A rose by any other name

The other day my small group was talking about sexy names to name your child, and the few of them that happened to know my Christian name began to jibe me about it.

That got me thinking that although my name is, by consensus, decidedly a bad name for a person, it does make for great pick-up lines.

Like, 'Hi, I'm _____, and I'm yours, eternally.'

Or, 'Being with you makes me, me. I'm _____.'

Et cetera.

However, I realise that these lines would most likely be met with hearty guffaws and questions like, 'So, what's your name, really?'

I thought perhaps my Chinese name would hold more hope for me, so I went to find out what it actually meant. And you know what? I found out that my parents were not satisfied in making my life unbearable in English. They had to do it in Chinese too.

I found out that I'm a tonka bean (it's like vanilla, only with rather an edge). My name, literally translated, means New Tonka Bean. New Tonka Bean King.

I can go open a candy store - with my feel-good English name, and my vanilla-sweet Chinese name, I'm sure it'd be a hit. Although knowing Asian family values, I'd probably be disowned.

But that's so undignified!

You do the oddest things when you think you're all alone and no one's watching. Generally, of course, you get away with it, unseen, and hardly think anything of it. Perhaps you may laugh at your own indignities, but that's the extent of it. After all, they say that the tree that falls in the forest that no one hears...hasn't fallen. Generally.

But today, the illusion of isolation was shattered when Joshua came in on me bopping to Our Song by Taylor Swift. Twice.

I have to laugh at my own indignity. Although I think he's secretly laughing harder.

Dammit.

Family Mah Jong

Playing Mah Jong with my parents is a hoot.

Not because their playing is bad. It really is because it's funny. Seriously.

For instance, today, my mum asked, "Has everybody poot fart (she meant bou fa or bu3 hua1) already?".

Then, I have this obsession with keeping the wall straight. I use my tile rack to straighten it while waiting my turn; a pastime my dad has also taken up.

When we play Mah Jong together, you can easily see the family resemblance. We are all really clumsy (and needless to say, really eccentric).

In our excitement to get tiles, we have: pushed over the wall, revealed our hand, shook the table, pushed over our chairs, etc etc.

In our reluctance to give our chips to the winner, we have: thrown the chips out the window, tore the bag we keep the chips in, narrowly missed injuring a fellow family member.

We also do this weird head-bobbing, finger-drumming thing while we play (to the accompaniment of Chinese New Year music).

I don't suppose anyone would care to join us for a game?

The moon watches a nose-digger

Moonie, if you are reading this, this entry is a response to your blog entry about how you are disdainful of nose-diggers.

You settle yourself down and prepare for the long wait. Maybe, you should take out a book to read. Nah. You decide to look out the window instead.

Suddenly, you feel this prickle in your nostril. You blow harshly through your nose, hoping to dislodge it. It only gets itchier.

And itchier.

You rummage around your bag desperately, searching for soemthing to distract yourself. 

You decide to take out that book you were thinking of reading.

Page 1. It isn't working. If anything, the itch just becomes more prominent in your mind. You know what you want to do.

You look around. Nobody's watching. Surreptitiously, you bring a finger to your face, and begin to dig.

Aaaah. That feels good. Now for the other nostril.

Suddenly the bus lurches forward (you didn't even realise you stopped). As you pitch forward, you're brought back to reality, and you accidentally catch the eye of someone watching your. Embarrassed, you look away, but it's too late.

For it's then you realise you still have your finger up your nose.