Chinese tamales + Def Leppard's "Pyromaniac"

At my second office job (my only other office job was in the optometry office [where I took a lot of afternoon naps, on the floor], unless you count the two summers I spent selling magazines over the telephone for “Golden Rainbow Publishing Company” [in quotes because I suspect this wasn’t an actual business but rather a front for… something else*]; as you can see from the bracketed information above: I don’t. Count it, I mean), which was alternately heaven and hell (“heaven” because there was little chance that it would go out of business and because my checks were significantly larger, unlike my last several jobs; “hell” because I stupidly put up with a very bad experience for too long. This is not unlike my last job, which was all “hell” and very little “heaven” at all). For awhile there I was the sole secretarial/administrative support for these two ladies who spent their time discussing where they would go for lunch and then taking long lunches once they figured it out, and who found it amusing to scare the hell out of me and make me cry. I’m sure when I wasn’t looking (off in the bathroom crying, probably) they accomplished many fine things, but I’m not interested in thinking about them any more.

Whatever it was they did, at some point it required them to bring on another person, and so they did. Her name was Dana, and she was supposed to be the Administrative Assistant (the same as my current appointment, and I am proud to say I’m a much better AA than she ever was. Hey, it’s true, and honking my own horn isn’t something I do enough of, so there goes). I’m sure she did Administrative Assistant-like things, somtimes, however, most of what I observed her doing was quite similar to the duties I had been performing (little ol’ me, at the lower classification) prior to her arrival. And then had to teach her. And still had to do when she was out. And then there were several occasions (towards the end) where I was doing her work while she was still there. Why would I put up with this?

Well, because unlike my actual bosses, Dana was really nice and fun, she had great style and had, on occasion, shopped for me (picking things out for me that I would not have bought myself but that I ended up loving), and because she fed me. She was married but spent a lot of time with her parents. Her parents were Chinese and Vietnamese, and thanks to Dana and her mother, I sampled many new Chinese-Vietnamese dishes. She took me to the Korean grocery store and introduced me to delicious snacks, and she took me to the fake Hello Kitty store where we bought ridiculous items like fake Hello Kitty washcloths and teabags. We took the Red Line to Hollywood and shopped. She introduced me to the tofu house on Olympic Boulevard where we’d go for lunch sometimes, and she always treated me there like her honored guest: she ordered for me, cracked my raw egg into the steaming hot soup, made sure I stirred it up enough, bossed around the waitresses for me: in short, Dana made up for my doing her job by treating me like a queen when it came to food (I was about 15-20 pounds heavier than I am today then, too. Gee. I wonder why?), and I was mostly happy with this arrangement.

One day Dana brought in some of her mom’s leftovers to share with me. Dana told me what the dish was called, but I don’t remember the real name. I only remember that she called it Chinese tamales. To be honest, I don’t remember much about it other than how it looked, and tasted. I think it was just rice, with some meat, and some kind of beans, wrapped in some kind of leaves (?), steamed, and tied with the cutest bow into a package about the size of a large stapler, oddly rectangular in shape. Heavy for its size, obviously simple, and so good. After a while, Dana found another job, accepted it, gave her two week notice to our bosses (after they found out through the grapevine that she was leaving. They weren’t happy, but she was), and I never got another Chinese tamale again. I’ve been looking, though.

These days, I have hooked up with yet another Chinese-Vietnamese woman, at my new job. Her name is Hung, and I have a feeling Hung is an amazing cook, just like Dana’s mom. This is only a guess, but just listening to her talk about food makes me hungry. I don’t have any idea how common it is to be Chinese-Vietnamese. I don’t know from which culture the tamales come (though Dana did call them “Chinese” tamales and not “Vietnamese” tamales); I don’t know if they’re something Dana’s mom cooked up (pun intended) on her own or if they’re a common dish. Hung is a very nice person, and I am biding my time, waiting until I know her just a little bit better, until one day, when I’m going to ask her to make me (or teach me to make) some Chinese tamales. I cannot wait for that day.**

...

