew she said something along the lines of: "Damn it, there are so many flies today!"
This apparently was her breaking point. I think she thought she was being too nice because she abandoned the white, plastic swatter and instead picked up a restaurant menu. Dark green with gold lettering on the outside, it had LOTS more surface space and was easier to control with the grip of two hands. I swear she went on a fly killing spree. Her mind was set on exterminating every one last bug as long as she had no diners to serve because when the man at the front desk called to her to "jia yi ge tang, jia liang ge fan," (add one more soup, add two more rices) in Mandarin she replied: "Eh, xian zai bu yao gen wo jiang hua!" (Eh, don't talk to me right now!) She probably killed about 5 flies with that menu. At this point I could no longer count the numbers dead. She scraped guts off tables and the mirror-wall just as she had done with the first fly-swatter.
In come a party of 5 Caucasians, who look to be taking a lunch break from work. The waitress lowers the menu she has in her hand and replaces it at the very top of the stack of menus. She smiles widely at the newcomers. I should have looked to see but I have no clue as to whether she had selected 5 menus from the top and distributed them to the diners, meaning someone received the fly-guts one (possibly with wings attached). One thing is for sure, someone today or tonight will be getting that menu she used to flatten and discard those flies. And I don't think she wiped off that menu because she hadn't bothered to wipe the mirrors or the tables she had attacked those bugs on.
Anyhow, my soup dumplings were finally packed up. I paid for them and left with a chuckle because the man had given me a "look" that seemed to say: Yeah, I know. She's insane. Sorry. It may have been the fly swatting show that turned off my appetite, but I wasn't impressed with the dumplings. The skins were too thick, there was hardy any soup in them as the liquid seemed to have congealed and there was too much vinegar in them. They tasted sour. However, they were rather easy to eat because I managed to bite and chew while navigating the crowded streets of Chinatown. And not even once did my foot get rammed over with a granny cart, walking cane or stroller. I still have 3 out of 8 dumplings left and I don't know what to do with them. I'm glad I tried them because I'll never go back to that restaurant again for more than one reason.
Lesson of the day: Touch a menu at a Yeah Shanghai restaurant, and you better wash your hands just in case. In fact, maybe it's better to wipe not only your cups and chopsticks, but your tabletop too. It's ok to take small risks. Not all soup dumplings are created equal. Joe's Shanghai in NY and Din Tai Fung in L.A. are still top on my list.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
A morning to mull over
I wasn't prepared for days when there is no specific story to tell. But I suppose there's always something happening if I step out my apartment door. There was no freaky teacher at yoga, but one thing I did today that was very unlike me was I went to yoga in my pajamas. I had woken up freezing and when I looked out my window, it looked gloomy as if stepping outside was going to make my face stiffen immediately from the cold. The thought made me ready to jump back into bed where the covers were still warm. How I resisted the urge I do not know.
But no, I didn't walk straight outside in my plaid pink and green pj pants and pink, ribbed tank-top. I actually slipped my yoga pants over my pj pants, put on a long-sleeve shirt and a sweater over my tank...and finished off the whole ensemble with a jacket. Lastly, I "bandaged" my neck with a green/brown, skinny scarf. I was ready to brace the cold; and whether I looked ridiculous...I didn't check or care to know. Why I put on so much clothing in the middle of September? I tell you that it felt cold and looked cold too. But after I stepped out my front door, the sun was shining (like a big joke on me), and while it wasn't blistering hot, the layering was a little insane. Did I go back inside to strip down? No. I actually walked the 13 blocks to the yoga school dressed as described above. After only 3 blocks, I was talking to myself (in my head) that I would never do this again. But at least if I get sick I can't blame it on not wearing enough clothing or not keeping warm because I was warm...that's for sure.
