The Not-So-Secret Diary of a Bad Luck Girl

My friend YP got me the best going-away gift: pre-stamped post cards made from my own pictures on Flickr!

Nowadays, I rarely send handwritten notes or letters. When I travel, I try to remember to send postcards, and while I succeed in buying them, I almost always forget to send them, then either lamely mail them from home or throw them in a drawer.

The very first person I wrote letters to was my aunt. I was about seven when I started writing to her. I’m not sure how our correspondence began. Perhaps she sent me a chatty birthday card, and my mother wanted me to be polite so had me pen a long thank you. My mother was quite strict about it: she’d proof what I had written again and again, and have me rewrite it multiple times. Why, I’m not sure. Maybe because my aunt could be critical, and my mother didn’t want hear her make some comment about how sloppy I was. Then why have me respond at all?

On my eighth birthday, someone gave me strawberry scratch ‘n stiff stationery. That night, I wrote my aunt a letter without my mother’s supervision, which meant writing it like I would a friend. “Take a whiff of those strawberries,” I wrote.

For some reason, my casual tone was considered impolite. Either I confessed to my mother or my aunt actually made a comment, because in my next letter I was instructed to apologize profusely.

My mother would also always intercept my aunt’s letters to me and read them first. What was she looking for? Some remark about her? Some chiding to me? My aunt’s notes were always harmless. She wrote about visits from my grandmother and the good food she made, camping trips with her family at Lake Tahoe, and riding a donkey down into a canyon.

To this day, things haven’t changed. Recently my aunt and I emailed a couple of times, and my mother wanted to know everything my aunt said.

After my correspondence with my aunt trickled off, I exchanged letters with friends who had moved away. There was one who went to Kentucky, and her letters were all exactly the same. “Who’s your best friend? What must do you like? I like the Police.” I also wrote to friends I saw every day. In junior high every morning a particular pal and I would exchange notes as we passed each other in the hallway on our way to first period. Not just notes, but papers folded up a million times into triangles you had to pry open with pliers.

What the heck did we tell each other every day? I remember moaning about how my teeth were killing me (because of my braces), and she responded, “Mighty Molar!” and drew a picture of bicupsid flexing its muscles. I also complained about my mother, calling her a witch. I really wanted to call her something else that ended in –itch, but I changed it. Still, she responded, “Don’t call your mother a witch!”

Of course I love getting emails from my friends, but there’s something about opening your mailbox and seeing something addressed to you that’s not a bill, credit card application, or catalog. With a little thrill you tear open the enveloped. What does your friend have to say? You see her handwriting and for a second it’s like you’re there with her, as she’s writing it, instead of thousands of miles away.

Last night ES and I were talking about the significance of dates. Today is a big one for her (happy birthday!) as well as for me, at least it used to be.

Today would have been my ninth year wedding anniversary, which written out seems crazy. I can’t imagine having been in that marriage for nine years. It also seems silly: if I were still with my high school boyfriend, we’d have been together almost twenty years! If Ben Franklin were alive today, he’d be over 300 years old!

ES asked me if I feel any significance about this date anymore, and really I don’t. It’s been four years since my ex and I split up, and it’s not like we did the same thing every year to celebrate. I actually can’t remember anything we did, though I assume we must have gone out to dinner or something.

The only October 28’s I remember clearly are, of course, my wedding day, and the first one after my divorce. I’ve written about my wedding before. It was a beautiful fall day and went off without a hitch, but it was also very stressful, between money troubles, parents not getting along, and everyone making demands (sure, random lady, my father-in-law will take time out from picture taking to pick you up! don’t even think of driving your own car!).

It does make me a little sad to remember happy moments – like my ex running across the dance floor to kiss me as everyone clinked their glasses – but it was such a long time ago and so much has changed since then.

My first anniversary after we split was 2005. Jennifer Aniston’s and Brad Pitt’s divorce became official right around the same time as mine, which seemed so significant at the time because Brad had supposedly cheated on Jen, and there was an interview with Aniston in Vanity Fair about how she was dealing with the divorce and being single again. Just like me!

I reserved that day as a time to mourn. It had been over six months since our separation, and more than a year since finding out about his affair. All that time I was a tangle of emotions: rage, misery, then tremendous relief. But not grief.

I took the day off. I worked out, then picked up chocolate eclairs at Fauchon on Park Avenue (before it closed) to bring to SB’s. We had lunch, inhaled the eclairs, and tried not to laugh as her daughter impassively dropped food onto the floor from her high chair. That night I treated myself to a facial and massage, and that was when I got sad, not so much over my marriage – I didn’t want it back, no way – but out of loneliness.

