Despite my hesitation, he went for it. Basically making a deliberate illegal manuever on the street. It was nearly 11 pm at night—the road desolate in the suburb.

The traffic light turned green when we were already halfway through the intersection. But suddenly, blue and red lights appeared silently urging us to stop.

I took a deep breath, thinking I should have been more obstinate. But less than 10 minutes later (and someone’s cool, calm, innocent behavior), we drove off with only a warning and the officer saying “Hot fudge ice cream? That’s my favorite too!”

It was my grandfather’s 90th birthday this past weekend and my relatives flew from all over the country for the celebration. And with any celebration such as this, we celebrated with food, the cultural togetherness.

At our table (the table my mom called the IT generation even though barely any of us worked in “real” engineering) where the young’uns sat, we got plates and plates of food. First, an appetizer—a sampler of Chinese delicacies of jelly fish, pork, squid and other things supposed to whet the palate. And soup. Then at least 6 different dishes of fish, duck, sea cucumber and mushrooms, fried rice, quail and more. Then 3 different desserts topped off with mango pudding shaped like koi, compliments of the server (the one that knew us for years and that we tipped graciously before the meal). More than once, my cousins exclaimed how they were full and couldn’t believe that yet another dish was coming.

However, unlike them, I had probably tried every single dish that was presented (except the dessert shaped like koi—it’s usually a circle) and I paced myself accordingly. Even still feeling hungry afterwards. After all, Chinese food despite my roots is not my favorite cuisine.

My sister and I got ice cream in San Francisco afterwards, daring to wait a long line at Mitchell’s. The following day with few relatives still in town, we repeated the same thing at a smaller scale. Because my parents and myself are local, we were both heaped with boxes of leftovers.

“From years of experience,” my aunt said with a characteristic after-giggle.

My aunt squeezed the air out of the ziploc bag and told me that it was good to put in the freezer.

Last night, I stayed overnight in Lafayette (to spend more time with my sister) and stumbled to work in the morning for the hourlong commute, carrying a Ranch 99 bag full of ziploc bags. A thought crossed my mind that I should share the food with my coworkers but in laziness, I slapped a post-it with my name and shoved the bag into the fridge.

My aunt gave my sister two pairs of earrings saying, “One is for you and one is for your sister.”

“But she doesn’t have pierced ears,” my sister responded.

I don’t. Even though I am reaching a quarter century old. And at dinner, my aunt gave me a hard time…noting that all the females in the room (except those who have sensitivity to earrings) already pierced their ears. Or that the parents forbade their daughters from piercing their ears until they were 18. Neither was the case for me. Firstly, I was afraid of needles. By the time I got over the fear, I just couldn’t justify the cost. And furthermore, why did I have to be like everyone else?

It’s interesting how pierced ears is a sign of beauty in our culture. A gift of jewelry is a symbol of I give you beauty because you are beautiful. Or at least it is an easy no-think present for females.

It’s awkward for me sometimes to…deviate from the norm. It’s like several weeks ago when a friend bought me a drink at a bar. I smiled and said thank you. And then as my friend turned away, I leaned over to Chris, Drink it without him noticing!

But it’s just like that bottle of wine given to an Asian family by an oblivious guest. The family graciously thanks the guest. The guest hopes it’s going to be opened during dinner, but it’s not. And they don’t know it will be placed in a display case of wine. And then at the next dinner party, the Asian family presents the same bottle of wine. And the host graciously accepts it thanking the family…

I was rather intrigued by this collection at the de Young Museum by Deborah Oropallo. What makes art original anymore? If it’s…only the creation of the art that matters anyway?

She took digital prints inspired by online costume stores and overlayed them on famous paintings. Is it art? Or is it a conversation piece?

But in other news, if you’re lucky to be in the large metro areas, you might be able to go to a museum for free (and a guest) sponsored by Bank of America.

“I always believed we were seeds in the sky,” the narrator started. “Plucked out just by chance.”

What if a chance encounter never happened? What if that one single event that caused your parents to meet didn’t happen because someone decided to turn right instead of left? Almost like the butterfly effect, the fifteen-minute oscar-winning animation The Danish Poet explores the theme in an optimistic way.

We saw this yesterday at the San Francisco International Film Festival in the animation shorts program. It was the cute short that ended the program, borrowing the earlier form animation. No flashy digital 3d or soundtrack. Just a simple story, supported not augmented by animation.

In some way, what if my parents never did meet. I probably wouldn’t be here. What if my mom had decided to pursue a newscasting career rather than go to nursing school? What if she didn’t have that fish dinner in her dorm room that probably got her closer with a friend who introduced my mom to her brother—my dad? What if my mom’s friend decided not to flake and actually went on that trip to United States for the first time? Or what if my dad learned that the best schools in the United States were the Ivy Leagues in the East Coast rather than a school in the Northwest with the word Washington in its name? And what if my grandparents decided to immigrate to Michigan in the boonies than to settle in the bay area? What if? Would it still be the same as today?

“You have one too,” she said to him.

“Have what?” he asked.

And she pointed to hers. Right above her lip. The wavered over hers for a moment and then to his, panning across their faces.

After watching Eagle vs. Shark as part of the San Francisco International Film Festival, I felt self-conscious about my mole. Even though I wrote about it as my personal statement for undergrad, I find it almost jarring to see the mark on anybody else. The two characters in the New Zealand movie each had a mark above their lip. A sign of soulmates?

As we approached the tunnel, Chris’ face lit up. His left hand poised over the center of the steering wheel. I swallowed and slightly grimaced, knowing what was to come.

Honk! honk!, his BMW shouted as we ripped through the short tunnel through Geary. At the same time that Chris yelps in delight.

On Friday, when we dropped Joe off, I told him about what was to come as we entered a tunnel. I mentioned a few words in laughter, Inappropriate. Surprising. Immature

“I mean the only thing I ever do is honk in tunnels,” Joe responded.

Chris was quite pleased and we ripped through the tunnel, honking. Because he could. And because it echoed through the stoney walls, bouncing noise up and down. And probably scaring the cars in front of me.

Chris really loves driving through the Caldecott tunnel on the 24. It is a nearly 2 minute stretch. There are not many tunnels in the bay area like that.

Fortunately, we don’t drive to my parents’ house that often.

Chris Mullen used to run the track at my high school. When I was younger, I remember when the basketball games were good. My dad loved the basketball games. I remember watching a middle aged man pacing back and forth on the court. Blonde-ish hair, flat, 80s style.

We always had nosebleed seats to the games I went to. I can barely remember the baseball games, only remembering that I got fidgety and really just paced around the snack stands. But the basketball games, I remember sitting at the top watching the players play below like ants lost in a maze.

When I was older, the Warriors weren’t great. But I had friends who were not fairweather fans. I saw them at the Madison Square garden. They lost of course. And then once in Oakland. They did win that one time. It was my friend’s birthday and it was the gift he wanted. I remember being not myself, being a little talkative.

So today, Warriors vs. Mavericks. Chris was over and we had the radio at 1050. An excited announcer giving the play by play. I did fall asleep during the 4th quarter, a 23 point lead by the Warriors. And later woke up to a quiet room and a jubilant Chris. “They won,” he exclaimed. “The biggest upset in NBA history!”

When we have to sit closer and make conversation, it’s not for me.