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He taught me how to tip well and talk back, among other things.

Today would have been my dad’s 76th birthday.

Every year, our only tradition is a steak dinner — nothing fancy, just something he loved. Sometimes we go out, sometimes we stay in, but the point is the same: we remember him. Tonight I’m making ribeye and baked potatoes, and we’re opening a good bottle of red.

I think of Dad often — how can I not? And it’s usually when I realize I do something the same way he used to, or the way he taught me. There are things he taught me on purpose, but there are others I learned from observation.

Here are some of those things.

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How to Tip Well

When I was a teenager, Dad and I went on a father-daughter date, just the two of us, to get dessert at Komegashi Too, a little Japanese restaurant at the Jersey City waterfront. 

We both really wanted tempura green tea ice cream that evening. So we walked in, sat at the bar, had our ice cream and a good time. When the check came, Dad tipped 100%. It wasn’t much since all we had was two desserts, but it was 100% of the check. I was confused, because wasn’t 20% “the rule”?

He said the staff works hard, it still took some time and effort for them to bring out our ice cream, and we took up two seats at the bar. Besides, the extra money meant more to them than it did to him — they were working, and we were having a good time.

That was the day I realized the entry fee for a night out. And he never made a show of his generosity, either.

How to Have My Own Income (and therefore, my own independence)

My first summer break since going off to college, I decided I needed a summer job. My mom asked me if I was sure, I worked hard all year and could use a break.

Yeah, but I also wanted my own money.

The way I remember it, Dad convinced her to let me do what I wanted — I was his stubborn daughter, after all. If I worked to make my own money, no one could tell me how to spend it. And it would teach me what it takes to make money. 

What it took was six hours a day on my feet, making coffee for cranky undercaffeinated customers and getting through a lunch rush on the register, all for $8 an hour. I don’t even remember what I spent my first paycheck on, but I remember him being proud of how pleased I was with myself. I earned that check, all $300 of it, or whatever meager amount it was.

He taught me to make my own money and not have to rely on anyone to make it for me.

How to Appreciate Nice Things

Dad was a blue-collar man, but he still liked nice things. Nice things that happened to be expensive.

I was a bit more practical — maybe too practical. I saved my money for a rainy day, a rainy week, maybe a rainy decade. I treated every purchase like a high-stakes decision instead of something meant to bring joy.

Dad convinced me to enjoy my hard-earned money. He didn’t tell me to blow it all on frivolous things, but he wanted me to understand that life is short and pleasure counts. That sometimes the thing you really want is worth it, even if it’s not the cheapest option on the shelf. An iPod Nano, in blue, for example. He reminded me that music mattered to me, that I’d love it every day, and that working hard is partly so you can have the things that make life feel good.

Well, he’d be proud that I have some really nice things now, and I didn’t wait for a monsoon to spend that cash.

How to Love Music

Life’s better with a soundtrack, and I know I got my love of music from my dad. I don’t think there was ever a silent car ride — at least I don’t remember one. There was always music playing, and more often than not, some singing along too.

When his schedule allowed, he drove my friends and me to school in the mornings. After Dad passed, one of those friends reached out and told me she’ll always remember him belting Enrique Iglesias in the car. How specific, and how accurate.

From him I learned that music isn’t background noise; it’s memory-making. It sets the tone for a day, it sticks to you. I’ve tried to carry that with me — starting my mornings with a song that makes me feel awake, or alive, or just a little less rushed. And I still sing along to everything in the car.

How to Drive… Er, How to Know Your Limits

He tried.

He started with the basics — mirrors, signals, both hands on the wheel. We drove around an empty parking lot for me to learn how to control my speed and turns. There was a lot of braking. A lot of deep, fatherly sighs.

At some point, I think he realized (1) I was going to pass my driving test and be a competent driver someday, and (2) he didn’t want to get frustrated with me, so he wasn’t the person who was going to get me there. So he did the smartest thing possible: he paid for driving lessons. 

That might’ve been the real lesson: knowing when to teach, when to step back, and when to outsource to a professional for the sake of the relationship.

How to Care Quietly

He wasn’t someone who announced what he was doing for you. He just… did it. Filled up my tank without mentioning it. Moved my car before the street sweeper came. Bought extra cases of water at BJ’s because he knew I’d take one back to school. Picked all the mushrooms off his plate and put them onto mine because he knew I loved them.

None of it was loud. It was just his way. What I understand now is that quiet care is still care, just delivered differently. It’s love in shorthand. It’s attention disguised as ordinary tasks.

How to Be a Smartass and The Art of Talking Back

My dad had a gift for talking back — the quick comeback, the one-liner that cut straight through the nonsense. He didn’t tolerate bullshit, and he didn’t sugarcoat things. He could cut through a conversation with one sharp sentence and then move on like nothing happened.

