Defying Fast Fashion

Ten years ago I went Black Friday shopping with my husband. It was our first Thanksgiving as a married couple and we went shopping at a bunch of stores. I was excited someone else could help me pick out clothing and give me feedback on how they looked. He has always been – and still is – better at fashion than I am. 

Facebook reminded me of this trip because it showed up on my newsfeed as a memory. I had conveniently spread out the items and taken a photo to “show off” my purchases. There were 10 items total which I had purchased. 

- 1 pair of flats
- 1 pair of black booties
- 3 sweaters
- 1 dress
- 1 blouse
- 2 pairs of pants
- 1 pair of jeans 

Original purchases in 2014

I was drawn to these flats because of the price, the quality/brand, and the style. They were priced well and I wanted a versatile pair of black flats. The last pair I owned last me many years and I knew they didn’t scratch the back of my ankle like many pairs of flats notoriously do. The unfortunate side was the color – an off-white suede. It was going to attract lots of dirt and dust over time and wouldn’t look bright for long. That’s most likely the reason why they ended up on the clearance rack. Fortunately for me, I’m not a fashionista and I didn’t really care. If they could be functional for me for a decent period of time and priced well, I would be satisfied. I enjoyed wearing these flats for many years. I even wore them once through mud by accident. They were never quite the same after that, but I kept wearing them for about a year before saying goodbye. They lasted me roughly 4-5 years if I remember correctly. That’s not a bad longevity for a shoe which cost me less than $50 and was in my rotation about 50% of every year. 

These black booties were my first pair of short boots or booties. At this time, I was still diversifying my closet so I wanted to own a pair. These were priced well, my size, and looked cute. With a three-inch heel, they were pretty killer paired with a pair of skinny jeans. I wore them every now and then, but there are limitations to how quickly you can safely walk when in three-inch heels. I tend to like walking faster than slower, so that did limit the number of times I wore these. They were almost treated like dress shoes. 

I bought three sweaters on this shopping trip because I was building up my sweater collection. Sweaters were not my thing growing up. I didn’t like wearing bulky clothing. However, as I got older, it grew on me when I found the proper style, material, and fit. One of these sweaters was labeled dry clean only. I wore this sweater very sparingly until I decided one day to wash it at home in my machine. It came out not looking too different than before from what I could tell. From then on, I wore it a lot more knowing I could wash it at home with little or no consequence. One of these sweaters ended up being very scratchy and I didn’t enjoy it. After years of storing it season after season to maybe be worn 1-2x per winter, I decided to say goodbye. The third sweater has a more baggy fit. Sometimes I’m not in the mood to wear something so loose-fitting so it’s not necessarily a go-to item in my closet, but I don’t have a reason to get rid of it. 

This dress was not a great purchase. It was heavily discounted which is what led me to purchase. However, it didn’t fit extremely well and I wasn’t in love with the design. I remember wearing it occasionally, but sometime in the last decade, it has been scrapped. At 24 years old, I was still clinging onto lower priced items and hadn’t yet learned the value of spending worthwhile money. This dress was not worthwhile money and shows because I have no recollection of ever wearing it (although I know I did at least a few times) and I no longer have it. 

I really liked the blouse when I bought it. This was when I realized I liked the material chiffon in my blouses/tops. I have worn this blouse many, many times. My most prominent memory in this top was at my company Christmas party a while back. I haven’t worn it recently because I have inherited/found other blouses of similar material which I enjoy more. This particular blouse is also starting to wear due to the many washes it has endured. It’s still in my closet, but it may be retiring in the near future. 

The two pairs of pants I bought from this photo have served me well. One of them was a light pink pair of jeggings. The other was a pair of khakis. I wore my jeggings a lot. They’ve been through many work days with me where I could dress them up to be less casual. Over time, the light pink has faded into more of a dirty white. This pair of pants has also been relegated to a corner of my closet because I have other pants/jeans I prefer over them. However, I haven’t been able to bring myself to get rid of this pair. The khakis have been one of my favorite more formal pants in my closet. They too have come to the office with me on many days. I’ve worn them to perform at festivals as an accompanist. The waist was rather large at first – large enough to be big, but not large enough to be unwearable. Over time, and with the changes in my body, they’ve fit better. I don’t necessarily wear this pair of pants all the time, but it’s a comfort to know they’re in my closet. They probably won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. 

Lastly, my jeans. Oh, this particular pair of jeans. Looking at this photo, I almost couldn’t pinpoint which pair of jeans it was. But I knew. They have faded severely over time. I loved these jeans when I bought them. It was extremely unfortunate they were the pair I was wearing at the time of this project. I really thought that was the end of them, but I have continued wearing these jeans for the last three years. They are on their last leg and will be recycled or donated soon. 

I spent less than $200 on these 10 items from Black Friday 2014. About half of them are considered “fast fashion.” I impressed myself at how many pieces I still have in my closet today. 

Editing aside, everything has faded a few shades...

 

Much like everyone else, I do get bored of the same clothes over and over again. But I am also frugal and pragmatic. If something can be bought once and last me forever, I am inclined to want to do so. Clothing, sadly, will never meet those requirements as even the most carefully worn and washed fabrics will show age over time. But I will take care of them so they can stay as long as possible. 

I wonder how many of these I will still have in another 10 years...

For the Need of a Plastic Bag

Life as a mostly stay-at-home mom with some part-time working on the side is pretty mundane for the most part. I pack lunches. I grocery shop. I do laundry. I wash dishes. I clean toilets. And then I get my 3-4 hours per day where I feel like a competent, knowledgeable human being. Honestly, I love it. It's the best of both worlds with my two dream jobs which occasionally compete with each other.

But sometimes, the mundane has small excitement. 

I was at Costco this week picking up a few items (yes, I mean "a few" in the Costco sense. Six to be exact!) and had an interesting encounter. A man came up to me and said,  "Excuse me, where can I take this one?" *tugs my bag gently*

His actual reference was to locating the red plastic bags used for meat/seafood. In truth, I myself had been darting my eyes around looking for them just minutes prior. So I pointed my finger in the direction of where they were. He saw them, his face lit up, and then he went on a mild sprint to get them and return back to where I can only assume his cart was. 

