It Was Coming Right At Me!

Cops have been in the news for murdering innocent people, raping women, beating their wives, and killing dogs. Most recently, goats have been the target of law enforcement. Because you know, heroes in blue certainly can’t be expected to behave like normal fucking human beings and deal with animals in a non-violent manner. Barking dogShoot it. Hissing catShoot it. Don’t know what to do with stray kittensShoot them. Somehow, mailmen, door-to-door sales people, and girl scouts can navigate the dangers of domesticated pets without resorting to deadly force, but cops can’t seem to fucking figure it out.

A Portland farmer was upset because an asshole cop killed his goat, which had inadvertently escaped through a hole in his fence. The farmer came upon the cop and his poor goat, who was bleeding and gasping for breath. The cop was not embarrassed to actually state, “‘Yeah, it was either me or the goat” because he was intimidated by the goat’s size. Maybe if you can’t fucking handle a goddamn goat, you should not be allowed to have a gun or be a fucking police officer. The owner of the $1,200 goat from New Zealand who sounds like he smokes a lot of weed responded, “Man, there are 7-year-old kids that deal with these goats. Infants that deal with these.”

There you have it. People deemed America’s heroes are more cowardly than children and infants.

In other news, a more recalcitrant goat attempted to headbutt police officers who were encroaching on his marijuana patch, but was (surprisingly) not harmed during the drug bust.

Home of the “Brave”

I recently learned on Facebook about an app or website called through a friend. describes its purpose thus:

Nextdoor is the best way to stay in the know about what’s going on in your neighborhood—whether it’s finding a last-minute babysitter, learning about an upcoming block party, or hearing about a rash of car break-ins. There are so many ways our neighbors can help us. We just need an easier way to connect with them.

Seems pretty cool. I don’t think we are in particular need of this as we are in a very small gated community of only 11 units, so news can easily travel quickly without the help of an app or social media, but even so, I dig the concept. However, my friend described an actual “warning” or notice one neighbor issued through

What in the actual fuck. It’s annoying enough to see and hear all the “See Something Say Something” propaganda posters and announcements at every mass transit station. When they make those overhead announcements at the coaster station, I usually roll my eyes, but if I’m already in a bad mood I loudly respond “Oh, go fuck yourself,” and other passengers waiting for the train look at me and wonder if I’m one of the local homeless beach bums. The paranoid propaganda is vomit-inducing in and of itself but to actually see people embrace this nonsense and add a serious dose of racism on top is just too much.

When you parse out all the bullshit in the above paragraph (“I’m not saying he tried to break in because I have virtually no evidence but yeah I’m going to go ahead and explain why I think he did”), all that has occurred is a Hispanic man in a company uniform has distributed flyers for landscaping services. How is this anything that remotely requires a warning to other neighbors? To add to the absurdity, another neighbor actually seems to share the paranoia, by responding that they too (gasp!) were offered landscaping services. “We have cameras” – really? The fuck is wrong with people?

Like, what exactly was the thought process here? And when other random white solicitors come to the door, are they met with the same reaction? (Highly doubtful). Is there some common Hispanic scheme of which I am unaware, where they go out in broad daylight making fake flyers so they can break into houses and commit rampant crime while wearing logoed clothing? Because otherwise, when you see someone in a company shirt passing out fliers, chances are, by an overwhelming margin, they are doing just that. 

People are becoming so fucking afraid of everything that it is truly fucking pathetic to behold. Despite minuscule and completely negligible risks, Americans are afraid of traveling abroad, terrorism, letting their children out of their sight for even two seconds, Mexican gardeners, and probably their own shadows. Meanwhile, they fully support their military murdering, bombing, and destroying other countries to no end in the name of the home of the “brave.” Americans are fucking wetting themselves because an unidentified landscaper knocked on their door, but expect the rest of the world to suck it up when the American military destroys their hospitals, bombs residences to oblivion, and murders children. DOES THIS MAKE ANY FUCKING SENSE?