Since then I haven’t gone out of my way to do anything special. Now, four years later, ES’s birthday trumps any other meaning, just like newer, more positive memories around other dates have replaced older ones. Do I miss married Thanksgiving? No way: who wants an incredibly stressful day when you’re asked to prep and clean for a dozen people watching your every move while your ex and his parents fight constantly? Not me. Now Thanksgiving makes me think of Mongolian hot pot with my parents.

In fact, my memory of October 28th is now replaced with the memory of hanging out with SB and eating eclairs.

Today I won’t be doing anything special, aside from this post. I have materials to send to two writing contests and I’m getting my hair cut this afternoon. But I may get some eclairs.

My San Francisco time has become far less exciting now that I’ve fallen into a pattern of days of writing broken up with errands and working out.

Last week I went to Japantown a couple of times.  I always think I’m going to find lots of groceries I want, but I never really do.  If I want all the Pocky and seaweed snacks in the world, then I’m set.  But I’ve yet to find something like M2M and their great wall of instant noodles.

Ah, M2M, how I miss thee.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to Chinatown looking for a good grocery store, but couldn’t really find one.  There are tons of markets, but they were all sort of, well, gross.  But I only looked on Stockton Street.  If anyone knows of a good (clean) supermarket in Chinatown, let me know.

Other big events last week, aside from my trip out to Haight Street, included eating lunch with MB (we like to get Japanese curry from Muracci’s), taking myself out to lunch at my favorite crepe place, Honey Honey, and buying a blanket.  In our sublet we have a down comforter, which is way too warm.  Hence, the blanket.

I went to the gym three times, and ran outside once.  There are two routes I’ve come to like.  Both start on Van Ness and head towards the water.  One path leads me to the Fort Mason Center and this very steep hill; the other goes down Bay Street and to the Marina, towards the Golden Gate Bridge.  I want to build up my endurance to reach the Bridge and back, which would be over six miles.  When I was running a lot in Central Park, I easily did the six-mile loop, but I’m out of practice.

This weekend MB and I spent a lot of time in the apartment working.  It’s good when he’s here because then I’m apt to work more.  On my own, I get cabin fever faster.  Saturday night we went to a party his workplace was hosting.  It wasn’t too exciting, but fun to talk to new people.  Also, it was my first time watching people play Rock Band. I can see how it’s addicting.

Afterwards, MB and I saw Astro Boy. It starts off incredibly boring, but turns out mildly entertaining.  There were some noisy kids in the audience, but that didn’t bother me since it wasn’t like I was missing some riveting dialogue.

Yesterday we took a break by walking out to Office Depot in Union Square.  I don’t really have a good work area set up.  The coffee table is too low, and the desk is tiny and flimsy.  The kitchen table isn’t bad, but I also want something like a simple folding table, basically a TV dinner tray, that I can put away while I’m not using it.  I also want to invest in a printer.  I’m kinda old school and like working off hard copies when I’m revising, and printing at FedEx Kinko’s all the time will add up.

That’s a long way of saying Office Depot was closed when we got there.  Closed on Sunday!  But people shop on Sundays!  We weren’t the only ones to stop there and be surprised.

Apropos of nothing, last weekend we went to this cafe to hang out, and the barista was the worst.  He served up our order just fine, but he talked constantly in this loud, game show host voice.  “Hi, and how are you folks today! What can I get for you! While you’re deciding, let me tell you about today’s prizes. . .a brand new car!!!”  The couple next to us were totally annoyed as well.

I’ve gotten a lot of work done.  For my memoir I’ve entered the revisions for parts one through three.  Today I expect to finish four and five, which leaves me the rest of this week to do a final (fingers crossed) polishing before submitting to a contest that’s due on the 31st.  I’ve written four essays, which need revision.

As for errands this week, I need to return some jeans (thought I liked them; don’t) and possibly look for an aviator cap.  If we go out for Halloween, I may go as Amelia Earhart.  I got a bomber jacket for pretty cheap, and I think I can get away with clothes I already have for the rest, especially if I’m able to find an aviator cap.  Haight Street seems to be the place to look for something like that.  Too bad I didn’t think of it while I was there.

Yesterday I felt like taking pictures so I walked out to the Haight, the home of 1960s counter-culture and much graffiti.