I forgot to take a picture of the meat in my cart, but here is a representative pack of meat in a plastic bag, similar to the one the man was asking for. 

 

 

 

 

Now I'm not going to lie. There were a few seconds there where my brain was actually wondering if he was politely asking if he could take the ribs I had just chosen and bagged for myself. Or if he was asking me where he could find the ribs. (I was standing right next to them). English was not his first language and with the way he had phrased his question, it could have been misunderstood in a few ways.

His use of the word "take" was not the most appropriate. "Find" would have been the ideal word choice for his request. "Take" is the word which led my brain to wonder if he wanted something I had which was more valuable than a plastic bag. He also tugged at my plastic bag which made me wonder if he wanted my actual item/the bag with my item in it.

Our encounter was actually cute. When I think back on the way he approached, his mannerisms, his voice, it brings a smile to my face. On the contrary, I can see how someone without an understanding for language and patience for differences could have been annoyed or even angered at this situation due to a misunderstanding if his or her brain led them to the possible conclusions I listed above.

I've always believed the primary purpose of communication is to be understood. I still believe that. Through all the language barriers, nonverbal gestures and reading body language can communicate a lot in itself. However, the piece often overlooked is the bias the person receiving the communication adds to the situation. If I had an issue with someone touching my things or reaching into my shopping cart, I could have gotten very defensive very quickly without meaning to. If someone is triggered by grammatical errors in speech, an initial response might be one of shutting down or getting angry.

The more you know, the better you can be. Never stop striving to know.

Choosing Kindness

Kindness is hard to come by these days. Everyone is busy with their own lives, their own kids, their jobs, their vacations. So when you do come by kindness, it's rare and special. I'm not just talking about the kindness of using kind words when talking to people. I'm talking about going out of your way to do something nice for someone else that you have no obligation but wish to do so by personal choice. 

I went to Costco this week to pick up a few things. A few things always turns into a few things + a few more things + a few more things. I had two legitimate items I needed. I left the store with....6+ items. But when Costco discounts Halloween-themed ravioli for $2.50 a pound, you buy it! (unless your children won't eat black and orange food. That's a different story...). I love Costco, but I'm digressing.

I checked the ingredients - no artificial colors to get orange and black!

When I left the store, I was running slightly behind and needed to go get my daughter from school. However, I also knew that when I rush things, I mess things up. So I was talking to myself as I was loading the groceries into the back of the car - take your time, do things right. I made sure to pack the cold items into my cooler properly so nothing would puncture or leak - nobody wants to bring home cracked eggs. And I loaded everything else carefully in so as not to touch the muddy stroller wheels.

Then, I realized I had a drink and three hot dogs to put into my car. So I picked up the food and drink, went to the side of my car, and attempted to ask my son to open the door. Of course he couldn't hear me because his door wasn't open and only the trunk was. So I rearranged my hands so I could swing open my door and put the food in the car. As I was placing the hot dogs in the middle tray by my seat, I heard a man call out to me that he was going to help me return my cart. I saw him pull my cart away. Initially, I thought he was going to go shopping with it, but then I saw him take it to the cart return located a few spots down from my parking spot. 

When I returned to my trunk to close it, he had just finished putting my cart back and was walking back to his car. I called out another thank you and waved. I don't know his name or who he is, and he doesn't know who I am. We probably won't run into each other again, and if we do, we may not even recognize each other. But his gesture was very kind and I won't forget it.

Choose kindness for someone. They may not forget it either.

The Third Life

Central Market hosted a special tasting activity for kids in celebration of their 30th anniversary earlier this year. I signed the kids up to go and it was a fun mid-morning activity for us. They enjoyed all the samples (as did I!) and getting to decorate a cupcake at the end.

Central Market did such a wonderful job planning this event. I couldn't stop marveling that each cupcake came in a to-go container perfectly sized for the cupcake. Not only did they plan to-go containers, but the containers had a little "moat" around the border of it to catch the excess sprinkles and toppings the kids were using to decorate. Talk about genius. Whoever is on their design/marketing/packaging team better be getting the recognition he/she deserves. 

Along with the free samples and cupcake decorating, they provided each child with a vegetable planted in a mini pumpkin. Can you tell they really put thought into planning this event? And it was free 😱

My kids got a broccoli plant and a kale plant. Having some experience with gardening and growing plants, I knew the vegetables weren't going to last long if they stayed in the pumpkin. I was already finding it difficult to get them enough water because they'd wilt within 24 hours. The roots needed more room to expand and grow if the plants were going to stay alive. I have a garden, right? Why not plant them there?

That's exactly what I did. I cut the pumpkins open carefully and transplanted my kale and broccoli to my patio planter. They would be neighbors with cilantro and pepper plants. Not bad, right? 

It wouldn't have been except all the leaves on both my plants got eaten within a few days. I was merely left with stems and the babiest of leaves. I wasn't entirely sure who the culprit was, but I knew it was someone who could reach the patio planter. To no surprise, they left my pepper plant and cilantro alone. So with their first life claimed, I removed them from my planter and transplanted them back to small nursery pots and placed them about 3 ft higher on my plant shelf.

My vegetables started growing again atop the shelf. I saw more leaves peeking out, and slowly, they grew. After a few weeks, I decided to move the broccoli back into the patio planter. I put some strong smelling herbs around the plant to deter pests in hope that they'd leave the leaves they wanted alone. 

One evening, I felt the urge to check my garden at night. It was around 10:30 pm, and I decided to walk outside to take a quick look.

All the leaves were gone, again. The second life was claimed. 

I moved the broccoli back into a nursery pot and it stayed next to the kale. For those of you who do not plant and aren't familiar with the ins and outs of growing, growing speed is exponential, not linear. Less leaves = slower growth. More leaves = faster growth. Due to having all the leaves chewed off yet again, my poor broccoli plant had to start over on its third life. 

I kept it up on the shelf and have not transplanted it into any larger container yet. This is what she looks like on her third life.

I'm not expecting to eat any broccoli this winter, but I might get to eat some of the leaves if I'm lucky. It's too bad my plants can't talk as I'd really like to hear the story of the first two lives first-hand. I guess it will forever be nature's secret. 

