So after a long weekend at the beach with the bf, I got home from work and immediately started to do the million of things one has to do after a long weekend involving sand and gluttony (laundry and jogging).
In between getting dressed for jogging and putting clothes in the wash I was also straightening up the apartment and taking things out of the fridge in preparation for dinner when the doorbell rings. Knowing it's the bf (we're both too lazy to fish out our keys) I grab a pair of his pants to ask him if he wants to wash it. As I open the door I have a pair of maybe dirty pants in my hand.
In his hands are roses, red.
"Why do you have that?" I said, pantless.
He pulls out a little box, wrapped.
The rest is blurry except for 3 things:
1. The thought "Am I really getting proposed to in my underwear? (in a non-sexy way)"
2. The 5 minutes it took to unwrap the box to see if it was in fact a proposal (in a "am I getting proposed to" scenario this feels a lot longer)
3. A proposal, in French
Along with 3 realizations:
1. Yes, you are getting proposed to your underwear!
2. Despite this when someone proposes to you, it's an actual question and you should answer it, outloud.
3. However saying "I have to think about it" in order to be funny or lighten the mood isn't and doesn't.
Afterwards the bf, now fiancé, puts his arms around a very shocked me and begins our first conversation as an engaged couple:
Him: So... do you want to go jogging?
Me: Um... maybe we should go celebrate? I'll go put on some pants.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
sucks on a plane
So I went back to the States for 3 weeks this past month (France does have its perks) which was great. Getting there however, was not.
Firstly, when you are of Asian decent and you cross boarders you instantly become a souvenir mule for your parents and all of their friends. Things found globally and are oddly shaped (new rule: not shaped like Tetris? Stays in Paris) filled up 90% of my suitcase requiring a supplemental bag just for my clothes.
But I managed to arrange things in such a way that, in theory, a 100 lbs girl can shelp through public transport to get to the airport. Then I stepped out of my apartment and onto the sidewalk and the standing part on the bottom of my suitcase brakes off.
Great, but on we go because there is no other option and at least I can still tilt and roll the thing. Unfortunately I still have to pick up it to go down the stairs in rush hour metro traffic. There are 3 tricks to this:
1. Exaggerate your movements [get attention]
2. Look extremely pathetic [get pity]
3. Go very very slowly and take a lot of breaks [be in someone’s way so that they have no choice but to help you]
So I finally managed to get to the RER and to the right platform downstairs and it’s suspiciously empty. Why? There’s a strike. The platform to the airport is upstairs.
So upstairs I go and when I get there everyone and their mother is there because the trains are running 1 out of 3. I stand and wait crammed up against god knows who with my broken suitcase (whom I’ve nicknamed “Tilty”) and push and shove my way on the train when it finally arrives. I even manage to get a seat.
We finally reach the terminal and the thought of being free of bags motivates me onward to the check in desk only for them to tell me that I have to pay 35 euros to check in the second bag. I don’t even argue, at this point 35 euros to be rid of them sounded like a steal.
Unforch my flight wasn’t direct so in Chicago I had to get my bags again, go through customs, border control, security, and all that lot. I sighed with relief when I reached the gate and saw my 1 hour 40 minute flight was on time. I was almost home free. Or so I thought.
I ended up sitting on the plane for 8 hours. 6 of them on the runway without friends or telephone because:
1. Technical problem and waiting for mechanic to come and fix it
2. Bumped back in the queue due to a “VIP” flight
3. Thunderstorms long and wide up and down the east coast suspending all eastbound flights
4. Storm passes through and heavy winds knock free baggage damaging some planes (not ours).
5. Waiting for runway to be cleared of debris
Scheduled arrival time in d.c.: 4pm
Actual arrival time in d.c.: midnight
The next morning I woke up and presented to my mom all the stuff I had lugged back with me from Paris sent to her by her friends. To which she said to me:
“All this stuff. Poor my friends!”
Firstly, when you are of Asian decent and you cross boarders you instantly become a souvenir mule for your parents and all of their friends. Things found globally and are oddly shaped (new rule: not shaped like Tetris? Stays in Paris) filled up 90% of my suitcase requiring a supplemental bag just for my clothes.
But I managed to arrange things in such a way that, in theory, a 100 lbs girl can shelp through public transport to get to the airport. Then I stepped out of my apartment and onto the sidewalk and the standing part on the bottom of my suitcase brakes off.
Great, but on we go because there is no other option and at least I can still tilt and roll the thing. Unfortunately I still have to pick up it to go down the stairs in rush hour metro traffic. There are 3 tricks to this:
1. Exaggerate your movements [get attention]
2. Look extremely pathetic [get pity]
3. Go very very slowly and take a lot of breaks [be in someone’s way so that they have no choice but to help you]
So I finally managed to get to the RER and to the right platform downstairs and it’s suspiciously empty. Why? There’s a strike. The platform to the airport is upstairs.
So upstairs I go and when I get there everyone and their mother is there because the trains are running 1 out of 3. I stand and wait crammed up against god knows who with my broken suitcase (whom I’ve nicknamed “Tilty”) and push and shove my way on the train when it finally arrives. I even manage to get a seat.
We finally reach the terminal and the thought of being free of bags motivates me onward to the check in desk only for them to tell me that I have to pay 35 euros to check in the second bag. I don’t even argue, at this point 35 euros to be rid of them sounded like a steal.
Unforch my flight wasn’t direct so in Chicago I had to get my bags again, go through customs, border control, security, and all that lot. I sighed with relief when I reached the gate and saw my 1 hour 40 minute flight was on time. I was almost home free. Or so I thought.