When I went to Singapore during one of my school breaks to visit my aunt and grandma (his sister and mom), Grandma kept giving me shit for wandering around on my own. I basically told her that I was there on vacation, I came home for dinner, and therefore I was going to do what I wanted — so who cares? She complained to my dad, and he just said, “What do you expect? She’s my daughter. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

The irony, of course, is that he absolutely hated when I did it to him. Anytime we argued, I’d storm off to my room and toss out a final “It’s not fair” or some other dramatic last word. And without fail, he’d call after me, “You always have to have the last word, don’t you?” (Fun fact: this is why my parents wanted me to be a lawyer.)

Whether it’s in my blood or something I picked up from watching him, I know how to stand my ground. I know how to speak up for myself with a little bit of edge. It was never about disrespect — it was about knowing my voice and using it.

—

These are the lessons he left me with, the ones that keep revealing themselves over time. I didn’t realize I was paying attention back then, but it turns out I was taking notes the whole time.

Happy birthday, Daddy.

A reminder that good things often start with what’s left.

I stood there, fridge door wide open, and stared at a Costco-sized tub of kimchi.

I had bought it because it was a deal, and “we would eat it!” And we did eat it. But there was still so. much. left. Because, again, Costco-sized tub.

Kimchi never really goes bad, so it probably would have been fine living in the fridge for a bit (or a lot) longer. But I didn’t want it taking up precious space anymore, so I did what many Asian grandmas would do: I made it into soup.

And that’s when it hit me. For millennia, people — and let’s be honest, mostly women — have been doing this exact thing: taking what’s on hand, refusing to waste it, and turning it into something comforting. Not out of trendiness or moral virtue, but because they had to.

Before “zero waste” and “farm-to-table” were hashtags, this was just life. The art of stretching. The daily creativity of feeding people with whatever was in your kitchen.

What I made that day was kimchi jjigae. It’s what happens when kimchi gets really fermented and a bit too funky to eat raw — some people like it that way, but I find it too sour. You toss it in a pot with onions, tofu, and pork, and let it simmer into something new. The Costco kimchi I was tired of looking at became lunch and dinner for two days. And I was so pleased with myself — being able to make a delicious meal that lasted us for days out of whatever we had on hand.

My train of thought continued down the track of other “reimagined leftovers” foods. Of course, I thought of fried rice first — the ultimate leftovers food. The sad leftover carrot from the bunch you bought for something else? The random quarter of an onion in the fridge? The scraps of leftover chicken that aren’t enough for a full meal? The bag of frozen peas you forgot about at the back of the freezer? Add some leftover rice (better than fresh because it’s drier and thus better for frying), a bit of soy sauce, and an egg, and you’ve got dinner. Fried rice is resourcefulness turned into comfort food.

Every culture has its own version of this kind of ingenuity. In Japan, extra rice can be shaped into onigiri. In Spain, leftover chicken or fish becomes croquetas.  In Italy, yesterday’s bread is soaked and turns into panzanella. In Mexico, stale tortillas transform into chilaquiles. In Cuba, leftover beef is shredded into ropa vieja (literally “old clothes”!). In Hawaii, Spam became a staple after World War II, when imported meat was scarce; now Spam musubi is a cultural icon and proof that what begins as survival can evolve into identity. Across continents and cuisines, people have been practicing the same instinct for centuries: don’t waste, just reimagine.

It’s proof that good food doesn’t have to start from scratch. It starts from what’s left. And in many cases, those dishes become culturally iconic.

All of this feels especially relevant again. The vibe right now feels a bit like the early days of COVID lockdown — everyone staying home, cooking with what they had, googling “how long does x last in the fridge.” Between layoffs, inflation, and grocery prices that make you want to puke, everyone’s trying to make things last a little longer. The old ways — the scrappy, make-it-work ways — suddenly look a lot like wisdom.

While it can sometimes be stressful and overwhelming, there’s something satisfying about being able to look at what’s in the fridge and make something delicious out of it. It’s like a personal episode of “Chopped” but without the curveball of having to use an ostrich egg.

That’s where creativity happens: not in abundance, but in constraint. There’s an art to turning a few mushrooms, some small carrots, and half a lemon into something edible, even delicious. (These are things in my fridge right now. I will be making soup.)

I’ve thought about how we as a modern society have rebranded all of this. Meal prepping and batch cooking are just different names for “cook once, eat twice.” Sustainability and zero-waste are things your grandmother called “using what’s in the pot.” They weren’t doing this with the intention of saving the planet. They were doing it to save their money while feeding hungry mouths.

Our mothers and grandmothers might not have called it resilience, or creativity, or sustainability. They just called it dinner.

