On The 6

I just got back from a mini girlfriend getaway to NYC. I'm not going to write about that, because I haven't fully been able to wrap my brain around it yet. Suffice to say, it was pretty different from the last time I went to NYC. I would say it was equally fun, but I was much younger, more of a risk-taker, and the words "concierge" and "edible gold" were not yet in my vocabulary. Try "hostel" and "leftover cheapest-thing-on-the-menu Chinese food".

My buddy Nat and I went over Spring Break, to escape the suburban mundane. We got a ride from his parents to Montreal and took the train from there, that's how much money we had. We stayed at a hostel in Columbus Circle managed by a Vietnamese man named Lee. He was about 30 years old and 5'0. I want to say he was missing an arm, but I may be making that part up.

One day, after a full day of walking, we were chilling in the common room in the basement. Lee was half-baked and sucking back on a water bong. He glances up lazily in half-hearted acknowledgement.

"I don't have any more weed or I'd offer you some." He says.

"All good, man. We're cool."

He doesn't turn out to be one of those stoners that sits and slowly eats 4 pizzas one after another. He's actually pretty talkative. He reveals that he was born in Vietnam, but travelled to Cambodia on his own when he was about 10 and moved to NY from there.

In my bright-eyed innocence, I squeal with delight. Adventure! "You went to Cambodia by yourself when you were 10?! Man, I want to go to Vietnam and Cambodia; they look amazing. My parents won't even let me leave the city by myself. What fun things are there to do there? How long was the flight in between?"

Lee looks at me with an incredulous look on his face, like he's not sure if I'm kidding. "The fuck you talkin' 'bout, plane? I walked that shit, motherfucker!"

He goes on about refugee life and I feel pretty stupid at this point so I stop talking (Nat probably told me to stop talking. It doesn't sound like something I would do voluntarily). At some time around midnight, he looks over at his empty bag of pot and announces he has to get more. "I'm heading out to the Bronx. China, WhiteBoy, you wanna come?"

I'm so excited about my new gang name I can't even contain myself. The Bronx?!?

I'm not even slightly concerned that a permanently grinning Chinese girl, a 6'5 blond/blue-eyed white boy, and a Vietnamese midget with one arm won't fit in in The Bronx. I've watched enough J-Lo "vids" to feel confident in my abilities to co-mingle with the locals. Look at me! I'm on The 6, too, giiiirrrrlfriend!


YAY ME AND NAT! (That's not Lee.) (But it could be.)

Once we get off the 6, The Bronx doesn't turn out to be like the movies where the girls play double dutch and I throw my head back in a hearty laugh while ruffling the hair of innocent young hoodlums beatboxing on the corner. You lied to me, J-Lo!

It's like a movie, all right, but more like a movie where a high school drop out sells the crack rock and then does hard time for murder in the first and then bounces back to become a functioning and respectable member of society. The beginning part of that movie. A guy tries to sell me one shoe and a 5-month-old issue of YM. No thank you, sir, I already read that one. I become very conscious of my own Nikes.

"Alright, you guys are going to have to stay like 10 steps behind me," Lee says. "I'm going to go into that building for a minute. Don't move." And then, more directly to me, "Stop talking to people."

Apparently, my over-excitement and eagerness to fit in by telling everyone I meet they are amazing is cramping his style. Either that, or my ebonics aren't what they used to be.

Nat and I pretend to be interested in the architectural designs of the 'hood, while Lee heads into an apartment. True to his word, he returns quickly, makes sure we haven't created a spectacle, and ushers us to the nearest subway.

We head back to Columbus Circle. I feel proud, like I've conquered NYC by being in the Bronx for a whole of 7 minutes.

Weather Patterns

Of course rain would ruin one of my favorite days to party out of the whole year: Cinco De Mayo.

The entire 25-degree work day was spent emailing mi amiga about the fun things we were going to do: walk around Kensington market and eat burritos, hit up a patio and order sangria in the sunshine, watch as the latino community came out and sell their wares in droves... It was a dream come true.

Anything that allows me to escape reality and pretend I'm somewhere spanish-speaking is a dream come true. Last weekend, I went to a communal Indian birthday party at the Liberty Grand, which looks like a resorty-palace. For a couple of hours, I pretended everyone was Mexican and I was in Cabos. ¡ARRIBA!¡ARRIBA!...and Namaste.

Pure bliss.

I'm pretty sure I just offended a huge percentage of the world but since I can't decide if its the Mexican population or the Indian population, I'm going to go with both, so they can cancel each other out. I'm very diplomatic, Méxindia.

