Leave the Chinese Out of Chinese New Year

Lunar New Year 2014Happy New Year!

Yes, I’m wishing you a happy New Year way past January 1st.  This is the time of the year where millions of people are celebrating the Year of the Horse. Families have cleaned and decorated their homes from top to bottom, altars have been constructed, special New Year’s meals have been cooked and consumed.  Everybody is doing whatever they can to ward away evil spirits.  Traditions run deep during these celebrations.  But there is one tradition I want you to break…please take “Chinese” out of Chinese New Year.

Just because over a billion Chinese citizens celebrate the Lunar New Year doesn’t make it exclusively their own.  That’s right, it’s not Chinese New Year, it’s the Lunar New Year. On the same day, Vietnamese people celebrate Tet and Koreans celebrate Seo naal.

So what’s the big deal you might ask?  Who cares if it’s called Chinese New Year? Well, I do.

By calling it Chinese New Year, it once again reinforces the ideology that Asians fall into two categories:  Chinese or something else.  Inherent in this ideology is that being Chinese is superior and not being Chinese…well, just sucks.

All my life, the first question people ask me concerning my ethnicity is, “Are you Chinese?”  No offense to my Chinese friends and associates, but the question provokes an intense reaction.  So when well-intentioned people wish me a Happy Chinese New Year, I have to control the urge to not throw a full-on-yelling-pull-my-hair-thrashing-on-the-floor tantrum.  Yes China has the lion’s share of Asians in the world, but that doesn’t mean they get dibs on making the Lunar New Year exclusively theirs. They can have Chinese lanterns, Chinese horoscopes and even Chinese buffets…but I say hands off the New Year.

Also, since when does a New Year have to be ethnically descriptive?  When was the last time you heard someone wish another person Happy Caucasian or African-American New Year?  When Jews celebrate the New Year, you’ll never hear them say, Happy Jew Year.  People simply wish each other a Happy New Year and so the same courtesy should be extended to those who celebrate the Lunar New Year.  Trust me, even Chinese people while wishing each other Happy New Year leave out the “Chinese” part. It’s time the rest of the world should too.

I know that change can come. I am impressed that nowadays more and more people are accepting and acknowledging different cultures and traditions. For example, more people know about Vietnamese pho and banh mi then I ever thought possible.  Not long ago, Sirracha hot sauce was a condiment only found in Asian restaurants and households, but now I find the iconic bottle in Target and grocery stores.  Perspective and attitudes can change.  So when the Lunar New Year comes around again, don’t wish people a Happy Chinese New Year, even if they are Chinese. Just wish everyone a Happy New Year like you would do on January 1st.  Non-Chinese folks like myself will not only appreciate the sentiment…we’ll also appreciate the inclusion.

 

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Defriends No More

Et tu Facebook?

While it’s not exactly betrayal, being defriended can feel like it is, especially when you’re still friends with the person in real life.

Friending, liking, fans are new – well newly adopted at least – concepts that have invaded our popular culture.  We find out more about our friends through status updates than through actual dialogue.  People post their likes, their gripes and their desires faster than you can read them.  Suddenly, you realize how much or little you have in common.  Fascinating how some are willing to share intimate tidbits about their lives over the Internet, but remain cloistered in real life.

So when a friend gives you the virtual heave-ho, can you salvage the friendship in real life?

Let me first say that I rarely post on Facebook.  Every once in awhile, I’ll update my status or respond to another post, but for the most part, internet savvy people would label me as a lurker, someone that follows the forum, but doesn’t post.  So when I get defriended, it makes me wonder why.  What’s even more puzzling is when real-not-acquaintances-who-I-talk-to-friends defriend me.  No fights, no falling out or brewhahas that would result in my dismissal.  What went through their minds as they moused their way over to the Unfriend button?  Was the decision made with guillotine swiftness or delayed like the long pause before nuclear warheads are launched?

One click, poof…friendship’s disappears faster than a magician’s rabbit.

It’s irreversible, once you unfriend someone, you can’t un-unfriend them.  Even if my friends regretted their decisions, there is no way to friend me back without my approval.  Facebook doesn’t allow you to see who or how many people defriended you.

The last time I found out I was defriended happened when a “friend” instant messaged me.  The conversation started out with the usual pleasantries until I mentioned that I hadn’t seen any Facebook posts from him.  Long pause…cue the crickets.

“I defriended you,” he finally wrote.

“Interesting,” I replied.

When questioned, he said my negativity and bitterness didn’t mesh well with him.

