Relay for Strife

Today as I walked into work, I noticed a woman a few yards ahead collecting donations for Relay For Life. She donned the full-throttle anti-cancer regalia--shirt, cap and flair--though I'm not sure what pro-cancer regalia would be, maybe a big tumor, smoking a cigarette and wearing a shirt reading "ALL UR ORGANZ R BELONG TO US"?

As I neared her, I entered the zone where the petitioner has to scope out potential donations or signatures and make the move. Our eyes met and I wasn't sure if I could really say, "No, I'm in a hurry," because by saying I'm too busy for cancer is just asking for a huge cheek carbuncle to grow and stretch my facial features so much that I'll have the profile of the Jack in the Box guy. But before I could mumble an excuse, she gave me the nano-second size up and turned around like I wasn't even there.

Dissed! Again! Then I realized why she didn't want to ask me for a donation. She saw me and figured, she's too fat. How could she even walk in the Relay for Life when just thinking about walking makes her tired. She probably has to iron her clothes on a hot boat.

But am I really too fat to help fight against cancer?

I'll probably have to get signatures for my own cause: Race for a Cured Ham.

So you better treat (me) right

Until I took my maternity leave last April, which turned out to be the day I maternity left, I had been working consistently since I was 19. I've been a front desk manager, grassroots organizer, small newspaper editor, etc. I've been thinking a lot about the almost-jobs I've had, too, the places where I had been hired but had to politely (and sometimes not so politely) refuse.

There's a scene in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid when right before a gun battle, Butch admits that he's never shot anyone and Sundance instructs him to "aim for the middle 'cause you're bound to hit something." That line sums up how I've applied for jobs, especially when I don't have a job and need that crazy thing called money.

There was a dry-cleaning place run by an attractive Asian woman (Asians and dry cleaners? Surely you jest!) and right after the interview she said, "I just want you to take this IQ test, here's some scratch paper." I had never heard of a dry cleaner wanting an applicant to figure out if John and Matt carpooled and Matt lived thirty minutes away from John at what speed would a train from Topeka have to be to reach Kansas City at five o'clock. I thought I would just be estimating how much it would cost to get raspberries stains out of ascots, not balancing equations. But for fifteen minutes, I was a math genius and the chemicals inside the building uncovered the seventh grade algebra lessons lodged in the bowels of my brain.

When I received the voicemail asking when I would start, I had to tell her no, I had already accepted a job elsewhere even thought that was a lie, I didn't want to smell like I had been huffing aerosol cans all day and I don't like doing laundry. (Tangent: And speaking of smells, I am utterly disgusted by Febreeze commercials. I mean, instead of washing and disinfecting your nasty, bacteria-laden sweaty sports gear, why not spritz it with some chemicals? That's nastier than wearing Bea Arthur's underwear as a face mask. Whenever I get a whiff of Febreeze, I think, "Something nearby must be really dirty.")

This stretch of motherhood has been the longest time I have gone without working for pay and has given me time to think about what ifs. What if I had taken that job at the literary agency? What if I moonlighted as a "phone actress" for guys into shemuscles? What if I did work from 9 to 5 (pm to am) shaking what my mama gave me?

And the point of this boring, what-is-your-point-Mona entry is to say that I am no longer a stay-at-home mom. I got a job! A paying job! With benefits! Break out the exclamation points, who's expressing strong feelings now, playa!

I decided to go back to work for several reasons. It was partly financially motivated because of small things like the car accident last month that didn't magically pay for itself and disappear into the field where bad decisions go to die (RIP stirrup pants). There were other reasons less cogent like, I think I could really lose weight this time because I will not be within seconds of the fridge and the pint of cookies and cream inside. Truth is, I want a career. In twenty years I am supposed to be at my maximum earning potential and that is not going to happen if I continue memorizing lines from Little House on the Prairie (not that that's a bad thing, it's just I can't make a living telling you what Pa Ingalls is going to say next). I want to go to grad school and use what I've learned for something other than owning the Victorian Literature category on Jeopardy.