I ended up sitting on the plane for 8 hours. 6 of them on the runway without friends or telephone because:
1. Technical problem and waiting for mechanic to come and fix it
2. Bumped back in the queue due to a “VIP” flight
3. Thunderstorms long and wide up and down the east coast suspending all eastbound flights
4. Storm passes through and heavy winds knock free baggage damaging some planes (not ours).
5. Waiting for runway to be cleared of debris
Scheduled arrival time in d.c.: 4pm
Actual arrival time in d.c.: midnight
The next morning I woke up and presented to my mom all the stuff I had lugged back with me from Paris sent to her by her friends. To which she said to me:
“All this stuff. Poor my friends!”
Friday, June 10, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
Sunday, May 22, 2011
key to happiness
So I remember one Christmas, GAP had a campaign of smiling happy people wearing colorful scarfs.
Being the marketing sheep that I am, I became convinced that the key to happiness was the ownership of such a scarf. So I went to GAP and soon came to the realization that happiness did indeed have a price. And that price was something along the lines of 40 dollars.
Although not an exorbitant amount to pay for happiness, it was after all, just a theory and already the thought of paying that amount for a scarf made me unhappy. I decided against it. Maybe happiness would go on sale in the spring.
That Christmas I received the very same scarf from a friend. And it made me happy.
Being the marketing sheep that I am, I became convinced that the key to happiness was the ownership of such a scarf. So I went to GAP and soon came to the realization that happiness did indeed have a price. And that price was something along the lines of 40 dollars.
Although not an exorbitant amount to pay for happiness, it was after all, just a theory and already the thought of paying that amount for a scarf made me unhappy. I decided against it. Maybe happiness would go on sale in the spring.
That Christmas I received the very same scarf from a friend. And it made me happy.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
good daughter bad daughter
So I had some friends come and visit, one of which lives close to my parents so I decided to score some brownie points by sending something home with her to them from Paris. Initially that something was to be Laduree macrons (since my friend was there buying them anyways) but she forgot so I requested the bf buy some madeleines from the local grocery store. He forgot and by the time I got home from work the shops were all closed.
All this is to pre-face why it was I requested my friend to pick up something from the airport to bring back to my family in the States. She did and soon after I received news from my sister that my nieces loved the cookies and my mom loved the... wait for it... box.
Yes, pleasing my mom is like pleasing a child. You spend time and energy to get them a nice present and what they end up loving and playing with is the box. But what did I expect from the woman who went to the Sistine Chapel, ignored it, and then proclaimed pictures of the Sistine Chapel found in a calendar in the giftshop "magnificent"?
But it didn't matter as she loved something she thought had come from me and I felt this secured my role as a good daughter/sister/aunt.
Yesterday I phoned my mother to wish her a happy birthday. I casually asked if she received the box of cookies I sent back (knowing full well she did) and if she liked it (knowing again full well she did). Lavishing in my role as a good daughter, I asked if she wanted me to bring her back anything from Paris when I come back to the States in June.
"How about more boxes of cookies?" she said continuing on about how the lid is attached to the box and it's just so practical!
No problem I said as I begin plotting how to get a hold of something my family thinks I picked out for them when in reality I have never laid eyes on. Hmmmm.
Today I gchatted the friend that picked out the box and probe her for information. Did she have the the receipt, anything that could help me? The best she could do was this:
"It's a tin box of butter cookies from the airport. It's vintage looking with the Eiffel tower in the background"
Right. Tin box with Eiffel tower on it at the Paris airport, that narrows it down. Feeling my despair she added:
"I think there was a little girl in front too."
Ok. So now all I have to do is find butter cookies in a tin box with a lid that is attached that definitely has the Eiffel tower in the background and may or may not have a girl in front all of which look "vintage".
No problem.
All this is to pre-face why it was I requested my friend to pick up something from the airport to bring back to my family in the States. She did and soon after I received news from my sister that my nieces loved the cookies and my mom loved the... wait for it... box.
Yes, pleasing my mom is like pleasing a child. You spend time and energy to get them a nice present and what they end up loving and playing with is the box. But what did I expect from the woman who went to the Sistine Chapel, ignored it, and then proclaimed pictures of the Sistine Chapel found in a calendar in the giftshop "magnificent"?
But it didn't matter as she loved something she thought had come from me and I felt this secured my role as a good daughter/sister/aunt.
Yesterday I phoned my mother to wish her a happy birthday. I casually asked if she received the box of cookies I sent back (knowing full well she did) and if she liked it (knowing again full well she did). Lavishing in my role as a good daughter, I asked if she wanted me to bring her back anything from Paris when I come back to the States in June.
"How about more boxes of cookies?" she said continuing on about how the lid is attached to the box and it's just so practical!
No problem I said as I begin plotting how to get a hold of something my family thinks I picked out for them when in reality I have never laid eyes on. Hmmmm.
Today I gchatted the friend that picked out the box and probe her for information. Did she have the the receipt, anything that could help me? The best she could do was this:
"It's a tin box of butter cookies from the airport. It's vintage looking with the Eiffel tower in the background"
Right. Tin box with Eiffel tower on it at the Paris airport, that narrows it down. Feeling my despair she added:
"I think there was a little girl in front too."
Ok. So now all I have to do is find butter cookies in a tin box with a lid that is attached that definitely has the Eiffel tower in the background and may or may not have a girl in front all of which look "vintage".
No problem.
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