Taiwanese Bakery Treats

We celebrated our 12 year anniversary together by going to an amazing Russian/Georgian restaurant in North Park. We actually also celebrated our 7 year anniversary here. Afterwards, I was craving 菠蘿麵包 (pineapple bun), so we stopped in the Convoy area to get some yummies at 85 Degrees c. They did not have anything labeled in Chinese (not that my Chinese is that great), but it gets confusing when every Taiwanese bakery insists on naming the damn 菠蘿麵包 something different. It was “Bolo Bread” at Sunmerry in Irvine. Here at 85 Degrees it was “Boroh Danish,” which was particularly confusing because I do not associate it with Danish-style pastries at all, and there is no filling inside. I also saw 太陽餅 in the check out line and had to have that too.

The 太陽餅 was awesome, the 菠蘿麵包 was not as good as the Sunmerry one. Maybe it has to do with being pregnant but I’ve really had a tooth for Taiwanese bakery treats recently. Too bad all the good stuff is a 30-minute drive away from our place. Or maybe that’s a good thing. I really think Asians are increasingly starting to move into San Diego County, but it still feels like this:


Tiger Mother

I recently read Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, which was both hysterical and inspirational. I didn’t think it was possible, but Amy Chua makes 90% of strict Asian parents seem like lazy bums. I intensely admire her devotion to the betterment and education of her children, but am completely baffled by the discipline and drive required to execute her methods.

I’m really not sure how it’s possible for a full-time attorney or Yale Law Professor to attend music lessons, oversee hours of music practice for two daughters, create measure-by-measure notes and reminders for their pieces, write multiple books, and walk and feed the dogs daily, while still living any sort of humanly existence. Does she ever… eat? Shower? Breathe? It’s mind-boggling.

I used to think my parents were sort of strict. Relatively speaking, they were, as I was surrounded by peers who had what Chua characterizes as “Western parents” in southwest Virginia. I was not allowed to go out to play unless all homework and piano obligations were completed, even if I had just gotten out of Chinese school, music theory class, art class, or some other activity. I was in big fucking trouble if I got any B’s on my report card, while white kids were rewarded for B’s. There was some of, “_____ got a 97 on his Algebra test; you only got a 93” [oh don’t worry, eventually I beat him in Algebra], or “Your cousin is younger than you and is already setting goals to be a doctor, what are your plans?” Summer was not a free-for-all because I still had to take music and music theory class, practice piano, and memorize ancient Chinese poetry. You know, typical Asian parent stuff.

Of course, even in southwest Virginia, there were stricter Asian parents than mine. One time, when I was 10 years old, after a Taiwanese friend who was over to play at our house had gone home, my mother told me, “You know what her mother said? The 4 hours she spent at our house was the longest period of fun time she’s ever had. She’s usually constantly doing something productive.” I was somewhat horrified. While my life seemed more structured and restricted than those of kids with Western parents, clearly, I had it better than I thought. Anyway, in retrospect, I needed this because I was not always very motivated, and was often lazy. I had a tendency to cut corners and daydream, or not take things seriously unless I was doing something I really enjoyed.

In second grade, I was categorized as a gifted student and along with 3 other students, and was given some material to read and write a report as an extra challenge. The material involved some completely boring species of bird, so I procrastinated until the last minute, and then plagiarized some shit when it was due. My parents never found out about this because they were not told about it, and the assignment was not graded.

In fifth grade, I was assigned to perform a duet called The Dolls Have a Party with one of my close friends, Michael. He played the bass part while I played the treble, and he was even less keen on the piano lessons than I was. We performed to perfection at the music school recital out of fear of our teacher’s wrath (she was a Tiger Mom before she even had kids). We were subsequently also volunteered to perform the piece at a nursing home. By the time of the nursing home performance, we had fallen out of practice, completely fucked it up, and played probably a third of the song being a complete measure off from each other. Fortunately, the old people did not notice it and loved us regardless. We could hardly contain our laughter when taking our bows, but I could see our teacher glaring daggers at us from the front row.

So I was the sort of kid who needed a serious dose of discipline every once in a while.

By the time I got to high school, my parents loosened up, either because they trusted me or because they were too old to bring down the hammer constantly. My freshman year, history was optional, and 3 out of my 7 classes were fine arts classes. After freshman year, I didn’t really have a curfew. I got occasional B’s because my parents accepted that I despised math. I signed up for computer science at the community college over the summer and flunked because I got bored and stopped going. I also signed up for Spanish one year, but skipped two weeks of class because I had a friend visiting from Virginia, and also went to New Orleans for a school activity, so the teacher flunked me.

