On the Effects of T.V. Overdosing

This may sound weird, but I wonder if the loss of the family unit isn't in part, somewhat attributable to computers, portable audio/video devices and multiple television sets.

When I was a kid, we only had one t.v. in the house. Hell, my parents still only have one t.v. Anyway, I remember watching lots of t.v. with the family as a whole. We had certain programs that we liked to watch together. Granted there wasn't that much since we didn't have cable, and local television in Montreal pretty much sucked at the time, but still ... You also had to be pretty much in agreement as to what you wanted to watch.

The other night, after tucking the kids into bed, I camped out in my room in front of the t.v. I think I was watching a movie I'd taped digitally. Richard walked in, took one look at what I was watching and then announced that he would be downstairs in the family room watching the baseball game. We spent the night quite contentedly apart, and then saw each other briefly after our respective shows were over and we were ready to snuggle up before lights out. It occurred to me then that if we were a one t.v. family, we'd either be fighting or one of us would be sucking it back unhappily. Because with Richard, you don't fuck around with the whole spectator sports issue, and I don't give in easily, so we'd either be filing for divorce or we'd be splurging for an extra television set (and if he had his way, it'd be some big ass plasma screen).

In our house, I'm embarassed to say that we own a total of six t.v.'s, three combination vcr/dvd players, one portable dvd player and two computers. The viewing options are pretty limitless. (And this doesn't count the t.v. and dvd player in my car). It's especially amazing when you consider the fact that we so rarely tune in, other than to watch the nightly news or the morning weather. Every now and then we have a family movie night, but other than that, we pretty much don't watch anything. But the underlying and unspoken fact remains that if we all wanted to watch something different and were unable to come to agreement, rather than trying to reach a satisfactory resolution, we could all disband to separate rooms and watch our preferred choice.

I have to then wonder if this means that my children will be deficient in conflict resolution skills. It sounds stupid, I know, but when I lived in residence at U of T, we had some pretty heated arguments over what program to watch in the common room. You had to learn to plan ahead and/or to pitch your cause to the masses. Does the proliferation of video options in my household mean that my children won't learn valuable skills about compromising? Can the disintergration of family units be directly traced to the extinction of the single t.v. households? Sure it sounds crazy but televisions can have an impact on society -- if I recall correctly from one of my social history classes, I do believe that the year t.v.'s became accessible to the general public, birth rates dramatically decreased. And what about remote controls? I've known couples who have had relationship breaking fights simply because one partner has taken liberties with the remote.

So tonight rather than flaking out in front of the t.v. by yourself, do it instead with your significant other. In my case, it means I'll either have to watch a whole whack of sports (I'd rather eat dirt), or become more effective in forcing Richard to suffer through an artsy chick movie (he'd rather eat dirt), but I suppose it might be good for our relationship. Either that or one of us will be dead by the end of the week. In which case, we'd have that much more freedom to enjoy our viewing choices.

By Special Order for Luke

I got a request today which I feel compelled to fulfill. One of the very few who regularly frequents my blog suggested that I write a piece about eyelashes.

Okay, so it's not exactly some weighty intellectual topic like politics in the Middle East or the fate of the Catholic Church under the guidance of Benedict XVI but then again, what the hell would ever give anyone the impression that I could do justice to anything like that?

So eyelashes ... hmmm ... well for starters, I am folliclely-challenged in the ocular region. Every professional makeup artist who has ever worked on me starts clucking his or her tongue when he or she surveys the goods.

My youngest son, on the other hand, has the most spectacular eyelashes. Long, thick lashes both on bottom and top that interlace and frame his eyes beautifully. When he cries, they plump up and look like luscious spiders' legs. (It's a complete mystery where he inherited this eyelash gene as no one in either family is blessed in this regard). I have to stop myself from applying mascara to his lashes. (God knows he already is at risk of developing issues since Jacqueline has been regularly painting his toenails electric blue since he was eighteen months old). It's sort of unjust -- I am not personally blessed with lush lashes like that and I also don't get the pleasure of at least playing with his because they're on the wrong sexed child.

Recently, I visited a friend's salon-spa. As I climbed the stairs to the inner sanctum of feminine beauty secrets, three women emerged from one of the rooms oohing and ahhing. The cause of their delight? A new technology which was being introduced at the spa -- semi-permanent lashes ... as seen on the celebrity stars (J. Lo, Jennifer Aniston, Beyonce Knowles and a few other chicks I've never heard of). So of course, my ears perked up. What's this, you say? I can have lashes and look like a babe, too? Where do I sign up?

One hour later, I emerged from the salon with slut length lashes. Okay, so they actually weren't that long, but to someone who has nothing, the change seemed enormous to me. I kept expecting people to pop out of nowhere screaming "fraud!"

The impact of longer, fuller eyelashes was immediately noticeable. Friends, clients, teachers, etc. would comment that I looked particularly good that day and different somehow, but they couldn't quite put their finger on what was the cause of the difference. I was reluctant to confess that I was in possession of anything less than natural, so I let them continue to stare and wonder.