“Fair enough,” I responded.

“Don’t take it personally,” he added, “it’s only Facebook.”

Truthfully, I didn’t take it personally.  He was right, it was only Facebook, but what troubled me was that he still wanted to be friends with me outside of Facebook.  I guess I’m only negative and bitter online, in real life, I was rainbows and wagging puppy dog tails.

I wondered if we could still be friends, if I resented him for excluding me and that my no longer wanting to be friends in real life was retaliatory.

Defriend me will you?  I’ll show you

And if I that was true, do you blame me?  Nobody takes rejection well.

In the end, I concluded that all was not lost.  Friends exist because of connections, real ones, not the ones that plug into our computers.  I don’t know when the lines of virtual and real friendships got crossed, but I much prefer to lose the virtual one.  So what if I have one less Facebook friend, it’s not a popularity contest.

Or is it?

Sigh…I guess that’s a question for another time.

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You’ve fallen and I can’t stop laughing

fallingI have an admission.

It’s not something I am proud of but, as the old adage goes, the first step in solving a problem is to admit you have one.

So here it is. I laugh when people fall.

I don’t mean a slight snicker but a jackknifing so hard, I get whiplash.  Someone could trip from a bump in the sidewalk and I will laugh so violently, my convulsions could be mistaken as seizures.  I don’t know why I find falling, tripping, sliding, face planting and bum crashing down right hilarious.  Actually, I don’t limit my outbreaks to the lower extremities, anyone stubbing their fingers, bumping their funny bones, going face forward into a glass door all get the same reaction: me holding my sides, tears streaming down my face, yukking so loudly, people stop what they’re doing and stare.  And if you think I only laugh at people, think again, animals are definitely fair game.

Now before you think I am this heartless, insensitive creature, I do want to clarify.  I do have the ability to discern the difference between fainting, collapsing or tumbling due to medical emergencies and I do act appropriately.  However, all bets are off if the person revives and manages to walk away, albeit limping.  Then, and only then, in my opinion, is it OK to laugh.

Once, when I was at dinner in a quasi-formal restaurant with a bunch of friends, we got on the subject of tattoos.  There were some debate about who had one, who wanted one and who wouldn’t be caught in hell with one.  The conversation steered towards the pain and the needles involved.  One of my friends, a State Trooper, mentioned casually he doesn’t like needles or anything blood related, in fact, the mere mentioning of either topic causes him to feel queasy.  With three to four years of Trooper experience, he’s a tall guy, at least 6’3, probably around 200 pounds, teetering on the slippery edge of being thirty, not overly muscular, but no couch potato either.   Sitting at the end of the table, he pleaded softly for us to change the topic.  Not taking him seriously, I carried on how the needles really didn’t hurt, how it felt like someone pressing the bristles of a hairbrush against my skin and that’s when it happened.  My friend’s eyes rolled back into his head like stuck numbers on a slot machine.  Before we could grab him, he fell face forward, intimately going to first base with the shag carpet.  His face dug deep in the carpet while his body teepeed up with his rear end flashing us.  Imagine a giant upside down V.  Of course, we all jumped up and ran to his side, flipped him over and began slapping his face.  His eyelids fluttered like the quick beats of a moth’s wings.  As he came to, he muttered incoherently, “What happened? Where am I?”  “On the floor,” I said, “You passed out”.  With the help of some cold water, he regained consciousness.  We quickly paid the bill, pulled the car around and carried him out.  Afterwards, he had a huge strawberry that skunk tailed down the front of his face.  He told his co-workers he got smacked with a branch while working in the yard.

The whole time I was in stitches.  First, the image of him – a State Trooper, face smooching carpet, ass up in the air – was hysterical.  Second, him lying supine in the middle of the restaurant, diners huddled over, managers frantically wanting to call 911 was something out of a comedy.  Third, because of his size, everything was exaggerated – the dramatic fall, the awkward positioning, the hunched over rescue.  Afterwards, each time I saw him, I would imitate a redwood tree falling.  Knee slapping, eyes watering, I would guffaw like a barking seal when I was done.  He didn’t find it very amusing, nor did my other friends.  You are evil, they told me.

When I went back home to Vietnam, my reserved cousins were absolutely shocked at my brazen laughter.  When one almost tumbled into the creek, I was doubled over in hysterics.  When she straightened herself out, she looked at me and said, “How can you life at the misery of others?”  Hmmm, easily I thought.