I suffered no repercussions for these devious acts, and never had to practice piano for more than an hour a day, so compared to Amy Chua, my parents probably seemed like they were running some sort of laid-back amusement park.

And I did not completely fall apart. Being surrounded by my beloved friends who were also products of Tiger parents, I succumbed to peer pressure and took every honors/AP class available and felt guilty for my 4.3 GPA (4.5 was the max, and I never got a 4.5). Yes, it is actually very possible for peer pressure to work in a positive direction.

I appreciate the way I was raised and will strive to impose equal structure and discipline for my own kids, but Amy Chua takes it to an unfathomable level to which I dare not even aspire. The only way I could come close to her level of dedication would be if I was not working, and even then, I think it would be an incredible task. Employing her tactics necessarily leaves almost no time for the self, but indeed, as Chua points out in her book, the things she did for her daughters were not at all for herself – for who enjoys being a constant disciplinarian, the bad guy, a target of your children’s frustration and ire?

Week 37

Things are escalating quickly. I am waking up 3 times a night to pee (ugh – for about a week now) and Fetus’s movements continue to feel like she’s rearranging my organs, or worse, kicking my spine from time to time. I beg to differ with whoever claims babies move less at this point because they have less space! She has plenty of space and is having a great time in there. It’s like the alien movies where someone’s body has been invaded by an alien and it starts trying to break out of their abdomen and you can see it wriggling and moving and poking underneath the skin.

I’m done with all the reading I intended to do (including Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, heh) and we also finished infant care and breastfeeding classes.  We took a CPR class over the weekend, which is the last thing on the schedule. I sort of feel like I’m cramming for finals here. A lot of the information is not at all intuitive and it’s a marvel what kind of education and learning is required when it seems most other animals can figure all this stuff out by instinct.

Still continuing to exercise:

Monday:  I walked the hill by our old house twice, but had to pee like crazy the entire time. This is not a long exercise, and I went to the bathroom right before we left the house!

Wednesday: Walked the stairs at the beach 5x, did 3 sets of 24 lunges, and a couple of wall sits. My knees are irritated at me so I might cool it on the squats for a little bit.

Thursday: Prenatal Yoga

Saturday: Yoga at home

Sunday: Walked the hill and did three sets of squat jumps.

Late Third Trimester Exercise

Week 35

Monday: Prenatal Yoga

Tuesday: Hiking by our old house. About 3 miles round trip, 45 minute hike, nice view at the top. One of my favorites for a quick hike because of the short distance (didn’t even have to pee once on the hike!) and decent elevation gain.

Wednesday: Weights. Triceps dips, bridge lifts, squats with 20 pound weights, wall sits, low squat jumps.

Friday: Aspired to walk the stairs at the beach, but did not get very far. I only made it 5 times because I was tired and my legs are starting to hit my belly when I take two stairs at a time which is uncomfortable and annoying as fuck.

Weekend: Really tired, did nothing. Walked around Comicon on Saturday to people watch and go to bars for a few hours (and yell at an anti-abortion protester to shut the fuck up) and that was too much excitement for me.

Week 36

Monday: Prenatal Yoga

Tuesday: 3 hill sprints, 2 sets of 13 squat jumps, 25 regular squats

Wednesday: Triceps dips, squats with weights, wall sitting, bridge lifts.

Weekend: Does lounging around the pool in the desert or going clubbing count for anything? Probably not. On Sunday we walked up a hill near our house 3 times, but that wasn’t too intense and didn’t really counter the weekend sloth.


After all my complaining yesterday, most of which came to mind at 1:00 a.m. when I woke up for no reason and could not go back to sleep, I leaned toward more grateful thoughts when I woke up in the morning, and instead considered what a blessing it is that I have enough choice in the matter to even be able to contemplate, weigh, and choose the advantages, disadvantages, and life changes of having children.