I guess I have this thing about screwing around with nature. Oh, of course, like lots of women, I manipulate it to some extent. I wear makeup sometimes, I have streaks of colour in my hair and I paint my fingernails. But I guess, I see these things as being typical and widely accepted feminine rituals. Other things like silicone breast implants, hair extensions, Botox, etc. just seem beyond the pale of normal to me. I could never imagine myself partaking and indulging in these practices. Somehow, the lash addition smacked of these though.

I guess I also have issues about vanity. During my childhood, my parents would constantly reiterate that physical beauty was truly only skin deep and that pride in one's appearance was vain, superficial and therefore not a desirable quality. My mom used to point out to me that "beauty shines from within" and that my beauty lay in my intelligence, not in my face. I think this was meant to console me as it was usually said quick on the heels of her looking at me and shaking her head. (I was stuck at the awkward stage for an eternity; I can't count the amount of times my parents used to recite the tale of the Ugly Duckling to me). So by extrapolation, I guess I've concluded that time spent on personal grooming is frivolous and silly and that therefore, I shouldn't covet my son's lashes, let alone actually let someone affix semi-permanent ones to me.

I guess, the only way I justify my case and exonerate myself from the ranks of total vain bimbo is that catering to my appearance isn't the only thing in my life. In fact, it occupies only a very minute part of my daily routine. It sounds hard to believe but there are two women who are regular clients of my friend's spa and they have devoted their entire life to plastic surgery, spa treatments and clothes shopping. They are complete abstractions of reality, something you'd expect to see in a sitcom. Given the choice between taking care of their physical needs and spending time with the children, they actually choose the former. So the day I opt to abstain from some fun activity because it's bad for my fake tits or will ruin my nails, shoot me.

In the meantime, I'm going to flutter my slutty eyelashes flirtatiously and shamelessly.

Stereotypes

I was invited on Saturday night to the tail end of a Passover meal -- the only part of the meal that counts for me -- dessert.

The person who invited me was another mom at the school who took a shine to me several years ago. Probably, because I struck her as being different from the typical princess mom crowd that is so highly represented at our school.

Seated at the dinner table was a family who lived one street over from me. I have never met them before (I guess I'm somewhat antisocial and remiss in my neighbourly duties). The wife, an artist, almost immediately asked me if I was an accountant. Now, I have to point out ... I did not come dressed up in corporate attire, but instead was clad in a pair of jeans, t-shirt and sporting pigtails. Hardly accountant wear.

Years ago when in my mid-twenties, the owner of a chichi Rosedale salon told me very dismissively that I looked like an accountant. Clearly, it was not meant as a compliment. He seemed to be telling me that I was a pencil pushing, number crunching, crashing bore. (Which would explain the kind of haircut he gave me -- is it any wonder that I adore Daniel who fancies me a goddess and gives me exciting creative looks to go along with his opinion?)

During that same time period, I hired a photographer to do some portrait work. This particular fellow did artsy cutting edge photography for magazines, etc. At one point during the photo shoot, his phone rang and I overheard him telling the caller that he had to go as he had someone waiting for him -- "no, no nothing interesting like that ... just some portraitwork I have to do". It was clear that he had a distaste not only for what he was doing but for the person who was putting him in the position of having to carry out such an act. That he was only carrying out the task for the money was quite obvious.

Later on, he called me at my office to let me know that the contact sheet was ready for my perusal. At the time, I was working for a Better Homes and Garden real estate company -- in fact, the only one in Canada at the time, and therefore completely unknown as a real estate entity. When I got to the phone, there was a tone of newfound respect in his voice as he exclaimed "hey, I didn't know you worked for a magazine". It was obvious that he was suddenly rethinking his original opinion of me as boring corporate type who'd commission his talents in a completely inappropriate and bourgeois fashion to artsy interesting girl with truly good taste. It was a shortlived respect however, because I felt compelled to tell him the truth. The silence that followed before he got back down to business spoke volumes.

For a couple of years, as a favour to a friend, I did sporadic video and photography work for her company. I appeared in a number of in-house videos, as well gracing the cover of their corporate magazine. Almost invariably, I was cast as the pharmacist. My desire to just once be a slutty, ditzy aesthetician became somewhat of a running joke between myself and the director. Once and only once, when they were short of actors, was I allowed to be a shoplitfing customer and apparently, my performance was deemed to be somewhat disbelievable. I just didn't look the part. The next callback, I was in my familiar role as pharmacist.

What is it about me that causes people to typecast me as boring, corporate accountant or studious pharmacist? Is it because I'm Asian, or do I actually project an unexciting, predictable energy?

Mea Culpa

Feeling some amount of remorse for my last post. Worried that the light I shed upon my mother was somewhat along the lines of Christina Crawford's tell all book "Mommy Dearest". So if you've drawn bad conclusions from yesterday's entry, please refer back to April 14th's post.

