The date on the plane tickets we booked a little while ago is tomorrow. Christmas presents were unwrapped and now we are packing—packing for travelling. My favourite kind of packing, ever.
Browsing: About Me
I’m not doing anything illegal or shady. I’m not gambling, cheating or drinking. I’m not even watching a pirated movie.
Online personal attacks hurt. This one took me by surprise because they came from someone I knew.
I wanted to please. I wanted my in-laws to like me. They are Feng’s only family and the only familiar faces I knew in Canada. It made sense to get on well, to stick together like grains of rice.
In North America, we are all little special snowflakes quick to (over)share what makes us unique, exotic, different.
Trapped. The downside of not blogging anonymously, putting my real name online with pictures. People can and will recognize you. Damn. No running away now.
This is the way I was wired. I don’t have the relentless optimism North Americans find in their breakfast cereals.
Today, I woke up thinking I had turned 33. A split second later, I pulled the duvet back over my head and closed my eyes to grab a few more minutes of sleep. Turning 33 did not magically make me a morning person.
With forced cheer and social gatherings, the entire month of December is a prime time of the year for the fine art of social niceties—“The turkey isn’t dry at all!”, “What a thoughtful gift!”, “I’m looking forward to seeing you at Christmas!” and “This reindeer sweater is very slimming!”.
Our words sounded needlessly adversarial. We don’t do gift giving very well at home. Or rather, we do it well without pressure, but it’s hard to buy something just because you have to buy something.
Each country’s set of road rules has a few idiosyncrasies. In Canada, the rule I hate the most is the “right turn on red”.
Serious question: how do you have fun? How do you treat yourself?
If I was supposed to meet up with you sometime this year and if I cancelled because I was sick… well, I wasn’t just making an excuse.
We’ve all experienced a few “what the hell was I thinking” moments, times were you were convinced you could totally make it work, no matter how far stretched the idea was. Or maybe that’s just me.
Three words that are, in theory, easy to pronounce. English 101. But in real life, accepting help is a bit trickier. I know I’m not good at it. Surely, I can’t be the only one?
Every week, I pay respect to the household deity. And by that, I mean that…
Looking back, it’s probably a good thing the Jehovah’s Witnesses didn’t knock at the door during that period of my life—I would have ended up in a cult. That’s how desperate I was to find not myself per se, but the meaning of life.
The supermarket had closed an hour earlier, it was empty but you could still smell the usual Saturday rush complete with overexcited kids running around, products spilled in aisles and cheques being written for a week worth of groceries.
While the obnoxious yet-to-be-caffeinated lady is still figuring out what she really wants from life and from a Styrofoam cup, I eavesdrop on other people’s conversations.
Before Mark, I didn’t quite understand why people were using services and conveniences or paying someone to complete a task for them.
How do you guys do it? Seriously? Am I missing something here? I only have one kid and my job isn’t even that important—I mean, I’m not saving lives here, just moving commas and deleting quote marks.
When I’m tired, my brain goes on overdrive. Details that shouldn’t matter suddenly bother me—why is it so dusty under the couch?
A couple of years ago, I decided to give radio another chance. Not the annoying radio stations with their pre-formatted playlists and ten-minute commercial breaks—I turned to podcasts.