My friend calls the first months the "cloud of motherhood," that you're stuck in a fog of baby demands and mothering and that's great because it's exactly what your child needs, but when your baby grows and eases up, you start to notice your own needs, too. And as she waxed hippie philosophic about discovering womanhood, wombs and the moon, I should have chimed in with something more eloquent than, "Yah, I'm just looking forward to wearing pants without elastic around the middle."

A wino walks into a bar

Why is it when you order a double of anything at a bar it costs three times as much? If I had ordered a triple Jack and Coke, I would still be making payments now to avoid some loan shark appearing at my door with steel bat in hand, charging interest and "ice and straw" fees.

I met up with Tack and Anthony at Finn MacCools in the U-District this weekend, only to be thrown out because we were too young for the AARP convention going on inside. When one geriatric pulled the tennis ball off his walker and flung it at me, I knew it was time to go.

We made it down the block to the Old College Inn. I was still pregnant when the Washington smoking ban took effect and so I spent a lot of time here eating phenomenal chili and drinking Shirley Temples. This time, we had a beer and talked smack about old fogies with their candle-making supplies and Christmas cards with five dollar checks inside.







If you're wondering where Nathan was in all of this, he was still in the car, strapped into his Britax. But I left the engine on so I would still be in the running for Mother of the Year.

Half-baked at Half-Price Books

Stoner 1: Hey did you hear about Paris Hilton? It's all over the internet dude.

Stoner 2: What happened?

Stoner 1: She had this locker that she didn't pay for so they sold all her stuff. They found like tons of videos of her naked and doing coke. And they also found out that she had a miscarriage in 2003 under the name "Amber Taylor."

Stone 2: Dude. They found a dead fetus in there?

If you don't stop crying, I'm going to turn this ferry right around

The first time I ever took a ferry was when I was traveling from Saipan to Tinian to visit my friend Val who was staying there that summer. I boarded the ferry home with my newly acquired driver's license and two large watermelons her aunt had given me. I failed Saipan's written test so Val offered her inter-island DMV connections. What's more embarrassing than failing the exam every Harry, Dick and Jane Juan, Jun, and Serafin passed? Failing it at 18 years of age. I drove my golden brown Toyota Previa van illegally and had to go to another island to make it right.

I took a nap on the ferry and woke up to a Filipino man standing over me, saying, "Excuse me, ma'am, but you'll have to leave now." I rubbed my eyes and realized that the ferry was completely empty. I didn't have time to recreate the scene in which everyone walks by my open-mouthed, snoring body, my sister was supposed to pick me up outside and if I didn't get to the dock, I would be all by my lonesome with my fruit to keep me company. I jumped up and over the man, holding my huge watermelons and running as fast I could off the boat. There I was, huffing and holding those jumbo globes just so I could holler at my sister who was already on her way out. I could get a gold medal in the Porn Star Olympics with that stunt, I tell you what.

So when Mike was invited to Peninsula College to read his poetry and talk about writing, our small family took the ferry to Bainbridge Island and proceeded to drive 80 some miles to Port Angeles. Sometimes I forget how big America is. On Saipan, it took me thirty minutes to get from my house to the other end of the island and here, thirty minutes is a good drive time.

When we arrived at the reading, Nathan and I sat in the back of the auditorium while Mike took the stage. I decided to sit close to the exit in case Nathan entered a meltdown. When he did coo or say, "Ba ba ba ba," a woman turned in her seat as if to seek out who the hell brought in a baby, even though Mike was introduced several times as being from Seattle and having brought his wife and baby. I didn't see any other wife and baby pairs so I wasn't sure why this woman was staring me down like I owed her money. When I smiled at her, she rolled her eyes. And that was it. I was like, oh no you didn't woman. I went to the state finals in eye-rolling. I was 13 and my mom told me I couldn't have a birthday party because I was caught smoking in my room, so what did I do? I wielded my up-and-over eye roll, perfecting the international teen symbol for "Whatever!"