But I wasn't the only person in New York City who put on a little too much clothing today. As I was passing 69th St. on 3rd Ave. I saw a mother dragging what appeared to be her son across the crosswalk. She seemed to have a tight grip on her son's right arm because as he tried to sink down to the blacktop, ready to roll and kick, each time he tried, he bounced back up like a bed spring...half-dangling in the air and then dropping back to the ground only to bounce back up from the strength of his mom's short, determined, upward yanks. "I don't want to go! I don't! I don't, I don't! No! Nooooo!" he kept screaming, tears gushing down his face. His eyes and cheeks were red, puffy and I guess you can say he was in a state of hysteria. It looked as if he'd been having a tantrum for a while now. It was these 3 quick seconds of crossing paths with them on the street that I did not have the chance to think about how quickly I was warming up. Instead I started to imagine what I'd do if my child had done the same thing. Yelling and crying at the top of his lungs in the middle of the street, making me handle him like a wild frog on a tether in public. I mean it was such a spectacle that cab drivers even popped their heads out the windows to see what the commotion was.
But I didn't have enough time to think about what I'd do because after I stepped on to the sidewalk, a woman on neon-green roller blades and a long brown fur coat was racing towards me, trying to catch up to the rest of the blinking walk signal. She was no doubt Asian. And had wildly-permed, frizzy, short, black hair and appeared to be in her 60's. Wrinkled, white skin that I was almost sure was covered in make-up because it was a ghostly white. Her lips were painted a very bright red and her eyebrows were drawn a little haphazardly in a dark brown. She had black eyeliner as thick as an inch and a half (imagine Christina Aguilera). I don't know if this description is precise because I didn't want to openly gawk at her for the remaining moments she was visible to me in the front. But even a few subtle glances imprinted her image in my mind so clearly.
Wait, was I crazy and imagining things? Was the heat from all my clothing changing my vision? No. Because she was there when I had turned around to double-check that she was, in fact, real and not a figment of my imagination. She had zoomed through that crosswalk, barely making it in time to the other side before cars started honking like a bad orchestra. She MUST have been much warmer than I was. I was merely walking. I had no fur on either.
I'm slightly comforted to know that while I may be crazy sometimes, there are always people crazier than I.
Lessons of the day: Sometimes you should just go back inside and change your clothes. Parents put up with a lot from their kids throughout their lives; cut parents some slack some times. You know you were that kid once. Don't roller blade in the city with a fur coat on. Don't draw your own eyebrows.
But no, I didn't walk straight outside in my plaid pink and green pj pants and pink, ribbed tank-top. I actually slipped my yoga pants over my pj pants, put on a long-sleeve shirt and a sweater over my tank...and finished off the whole ensemble with a jacket. Lastly, I "bandaged" my neck with a green/brown, skinny scarf. I was ready to brace the cold; and whether I looked ridiculous...I didn't check or care to know. Why I put on so much clothing in the middle of September? I tell you that it felt cold and looked cold too. But after I stepped out my front door, the sun was shining (like a big joke on me), and while it wasn't blistering hot, the layering was a little insane. Did I go back inside to strip down? No. I actually walked the 13 blocks to the yoga school dressed as described above. After only 3 blocks, I was talking to myself (in my head) that I would never do this again. But at least if I get sick I can't blame it on not wearing enough clothing or not keeping warm because I was warm...that's for sure.
But I wasn't the only person in New York City who put on a little too much clothing today. As I was passing 69th St. on 3rd Ave. I saw a mother dragging what appeared to be her son across the crosswalk. She seemed to have a tight grip on her son's right arm because as he tried to sink down to the blacktop, ready to roll and kick, each time he tried, he bounced back up like a bed spring...half-dangling in the air and then dropping back to the ground only to bounce back up from the strength of his mom's short, determined, upward yanks. "I don't want to go! I don't! I don't, I don't! No! Nooooo!" he kept screaming, tears gushing down his face. His eyes and cheeks were red, puffy and I guess you can say he was in a state of hysteria. It looked as if he'd been having a tantrum for a while now. It was these 3 quick seconds of crossing paths with them on the street that I did not have the chance to think about how quickly I was warming up. Instead I started to imagine what I'd do if my child had done the same thing. Yelling and crying at the top of his lungs in the middle of the street, making me handle him like a wild frog on a tether in public. I mean it was such a spectacle that cab drivers even popped their heads out the windows to see what the commotion was.