But I’ve gotten better.  I have controlled my fits of laughter so that I don’t bust a gut immediately.  For instance, a couple of months ago, I was washing my hands in the bathroom, when a man, using the urinal, lost his pants.  I don’t mean lost as in he couldn’t locate them, but lost as in the middle of relieving himself, his pants plunged to the floor.  I couldn’t see the reaction on his face nor could he see mine since he was facing the wall.  For that, I was grateful because I was desperately trying to suppress my reaction.  Another man came in, stopped and did a double take when he saw the underwear-clad man.  He saw me and tilted his head towards the semi-naked man, I shrugged, feigning ignorance.  I left as the man bent down to lift his pants back up.  I barely contained my laughter as I walked out.

I think Miss Manners would probably advise us to ignore these situations and pretend they didn’t happen, but that’s easier said then done.  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t exclude myself when I fall or trip.  If I take a tumble, I’m the first one hunched over laughing afterwards.  It’s funny.  It’s the reason why videos of people nose diving or ass cracking are the most watched videos on the Internet.  C’mon admit it, you chucked a little, if not a lot, when you imagined my friend with his face buried in the carpet and ass to the ceiling.  It’s ok if you did, he’ll never know and trust me, I won’t tell.  We’ll just make it our little secret.

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HELP, another four letter word

Help1The other day, my friend Todd and I decided to go out for a bite to eat.  We’re pretty open-minded when it comes to food, although he stops short of eating the steamed tripe I usually order when we have Dim Sum.  He says it’s tasteless but I think he can’t get over the fact that tripe is the intestinal lining of a cow or pig.  Before you wince or ewww yourself to death, you should try it, if you haven’t already.  Too many people immediately pass over a dish because of its appearance or texture.  For me, I like the flavor as well as the rubbery consistency of tripe, sort of like chewing on steamed ginger-flavored jelly strips.  I have succeeded in getting him to taste it but have yet to get him to take a second bite.  I don’t even attempt to order chicken feet€

This time, we chose a Chinese restaurant down the street from my condo.  The place has been there awhile.  It’s not the best Chinese food I’ve ever had but it’s edible and close by.  The restaurant, located in an old run-down strip mall, is typical of many Chinese restaurants – a Chinese calendar hangs behind the cashier, lucky bamboo plants in glass cylindrical vases sprout up like persistent weeds around the restaurants, paintings of tigers, dragons or phoenixes on canvas material resembling straw placemats decorate the walls.  It’s a no fuss, no thrills restaurant with a mixture of booths and card tables hidden underneath red tablecloths.  We were seated at a table, our chairs, with padded cushions, were similar to ones found in convention halls.  We ordered our food: ginger garlic chicken for me, chicken and broccoli for him.  I opted for brown rice, my attempt to be health conscious.

About fifteen minutes after our dinner arrived, an older, heavy-set man suddenly collapsed to the floor.  I don’t know if he was sitting near the front or if he was on his way out, but he buckled over like a sack of potatoes.  The man was passed out, beached on the tile floor, not moving.  His dinner friend was leaning over him, trying to resuscitate him.  Luckily, there were some police officers in the restaurant and they called for Rescue.  Todd, with his back turned, missed the drama.

In a city filled with older retirees, it is not uncommon for people to collapse, whether it be at the grocery store, the mall or at a restaurant.  So it wasn’t the man’s blackout that shocked me, but the people’s reaction, or lack thereof, sitting around him.  When he fell, I immediately pushed my chair back and was about to rush over but before I could, the police officers were already there.  When they stayed with him, I pushed my chair back in.  What amazed me was that the people, literally inches away from him, watched him fall and did nothing.  I’m sorry, I stand corrected.  They did do something: continued eating.  The man was sprawled out on the floor with his friend huddling over him and they continued cutting up their General Tso’s Chicken, slurping up their Wonton Soup and dipping their eggrolls into orange duck sauce.  One guest glanced down on the fallen man looking annoyed almost as if he was expecting him to apologize for interrupting the guest’s conversation.  Nobody made an effort to help the man or his friend.  They all sat and ignored him like a child misbehaving in public.

To make matters worse, the restaurant employees, deciding they would not be upstaged, demonstrated a whole new level of indifference.  The front house staff including the receptionist, the cashier and the manager, circled the man and just stared.  No one asked his friend if he needed help or offered a cool wet cloth or even water.  I could see each staring down at him and then to one another.  It was as if they were thinking how they could move him so he wouldn’t block patrons entering and leaving the restaurant.

