I can try and change my title all I want, but I’ll always be an astronaut – it’s time to stop fighting fate and simply give in to my spaceward destiny.

When we first moved to Vancouver, we lived in East Van just shy of Burnaby. The location worked out well for us, because it was next to a train station so Ed could get downtown for work and pretty close to my space job on Canada Way. Years passed, jobs changed, and we moved to North Vancouver and back again. I desperately miss North Vancouver, but we’re close enough to it for now .. and I like our place, so that’s a good thing.

Also, it’s pretty close to my new job on Canada Way.

I’m working two buildings from the place I worked at when we first moved to Vancouver. That’s a pretty big coincidence in itself, but in three months our office is moving. Down the street. To the building I used to work in. On the same floor I used to work on.

I am actively gunning to NOT get my old desk back; that would be too weird to comprehend.

Who said you can’t go home again? After 6 years of non-space adventures, I’m returning to orbit a little bit older (truth), a whole lot wiser (questionable), and with a great deal more stuff.

Things are funny!

bound'ry rooooooad take me hoooome to the plaaaaaace i belooooong

I usually like to have a few months of weird behaviour (aka being myself) under my belt before I have to have the awkward “I don’t drink” conversation with new co-workers, but we’re doing things a little differently today.

I has job. I start on Monday, but the company is having a pre-St. Patrick’s Day beer meeting at 3pm today and have invited me along for introductions/high fives. I’m nervous, but aware that I’d be more nervous going in blind on Monday morning so this is a good thing. It does mean that I’m going to have to explain my alcohol allergy much earlier than I normally would, though. I’m never quite sure if people believe me; that they secretly think I’m an off-the-wall drunk who commits unspeakable acts of public nudity while under the influence – but there’s not a lot I can do about it. It’s not just the allergy, either – I just plain don’t like the taste of alcohol of any kind. Yes, I know that’s weird. If you weren’t tipped off by everything else about me that is unusual, welcome to the party.

Nervous. Can’t decide what to wear. And, as always, thinking about tacos.

Will report back shortly with the important info: office proximity to Diet Coke, availability of scooter parking, whether I can turn my cubicle into a toy store, what my new title will be (I’m leaning towards “Judge Dredd”).

I am a Terrible Asian because I have no fucking clue how any of this is used:

what the shit is all this

i tried to play scrabble. it did not end well.

WHY IS THERE A KEY

When we were cleaning out the house of my mom’s stuff, I stumbled upon this mahjong set. She was going to toss it out, but I rescued it because it came in a shiny case and I have the attention span of a – ooh, a dime! It’s so pretty! I’m gonna take a picture and post it to Instagram!

Where was I? Oh, right – mahjong. I think my mom brought it with her when she moved to Canada from Malaysia. It’s old – the tiles are yellowed, and the (extremely confusing) manual is typewritten and smells like old, old paper. It’s a complete set; all the tiles are there and five tile holding thingies with spikes on the end that I am assuming are to be used as a weapon when the match ends. There’s a pile of coloured chips with holes in the center that are held in place by a rod with a pivoting end, a couple of dice, and this weird number dial labeled “Pass-The-Buck”. Oh, and a loose pile of orange chips. And I have NO IDEA what any of it is for.

My only exposure to mahjong is on electronic devices, where’s it’s a solitary game of matching tiles. There are no dice, chips, buck passing or weaponized death-sticks anywhere in sight. I’m really just hanging on to the thing because it’s old and kind of neat, but I have zero idea how it’s used. If I were a better Asian, I would totally rock this shit. Instead, I like to build towers of tiles then walk into them, pretending I’m Godzilla. Although .. that’s pretty Asian too, now that I think about it. Maybe I’m not a complete sham after all!

I wonder if I should donate the set to one of the Chinese senior centers downtown. Thoughts?

i could make crafts with them, too. the world needs more jewellery made out of tiles.