My plants remind me to start anew when possible. Because the alternative is death. Just keep growing.

The Lifeline

My children love playing outside and I love letting them play outside. I had posted recently about our backyard transformation which has allowed our children so many hours of fun outside. 

One of the things I've been able to do is to put potted plants on our patio. This way I can grow my plants, move them as the weather changes, and my husband doesn't have to do creative mowing between pots if they were sitting in the grass. 

I can't remember why anymore, but one day, I allowed my children to use my gardening scissors outside to cut something. I told them what they could cut and then let them loose. Well....as kids are, they started cutting some things which I didn't say they were allowed to cut. For the most part, it didn't bother me. However, I later realized my son had cut all the pink flowers off of my plant and put them into his bucket.

 

 

His gesture was sweet and genuine - he liked the flowers and he wanted to cut them all off so he could collect them and save them in his bucket. I read a book in college about this mentality gone wrong. In a four-year-old? Cute. Grown man? Inappropriate and disturbing. I don't remember there being anything graphic in the novel itself, but if it were not in my list of required reading for my class, I would never have thought to read it. 

My son got an earful from me about how I didn't say he could cut the flowers off my plant. And how flowers die when you cut them off the plant because they are separated from their life source. Their outdoor play ended shortly after and we all went back inside.

That evening, I was outside for something completely unrelated and I noticed the plant was already starting to push out new buds. You can see the little pink beginning to emerge and blossom.

 

Plants are resilient. They will grow back given the proper environment. I actually took my son out the next morning to show him the plant and the new flowers that were growing on it. I think he was semi-scarred I was showing him the plant he wrongly cut so he got weepy again. But in no time, he was outside playing as normal and forgetting that he ever cut them in the first place. 

I'm still learning as a parent that reactions are more memorable than actions. I myself am a product of a childhood of negative reactions, ones I hope not to pass down to my children. It's an uphill battle, one I lose more often than I'd like to admit. But this plant was a reminder to me: if you are connected to the lifeline, you will grow and renew.
 

We Got a New Microwave!

So typically, I enjoy house projects. I like picking out new things and doing some minor construction. However, I don't enjoy it when it happens unexpectedly. Therefore, I did not enjoy having to replace our microwave when ours started to die. 

It began one evening when we were microwaving food for dinner, and suddenly, the normal "heating" sounds didn't come on as we hit the start button. There were lights, the turntable rotated, but we could tell something was off. 

The next day, I tried using the microwave again and it seemed to be fine. This lasted about a week until it happened again. This time, we told ourselves it was time to get a new microwave and say goodbye to this one. It has served three owners well in its 20-year lifetime. 

 

 

 

Goodbye.

 

 

 

It took a little bit of online searching to realize that built-in microwaves are really just countertop microwaves with trim around to make them look built-in. After we made this realization, it was much easier to shop for one as countertop microwaves are aplenty. We purchased one and were able to pick it up that same day.

Out with the old....in with the creativity.

Putting in the new microwave was not as easy as it was cut out to be. The old trim kit had a base riser which the old microwave sat on. Well, lucky for us, the new microwave didn't work with the same base riser because the legs of the microwave were positioned differently. Unless we wanted to spend another $150-$300+ dollars buying a new trim kit that may or may not give us more grief in installation, we were going to have to get creative to find a way to sit this microwave at the proper height.

This is where we went into the garage and dug around to see what spare boards of varying thicknesses we had. Surprisingly, we have quite a few. The difficult part was finding just the right combination of boards (because we didn't have one at the thickness we needed) to raise the microwave enough to get the trim on properly.

 

 

 

This board was removed from one of our new bathroom vanities during a bathroom remodel because it interfered with the way the plumbing came through the back. It came in handy this time and served as one of the layers of our base riser.

We kept the front plate from our existing trim kit to use around the new microwave. There was a lot of test-fitting and pulling the new microwave in and out to see if it would fit. Perks of renovations and construction. Doesn't this make you want to get your hands dirty in some house projects? No? Me either.

We started this project on September 30 and finished on October 1, but it only took us 4.5 hours. How was this possible? See if you can read the clock.

We felt very accomplished after finally getting the microwave in and properly fitted with our existing trim piece. It was also very late and we were tired. We're happy to have a working microwave again and hope it can give us a good 20 years just like the last one. I told my husband, the next time we need to replace our microwave, we're going to turn the opening into a shelf so the microwave can sit inside it and there's no need for trim pieces or getting the microwave to sit at a certain height. 

Or we'll move before it happens. 😂

The Gift of Time

My memory is not as good as it used to be. I still probably remember more than the average person, and more in the specific areas I choose to remember, but I'm definitely forgetting more these days. Facebook reminded me of a memory from nine years ago during the first year we owned our house. I had actually completely forgotten our house came with a deck, a really ugly deck. 

 

Our house has a roof overhang running along the edge so the raised decking board made the entrance to the deck very low - I believe it was less than 8 ft from wood to wood. This was undesirable and we weren't going to keep it. Mentally, a bit part of my thinking was also I didn't want to keep anything left from the previous owners. We weren't going to keep it, so in the fall when the weather cooled down, we took it apart with our own two hands.

This was what it looked like once we'd gotten rid of all the above-ground parts. My husband and our neighbor eventually pulled each one of those concrete posts up one by one with a farm jack we'd borrowed. 

For a while, sitting on our patio meant this was our view. I used to close my eyes and imagine what I wanted our backyard to look like. I wanted to see a fence that wasn't oxidized. I wanted to see a cozy place to get together. I wanted to see love flourishing. I wanted to see a freeze-frame of life being lived to the fullest. And for a long time, when I opened my eyes, all I saw was an aged fence and some stretch of grass. 

A lot of love has been put into this house. I've blogged about it over the years. You can revisit them at this link if you wish. For the longest time, we put off the outside because it was "less important" than the inside. This was mostly true for a long time until our kids came along. They needed a space to play, a place to be free to run around, and a place to explore. After we had a patio paved in about 1/4 of our yard space, everything else snowballed - the playhouse, the plants, the toys, etc.