Anyways, of course my arch-nemesis, The Rain, showed up the second I set foot out of the office and kept on for the rest of the evening, effectively destroying any chance of plan follow-through. We still went out for tapas, but it wasn't the same. In my mind, and I'm sure others will agree, "Down South" means endless sunny days, without a cloud in sight.

But that's total horseshit.

I lived Down South for about a year. Sunny days exist, that's for sure, but for a pretty good portion of it, at least in Honduras, rain ruined many a plan for me, and one time, my dear friends, it caused this unlucky girl to fall into a sewer.

Sewers in Puerto Cortés aren't the beautiful works of art you see here. There's no lid to cover the grossness that lies beneath, nor do the sewer contents run deep below the streets, hidden from view. They run about 3 feet below street level, under the sidewalks. And by sidewalks, I mean giant slabs of concrete strategically placed over the sewer drains. Some of the slabs are broken, or caved into the sewer, so the grossness can be clearly visible at times. And by grossness, I mean people use these holes as garbage cans, so on top of the crap that's already swimming through the drains, there's huge mounds of mushy decomposing garbage that never gets picked up. I hope I'm painting a vivid enough picture for you.

Moving on.

One day, there was so much rain that school was cancelled.



That's me in 2006!

We (being me and my friend/roommate Tamara) keep thinking it's going to stop, but it rains and rains and we are finally desperate enough to brave the waters and head to the grocery store to pick up emergency supplies.

We have to walk one block north because we live on a slope and no cab is foolish enough to drive on these roads.

We end up picking up our emergency supplies and getting in a cab back. This cab is foolish enough to drive on those flooded roads. He drops us off right beside our house, where that picture above was taken.

The car starts to fill up with water in the back and we toss him the money casually, pretending like his car is not going to need thousands of dollars worth of work.

In our haste to leave and pretend we have no idea what is going on, Tamara hops out and I start handing grocery bags to her over my head. One step out of the car and I'm in floodland, baby.

So I try to step out carefully, as close as possible to the house, because that's where the most leverage is. The cab drives away, and in trying to avoid being splashed by the cab, I lose my footing.

And fall into a sewer.

The entire ground was covered in water and it was impossible to see where the sidewalk started, ended, or had cracks. I can still feel the soft, decomposing garbage on my nightmare feet.

I shriek to high heavens, because I am literally submersed in raw sewage. Try to imagine this happening to you. Just try. Yeah.

Clambering to safety as quickly as possible, I run into the house, yanking off all sewage clothes and screaming non-stop. It's all very cartoonish, but really happening. I head for the shower.

It does not work.

It. does. not. work.

Not having water was typical in Puerto, but this was basically the most awful time possible. I use some of the drinking water, but in a flood, there was virtually no way to get any more, and I couldn't really use all our drinking water to take a bath....Or could I? (no, I couldn't).

My genius mother had packed about 1000 wetnaps in my bag for just this type of emergency. How might she know I was going to trip and fall into a sewer, you might ask? Well, I have had a pretty long history with falling into things. You wouldn't have to be that intuitive.

After being almost disinfected (or rather, almost running out of supplies) by 893 wetnaps, that antibacterial stuff you don't need water for that I can't remember the name of right now, and my tears' water, guess who decides to show up for a visit?

Why, running tap water, of course!

Not a good day, friends, not a good day.

Words Words Words

Remember Back In The Day when the cast of Dawson's Creek were under media fire for their extensive vocabulary and use of references that any normal teenaged viewer would have to break out their encyclopedia to understand?

Well, not all the cast. Not Jen, who was just there to be a slut, nor Pacey, who I always saw as Dawson's tagalong, but definitely Joey, and most certainly Dawson, who always appeared to be very wise beyond his years. Or maybe wise for his years. You're not fooling anyone with that pepaw, The WB.

I loved the way they spoke. I love words. I have had a long and stable relationship with words since I spoke my first one...at age three.

My mom thinks the tale of my imbecility is really hilarious and, to my sheer embarassment, tells anyone who will listen. I think she waited until I was 14 to tell me on purpose, so I could truly feel the effect on my social life.

My parents started getting a little concerned when after a year and a half, I made no sounds at all, other than crying non-stop, especially since my older sister, Olivia, had started speaking basically out of the womb. By two and a half, and after seeing numerous specialists that could figure out nothing, they booked me an appointment to see if I was just a little bit slow.

The appointment was set just past my third birthday. However, only days before having to endure the diagnosis, I miraculously started speaking... and didn't stop. I guess my mom had used my lack of speech as a vessel for her secrets, and told me everything, thinking her slow daughter would never be able to reveal these little nuggets of information.