There’s comfort in that — in knowing that when things feel uncertain, when money’s tight or plans fall apart, we can still make something nourishing out of what remains.

There’s some deeper thought here that extends beyond food, but I’m too hungry to dive into that.

Turns out the best compliment abroad is being mistaken for a local.

Everywhere we go, people assume we’re locals. And we take pride in it.

This summer in Crested Butte, a couple seated next to us at dinner asked how long we’ve lived in town. (And if R owned the bookstore, which made me laugh — because Arvin, the actual bookstore owner, is also a brown man.)

Last winter in San Diego, people at Dog Beach asked if we lived in the neighborhood or if we had to drive to the beach.

Anytime we’re in Maui, people ask us for directions or recommendations on where to eat or snorkel.

It happens so often that we’ve stopped being surprised. We get it, we can blend in almost anywhere. But on our recent trip to Thailand and Japan, the feeling of being local took on a different weight. There, blending in wasn’t just about familiarity or ease; it was about perspective, humility, and realizing how much being “American” stands out overseas… even when you wish it didn’t. Especially in these times. 

We noticed quickly how easy it was to spot the Americans. Not just by accent, but by volume, by the way they (we…) occupied space. There’s a kind of cultural footprint that follows Americans: the loud confidence, the need to be accommodated, the assumption that English will get us anywhere. And because R and I never want to be this kind of stereotypical American (it’s embarrassing af!), we found ourselves softening our voices, overcompensating with extra politeness, and hoping everyone assumed we were Canadian or Australian. In our hotel lobby in Tokyo, we witnessed a group of people getting frustrated by the language barrier, and they loudly complained to one another about it. We shook our heads and muttered to each other, “The staff probably hates American tourists.”

When people asked where we were from, I hesitated. (And then we said New York, ha! I feel like that makes it a little better.) It wasn’t shame so much as awareness, the kind that shifts between self-consciousness and reflection.

Then there were the other moments that felt like a compliment. When a hostess in Tokyo spoke to me in Japanese, after speaking to two other parties in English. When cab drivers in Bangkok tried striking up conversation with me in Thai. When I blended in just enough to be mistaken for someone who belonged. Those moments weren’t about pretending; they were about moving gently enough through a place so people didn’t brace against my harsh American presence.

I realized that sense of blending in feels good not because we’re “passing,” but because we’re paying attention. We’re trying to be respectful and assimilate into the communities so graciously hosting us. Blending in isn’t about hiding; it’s about respect. It’s about noticing the rhythm of a place before trying to sync with it. It’s about curiosity instead of dominance, listening instead of leading. I caught myself shushing myself on the Tokyo Metro, where train passengers ride in silence (or, at most, whispers) to their destinations. I happily said “sawadee kha!” (hello) with a Thai smile to everyone, even after leaving Thailand. We caught on that everyone walks on the left side in Tokyo, so we trained ourselves to do so as well. We noticed everyone said “khop khun kha” (or “khop khun krahp”, thank you) to us with their hands together, so we made it a habit to do the same.

And maybe that’s why I love travel so much. It reminds me that identity isn’t fixed — it expands, contracts, and blurs at the edges depending on where you are and how open you’re willing to be. We pick up new vocabulary and habits along the way, adapting to the norms of wherever we are in the world.

It’s a humbling, humanizing practice in perspective — a reminder that wherever you go, the desire to belong is universal.

Notes on nostalgia, noise, and what still feels like home.

We went home to New York this past weekend, to celebrate our tenth(!!!) wedding anniversary. Every visit back home is always a whirlwind, running all over the place to see friends and family.

The difference this time around was more downtime than usual — in the form of commuting on the subway. Sure, we’ve taken the subway in the eight years since we’ve left, but not as often as we did this past weekend. (If you are curious: Fort Greene, Harlem, Hamilton Heights, East Village, Midtown West, and a bonus PATH ride to and from Jersey City! On a weekend schedule!)

I need to sit with some of these thoughts a bit longer, because I think there are threads to pull. But I’m feeling quite tired and my brain has been scrambled eggs lately. So for now, enjoy my half-baked thoughts — more so observations than deep thoughts, really — and let me know if there are any I must expand on.

— — —

In many ways it felt so much like home, like I haven’t missed a beat. In other ways, I felt like a stranger navigating a new place. Not because I didn’t know where to go or how to get there, but the things I was seeing and what I was feeling were… different. Which is totally fine and expected; we should all be evolving, and NYC and Jersey City are no exception!

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It made me really happy to see the Chinatown mainstays of my childhood are still alive and well. We had breakfast at Big Wong on Friday, and it’s the best congee in the world, idc what you think.

