Recipe for a Late-Night Meal
As a child, I often took advantage of my dad. I've told this story many times. When I had to start attending school, I refused to go. As a way to appease me, my dad took me to Hamburger Stand everyday. Hamburger Stand was like a generic White Castle if you can believe that. My dad took me there every day and bought me a hamburger as a bribe to go to school and, even after I was okay with going to school, I still let him take me on this daily trip.
When I was in second grade, we began another ritual. The family was already asleep when I'd get up in the middle of the night and declare I was hungry. Back in those days, we didn't have Totito Pizza Rolls or cans of Chef Boyardee readily available in our household. Instead, my dad made a meal out of ginger, salt, and water.
To prepare, take a piece of ginger root and peel it. Because ginger is strong, a one-inch thick piece may be enough. Pour some salt onto a plate. Get a bowl of rice and add water to it. To eat, simply dip the ginger root into the salt. Follow this with a spoonful of rice and water.
Recipe for a Bad Hmong Girl
Cut your hair. Dye it. Watch TV until your vision becomes blurred. Tune out Mom and Dad. Listen to Alanis Morrisette. Work at Taco Bell, McDonald's, anywhere but the teb. Let people think you hate Hmong guys. Keep your temper short. Long tempers equal forced early marriages. Burn the rice. Wake up late. Don't kill a chicken. For God's sakes, don't kill a chicken. Eat before the men. Threaten to call cops on bad parents. Learn French. Watch foreign films. Bake cakes. Embrace sass. Dream. Move. Run away.
Recipe for Collecting Memories
1. Take a photo and ask yourself: Why didn't you look at the camera? Where is your sister? Why are there no photos of you and your mother that day? How long will it be until you wear Hmong clothes again?
2. Go to the airport. Pick up the aunt whom you have never met. Have faith you will know each other immediately. See? She has your mother's face.
3. Take a pen. Put it in your left hand. Attempt to write your father's name. Discover how hard it is to forge his simple signature.
Recipe for a Dream
Sleep.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Ten Reasons Why I'd Be A Bad Porn Star
Author Note: Okay, so as promised before, I'm posting my story, "10 Reasons Why I'd Be a Bad Porn Star." I wrote this in 2003. You are reading the original version, completely unedited though know that I am trying to re-work this piece into a one-person show.
Number 10:
I can’t afford a boob job. I truly believe that, to be in the adult entertainment business,
it is necessary to have an ample bosom. Really, I hate it when people get all self-
righteous and say things like, “It’s so unfair that girls with bigger boobs get better
jobs.” Really, in an industry where you're selling flesh, don't you want to have good
flesh?
Those self-righteous people are forever annoying me. I saw an episode of Howard Stern once in which a woman came by to show Howard her great boobs. Au naturel, she said. When he asked her to strip down, the woman wore a corset, which lifted her breasts. When he asked her to get rid of it, there was blur as TV censors covered it up, but Howard’s reaction was enough.
“But it’s natural,” she said.
I loved what he said next: “So what? Why do we put so much stock in real boobs?”
Really, bad breasts are bad breasts.
Number 9:
I’m too picky. I’d probably get fired for saying, “The guy looks like a white Yeti” or “I don’t do oral unless you’re clean.” I mean, if you look at the way I eat, you can tell just how bad I am. The other day, I ordered a Rueben with fries. At the end of the meal, my plate was fuller than when it came out. The sauerkraut was scraped off the bread. The bread crusts were littered everywhere. I mean, I'm pretty picky with food already.
But what I suppose I’m really saying is that the industry is probably just like high school. You know, keep your eyes closed. Don’t say anything. Don’t be critical. It’s odd when you think about it. I’m planning on having sex with a guy, yet I shouldn’t even look down at his genitals to see if he has warts down there. Or, I shouldn’t ask him to wash his privates before oral sex. What’s up with that?