The wait staff was even more callous.  Each time a waiter came out with a tray of food, they looked disgusted when they realized they had to walk the long way around to deliver the food.  One waiter, deeming the food an emergency, stepped over the helpless man to a nearby table.  He didn’t skip a beat, after all, there was Chinese food to be had.

The man finally recovered and managed to sit in a chair salvaged by his friend.  Fire Rescue came and placed him on a gurney and wheeled him out.  The relief on people’s faces didn’t seem like they were concerned but more for the fact they could continue their dinner in peace.

I sat there and wondered if this is what we have become?  Have we, as society, been reduced to becoming cold, insensitive, turn-a-blind-eye kind of people?  We, myself included, see homeless people on the street and we stepped over them or cross the street to avoid them.  We roll up our windows in an effort to shield ourselves from panhandlers at a stoplight.  People witness accidents, robberies and beatings and don’t report anything.  We see someone fall to the ground and we continue to eat our Moo Shoo Pork.  Hell, we can’t even say thank you when someone opens the door for us.  I know when it comes to natural disasters, people are more then willing to offer help.  I’ve witnessed the generosity and outpour of help.  But why can’t we do the same for smaller scale catastrophes?  What if that was you who had fallen down or your mother or your father?  After all, in the big scheme of things, how much time and effort does it take to offer a hand, a seat or a smile? And if you are at a Chinese restaurant and someone falls, help them.  Trust me, Chinese food tastes even better a little cold.

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Toilet Humor

700090074_ad34a8a96fAfter many years of self-employment, it’s been hard to go back to work in a corporate environment.  I’m no longer my own boss, my privacy (if any) is restricted when I’m at the office, looming deadlines lurk behind every project and of course, I have to deal with the myriad of personalities, mood swings and turf wars from various co-workers.  It has been quite the adjustment.  But the biggest challenge for me has been something totally unexpected.  It’s not something that most people think about but it’s something, unfortunately, I can’t avoid: the men’s restroom.  You’re probably thinking this time my thoughts have really gone down the toilet, if only that was true.

When I owned my coffee shop, I had single bathrooms so I didn’t have to worry about the company of other men during my private moments.  Of course, the same was true when I worked at home.  I think most of us would agree that when it comes to using the bathroom, we prefer to be in solitary confinement.

I have friends who avoid using the restroom at work.  They wait until they get home or search for single bathrooms.  Some have privacy issues while others cite sanitary ones.  It’s a big deal for them and only recently, I can see why.

I know that there are big, if not capacious, differences between men and women when it comes to toilet etiquette.  Some may disagree but men, for the most part, have little etiquette, if any at all.  As a man who now has to use a bathroom shared by at least fifty other men, I can testify to the lack of consideration.  Let me clarify, I work in a professional office and the bathroom is on the second floor.  It’s not a truck stop or a gas station john that’s only accessible with a key attached to a plank of wood or a used hubcap.  It’s a large bathroom with three stalls and three urinals.  A bank of faucets lines the opposite wall underneath a large one-piece glass mirror.  All in all, a decent bathroom.

Some women may find similarities in some of my observations but most I have spoken to agree that women are quite reserved when they are using the bathroom.  They prefer not to be seen or heard if all possible.  Here lies the biggest difference: men are very vocal when they are using the bathroom.  When I say vocal, I’m not talking about conversations in between stalls or on the phone but exclamations or orgasmic yelps such as Oh My God!, Fuck!, Wow! or I Can’t Believe That!  These are just some of the exultations I have heard.  Each time I have to suppress a snicker, if not an outright guffaw.  What are these men thinking and what kind of bathroom experience are they having?  It’s as ridiculous as those Herbal Essence’s commercials.  For those men who can’t control their excitement, here’s my advice: Learn.  Most men are not keen on sharing this experience with you.

Secondly, men, it seems, must get bored very quickly.  Evidence of this is the plethora of newspapers, magazines and brochures that sometimes line the bathroom floor.  Men bring in reading material when they know they’ll be occupied for some time.  That’s understandable.  But what I don’t understand is that they leave this stuff scattered all over the floor.  With the aim or more appropriately, the lack of one, of some of these men, I can see why some want to put newspapers down but the problem is that the stench of soiled newspapers is quite atrocious.  Imagine the smell of newspapers that have been slept upon by a homeless person who has not bathed in a couple of weeks.  Yea, you get the picture.

Thirdly, men with all their ingenuity have a hard time comprehending one word:  Flush.  More often than not, men like to leave behind presents.  Trust me when I say, it’s not a gift I, or anybody else, wants to receive.  If you don’t want to touch the handle, use your foot.  It’s not difficult.  I cannot begin to comprehend why someone would think not flushing would be appropriate.  It also makes me wonder if they do this in public, what stockpile they are hoarding at home.