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The subway is one of the few things left that doesn’t have a premium experience you can pay for. Experiencing Disneyland with a “fast pass” vs without one are two very different experiences. Not on the subway! Everyone pays their $2.90 fare and you get what you get, whether that’s a quiet ride or jam packed with a hundred sweaty strangers. You can’t pay an extra $100 to ride the train without the sweaty strangers. And there’s something so beautiful about it being the great equalizer. 

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What struck me as weird was how many subway ads were for tech companies. The friend dot com ones were especially weird, they totally creeped me out (Friend is a wearable device that, to my understanding, is an AI chatbot that lives inside a necklace? No thanks).

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Growing up in the NYC metro area taught me a kind of practical problem solving. It trained me to be more adaptable and resilient. The train I’m on is being rerouted? Gotta figure out how to adjust. There are delays and I’m smushed on a subway platform? Gotta suck it up like everyone else. There’s a thread here about how dealing with a little bit of friction isn’t the worst thing. Something about what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but like, not in a toxic way?

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Along the lines of what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger or something… I realized I got desensitized to a lot of things at some point. How loud it is. How smelly it is. How generally gross it is. It was the first time since moving away that volume of the normal city sounds (sirens, cars, subway trains, jackhammering, people shouting, etc.) jarred me, and I was surprised by that. I adjusted by the end of the first evening, though.

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I don’t miss commuting. At all. Sorry. I know it would have been slightly better on a weekday and not a silly modified schedule and weekend service routes (getting around on Thursday and Friday was way better than Saturday), but the trekking through humid subway stations, dodging people and pigeons and poop, going up steep stairs because your train tracks are located in the seventh layer of hell, the people playing games on their phone at full volume without headphones, did I mention how smelly the city is…

—

—

I confidently navigate throngs of people, the game of Frogger while crossing the street, labyrinths of transfers between subway lines. If I walk in the wrong direction, at least I do it with conviction (and subtly turn around after pulling over to the side to check my phone or tie my shoe or any other reason to stop and pivot). I find it interesting that I move through life so confidently like this in some aspects of life, but not in others. Something to marinate in my brain and untangle at a later time. 

— — —

Every time I go back to the East Coast, I think I’ll find it different — and it always is — but the bigger surprise is realizing I’m different, too. A little slower, a little softer (the number of times I wondered aloud, “Have I just gotten soft?!”), more appreciative of peace and quiet. But it’ll always be home to me, no matter where I am in the world.

A reminder that rest doesn’t need to be earned.

This weekend, Husband and I got our flu shots and COVID boosters. We knew there was a good chance we’d be knocked on our asses for at least 24 hours afterward, so we planned ahead: ordered enough Chinese takeout to last a few meals and made sure the fuzzy blankets were on the couch. He called it scheduled server maintenance, aka planned downtime.

Even though I knew I’d likely feel shitty, I declared, “Even if I feel fine tomorrow, I’m still going to potato.”

If I didn’t feel sick, Past Amanda would’ve done laundry, organized something, maybe finally gotten around to writing that thing that’s been sitting in drafts (and/or this post). Rest, in my old vocabulary, was a backup plan, not a first choice.

I think a lot of us — especially those wired to be responsible, ambitious, or perpetually “on top of things” — have learned to see rest as something we have to earn. You rest after the work is done. Or you rest because you’re sick, or burned out, or on vacation (and even then, probably not fully).

Rest, in other words, needs a reason.

And without that reason, it feels indulgent. Lazy. Like you’re breaking an unspoken rule about what it means to be a good adult.

We often praise people for doing a lot — not necessarily doing well, just doing more. We even talk about rest in productivity terms: “Rest is important so you can recharge.” We ask coworkers when they’re back from PTO if they’re refreshed and recharged, so they can… get back to work.

While it’s true that rest fuels good work, it’s telling that we still frame it as fuel for work. 

Ew. 

It’s hard to imagine saying, “Rest is important because sometimes you need to not be doing anything.” That doesn’t sound very… ambitious, does it?

When I think about Saturday, I did nothing useful. Not one productive thing, besides walking Kona in the morning, and even that was a struggle. I spent the day rotting on the couch, binging the new Denver season of Love Is Blind (btw, this season is particularly cringe), and napping. I felt so terrible that I could barely sit up to eat.

Yes, I had a perfectly good reason to be completely useless. But I didn’t feel an ounce of guilt about it — where Past Amanda would’ve felt bad or stressed about “losing a day,” even if she’d technically “earned” a lazy one. There used to be this tension between wanting to rest and wanting to deserve it. 

When we only rest after we’ve earned it, rest becomes another form of productivity — we’re resting because we need it to be productive. True rest is not transactional. It’s not a break between “real” things. It is the real thing. There’s something radical about letting yourself rest without a reason. It interrupts the flow of hustle culture. It reminds you that you don’t need to justify your existence with output.