Bear in mind that I don't present all facets of my childhood and of my parents to you. I just write about what occurs to me at the time.

I now understand what Snooze was talking about vis-a-vis the difficulties of blogs versus paper journals. Have to wonder if I'm an exhibitionist at heart.

Emotional Forecast

Can't stand this freaky manic depressive schizoid weather. What the hell is this?

On Tuesday it was a sunny 27 degrees, and today it's a whopping 7 degrees, overcast, cold and rainy. Talk about mood swings. I realise we live in Canada, but geez, can't we at least be consistent? I feel as though I'm being jerked around. Just as I get hopeful that spring is indeed around the corner, I'm suddenly submerged back in some pre-winterlike wonderland.

Earlier this week, I was sunbathing on a friend's roof, topless, and today I'm searching for my downfilled vest. One day dehydrated, the next frostbitten. Go figure.

I hate inconsistency. Few people thrive on it, I realise, but I have a particular bugaboo about it. I think my distaste for it has its roots in my childhood. My mother was wildly inconsistent. Well to be fair, she was actually consistent in her inconsistencies. In retrospect, I realise that she was constantly exhausted, and that extreme fatigue manifested itself in the way of irritability, impatience and general intolerance towards people. If there was a choice between yelling or quiet admonishment, she picked the former. I would get berated for transgressions such as leaving a cupboard door slightly ajar. The verbal abuse would go on for about fifteen minutes steadily during which she would rain all kinds of critcism upon me. I was lazy, ungrateful, incompetent, unhelpful, selfish, incapable of amounting to anything in life, everything I did was half-assed, etc. Sometimes the screaming symphony would be accompanied by mild physical abuse -- kicks, slaps and objects pitched at me. Later, after she'd calmed down, I think the guilt would set in. Probably at the sight of me fearfully and quietly approaching her with her after-dinner coffee in hand. She would overcompensate by doing something wildly out of character, like hug and kiss me and try to make amends -- I was always suspicious, never quite sure if it was a trap to get me to let down my guard. If I didn't respond correctly, that would often set off another screaming session. I felt more nervous when she was being nice to me than when she was hysterical because I never knew what to expect.

Of course, there was always a backlash to the nice period. Guilt fueled more anger. My mother then became enraged because she felt that she was grovelling for my approval unnecessarily. After all, she was the one who was doing everything, wasn't she? I should be grateful. What the hell was she doing being nice to me when I was clearly the lazy one? The anger and resentment would build up so that at the next available opportunity, she would pounce upon me and the abuse would rain down harder than before.

As an adult, I watch the weather channel each morning, to see what the day promises to be. I pay special attention to the long term forecast. I like knowing what lies ahead. From the age of about two years, my eldest child, J. has also tuned into The Weather Network. Like me, he feels betrayed by sudden and unexpected changes in weather. Like me, he also dislikes inconsistency and change. He thrives on routine. For his sake, I've struggled to be consistent in my parenting. He's learned to trust me and count on that. (He's been especially frustrated with this weather and constantly badgers me as though I am responsible for it).

The thing is that like the weather, my mother was sometimes wildly unpredictable. An open cupboard door usually signalled stormy weather, but not necessarily. Sometimes actions that previously elicited a sunny smile to my mother's face would when repeated later, bring about a thunderous screaming session.

I have to admit though ... as much as I hate the inconsistencies of the weather, there is some excitement in the unexpected. Today's weather sucks and the forecast for tomorrow is similiar, but there is the possibility that we may wake up tomorrow to a complete change in the system. My mother might freak out over something seemingly trivial, but then again, she might respond by joking around with me. The lows simply emphasize one's appreciations for the highs.

Dark Thoughts

In a somewhat black mood today. Hesitate to chalk it up to hormonal imbalances, but don't really know what to attribute it to exactly.

Was talking to someone the other day about cut flowers she'd received from a friend. She wanted to hurry up and "put them into water before they died". Ironic since of course, once cut they're dead. Adding water simply prolongs the wilting process and sustains their prettiness for just a little bit longer.

Realised that one could draw an analogy between the flowers and human life. From the moment we draw our first breath, we are basically on the path towards death. I know that sounds extremely morbid, but it's essentially true. For some people, the path is a long one and for others an extremely, inexplicably short one. Some of us spend a lifetime trying to prolong the aging process so that we don't wilt at the same rate as others.

Found out the other day that this woman I knew died quite suddenly. She's a parent of one of the kids at my school, but my connection with her came from elsewhere. Apparently, she'd contracted some kind of flu-like virus from one of her clients, was ill for a couple of days, slipped into a coma and then died from an aneurysm.

Last month, the father of the childcare director at my youngest son's school died as well, also quite unexpectedly right in the middle of a celebratory dinner following a cruise he'd taken fourteen family members on. He drew his last breath moments after giving a toast to his family, saying how much he'd enjoyed being with them, how lucky he was to be surrounded by such a special family, how wonderful his life was. Essentially, he gave his own eulogy.