Lastly and this is probably the most puzzling, why men throw trash in the urinals.  I have seen gum, candy wrappers, paper towels, mints, combs and yes, even tooth brushes.  The item bobbles up and down helplessly in the vortex caused by a flush, unable to penetrate the plastic guard that usually houses a large scent tablet.  Anybody can see that these items would never flush down the drain, yet men, continue to dispose of garbage in these urinals.  What also makes me fume is the fact that a trashcan is not even a foot away.  I don’t know if it’s because men are lazy or immature, but whatever the reason, it’s stupid.

I know I can’t stop using the office bathroom. I don’t have the ability to hold it like some of my more skillful friends.  The only thing I can do is to treat it like an expedition to an uncivilized country and to do what all explorers have learned to do:  expect the unexpected.

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Fashion Statement

Photo 154My office, the other day, had the air-conditioning set so low, my piping hot coffee was tepid within minutes.  Normally, it would take a good thirty minutes before it was cool enough to drink.  The office, typical of many offices, is composed of different body types as well as varying body temperatures.  The thermostat is usually set at a decent temperature.  But on this day, it seemed nobody, except for me, was concerned about the arctic conditions.  Fending for myself, I tried everything to warm up: blowing on my hands, putting on a jacket, holding a cup of hot coffee or tea and going outside.  I think that was where it all started: going outside.  Living in Florida during the summer is to know hot and not just hot, but what I call Serengeti hot.  It wouldn’t surprise me to see wildebeests, zebras and gazelles roving by.  So when I went outside, I went from the extreme cold to the extreme hot.  My body didn’t react well and suddenly it was caught in a quagmire:  whether to sweat or to shiver.  My body couldn’t decide so I started to shiver sweat.  Then I began to feel congested.  The pressure in my head rising by the minute.  I felt as if my head was being held underwater.   The prognosis wasn’t good and sure enough, I started to sneeze, my nose became runny, my eyes began to water, a migraine was slowing being born in the back of my head.  It got so bad I had to leave work early.  I came home and immediately popped a Benedryl.  I was knocked out for the next couple of hours.  The night didn’t bode well as I was up sneezing, sniffling, aching, congested and yea you guessed it, stuffy-head so I couldn’t sleep.  I called out sick the next day.

I returned to work the day after.  This time I came prepared – my neck was swathed in a scarf.  It’s not a heavy scarf but one of those scarves that is light and gauzy.  The type that you have to tightly twist before you throw it in the dryer.  My scarf is brown with purple and red horizontal stripes near the frayed ends.  I consider it very fashionable, after-all, I got it at an H&M department store.

So I walked into the office and immediately some heads turned.  Yes, I did realize it was a little unusual for someone to wear a scarf while the outside temperature index was plus 90 something degrees.  But I didn’t care, I didn’t’ want to be sick again.  I sat at my desk but I couldn’t shake the stares I received from my co-workers.  I walked over to my friend’s desk and asked him if there was something wrong with my scarf.

Ummm…you look gay, he told me.

No I don’t, I replied.

Ummm…ok, he said.

I returned back to my seat and remembered the last time I wore this scarf, two lesbian friends said the same thing.  I didn’t believe them either.  It’s a scarf for Pete’s sake.  Scarves don’t make you gay.  Come to find out scarves don’t make you gay – they just make you look gay.

In this day of age where metro-sexuality is rampant, it’s hard to tell who is gay and who isn’t.  Straight guys wax their eyebrows, get manicures and pedicures, shave their legs and arms, get ripped and have fashionable haircuts.  All those qualities used to be associated with gay guys.  I know I’m over-generalizing (I have many gay friends who are complete slobs with their appearances), but for the most part, this generalization holds true.  It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.  What matters is that a person is comfortable in his own skin or in this case, his scarf.

I wore the scarf, not to make a sexual statement, but to combat a cold or the return of a cold.  If I had gloves I would have worn those too.  Earmuffs even.  But I don’t have those, just this scarf.

Perhaps, it was the way I wore the scarf.  Maybe there was a butcher way to wrap it around my neck.

I visited another office and asked the girls inside if this scarf made me look gay.

Unequivocally, they all chirped yes.

It’s a fashionable scarf, I told them, lots of guys up north wear scarves like this.  It’s very European.

They didn’t buy it.

It’s the way you’re wearing it, one girl told me.