There was a not-so-distant time in human history where reproduction seemed close to inevitable, but science, technology, and the free market have created the present world in which I live, which allows me to have a choice.I have access to multiple forms of highly effective types of birth control, and abortion if required. If I wanted, I could live an unfettered life in which my career, love life, travels, conveniences, and everything else in life, are not impacted by children. If I wanted.

Having the choice leads to agonizing over-analysis, but it’s still better than the alternative.


As I near the end of pregnancy, I feel the old doubts of having children surfacing. I’ve spent the last several months treating this entire experience like an important project, with plans, research, classes, books, etc., so I thought I’d resolved such anxieties, but I suppose that is not the case after all. One would think the last 7 months of preparation would have served as a gradual transition, but it seems the impending due date only highlights the severity and certainty of this decision.

I used to be utterly freaked out by the idea of giving birth; that’s still somewhat the case but infinitely overshadowed by the fear that I won’t enjoy being a mother. I’ve had to make many lifestyle changes and compromises since December 23, 2016 but of course none of it can compare to what lies ahead. It seems like having to rebuild an entire life from scratch (mine).

I think my husband and I have built a special life together. I don’t mean “special” in the sense that we’re particularly unique, interesting, or superior compared to others, but 12 years together necessarily results in something irreplaceable and I could easily live another 12 years like this, or the rest of my life.

We met on a rainy night in February painted by the haze of alcohol. The friend who introduced us accidentally set something on fire at a party, after which we quickly made our departure, and I was so drunk I spelled my own name wrong when I entered it into my husband’s cell phone. We didn’t start dating until a year and a half later, because only Fools Rush In.

When I first moved in with him, the living arrangements could best be described as a small fraternity house nestled in the heart of suburbia, inhabited by gamblers and students who drank too much, joined by unruly dogs, and then our equally recalcitrant cat.

During my first year of law school, my husband quit his engineering job and became a professional poker player, so the summer after my first year, we leased our room in the house, and left the country for two and a half months. We rented an apartment in the suburbs of Barcelona, and he funded our trip with poker while I promised to undertake some domestic tasks while he worked. The “tasks” were an adventure in and of themselves, as I enjoyed every moment of Barcelona, including regularly walking 25 minutes to the grocery store (we did not have a car), where I could buy unfamiliar foods and practice Spanish. We fell in love with the city, but moved on to Prague, Milan, Rome, Tuscany, and Yellowstone National Park the rest of the summer.

For the duration of law school, I packed all my classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays so I could have 4-day weekends every weekend, and there were many trips to Vegas with free hotels, compliments of my husband’s card-counting days. When I unexpectedly was notified I was the recipient of a $32,000 merit scholarship I hadn’t applied for, we took tequila shots all night at a bar in Cardiff-by-the-Sea that now longer exists, and I jumped into the ocean with all my clothes on.

Eventually, we moved into a two-bedroom apartment by ourselves, in a neighborhood characterized by beach bums, dirty hippies, quirky stores, and drug use. Our complex was built in the 1970’s, and rumor has it the communal hot tub was built of an epic size because the complex used to be a swinger’s colony. The neighborhood has since gentrified and I miss some of its formerly bummy, disheveled, and unpretentious elements.

After I took the bar exam, we celebrated with an Asia trip to Taiwan and Thailand. We scootered through the canyons of Taroko Gorge and indulged in decadence on Thai beaches. In the first couple of years after I started working, we traveled to Kauai and hiked Mt. Whitney with his family, and I started paying down substantial amounts of law school debt.

We got married in 2013, 2 weeks after our 8-year anniversary in a ceremony officiated by a dear friend. We wrote our own vows and exchanged them in the glow of the southern Californian sun, and at the reception, through a series of small mishaps, many guests got unbelievably drunk. Two weeks later, we honeymooned in Bali, Macau, and Taiwan.

In 2014, we went to Colombia, where we ate ceviche on Cartagena beaches, hiked a beautiful national park, and walked the romantic alleys of Santa Marta at dusk. I took a picture outside the former residence of Gabriel Garcia Marquez and constantly had a Colombian beer in hand to counter the Caribbean heat. We spent one night in some of the worst accommodations I have ever experienced, and when I was awoken at 4 a.m. to roosters, cats, and dogs brawling in the streets amid human yells, 90 degree heat/90 percent humidity with a broken fan, and a broken bed, there was nothing to do but laugh at the outrageousness of the situation.