I'm not about to get all Woody Allen neurotic and start freaking out that maybe this is my last day on earth, but both these stories really did affect me. You really don't know how long you have. If I make it to the expected average age of a woman, then my life is already almost half over. Amazing how quickly a lifetime passes.

My parents are aging at a rapid rate. I was supposed to spend this weekend with them in Montreal, but have had to postpone my visit as my dad isn't feeling up to snuff. Each time I speak with my parents, my mom slips in a comment that they are getting old and their health is compromised. It seems that she feels betrayed by the fallibility of her own body. Sometimes I think that in her attempts to inform me that she and my dad are at the end of the trajectory of their lives, she is trying to warn me of the inevitable. It's something I hate to contemplate.

When I went to pick up my kids at school this afternoon, I sat in my car for a few minutes and watched Jason's class playing in the schoolyard. The look of glee and joy on the faces of the four and five-year-olds as they ran and chased each other was precious. It struck me that my innocent and carefree children would one day have to come to terms with life without me.

Shamefaced Adult

Last night, I went to my step-daughter's high school for her art show. She has taken art for the past three years, and has shown some talent in the few things she's shown us.

I was blown away by the sheer magnitude of the show. Twenty-two seventeen-year-old kids displaying massive pieces throughout a large room. Each one had a brief one or two page statement which tried to explain the thrust and theme of their work. It was impressive, even without taking into consideration the fact that some of the works displayed there had been done when they were as young as fifteen years old.

A few of the kids there had some pieces that were spectacular. Surprising especially because I've had some of these kids in my home since their pre-teen years, and have watched them through the years goof around and act silly. Who would have thought they could be so incredibly talented? Even more impressive was how brave and open they were about how they viewed themselves within the world. I was amazed at their ability to reach within themselves and pull out what they did.

I had to stop and consider what I was like at that age. Certainly, I felt a lot of what these kids were able to vocalise within their statements and bring forward within their given media, but I don't think I was ever able to sum it up, never mind factoring in the lack of talent aspect. How could such young kids know themselves so well? Feel confident enough to shout it out to the world? Here I am, more than twice their age and I still lack the ability to do what they did.

I tried to speak with each of the artists to ask them about their pieces, about their future plans, and to praise them for their talent. They were all quite nonchalant about what they had produced. The most talented of the bunch, who had painted several huge canvasses of heart wrenching images in the most breathtaking manner, advised me that she was going to go into the sciences, but that perhaps she might keep art as a hobby. I wanted to shake her and let her know how her talent was a rare gift that needed to be nurtured. Instead, I laughed and told her how ironic it was that I had studied sciences and fancied med school because I lacked any artistic ability.

I couldn't help but wonder if maybe I was reading more into these pieces than what they were: an assignment to fulfill a school requirement. Maybe they really didn't put their heart and soul into their paintings and sculptures. Maybe they were all bullshit. Maybe I was just projecting. In any event, is it petty for a middle-aged woman to feel jealous of adolescents who have creative ability?

Editor's Note: The characters contained herein are fictional only. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental

In speaking with a friend on the phone, it was pointed out to me that my blog was somewhat indiscreet. The question was if certain people in my life were to read it, would they be offended?

This caused me to go back and reread my entries. I realised in so doing, that I have made numerous references to having had a somewhat dysfunctional upbringing. I wondered if I should be clarifying the comments. (It's a weird thing this blog ... because on the one hand, I do sort of just sit down and type away, without editing it. I try to keep in mind though, that some people visit my blog on a regular basis, so I do make an effort to write coherently, but I don't really hold back. Maybe I should though).

So back to the topic at hand ... my family history. I was told once by an old friend that every family screws you up -- it's just a question to what degree. After I thought about it, I found I had to agree. We all sustain some damage from our upbringing, but hopefully it's minimal. The key is the proportional amount of good stuff versus bad stuff.

Jack Nicholson said it best in his speech in the movie "As Good as It Gets". We resent those who've had childhoods filled with laughter, picnics and pasta salads because they were seriously missing from our own.

In my case, my family certainly had some issues. Lack of communication and basic trust were high on the list. Everything was further exacerbated by the fact that there was always that cultural gulf that existed between my parents and I. That and their resounding paranoia that everything less than the rules they laid out, would put me on the dangerous slippery slope to being a pregnant teenage crack addict.

Not making honour roll this term? Are you doing drugs? Going out after dark? You'll get pregnant and disgrace the family. Going on a date before the age of thirty (with some non-Korean boy, no less)? You'll get pregnant and disgrace the family. Wearing a short skirt? You'll get pregnant and disgrace the family. Smoking a cigarette? Are you doing drugs? Hanging out with friends that smoke cigarettes? Are you doing drugs? Hanging out with girls who are more developed than you? You'll get pregnant and disgrace the family.

