Quiet Like Horses

Valve Control

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 03:44:00 +0000

Somehow it is November, which is impressive. I do not remember what it was like to be in the middle of September or October, but here we are now on the other side. Being on the other side has provided me with resolve. I have resolved to shut off the valve that brings me things to worry about, to contemplate, to tend to. When I'm not careful about the valve, the pipe it's connected to overflows and items that seem more important than they really are wake me up 2 hours before I need to be up to tell me to pay attention! And the water bill! Don't forget to pay the water bill! There is more, but the list could go on forever, so suffice it to say that I am taking a break for the rest of the year from worrying about things that can be worried about at a later date. It's much easier than I imagined it would be, and I find simply ignoring unpleasant subjects or worrisome events to be a perfectly acceptable solution to solve the problem.

But then there are things that need to be dealt with immediately. Like when your landlord tells you that she is going to conduct a walk through of your duplex and that she expects it to look as good as new.

Now, I have never been much of a bigot, but I'll admit this, I am starting to hold something against landlords. We are forever being warned never to trust lawyers and never to trust skinny cooks, but what about landlords? I am not nearly important enough or devious enough to have met enough lawyers to make a fair case for the professionals in the occupation, but I have seen the "never trust a skinny cook" saying printed on an apron before which must make it true.

Recently our landlord sent us pictures of what our duplex looked like when we first moved in. The set of pictures included a pristine white bathtub, without the permanent black sludge trackings across the bottom that the previous tenant had kindly left us. And right beneath that picture was a picture of what the wood kitchen counters and sink looked like when I first moved in. Except our kitchen counters aren't made of wood, they are made of a special sort of linoleum that is pretending to be a sort of sad marble. Which makes me pretty sure she is trying to pull the wool over our eyes on this.

On Sunday, as Alan and I took turns getting high off of our liquid gel cleaners and throwing every ounce of muscle into scrubbing off the tar from the bottom of the tub, I thought that maybe I would lead the movement to help bring truth to the people. Yes, I would get started on having "Never Trust A Landlord" printed on aprons ASAP.

This Is Your Brain on Drugs

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 04:34:00 +0000

Saturday morning came and there was something different about it, something I hadn't felt in a few weeks. After eating a breakfast of eggs, biscuits and gravy, and burning my left hand in the cooking effort, Alan and I had a kind of conversation we hadn't had in a long time.

"What do you want to do today?" he asked.
"I dunno. What do you want to do today?" I asked.

This went on for an animated half hour or so (well, as animated as a conversation consisting of 2 lines could be). I was just about to ask him what he wanted to do again, when he cut in to suggest, "What about hiking?"

And that was what was different. Alan had suggested something he wanted to do, but more importantly, he wanted to do something. For a couple of weeks at least, he had been an eggshell. It had been hard to explain this to people, hard to put it into words the crippling kind of anxiety he had been feeling, the dark hole he had fallen into, the disinterest in everything. For a while, a trip to the grocery store, a night out at the movies, even the idea of doing any of these things overwhelmed him. So together we would sit in our small duplex, watching TV. After going more than a year without any TV at all, we had buckled, had decided the TV's illuminating, noise-making glow offered a special sort of protective magic. When there was nothing left to say, nothing else I could offer to help, we would watch sports, the Food Network, movies.

But on Saturday, he had wanted to go hiking. So hiking we did. And then we made mac and cheese to reward ourselves. And then we watched a terrible movie with Mark Ruffalo. And then today, I was half afraid to wake up, but today he was okay too. And we spent three hours cleaning the bathtub together. Then we got steaming bowls of ramen to reward ourselves and on the way there he said, "This is fun." And, even if it's just temporary, I could not be happier for the advances in science, especially in pharmacological drugs and their brain chemistry changing properties.

Echo Design - Cold Weather Accessories

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 02:11:00 +0000

This season I've been in the market for a new winter coat. But I've decided that I won't be buying one unless it is exactly what I'm looking for. This is because I am trying to save some pennies and because a good coat can be quite expensive.

So instead, I've been ogling other cold weather accessories which don't offer up quite the same amount of warmth, but can be just as good looking as their torso-covering counterparts. Echo Design has lots of lookers this season:

I am in love with these classy looking gloves with a great minimalistic ruffle and button detail.

Here's another sassy number.

For those who don't like wearing turtlenecks, but who want to be nice and toasty when it's cold outside, just look at this floral neckpiece. This one, I need.

And hopefully, once I have enough pennies saved, I'll have somewhere to put up this lovely wallpaper.

Not Knowing Doctors (not really anyway)

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 06:23:00 +0000

My doctor likes wearing heavy gold jewelry which includes the slightest touches of leopard print. When I met her for the first time a year ago, I thought "how cool, how funky," and I almost instantly liked her. Since then I have seen her twice more and always she is wearing the gold leopard jewelry. But aside from her colorful taste in accessories, what impresses me about her is her memory and the fact that she seems genuinely interested in my well-being.