But I didn't have enough time to think about what I'd do because after I stepped on to the sidewalk, a woman on neon-green roller blades and a long brown fur coat was racing towards me, trying to catch up to the rest of the blinking walk signal. She was no doubt Asian. And had wildly-permed, frizzy, short, black hair and appeared to be in her 60's. Wrinkled, white skin that I was almost sure was covered in make-up because it was a ghostly white. Her lips were painted a very bright red and her eyebrows were drawn a little haphazardly in a dark brown. She had black eyeliner as thick as an inch and a half (imagine Christina Aguilera). I don't know if this description is precise because I didn't want to openly gawk at her for the remaining moments she was visible to me in the front. But even a few subtle glances imprinted her image in my mind so clearly.
Wait, was I crazy and imagining things? Was the heat from all my clothing changing my vision? No. Because she was there when I had turned around to double-check that she was, in fact, real and not a figment of my imagination. She had zoomed through that crosswalk, barely making it in time to the other side before cars started honking like a bad orchestra. She MUST have been much warmer than I was. I was merely walking. I had no fur on either.
I'm slightly comforted to know that while I may be crazy sometimes, there are always people crazier than I.
Lessons of the day: Sometimes you should just go back inside and change your clothes. Parents put up with a lot from their kids throughout their lives; cut parents some slack some times. You know you were that kid once. Don't roller blade in the city with a fur coat on. Don't draw your own eyebrows.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
A ramen rave (with some rants)
There was a rather long line out the door at Ramen Setagaya. The whole front entrance is made of thick glass and diners can sit at the counter that looks out to the street...and at the line (and people in line could stare at you as you slurped your noodle soup). But it was a bit chilly out and I had traveled all the way down at an impulse to this tiny noodle joint to satisfy my need for warm soup noodles and bbq pork.
I checked my watch: 6:18pm and then stood in line as I didn't have anything until 9pm. I took out the rather random book I've started reading-'The Brotherhood of the Holy Shroud'-since it has taken me 8 months to read the first 6 chapters of 'The Zahir' and that is now on hiatus. I had just finished reading this line: 'At last, a truly gruesome finding: Their tongues had been surgically cut out. But why? And who shot them?' when I realized there was a girl gabbing away loudly to her boyfriend in Mandarin that she wished the line would hurry up and that the eaters are taking way too long. That the food better be good and it should be because of the line. She more or less was jumping up and down and smashing herself against the glass. For a split second, I couldn't help but think: Man, someone should surgically remove her tongue right now. Maybe it's because it was cold out and I was slightly hungry after having had a morning of anxiety from the thought I might be getting sick (and not eating my normal three meals before this time). I erased the thought and held my tongue.
The wait wasn't long at all and when I was directed to my stool, I sat where the people in line could stare at your bowl with clarity and even inspect the diners. I guess I could have stared back at them but I wasn't here for the people, I was here for the noodles.
I ordered the Chay-su-men: BBQ pork noodle soup. Then the girl who had been yapping away at the boyfriend who could care less of what she had to say, headed to sit to the right of me. Just my luck. And then she crashed into my back with her purse. How? I don't know. Must have been all the jumping outside at the window that made her crazy.
My food took some time to arrive, but I have to say it was worth this special trip to get ramen because the broth had an amazingly bold personality with essences of bbq pork flavor. The noodles were thin and though I normally like the thick, hand-pulled kind, these were intensely chewy-almost like spaghetti but more pliant- and soaked up the flavors of the meaty soup very well. While this was no fancy Momofuku Noodle Bar bowl with Berkshire pork, the bbq pork medallions that sat atop the steaming bowl of hot noodles and broth were impressive. Each piece was surrounded by a thin layer of utterly delicious fat and the meat itself was tender, juicy, and fragrant. It was an incredible combination and for good reason...its simplicity brought out the natural favor profiles of each of the ingredients: noodles, soup, scallions, pork, and a half a semi-cooked egg (the yolk was slightly gooey and cradled some of the broth). I'd go back just for the meat and a bowl of rice.