Number 8:
I don’t have sex on hard surfaces. I prefer to keep my backside free from scrapes. Besides, I don’t think I could afford the chiropractic fees anyway. I have to wonder about the various locations that porn directors choose to shoot in: a table, a kitchen island, the floor, the stairs, on top of the toilet. I think they choose these “exotic” locations because, once you get down to it-no pun intended-the sex is all the same really. Porn directors tend to have a very limited span of creativity. The scene almost always begins with oral sex being performed to both the men and the women. This is then followed by some in-and-out sex. I suppose that the correct term for “in-and-out sex” is actually coital or vaginal intercourse. Of course, Caleb, my current boyfriend, has teased me about this. “After all,” he said, “Isn’t everything in and out?” But I digress. The in-an-out sex is then is then filmed in various positions to create diversity, but we almost never see the missionary position. After all, people watch porn for fantasies, not reality.
Maybe this is another reason why I might not make a very good porn star. I’d probably have creative differences with the directors. In a movie that incorporates a story line and thus, dialogue, for example, I might instead suggest to the director that the actors not speak but do interpretative, well, acting. Even I, a lay person, cannot stand to hear some naked blond chick saying, “Oh, no. Rescue me, Dick Master!” I would definitely go for the interpretive thing.
Number 7:
I believe in a woman’s right---to an orgasm. The scene does not end when a man comes. I'd probably get my ass fired so fast by saying, "Hey, what about me?"
Number 6:
I talk too much. No one wants to hear, “I think we should get to know one another better before we do it.” My mom is constantly telling me how fortunate I am to have Caleb, Caleb who has talent for listening and hearing-or so I’d like to believe. In the late hours of the night, as he is busy playing the latest Final Fantasy saga on his Playstation, I’ll rattle off like crazy talking about anything from the latest Jane Austen movie to a contemplation on the greater meaning of Debbie Does Dallas.
Despite what the popular consensus is, Caleb and I agree that the adult entertainment industry has a great sense of humor as well as a great flair for puns. Who, for example, would have ever thought of a title like Thump’n Hood or Ass Ventura? We do appreciate the deeper aspects of these works.
Number 5:
My body is sensitive. It can’t withstand more than one orgasm every five hours nor can it stand the constant ramming of dildos. Maybe I’m envious or vindictive or even just naïve, but I have to question those women who claim to have “Oh, at least seven or eight orgasms every time.” How is that possible? Do they count small spasms?
Anyway, the point is that my body is so sensitive, I'd either be broke from making only one movie a month or I'd be on disability so fast, it wouldn't be worth it to hire me.
Besides, I'm not very flexible. Having stopped doing exercises in tenth grade gym, I rely solely on decent genes to get by in the world. As a result, my body has very limited movement. In fact, the only movement I can make for long periods of time is with my mouth.......With talking, that is. Remember? I talk a lot?
Number 4:
I have no stamina. As a child of the eighties, I grew up with endless movies about yuppies having casual sex. The man and woman usually meet in smoky bar. He offers her a drink-tequila or scotch straight up. It’s never anything like a pina colada or strawberry daiquiri. Always some hard liquor. They check each other out with sly, seductive smiles. Next thing you know, the couple stumbles into an apartment, kissing violently, the man’s hand enraptured in the woman’s hair and the woman trying desperately to undress the man. They make it seem as if they’re just so horny, they can’t stop for a moment and say constructively, “Careful with the buttons. That shirt cost me a lot.” What they don’t say even less before they have sex is, “Are you clean because I don’t want to go down on you if you’re not?” I know. It’s embarrassing. You don’t want to screw up the chemistry of the moment, but damn, it would be even worst to be putting your mouth-man or woman-against someone’s putrid genitals.
For all I have to say, however, Caleb and I did try to re-enact one of those scenes. We went through the doorway, hands all over each other, panting heavily. We even managed to throw our bodies against the wall. Without undressing me beyond ripping open my blouse-for which I later regretted because it was one of my favorites-he lifted up my skirt and heaved my legs around his hips, pushing my back into the wall. On the outside, it was a great display of eroticism. But we couldn’t even keep it up for more than two minutes before we both gave up exhausted over the effort. Even as we sat on the floor, Caleb and I were still breathing heavily, making me realize that our heavy breathing wasn’t a result of hormones. It was the result of exertion. Besides, my hair felt as though they’d been pulled out of their roots.