During a recent visit, she asked me how things were in my life. Now, this may very well have been the first time that a medical professional has ever asked me that question in my lifetime. Usually doctors come sweeping in with their starched white coats and ask, "What can we help you with today?" Right to the point, no nonsense and definitely no leopard print. I told her about Alan and the cancer and she remembered from a previous visit back in March, and I wanted right then and there to know her better. Here was a woman who knew all about me, all about my history with exercise-induced asthma, my allergies and my family history of breast cancer and high cholesterol. Sure it was all written down and checked off on the sheet of paper I filled out when I first checked in, but the bit about Alan was not.

As I sat there waiting for her to write new prescriptions for me, I thought how odd it was that she should know so much about me and yet for me to know nearly nothing about her except for which ones were her favorite earrings. I considered asking her about her life. "How's the hubs?" I might ask. Or maybe I could squeeze in a fun fact about leopards or the production of precious metals. But before I could say anything, she turned and asked if I might like to see a psychologist to help me deal with things.

I told her that that might help, especially when it feels as though my heart might beat a hole into my chest, then I laughed nervously. Another doctor who will know all about me, but who I won't know anything about in return? A sort of strange concept. Maybe he/she will also like leopard print jewelry, maybe we could bond over that.

Seeing Things In A New Light

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 06:11:00 +0000

The other day I was sitting on the couch and noticed a twig sticking out of our mail recycling bag by the front door. Unless I've been misguided my whole life, twigs don't normally walk inside of their own volition, so I asked Alan if he knew where it came from.

"What's this?" I asked.

"What's what?" he asked.

"This," I pointed at the twig.

"Oh that," he said, as if I had just asked him what ice was doing in the freezer. "I found that on my walk today. It reminded me of a magic wand."

And then I excused myself, as my insides bubbled over with laughter.

I can't help but wave it around while saying things like, "Bippity, boppity, boo!"

Family Love

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 21:00:00 +0000

The weather has started cooling down, and when that happens, something inside of me starts screaming that the holidays are near. Alan would argue that in another life, I was a Christmas elf, and I would have to agree. Holiday sweaters, Christmas music, lights, decorations, wrapping paper, hot cocoa, trees, wreaths -- if it can be wrapped, placed under/on a tree, decorated, is warm, snuggly, sparkly, magical, cozy or expresses sentiments of world peace or joy, I am all for it. I don't even really care about the presents.

One of my first memories of holiday magic goes back to when Nathalie and I were about five. It was Christmas time and we had gotten our hands on a pack of gummy bears. And somehow we discovered that if you didn't gobble them right up, if you practiced patience first and sucked on them for just a second, you could pull them back out, hold them up in the light and watch them glisten. From our hideout behind the couch, we could see the Christmas tree in all its tinseled glory. And that was when I knew that I liked Christmas.

Since then, winter holidays have always reminded me of the goodness of spending time with family. At a recent dinner with cousins, I was reminded of this special goodness once again.

3 of the cousins, David, Joseph and Eric, were headed to Vegas to spend Halloween in sin-city style. This led to a discussion of pick up lines -- which ones were good and which ones were bad. I remembered something someone had said to me the last time I was in a Vegas club and advised them not to say anything like it. It was my 24th birthday, and we were all waiting for something exciting to happen when a guy bumped into me hard. I said "excuse me" and apparently that was an open invitation for confrontation. He looked down at me, a lowly minion of many, and said, "Man, you look fucked up." He didn't mean it as a caring stranger would. This wasn't a "Slow down on the drinks there young lady!" kind of comment. The way he said it made it clear that it was more of a "Whoa, girl! Who let you leave your hotel room looking like that???"

I was just about to launch into the part of the story where I left the club and spent the rest of my birthday crying into a giant margarita at the slot machines, when Denise interrupted my train of thought. She was laughing so hard she could barely sit up in her chair. (Example 1 of the value of family -- they are always willing to laugh with you, if not shamelessly directly at you).

When we moved on to discuss Halloween plans (and after Denise regained composure), Denise asked if I was going to wear my Twitter costume out on Friday night. I said that I planned on it and that it seemed to have gotten a good response from the crowd the other night at the Tweetup, the networking event devoted to Twitterers. Eric agreed, and then he said, "But you know, it's not going to do so well when you're in a normal place." (Example 2 of the specialness of family -- they are candid and genuine and they hope you wore waterproof mascara because there is no sugar coating).

I was about to escape to the sanctuary of my duplex to reconsider if I should wear my costume and to think about the state of my appearance. At least if I was a tore up looking Twitter bird, the shabby walls of my duplex could comfort me without judgment. And I know it's shabby. Joseph told me so. I believe the conversation went like this.

"I really like your place, Sobrina," said Joseph.
"Thanks, Joe!" I said, trying to contain my happy grin.
"Yeah, someday, I hope to have a shack like that, too."

Trick or Tweet!

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 05:16:00 +0000

This Halloween I wanted to be something relevant, something on the top of everyone's minds these days. I struggled coming up with a national health care costume, so instead I was Twitter!

It all started with lots and lots of blue feathers.

And touches of felt.

Creating my felted breast.

Keeping my tweets to a minimum.

Tweet!

Tonight we went to our first ever Silicon Valley Tweetup, a networking/karaoke/costume party event at Rosie McCann's in Santana Row.

They had a costume contest... and I won first place! :D I got a S5 Real Pocket PC.