I snapped this picture of my children playing outside together one afternoon. Our backyard is not magazine worthy. It's not designed by Joanna Gaines or Shea McGee. And it almost always looks a bit disheveled and awry. But this picture completes my vision from years ago I used to merely imagine with my eyes closed. I love getting to watch my children play together and keep each other company. I love that I can grow herbs, vegetables, and flowers right on my patio. It's so satisfying to be able to walk outside with a pair of kitchen scissors and a bowl and return shortly with freshly cut green onions, basil, or peppers.

As I get older, I'm reminded of the passing time by my greying hair, added wrinkles, and joint aches. It's easy to forget how time can change things for the better, especially when it comes to inanimate or intangible things such as feelings and spaces. Over time, this backyard will continue to evolve, and one day, the playhouse will be gone. One day, the sandbox will be a relic of the past. One day, there will be four adults from our family sitting on this patio enjoying this space together.

That's the hope.

Adult Experiments

One of our wedding gifts from our registry was a rice cooker. Some of my friends from college pooled money together and purchased it for us. We used it for the last ten years and it has been a wonderful part of our household cooking preparation. 

In the last month or so, we realized we were cooking rice every single day. Yes, we naturally consume a lot of rice as part of our weekly meals, but having to cook rice everyday was a bit overkill and excessive. Alas, our little 5-cup rice cooker was no longer making do for our growing family. 

We already own an 8 qt Instant Pot and I've blogged about how we love it. This was the concluding post to  tracking my small appliance usage in 2022. One of the features of the Instant Pot is its rice cooker function. We've actually never tried it, but in the past few weeks, we did, because we were wondering if we needed to purchase a new rice cooker. 

We looked up some recipes online about how to cook rice in an instant pot. This recipe was the starting point of our testing. The recipe itself is fine. If followed correctly, it makes great rice. But there was one main issue with this recipe - you have to stop the cooking at a precise time in order to yield the best rice texture. This means the IP will pressurize, cook for 3 minutes, and then naturally release for 10 minutes. In minutes, this means after approximately 33-35 minutes, you will need to return to the IP and release the rest of the pressure. For our household, it's not always possible for me to be at home and available to stop the cooking after 35 minutes. I love the feature about designated rice cookers where you can keep warm in the appliance for days!

My husband and I experimented with this a few times to see if we could play with the proportions. We tried a shorter cooking time (1 minute) and letting it naturally release longer (we tested up to about 2 hours) and with less water in the recipe. All our tests yielded very mushy, soft rice. Although edible and arguably the same taste, the texture just wasn't right. 

So we came to the conclusion that we need an actual specialized rice cooker to cook our rice because it will cook, finish, and keep warm for days if we needed it to, and the texture of the rice is unaffected. 

So much more counter space...but I will sacrifice 
the space for well-cooked non-babysat rice. 😅

 

Luckily, we found this new 10-cup rice cooker for less than $150 at the time we purchased. The current list price has gone up significantly.  Originally we were looking into the Zojirushi brand which always costs around $200. We ended up deciding on the Cuckoo because it seemed comparable in quality at a lower price point. We'll let time tell us if we made the right decision or not. 

Who knew 20 years after high school we'd still be using constants, variables, and reading results in our own way. 😏

Bubbles

When my mother died, one of my friends asked me if it was weird to visit because I had to "walk over dead people." I told her it wasn't weird because my mother was there. I never thought about going to a cemetery in any other way. 

In the two decades since I said goodbye to her, the plots around have filled up with new stones. I used to walk and read the stones around. I've seen ones for young children. I've seen ones for the elderly, and I've seen ones for all ages between. There's a stone about two grassy plots over for two pianists who died in an accident. I've probably "walked over them" at some point, but I've never thought of it as such.

This summer, I had a sudden urge to want to go visit. I'd picked up flowers a few days before. When my husband saw them, he looked at me quizzically and asked, "Did I forget something? " No, he didn't. But he's right, I've never purchased flowers before. I told him why I bought them and we decided to all go and visit that weekend. 

I had to think of what my kids were going to do. I honestly can't remember if I'd ever brought both my kids to visit. And they were older now and needed some perception of "fun" in order to stave off whiny complaints. So I decided to bring our bubble machine. 

When we got there, we set up the bubble machine for the kids, and I prepped the flowers for the vase. I sat for a while just watching the bubbles float around us in the light breeze. The kids had fun. I sat and felt like my mother was there with us watching the bubbles. Watching my kids twirl around and chase them. It was both so calming and sad. 

My daughter understood why we went. She knows my mother is dead. She understands everything at a factual level. I don't think the emotions have seeped in and they probably won't for a number of years.

Bubbles made a world of difference.

 

At the same time I wish she could physically be next to me watching my life unfold, I remember there's a good chance if my mother were still here, this wouldn't be the life I have. When I'm truly honest with myself, I don't think I'd choose things to be any other way.

Another Cabinet

We have a running joke of tackling one house project a year. In the beginning of the year, we finished our bathroom cabinet. The year trucked on and we didn't think much about doing anything else around the house.

During the summer, I brought up the topic of painting our built-in cabinet located in our breakfast nook to my husband. We had put this off when we originally painted the kitchen cabinets...because the kitchen cabinets were already a monster to tackle and took a lot of time to DIY. This built-in was also located away from the rest of the cabinets so it could stand alone as a piece of furniture. The second reason we put it off was because the top cabinets have glass so you can see into it. This meant a more time-consuming prep and painting process.

We revisited this conversation of painting the cabinet this summer. We talked about painting it white to match the rest of our kitchen. This idea was halted when we realized we'd need to purchase a new gallon of white paint because we didn't have enough leftover in our existing gallon to complete this project. We also discovered the lip which secures the glass will not be able to be painted. So if the cabinet surface was going to be white, the lip underneath the glass would still be wood-colored. That nixed the white paint idea.

We discussed scrapping this project completely due to this hiccup, but then I brought up painting the cabinet in a dark blue paint. This paint was a random $9.00 purchase from the "oops" paint shelf at Home Depot our first year of living in this house. It's an exterior-grade oil paint, I liked the color, and we originally purchased it to repaint the trim around the windows on our back porch. As we remodeled and replaced exterior patio doors, I continued to use this paint for the doors as well. I even used the same paint to paint over some beige tiles on our window ledge. 