After this pitiful display of TV-imitation, Caleb offered to get me a drink. “Orange juice?” he asked.
“No, I want something stronger: Pepsi over ice.”
Number 3:
I believe in safe sex. Therefore, I don’t wear stilettos, especially when having sex. After watching Single White Female in which Jennifer Jason Leigh kills Bridget Fonda’s boyfriend with the points of her stilettos, I was convinced that shoes were not the way to go when having sex. Besides, while I’m not a clean freak, I’m not particularly fond of beds sprinkled with dirt from your shoes. After the sex is done and over with and you and your partner have escaped yet another close call with the pointy heels, the last thing you want to do is go to bed with small pebbles scratching against your bare ass.
Number 2:
I don’t swallow. Not even for Caleb. To tell you the truth, I really don’t think the porn stars like to either. I think it’s just a way to turn men on. Robbie, who was the first boyfriend whom I really made out with, used to suck my fingers. There was something soothing about that. His tongue sliding gently against my indexes. His gentleness. Once I summoned enough nerve, I started sucking and licking his fingers too until he said it wasn’t necessary any more.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Well, performing oral is enough. It’s not necessary for you to tease me with that gesture anymore, you know.”
I didn’t know. I didn’t realize that, to him, the gesture of sucking his fingers was symbolic, a tease meant to enhance his arousal. I didn’t realize that he couldn’t feel the same thing I could.
That’s what I think swallowing really is. Just a symbol for men. So now I like to show them that my clean face, too, is a symbol, a symbol of one who has a clean face.
Number 1:
My butt has a sign on it: EXIT ONLY. Enough said.
Number 10:
I can’t afford a boob job. I truly believe that, to be in the adult entertainment business,
it is necessary to have an ample bosom. Really, I hate it when people get all self-
righteous and say things like, “It’s so unfair that girls with bigger boobs get better
jobs.” Really, in an industry where you're selling flesh, don't you want to have good
flesh?
Those self-righteous people are forever annoying me. I saw an episode of Howard Stern once in which a woman came by to show Howard her great boobs. Au naturel, she said. When he asked her to strip down, the woman wore a corset, which lifted her breasts. When he asked her to get rid of it, there was blur as TV censors covered it up, but Howard’s reaction was enough.
“But it’s natural,” she said.
I loved what he said next: “So what? Why do we put so much stock in real boobs?”
Really, bad breasts are bad breasts.
Number 9:
I’m too picky. I’d probably get fired for saying, “The guy looks like a white Yeti” or “I don’t do oral unless you’re clean.” I mean, if you look at the way I eat, you can tell just how bad I am. The other day, I ordered a Rueben with fries. At the end of the meal, my plate was fuller than when it came out. The sauerkraut was scraped off the bread. The bread crusts were littered everywhere. I mean, I'm pretty picky with food already.
But what I suppose I’m really saying is that the industry is probably just like high school. You know, keep your eyes closed. Don’t say anything. Don’t be critical. It’s odd when you think about it. I’m planning on having sex with a guy, yet I shouldn’t even look down at his genitals to see if he has warts down there. Or, I shouldn’t ask him to wash his privates before oral sex. What’s up with that?
Number 8:
I don’t have sex on hard surfaces. I prefer to keep my backside free from scrapes. Besides, I don’t think I could afford the chiropractic fees anyway. I have to wonder about the various locations that porn directors choose to shoot in: a table, a kitchen island, the floor, the stairs, on top of the toilet. I think they choose these “exotic” locations because, once you get down to it-no pun intended-the sex is all the same really. Porn directors tend to have a very limited span of creativity. The scene almost always begins with oral sex being performed to both the men and the women. This is then followed by some in-and-out sex. I suppose that the correct term for “in-and-out sex” is actually coital or vaginal intercourse. Of course, Caleb, my current boyfriend, has teased me about this. “After all,” he said, “Isn’t everything in and out?” But I digress. The in-an-out sex is then is then filmed in various positions to create diversity, but we almost never see the missionary position. After all, people watch porn for fantasies, not reality.