Alan was Dr. House.

Here are the lower halves of our costumes.

Nathalie was Ugly Betty -- her poncho was too cute!

Superheros, Ugly Betty, House, Twitter, and Lucy -- Happy Halloween!

Insides

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 04:53:00 +0000

I can't say how I would do it if it were me because I don't think it's something you really know about until it happens to you. It's the same reason why when someone dies, and I want to say something, anything to let them know that I am sad for them and that I wish I could make it better somehow, that I don't say anything at all. But what I do know is that sometimes it feels as if my insides have all changed into different colors and have twisted into warped shapes and sizes.

There was a time in my life when I imagined my insides to be all glistening pink and vibrant reds, but I have spent enough time in hospitals now to know that the fluids coating our guts and intestines and pumping around in our bodies come in a much wider myriad of colors. So now, when I don't feel well, when I feel overwhelmed, when I feel like crawling into a small warm, gurgling cave, I picture my insides. My stomach is a dark misshapen burgundy brown, my kidneys forest green and sadly shriveled... And somehow, imagining all these things floating around inside me provides some kind of order, provides a reason for why I feel so off kilter, and somehow this makes me feel a little bit better.

Halloween Costume Ideas

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 22:43:00 +0000

Oh Halloween, a night of tricks, treats and dressing up -- or in some cases, dressing in nothing at all. Historically, women Halloween goers have been classified into two categories: the kind that dress up as sexy animals/professionals and the kind that dress up as anything else. It's a common misconception that those who fall into the latter group must wear costumes of a completely unsexy nature, but as a member of this group, I can attest that this is simply not true. Below are some Halloween costume ideas which are not your typical "sexy cat," "sexy police woman," or "sexy woman without her regular clothes on." Take a look -- I do believe that even the most regular sexy costume wearers will be surprised at just how sexy a little non-traditional sexy can be.

Chicks are hot. Mama hens are even hotter.

Consider this: pizza often arrives at the party piping hot. Add a little pepperoni or spicy sausage, and you've got a slice with a bite!

Superheroes fight crime and keep us safe, but inside they're still human, just like us. Someone who does great things but whom we can still relate to? Now, that's sexy.

Although jellyfish are beautiful, enigmatic creatures, often times you can see right through them. No bullshit, just straight up jellyfish guts and heart and all.

While satyrs walk a fine line between being a sexy animal and a non sexy animal costume, the fact that they are mythical creatures that are half goat and traditionally male makes them more of a geeky costume than anything else. And if we learned one thing from Kevin Arnold of The Wonder Years, it's that geeks are lovable and appealing.

Donning Hawaiian garb is another great costume idea for those who are accustomed to wearing sexy secretary costumes and who are considering transitioning to more subtle Halloween dress. You are at once sexy with your bold floral print and pined for. People often associate Hawaii with vacations, and we all know everyone could use more of those.

Another costume option for those interested in being something more abstract is the "starry night." In movies, couples are forever going to the drive-in to make out underneath the star studded sky. In effect, starry skies bear witness to entire parking lots filled with teenagers making out -- what could be sexier?!

Another plus to the starry sky ensemble -- face paint. Face paint* screams fun. It tells people that you are an adventurous, fun-loving person who is not afraid of getting temporarily artistic with the delicate skin area around your eyes.

Finally, if time and resources are limited, you could consider being a fire thrower. The concept is a very straight forward one which can be appreciated, especially if your friends are of the creative variety who often dress up as hard to guess people, places, things or theories. All of that cleverness can become tiresome, leaving you to be the hero of the party, the breath of fresh air, as you simply wield your fire stick about.

*Not to be confused with facial tattoos which look most uncomfortable and which must be quite restrictive in terms of limiting one's career options.

Birthday Baskets

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 06:54:00 +0000

Anyone can give a gift card, but not many give custom birthday gift baskets. Today Nathalie gave me one as my belated birthday present, and it was so worth the wait. It was so cute and specially filled with all the kinds of things I like, it made a bright spot in my heart.

Inside was a: Starbucks mug to commemorate the year we worked there together, a personalized "Home Sweet Home" sign, a handmade pillowcase (!) and... a Christmas sweater with sewn on jingle bells. What can I say, Nathalie knows me so well.

Much better than Hallmark. I'm a sucker for homemade cards.

Why You Should Always Look

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 04:28:00 +0000

There comes a time in people's lives when they will find themselves drinking much too much, tripping over their own feet and falling down in public places. It just so happens that this period of life often coincides with the time when people leave home for college. The business of falling while inebriated can be rather funny to the faller at the time, but the next morning, more often than not, a feeling of shame can set in. While the faller usually tends to feel post-fall embarrassment, standing, less intoxicated onlookers tend to feel embarrassment for the faller immediately. To help deal with these overwhelming feelings of awkwardness, one might do one of the following things: point and laugh, pretend like it didn't happen, or be completely relieved it was not you who fell and play it cool by expressing disdain for the faller and his/her inability to maintain composure.

I've since graduated from college keggers, a scene rife with many occasions of falling. However, that doesn't mean that my life is devoid of all falls all together. I still am a witness to a good fall now and again because I am only human and so are those around me. And because I can be a very self-conscious person, when I see someone drunkenly fall, my first reaction is to be thankful it's not happening to me.