When I stopped thinking about the food, I could hear the girl talking really loudly again. "Wah, this is all the menu has to offer? So small! Really, this better be good because we had to wait. I've been to other noodle places before. Blahblahblahblah" And after their food arrived she continued, "Way too salty. Such little portions!..." The couple finished before me and on their way out the girl drops her bag and crashes into me AGAIN (I'M REALLY NOT SOMEONE WHO TAKES UP A LOT OF SPACE, I want to yell). The glass of water in my hand spills and it dumps into the wooden tray that holds the...knapkins. You can only imagine what they looked like now after the crash...sopping wet and really quite sad. I'm thinking about having a fit though I know perfectly well that I'm not capable of throwing one in public. "Sorry," she says. This is the one word I hear her say quietly the whole time I've been at the restaurant. The guy grabs the bag and they both walk out to my relief.
I finish my food without any interruptions, except for when I "feel" people ogling at my noodles. It is very good and I'm already thinking of the list of people I have to take there on a day when ramen is very much needed.
Lessons of the day: Ramen can be a remedy to a sick day. Stay away from yappy girls (or guys). Sometimes it's better to know only one language.
I checked my watch: 6:18pm and then stood in line as I didn't have anything until 9pm. I took out the rather random book I've started reading-'The Brotherhood of the Holy Shroud'-since it has taken me 8 months to read the first 6 chapters of 'The Zahir' and that is now on hiatus. I had just finished reading this line: 'At last, a truly gruesome finding: Their tongues had been surgically cut out. But why? And who shot them?' when I realized there was a girl gabbing away loudly to her boyfriend in Mandarin that she wished the line would hurry up and that the eaters are taking way too long. That the food better be good and it should be because of the line. She more or less was jumping up and down and smashing herself against the glass. For a split second, I couldn't help but think: Man, someone should surgically remove her tongue right now. Maybe it's because it was cold out and I was slightly hungry after having had a morning of anxiety from the thought I might be getting sick (and not eating my normal three meals before this time). I erased the thought and held my tongue.
The wait wasn't long at all and when I was directed to my stool, I sat where the people in line could stare at your bowl with clarity and even inspect the diners. I guess I could have stared back at them but I wasn't here for the people, I was here for the noodles.
I ordered the Chay-su-men: BBQ pork noodle soup. Then the girl who had been yapping away at the boyfriend who could care less of what she had to say, headed to sit to the right of me. Just my luck. And then she crashed into my back with her purse. How? I don't know. Must have been all the jumping outside at the window that made her crazy.
My food took some time to arrive, but I have to say it was worth this special trip to get ramen because the broth had an amazingly bold personality with essences of bbq pork flavor. The noodles were thin and though I normally like the thick, hand-pulled kind, these were intensely chewy-almost like spaghetti but more pliant- and soaked up the flavors of the meaty soup very well. While this was no fancy Momofuku Noodle Bar bowl with Berkshire pork, the bbq pork medallions that sat atop the steaming bowl of hot noodles and broth were impressive. Each piece was surrounded by a thin layer of utterly delicious fat and the meat itself was tender, juicy, and fragrant. It was an incredible combination and for good reason...its simplicity brought out the natural favor profiles of each of the ingredients: noodles, soup, scallions, pork, and a half a semi-cooked egg (the yolk was slightly gooey and cradled some of the broth). I'd go back just for the meat and a bowl of rice.
When I stopped thinking about the food, I could hear the girl talking really loudly again. "Wah, this is all the menu has to offer? So small! Really, this better be good because we had to wait. I've been to other noodle places before. Blahblahblahblah" And after their food arrived she continued, "Way too salty. Such little portions!..." The couple finished before me and on their way out the girl drops her bag and crashes into me AGAIN (I'M REALLY NOT SOMEONE WHO TAKES UP A LOT OF SPACE, I want to yell). The glass of water in my hand spills and it dumps into the wooden tray that holds the...knapkins. You can only imagine what they looked like now after the crash...sopping wet and really quite sad. I'm thinking about having a fit though I know perfectly well that I'm not capable of throwing one in public. "Sorry," she says. This is the one word I hear her say quietly the whole time I've been at the restaurant. The guy grabs the bag and they both walk out to my relief.
