Lifeless

a short story in the perspective of my mom when she smashed the tv when i was in grade 6 (legit.)... wrote this when i was reading Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury (it makes more sense if you've read the book). 

                The clock struck, bringing about another hour, on another day, on another week. And that for her meant nothing more than another episode, another spin on the never-ending merry-go-round of watching, waiting, watching, waiting...
                It had been six hours already and her eyes were still seized by the brightly moving colours.
                I thought I should talk. “You know, it would help if you actually started homework not at eleven.”
                Nothing.
                “Then... maybe you wouldn’t have to sleep at three all the time.”
                I heard what I thought to be a faint grunt.
                “Can you look at me when I’m talking to you?” I could feel my voice straining, climbing higher, higher, higher.
                “Mm hmm. Yeah... in a minute.” My daughter replied, obviously irritated.
                Bright light flashed about the room.
                “Mm hmm! Yeah! In a minute!” Someone took hold of my voice and I could suddenly see myself from the other side of the room. “Then another minute, then another minute.... How many minutes have you wasted staring at that box?! Don’t you see what a waste this is of you?! How many minutes have you spent watching this?!  And how many doing homework? Talking? Living!? How many?!”
                Her face was blank and eyes empty.
                I felt as if she was slipping through my fingers and all I could do was watch. So I did the only thing I knew I could do next. Get rid of it. Destroy the monster that is destroying my daughter. No, no, get a hold of yourself. But my hands moved, and I watched; watched as the screen shattered to pieces, watched as my daughters pleaded for me to stop, watched as I ruined the thing that ruined me...

yup. i had a phase where i would watch TV for something like nine hours a day... i was addicted to television. so looking back, i'm glad my mom did what she did albeit she could've done it in a less dramatic way but meh...

Pot Love

Nope, not that kinda pot.

I really like making stuff. So one day, I decided to make some pottery. And after 230 hours, 20 pounds of clay, and who knows how many pounds of inhaled dust, this I ended up with this!

Fell in love with a pie pan at William Sonoma... then I looked at the price tag and almost died. So instead, I spent $250 at the pottery studio to make it instead.
Common sense ain't so common... 

potter mug for my sister 

And my study buddy :)

I'm procrastinating. I should stop. Ok bye.

One Hundred, Ninety Six hours, and Forty Two Minutes

(a narrative about my nights in culinary co op)

My face is too hot. I’m hot. I hate this uniform. It is way too big. I’m going to catch on fire because of this thing. How on earth is this the smallest size? I hate this. I look at the clock. One hundred... ninety six hours… and forty two minutes to go… hang in there Michelle.

                                                                        ~

I’d always wanted to be a chef - that and a sheep farmer in New Zealand. It all started one fateful afternoon when I was surfing through the whole 15 channels we had on our “technologically advanced” (quote tacky salesperson from Chinatown) antenna. I was looking for something to waste away to before I wasted away to Arthur on TVO kids when suddenly, the heavens split and shone the most beautiful light upon a delicately plated single seared scallop atop a bed of lichen and basil, topped with honeysuckle jelly and drizzled with a red wine shitake reduction. Sigh And there it was: love. Love at first blissfully delectable sight. I wanted to create art on the plate and the palate.

So here I was, cooped up between a premenstrual chef (it’s funny because he’s an old man), flames roaring at my oversized sleeve, hot pans, dead cows (that I swear are expired. They’re green), some very inappropriate coworkers for a sixteen year old, and a sous chef who’s madly infatuated with me and I can’t bring myself to tell him I love him like a brother… all inside a too tiny kitchen for a too tinselly restaurant.

“Pickup table 25,” Remy, one of the waiters called out.

“You’re s****ing me. F***ing serious?” Chef spat. “That order came in five minutes ago. I’m not making a f**ing lamb roast, salmon, penne, or whatever the hell they wanted in five minutes. Tell them they can go f*** themselves.” 

Oh goodness... what colorful use of the English language…

My job was simple: make the appetizers, prep the pasta, do the salads, sides, and potatoes, make the lasagnas, manicottis, whatever ees, do the desserts (this part was actually fun… because I was in the back… away from the chef), make the lamb racks, ossobucco… all, preferably, without losing any limbs or my sanity…

To put things in perspective, there were 150 people to serve. This was my first Saturday, it was the dinner rush, and the kitchen consisted of me, Chef, the sous chef, and Raj, the dishwasher.

The clock struck its halfway point. Six thirty. Showtime.

It’s like people just stand outside, waiting for the clock to strike 6:30 so they can all shuffle in at the same time and freak out the new co-op student.

                                                                        ~

Watching people come in is like watching some kind of freakish episode of National Geographic’s Great Migrations, but with the human species. The humans are an interesting type. Before the mating ritual, I’ve noticed that the female humans like to go through this ceremonial sacrament of pressing powders on their faces and covering their bodies with the most reflective objects they can find.

Weird. I swear I learned in Biology that it’s the males that are supposed to be the flashy ones.  Ha… Blue Footed Booby from the Galapagos… double ha… because they need to inseminate their spawns into fertile wombs… oh ha ha… Michelle, that’s not even funny… you are so weird…

“Hey! I’m talking to you! Young lady!” It was Remy.

Huh? Ugh, I hate it when they call me young lady.

“I said, is this the baked goat for table 36?”

“… Yes.” My lips spoke for me. They figured they might as well; it was a 50/50 chance.

What followed was a jumbled flurry of fire, knives, dead chickens, hot oil, and bus pans. Oh, and adrenaline, sweat, what could have been human blood, a couple burns, and a crying baby.