Now, does my current openness about some of what transpired within the four walls of my family home mean that I am being indiscreet and dishonouring my parents' reputation? Perhaps, if you're a strictly black and white thinker.

When I was younger, I not only omitted to tell friends and others about the true climate of my household, but I actually lied and invented a "pasta salad picnic" family, because I was afraid that if they knew the truth, they would think that something was terribly wrong with me to cause my parents to be like this. It took me three decades to realise that the bad parenting choices my parents made had little to do with me, and everything to do with them. It also took me a long time to realise that despite any of the bad choices, my parents weren't bad people. They were simply two people who loved their children and were propelled by a sense of fear, and therefore took what they felt were appropriate precautions to protect us. Sure, maybe they took some extreme steps to reinforce their values, but as a parent, I can certainly understand where they were coming from.

It's a scary world out there. One of the hardest parts of parenting is letting your children experience life for themselves. Sometimes, you have to let them get hurt in order for them to learn their lesson. My parents didn't want us to get hurt. For them, it was better to hurt us by denying us our freedom than it was to turn us out into the world. Can anyone fault them for this? I sure as hell can't.

But my friend's right. I guess I shouldn't be referring to my past as being dysfunctional. Maybe it is indiscreet and disrespectful. So I want to be on the record now as saying that I do believe my parents were good parents in their own way. The good stuff definitely outweighed the bad. They loved us and tried their best to guide us through the perils of life. At the end of the day, that's all you can do.

I'm sure one day, at least one of my children will come away feeling that he or she suffered at the hands of his or her dysfunctional mom. God only knows, I've made so many mistakes already. In the meantime, I'm going to go and pack a pasta salad for our picnic in the park ...

Shoddy Memories

The other day my kids were having a bit of a tiff. As usually happens, I was forced to wade into the centre of it and fish out the perpetrator. I pulled Jacqueline from the melee to give her a 'time-in' (special attention time during which the shit disturber gets to sit on my lap and receive soothing hugs and kisses). I could tell by looking at her face that I was heading into stormy weather. I swear, that kid is just too small to house all of her emotions. You can actually feel the hurt and sadness rolling off of her if you lean in close enough. It sometimes takes my breath away when I hold her as she sobs and cries -- you can almost hear the pieces of her heart breaking.

Last night as I was falling asleep, I had a brief flashback of a long forgotten memory. It was from my elementary school days when I was about ten or so. I had this best friend, my only friend actually. We played together every day during lunches and recesses. I looked forward to going to school so I could spend time with her. She made life bearable for me. Under her gaze, I felt acceptable and accepted, where before I had been a complete social klutz. After about a year of constant playdates and shared secrets, she suddenly started getting chummy with another classmate. I took this to be a rejection of our friendship. It never occurred to me at the time that perhaps she just wanted to include someone else in our games. I thought instead that she was choosing another girl over me and that this was her way of trying to dump me. This caused me to act like a jealous mental case. I started trying to dream up ways of wooing her back, while simultaneously, attempting to get rid of this intruder.

Of course, my attempts to maintain an exclusive friendship just drove her further away. Who wants to play with an obsessive maniac? I spent the rest of the academic year alone and desperately lonely.

I can't even begin to describe how sad and rejected I felt. Suddenly, I started dreading school. Life became instantly unbearable again. And yet as painful as the whole experience had been, I'd forgotten all about it until just the other day. Stuff you swear you're never going to get over just disappears into the Bermuda Triangle we call "long term memory overload".

Weird how you can feel so disconnected from past versions of yourself. Until you have kids, and suddenly collide with a mini you.

It took me a very long time to get over the pain of losing my one and only friend. After about a year of watching her form a friendship with two other girls (who weren't psychotic like I was), she then moved away to the States. We became penpals, and were uncomfortable in our new roles because by this point, we'd moved so far away from the initial closeness of our friendship, and it felt hollow and false to write these emotionally distant letters.

Remembering this made me look somewhat differently at my daughter today. The frustration that I've felt with regards to her occasional social inabilities and her immobilisation when she gets into hurtful situations, suddenly dissipated. The apple really didn't fall very far from the tree after all.

My hope is that the rest of Jacqueline catches up and eventually grows into her heart while sustaining minimal damage. My hope also is that I don't lose sight of the experiences which might help me to understand those around me; that I can occasionally if I strain hard enough, catch a glimpse of a younger self.

Grudging Forgiveness

I bumped into this woman I know through one of my mother's groups. She is two weeks away from giving birth to her third child. We chatted briefly about our children. One of the issues that came up during our conversation was how my kids behaved prior to the imminent birth of their baby brother. After telling her of the difficulties that we'd encountered, and to some extent, still encounter, I had to stop and wonder whether or not those kinds of issues ever get resolved, forgiven and forgotten.