In case you’re wondering, there aren’t groups of long-haired hippies hanging on every corner. The population seems to be a combination of people who’ve obviously been living there a long time; newer, younger residents (who have no time to wait for me to take a pic, but I do the same thing to tourists in New York); and lots of tourists.

The drivers that day were very aggressive. I jay walked, passing behind a parked car, which waited till I was directly behind it before gunning its engine and backing up. What the fuck? The windows were tinted so I don’t know if the driver saw the dirty look I gave him. Another driver was so anxious to park, she nearly ran over another group of tourists.

I guess the residents must be sick of out-of-towners gawking, but if you live around Haight Street, what do you expect?

Here are a few of my favorite graffiti pics:

Taken through a fence down an alleyway.

Part of a much larger mural that I had to shoot in several pieces.  On Lower-Haight.

Sphinx-y.

I wanted to get closer to the one below, but when I did I spotted 1) a Roto Rooter guy with a mask dealing with brown sludge spewing from a sewer, and 2) a homeless guy getting high.

Oh well.

I didn’t try any of the eateries, but next time I’ll definitely have to dine in the Pork Store Cafe, which comes highly recommended. If you’re interested in other shopping and restaurants in the Haight, this site has a very comprehensive list.

See all my San Francisco pics.

One of my goals during my time off is to submit pieces to magazines and enter writing contests. I’ve revised my essay based on the The Ring blog entry about a billion times, and have another piece for this online travel magazine. I wrote it a while ago and was able to improve it (hopefully). The online travel magazine has a lot of opportunities. I have two more essays planned that I want to submit to them.

As for The Ring, first I’ll try Modern Love in the NY Times, ie, the long shot, and then look for other places that might publish that type of essay.

I also want to try Hyphen, NPR’s This I Believe, Newsweek’s My Turn, Nerve, and a few lesser known ones. I like when a magazine offers a theme: it helps me to narrow down my ideas.

In addition, I’m in the process of revising my memoir AGAIN. (Billionth time’s a charm!) I’m glad I’ve been posting exerpts because I got some feedback that the order is confusing. What I tried to do was go back and forth in time: the relationship-with-Joe stream, and the China stream, mostly because I thought people would get bored reading it chronologically. But now I’m thinking it was mostly me who was bored because I’ve read it so many times.

So I’ve decided (and hopefully won’t change my mind) to reorder it so that it’s purely chronological. There are still flashbacks and foreshadowing, and you know right off it’s about a husband who has cheated on his wife, but I’ve basically broken it into five parts:

Part 1: The Rat and the Horse
Joe (the horse) and the narrator (the rat) meet.

Part 2: The Rat and the Monkey
The narrator (still the rat) goes to China and meets her cousin (the monkey).

Part 3: The Rat and the Rat
Joe and the narrator’s marriage; taking care of the Joe’s mother (also a rat).

Part 4: Rat, Horse, Rat
Joe’s affair and the aftermath. The second rat refers to Joe’s mistress (what is it with this guy and rats?).

Part 5: Rat
Divorce and the aftermath.

The rat/horse/monkey stuff is tentative. Right now I like those for subtitles, but I’m not 100% sure. It’s good to read the manuscript in order because I didn’t realize I repeated myself several times. When it’s out of order, it’s easy to forget I’ve already written something and repeat it in another section.

There are three memoir contests I’ll be entering. The first deadline is October 31 so I’ll be working like crazy for the next couple of weeks.

Finally, November is National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo, as the cool kids call it. I did it twice, and both those novels sucked. But this year I’ll have so much more time. I have to think carefully about this because once I commit, I’ll want to finish it.

It is just one month, and I don’t have any contest deadlines in December. I could write short essays in the morning, then do NaNoWriMo in the afternoons and evenings. And I do have an idea and have yet to start it. Hmmm. . .

Next memoir post is up.

My ex-mother-in-law was very superstitious. She regularly visited fortune tellers and believed that dark colors brought bad luck, like the black fish I gave my ex one year for Christmas (hence the title of my memoir and this blog).

It wouldn’t have mattered except my ex believed it too, blaming me for everything from his not getting into law school to his mother’s Parkinson’s-induced falls. He even took our highly incompatible Chinese signs, the horse (him) and the rat (me) – described as “disastrous” and simply “no no no” in horoscopes – and invented a story of the rat eating the horse’s grain. The funny thing was that his mother was also year of the rat, as well as, I think, the woman he had an affair with.

I, however, have never been superstitious. My parents were never into rituals like hanging a mirror opposite a window to ward off negative spirits, or taping a fou character upside down on their door (upside down so it’s easier for good luck to slip in). The most they believe in is eating long noodles on your birthday for a long life, though they don’t think no noodles = sudden death. More like, it doesn’t hurt to try.