I'm no stranger to being openly dissed, but at my husband's poetry reading? I can understand why you wouldn't want a child at a quiet event, but Nathan wasn't going into hysterics, he was heckling his dad. Her frown was enough for me to grab the diaper bag and wait outside. I didn't want to disturb anyone else or risk fending off other eye-rollers because I can't do a leg sweep and push a stroller at the same time.

While Nathan sat patiently and chewed his books, I phoned my sister who offered this: "You're in Port Angeles? Wow, that's the same city in Passions!" I think she confused Port Angeles with Port Charles and Passions with General Hospital. Just a guess.

In 2007, I'll try to toughen up against disses and eye-rolls, though I might take some lessons in nursing with one hand and throwing ninja stars with the other.



--

Ferry travel cost us $30.00 roundtrip, but we did get our money's worth with these shots of the sunset over Alki Beach.

big fat lie

I once dated a pathological liar and for years after we broke up, I was pissed at the time I wasted with a guy who claimed to be a quasi-famous Northwest artist, a college graduate and also promised me a website (which never came into fruition). But maybe I should have focused my energies on learning about lying instead of wishing I had burned his Magic the Gathering card collection.

I have never been a good liar. When I do try to embellish or fabricate scenes to make myself look fabulous, the words feel heavy in my mouth, like I'm spitting out marbles. Yesterday at the gym, Nathan and I were in the women's locker room. We had finished our swimming for the day. The very svelte brunette next to me had an infant carrier at her feet, her baby girl nestled inside.

"Oh you have a new baby!" I said. Any baby who can still fit into an infant carrier and is not an seasoned 27-lb enormity like Nathan is to me still new.

"Yeah..." her voice trailed off. "She's four months now."

"Four months?" This woman looked like she could be my "after" picture. Her legs were so small, in my "Mona was such a fatty" campaign, I'd imagine she would stand in my jeans, her whole body fitting into one of my pant legs and she'd stretch the blanket of denim out to her right.

"You look great!" I added.

"Yeah, it's really hard to lose weight."

"You're telling me." She didn't have to tell me really. I was still standing in my one-piece Costco bathing suit, my flubs weren't exactly incognito.

"It's especially hard when you have two kids. I have another girl at home." She then looked at Nathan and said, "Do you only have one?"

And this was the moment I should have used the year with Mr. Pants on Fire to generate something other than, "Yeah, he's my only one." After she left, all the right answers came to mind like, "Yeah, but he was 27 pounds when he was born," or "No, I have six more at home." Because I tell you, I have an okay body for the mother of one, but a banging set of legs for a mother of seven.

What has two thumbs and is celebrating a birthday today?

Me!

The downside of being born in January is that everyone is broke from Christmas, so I end up with the leftover giftsets like a blush and eyeshadow palette meant for white Europeans or a Far Side desk calendar with the good pages torn out.



What kind of blows about being born on January 20 is that it's also the Inauguration Day, so every four years some guy takes the spotlight from me just because he was elected. Whatever! Damn you, US Constitution, with your freaking 20th Amendment getting in the way of my celebratory goals.

A few times Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday has also fallen on January 20 and there's an unwritten rule that says, "This is MLK Day, so don't complain jerkface!" I mean, I don't want to be the a-hole who shifts the federal holiday focus back onto myself, even though this is my freaking birthday. Yeah, I'm looking at you, Civil Rights Movement!

And no one really cares about my birthday when it's also the opening of the Olympic Sculpture Park and the final revelation of the code to unlock Manaphy, a diggity-dang animated POKEMON character.

I'm 24 today which means that I'm too old for raging keggers, Girls Gone Wild and Playboy's Girls of West Seattle or even their Girls of Saipan Special Edition.



But I'm not too old to use my pointy high-heels to pervert the sign at the Fauntleroy Blockbuster. Sexy time!

After watching the news segment about 16 weddings in one Baghdad hotel

Mike: Do you think they're registered at Target?

Me: No, they're registered at Al Tar-zhay.