We made the decision to go for it and paint the cabinet blue. Walking into this project, I knew I was going to be the one painting 100%. I actually enjoy painting, and now since getting AirPods, I can knock out a number of audiobooks while painting which makes the entire process a lot of fun for me. I will forever remember Me Before You by Jojo Moyes as the book which grounded this entire project. 

Cutting in for this cabinet took hours.

The cabinet box and shelves took two days to complete - one for primer and one for paint. Painting in between all the shelves was the hardest part because none of the shelves in this cabinet are removable. Because of the glass doors on top, I had to make sure to cover every nook and cranny including the undersides of every shelf. 

Originally, the project was supposed to start after we returned from our trip. Due to having some extra time, I actually finished the inside paint and primer before we left. This ended up being a much-needed change because the fumes from the oil-based paint were heavy. This was the second time we had used this paint indoors and the fumes this time were probably 2-3x stronger than previously because there was so much more surface area to cover and much more paint used. Coming back from our trip to a non-fume-filled house was a breath of fresh air, literally. 

After our trip, I had to finish painting the doors. This took one day and I was able to paint everything outside.

I spy some creative drop cloth weights. 😅

We finished this project in three days (of actual painting) with a total cost of $0. All the materials we used were purchased from previous projects or reused multiple times. The one expense we did purchase for/because of this project was a gallon of paint thinner. I did that in order to save my $10 Zibra Triangle paint brush from being ruined by oil paint. But the actual cost of this project is still $0.

I absolutely love the finished results.

I'm really happy with the way this project turned out. It's not perfect by any means and there are visible flaws, but for the amount of time spent and the cost of the project, the results far surpassed what I thought could be done. 

My favorite part of completion was actually purchasing risers to display our little trinkets on. My mini snow globe souvenirs can proudly be displayed in the cabinet now.

A sample of my snow globes and global trinkets.

Time-Saving Changes

We recently made a change in the house which has had a huge impact on my day. Years ago, we turned our dining room into a playroom for the kids. They've happily maximized this space and played to their hearts content. However, as time passed, their toys would gradually leave the playmate and infiltrate the rooms around. Any fellow parents out there understand how this works. 

Dealing with this tornado every day I taught was really annoying.

Last weekend, we moved all the toys into a bedroom. The dining room still isn't back to being a regular dining room, but I'm okay with it. We still have a table for the kids to do homework. There's a lamp in the corner with an armchair. And the rest is empty space. You know what? I want to leave it empty.

The styrofoam wanted the spotlight.

We moved all the toys into a bedroom, and I no longer have to corral toys before my afternoon teaching. I really love it. Cleaning up after my kids really stressed me out and made me unhappy. The irony is, the mess looks the same. It's just moved into a different location in the house, one which can be closed off and hidden from view.

This is so much more bearable for me to look at.

See, I'm not kidding. It looks the same, just in a different location. But looking at their toys in my dining room made me resent them. I didn't enjoy the creations my children made. It stressed me out to see everything not put away neatly in the storage containers and clear boxes I purchased specifically to house them. 

But now, when I see their toys in the bedroom, I get excited to see what toys they pull off the shelves to play with. It's fun for my eyes to dart from one area of fun to another. I don't need to destroy their Hot wheels garages constructed out of Magnatiles because they can simply just stay put.

So I'm excited for this year because it means I don't have to do a mad dash of cleaning around my house in the half hour before my students begin arriving for the day. It means I don't have to force my children to disassemble their precious creations. It means I don't have to resent their mess of creativity and entertainment. 

That's Valuable. 

Two Decades of Grey: Here and Now

I took my kids to a dairy camp hosted by Tillamook at a local venue near us recently. The first time I saw it, the free tickets had sold out. Then, I saw the ad again and was able to book my kids and I free tickets. I didn't know what to expect going into the dairy camp because it was only slotted for 30 minutes. Not sure what was going to happen that was so spectacular in a half hour, but I figured it was worth a shot.

We arrived and we walked all the way around the building to locate the entrance. It was a bit deceiving because there were doors on the parking lot side, but they were not the entrance doors. Finally, we entered, checked in, and waited for our adventure.

The dairy camp was fun. My kids were old enough to enjoy it and not too old to be bored by it. The decor was my favorite part. Cheddar snack size portions made up the low walls to designate where to go. Tables were designed as ice cream pints. They had cream cheese blocks and tubs to stack and play with for one activity. The budget spent on design was spot on.

The kids even received cute little Tillamook bags at the end of their adventure. They clung onto them as we browsed the gift shop and in the car on the way home. But as soon as we made it home and got our shoes off, the bags were left in the back hallway. I retrieved them and took them for myself, so it's my cute little tote bag now. 

All in all, it was a fun adventure. Thank you, Tillamook, for hosting such a fun indoor children's activity during the summer. 

An unexpected side to bringing my kids to this dairy camp was discovering more about myself and how I wanted to proceed with my grey hair journey. Originally, I had planned this entire series and written out every story I wanted to share in a specific order. I've shared many of them with you throughout this year on my blog. Then, it came to the final few stories to end my series. That's where I got stuck. I wrote my first draft of this in April. I tried again about a month later. And I tried again this summer. All of those drafts got scrapped because I wasn't happy with the message they conveyed. Part of it was I didn't know what the clear message I wanted to convey was.

At this dairy camp, I found my answer.

***

When we first gathered to go in, the lady rounding us up had grey hair. Her color was completely natural and you could see the greys spread throughout her hair. But her face looked young. Her skin looked young. She had an energy about her which contrasted to the color of her hair. And she was doing her job appealing to this group of young children, working magic to open the secret door to our awaiting adventure. 

That's the person I want to be. As my hair goes ever more grey, I hope I can still exude youth in my face, my words, my personality. It takes an insane amount of self-acceptance to be able to face the world with so many greys at such an early age, but as time passes, I've learned to rest in the confidence. That's not to say I don't have bad days. I have plenty of bad days when I look in the mirror and the reflection staring back at me makes me feel like I'm an old lady. Those are the hard days. There are also good days when I look into the mirror and I feel they're not as pronounced as I thought they were. 