I remember the first and only time I tried believing in good luck. I was taking the SATs and convinced myself that my jade necklace would help me do well. The opposite: I was so distracted by rubbing the stone that I lost my ID, had to go back in the parking lot to find it, and couldn’t. The facilitator let me take the test anyway, and I completely screwed up, scoring 200 points lower than the first time I took it.

When bad things happen to me, I never think, I have bad luck. Yesterday when I went out to meet MB for lunch, it was sunny. Afterwards I popped into Macy’s for a bit (yes, ANOTHER trip to Macy’s, must stop!) and when I came out it was pouring. Like, end of the world, rapture rain. And of course I didn’t have an umbrella. But I didn’t think, I have bad luck. I thought well of course I didn’t have an umbrella because it was sunny when I left, and everyone waiting in the lobby had also been caught off guard. Did we all have bad luck, or was it just a freaky storm?

Then of course when I finally bought an umbrella, the rain slowed to a trickle. But did my action actually CONTROL THE ELEMENTS? I don’t think so. I probably unconsciously waited the right amount of time for a rainstorm to pass.

The most I believe in is an energy we can’t see, like if several electronic items break down at once, I assume Mercury must be in retrograde. I believe that everything happens for a reason, that every step (and misstep) we take leads us to something, even if it’s just knowledge, or even if that something is very far away. That something is important, but the path there is important too.

Believing in luck, good or bad, makes people feel like they have control over uncontrollable situations, and in a way relinquish responsibility. I left my purse on the train, spilled my coffee, and got splashed by a puddle because I have bad luck or I must have done something wrong, not because these things just sometimes happen to anyone. When my ex was studying for his bar, he asked me to think positive thoughts for him. Instead of worrying about what was going in my head, maybe he should have been studying more. He passed, but if he hadn’t, in his mind he’d have had the luxury of blaming me.

I don’t believe making a wish will ward off death. I’m trying to believe worrying doesn’t do shit.

But when weird things happen, I can’t help but wonder why. Is it fate, some bigger force pushing us down a certain path, making certain decisions? If I hadn’t gone to China that particular year, my cousin would have never met the man she’d leave her first husband for; she wouldn’t have her daughter. But I wouldn’t have gone to China at all if my grandmother and mother hadn’t returned the year before. They wouldn’t have returned at all if they hadn’t left in the first place. Why did my grandmother leave and my cousin’s grandmother stay? Because my grandmother married a really rich guy, and my cousin’s grandmother didn’t?

If you get right down to it, my cousin’s husband can thank the Communists for bringing him his true love. Their baby Mia exists because of the Communists! My brother and I, my cousins, and their children wouldn’t have been born if all of our parents hadn’t met in Taiwan or the U.S. We all exist because of Mao! Thank you Chairman Mao!

Crazy.  Makes your head spin if you think about it too much.

For those of you following my blog, you know I’m still getting accustomed to my new home. While there are aspects I absolutely love – the weather, the food, the lower cost of living, the lack of rats and mosquitoes – there are some things I need to get used to (more homeless, sucky mass transit, not having a Bed, Bath, & Beyond within spitting distance).

But yesterday as I rode the elliptical trainer at the gym, surrounded by tons of people of all ages in all states of dress, assaulted by the stink of douchebags working out in 100% humidity and the stare of the 50+ year old Asian weirdo on the machine next to me (though he might have been eyeballing the gaysian dude on my other side), I realized maybe I’ve been New York-insulated all this time.

I’ve mostly lived in gentrified areas
While I went to college uptown in the pre-Giuliani early ‘90s, when I returned in 1998, I lived in more gentrified areas: Prospect Heights, which was a bit sketchy compared to other parts of Brooklyn at the time but still okay, and the Upper West Side, the home of yuppies, the Natural History museum, and Zabar’s. Then it was off to the suburbs of Westchester, followed by the Upper East Side, which they might as well call lower Scarsdale. Finally, the Lower East Side, which while mixed is still pretty gentrified.

I’ve mostly walked around with my 6’2” boyfriend
On the UES, the only danger were tiny dogs that tried to bite your ankles. On the LES, I spent most of time walking around with MB (who maybe I should bring to the gym next time and make him lift heavy weights to let the freaks know they shouldn’t mess with me) so no one would say anything to me. When I walked alone, even in that area, there was more of a chance of something obnoxious being tossed my way (“Ni hao!” said by some Italian dude) but not as often you might expect.