Well, I got you, Mom! My very first phrases were along the lines of, "Auntie! Mom hates your haircut. She thinks you look like a boy!" and "Hey, why are you so poor? You're not?" And then I would start crying and crying because why did my mom tell me they were poor then? Until they would finally resign and admit that, yes, Cynthia, we are poor, okay? This was all in Cantonese, and therefore much funnier.



I learned English through the playground, fool. And in fact, I got so good at speaking English, I was put into Advanced courses all through grade school.

By grade four, around age 9, I was placed into a class with an elite group of students called Enrichment. It sounded like healthy bread, so my suspicious parents allowed it.

We got to leave regular class to play math races and read advanced-level books. Then they created a spelling team for us, and in a colour-based level scheme (white being the most basic and moving darker and darker from there), we were labelled The Black Team.

I walked around thinking I was The Matrix for a long time.

Oh Em Gee.

BREATHE. BREATHE. BE. COOL.

I just logged on and nearly fell to the floor in an unexpected bout of overexcitement. WHAT is this:



I'm FAMOUS! Rymistri doesn't even know me and wants to know about my daily going-ons? I have to know more without looking creepy, so that I don't log on tomorrow and see that this icon has mysteriously disappeared. I know what You Other Three are thinking. "Don't mess this up, Cynthia! You're already starting to look creepy. Stop writing this post right now!" and that is what the half of my brain that always loses tells me, too. But how can I not?? This is a new follower who plucked me straight out of obscurity from cyberspace, and I didn't even have to beg, plead, or bribe with delicious yum-yums to get to join.

I'm not going to blow it, like I blow everything else. Not in the sexy way, Reader, get your mind out of the gutter. In like a blow up kind of way. No. No. Not like that at all, actually. I can't even think straight, I'm so excited. Unfortunately, usually my overexcitement ends in hilarious escapades of failure.

Take, for example, my very first birthday party. Not like my 1st birthday, which I only vaguely remember, but the first party that my parents allowed me to throw when I was about 8, and for the first time invite my real school friends, not just their mahjong friends' kids.

I invite everyone. In fact, I beg people to come and follow up repeatedly to see how they RSVP. Finally, I put together a decent guest list, and can allow myself to look forward to my big day. I've even got the It Girls to come!

The It Girls are blonde, blue-eyed, and shop at Gap Kids. The ringleader of this clique is Chantale, who everybody wants to sit beside at Mass and always gets picked first for team sports, regardless of her only medium-level athletic ability.

The day finally arrives: the cake is made, the movies are rented, the games are set up. Oh boy, oh boy, it's going to be the best day EVERTY-EVER!!

My guests start to arrive, including Chantale. The second she walks into the living room where the rest of us are, she freezes in her tracks.

"Cynthia, you have goldfish." She states, matter-of-factly.

"Um. Yeah?" My dad collects goldfish and other waterworld creatures and has three enormous tanks full of them in our living room. I have a weird sort of childhood.

"I'm allergic to fish."

"Well, we're not eating them." I say, wishing I could throw all these stupid water critters out the window in the cold February air. You're ruining my life, Goldfish!!

"No, like... I'm going to die."

"You're going to DIE?!?! Are you serious?!?" This is more than my not even 8-year-old mind can comprehend and I'm wishing I could die before her so I don't have to deal with this terrible situation. She shows me her allergy bracelet that, for all I remember, actually stated that Yes, Chantale is going to die from being in the vicinity of goldfish. Oh my God, I've killed the It Girl. My social life, which was supposed to be unfolding this very day, is over.

I am screaming for my parents to do something and she is crying and calling her mom and the rest of my guests are looking around in confusion at what is going on and steadily creeping nearer to where their winter coats are. This is a disaster. My fucking life is over on my 8th birthday.

Eventually, her mom reassures her that she is okay, but will pick her up to avoid any more freaking out. My parents convince everyone else with cake and chocolate that our house is safe and no one is dying, and the show goes on.

Holy shit, remember when repressing memories was a good thing? These blogs never end up the way I want them to. Is it that difficult to just end one story normally?

So now I'm almost sure Rymistri is a robot or the Internets are playing a mean joke on me, so I have to check the associated blog. She's PEOPLE!! Not only is she people, she is pretty! For anyone not in the know, I very much dislike The Ugly. They are frightening, with their often beady eyes, skin tags, and unsurprising lack of self-esteem. No thank you, The Ugly.