It's funny. Even though, we acknowledge to some extent, that the birth of a new child in the family may cause some negative feelings, we don't really allow for those feelings to last over a significant period of time. In the case of our youngest, the person who took the news the hardest was C, my step-daughter, who at the time of our announcement was on the brink of turning thirteen. In fact, she spent many months after that fact trying her darndest to show us just how pissed off and hurt she was. This went on quite blatantly until Jason was about six months of age, and then it either went underground, so to speak, or she learned to deal with it (or the horror of adolescence simply passed). Today, she fawns over him constantly, and thinks he's the cutest thing. In fact, she adores all three of my kids and is like a second mother to them.

My point is that, even though both R and I recognised that she wasn't happy about it, there was probably a part of us that didn't think she would hold out for as long as she did. At certain points in time, I think we both felt that enough was enough. The question is why shouldn't she have harboured those feelings for the remainder of her life, if she'd felt so inclined? She is the eldest, in fact, and therefore has a better knowledge of what was at stake more so than did any of her younger siblings.

Now, C is an extraordinary girl, so I think she somehow worked it all out on her own (and with some help and encouragement) and, probably, doesn't have too many residual feelings of anger and resentment over her little brother's birth. I don't think she represents the norm, however.

Our daughter, J, on the other hand, is quite another story. Although, ostensibly she appeared to be happy throughout the pregnancy and in the wake of her little brother's birth, I think she has never quite forgotten the injustice and injury of being usurped of her position as cute baby of the family.

As the baby so aptly pointed out the other day when announcing each family member's title, he is the cutest (with his older brother being the coolest and his sister J being the prettiest). His certainty in his cute status is unshakeable and unwavering. When questioned as to how he knew he was the cutest, his response was "because I'm the youngest".

Now, our daughter J is no dummy. She knew that everyone was making a big fuss over her new baby brother and so she constantly tried to stay in the limelight in one way or another. She continues to do so today. To some extent, she has a fairly good awareness of the intention behind her actions. When asked about why she sometimes abuses either of her brothers, she will say things like "J.R. (the older brother) used to like me a long time ago, but now he likes J.M. better". J.M., of course, both as baby and cutest child in the family, is fairly secure in his knowledge that the entire world loves him.

It's interesting though -- I am the baby of the family, the youngest of two kids. Would I say that I ever had the same feeling of security that J.M. has? Certainly, I didn't spend the majority of my life feeling secure and adored by any and all. But did I as a very young child?

I have to wonder if my older brother logged in any time feeling ripped off from his "beloved and wonderous child" status as a result of my birth. We've had moments during our childhood, and even during our adulthood, when we've vied for our parents' attention and approval. Is that the result of repressed childhood anger? It all sounds very Freudian, but I have to sometimes wonder how much of what we experience emotionally as adults, isn't simply the product of our early childhood? Do we simply run the 'feelings' train repeatedly over tracks laid down during that time frame?

My good friend suggested recently that we should all just "get over ourselves". He's right of course. But like most things in life, knowing something in theory isn't so easily translated in practice.

Communication: Urban Legend?

Last night emerged from my house at 10:30 p.m. to find four people exchanging angry words. The cause of the heated debate? A dispute regarding a proposed addition to a neighbour's house.

Ended up mediating to some extent today over the phone. Ironic that I once thought (and subsequently discarded the idea) of psychiatristy as a career. People, even complete strangers, seem to find the need to confide in me. Why??!!

In any event, I realised today that maybe I'm a bit too touchy feely for some people. In my old age, I've discovered the need to constantly clear the air and to try to establish open communication. I think most people are fairly resistant to this approach however.

When I was younger, and far more embittered, I thought that communication was an impossible and unattainable goal. Each person was destined to be an island unto themselves, with no possibility of catching a ferry to and from said island.

The very idea of communication is somewhat problematic:

If I say something to you, how can I ensure that you've understood exactly what I've said? You can repeat it verbatim, in which case, I can't be sure if you've derived any meaning from it, or if you are simply parroting me. You can reiterate it using your own words, but then it would be subject to my interpretation, and how to ensure I was correct in my assumptions? I'd then have to ensure that I understood that you understood what I was initially saying by what method?

So how does communication work exactly? If we feel that we are indeed communicating, are we deluded, or is it, a possible phenomenon?

I like to think that I have a good understanding of what someone is saying. I like to think that I'm a fairly good listener. I like to think also that I take into account certain cues, (like body language, eye contact, tonal changes, to name a few), when trying to assess a person's feelings and intentions. But the truth of the matter is that it's all just second guessing. Maybe I just don't want to believe that I'm anything but a sensitive person who can read other people's cues.

We all just walk through life and hope for the best. Hope that we understand those who speak to us, hope that we haven't offended those who are in our lives, and hope that if we have, they speak up about it and that we understand what they are trying to say to us.