Maybe this is another reason why I might not make a very good porn star. I’d probably have creative differences with the directors. In a movie that incorporates a story line and thus, dialogue, for example, I might instead suggest to the director that the actors not speak but do interpretative, well, acting. Even I, a lay person, cannot stand to hear some naked blond chick saying, “Oh, no. Rescue me, Dick Master!” I would definitely go for the interpretive thing.
Number 7:
I believe in a woman’s right---to an orgasm. The scene does not end when a man comes. I'd probably get my ass fired so fast by saying, "Hey, what about me?"
Number 6:
I talk too much. No one wants to hear, “I think we should get to know one another better before we do it.” My mom is constantly telling me how fortunate I am to have Caleb, Caleb who has talent for listening and hearing-or so I’d like to believe. In the late hours of the night, as he is busy playing the latest Final Fantasy saga on his Playstation, I’ll rattle off like crazy talking about anything from the latest Jane Austen movie to a contemplation on the greater meaning of Debbie Does Dallas.
Despite what the popular consensus is, Caleb and I agree that the adult entertainment industry has a great sense of humor as well as a great flair for puns. Who, for example, would have ever thought of a title like Thump’n Hood or Ass Ventura? We do appreciate the deeper aspects of these works.
Number 5:
My body is sensitive. It can’t withstand more than one orgasm every five hours nor can it stand the constant ramming of dildos. Maybe I’m envious or vindictive or even just naïve, but I have to question those women who claim to have “Oh, at least seven or eight orgasms every time.” How is that possible? Do they count small spasms?
Anyway, the point is that my body is so sensitive, I'd either be broke from making only one movie a month or I'd be on disability so fast, it wouldn't be worth it to hire me.
Besides, I'm not very flexible. Having stopped doing exercises in tenth grade gym, I rely solely on decent genes to get by in the world. As a result, my body has very limited movement. In fact, the only movement I can make for long periods of time is with my mouth.......With talking, that is. Remember? I talk a lot?
Number 4:
I have no stamina. As a child of the eighties, I grew up with endless movies about yuppies having casual sex. The man and woman usually meet in smoky bar. He offers her a drink-tequila or scotch straight up. It’s never anything like a pina colada or strawberry daiquiri. Always some hard liquor. They check each other out with sly, seductive smiles. Next thing you know, the couple stumbles into an apartment, kissing violently, the man’s hand enraptured in the woman’s hair and the woman trying desperately to undress the man. They make it seem as if they’re just so horny, they can’t stop for a moment and say constructively, “Careful with the buttons. That shirt cost me a lot.” What they don’t say even less before they have sex is, “Are you clean because I don’t want to go down on you if you’re not?” I know. It’s embarrassing. You don’t want to screw up the chemistry of the moment, but damn, it would be even worst to be putting your mouth-man or woman-against someone’s putrid genitals.
For all I have to say, however, Caleb and I did try to re-enact one of those scenes. We went through the doorway, hands all over each other, panting heavily. We even managed to throw our bodies against the wall. Without undressing me beyond ripping open my blouse-for which I later regretted because it was one of my favorites-he lifted up my skirt and heaved my legs around his hips, pushing my back into the wall. On the outside, it was a great display of eroticism. But we couldn’t even keep it up for more than two minutes before we both gave up exhausted over the effort. Even as we sat on the floor, Caleb and I were still breathing heavily, making me realize that our heavy breathing wasn’t a result of hormones. It was the result of exertion. Besides, my hair felt as though they’d been pulled out of their roots.