You’re allowed to be a lump of mashed potatoes on a couch, watching truly trash TV, with no greater purpose than just being. This weekend was a good reminder that I need more planned downtime. You probably do too.

I got a pocket, got a pocketful of sunshine…

I grew up with music as the backdrop to everything. My bright yellow Sony Walkman was practically glued to me, playing homemade Elvis mixtapes or whatever cassettes my dad left lying around. In the car, it was a rotation between the “oldies” station (pretty sure it was 101.1, WCBS FM; I can still hear the jingle in my head), the popular music station (Z100!), or “car CDs” (usually boy band albums or Burmese songs). When I graduated to a Discman, I burned my own CDs with tracks ripped from Limewire, hoping the download didn’t nuke the family computer. I eventually moved up to an iPod — late to the game with a 5th gen, I think — suddenly carrying hundreds of songs in my pocket.

I carry music with me everywhere. Singing in the shower. Cooking dinner (I use the 10-minute version of “All Too Well” as a pasta timer). Flipping through radio stations and somehow knowing every song, even across totally different genres. Just the other day, I went seamlessly from The Corrs’ “Breathless” to T-Pain’s “I’m Sprung” to Michelle Branch’s “Everywhere”. My Red Rocks concert tees range from The Goo Goo Dolls to Teddy Swims to Anderson .Paak. I’m a millennial who can karaoke to Shania Twain just as well as Linkin Park. If I know it, even halfway, I’ll sing or hum along. Call it eclectic, call it range.

Music isn’t just background or entertainment for me. Music is how I reset. I try to start each morning with something playing, even if just for a song or two. There’s something cleansing about it, like it shakes the mental Etch A Sketch and lets me start fresh. Some days, it’s “Killing In the Name”. Other days, it’s “I Just Called to Say I Love You”. Either way, the music clears my head.

At least, it clears my head when lyrics aren’t fighting for attention. If I’m deep into writing or problem-solving, lyrics hijack my brain. I can’t focus on building my own sentences when a song is telling me a story. But instead of working in silence, I turn to lo-fi beats, instrumental tracks, or songs in languages I don’t understand.  No words to trip me up — just rhythm and beats. Scaffolding for my brain, without distraction of catchy choruses I can sing along to. I’ve definitely typed song lyrics instead of status updates before…

Music tells the stories we cling to, the ones we belt out at concerts, the ones that bring us back to a car ride in 1999. I still remember the first time my dad blasted the Backstreet Boys’ Millennium CD through the car speakers. Twelve-year-old me hearing the intro to “Larger Than Life”, complete with AJ’s maniacal cackle. In the right moment, music and lyrics are belonging. In the wrong one, they’re just noise.

And that’s not just true in my AirPods; it’s true everywhere. Coffee shops use mellow acoustic tracks to make you linger. Bars crank up the bass to make nights feel electric. Restaurants fine-tune playlists to make meals more intimate, or more bumpin’, while supermarkets play the “oldies” to remind you you’re officially an adult shopping for milk and eggs. Music steers the vibe, whether or not we notice.

That’s why music feels so necessary to me: it teaches me to notice what I need. Do I want to feel nostalgic, to be swept in a memory? Or do I need the hum of background rhythm to stay present and focused? Side note: I often get stuck on deciding what my morning tunes are because I DON’T KNOW what I need. But that’s another story.

Today (including while writing this!), I spent hours with music in the background, mostly throwback J-Pop, and I felt more… regulated. Like I’d been tuned, back into myself.

Music doesn’t just accompany us. It shapes us, sometimes with words, sometimes without. The trick is knowing when to sing along, and when to let the lyrics fall away. Maybe that’s not just true for music, but for life too.

Good enough is sometimes just fine.

Over the weekend, I caught myself reading way too many online reviews for a beginner sewing machine. I spent 45 minutes comparing brands, models, features, prices, and durability like I was making a major life decision. For what? To hem pants. I shook myself out of it and resolved to go to a brick-and-mortar sew and vac store later this week (yep, just learned that was a thing) and maybe touch and use a few before deciding. 

That’s when it hit me: At some point in my life, I internalized that I must always get the best. I mean, sure, I deserve the best. But figuring out what the “best” is for every little thing is exhausting af.

It’s not just sewing machines. It’s restaurants (“this one got a 4.8 with 120 reviews, this one got a 4.6 but with 600 reviews”), vacations (“we should stay at the BnB with the best value”), even socks (“this brand has better construction, but this other brand has an easy pull tab”). Somewhere in the back of my brain, a little gremlin is always whispering that I need to make the best choice, optimize for the best outcome. 