In 2016, we picked Vietnam over Greece and had a dream vacation at beach side resorts, daily all-you-can-eat buffets of Vietnamese breakfasts, luxurious city hotels, lush jungle retreats, and scooter rides in Saigon, Hue, Hanoi, and the Vietnamese countrysides. We took the longest cable car ride to the highest peak in Indochina and enjoyed the view as lone passengers in a car designed for 30 people with a 360-degree view of the valleys, rice terraces, and mountains of Sapa.

We drink, cook, hike, exercise, and laugh together. We’ve taken painting classes, dance classes, and played on a soccer team. We own a house and a condo together, refurbish old furniture sometimes, save for early retirement, and spoil our cats. We are very different in some ways and have been at each other’s throats yet are fundamentally so well-suited for each other that if I weren’t an atheist I’d chalk this up to fate.

Our years together have not been extraordinary in and of themselves (plenty of people hike, drink, and travel), but for me, the last 12 years has been characterized by little pieces of magic here and there, and everywhere.

When I was little, I was prone to impractical daydreaming. I would daydream of being a rock star or sprouting wings and flying, for instance. On the other hand I rarely contemplated much in detail about the specifics of my future life. My eleven-year-old self didn’t care to think about what kind of career, husband, house, kids she’d have, or vacations she’d take, beyond assuming that there would eventually be a job, a dude, and an abode in the mix on an abstract level, because that’s what adults do.

So what I mean by “special” is, it’s special to me, and if my eleven-year-old self was given a glimpse into this future, she’d be pretty damn smug and content, implausible fantasies of growing wings and flying across oceans aside.

Having a kid is supposed to be the “next” step, a higher level or deeper stage, but sometimes it feels more like we’re tearing parts of a great creation down and rebuilding it to be something completely different and unfamiliar.

So, what will the next 12 years be like? Stay tuned…



The taco belongs in a mouth! It won’t always make it into a mouth, but it’s best not to broadcast any evidence of taco waste!

I hereby give permission for anyone to slap me if I share pictures on social media of my child covered in food. Seriously, this is weird and gross. The pasta sauce all over the eyebrows and face is as attractive on your child as it is on you. Please, no. Also, while your kid is rubbing noodles in her hair, smearing chocolate everywhere but in her mouth, and flinging taco bits across your kitchen, there are starving children in third world countries.

Maybe I’ll change my feelings when I become a mother, but irrespective of how I feel, I will NOT ALLOW MYSELF TO DO THIS. I would never post a picture of myself covered from head to toe in chocolate because it is messy and unattractive. Regardless of how cute or “funny” I might think my child is, I’ll try to remember that to others, she likely looks messy and unattractive covered in food. If anyone catches me sharing pictures of my child covered in food, it means my body has been overtaken by the body snatchers and I am signalling for help.

Did You Buy _______ Yet?

No, but I do have a big jar of coconut oil in the kitchen pantry, so I’m good. Twitter tells me coconut oil is the solution to all life’s problems, and since I already own a big jar of it, I’ll bite.

I’m completely serious. I’ve already acquired way more baby shit than I intended. I don’t know how it happened, but somehow we have like 5 different sleeping arrangements for Fetus, including a co-sleeper, a crib, a cradle, a folding Rock ‘n Play, and a swing. Granted, she is expected to grow out of the co-sleeper and cradle within a few months, but still. Five. Sleeping. Arrangements. How does sleeping get this complicated? Why are babies so hard? Aghghghghghgh.

I’ve also been advised I really need a baby wipe warmer, nipple cream, some sort of diaper rash prevention cream (as opposed to Desitin, which treats the rash once it occurs), a bottle warmer, a changing table, among others items I have avoided buying thus far. With the exception of the changing table, a lot of these don’t take much physical space, especially compared to the 5 different sleeping products/devices, but they take up mental space and create psychological clutter for me so I am avoiding them for as long as possible.

According to Google, coconut oil can suffice both as nipple cream and diaper rash prevention, so I’m going to do just that unless/until it proves to be an embarrassing hippie failure.