I had the scarf wrapped twice around my neck with the long ends hanging loose in the front and in the back.

You look like you’re about to shovel snow, she said, Here let me fix it.

She proceeded to wrap the scarf tighter around my neck and tied it in the back so that the ends coiled in.

There, that’s better.

I returned back to my seat and admired her handiwork with my computer’s built-in camera.  I looked at myself and my first thought was, Damn, I look gay.

Some will argue, it’s not the scarf, it’s my haircut or my clothes or the combination of everything.  It could be my attitude, my swagger or lack thereof.  Who knows?  All I cared about was that the scarf was keeping me warm.  I took a sip of my coffee and I noticed that my pinky extended out slightly as I held my coffee mug.

Screw it, I thought.

It’s my life and I’ll extend my pinkie and wear a scarf any day and any time I like.

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Balance

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Balance.  I think now more than ever, it’s something more and more people are trying to find.  Whether it’s balancing something complex as your life or something simple as your checkbook, we would all like to find that harmonious, tranquil equilibrium.  It’s comforting, safe and if you are spatially oriented, symmetrical.  In my life, it’s a constant struggle.  If I were to define it, balance for me is being able to swirl in different directions but still find myself grounded in one spot.  Whirling dervishes come into mind.

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It seems the more I try to find balance, the more unbalanced I become.  The matchbook or wad of paper can never exactly right that wobbly table.  I shift things around but I forget I need to add to both sides of the equation.  Here’s one my underlying problems, instead of taking away, I add.  A vertical slash turns a minus into a plus and I wonder why my life has become so over-burdened.

I know of only one person who has come close to achieving any sort of balance.  My mother.  She doesn’t think about it, doesn’t meditate over it and doesn’t analyze it.  Her yin/yang confirms pretty well along the symbolic S-curve.

The best example is how she balances her spiritual and secular values.  First, let me paint a picture of my mom.  She’s a short, spritely seventy three year old Vietnamese woman with a long mane of black hair absent of any grey or white strands.  She loves home remedies for anything that ails her.  She’s fiercely independent and deeply religious.  Everyday, she goes to the morning service at the Catholic Church down the street.  She cites her limited access to a church as the main reason why she refuses to visit any of my brothers and sisters.  The other day I was kidding with her and told her that air conditioning had just been installed in Hell.  The look she gave me made me wonder if I would have been better off as one of the first born smote by the hand of God.

After coming home from church, my mother immediately turns on the TV and continues her devotion by watching mass on television.  Then she follows that up with praying the full rosary with nuns on the same channel.

But she’s not the strict churchmarm she purports to be.

Just when you think she’s going to continue on this religious track, she switches channels.  The monotonous murmurs of Hail Mary’s give way to a crescendo chant of Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!  Jerry Springer blooms into view and my mother is enthralled,  her eyes never leave the screen.  Even though she doesn’t understand much of the show, she knows the key words: baby daddy, redneck, slut, etc.  And of course, the fights.  She loves to watch pfizer viagra no prescription the fights.  She doesn’t care if they are staged or online order prescription viagra if they are actors.  She laughs and sometimes she clasped her hands – those same hands that piously hold her rosary – to her mouth to suppress a loud snicker.

When I ask her how she can watch the show, she shrugs and without much thought replies, I like to watch the people.  That’s not healthy I tell her.  But she ignores me and continues to watch two women claw at each other.   One, if not both, of the two women’s breast, inevitably pops out.  She cackles in enjoyment.

Perhaps she likes to watch the people she is praying for.  Perhaps she feels sorry for them.  Perhaps she revels in the fact that she is not one of them.  Perhaps I’m over-analyzing.

But then I realize it comes back to balance.  As I mentioned, my mother doesn’t delve into the metaphysical definition of balance.  If watching Jerry Springer after mass brings her happiness, why question it.  Doesn’t drama-deprived balance out drama-filled?

I don’t quite understand my mother, but I’ll have to admit maybe she’s got something.   Things do have a way of naturally balancing out if we just let them.  I’ve been programmed to believe that balance is something mystical, ephemeral, and elusive.  What if I just don’t try so hard?  After all, even a three-legged table can stand up on its own.  It’s something worth thinking about.  Meanwhile, Jerry, Jerry, Jerry pipes through the house and I can’t help but to chant along.