What American Idol reminded me

I didn't have to catch last night's American Idol Seattle auditions to know that this city is full of crazies. It's also the most educated city in America which means you're either philosophizing on how people are good by nature and just ruined by existential forces or you're sipping Drano out of a dirty Starbucks cup.

And all of this reminded me that I love crazy people. I'm not talking about the scary kind of crazy, those people who cut out patches of their skin because imaginary spiders won't leave them alone or those who chop up their pets and double bag the remains. I prefer the one-gloved lady who accuses me of stealing her bracelet or a man who wants me to pay him $20 to stare into the sun. I admit, I'll eavesdrop a one-man conversation on Donald Duck's involvement in the Iran-Contra affair and other talk not even the best peyote could produce.

I'm hoping one day to spot the legendary Zelda kid who goes around Capitol Hill dressed like Link. I don't know what's more wonky, the kid rocking the two-dimensional sprite gear or the people in his fan club.

I haven't encountered any crazy people in West Seattle yet. I did have to fight a woman at PCC over the last bottle of Burt's Bees Apricot Baby Oil, but I suspect she was more ashy than crazy.

I'm probably not going to watch anything else from American Idol Season 6. I wanted to see if I recognized anyone last night, but the closest I got was the girl whose arms could fill up a pre-teen's jeans. She called herself "fluffy," and looked dead-on like my classmate who called herself "zaftig." Not knowing what that meant, I figured zaftig was latin for "one who eats pot pies." Crazy, huh?

This snow is getting old

snow on my windshield
Originally uploaded by hello insomnia.

I never had this problem on Saipan.

In which I know I'm going to get in trouble

I met some of my in-laws this weekend at the airport. I think the airport is the perfect place to meet family. All you have to do is meet them at baggage claim and take in a quick meal before they have to make their connecting flight. There's no time for anyone to cry over the Christmas of 1973 when so-and-so was forced into an impromptu "Silent Night" solo. There was just enough time to eat a plate of lox and answer questions on how it was to grow up on Taiwan, to which I had no response since I was born and bred on SAIPAN.

During our Midwest Christmas, another in-law said, "I know you're not Asian, Mona, but I just want to call you Asian!" Um...thank you? Can I call you Hmong, even though I know you're not Hmong because I have an urge to call you Hmong!


Mona's family portrait, 1986.

To be honest, Mike's family is a very sweet lot who have never greeted me with pitchforks, torches and "Get Out Harlot!" signs. After reading this list, question 12 (no surprise) prompted me to say: I hate that they don't recycle. I can understand why they couldn't locate Saipan on a globe and why they think Chamorro is a casserole recipe since I am the first Pacific Islander they have ever met in person. Before me, they had only seen Pacific Islanders on episodes where the cast goes to Hawaii or Dog the Bounty Hunter in which Pacific Islanders are getting locked up for meth use and jumping bail. In fact, when I arrived in St. Louis, the Pacific Islander population went up one, which was one more than before I had had landed.

I asked my brother-in-law why his family didn't recycle and he said that they weren't "into it." I guess they're not into a sustainable environment but are into landfills.

And all I could think about while they were bagging the paper, plastic and aluminimum together was that one of my goals would be to teach Nathan a two-part lesson: recycling is necessary and all country music stations are created by the devil.

In which Paula Abdul one-ups me

I've mentioned the time Mike once took me to the Groz with Gas-a-Thon, a fundraiser held by the local sports station 950 KJR and during that event, I went up quite drunkenly to John Clayton and slurred, "My fiance thinks you're a geniussss."

Since then, I've cringed at that moment and how embarrassing it was to be so publicly drunk, my mouth full of idiot-speak and Jack Daniels breath. And then effing Paula Abdul had to take that away from me with this:

Snow day!

I'm glad I didn't go to Dress Barn today. Instead of being cooped up in a store searching through shoulder pads and clam diggers, we found a small hill nearby and introduced Nathan to the magic formula of saucer + snow.



Nathan looks disoriented because he woke up just as Mike sat down on the saucer. You'd be a little freaked out if you opened your eyes and found yourself going downhill.