Stereotypes are rude; I know this. Unfortunately, a lot of them are hard to argue away when you’re faced with examples on a regular basis. I *can* argue them, though, as I am the antithesis of Asian stereotypes – I defy them left and right with a spring in my step and a jiggle of my mighty bosom (itself a violation of my genes and family history):

The Worst Asian: Stereotype Edition

1. I have an excellent sense of direction. Like, eerily good. My mother is a traditional Asian woman driver in every bad sense possible (plus some I think she invented just to piss me off), but I got away without absorbing any of the bad habits associated with my people. I drive well, never get lost, and I know how to merge. Take that, stupid cliches about women drivers/Asian drivers! I defy you!
2. It could be a perfect balmy sunny day in the middle of August, but you’ll always see little old Asian ladies bundled up like it’s 15 below. Being cold seems to be a year-round thing, but not me – in fact, I’m only every freezing ass cold inside the house. I don’t really care what it’s doing outside; I usually go without a jacket. Sometimes this will bite me in the ass, but most of the time, I’m fine. I hate being bulky (in my case, more bulky) – so it there’s a chance of being warm at any point in the day, I’d rather not have a coat with me. This is likely more me being stupid than an actual counterstereotype, but I’m counting it. Coats are dumb, even when they’re super cool.
3. I hate noodles, and I don’t eat organ meat. Pho? Gross. You can have my share.
4. I am terrible at advanced math – I had to take Algebra for Dummies, and barely passed it. I’m great at table math – the math you do when figuring out how much of the bill you owe, or the sale price of the discount underwear I buy by the pound – but throw a letter in the mix, and I’m useless.
5. My brand lust only extends as far as Doc Martens (uhh and Apple gadgets I guess) – I think Coach, Gucci and LV things are hideous, and wouldn’t be caught dead paying hundreds of dollars to act as free advertising.
6. I’m about as submissive as a punch to the junk.

I’m a complete embarrassment to my ambiguous Eastern heritage!

I’ll keep the jugs, though. Those are pretty cool.

With the furniture gone from the living room, we’re ready to start painting the wall. Yesterday we went out to get some paint samples, which I put onto some 8×10 boards so we’d get a better idea of what the paint would look like on the wall:

they double as protest signs

The darker green is for the living room, and the brighter green – if I decide to paint – is for my lady cave. After we agreed the living room green would be smashing, I wanted to do something with my board .. so I made a sign:

hello!

.. and stuck it in the bottom corner of my window, facing the street. Hi, people at the bus stop! Hope your day is lovely!

And yes – the only reason I went with a simple greeting is because I didn’t have the right letters for anything filthy.

...

okay, yes, but ...

this does look a little sketchy, but i don't know if ....

OH COME ON

Worth every damn penny.

Okay, not liking sushi was pretty weak – lots of people don’t like sushi. If you’re looking to be shocked and appalled, try this on for size!

The Worst Asian: Part Two

.. I can’t use chopsticks.

Seriously. At a table full of the whitest white people in the world, I’ll be the only person reaching for a fork. If a fork isn’t available (I’m generally too embarrassed to have to ask for one), I’ll either eat with my hands (I am a classy dame) or use one chopstick as a spear and stab my food for eating. This has the additional perk of turning all foods into Food on a Stick; making everything taste better – but it doesn’t work for eating rice. In fact, I don’t understand how people eat rice with chopsticks AT ALL, yet the vast majority of the world seems to get by just fine.

My inability to use chopsticks goes way, way back to my formative years. I used to get in trouble a lot at school because 1) my teacher was a horrible woman and 2) I didn’t hold my pens properly. She would call up my mother and tell her I was having all sorts of problems in school, and my mom would react in a typical way – by forcing me to spend hours and hours writing out the text from my books until my hands cramped, all under her watchful eye and constant threats of beatings with a rattan switch. Helpful! While my writing did eventually improve, the way I held my pens never did – in fact, the main reason I was having “trouble” to begin with was because I was forced to hold things “properly”, instead of what felt right in my tiny tiny hands.