I worked for a giant corporation for 10 years
For a good decade, my pattern was home, train, work, train, home, with trips to library school or Lord & Taylor thrown in. My company was so big, you didn’t have to leave for meals, the bank, the post office, or the gym.

At the gym everyone was kinda the same because we all worked for the same company and were made to wear a “uniform” – shorts and T-shirts provided by the facilities (which some found appalling but which I liked because you never had to remember to bring clothes or bring home smelly, sweaty ones in a plastic bag).

Because we were at work, you’d never think of hitting on someone. My only experience was some random 50-year old (what’s with me and the 50-year olds?) who told me my form on the rowing machine was incorrect, tried to tell me the correct form, then said, “Go on, try it, I’ll watch,” kneeling next to me. Um, creepdom!

So maybe it’s me and not SF
In New York, I frequent only the safe routes – the streets that take me quickly home without incident, or where I can walk leisurely without worries; the areas of Central Park where I can sit for hours and daydream, or run with headphones and not worry about some crackhead coming up behind me – and avoid the areas that make me uncomfortable, which, for better or worse, are fewer and farther between nowadays.

I’m still getting to know San Francisco and so am venturing everywhere, not sure of the places to avoid. MB is at work all day so I’m walking alone more, and I don’t have an enormous bubble of a company to insulate me. Of course I’m going to be hit with “reality” a lot more here.

So dear SF, I’m definitely not breaking up with you. You deserve two or three years at least.

Though that Portland fellow is looking mighty fine lately.

I’ve been meaning to do this for a while, and now that I’ve pretty much settled into a San Francisco routine – aside from the ridiculous rain storm on Tuesday that destroyed my umbrella in ten minutes, and realizing I’ve been spending too much time at Macy’s (“I recognize you,” the much eye-make-up’d saleslady told me, “You’re one of our regulars”) – I thought I’d finally write about some of the crazy keyword searches that have led people to my blog.

mary karr david foster wallace – This refers to my review of Mary Karr’s newest memoir, Lit, in which she mentions a torrid affair with a troubled young man named “David,” who is indeed the late, great author of A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, Consider the Lobster, and the arguably unreadable Infinite Jest. With his suicide last year, it’s especially to sad to read about his struggles with depression and drug abuse when he was younger.

quickie weddings in tokyo – Quick, I need to get this cute Japanese girl to marry me before she realizes I’m a white American idiot!

harajuku doll makeup – There’s a video tutorial in case you still need a Halloween costume idea.

best katsudon in harajuku – Mmmm, katsudon.

rain in tokyo bad luck – Is this a thing? I don’t think so since I can’t find any info on it.

buy old stuff from other people can bring bad luck – Bad luck. . .or cooties.

husband neng gan – The Chinese term neng gan means “capable and clever.” I’m picturing some newlywed: “My husband is so neng gan! I wonder if there’s a meet up for other girls with neng gan husbands!”

true story of sad chinese girl homeless made into movie called diary of – Diary of what? The suspense is kiling me!

best apple fritter san francisco bob’s – Damn straight!

dentist “sweet air” – Apparently I’m not the only who loves getting sweet air, or laughing gas, at the the dentist.

“worn out” keds – What was this person was looking for? How to repair their worn out Keds? Who else out there has worn out Keds? I need a support group for my worn out Keds!

my korean mother in law – Something one definitely needs a support group for.

mom and daughter bring tiffany floor lamp to antiques roadshow – Apparently an important episode for someone.

how do i clean up bacon grease – Ah, my chance to be helpful rather than snarky! To clean up bacon grease, don’t try to wipe it up with a cleaner like Fantastick. You’ll only succeed in spreading the greasiness. Instead sprinkle Comet, which will soak it up, then wipe up the Comet-soaked grease. Or else use dish washing liquid, which worked for me.

mosquitoes “manhattan – Another chance to be helpful. You know about my mosquito problem in New York and how I’ve done tons of research on how to remedy it. I’ve tried OFF!, citronella oil, and leaving bay leaves and basil by my bed. The only thing that worked for me was the combination of dousing myself with citronella oil and having two fans blow on me, one on each side, since, according to this site, mosquitoes don’t like “strong wind currents.” I had the fans blow on my face since that’s the part that’s not covered by the blanket and where I hate bites the most.

pantyhose face – Speaking of faces. . . This seems to be some sort a fetish (and refers to a way I tried to keep skeeters away from my face, just so you know). Reminds me of a guy on Flickr who favorited a picture of me in a surgical mask, adding to his collection of mostly Asian women in a variety of masks. ::Shudder::

Next memoir post is up, as well as last week’s in case you missed it.