The reality is, both reflections are the same. It's true - different lighting and different hairstyles might look varied, but the hairs on my head are still the same. So the truth of the matter is perspective. 

As I get older each year, my need to "stay young" decreases little by little. After all, we all have to remember, aging is a privilege. It's not something everyone gets to experience either. So this concludes my series on two decades of grey. Writing it was cathartic for me and allowed me to love myself on a whole other spectrum. 

Two Missed Calls

Missed phone calls have given me a soft spot depending on the person and the circumstance. I've written about missed calls before from my past. But this one was different. 

I hadn't looked at my phone in about an hour. It was sitting in my purse while I did other things. As we wrapped up and got ready to go home, my husband started the car and I buckled myself in. I reached into my purse and pulled out my phone. The process was instinct now. When I pressed the button and saw the Home Screen light up, chills went down my body.

I had two missed calls from "Donna."

The only "Donna" who has ever meant anything to me was my mother. And on this Sunday afternoon, the first thought that entered my mind was I had missed two calls from my mother. 

It sounds absurd. My mother has been dead for over 20 years. She never had her own cell phone number. I've never even inputted her name or number into my cell phone because I received my first cell phone a year and a half after she died. Why in the world did my mind automatically think that? 

Because at the very core of my being, my mother is still very much a part of my life. No, I don't think about her 24/7. No, my family and I will never see her with our eyes. But a part of her is always with me and I can't change that even if I wanted to. 

***

Yes, I put Donna's number in my phone. She's a government employee I was introduced to and she and I will be getting in touch periodically. When we first met, my mind did register her name being the same as my mother's. That was my conscious thought. But she's not more than someone I need to interact with once a month for a short phone call. I added her name and number to my phone so I wouldn't ignore it thinking it was a spam call. 

When I received these calls from her, it was only the second time we were in touch. And instead of my brain registering her as the government employee whose number I had saved in my phone, my mind took me directly to my mother's name. 

This is what grief looks like 20 years later. The most outlandish thought of having a missed call from my deceased mother supersedes reasonable thought of missing a call from a stranger. 

Iron Chef

About a month and a half ago, I randomly came across a Facebook ad and saw one of the TV chefs I watched as a child was going to be at a nearby Costco. Mentally, I made a note of this time and date and told myself I was going to go. When the day arrived, it was cloudy with impending rain. I debated if I actually wanted to drive across town to catch this chef in person. My kids ended up being slightly antsy but cooperative so we were able to get loaded up and drive over. 

The kids enjoyed their samples and I enjoyed meeting an Iron Chef in person. I've watched so many cooking shows over the years, his included, and this felt too special to pass up. The irony was nobody else there seemed to have any idea who he was. 

Who knew I'd meet an Iron Chef at a Costco. 😆 

A while after this Costco adventure, we turned on the TV, and guess who's cooking show was airing? Yup, Chef Ming Tsai. The kids were excitedly saying they had seen him before and watched his entire show even though that was not the intent of originally turning on the TV. It also just happened he was making salmon on his show and we were thawing salmon for dinner that evening. We decided to spontaneously try his salmon recipe which wasn't bad at all. If I made it again, I think I'd marinate the salmon or add more salt and pepper. Perhaps this was me not following the recipe because I didn't know how salty the sauce would be since it has a lot of strong flavors already. Regardless, it's a recipe I'd try again with or without some amendments. 

This isn't the first recipe from him we've tried. I've altered his 炸酱面 recipe over the years, but his is the one I originally started with many years ago. Cooking is so personal because it's a way of sharing your life, your memories, your flavors, with someone else. It's a way to pass down memories. 

This week, I received my signed copy of my cookbook. I can't wait to rifle through and check out all the recipes and mark some I want to try. 

I loved watching TV as a child growing up. My mother always said, if you're going to watch so much TV, you better have something to show for the programs you watch. I'm proud to say I knew his name before he became an Iron Chef, and hopefully, my cooking skills can justify all the hours I spent watching cooking shows on Saturday afternoon PBS. 😀

Running Power

Nearly 13 years ago, I was probably at the lowest point in my life due to choices I had personally made. So this doesn't include my mother dying because that wasn't in my control. This was in my control, and I was facing it head-on.

The irony of this situation is that less than a month later, I met my future husband. I didn't know he was my future husband at the time. I was a clueless 20-year-old going into my last year at college wondering what in the world I was going to do with the rest of my life after I graduated. He was just a guy sitting across the table from me at a restaurant as we celebrated a mutual friend's birthday. Oh, and I did think he was cute.

But this isn't about him. This isn't about what brought me to the lowest point in my life either. This is about what I did after to bring myself out of the lowest point in my life. This is about a pair of shoes.

My 13-year-old shoes. 

I bought these pair of shoes brand new that fall as I started my third and final year of college. I was highly stressed, very lost, and I had trouble sleeping at night. I found myself lying awake with my thoughts, unable to shut off my brain. So I found a way to use my restless energy. I started running. The loop I ran around campus was approx 1.7 miles. This is the number I calculated based off a rough estimation from reading a campus map and using my AirPods case as a measuring tool. It's probably pretty accurate because I remember it was about a 2 mile run if I didn't take the shortcut.

On top of running, a friend and I would do Insanity workouts at her apartment in the afternoons after class twice a week. I think once, I was crazy enough to do both: an Insanity workout in the afternoon and a run in the evening. Thinking about doing that much exercise now makes my knees want to buckle. I'm 100% sure my body would not be able to handle that today. But at the time, it's exactly what I needed. 

After graduation, these shoes came with me overseas as I moved away for a year. They walked on icy ground. They rode trains with me as I traveled across a foreign country. They bicycled with me over the old city walls of Xi'An. And they came with me when I moved back. 

They got a lot of rest for the nine or so years after. In the last year, I brought them back out and they went biking with me. They took walks with me when I needed to heal my knee. And I finally noticed their wear and tear.

The mesh is tearing at the front corners
and the front of the sole is detaching. 