After this pitiful display of TV-imitation, Caleb offered to get me a drink. “Orange juice?” he asked.
“No, I want something stronger: Pepsi over ice.”
Number 3:
I believe in safe sex. Therefore, I don’t wear stilettos, especially when having sex. After watching Single White Female in which Jennifer Jason Leigh kills Bridget Fonda’s boyfriend with the points of her stilettos, I was convinced that shoes were not the way to go when having sex. Besides, while I’m not a clean freak, I’m not particularly fond of beds sprinkled with dirt from your shoes. After the sex is done and over with and you and your partner have escaped yet another close call with the pointy heels, the last thing you want to do is go to bed with small pebbles scratching against your bare ass.
Number 2:
I don’t swallow. Not even for Caleb. To tell you the truth, I really don’t think the porn stars like to either. I think it’s just a way to turn men on. Robbie, who was the first boyfriend whom I really made out with, used to suck my fingers. There was something soothing about that. His tongue sliding gently against my indexes. His gentleness. Once I summoned enough nerve, I started sucking and licking his fingers too until he said it wasn’t necessary any more.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Well, performing oral is enough. It’s not necessary for you to tease me with that gesture anymore, you know.”
I didn’t know. I didn’t realize that, to him, the gesture of sucking his fingers was symbolic, a tease meant to enhance his arousal. I didn’t realize that he couldn’t feel the same thing I could.
That’s what I think swallowing really is. Just a symbol for men. So now I like to show them that my clean face, too, is a symbol, a symbol of one who has a clean face.
Number 1:
My butt has a sign on it: EXIT ONLY. Enough said.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Night Owl, Not Insomniac
I was tempted to say that I've been suffering from insomnia but that's not true. I don't suffer from insomnia. I am simply a night owl, have been since I was a kid. I've always found it interesting that I get chided for waking up late--which makes since when you figure that I don't to bed until way after everyone else does--but no one every says, "Wow! You're amazing. You can stay up later than everyone else."
Anyway, I've just been thinking about how the world--by this I mean my family, the 9-5 work life, school, etc.--has been forcing people like me to conform to their schedules, their ideas of what is normal. But, after 30 years, my body won't change it's rhythm so I have to embrace this.
So, being up late, there's not that many options of things to do. This morning, I was still awake at 6 AM, so my husband and I drove down to the St. Paul Farmer's market and looked around. The weird thing is that I've lived in St. Paul since 1988, but I've never been to the Farmer's Market because--get this!--I never wake up in time. But today I got there as booths were getting set up. Had a really great time just walking about. The sky was interesting. It looked gray as if we were about to approach twilight but the world was so quiet, you knew that this could not be so.
So, cool sky light above me, I checked out booths, had some breakfast, and re-discovered some things I had forgotten. For example, the smell of Hmong cilantro reminded me of lady bugs. As a kid, I remember seeing lady bugs all over the cilantro.
For my husband, nostalgia came in the form of crap apples that were surprisingly sweet as well as tart. Neither of us had eaten crap apples in years. I attribute this to the fact that we haven't been around parens who just randomly stop on the side of the road to pick them from trees.
Anyway, the reason why I'm posting this rant is this: If you have any ideas of things a person can do late at night, let me know. These are things I'm familiar with:
* Going to Denny's or Perkins
* Going to Mickey's Diner
* Going to Walmart in Eagan
* Going to the casino
At home, I'm either reading, watching a movie, baking, cooking a 2 AM dinner, playing video games, or chatting on facebook. HELP ME WITH MORE OPTIONS!
Anyway, I've just been thinking about how the world--by this I mean my family, the 9-5 work life, school, etc.--has been forcing people like me to conform to their schedules, their ideas of what is normal. But, after 30 years, my body won't change it's rhythm so I have to embrace this.