If you’ve been reading my memoir, you know that my mother-in-law had Parkinson’s disease. In the beginning of our marriage, my father-in-law took care of his wife during the week, and on the weekends we were expected to take over. We’d go Friday night, right after work. No time to decompress, no time to ourselves. Some nights I just cried from frustration. After a while, my FIL finally agreed to bring someone in to help on Saturdays.

My mother-in-law had many helpers over the years. The first was Wanda, randomly selected by my brother-in-law. The wife of the guy who mowed their lawn, she had no nursing experience and barely spoke English. She was also a slob. In addition to looking after my MIL, she was supposed to do some light housekeeping, but never did. In fact, whatever crumbs she saw on the kitchen table or countertop, she brushed onto the floor.

She also had an attitude. Once when my sister-in-law Olivia was visiting from Texas, my mother-in-law suggested a pizza from a place nearby for lunch. (It was a weekday, and Joe and his brother were at work.) Wanda didn’t move a muscle. I called in the order and announced, “It’ll be ready in 20 minutes.” Wanda still didn’t move. She sat at the table with us, drinking coffee.

“Wanda, can you please go pick up the pizza?” I asked.

She looked insulted. Olivia, sensing conflict, said, “I’ll go.”

“No,” I said. “Wanda should go.” I was tired of hearing about how Wanda wasn’t doing her job. Also, as the “first wife” in the house, I had to have some power.

My mother-in-law agreed. “Wanda should go.”

Wanda was not pleased. When she returned, she basically shoved the pizza box at me.

Maybe I was snotty to ask her to get the pizza. But my in-laws weren’t paying her to sit there while Olivia or I ran out to get food. If she had been doing actual other work – like much-needed physical therapy for my mother-in-law, or cleaning up – I wouldn’t have thought twice about getting the pie myself. I told my father-in-law what happened, and soon after he let her go.

Other helpers included Mrs. Yu, who was very religious and for some reason didn’t bathe till my brother-in-law, a doctor who couldn’t stand bad smells, requested that she take a shower. There was Uegyn, an intelligent mom from Bhurma, who introduced me to milk tea. Neither lasted long, Mrs. Yu too weak to lug around my increasingly immobile mother-in-law, Uegyn, unable to take the stress. I didn’t blame her. I could barely take one day, let alone weeks.

The best was Zeta. In her 50s and from Jamaica, she didn’t live with my in-laws but came during the week and every Saturday. A former nurse, she was kind and incredibly patient. Not only did she know the right way to help my MIL to and from the bathroom, up and down the stairs, she did so without ever once losing her temper (unlike me). Plus I loved to chat with her. She was easy to talk to and I told her about lots of things – my trip to Paris, the news, even complaints about my sister-in-law.

“Oh, Bad Luck Girl,” she’d chuckle, shaking her head.

But she couldn’t stay forever. My in-laws just didn’t pay her enough.

My mom and her siblings are going through the same thing now with my grandmother, except they’re willing to pay for a helper 24/7. I guess my in-laws couldn’t afford to do that, though as I’ve written, they had plenty of antiques that were supposedly worth a lot. And I think my sister-in-law, whose family was very wealthy, offered to pay for one, but Joe’s parents, too proud, refused.

My mom and east coast aunt go out to L.A. regularly to help with their mother when my uncle and his family go away. I like that my mother feels she can talk to me about how hard it is, though not angrily nor to make me feel guilty. She just talks about her experiences. She can even laugh about the time my grandmother was so constipated, she had to go the hospital, and how when she was finally, um, “relieved,” the smell was so bad, it drove the person sharing her room insane.

Plus my mother is a in a different situation because my uncle is willing to house my grandmother, and she and my aunt take turns helping out. Both my parents and aunt will be going out next month, hence the upcoming big fat Chinese Thanksgiving. My in-laws’ siblings, however, did squat to help.

The only person who doesn’t help enough is my other aunt. Although she’s here on the west coast, she never stays with my grandmother on her own and only goes when my mom or other aunt are there, mostly, I think, because she doesn’t want to be left out. Then she lasts only a couple of days before declaring, “I can’t stand it,” and returning home.

I want to tell her how lucky she actually is. She isn’t there by herself every week. She has brothers and sisters helping; her mother has a 24/7 helper. I’m not sure how she feels she has a right to complain.