Mike had to reshoot my ride down the hill three times because he couldn't figure out the camera. I didn't mind, though.



--

Later we went to Queen Anne to get Mike's oil changed. While waiting at Olympic Pizza, I saw the co-anchor from King-5 News pass by.

Me: That's Ken Schauffler!

Mike: Who?

Me: Ken Schauffler from King-5 news.

Mike: It's a good thing you didn't call out to him.

Me: Why?

Mike: Because his name is Allen.

Get out my snow shoes, we're walking to Dress Barn

Five inches of snow
Originally uploaded by hello insomnia.

Me: There's a lot of snow here in Seattle, Mom.

Mom: Oh?

Me: Yeah, cars are being abandoned on the side of the freeway.

Mom: Oh. Does that mean you can't go to Dress Barn?

Me: Mom, I just said there's a lot of snow.

Mom: I just need a 3/4-sleeve blouse. It doesn't have to be fancy.

Me: I can't go to Dress Barn, Mom.

Mom: How about Target, then?

Nathan's first Pacific Islander toy

Nathan and the Tiki God
Originally uploaded by hello insomnia.

I think this toy is charming, especially when you press the little red button and hear its Tiki God ditty, complete with sacrificial drum accompaniment.

Mike thinks I shouldn't shop at the ooga-booga store anymore.

It's a uter-US, not a uter-YOU

So Mike and Nathan accompanied me to my IUD appointment and after I had taken off my skivvies, Nathan started crying. If my half-naked body sent him into tears, imagine if I had gone the full-monty? Mike wheeled the stroller out of the room, leaving me alone with the doctor.

As she measured my uterus, she said, "Adorable. Just adorable." Her voice trailed off like she was admiring a Picasso.

"Um, excuse me?" I was taken aback. I wouldn't say my vagina is adorable. I mean, it's okay looking, but definitely not a stunner and sure as hell not adorable. I've had a baby so I know I'm not going to win any Miss Vagina World pageants anytime soon.

"Your son," she said. "He's just adorable!"

She wasn't my regular doctor. She was a new one who couldn't get through all the preliminary medical questions without giggling like, "Have you had any unprotected intercourse with ejaculation in the past two weeks? No? Hee-hee, okay!"

It reminded me of that episode of Beavis and Butthead in which they take a sex ed class but they're not supposed to laugh or they'll get expelled and the whole time Mr. Buzzcut (sad, I remember his name) says, "And we're going to be talking about the PENIS! And the VAGINA!"

I had expected to walk out of there looking like I had been on a horse all day, but the whole deal was twenty minutes (the longest part being the preparation) and relatively painless. Nothing like the horror stories about cramping or bleeding my friends, or so-called friends, had warned me about. They were trying to scare me into having more babies and I'm sure my in-laws paid them to do it.

In which Krispy Kreme is exonerated

I haven't been blogging lately because for the past two days I've been playing a game called, "Vomit: Pregnancy or stale doughnut?" It started Saturday morning when I woke up and I found a Krispy Kreme sitting on the counter. I went all Homer Simpson and forgot to ask how long it had been there, thinking only, "I want to eat you, Forbidden Doughnut."

And I didn't hold onto it long, which was the story of all the food I tried to eat this weekend.

Since morning sickness was how I knew I was pregnant the last time, I panicked at the idea of another baby so soon. I was pissed at my cousin-in-law who urged me to have a baby right away. She probably jinxed me or impregnated me with her sperm and egg tango ideas! Could I really be pregnant, I wondered. I guess it's possible, what with my big floppy vagina hanging down to my ankles. I'm surprised I haven't been fertilized by a strong wind yet.

We have enough clothes for another baby. If I had a girl, she'd just have to deal with pictures of her rocking the blue "BOYS LOVE BASEBALL" and "FUTURE QUARTERBACK" gear. You can get away with a girl in blue. I don't think Nathan could handle wearing anything that said, "DADDY'S LITTLE PRINCESS."