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Something old, something new…

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As I pull into my condo complex, I see my neighbor washing his car.  He’s a young guy in his twenties with a beautiful red Lexus.  My Mazda usually snarls at his car every time we pass.  He has dragged out the shared community hose and began soaking the car.  Occasionally, I see him whip the hose like a lion tamer when he needs to pull it out a little further.  He does a good job and when he’s done, the car gleams like bright red nail polish.  In contrast, my car, parked a few spaces away, looks dull, faded and neglected like an abandoned child.  And that got me thinking how we take care of things when they are new but as soon as they grow old or become a little battered, we stop caring or care less.  Our attachment fades away, our excitement contained, the newness somehow losing its shine.

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I remember when I first got my car.  How everything was so new, the excitement would send goose bumps down my arms.  It was like meeting a celebrity you admire for the first time.

In the beginning, I took extreme care of my car – parking far away from other cars, laying plastic down on the mats, shooing away any birds that got dangerously close.  If I had yellow emergency cones, I would have partitioned out a safe zone around my car.

And of course, the washes.  My car couldn’t go a week, if not a couple of days, without a thorough scrubbing.  I enjoyed the compliments as well as how good my car looked, how it was so shiny, how the car suited me.

And then things began to change.  I began to park closer to other cars, I stopped replacing the plastic on the mats and birds didn’t seem to be as big a threat.  When my car was dinged for the first time, I was beside myself.  I rushed it over to the body shop with the frantic impatience of a parent with an injured child.  But after the second and third time, generic viagra uk it became old hat and I let the scratches canadian meds viagra melt into the frame of the car.  I turned a blind eye and rationalized that nothing can stay new forever.

But the fact of the matter was that I was becoming lazy, taking my car for granted, shelving it, the first-time dog owner making excuses to not walking the dog.

As you might have deduced, this pattern is not isolated to my car.  Music, clothes, furniture, gadgets and of course, relationships have all fallen by the wayside.  In the beginning, I get excited about the prospect of something new, something fresh – that new car smell.  But then the music gets overplayed, the clothes begin to fray, the furniture sat in too much, the gadget not so gadgety and the relationship turns slightly stale and I begin to wonder whether it’s worthwhile to keep these things.

And like an addict, I find myself looking for the next fix.  It’s easier to get something new than to hold onto something used if not abused.  New furniture, new car, new relationships.  I don’t want to invest in the time as evident in my horrible track record.  It’s not something I am proud of.  Shiny, new things look impressive but how much value do they have?  There’s a reason why antiques are so sought after, why they are such keepers.

So I’m looking at my car and comparing it to my neighbor’s clean, shiny car.  A runway model parked next to a housefrau.  But there’s something familiar with my car, something endearing.  It’s not so bad.  Then I remember that I have a couple of torn-up, faded, stretched-out t-shirts (and yes I admit, several pairs of underwear) that I refused to give up.  A smile sneaks on my face – I do know the value of sentiment, of comfort, of familiarity.  It’s a good feeling.

I start walking towards my neighbor.  Good job, I tell him.  Feel like washing another? He looks at me and then looks at my car.  Nope, he says flatly, but I can help though.  I look at him and think that’s what neighbors are for.  Especially ones with shiny, new cars.

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Tossing the Salad and Pearl Necklaces

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I have got to be the most clueless person alive.  I just found out that tossing the salad means something other than flipping Mesclun and Radicchio greens.  When did a simple culinary phrase become slang for something that would get a NC-17 rating?  For those who are clueless like me, a quick search on UrbanDictionary.com will make you reconsider saying tossing the salad again.

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How did this topic come up or should I say rear its ugly head?  A co-worker approached me and asked me if she could talk to me.   She steered me into an office with another co-worker and leaned in close.  Thinking this was a serious matter, I was ready to extend a comforting hug or go into my It’s not that bad speech.  With a hushed voice reserved for libraries and theater performances, she asked me in a very serious tone if I knew what tossing the salad meant.  Taken back, I was disappointed that she wasn’t tapping into my reservoir of thirty plus years of accrued wisdom with a more life changing question.  So I answered rather haughtily that tossing the salad meant throwing up.  The confused look she gave me was the same I’ve seen on viagra buy online the faces of viewers while watching Sarah Palin give unrehearsed answers to reporters.  It doesn’t mean that, she replied.  Once again, I answered that tossing the salad did indeed mean puking.  She shook her head in disagreement.  No, it’s something sexual, she insisted.   Sexual?  Yes, she affirmed.  She thought for sure I would know what tossing the salad meant.

This is where I digress.  There are two ways I can take that statement.  The first is flattering that she would consider me hip, cool and current on all the new sayings.  The second is that she thinks I’m a sex freak bordering on satyriasis (the male form of nymphomania).  Sadly, I disappointed her on both fronts.