Last night, Preethi, Denise and I were all at Slim's in the City to see Owl City*. There we were, being swept away by his buoyant music. Song after song, we inched closer and closer to the middle of the crowd, standing close enough to people to smell their shampoo. I was loving it. I had started thinking about Seattle, about the rain and if it really rains that much there and if I could get used to it. In the middle of his set, I decided I was going to explode, so I quickly found the restroom and relieved myself.

Walking back to the middle of the floor where I had left everyone, I walked past the bar and saw a woman who looked, at first, as though she was going to lean on the bar, but then who completely tumbled to the floor. Her friend (her boyfriend perhaps?) standing next to her reached down to help her. Immediately, I did a number of things. I quickly looked away and then I felt my upper lip curl. I mean, were we at a tailgating party? Was this a kegger? No, I didn't think so. I was still thinking about how some people should really learn their limits when I finally found Denise in the middle of the crowd. Preethi had disappeared somewhere, and it wasn't too long before Denise said she would "brb" and slipped away.

A few songs later, it started to get rather lonely in the middle of the crowd by myself. I checked my phone and saw that Preethi had texted me that she wasn't feeling well and was getting air outside. I made my way to the exit and saw that Denise was with her. I was just about to tell them both about what I had just seen by the bar (and almost added a "Can you believe some people??") when Preethi apologized for stepping out. She had started overheating and getting dizzy, then when she went to get a glass of water from the bar, she started getting tunnel vision and then she fell over. (Yes, I know! That woman! It was her!) She said that some stranger had helped her get outside to get air. But because she is a nice person, she did not add that a stranger had to help her because her own friend had turned up her nose and snubbed her and walked away. (Thank you and sorry, Preethi!)

So, my advice is to never be overly judgmental when you see someone fall because maybe they only had one drink (as Preethi did) and are really just suffering from too much heat and/or dehydration. Also, make sure to look and to look good because it might just be your friend falling down by the bar with the strange man catching her.

Post-fall

*Owl City sounds just as he does when recorded! His back up singer for this show was wearing a sports bra. Or perhaps it is more accurate to call it a crop top as it was not overly flattening but really rather flattering. She is that lucky person who gets to say that she went to work in her crop top and that no, she does not work at Hooters.

Pretty ingredients

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 06:46:00 +0000

Chili and basil and soft white rice noodles, these are a few of my favorite things...

Today Alan and I made pad kee mao (a.k.a. Drunken Noodles) again for Irene's birthday dinner. If there is anyone who loves pad kee mao as much as us, it's her, so I found myself in the kitchen this afternoon happily chopping up a storm. The ingredients just looked so pretty in the light, and as I chopped, I had such monumental hopes for how they would all combine and taste together - in our tummies - that I had to capture the moment. There was something about cooking today that was very soothing and peaceful. I even dare say that I enjoyed cooking today. It may very well be that a cooking bug has come over me. Does anyone have any favorite websites or blogs which can show me how to make easy, yet delicious meals that don't come in blue boxes with little packets of cheese powder?

I think I might just cook everything with chili and garlic from now on.

A quintessential pad kee mao ingredient is the Thai basil. You can tell it apart from other basils by its purple stem.

Required sauces, from left to right: fish sauce, oyster sauce, black soy sauce

The squishier the noodles feel, the better.

(Not pictured (but still important): sugar, ground turkey, Alan's taste buds for sauce measurement)

Corporate Socialness (Online)

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 06:02:00 +0000

Something has happened at work that has left me feeling quite tickled. A little while ago, they came to me and said in so many words, "Sobrina, we'd like to give you more work to do. What do you think about that?" Well, it turned out to be a great kind of new work to do, the kind that requires me to be on Facebook and Twitter. All. Day. Long. Because I am now the resident keeper of our company's Facebook and Twitter. It's really rather delightful because even though people can still go to HR and complain about the incessant sweating I do, at least they cannot complain that I'm not doing my job and am just squandering away the day on the internet. Now if only they could come to me and say, "Now we need you to stay on top of all your favorite blogs and send us a report with all the interesting bits at the end of each week. Make sure to keep an eye on the fashion trends. And also, feel free to spend time writing to magazine and book publishers when you notice a spelling mistake." I would have my almost dream job.

Speaking of sweating, last week Tanu sent me this card from someecards.com. Two things:

1) Perhaps the sweetest card I have gotten in a long, long time
2) Someone has the awesome job of coming up with these cards, and I, for one, would like to meet this person who seems to know me so well, almost as well as Tanu

If Only Swiffers Came in Industrial Strength

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 05:12:00 +0000

Lately I have grown to appreciate the simplicity of the kitchen floor. It's easy to tell when it needs attention -- the more crumbs and bits that stick to the bottom of your feet, the dirtier it is. It could stay dirty for a long time, too, as you could just put on some slippers or not turn on the light to avoid having to think about it. And you only ever really notice it when you are standing directly on it, like when going to fetch a glass of water. Other than that, the kitchen floor doesn't really bother me at all, not when I'm at work, not when I'm driving around -- it pretty much does not bother me more than it should. And I like that.