What comes to mind is a scene from “Master of None” where Aziz’s character wants to get tacos, and he pulls up both his laptop and his phone to find the best tacos in NYC. He scours Yelp and Eater and other review sites, while texting his friends to crowdsource best taco opinions. This scene was… too relatable.

This doesn’t just show up in figuring out how to spend my money. It seeps into how I approach my time. If I cook dinner, I want the most efficient workflow, the sharpest knife, the highest-rated pan. The seemingly unlimited choices on streaming platforms sometimes lead to watching no movie at all. The irony is that optimization often doesn’t even lead to a significantly better experience. Dinner (usually) tastes good whether or not I optimized my workflow and got every component done at the same time. Watching Lilo and Stitch again was as enjoyable as watching something new. And realistically, any sewing machine would be just fine for hemming pants and doing basic sewing projects.

We live in a world obsessed with efficiency, productivity, and ratings. There’s an endless supply of “Top 10” lists, Wirecutter guides, YouTube reviews, and Reddit threads dedicated to making sure you never settle for “just fine.” To pick wrong feels like wasting money, wasting time, wasting potential. But what if “just fine” is exactly what you needed?

What’s interesting is the quest for the best often wastes more time than it saves. I’ve lost whole evenings to Google Reviews, bouncing between four-star restaurants while my stomach growled. By the time we actually picked one, the “best” option was a pizza spot around the corner from our hotel, because it was nearby and open. And it was delicious.

Sometimes I think about how my parents or grandparents made choices. They went to the store, bought the pan they saw on the shelf, and called it a day. They didn’t agonize over whether it was the peak performer in its category. And their food cooked just fine in that pan.

Now, we live in a world where AI can optimize things for us. It can give us the shortest driving route, summarize the best reviews, and even decide which salad spinner is “most efficient.” In theory, that should be liberating. If the machine is doing the optimizing, shouldn’t that mean we have more time to relax, linger, wander, spend time doing what we want to do? Instead, the pressure sneaks back in: if AI is saving us time, aren’t we supposed to do more with it? Shouldn’t we squeeze in another meeting, another project, another side hustle? Optimization becomes a trap, where every extra minute is treated like a slot we’re obligated to fill.

What if AI’s optimization bought us the option to opt out of optimizing? To let “good enough” be the standard in the rest of our lives? To spend that saved time not on doing more, but on doing less? (Ngl, I’m proud of that first sentence, lol. Just call me Billie Shakespeare, baby!)

So I’m trying to be more ok with choosing “good enough.” Which, admittedly, is hard for a recovering perfectionist like me! I’m trying to let “fun” or “easy” be more important than “best.” To notice when I’m about to tumble down the rabbit hole of optimization and ask myself if I really need the best cheese grater before spending the next three hours reading every review on the internet. The answer is often no.

By the way, the best cheese grater is the Zyliss professional cheese grater, the kind they use at Olive Garden. I just saved you hours of reading reviews. You’re welcome.

Summer shifts into Serious September, and I kinda hate it?

All the small-talky conversations I’ve had recently have included some lamenting that summer is over. Girl, it’s still 85 degrees out. It certainly is not fall yet. I’m not in denial; autumn officially starts on the equinox. I’m sticking to that stance.

I get it, though. Every September, usually not too long after Labor Day, the vibe shifts. It’s subtle at first — cooler morning dog walks, a slightly darker sky when I start cooking dinner, a sudden craving for soup. But it’s not just the weather. There’s a different feeling in the air, both literally and figuratively speaking. It’s as if September flips a switch.

Even though I haven’t had a real “back to school” moment in years, September still carries the energy of a new school uniform (yep, attended Catholic school from K–8), sharpened pencils (Ticonderoga #2s!), new notebooks (composition notebooks only, not sure why), and a return to seriousness. I can still feel the stiffness of that plaid jumpskirt and hear the way my sensible black-or-brown-only shoes squeaked against the linoleum floors. The ritual of school-supply shopping made it feel like September was less about a date on the calendar and more about hitting the reset button. Summer was for drifting, but September was for getting serious.

I can’t help but think this is a result of conditioning. Most of us spent the first two decades of our lives on the academic calendar. September was the real New Year, whether or not the calendar said January. It was when the freedom of summer gave way to early alarms, structure, and expectations. Even as adults — with no teacher waiting and no midterms looming — that rhythm is still baked into us.

You see it everywhere. Workplaces suddenly feel busier, like everyone collectively decided that “vacation season” is over. Calendars fill up again. Deadlines multiply. Summer Fridays give way to Friday status updates. Every year, the week after Labor Day, it’s like someone sounded an alarm and suddenly I’m drowning in meeting invites and Slack pings. Somewhere along the line, we tied September to discipline and productivity, and we never let go.