And then peace. It was nice.

Until it got boring.

Ti-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-c…k…. to-o…ck… T-i---…. Eight fourteen. Ok so that’s…. one hour, forty six minutes to go. Not bad, not bad. You got this Michelle.

After what had seemed like the longest one hour, forty six minutes in my life, I was done! Finally free from this imprisonment of precariously placed sharp objects and rotting animals!

As I stepped out of the shabby back door, I inhaled so hard I swear I bruised a rib. Air. Cool, fresh, autumn night air. I couldn’t have enough. After breathing in what seemed to be a sufficient amount of nitrogen and oxygen, I went home. With a plethora of thoughts – anger, confusion, gratefulness, anxiety – still swirling about in my head, I meandered my way to my family’s economically sized Honda civic, and with nothing but an obnoxiously crinkly emergency blanket, plunked my dazed self onto its roof.

Ok. Go. Think.

Nothing.

THINK. How do you feel? Are you stressed? Hello? Anybody in there?

Nothing.

This self dialogue continued for a while – rational self, irrational self, rational self, irrational self… until rational self decided to tie up irrational self and bury her in some cold, forsaken corner of the brain because she was annoyed. Rational self let the crisp autumn air cool her hot face and with each breath, breathe away the stresses of the kitchen. Then suddenly…

LIGHTBULB.

 “I GOT IT!” Rational self said at once.

“Errh crooel! Wehrd ouu gt?” (Translation: “Oh cool! What’d you get?”) Irrational self replied from her cold, forsaken corner.

And in a new perspective and understanding, rational self spoke.

“I am here because… not because I made some irrational decision to follow my six year old dream of becoming Carlo Rota from The Great Canadian Food Show, but rather…  I am here because subconsciously… subconsciously I knew what I needed was to be placed in an environment that challenges me, an environment that makes me give it all I got BECAUSE I HAVE GRIT! And grit is the real world. THIS is what I struggle with most: doing things quickly, working under pressure, working under a “Gordon Ramsey”. I should be thankful! Heck, I AM!!!”   

(This is where ‘rational’ self stands up on the roof of the car, drapes the emergency blanket like a superhero cloak, and speaks much too loudly for a suburban neighborhood of middleclass Chinese families at 1:23 in the morning.)

‘Rational’ self continued, “I’m here to prove MYSELF to MYSELF, to overcome one of the toughest work environments and be able to tell myself, “Stop whining, you've done something infinitely more difficult,” the next time I’m tempted to quit something. Michelle, YOU CAN DO IT!”

“Errh crooel,” replied a voice from a cold, forsaken corner of my brain. 

a donkey, a cat, and a rat.

we're studying children's literature in writer's craft right now. essentially, we were given a picture of a donkey, a cat, and a rat. so here's a little story i wrote about a donkey, a cat, and a rat. 

“It was a size 6,” Donkey said, “no no, I'm sure of it. No, I do not want a bigger size. I am a size six.”

You see, Donkey was a sad little Donkey. He felt bad about his Donkey self. His belly was too hairy, his nose stuck out too much, his tail was too fat, and his mane was greying. He was just not happy. Every day he would stare into the mirror of his shabby motel room and ask, “oh mirror mirror on the wall… do these (insert garment here) make me look fat?” and when mirror didn't reply, he would ask the cat, who naturally, as a cat, didn't reply (because animals don’t talk, of course).

One day, when cat and mirror – his only real friends in the world – began to bore him, he left them. And good thing he did! Because as soon as Donkey stepped outside his white - walled 16’ by 16’ room, he realized all that he’d been missing out on!

Gasp! “The world is in… what’s the word…in…in…”

“COLOUR!” shouted a little rat from behind. This little rat was dressed in pinstripe suspenders with a matching tweed overcoat to go with it. What a fashionable little rat… His ears peeked out from his tweed poorboy hat just slightly when he spoke.

“Yer see muh dear, this whole time you been lookin’ at all the wrong places for your hap’ness! Stop lookin’ inside at yourself, and look out! Look up! Look around!”

“Gee whiz! So... you mean I’m not a fat hairy ugly old Donkey?”

“Oh no, of course yer are! But yer see, ev’n fat hairy ugly old Donkeys can find hap’niss!”

And so Donkey made a friend. And he brought this little friend back home to introduce to his other friends, cat and mirror.

All was well until cat saw rat. Cat ate him.

And Donkey was sad again. 

I am From…

I am from glue guns and glitter,

From on sale Barbies and ballet slippers 

I am from giant holes of mud pies

And snowmen with raisins for eyes

I am from puddles and yellow rain boots 

From where grass still smell of rain 

And where wispy white linens dance to the sound of piano keys

I am from moon cakes and paper lanterns

From the poor carpenter and the merchants on the Guangdong seas

I’m from late night hot pots and bubbletea 

And family time at “lup law” and “cos-e-co”

From “do unto others…” to “hakuna matatas”

And sick days spent swallowing down the most awful tasting Chinese herbal medicine 

I’m from streets of cookie cutter houses

“Chow Fahn” and dumplings
From the grit of my 6 year old “maa ma” roughing out a war 

To yards of seams hemmed by my “goo jeh”

I am from shelves of dust stained Polaroids

Of memories alive within the walls 

number one of many more to come...

Ahh the first post... people always expect a lot of the first post... well, hate to break it to you but you might as well just crush those expectations now before i crush them for you because it's not going to be much of a first post.

see? exhibit A.