I don’t hold pens or cutlery properly in my hands. This isn’t a big deal – I can (mostly) eat and write without covering myself in food – but everything falls apart when it comes to chopsticks. The finger meant to open and close the stick on your food is the digit I use to anchor things in my hand, and it just .. doesn’t work. I end up eating my food three grains of rice at a time, and it’s time consuming and enraging when I’m very hungry. So, I use a fork and bask in my shame in a city where more than 50% of the population is some sort of chopstick-using Asian. I am embarrassed for myself on a regular basis, and Ed delights in pointing out the fact that his Asian wife can’t use chopsticks while he can and does.

Of course, even though I am the worst I am still Asian – I own around two dozen pairs of chopsticks in fanciful designs. Some are even made for beginners, with notches on them to help with food grabbing. Doesn’t matter – can’t use them.

I’ll turn in my Asian card now.

jerks.

The Lady Cave? Has window sills.

It looks awesome/hilarious from the outside, too. More pictures on my Flickrs! I have excellent toys.

I’ve had an awful lot of time on my hands lately, which has led me to do a lot of thinking. On most people that’s nothing to be concerned about, but when I have a lot of thinking time I tend to go in one of two directions: extreme flights of fancy that I itch to make reality (“I want a bacon maple bar. You know, I’ve never actually hitchhiked before in my life – how long do you think it would take to get to Portland?”), or extreme depression (“I’m never going to get a job, no one loves me, I hate my haircut, I am a worthless puddle of goo …… hey, I want a donut”). My fits of fancy and sad come and go in waves, and right now I’m at a seriously low point – but I keep soldering on (all our forks are now spoons!).

One of the things I’ve been thinking on a lot lately has to do with heritage – who I am as a Canadian, and how I fit into the ever-changing category of “Asian-Canadian”. After a lot of soul searching, I’ve come to the conclusion that I really don’t fit in at all – and in fact, I may just be the Worst Asian Around.

I’ve decided to stretch this topic out over several blog posts for a number of reasons, most of which have to do with keeping me from whining about my unemployment. Thus begins a startling (likely in my mind only) exposé on what it means to be a halfbreed (I’m allowed to say it) struggling (not really) to fit in (again, not really) across two very different cultures, neither of which come in half sizes.

The Worst Asian: Part One

Truthfully, this is more to do with my being a terrible Vancouverite as opposed to a bad Asian, but I still feel the shock and alienation every time I confess to it: I hate sushi.

I can’t do it. I tried, too – sushi is awesome, everyone who isn’t me says. Try it! You’ll love it! I tried sushi so many times that I actually managed to fool myself into thinking that I liked it – sure, I’d never be tucking in to a huge plate of sashimi, but I could fake sushi love with dynamite rolls and things with crab in them. I also filled up on things like gyoza, tempura prawns, and other non-sushi things that are usually served at restaurants to appease those who hang out with sushi lovers on a regular basis. It wasn’t my favourite, but I could make it work.

After a particularly disastrous night out, I realized I hit the wall: not only did I not like sushi, I was pretty damn sick of the genre as a whole. I was tired of faking it; tired of thinking “well, maybe this time will be different”. It’s never different. I don’t like ice cold food. I don’t like gobs of mayonaise. I don’t like the texture of raw fish, and I LOATHE wasabi. I’m not even a big fan of soy sauce, so dipping the sushi in something doesn’t work. I can’t eat sushi gracefully – I have a small mouth, and shoving the whole piece in there is fantastically unappealing to me (and also makes me choke). Biting through seaweed is not an option. Taking it apart and eating it piece by piece gets you horrified looks. There is not a damn redeeming quality in sushi for me, and there’s a thousand things wrong with most of the non-sushi options presented to me that I just can’t get over. I don’t even like sushi for hipsters – the last three times I’ve gone to the Eatery, I’ve felt moderately to drastically horrible afterward.

Sushi killed my mother favourite restaurant.

I’m tired of pretending. It’s time to make a stand: I don’t like sushi, and you can’t make me change my mind. I don’t begrudge you your own squishy cold fish love, but I’ll be over here while you gorge yourself – text me when you’re done, and we’ll go get some frozen yogurt.

I am Kimli, the Worst Asian Around!