I notice it in myself too, and I try to resist. The silly little voice in my head that never shuts up insists that summer fun is over, that I should be inside getting things done. It’s like a phantom school bell still ringing, even though I graduated long ago. The adult version isn’t homework. It’s the guilt I feel if I say yes to a mid-day ice cream run or a last-minute hike before winter sets in.

But maybe September doesn’t have to mean the end of leisure. Maybe we don’t have to accept the cultural script that says fall is for buckling down. Especially not during These Times. Joy is resistance, right?

After all, harvest season was never just about hard work. It was also about feasts and festivals, about gathering to celebrate what had been grown. Maybe the invitation of September isn’t to put our heads down and grind, but to find balance… to hold onto slowness even as the days get shorter. To make soup AND still eat ice cream. To reset without erasing joy.

So no, I won’t be rushing into Serious September just yet. The air might feel different, but I’m holding onto the sunshine a little longer. After all, it’s still 85 degrees out.

Culture is a choice. Are we choosing the right things?

“Amanda, you’re on the clock.”

This, of course, is referring to… my work fantasy football draft.

Right now, I’m logging into my league app, checking scores and analysis articles, and debating waiver wire moves.

I’m not here to complain about fantasy football existing at work. I actually enjoy it. What I am interested in is the way fantasy football — and sports more broadly — gets treated as the default culture of the workplace.

Every fall, office Slack channels light up with draft chatter. Coworkers huddle around talking trades. Monday meetings start with a recap of Sunday’s games. If you don’t play, you’re suddenly outside the inside jokes. And if you don’t like sports at all, forget it: You’re missing not just the game, but a whole layer of office culture.

Sports are everywhere at work, even beyond the games themselves. Think about the metaphors we casually toss into meetings: 

• We’ve got that project on deck
• This idea is a slam dunk
• Our sponsor team threw us a curveball
• That client is playing hardball
• We need to get this over the finish line
• Etc.

Admittedly, I use some of these phrases! I didn’t even realize so many of these common office phrases had a sports origin, until I sat down to think of them just now. They just snuck in and became part of my vocabulary. And that’s the point: They slip in unnoticed, reinforcing the idea that everyone should speak the language of sports. (Side note: There’s a TikTok creator, Ari Kraemer, who has started using makeup metaphors at work. “I mean, you’re skipping skin prep and are wondering why the results aren’t sticking.” Genius. Hilarious.)

Now compare that to other cultural moments. When the Met Gala rolls around, maybe you’ll find one coworker who wants to gossip about red carpet looks. The MTV Video Music Awards, just this past weekend? That’ll get a passing mention at best. When the new season of “Love is Blind” drops? You’ll get an eye roll and a “reality TV is stupid” or “not everyone watches that.” (Side note #2: Sports is literally reality TV for men. The cast of characters! The cliffhangers every Sunday! The physical altercations! The DRAMA! I will die on this hill.)

Sports, which are overwhelmingly coded male in American culture, are treated as neutral, universal, and worth organizing entire office rituals around. But pop culture, award shows, and reality TV — often coded feminine, queer, and/or niche — are treated as side interests. Optional, and not central to workplace culture.

Fantasy football leagues and March Madness brackets aren’t bad. They’re fun! They bring people together. They spark connection across levels and departments. The problem is that they’re assumed to be the default, the thing everyone will get, while everything else is treated as a special interest.

I know this firsthand. I wanted to be part of the group. I learned how to play fantasy football, and participated in Superbowl Squares, and speed-ran learning who’s who in the NCAA, because I wanted to participate. They say fake it til you make it, and I sure faked it during my fantasy draft this year. Now I understand just enough to be dangerous, where I can jump into the shit-talking, use the metaphors, keep up with league standings, and maybe even win some of these games. But I can also feel how uneven the playing field is. My pop culture references, the things the typical American man in the workplace doesn’t care about, don’t carry the same weight. I don’t see Slack channels lighting up over the Backstreet Boys Las Vegas residency. I don’t see brackets being made for Best Picture nominees.

This isn’t just about what we do for fun at work, but it’s what got me thinking. This observation is broader than the workplace. It’s about who gets to set the cultural baseline. When men’s hobbies and interests are positioned as the norm, it sends a subtle but powerful message about who belongs and whose culture is secondary. I witnessed SO. MUCH. COMPLAINING by men (and women too, but a whole lot of men) who think Taylor Swift’s engagement to Travis Kelce is stupid, a publicity stunt, “who even cares, can’t I just enjoy football?” When Taylor Swift shows up on NFL broadcasts, men groan that it’s ruining the game. But women have had to learn who’s still in the running for the World Series or which quarterback is out with an injury just to keep up at work. Isn’t it interesting how one is seen as an intrusion and the other is just… culture.

