Not a Medical Doctor

Me: I've been a little stressed. It's better now, though. I'm fine.

Cousin Kyle Who Just Had a Baby: Angel, you need to come back to the Bay. And when you come, I want you to do something. I want you to spend a few days with us, and just... just allow the baby to work his magic on you.

Me: Are you seriously talking about your weeb like he's a dream vacation? Like, a few days barefoot on the beach and I'll relax, except 'the beach' is the baby smell wafting from his tiny skull?

CKWJHaB: YES! No regrets. You're gonna see. You'll see for yourself. Also, when we get off the phone, I'll send pictures of the cartoon face he made while taking HIS FIRST BATH.

(He really did. It was a cartoony face. My cousin is high on the best drug in the universe—the drug of progeny. I love it, partly because I love him, but also sociologically.)

The Future, As Scripted by Family

Uncle Who Speaks with British Accent Because He Spent, Like, 8 Months in the UK Once Many Years Ago (UWSBABHSL8MUKOMYA): Oh, so Angela couldn't come down for Christmas? That's too bad.

Mom: I know it's too bad. She changed jobs recently and decided to stay in Paris this season.

UWSBABHSL8MUKOMYA: Tell me if she needs any help. I still know a few people back in France, and they can do amazing things for her.

Mom: Oh?

UWSBABHSL8MUKOMYA: She likes children, doesn't she? She'd make a splendid au pair. The benefits for au pairs in France are unparalleled -- they even get their own rooms!

Mom: You obviously don't know my daughter. She's no au pair; she's more of a tour guide.*



---

*My dad also emails periodically to ask why I won't stop fooling around and get a "real job," followed by the names of airlines he's heard need flight stewardesses. This is Reason #209483093 why you should consider what Alain de Botton says in this video. Family may love you, but that doesn't mean ... well, I'll stop there.

Culture Shock

The scene: back in SF, driving away from SFO.

Dad: Miss San Francisco? Nothing like the Bay, eh? I think you should move back. Wanna move back?

Me: No.

Dad: That's how I felt when I moved to America. Your grandfather asked if I'd like to spend more time with him in Manila, and I was like, 'No, dad. America is my home now.' I'd made up my mind to live there, so my heart was there; it had been there for years.

[Long pause.]

Dad: But knowing that -- knowing how much time I'd spend in the States afterward -- if I could go back, I would take my dad up on his offer to stay in Manila a few weeks more.

Me: Let me see if I understand. Knowing now what your life would be like, and that you'd spend most of it in America anyway, you would have stayed longer in Manila to be with your dad?

Dad: ...Actually, no.

Me: So why are you asking me to move back?

Dad: Worth a try.

Me: Propagandist.

Peanut Butter as American Virtue

Next month I leave for France. And now that I'm back with my parents for the next couple of weeks, my dad's working tirelessly to keep me from going. (He did this before I left for New York, too, up until the day I stepped onto the plane.)

To keep arguments from becoming repetitive, he offers a different reason every day. Today's rationale was lobbed early this morning, after passing me a cocktail of multivitamins.

Dad: "Take these now. It's probably the last time you'll have all your nutrients before coming back from France."

Me: "They have multivitamins in France."

Dad: "Those people can't do anything right. They couldn't even win the war." Thoughtful pause. "They don't have peanut butter in Europe."

Me: "Is that why they appealed to the Americans for aid?"

Dad: "Don't be a smart-ass."

Me: "Did you look everywhere in Europe?"

Dad: "They don't have peanut butter there. Can you believe that?"

Me: "I don't like peanut butter."

Dad: "What do you mean, you don't like peanut butter? You grew up on peanut butter."

Me: "That doesn't mean I have to like peanut butter."

Dad: "Peanut butter is the reason why you're smart."

Back in Cali.

Primary objective: to sell the merits of the Mac to my PC-crippled famille. Photo Booth's proving helpful.

Me, Charysma and mum.

Tampax Pearl: Too Sassy for its Own Good

Meia (my sister): Uncle C cleaned out Chelsea's car the other day and ran inside shouting, waving a handful of tampons around.

Me: Why?

Meia: He was all, "You should know better than to keep firecrackers out on the seat like this! The car could explode under direct sunlight!" He was, like, so pissed off.

Me: Dude. Awkward.

Meia: Yeah.