It was scary worrying about two babies in diapers (and when Mike fits into his Depends next year, I'll have three babies on my hands!). I told Mike, "I've been throwing up. I can't eat any food. And you know how I love food! This is serious!"

I have never seen anyone run to the drugstore so fast. The last time I ran that quickly was in the first grade. I was half a block away from my house when I had to pee with such fury that if I didn't jet home, I'd have to explain to my mom that it was just a fluke and there was no need for vinyl pants.

Anyway, once I had completed the test, Mike said through the door, "Do I need to get my glasses?"

"No, I'll read it out to you. Let's see. Horizontal line plus vertical line equals, 'We're not pregnant, stupid.'"

I tried to tell all of this to my friend who has no children. It's hard to illustrate that kind of potential chaos of juggling two babies to someone who heard me say, "Yeah it was just the stomach flu, not a doughnut baby, ha ha!" and in turn responded with, "Dude, that sucks," because I know that the whole time I was talking she was really thinking, "Oh you pretty Chitty Bang Bang, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, we love you. And, in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, what we'll do."

I don't blame her though. I hope I'm over this dreadful thing because I heard that Krispy Kreme has a New York Cheesecake-filled doughnut and who wouldn't want a belly full of that?

The random report

My brother's coming in next weekend with his wife and son. Now that we both have families, I'm not sure how this will change the dynamic which I've known so long. One that involves phone calls that begin with, "What the hell do you want, Ramona?"

When I was 14, I stayed with my brother in Hawaii that summer. He brought me to a little shop where a guy made fake ID's for $50. The guy took my photo and placed it in a tiny plastic card that said I was 21 and from Fairfax, Virginia. As we left, I was starting to think that my brother was making an effort to include me in his super cool party circle until we got to his apartment and my first task was to buy beer from the Korean store across the street.

When the store owner scanned my ID and asked if I was going to school on the East Coast, I panicked and tried to say oh-so-smoothly, "Yeah, I just got done with spring semester..." and scurried out of there.

I relayed the whole story to my brother and he said, "Spring semester, Ramona? Don't you know it's August?"

--

I went to the Seattle Public Library downtown yesterday and thought it would be avant garde to take self-portraits of me, but then I chickened out once the librarians came around. So I pulled out my bag and acted as if I was actually rummaging through it instead of stuffing it with Cynthia Voigt novels. Here's me pretending that the contents of my Calvin Klein (free gift with purchase!) bag are so amazing that I. forgot. to. close. my. mouth.



--

I made an appointment to get an IUD on Monday. The last time I went for an IUD I got into a car accident. I didn't make it to the doctor's that day. I think God was trying to tell me one of two things: "Have more babies, Mona!" or "Get the hell off the road."

--

During the Christmas festivities, everyone played "Rob Your Neighbor" and fought over the bottle of wine someone brought in. Mike's godmother ended up with the fancy BBQ sauce set I gifted but I found her later trying to trade it with her grandson for a flask.

I picked this:



A six-piece gardening tool set which everyone tried to steal from me, but I was all, "Ahh hells no! I'm gonna these deez kneepads fo sho!" Besides, I'll need these tools to fulfill my ultimate dream of opening up an organic produce stand that also sells Steel Reserve and scratch tickets. I'm just trying to broaden my market, that's all.

--

Hello 2007!

I have only one feasible resolution this year and that's to stop yelling, "HELLO!" when I phone people. This was suggested by my sister who asked me to just say, "Hello, Bobb," instead of my usual trans-Pacific holler.

I have another less realistic goal for '07: take a stand-up comedy class. I've always had a dream of working a stage. In second grade, I used my show-and-tell time to rehash Sinbad jokes, including one on how bikinis looked more like dental floss. I filled Nathan's first baby book with preggy material instead of entries on his arrival.

I'm no stranger to the mic. In high school, I competed in tons of debates, mock trials, and speech cups, so stand-up couldn't be too far from that. Instead of arguing intelligent design in high school curriculum, immigration reform or the ratification of the Kyoto protocol, my topic will be, "Resolved: you are a bacon monster."

Here's hoping for laughs in 2007.