What’s fascinating about all of this is that sports themselves are not inherently universal. They just get treated that way. We’ve decided as a society that the Final Four is more culturally relevant than the season finale of “Love Island”, even though both reach millions. We’ve decided that Monday morning quarterbacking belongs in the office, but Monday morning red carpet reviews do not.

That choice is not neutral. It’s about power, history, and whose interests have long been centered in the public sphere.

I’m not suggesting we all stop filling out brackets or shut down fantasy leagues. Like I said, I enjoy them. But I do think it’s worth noticing what we’re elevating as “for everyone” and what we’re dismissing as “just for some.” Why is it cool to like sports but uncool to like boy bands? Why are we trained to adapt to the world of straight men’s interests, while their participation in ours is optional?

What if the baseline wasn’t only men’s interests? What if the Oscars pool got as much energy as March Madness? What if office-wide chatter included not just the touchdown highlights, but the VMAs performances (Lady Gaga frickin SLAYED) or the latest episode of a hit reality show? What if we treated pop culture, in all its diversity, as culture — not niche, not extra, not optional, but just as valid as sports?

What this thought exercise made me realize is: Culture is a choice, and I’m intentionally taking up more space with all of my interests that aren’t considered the default.

Why rituals matter, and why I’m leaning into the ones I grew up with

If you walk through any museum, you’ll notice how much of what we know about ancient cultures comes from ritual. Offerings, vessels, jewelry, charms, garments. It wasn’t “just” decoration. These objects carried meaning: protection, luck, fertility, gratitude. They were the stuff of daily life. They were reminders that people weren’t just surviving, but living with intention.

Yet, in modern life, rituals so often slip away. Efficiency replaced them. Why steep medicinal tea when you can swallow a pill? Why cook a traditional dish when takeout is faster? Individualism eroded the collective. Science flattened mystery into data. Migration and assimilation push people to blend in and leave behind practices that mark them as “other”. Slowly, rituals become remnants of a time that once was, tucked into memory or behind museum glass.

I don’t think the human need for ritual ever disappears. It’s written into us. That’s why you see people lighting candles for self-care, rolling out yoga mats, or crafting morning routines as if they were sacred rites. Having a warm beverage every morning is a ritual of mine (as is my husband’s process of making me one). Sports fans paint their faces for a game, birthdays are celebrated with a cake and a song.

Lately, I’ve found myself leaning into the rituals I grew up around, especially the Chinese ones. I was inspired to write about this topic because I reached for “cooling” foods last week. According to Traditional Chinese Medicine, there are “cooling” and “heaty” foods, and you need to maintain balance. I’ve been breaking out and biting my cheeks after eating lots of spicy and fried foods (“heaty”), so I had melon (“cooling”) for dessert every day for a week. Look, I believe in science, but I also believe in centuries-old wisdom — especially when it clears up my skin.

Other Chinese rituals I practice: Eating chicken and noodles on my birthday, because chicken is good luck and long noodles mean long life. Wearing my jade bangle for protection, even though it was definitely seen as auntie-core when I was a kid (and let’s be real, it’s gorgeous). Wearing red for the moments I need luck or celebration. Lighting incense to purify my home’s energy and ward away bad juju.

These might look like superstitions from the outside (“I’m not superstitious, but I’m a little stitious” – Michael Scott). But to me, they’re more than that. They’re ways of staying tethered to a lineage and a community, even when modern life tries to strip that away. When I eat my birthday noodles, I’m not just having dinner, I’m celebrating a tradition practiced for centuries. When I rock my jade bangle, I’m carrying a piece of my heritage that protects me in ways both seen and unseen.

Rituals like these remind me that love, protection, and belonging don’t always need to be spoken outright. Sometimes they’re eaten, sometimes they’re worn, sometimes they live in tiny gestures. The older I get, the more I understand why my parents and grandparents clung to these small acts, even as they built new lives in a new country. Rituals weren’t just habits. They were identity, they were culture. They were a way of saying “we’re still us even in a different place.”

Maybe modern society wants to sand down those edges, to make everything faster, smoother, easier, optimized (ooh, I have a whole post’s worth of opinions about optimization, but I digress), homogenized. But I don’t think ease is the point. Rituals slow us down. They make us pause, notice, connect. They remind us that even the smallest things — a bowl of noodles, a jade necklace, a red shirt — can turn the everyday into something meaningful.

I think that’s why I find myself craving them more now. I want to slow down, connect, find meaning in the mundane, and be more intentional about what I do and why I do it. I also think — in a full-circle kind of way — that I want these rituals for the same reasons my parents did. They’re not just rituals I practice… they’re rituals that hold onto me.

There’s probably more to unpack here, but for now, I’m happy acknowledging my rituals, even if they seem a little stitious.