On Sunday, I took to doing right by it. I swept it and then Swiffered it down. Then afterwards, I stood and marveled at how clean, smooth and shiny it looked. It was as good as new and it took only 5 minutes to get it that way. I felt a great sense of accomplishment and called it quits for the day.

About the same time that I came to appreciate the kitchen floor was the same time that I began wishing depression was more like it. Sure, depression and the kitchen floor have their similarities, but one is much easier to fix than the other (surprisingly, I found the easier one to fix was not depression). Maybe its the startling similarities between the two that trick some of us into thinking they are both quick fixes -- a quick sweep here, the swallowing of that pill there -- but we would be fooled. Like the dirty kitchen floor, depression starts off with just a few crumbs here and there. At first, we try to brush them aside, and since they are out of the way enough, we keep going about our daily lives. Then the crumbs start to accumulate, but because you have trained your eye not to notice them too much, this accumulation goes unnoticed as well. It is not until you can't walk out of the kitchen without rubbing your foot against your leg to get the debris off of it that you realize you have a real problem, a crummy kitchen floor or a very depressed boyfriend.

The challenge is that I want to ask him to take off his jacket, walk outside and shake off all the negative thoughts, fears and feelings clinging to it, but not everything can be solved by Swiffer sweeping cloths.

Stillmotion Films

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 06:43:00 +0000

After having dinner with my family Friday night, I came home to hang out with Alan. Unfortunately, he was in no mood to do anything of the sort and so instead I sat on the couch and watched video clips of people's weddings. Yes, I know, there are potentially better things to do on a Friday night than to watch complete strangers tie the knot, but there I was. Alan was in bed with a bah humbug written all over his face, while I was in the next room, bearing witness to the remarkable joy in these people's faces. "I'm celebrating happiness!" I wanted to shout over to him. But then again, there I was in my pajamas, sitting on my couch late on a Friday night, watching video clips of complete strangers.

Anyway, I was watching clips from Stillmotion, a boutique photo and cinema studio based in Toronto that shoots weddings. Their work is absolutely stunning, check out a few pieces below.

This one takes places in San Jose!

angie + joseph // a san jose sde from stillmotion on Vimeo.

I love the beginning of this one:

anna + norbert // london, ontario sde from stillmotion on Vimeo.

Neat:

joyce + raymond // stillmotion special edition sde // LA from stillmotion on Vimeo.

The Moment You Knew

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 05:43:00 +0000

Recently I was reading a magazine and came across an interesting piece which was a culmination of readers' responses to the question: when did you know your significant other was the one? There were all sorts of heart warming answers, lots of things like: 'I knew he was the one when I met his family and saw how well he treated his mom' or 'When I couldn't imagine not waking up next to her every morning.'

I thought about what Alan might say about me. It'd be easy for him to come up with something, what with there being a whole list of endearing things I do for him to choose from. For example, he could say something pertaining to my thoughtfulness; something like, "I am reminded she is the one every time I leave a room and she reminds me to turn off the light!"

When I thought about what I might say about him, it turned out to be a tie between "I knew he was the one when I asked him not to eat my leftovers from the night before so I could have them for lunch the next day and he respected that" and "He always turns off the light before he leaves a room." It wasn't until this week that the tie was broken and I picked a new answer all together.

This was the week we stopped by Krung Thai, our favorite Thai restaurant, for dinner and noticed that the portions were getting significantly smaller. We liked one dish best there, the pad kee mao, and could easily eat three plates of it each, but there we were, eating half a plate each with a large lettuce leaf garnish covering the other half of our plates. No one else could make pad kee mao like this, so with our stomachs half full, we went home saddened. Later that night, a great idea came to me that I could just learn how to make pad kee mao myself and make loads and loads of it -- enough of it to eat for weeks on end. I knew how Krung Thai's pad kee mao tasted; surely that was enough for me to be able to replicate it.

The next day, I picked out the ingredients common to a handful of online recipes, decided these must be the essential ingredients, and headed to the supermarket. When I got home, I realized I had misplaced my measuring cup but figured I could eyeball a 1/4 cup (who couldn't?) and so proceeded to whip up some delicious pad kee mao. I hadn't whipped up anything in a long while, but I'd been watching plenty of people cook regularly on The Food Network and that bolstered my confidence.

First I chopped up Thai chilies and garlic, fried them together, then threw in the pound of ground turkey and Thai basil. That was what the recipe called for, and if I just did what it said, I could have the tasty noodle dish it promised in less than 30 minutes! Next I added a 1/4 cup each of fish sauce, oyster sauce and black soy sauce. This is where the eyeballing came in handy. As I added these three ingredients to my ground turkey, the whole thing started looking like a dark soy sauce soup. Inside, I started to panic a little bit, but then thought I could remedy it by adding in the noodles. Noodles were absorbent right? They could just soak up the extra saucy-ness and fix the problem. I stirred the noodles around in the soup-sauce, waiting for the extra sauce to soak in or evaporate.