It's interesting when I read books with my children, and I ask them what they think a character in the book is thinking or feeling. It seems that children have an understanding of only a few basic emotions -- the primary ones, generally. Feelings of sadness, anger or happiness and perhaps pain (although only in reference to the physical) are invariably mentioned. Very rarely do you hear a child comment that someone may be feeling proud, satisfied, content, empty, desolate, alone, frustrated, annoyed, etc. Come to think of it, so many people I've met (men especially) seem to be in the dark about these more complex secondary emotions. How does one refine one's understanding of the vast range of human emotions? Is it instinctive or learned?

I've had the benefit of having been raised in a household that was somewhat dysfunctional (mind you, what family to certain extents isn't?) Survival was somewhat dependent upon honing one's ability to read the atmosphere upon entry. If the air felt charged with negative energy, you got out ASAP, or tread very carefully. As an adult, I find it very difficult to function within a situation fraught with tension. Hence, my predilection for trying to have open discussions and meet any problems head on.

I spent an hour on the phone with my neighbours trying to get them to think objectively in terms of how their past negative interactions with each other might have some kind of impact on their actions today. I felt completely ineffective in my role, particularly they kept reiterating was how much of an asshole the other was being. I guess maybe it's a good thing I chose not to enter into psychiatry after all all.

Reality: Deceptive Perception or Perceptive Deception?

Went to the theatre last Friday night and saw Wicked. I abhor musicals, but it was a well done play and I actually enjoyed myself.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the production, it is billed as being a prequel to the Wizard of Oz, and tells the tale of the relationship between Glinda, the Good Witch of Oz, and Elphaba, the Wicked Witch of the West. Ostensibly, the most apparent moral of the story is that there really is no such thing as pure good or pure evil. Some critics have said that it is a allegoric statement on U.S. politics and the deceptive appearances of so-called good and bad actions, as well as people's need for a scapegoat or enemy.

It's funny how some people never grow out of their childish need to label "good" and "bad". Some days I wish I could see the world purely in black and white. Alas, I live a life mainly within the varying shades of grey. (I'm told that some of us live in technicolour ... but I suspect they may just be on a really good acid trip).

In any event, I guess I have a hard time with labels, particularly those that assign value judgements to the recipient of said label. My children have learned early on that name calling isn't acceptable as far as I'm concerned. It's quite amusing to hear one child chastise the other because he was overheard telling the dog that she is a "bad girl" for urinating in the house. They have some vague idea that there are inherently 'bad' people out there in the world, but that for the most part, good people can do 'bad' things sometimes and still be 'good' people.

I guess the question is where you draw the line. In last night's play, you find yourself empathising with Elphaba far more than you do the weak, vain and superficial Glinda. And yet Glinda becomes Emerald City's goodwill ambassador, the "feel good" poster girl. Why? Because she's cute and perky and physically fits the bill (blonde all the way, baby).

So maybe that's why I hate labels. I don't think I've ever fit any bill. As a child of a rebellious Asian man who deliberately stayed away from his communal roots, living in a French-Canadian city, I never fit in anywhere. Add to that fact that I was just plain weird as a child. I dressed in a fairly eccentric fashion (thanks to my mom who groomed me to be some kind of child of the fifties, I think), I had no idea about popular musical groups or dance moves, I had no idea about anything deemed to be "cool". So I didn't fit in as a Canadian and I certainly didn't fit in as part of the Korean community.

As I got older, I stopped desperately trying to squeeze myself into some kind of a mold, and started trying to carve out my own identity. I've grown to embrace the differences and now hate to be one in a crowd of many. My daughter, bless her little heart, is fiercely unique and also refuses to succumb to the masses of pop culture. I wonder if it's genetic?

While out with a group of people last week, a question was thrown at me: is there such a thing as an absolute good or bad, or is the standard simply a societally imposed one? It's a tough question. I still have yet to come up with an answer in fifteen words or less. I wonder if I ever will.

Sibling Rivalry

I went out one night last week to meet up with a good friend and his brother who was in town for a brief visit. Despite being quite close with my friend, I really didn't have an idea of what his brother was all about. Sure, I'd seen pictures (absolutely no resemblance whatsoever) and I was told a few cursory facts about him (age, profession and marital status), but other than that, I hadn't a clue what to expect.

Often when I like a person and he or she has a sibling with whom s/he supposedly has little in common, I generally end up disliking that sibling, or at the very least barely tolerating him/her. I don't think that the dislike grows out of loyalty for my friend, but, rather that the dissimilarity from my friend is such a departure from my own values, preferences, etc.

In this particular instance, my friend and his brother were quite different from each other in so many ways, and I found myself struggling to find the common ground between the two. The interesting thing was that as it turned out, I actually identified more with the brother than I did with my friend. This was a surprising revelation to me because I count this particular person as being a truly close friend, so you would think that our closeness springs from our similarities. In truth, perhaps the only similarity I share with my friend is our fairly open and accepting attitude towards people and situations. But that's an important basis for our friendship. We've accepted each other into our lives, shortcomings and all, revelling only in the very real feelings of camraderie that we feel in the other's presence.