So, being up late, there's not that many options of things to do. This morning, I was still awake at 6 AM, so my husband and I drove down to the St. Paul Farmer's market and looked around. The weird thing is that I've lived in St. Paul since 1988, but I've never been to the Farmer's Market because--get this!--I never wake up in time. But today I got there as booths were getting set up. Had a really great time just walking about. The sky was interesting. It looked gray as if we were about to approach twilight but the world was so quiet, you knew that this could not be so.
So, cool sky light above me, I checked out booths, had some breakfast, and re-discovered some things I had forgotten. For example, the smell of Hmong cilantro reminded me of lady bugs. As a kid, I remember seeing lady bugs all over the cilantro.
For my husband, nostalgia came in the form of crap apples that were surprisingly sweet as well as tart. Neither of us had eaten crap apples in years. I attribute this to the fact that we haven't been around parens who just randomly stop on the side of the road to pick them from trees.
Anyway, the reason why I'm posting this rant is this: If you have any ideas of things a person can do late at night, let me know. These are things I'm familiar with:
* Going to Denny's or Perkins
* Going to Mickey's Diner
* Going to Walmart in Eagan
* Going to the casino
At home, I'm either reading, watching a movie, baking, cooking a 2 AM dinner, playing video games, or chatting on facebook. HELP ME WITH MORE OPTIONS!
Some Confessions
So, I guess I really am a lazy Hmong woman--so lazy I've only made 2 entries since I started this site. So, a couple of updates:
1) We had a really good run of Sia(b) this past June, and I will put this wish out itno the world: I'd love to tour the show nationally, so if you know anyone who'd like to bring the show to your city, hit me up.
2) I've been working on a one-woman show. It was at first going to be called "The Sex Lady" but now it may be changed to "Ten Reasons Why I'd Be a Bad Porn Star." It's fun and humorous and explores porn, romance novel fantasies, teaching sex, talking about sex in Hmong among other things. I'f I'm in the mood, I might post the story I'd originally written called "Ten Reasons Why I'd Be a Bad Porn Star." Stay tuned...I'd love to see this show mounted in a year.
3) Lastly, I've been attempting to work on a memoir that has been in the works for a very long time. Being a little stuck, I started experimenting with some magic realism fiction this past Friday and found--to my surprise--that it was quite fun to shift gears. What's this magic realism piece of fiction I speak of? I'm still trying to figure things out, but I think it's about a family of women who are cursed. One woman makes a deal with a monkey in Laos and when she goes to the MN Zoo, she is faced with a promise she must keep. One woman has escaped drowing in the Mekong only to drown in Mississippi River. Another woman talks to ghosts. (Yeah, I've come to realize now I've got a thing for ghosts.) Anyway, I'm not sure where this piece is headed or if it has a future, but that's the point of writing, right? To explore.
1) We had a really good run of Sia(b) this past June, and I will put this wish out itno the world: I'd love to tour the show nationally, so if you know anyone who'd like to bring the show to your city, hit me up.
2) I've been working on a one-woman show. It was at first going to be called "The Sex Lady" but now it may be changed to "Ten Reasons Why I'd Be a Bad Porn Star." It's fun and humorous and explores porn, romance novel fantasies, teaching sex, talking about sex in Hmong among other things. I'f I'm in the mood, I might post the story I'd originally written called "Ten Reasons Why I'd Be a Bad Porn Star." Stay tuned...I'd love to see this show mounted in a year.
3) Lastly, I've been attempting to work on a memoir that has been in the works for a very long time. Being a little stuck, I started experimenting with some magic realism fiction this past Friday and found--to my surprise--that it was quite fun to shift gears. What's this magic realism piece of fiction I speak of? I'm still trying to figure things out, but I think it's about a family of women who are cursed. One woman makes a deal with a monkey in Laos and when she goes to the MN Zoo, she is faced with a promise she must keep. One woman has escaped drowing in the Mekong only to drown in Mississippi River. Another woman talks to ghosts. (Yeah, I've come to realize now I've got a thing for ghosts.) Anyway, I'm not sure where this piece is headed or if it has a future, but that's the point of writing, right? To explore.
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