After an eternity of stirring, I had started to sweat and the sauce was still there -- so much of it! I gave up and poured the concoction into two bowls. I handed a bowl to Alan and took one for myself. I wanted so badly for it to taste like pad kee mao. It looked like pad kee mao. It faintly smelled of pad kee mao. But, after one bite, it was apparent that it was no pad kee mao. My eyeballed 1/4 cup of each sauce ingredient must have been closer to a 1/2 cup because the saltiness of the noodles blocked out every other flavor in the dish. It was almost like I had come up with a new way to serve salt. Salt for dinner -- it's what's for dinner!

Disappointed, I threw the lot of it in the trash and crumpled on the couch. I had had such high hopes for my culinary creation. Alan told me that it was a good first start (which was generous, considering that we were only able to eat 2 bites each), and that tomorrow he would teach me how to cook to taste. I was a little bit skeptical, but the man could make some mean marinades, so I agreed.

The next day, there we were again, the garlic, the thai chilies, the turkey. I cooked them all together and when it came to the part of creating the sauce, Alan stepped in all nonchalant like. He took a bowl and mixed the three sauce ingredients, tasting here, tasting there. It wasn't until I screamed that my garlic was going to brown that he finally came over and added it to the pan. I added the noodles and mixed. They were the same motions I had gone through the day before, and I wasn't about to get my hopes up. He scooped us a plate each and we sat down to try our joint effort. I took a bite and then I had the moment I knew -- I knew Alan was it when he helped me (almost exactly) replicate Krung Thai's pad kee mao. That was more important than being nice to your mom or waking up each morning to each other. This was pad kee mao, one of my favorite foods. This was serious.

Growth

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 06:34:00 +0000

The past two Octobers Alan and I have made it a point to celebrate Hayden's birthday with him. We would have started the tradition sooner, except, well, Hayden was busy being born.

October 2008 - Hayden's 1st Birthday

October 2009 - Hayden turns 2!

The Real Pants Alternative

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 06:37:00 +0000

When trying to get an accurate reading of a couple, one might ask, "Who wears the pants in the relationship?" Some couples even fight over the title. This might be a result of the backwards thinking that if you're not the one wearing pants in the relationship, you must be wearing something way worse, like a beret or a shiny laminated disco shirt. I, on the other hand, do not care to be the pants-wearer at all, simply because of this: pants are uncomfortable. If I didn't have a job where people (who are not my intimate companions) must be regularly subjected to seeing me move about the office to use the printer and to get water, I might be tempted to forgo the whole formal pants wearing practice all together. Slacks, jeans -- anything with a pre-determined waist, a zipper and some button closure -- fall into the undesirable list.

Since I am not quite ready to make the move to a nudist colony and Bay Area weather is not always at a steady, warm 80 degrees year round, I have had to make certain adjustments to get along with this article of clothing. For example, as soon as I get home from work, the first thing I do, even before taking a moment to relish my adult gummy vitamin allotment for the day, is to change out of my slacks into a pair of Sort Of pants. Sort Of pants are typically made of a soft fleece or terry material and have a widely flexible waistband. Some are so flexible that you are also given a drawstring should you feel the need to tighten or loosen even more. These kinds of pants are fine for lounging around the house or running a quick errand, but for all their comfort, I must admit they are prone to looking a tad sloppy when spending a night out on the town.

I had come to accept this sad fact that comfortable pants are not meant for outside wear, until I recently found out about jeggings: the love child of denim pants and leggings. Anyone who has ever sported leggings knows -- those bad boys are comfortable. Their extreme comfort may be the reason why they are so thoroughly abused by legging wearers today. We all know that leggings are not pants, but still, we continue to see people who pretend like they are. Has anyone ever thought, what if leggings were more substantial? What if they looked like regular pants, with a zipper and a button and back pockets and all, but with that trademark legging stretch? What would happen then?

This past weekend, I had to find out for myself. I tried on a pair of jeggings, and then I fell in love. I think, if the right pair is chosen, (because I have seen some not so cute pairs), jeggings can be the brilliant solution for those who dislike wearing real pants but who want others to believe they are, in fact, wearing real pants. They also tuck fantastically well into boots! Now please don't tell anyone, but I'm never wearing real pants again.

Aritzia

Your Heart Will Hurt

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 06:21:00 +0000

The last time I felt this sad from watching a TV show was probably when Felicity was still on and she chose Noel over Ben for the fifth time. They don't make TV like that anymore, TV that makes you feel something. Now it's all just beautiful people in beautiful clothes all the time. I like the beautiful people as much as the next person, but I forgot what it's like to feel the pain of a TV show's characters (and I'm talking about real pain, more than the pain of watching Heidi continuing to be with that jerk Spencer) as if they were your actual friends. This show I speak of -- the one that made me sit motionless after turning off the TV to gather my thoughts and then to cry quietly over the injustice of it all -- is The Wire.

I know, I know, you're either thinking, The Wire?! That show is whack! I tried watching the first episode and it was BORING! or else you're thinking, Oh my gosh, best show EVER. It seems, among those who have seen any of the series, that there are no in-betweeners, or else these people are so far and few in between that they shall be excused from this discussion all together. Now, I know I have one more episode left in season 4 to watch and all of season 5 to go, but I think I'm just going to say it right now... I think The Wire may be my favorite television show of all time (next to Felicity, which, if you know me, is saying a heck of a lot). If I didn't have a job, you could bet that I would be sitting at home all day quoting the show to Roy and having him guess which scene it's from and then discussing what our favorite characters had eaten for lunch in the scene prior to that.