It's interesting the conclusions that we draw from our own lives. My brother and I are two years apart, cut from the same cloth perhaps, but we've chosen to express ourselves in completely different ways. Yes, we're both very determined individuals (read: extremely stubborn and pig headed) and we were both subject to the same early influences (although I had the added benefit of being further influenced/beaten by big bro), yet we took very different messages from our shared experiences. My brother came away with the resounding belief that ultimately, we are all alone, and that you therefore can neither trust nor count on a single soul. He has devoted lots of time to proving this theory correct by letting only the most completely untrustworthy and altogether reckless people into his life. While I say all this in what may sound like a judgemental voice, I have the utmost sympathy for my brother (something he would hate if he knew).

Most people who know my brother and I, find it surprising that we are related. Those who initially made contact with my brother, seem quite surprised upon meeting me. I guess, the picture he has painted of me is not an altogether flattering one.

As a parent, I often wonder about the fate of my children's future relationships with each other. They are fairly close in age, and like many siblings, tend to fight with one another. Three children could not be more dissimilar from each other than my lot, and this fact made itself apparent from early infancy. Even in utero, each one was different from the other. The amazing thing is that despite the differences, as a parent, you love your children fully and unconditionally. I don't think there has been a moment when I've wished that one was more like the other. I've embraced each one for his or her uniqueness and found something wonderful to cherish about each.

This being the case, it makes me wonder, why we can't extend that kind of feeling towards everyone. Why is it that we only tend to find ourselves attracted to certain kinds of people, and stay away from others? Why is that if I'd encountered some of the traits that my kids exhibit within someone else, I'd probably veer clear? Is it simply because we share genetic roots that I find room in my heart to accept them as they are?

James Joyce Minus the Talent

Sitting here for the last hour alternating between typing furiously and making friends with the backspace and delete keys. Decided to toss in the towel for the moment and just blather on nonsensically.

Was trying to write a little bit about siblings. I don't actually really know what point I was trying to make, and maybe that was my problem. Although I find that when I sit down without a game plan in mind, I tend to write my best. Perhaps that's just delusional thinking on my part though. In any event, this time, it just seemed to go every which way but onward and upward. Maybe because it taps into unresolved issues in my life? I'm not sure.

I guess, I wonder if I have to have a point to begin with. I don't think I have any wisdom to impart upon the masses. There isn't any kind of intrinsic value attached to my writing. Does this matter? When my father writes, I think he does so purely for his own enjoyment. The mark he wants to leave upon the world has nothing to do with the world itself. The fact of course, that apparently he does have incredibly important things to say, does not fail to escape my attention.

When I was in elementary school, one of my favourite activities was to write creative stories. My father used to say that I should become a trashy novelist. Write for the unwashed masses and sit back and rake in the dough. I was never quite sure if this suggestion was his tactful way of telling me that I lacked any real literary talent, or if he was encouraging me to sell out in order to fulfill some kind of vicarious desire. (As a respectable and revered academic, my father's material was far too elevated to appeal to the general public, therefore, hardly of the best-selling variety. Certainly, it would never put us on easy street).

I have to admit that as a young girl, the idea was somewhat appealing. Imagine writing crap effortlessly and making millions of dollars. Maybe even selling the rights to Hollywood for the made-for-tv movie. I spent several months reading Jackie Collin's, Harold Robbins' and Danielle Steeles' books to discover the magic formula.

The idea of writing a novel like that became much less appealing when I realised that what you are selling isn't a book, but a fantasy or illusion. An escape for people from their humdrum lives. Ultimately, it's dishonest. And although I myself have told a few lies, I nevertheless detest liars and hypocrites and am terribly uncomfortable with telling anything less than the truth. There doesn't seem to be a huge market for truthful, realistic writing. We live in an age where we now find we have to question journalistic integrity and accuracy.

The point is moot anyway, because I don't think I have what it takes to be a writer. Blogging is one thing, professional writing quite another.

My mother called me recently, wanting to translate and publish a poem I'd written when I was fourteen. (I guess since both my parents are currently on a literary roll, she wanted to include me in the experience). I mumbled something about not being able to find my 9th grade yearbook in which it had been printed. She then asked me if I'd written anything since, and if so, would I forward them to her so that they could be published in the monthly Korean newsletter. I hesitated to answer that question because I didn't think she could handle any of my more recent poems, some of which deal with fairly weighty and highly personal issues. Without a doubt, they would never have even made it into the publisher's hands as they would have been deemed too embarassing and revealing to circulate within her social circle. My mother has a penchant for charming rhymes, hence her request for my sophmoric poem. I think she thought that all my writing would be along the same lines.

I sometimes think that maybe my fortune lies in the publishing field. I'm not meant to be a writer, but to work with them. I'm good at criticising, but weak in executing. By the time I had outgrown writing kitschy, childish stories, I discovered that I lacked real creative talent. It's a bit of a problem if one aspires to write the novel of the century.