Earlier this year, I was in the restroom at a Walmart. There was an older lady walking out of one of the stalls. By chance, I happened to be looking toward the floor as I made my way into the restroom. And I noticed her shoes matched mine. The very same pair of shoes from 13 years ago which I'd purchased for myself. Could hers have been 13 years old, too? It's unlikely they were too new because the design and model has long been replaced with newer versions. But I couldn't mistake the color or the design - they were the same. 

It's nearing the time when I will replace this pair of shoes. Part of me is elated to not match the fashion choices of someone twice my age. But part of me is sad because getting rid of these shoes will mean getting rid of the physical history attached to them - the places they've been, the things they've done, the ground they've walked. Yes, my memories will be there, but that will be all. 

This pair of shoes saved me during a very difficult time. And I never knew they had the power to do so.

Clearance Gas

 One morning as we were driving to school, my daughter was looking out the window and told me, "Mommy, gas is on clearance! I see a 166." Now I've been alive long enough to know gas does not go on clearance. Only if there is a signage error is anyone able to get gas for anything close to "clearance" prices. Gas does not go on clearance, ever. But there was a reason she was telling me this, and I knew she could read. So while I was at the stoplight, I looked over toward the gas station and looked everywhere for a clearance sign. I looked at the gas pumps. I looked at the window to the little store. I did not see a clearance sign anywhere. 

The light turned green and I had to move on and keep driving. I told my daughter gas does not go on clearance and the conversation ended. We went to school and that was the last I heard about clearance gas for a few weeks.

After a few weeks, we were stopped at the same light, and again, my daughter told me, "Mommy, look, there's the clearance sign!" I turned to look again. This time, I saw it. Because of where the car was stopped and the angle at which I was now looking at the gas station. I saw the clearance sign. 

Finally, I understood what she was showing me. And then I explained to her what the word clearance means in this context. She's been very familiar with the word clearance in regards to shopping. Mommy looks at the clearance at Lowe's. She looks at the clearance at Kroger. She looks at the clearance at Walmart. She scans aisles for clearance at Sam's Club and Costco. We look at clearance at Michael's. We loved the clearance at Bed Bath and Beyond before they shuttered all physical store locations. Clearance has been a part of her life since she was a newborn. 

But this was the first time she's seen it in regards to height. So I explained to her that certain trucks or vehicles are very tall so they need to know if they can fit underneath. The sign lets the driver know how tall the top is. If the driver's vehicle is taller than that, he/she cannot drive underneath. And that is the second definition of clearance she's now acquainted with. 

I was glad to solve this mystery. 

An Alternate Universe

One of the books I read last year was The Time Keeper by Mitch Albom. It was one of the more unsettling books I'd read by him since I discovered Mitch as an author in my late teens. In it, the characters explore a life between time and experience what's most easily called an alternate universe. 

I think we all catch ourselves thinking about our alternate universes sometimes. What if I married this person instead? What if I had moved to a different state? What if I had made a different decision?

For me, I have many of these in my life. I think about how my life would have been different had I chosen a different major in college. What if I'd gone to a completely different college? My friends would have changed. My career path may have changed or been affected at the very least. My husband may be different because the circumstances which we met would have changed. And we always say had we gone to the same college, we wouldn't have dated or gotten married. I believe it.

We recently visited one of our alma maters with the littles.

I think about how my life would have been different if I had switched piano teachers or even had a different teacher altogether. How would my ability have been affected? Would I play better? Worse? Would I have enjoyed it more? Would I have taken lessons longer? All these possible outcomes are valid, but it's also valid that because of the path I was on, I started accepting accompanying work at the age of 19 beyond doing favors for friends. And although untraditional, it set me up for the career I have now. And I really wouldn't change that. 

The biggest alternate universe I used to toss around was by far the hardest to come to terms with. What if my mother didn't die? It's true that one complexity of my current life now would not be there, and in that aspect, I will always feel a little defeated. However, having my mother in my life would not have simplified everything.

I was able to be my own person in high school because she wasn't around. I proved I had maturity, discipline, responsibility. I was also able to live my life, enjoy parts of childhood and the "fun" of it which I did not before being a primary caregiver, as primary as a minor could be. 

I was able to make decisions and not have to think about someone else. I still remember starting 8th grade and overhearing someone say they thought I had moved because I was not on the yearbook committee as the editor. Everyone thought I was going to be the editor after 7th grade. Everyone on yearbook wanted me to be the editor. But I wasn't even on the committee. I've never told anyone this, but I did not re-apply to be on the yearbook committee after 7th grade. At the time when applications were due, my mother was alive. I had made the decision to stop joining yearbook so I didn't have to stay after school once a week. I was going to go home everyday after school and be with her. And help her. During 8th grade. 

I didn't know she'd be gone before the end of my 7th grade school year. And that's why I was not on the yearbook committee, much less the editor, in 8th grade. After that, I could freely choose which school clubs I wanted to join, what jobs I wanted to take after school, and where I wanted to go. It came at a high cost, indeed, but I had gained certain freedoms which a normal teenager should have been able to experience to some degree. 

When I started dating, I didn't have to get my mother's approval. She would have been a tough cookie to impress. Nobody would have been good enough. She would have said something negative about everyone. Yes, I'm assuming, but I knew my mother. She could have protected me from a lot of hurt. She could have lectured some of the guys I'd dated in the past when they deserved to be lectured. But she may have also held me back from taking risks, taking chances, and ultimately, allowing me to learn and discover for myself. Not having her there put me on the frontline. I felt every punch and jab. But it also meant I could grow stronger. 

I've said before she would have hated the house we bought. I practically hated it myself when we bought it. But you know what? It's turned out to be the best choice we ever made when it came to housing. We love our neighbors. I've blogged multiple times about our neighbors. Just search "neighbor" in the search bar and you'll find a plethora of posts. This one is still my favorite. Our house really is my dream home in many ways. Not all, but many. Because when I come home, I feel comforted. I feel at peace. I feel satisfied. If I didn't like a wall color, I'd notice occasionally. If my shower bothered me, I'd notice it periodically. That's not to say everything is exactly the way I want, but a lot of it is. And the things that aren't are not worth my headspace to fret over. I'm not sure my mother would have been able to see the end result the way we did when we closed on this house. We saw the potential. We saw the future. And we made it a reality. And I'm thankful I didn't have to hear my mother gripe about any of it. 