I finish my food without any interruptions, except for when I "feel" people ogling at my noodles. It is very good and I'm already thinking of the list of people I have to take there on a day when ramen is very much needed.
Lessons of the day: Ramen can be a remedy to a sick day. Stay away from yappy girls (or guys). Sometimes it's better to know only one language.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
A medicine not for me
It was a guest instructor today at yoga. A tall skinny, Asian guy dressed in a jet-black martial artist’s uniform and black, diesel-looking shoes. His hair was spiky with lots of gel, no—just too much gel—I could smell his gel with each one of his abrupt movements. There really was just too much, I think a book could have sat over his hair and not mushed its shape. The class started with the usual Dahn yoga stretching to open up the body meridians with some soothing music…the usual stuff. But then the lights were turned off and so was the soft music. “Ok, now we’re going to release our stress and remove stagnant energy built up in our bodies.” The skinny Asian guy fusses with the stereo for a bit and suddenly wall-pounding techno blasts through the speakers. The beast was unleashed. By this I mean our instructor-turned-clubber had totally let loose. It looked like he was break dancing at the front of the yoga classroom. All I could picture was how wild he’d be if he had been set free in a real club with strobe lights. But this current “club” was where all the girls were dressed in yoga clothing and some even in white yoga uniforms. But he was surely enjoying himself as I bit down hard on my lip to keep from laughing myself out the door and home. I know I shouldn’t have been laughing or amusing myself by watching this spectacle because all the others seemed to be enjoying themselves, even the grandmas and men. They were dancing, more than just swaying to the music, shifting from side to side as if it was completely normal to be rockin’ out as “internal medicine” to bad electronic music. For a split second, it made me wonder, maybe we all just need to free ourselves physically to let loose mentally? Not care about what others think or see? Yeah scratch that…I don’t want to look like him, even when in the safety of solitude. Anyhow, this techno-rave dancing lasted a good 15-20 minutes. I couldn’t help but ask myself if it was one big joke. Some camera must be taping us look like fools, trying to dance away our ache and pains. Was it necessary to have much booming music, pumping the walls? As the pounding music slowed to a stop, he turned on “rain” music with a background of thunder. It seems that after club dancing we transferred ourselves high in the mountains to soak in the rain and thunder. How utterly ridiculous.
But here’s the "best" part: at the end he kept saying that there wasn’t enough to explain DahnMuDo (internal martial arts) in full so he was going to perform for us. This time I cracked a laugh. I hope noone noticed. All the students lined the walls to give him some much-needed space. He asked: “you guys like swords?” Some people nodded. I could only stifle another laugh at this silly guy. He stood at the front of the room with his sword on the floor and slowly the theme song of “Titanic” begins. This is where I had to bite down on my lip much harder than before to keep from laughing hysterically. I tasted blood. I felt my chest shudder as I fought rolls of laughter. Was he really going to perform martial arts movements to “My Heart Will Go On?” Talk about lack of choreography and taste. I’m sure the ancestors who created the martial arts style rolled in their graves knowing that an art passed down for centuries was being shown with the accompaniment of what brings to mind images of Leonardo DiCaprio, Kate Winslet and an enormous ship about to be sucked down to the bottom of the ocean. He proceeded to sway his arms and move his body, occasionally adding some kicks and what resembled martial arts fighting but really was nothing if you’ve seen real martial artists who fight with grace but can be equally deadly. His “dance” reminded me of some damsel in distress trying to fly to the moon with silks in hand. And most awkwardly, he took the sword and started swiping away here and there (he told us later the act represented cutting off bad emotions…ha!). It was the damsel in revenge now. Is that mean to say? Yes. Because maybe DahnMuDo is really a healing medicine and with some practice I could be converted to a devout practitioner. Even so, this time I wasn’t convinced. In fact, I was turned away and thoroughly embarrassed—and not for myself for once. And finally…it ended.
Now, I normally do my 30 push-ups after class, but this time I bolted out the door and for good reason. I didn’t want anyone to ask me what I thought of the class because my mouth was over-flowing with nothing but “un-nice” words. Thank goodness for self-control sometimes…I’m telling you I sure used some of it today.