So now that I am sure Rymistri is a human, I am on top of the world!




I realize this picture is contradictory to my aforementioned hatred of Nature, but obviously this calls for a celebration and for this post (only), I will allow this unification.

Mexican Standoff

A hypothetical/daily situation between Marty and myself might go like this:

Marty: Can you get me a glass of water?
Me: Can I watch Million Dollar Listing?
Marty: That is the worst show in the history of Television.
Me (in my best Uma Thurman impression): Well, well, well, it looks like we have ourselves a Mexican standoff, then, don’t we?

But by the time I’m done my sexy sentence, Marty has already gotten his glass of water and is sitting back on the couch, watching Pawn Stars.

Marty: Do you even know what a Mexican standoff is?
Me: A tradeoff…? (I say this with a barely perceptible inflection towards the end, because I may be right, in which case, I want it to sound like I knew all along. But if it’s completely far off, I want to make it sound like I was asking so I don't look like an idiot).
Marty: (blank stare) Maybe you should look phrases up before you use them publicly.

So now, partially because I’m a little bit mad that I don’t know what’s going on with Chad/Madison/Josh on the TV, and partially because I want to use the phrase Mexican Standoff correctly for years to come (fyi, I’m Chinese, but I like to pretend I’m Latina. Has nothing to do with this story, but just for future reference, I like Latino things.), I leave the living room and hop on the Google train.

This is what Wikipedia tells me:

A Mexican standoff is a slang term defined as a stalemate or impasse.

“Stalemate”? “Impasse”? Like, what are you even talking about WikiStupidia? After numerous Mexican runarounds on the internets, I finally gather that it means an equal opportunity confrontation.


I’ve never been in one of those things. The reason for this is I change sides all the time. I'm the type of girl that would give up your name, address, and birthdate (for good measure) to avoid an unpleasant line of questioning. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up, now. What do you mean, 'I have to go with you'? Maybe we got off on the wrong foot. His name is Martin Cyr..No, spelled with a C. Yep, just like that. He lives at my place and will be home in about an hour so you can get him then. Can you just give me like 15 minutes to get my stuff please? Yeah, sure I can call you when I'm out. Hey, what are friends for, right?"

I’ll give you a classic example of the old Switch Sides.

When Steph (I told you about her) and I were 15 or so, and allowed to leave school property at lunch, we used to hang out across the street on the grass lot by the gas station.

Steph, being the less timid of the two of us (if you can believe it), would ask adult strangers to please go into the gas station and buy packs of cigarettes, while I stood with her and tried to look cool, with some of our other friends.

Obviously, no respected adult in our white-picketed community would do this, but every once in a while some self-deprecating loner would walk by, eager for the attentions of pretty, young ladies.

On this particular day, we caught the attention of two portly trucker types. They can't believe our outrageous boldness, and we all have a good laugh together. We're friends!

"Sure, what kind?" The fatter of the two asks. We're in!

"Oh my God, you guys are so totally THE BEST!" We gush.

The very second our friends walk out of the gas station, and are about to hand over the goods to Steph, they are intercepted by a young, well-dressed couple.

"Stop it right there." The woman says, pulling out her police badge.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The guys are immediately pulled aside and given a stern talking to, right in the view of at least 100 sets of impressionable eyes.

Even in our young mindsets, we know whose side we have to take if we want to get out of this situation alive. We eavesdrop to the best of our ability, but basically these dudes are being charged big time.

The woman comes over and protectively coos over us as if we're the victims, and we are just soaking it all up, agreeing with everything she says and looking at our two former friends with wide-eyed innocence as if they're the stain on our otherwise perfect society.

Finally, the police/young couple/our only source of protection leaves, and we are left standing with the two guys. Instead of looking like two huge friendly teddy bear types like we had previously thought, the guys are looking like they want to sell us for meat. Not the slutty kind; the eatin' kind.

"Look," one of them says. "I know you were just scared back there, but the truth is, we're in this together. So it's only fair that we split the cost of this fine. Do you think you guys can come up with $500?"

$500?!?! That's like my whole life. The most expensive thing I own is No Doubt's Tragic Kingdom CD. CDs cost like 20 bucks back in the day.

But before I have to start even mentally selling off my prized possessions, Steph retorts, "Fuck. That. We're not paying you shit, assholes. You guys shouldn't have bought us those smokes. You heard what that cop said. That's illegal; we're only 14!"

Aaahh.. from the mouths of babes.

In March

At the end of each month, I'm going to attempt to recap the miscellaneous adventures and going-ons I had that I didn't write about for whatever reason.