Today marks 20 years. Just seeing it written out makes my heart sink. The wave of heaviness and emotion still overcome me. And a part of me will forever be sad my mother died so soon. But when I look at the life I'm living today, my job, my husband, my children, my home, myself. 

I wouldn't change any of it. 

Nostalgia

The last time I had a passport photo taken, I was 19 years old. After my husband took some photos, he showed them to me. My first reaction was, man, I look old. Honestly, when I look in the mirror, I don't see myself as old. In fact, I see places in my image which are more beautiful than they were to me a decade or two ago. Are they actually younger? Of course not. But the perception of myself has changed, and that's a good thing. I also have to remind myself. The 19-year-old in my last passport photo did not live abroad for a year away from close friends and family. She didn't get married. She didn't experience two pregnancies and two beautiful babies. And she didn't find her dream job yet. I prefer the woman in the photo who looks "old" because she has experienced so much more out of life.

I put off renewing my passport for years and years. I had even filled out the paperwork once only to put it aside, forget about it, and not do it. I not only needed to renew my passport but I needed a name change. It expired during Covid and there was no pressing need to renew because nobody was traveling internationally with two young children anytime soon. For the longest time, I also did not want to send them my marriage certificate. Would they treat it delicately like I do? Of course not. To them, it's a piece of documentation - a piece of paper with the right information on it. To me? It was the beginning of a new life.

Renewals must be done within five years of the expiration. Otherwise, it will count as a new passport application. I was just under the limit so this was the year to get it done. I filled out the forms, took a photo, sent them my old book as well as my marriage certificate and taped up the envelope.

Believe it or not, there was no line at the post office when I went to send off my renewal. I smirked when I pulled up to the parking lot. 13 years ago, I bet a friend there was a post office at this intersection. He didn't believe me because he knew there was one at the next major intersection - which is true, there is. But, I was also right. There was one at this intersection and when he saw it, he was in disbelief the city would build two post offices one major street away from each other. I don't remember what I won, but the same location is still there after all these years.

It's the same post office my grandparents would go to when they lived here. That's how I knew it existed. I'd been many times with my grandfather running errands, back in the day when bills needed to be paid with a check and mailed off with postage. And here I was, driving with my son, to the very same post office my grandparents used when they lived here. 

As a teenager, the thought of returning to where we grew up felt boring. We wanted to go somewhere else, explore, be adventurous. And if we were lucky, we didn't come back. On the other hand, returning to where we grew up was the easy choice. We knew everything here. We knew people. We knew the streets. We knew the stores. 

Being an actual adult and in the same city where I grew up and went to school, it's a different feeling. It's actually nostalgic and nice. Are there times when it's boring? Yeah. But I can drive familiar places and be reminded of memories - mostly good - and share them with my children. 

There's a donut shop across the street from the post office I went to. In high school, I skipped class exactly one period one time in 12th grade. It was 2nd period, my statistics class. Three of us (from all different classes) went to this donut shop and ate donuts and chatted in the middle of the morning. I would have forgotten about this memory had I not been at the post office across the street. Nothing special happened that morning. We all ended up back at school for 3rd period. But being at this post office was able to bring back that memory for a little bit. 

The elusive post office I've known about for longer than most apparently.

The donut shop is no longer there. It's occupied by some other business now. But this post office still stands in the same spot. And my son got to come with me. 

Two Decades of Grey: Overseas

I kind of got stuck after writing the previous part of this series. Do I know how the story continues? Of course I do. I lived it. But I got stuck because I wasn't sure how to share it in a way which was productive. Honestly, it was symbolic of this period of my life. I didn't love my grey hair, but it was becoming more and more a reality. I was now an adult, learning to live with it, but also still dyeing my hair consistently. 

My husband is not the first person to tell me he doesn't mind my grey hair. But he is the first person  I've believed. He's also the only person who has seen it in its full extent and still looks at me the exact same way. And even then, it took nearly a decade for me to get here. I dyed my hair for the better part of eight years of marriage. 

I wasn't ready to believe it before then. I didn't even  like it myself. How could I believe someone else?

**

When I lived overseas, I'd wake up in the morning and go to my bathroom to get ready in the morning. Because of the lighting of my bathroom - not great - it would appear like my grey hairs were gone. Even when I fussed around my roots, the greys would appear to be colored. I'd have a moment of shock, amazement, hope, and then I'd run to the mirror in a different light, and there they were again. It's like they literally reappeared after disappearing for a moment and tricking me. I still remember that elated, bubbly excited feeling as if something miraculous was happening. And of course the deflating feeling after when I saw them again. 

Even during these moments of false hope, I'd wonder to myself. What was I expecting, a miracle? Sure, it’s possible. I believe God is capable of taking away my grey hairs with the snap of a finger. But will He? I think He has bigger fish to fry. I don't think eliminating my grey hair is high up on His agenda. 

At the same time, if I wanted to give God the chance to perform this miracle, I had to stop hiding. I had to let it be for what it was, and if He ever wants to show Himself in this way, then He has the chance. 

When I lived overseas, it was the first time I saw younger girls with premature grey hair. And then I thought, it must be an Asian thing. So I felt less alone, but I still fit the category of a young Asian with premature grey.  I'd shared about my grey hair with my teammates early on. I even packed myself two boxes of hair dye to bring overseas. Later in the year when my hair was growing and the roots were showing again, one of my teammates even mentioned, "Oh, I thought you were exaggerating when you said you had grey hair. It's actually more than just a few."

Nope, I was not exaggerating. 

**

Having not colored my hair for over a year, I've learned that hair can re-pigment itself over time. Most of the hairs which are grey stay grey at the root. But every now and then, I see a hair that is grey in the middle and dark at the root. If I kept dyeing my hair every month whenever I started to see grey roots, I would have never have seen this for myself with my own hair. 

This is how I know God is capable of changing my hair color if He wanted to. Will He? I don't think so, and it's not because I doubt His power. It's because I understand the choices made as an Almighty Being must be made carefully. Every wish cannot be granted. Every prayer cannot be answered. When you know the ultimate outcome, you know every sequence it will take to get there.