Lesson of the day: Cults aren’t for everyone, especially DahnMuDo. For a good time and a place to let go, find a club with good music and bring some friends along instead.
Money doesn't grow on mailboxes
I was walking home from the awful yoga class around 1pm, up
“Miss, can you help me? I found a bag of money on a mailbox over there [points over to the blue mailbox sitting at the corner of 73rd and
Now, like any person who encounters a man who simply tells you that he wants to share his monetary rewards with you after meeting you for a total of 3 minutes, red flags pop up in my head about every 3 seconds and sirens are wailing in my head. There has go to be a candid camera somewhere, right? Or am I a victim of one of those stories I always read while at work that someone got swindled (or worse, murdered) when caught up in some overseas money scam? Just walk away, I think. Just move on and leave this man to claim his “reward” without you. But a part of me was curious and I’ve always know that out of ordinary experiences are always interesting to stories tell. And I was looking for a new one to tell. It was not about getting the money one bit. I had decided that I was going to play along and no matter the temptation (I will no longer have to worry about my student loans, I can buy gifts for people all the time, and have 4 desserts a day, etc.), there was no way I was going to consider money at all in this situation.
I’m no actor, but acting like some dumb, gullible girl was much easier than I thought. Some would say I was stupid with going along with it in the first place but really, what’s wrong with a little fun as long as I wasn’t putting myself in complete danger?
“The bank is really close by at
The man walks back out after 3 minutes and this time he is no longer carrying the bag. He tells me his boss is now counting the money and making some phone calls to local precincts. We walk towards Dallas BBQ and have a seat on a wooden bench in front of the restaurant’s entrance. People are all around us chatting with one another or on the phone. The man is still on the phone with his “boss”…someone he refers to as Weinstein. He gets off the phone and turns to me to explain that the money has been counted and the total is $100,000 (maybe a little more but I can’t remember the exact amount). “Noone has claimed any money in the last 30 days,” he continues. I chuckle a little. “Wow, nothing in the last 30 days? That’s incredible!” I reply almost sarcastically (I don’t think he picks it up though). “Mr. Weinstein says that there will be a reward because noone has placed a claim, but he’s going to have to create a source that will allow us to receive the money legitimately.” This time I laugh in my head because 1. a reward is only given if money has been turned in for like a few months …there’s never an immediate reward. 2. creating a source means the money will be illegally changed, hence not really a legitimate reward. Anyhow, he continues on and I’m half listening and then a phone call comes and it’s the “boss.” After some chatter he hands the phone to me and makes me talk to Weinstein, who blahblahblahs about the same stuff the guy has told me and then says: “I’m creating a source for Robert here and he says he wants to share the reward with you, but I just want to make sure that you guys are on the same page with things. If I create an account for him it’ll take some time but if I’m to create one for you then I’d rather do it at the same time.” At this point I ask “on the same page? Page for what?” and hand the phone back to the man. I fully turn to face the man, look him straight in the eye and ask “Mr., you’ve supposedly found over $100K in cash, why ever do you want to share the reward with me, someone you have only met for no more than 5 minutes?” “Well, if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have taken the money to the bank (ok, big nono here since he should have taken it to the police not the damn bank!). I didn’t know what to do with it so I was going to drop it in the mailbox (who in their right mind would do something so stupid when they are dealing with so much cash?) until I saw you walking and since you’re an Asian woman and I apologize I’m not very good at telling different Asian races apart, I thought you may possibly be coming back for it. Now, if you hadn’t come along, I may not have had the chance to see if there is a reward and if there is, I’d like to share it with you because you helped me,” he replies. “So let’s say I’m interested in taking a part of this reward. What would it require of me?” I ask. “Just your name so that Weinstein can create an account that you can take from. I don’t want to loose my job so I want him to create a legitimate source. So Miss, would like to share the reward?” I smile the fakest smile I can muster and say: “No, but thanks for considering sharing your reward.” “Ok then,” he says and nods his head. He shakes my hand and we walk off in opposite directions.
Second lesson of the day: Money really doesn’t grow on trees or inside/outside mailboxes. There is no temptation unless you create it. People can be damn sketchy.
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