Hung and I walk, twice a day, four days a week (because we only work four days a week. Nice, isn't it) with two other ladies, Ana and Alicia. Ana is sort of the leader – she’s fast and she works out all the time, and we let her set the pace. At the end she gets to be the “winner.” I think she likes that: she’s a Leo. We need her for inspiration, and she’s good at providing it. Ana could be in the Marines, she’s that fit; Hung is tiny, I’m sort of medium, and I guess that leaves Alicia in the “large” category (Alicia has been kicking my butt all week, finishing way ahead of me, so I should be more careful who I go around calling “large,” shouldn’t I). Usually Ana’s way out in front, Alicia is somewhere in the middle, and Hung and I, the chatty ones, are trailing behind (talking about food, usually). Today I was late for our afternoon session, because I had been on the telephone when they left, so I missed the first lap. After they finished up, I did one final lap alone. Usually I walk with a song in my head (if not in my heart), and the songs are whatever come to me at the time. I’m always walking around town with a song in my head. You should know that about me.

Like the processional at a wedding, it’s usually best if the songs I’m humming in my head are in common time (try keeping a steady beat in 3/4 or 5/4 or 7/8; it’s pretty much impossible. It’s why Pink Floyd’s song “Money” would be a poor choice for a walking song, despite that cool bass line*), and it sometimes feels to me, if I get a nice groove going (in my head) as if I’m walking on four legs instead of two. I can’t really explain it. It’s that rolling gait, I guess, that some high school marching band drummers, the ones with exceptionally long feet, adopt. I don’t know exactly how I’m keeping the beat, but I’m doing it on four legs. Two of which don’t exist.

This week’s songs have been: Radiohead’s “The National Anthem,” Foreigner’s “Feels Like the First Time,” and today, Def Leppard’s “Pyromaniac.” I don't know what these songs have in common. I didn’t get the four legged feeling until this afternoon, when I was cruising along by myself, mostly during the guitar solo. It’s a good thing Hung, Ana, and Alicia had left me. My phantom four legged gait would’ve probably freaked them out.

...

So. Somebody asked me today if I had tried to feel the cyst in my breast myself.

Now, I'm no prude. I think self-exams are smart, necessary, and a common-sense way to, er, handle one's body. It probably goes without saying but I've touched my own breast before. Shocking, isn't it! However, today, after learning about my little friend (Patrick and I have named it "Crysysty"), I'm all weirded out about it. I'm curious, and I've come close, but for some reason the only time I was really drawn toward actually doing it was in the car on the way home from work.

I had gotten off the 710 at Whittier (about 3/4 of a mile after getting on the 710... traffic was a full-on nightmare tonight) and I was driving down Whitter Blvd., right where there's that big old giant East LA sign (I tried to take a picture but failed miserably). I was listening to Pink Floyd's song "Money" (because I realized that I was wrong - you could totally walk to it, it's got that loping gait written all over it) with the windows down because it was really, really, super hot (I've got this new stupid rule that I only break some of the time, that in order to have the AC on in the car, I need to be going at least 40 miles an hour. On Whittier Blvd, at 5:45 pm, I don't know what the speed limit is, but there's no way you're hitting 40), and there were all these people walking around and in a 100% not creepy way, that was the moment when I thought I could see if I could, you know, feel it.

I didn't do it. I'm not a pervert. But hiding out in my bathroom or in the shower - now that's creepy. Last night I could barely talk about it with Patrick, but I think maybe later tonight I'll ask him to help me. I don't want to feel this stupid foreign object that my own body produced, alone.

It's too weird still.

And to those of you who have experienced this or worse and you're all, get over it, Irene: well, I will. I'm sure. I will.

*I googled them. Surprisingly they're still there. I wonder if Liz is still running the place? She was totally cool.

**It looks like Hung is off the hook. Look up "Chinese tamales" and the exact thing that I ate all those years ago, courtesy of Dana and her mom, comes up, including a recipe. The real name is zongzi, which may be my new favorite word. I don't know if I'm talented enough to make these, but I might look into it. Score one for me!