First of all, I smashed our car. Well, technically I guess you could say I smashed "Marty's car". Well, why the Hell is the parking path so narrow? It's like my new apartment challenges me to fail. You win, new apartment. Big man.

Anyways, luckily for me, I was on my way to meet a very smashed Marty at Canoe, a very nice restaurant in Toronto. How can you be mad over $50 steaks and wine that the douchebag waiter says "isn't sold anywhere"? And also, you're stupid drunk?

Side note: what kind of waiter says that? "you can't get this anywhere?"

"Really?" Cat retorts, "Even if I go to Tuscany to the winery where this was made?"

"Yes. Even then I doubt it."

You're so cool, Canoe Waiter.

Anyways, the next morning, Marty is left with a hangover, a smashed car, and the inability to be mad at me, because there's nothing worse than bringing up a past argument, and we already went over this all last night.

*******

Another funny thing that happened was I made lifelong enemies with the staff at Futureshop where Marty and I bought a new tv, ps3, and God of War (see you later, Sunlight).

Look. Is it a big deal to ask for a discount if you are spending thousands of dollars in a store? Is it a big deal to then poll the floor staff on what they think the package is worth ("the ticketed price", they say), and then ask each individual staff what they could do for me (which was nothing every time) whenever my salesgirl turned around? What about when I escalated the matter to the store manager, who in a fit of desperation to get me out of the store and redeem the dignity of his staff, gave me his own discount? Is that a big deal? HM?

In any case, the next day, I realized I lost my phone and the culprit was Futureshop. I call and politely describe who I am and tell them my plight.

"Ohhh.. um.. right, right, yeah I totally remember you. Um.. hold on a second." (HOLD.) "Yeahh, we don't have your phone. Sorry." (CLICK.)

But she didn't even ask me one thing about the phone! Now, I'm not saying that they did find my phone and are doing all sorts of terrible things to rack up bills for me on it, but I'm not saying they're not, either. I guess we'll find out at the end of April.

*******

Once in a while, I like to get dressed up like a fancy lady and do something I can't afford. Most recently, it was a benefit for WaterCan, hosted by Aveda. The ladies there were on a league of their own, bidding thousands of dollars at the live auction for some guy to clean up their backyard. Cat and I are trying to be cool, Daddy-O, and this works for a good chunk of the night... until goody bag time.

"Oh.. these are for us? Why, thank you, sir. Catherine, let us make way to the ladies' room. Excuse us, please." (curtsy)

Once we get into the washroom, we're like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, minus all the sexin' for money. "FULL SIZE AVEDA LOTIONS??" We shriek in delight, until the toilet flushes and we curtsy on out.

On our way out, I swear to God, this happens: An older, portly gentleman tells us he is the one of the producers for Sex and the City, and our group of friends looks perfect for a new program he is developing. We're still trying to be cool, but let's be honest, the closest I am going to be to Sex in the City is that camping scene in Brüno - "Vee are sooh like ze sex in ze seety gehls!!" That's me.

We humour this Crazy Old Man (I say humour, but really I was already mentally packing for LA) for a while, as he is pitching his new show. All of a sudden, this woman comes running down the stairs. "Harold!" She shouts as she hurries toward us, "Ugh, Harold! What the hell are you doing? Are you playing Producer again?" She gives us a look that she has clearly given many a group of young women before. "I'm sorry, he does this all the time. He just wants to talk." He laughs and shrugs, like a boy who just got caught. He is no producer for Sex and the City.

Afterwards, we head of to a nearby lounge, where a well-suited Bay Street crowd frequents. We break out the camera and play what I like to call "Supermodel Documentary Hour".

The next half hour or so goes like this:

"OH. MY. GOD. You look sooooOOooo good."
"No, you look so good."
"No, like seriously? Seriously, that colour is ahmaaaazing."
"You don't even understand how beautiful that dress is on you."

(The male half of our party roll their eyes and exit bar due to embarassment.)

"Wow. Like just WOW."
"I can't even believe how beautiful we look tonight."
"Right?? Look at this picture. Just look at it. Perfection."

I should inform you that not even one girl is in the bar. Not even one. Every single man in the bar is watching at us and laughing as we take glamour shots, in "candid" poses like Gazing Wistfully at the Candle, or my personal favourite, Somebody Said Something Hilarious:



This is basically what every single one of our 800 pics looks like.


Then two of our girlfriends come to meet us at the bar. The first words they scream in greeting: "OH MY GOD!!! HOW AMAZING DO WE ALL LOOK TONIGHT??"