Such Great Heights

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 05:48:00 +0000

Today we were at the park celebrating Hayden's 2nd birthday. Alan and Jon were celebrating views from tall trees.

Work Mode

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 05:29:00 +0000

One day over the summer, while my sister was visiting, I had a brilliant suggestion to save her from the impending boredom waiting for her after I left for work: I suggested that she come to work with me. To strengthen my case, I told her that there was a computer lab and they were all hooked up with an internet connection. Plus, I would be there, doing the life changing marketing work I do.

Whether it was the thought of seeing me in action or the idea of watching wrestling all day with my grandpa that was compelling, she followed me to work. First we got breakfast in the kitchen, and then, after making a great show of the different kinds of milk and coffee creamers we have available, I introduced her to my boss. My boss asked her what she thought of our company and of being at work, and my sister proceeded to say that it was really quiet. Then she started asking if it was always that quiet and what do we do if it's so quiet? Before she could question if anyone in the building was doing any real work at all, I quickly rushed her away to show her my cubicle.

"This is my desk," I said. "I sit here." I sat in my chair and pulled out my keyboard tray.
"What do you do?" she asked.
"Well," I said slowly, quietly hoping that I might get called right at that moment to see about a secret mission to Peru. I remembered I don't often get those calls reserved for women sleekly dressed in all black like you see in the movies, so I decided to be honest. I opened up a few Word documents and showed her the stuff I had been working on. It must have made an impression; she looked at it for a full minute or two before asking if she could go back to the kitchen to get some Goldfish.

Since then, she would be proud to know that I've shaken up my work routine. Namely, my lunch hour. Whereas before I'd make a sandwich and sit at my desk or stand outside awkwardly with the smokers, now Nathalie and I drive to a nearby park and do bootcamp workouts. The first day we went, there was a deafening sound ringing in my ears. I covered the sides of my head and turned to Nathalie, "What is that noise???" Turned out it was the sound of joy and laughter coming from the nearby school, all the kids out on recess. There were kids running -- running for fun -- kids playing tetherball, climbing jungle gyms, they were non-stop movement and energy.

As I did my lunges, I felt a pang of envy. I wanted to sound joyous like that. Perhaps I could talk to HR about getting a tetherball pole installed in that underutilized walkway by my cube. I bet Google doesn't even have tetherball.

Pedalboats, Ponds & Wicked

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 06:00:00 +0000

2 weeks on, 1 week off, lather, rinse and repeat -- that is how Alan's chemotherapy goes. He is now about six weeks into the 6-month stint, and this weekend coincided with one of his off weeks. Because of that, we decided to get outside and enjoy what might possibly be the last weekend of 90 degree weather for the rest of this year.

Pedalboating at Vasona Park

We liked staring at the reflections on the water best.

Melting in a cool, sparkly purple sort of boat

Suggesting cheesy poses to Alan often gets me pictures like this. Remember this one from 5th grade school portraits?

Bird watching

Inseparable

Stair sitting

Wicked: we won rush tickets! Best $25 ever spent.

Hoops Are Cathartic

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 05:39:00 +0000

On TV, cancer patients are forever clinging to shiny white toilet bowls, their hair slick with sweat and matted to their foreheads. The person's overwhelming anxiety and depression are dealt with through a late night game of hoops. The dribbling will awaken someone else in the house, a fundamental character in the story necessary to facilitate conversation. Because she is fundamental, she will pull on a sweatshirt and some slippers and make her way outside. From a distance, she quietly watches the bounce, bounce, stop, and shoot of the first player for just a moment or two before asking him to pass the ball. He is startled at first to see her standing there, but then seems relieved that someone else is awake and with him now, as if his thoughts are too much for him to handle by himself. He passes her the ball. They are quiet, playing ball, the two of them, under the milky light of the moon. Neither one talks until, after a while, they are both exhausted, sweaty and out of breath. They will sit down on the side of the driveway, and here, after reminiscing about playing basketball together that one time way back when, she will make a statement, one that sounds profound, something that a character would say on Lifetime. The other might seem resistant at first to talk, but then decides it's late, and late at night, when time seems to be frozen, is the best time to talk about such things. The whole thing will be cathartic, and then they will go inside to eat chocolate chip cookies...

We don't have a basketball hoop, and I don't even know how to play Horse. So when I see that Alan is struggling, I encourage him to go to a support group. I imagine that I would enjoy such a thing, a group of people all brought together to share stories in an open, welcoming circle. Alan is not particularly hammy and does not enjoy the spotlight like that, but since I can't offer him a late night game of hoops, I encourage him to attend. It takes a bit of convincing on my part to get him to go. His surgeon has found one close by that meets on Fridays, and when he tells me about it, I am glad. He'll be able to meet and talk with other people in similar situations, maybe they will take turns bringing in cookies like at that one AA meeting I once followed a friend too. They will share stories of hope and discuss the resiliency of the human spirit. They can offer him the cathartic talk I can't.