The other co-worker, who was listening to the conversation, did a quick Google search and read the definition out loud.  Not believing her, I read the definition myself.  Tossing the salad didn’t mean the expulsion of a foreign substance but did involve the licking of a certain orifice.

I felt so stupid.  Unconvinced that I wasn’t alone in my ignorance, I did a quick survey with other co-workers.  One by one, each co-worker made me feel that much more out of touch as they hashed out their interpretation of the phrase.  But when the Jehovah Witness knew what tossing the salad meant, I knew I was done for.

The common thread that tied everyone together was the fact that they all have known the meaning for quite some time.  When I asked them how they knew, they all shrugged their shoulders and said casually, It’s just common knowledge.

So I’m wondering where I misplaced the memo detailing all the current sexual innuendos, out-nuendos, under-nuendos, and any other -nuendos.  When tossing the salad no longer involves the use of tongs (or maybe it still does).  I’m scared that I’ll say hello to a co-worker and it will mean I like to see you naked.

And just as I am feeling like a pubescent boy learning about sex, an evil co-worker stops by and asks me if I have even given anyone a pearl necklace.  By the tone of his voice and the smirk on his face, I know a pearl necklace means something more than a cluster of shiny, iridescent spheres.

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Man in the Mirror

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My earliest memory of Michael Jackson dates back to when I was eleven and had just started middle school.  His song Billie Jean just reached number one.  One of my friends, Ricky, was a huge Michael Jackson fan.  He wore a red Member’s Only jacket and the obligatory one hand glove that looked more like an oven mitt than a glove.  Ricky was a short, pudgy, white kid with greasy brown hair and a clumsy gait.  He had watched the Bille Jean video so many times, he memorized the dance sequences.  Not believing him, one of my teachers made him perform the routine in front of the class.  The transformation was instantaneous.  The short, awkward kid bloomed into this smooth, fluid dancer who moonwalked, twirled and balanced on his toes with such dexterity, it was as if Michael Jackson was truly channeling through.  It reminded me of crippled believers walking again with a touch of a preacher’s hand.   I enjoyed watching him as much Ricky enjoyed performing.  For a couple minutes, Ricky stepped into a mega star’s penny loafers and became someone bigger than life and we, his classmates, were able to look past his pale features and avocado shaped body and cheered him on.

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In all honesty, I was indifferent to Michael Jackson.  I liked some of his songs but didn’t go out of my way to listen to them.  I saw his Thriller video by accident one night at Sears while my father was shopping for tools.  The tool department was next to the electronics department and someone had turned the dial (I know changing a TV station with a dial is a foreign concept to some but we did it as kids) on the TV floor model to a burgeoning MTV channel.  Several people were huddled around the set and I was curious to see what they cialis online australia were watching.  When I shuffled in between them, Jackson’s zombie face filled the screen.  Back then, I spooked really easily so I wasn’t thrilled with the video.  His yellow cat eyes and Vincent Price’s haunting voice made a lasting impression on me.  I remember the people around me kept commenting how the video was so cool.  From then on, whenever someone would ask what I thought of the Thriller video, I would say it was really cool.  I always got an agreeing nod in return.

The last time I thought about Michael Jackson was several years ago when I was driving to the gym.  I had the radio on but the music was more like white noise than actual songs.  Jackson’s Man in the Mirror came on and for some reason, the first couple of chords lifted me out of my trance.  The combination of the lyrics with the vulnerability of Jackson’s voice pierced the layers of my sometimes callous heart and I began to cry.  Not just a couple of stray tears but full-blown sobbing.  I felt like such an idiot sitting in my car crying like a kid losing his first pet.   I have only cried as vehemently twice in my life: my grandmother and uncle’s deaths.  I don’t know why that song moved me.  Sometimes when we keep our emotions so tightly bottled up, the slightest pressure can send the cork ricocheting like a champagne top with the pent up emotions bubbling out of control.

I am saddened by Jackson’s departure and I’m sure there are fans (my childhood friend, Ricky, no doubt) that will greatly mourn his passing.  Perhaps, he has found the peace that had eluded him when he was alive.  Yes, he was eccentric, flamboyant and downright bizarre but his influence cannot be ignored.  From Madonna to Justin Timberlake, he has inspired many artists.  In all honesty, I was moved more at the passing of Princess Diana but that doesn’t mean that Jackson’s death pales in comparison.  His legacy, like hers, will continue to live on.

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