Charysma on Tomagotchis

"Wanna see my Tomagotchi? ...You know what a 'Tomagotchi' is, right?"

"I had a Nano Baby when I was in, like, high school or something. It died and I gave up on motherhood."

"Mine don't die. I'm on Generation 3."

"What do you mean, 'Generation 3'?"

"You raise one, then it grows up and moves away, then you raise its baby, then it grows up and moves away, then you raise the next one. And sometimes the mom and grandma come over."

"How do you know which is which?"

"You can tell who the grown-ups are. If you don't visit them enough, they start drinking."

Generation Gap

My mom called sounding all frenetic and urgent last night. "What's that site where Google lets you start your own homepage?" she asked.

Back story: Months ago, Mom told me she almost paid some snake oil hack $250 for offering to build her a "Google homepage." I was like, "Dude. You can do that FOR FREE."

Back to the present. I pretended to wrack my brain, and then I was all, "Oh yeah. Pages.google.com."

"It's not on Google?" she demanded, suspicious-like.

"It is," I said. "[something].google.com is the same as google.com/[something]. Just, you know, reversed."

Her breathing suggested she was unconvinced. I could hear her typing it into a browser to check if I was lying. Then she went, "Okay -- thanks." And hung up.

This morning in a CC'ed email I discovered my 10-year-old sister Charysma used Googlepages to start a website for her artwork. So far though, it just looks like free advertising for DARE. 

Nonetheless, it is one more addition to her growing self-promotional online empire.

You know, I thought I had at least six more years before I'd start feeling totally eclipsed by Generation Next. Homegirl's showcasing her creative life, playing with online video and learning PhotoShop two years younger than the age I was when I first discovered chat rooms, punters and filesharing.

Ugh. Feeling retro. It burns.

It's Just Culture, Man.

If you talk to maybe most any first-gen Southeast Asian, what you'll find is that rice is a big deal. No. It's not just a staple; it's a really big deal. There are songs about it.

I concluded yesterday that Filipinos in particular are weird about rice. I don't excuse myself from that statement. When I first tasted rice outside my parents' house, I was appalled by its strange consistency. The rice I grew up with is stubby, and not quite sticky but sticky enough to squeeze into airtight balls if you like to eat with your fingers.

It took some time to learn that rice has many faces, only one of which I came to know intimately - the kind that comes with the little red medal. The use of the red medal is actually a splendid sales tactic, considering I'd push my otherwise indifferent parents to patronize whatever brand it was so I could tear the medal off the rice bag for use in various games of pretend, like pinning it to the clothes of Angela the Olympic Winner or attaching it to very valuable wills for discovery by Angela the Sexy Spy. Don't ask when.

But I digress. For the last few weeks I've been working with a new marketing trainee that I happen to know really well. In fact, together we wiled away our Fil-Am centric youths battling imaginary foes in swamp-side Vallejo.

Yesterday I took him to an Indian restaurant and he sat staring at his rice for over 10 minutes because it was so long and dry. "Where do they find it?" he asked, perplexed. He didn't look up at me the whole time.

"India," I answered. This was probably not the best or most accurate answer but under the circumstances it did neither harm nor good.

He picked at it. "They put spices in here," he observed softly. "There's ... a flavour."

"It is good with yogurt," I said mechanically. At that point I disengaged myself from the conversation and began eating my curry. I wish I'd known that hours later I'd again be condemned to more rice-talk.

Me to my parents as I dug through the rice cooker, less than 4 hours later: "Dude. Why do you guys make rice that's half brown and half white?"

Mom: "What do you mean?"

Me, teasing: "It's, like, both brown and white. Can you not make up your minds?"

Mom started to laugh. "We have to mix so your daddy will eat it," she said. "This way at least it's still half-healthy."

I carried my rice-laden plate to the kitchen table, where my pops gave me that smug look and said, "See, Angel, if it's all brown, it's ..." He seemed to be at a loss. "Terrible."

"Terrible? Is that the best you can do?" I said. Really. He's normally devastating on the rapier-wit scale. It's a point of pride, even. Possibly the rice thing draws less-than-rational sentiments.

He started to laugh. "You have to put some white in so it's edible," he replied finally.

I didn't pursue this realm of logic further. But today at the office I mentioned the exchange to my trainee, sans ending, and he just looked at me strangely and said, "Half brown, half white? I bet that tastes hella good. Isn't it healthier too?"