Alan cuts into my daydream. "It's called Living with Dying," he says.

I try not to react, try not to undo the convincing and cajoling I had done to get him to agree to go in the first place. But inside I think, Maybe this is a bad idea. I had convinced him to go to a support group with a name that screamed "You Might As Well Get It Over With." When he went to his first meeting on Friday, I wondered if I shouldn't go check on him, make sure they weren't handing out pints of Jim Beam and shotguns.

Albion Castle, San Francisco

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 19:24:00 +0000

Well, now, here we are, and it's Friday again. Since Fridays are best for dreaming about what we are going to do over the upcoming blessed weekend and for dreaming in general, here is a picture of the castle Tanu would like me to buy. I, too, would love to buy it, if only just to have a fitting place to wear my suit of armor and to joust with friends.

It is only $2.9 million, so I'm sure if each of us just contributed a dollar today and maybe a dollar tomorrow, and I somehow managed to have Oprah's baby, then we could find ourselves having a really splendid holiday party here. There are even 200-feet deep caverns that lead to natural springs -- pretty much what I've always said I wanted in my dream estate! What are the chances!

No castle would be complete without a dungeon!

(Pictures from Laughing Squid)

Sing Like No One's Listening (Except When People Are Listening)

sobrina.tung@gmail.com (Sobrina Tung) — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 05:56:00 +0000

There is a wall in our bedroom that separates our half of the duplex from the neighbor's half. Our units are mirror images of one another, with the shared wall acting as the mirror. That means that he sleeps right alongside us on the other side of that wall.

Now, to say that the wall separates us might be giving it too much credit. It separates us in the way that it makes passing a cup of borrowed sugar through it pretty darn hard, but that's pretty much it. I am convinced that it's not actually a bona fide wall made of bona fide wall materials but that it's constructed from a very thin layer of papier mâché. One day I will forget and roll over with too much emphasis, breaking through it and falling out on the other side on my neighbor's bed.

There is no way it is anything but papier mâché because we can hear everything. For example, I know he likes county music. So much so that that is his preferred genre to wake up to. I know this because one long weekend he forgot to turn off his clock radio before leaving town and for three days I, too, woke up to country. I also know there is some strife in the family caused by a "punk ass little brother who deserves to get his teeth kicked in." I know because I heard him on the phone as I was washing dishes in the kitchen while a man mowed his lawn across the street. In the early mornings, before the truck depot next door roars to life, I can even hear him tinkle.

One of the most annoying things about the wall is that we both have to pretend like it's there and that it properly does all of its wall duties. One day we both arrived home at the same time and after the usual hellos and how do you dos, as we both stood unlocking our doors, I found myself wanting to ask, "So how's that kid brother of yours?" Maybe I could say it in a Boston accent, a South Boston accent. That would feel right. But as soon as that thought flew into my head, I remembered I had learned about this kid brother through way of The Wall, making it an off limits topic for discussion.

As I can hear his every move, I am pretty sure he can hear everything we do too. He is probably thinking Again? More of The Wire? How many episodes of that show are there?? So because I'd like to be a nice neighbor and because I was raised to believe that neighbors should be good to each other, Alan and I live as though we have a third roommate to consider. Just because he can't be seen, only heard, doesn't mean we should keep him up late with our TV shows and music and gossip. So after 10 we take things down a few notches. It is not very fun, but that is what we are willing to do since he is such a good neighbor himself.

On Saturday afternoon, the neighbor came by to tell us that he was going out of town on business for a few days and that we should park in his parking spot. When he left I beamed with excitement. This meant that we could watch The Wire loudly and all night. What a treat!

Monday rolled around and Alan asked when the neighbor would be getting back into town. I shrugged, I think he had said something about Tuesday.

After getting out of the shower that night, I decided to -- oh, what the heck -- take advantage of our last night of audible freedom. I did the only thing one could do in a situation like that: I got on my laptop and played Taylor Swift's "You Belong With Me" full blast. Have you heard this song? How can anyone not like this song?

Alan finished brushing his teeth and came out of the bathroom. He took a step and stopped.

"What is this?" he demanded, bewildered.
"What do you mean? It's Taylor Swift!" I said happily.
"It's so cheesy!"
"No it's not!"
"She's on the bleachers, I'm cheer captain?" he quoted from the song.
"That's not what she's saying," I retorted. And then, in the most obnoxious, teeny-bopper voice possible, I began belting out "You Belong With Me" to prove Alan wrong.

I had my eyes closed I was so into it, and I had just gotten to the third verse -- was preparing to hit the high notes -- when all of a sudden, loud, ~~disturbed~~ disgruntled rumblings came from next door.

I stopped singing and opened my eyes.

"I think someone is in the neighbor's place," I whispered, afraid there was a burglar on the loose.
"Oh yeah, he's home. I saw his truck pull up earlier," Alan said.

And then I pictured him lying in bed, sound asleep, being abruptly awoken by my terrible, really bad singing. But I wasn't just singing, I was pretending to be Taylor Swift, twang and all. I even had my eyes closed. And then I pretty much wanted to curl into a small ball and die. Today we pulled up at the same time after work, and truth be told, I could not look the man in the eye.