(in a scary voice) "i am the san diego chargeeeerrrrrrr"

I’m kind of scared. There’s a running joke in our little household (and by joke I mean, not a joke because jokes aren’t supposed to make you feel scared…) that we have a ghost. I mean, I don’t reeeeally think we have a ghost and even if we DID have a ghost, I’d be, like, totally cool with that (psst - I’m just writing that just in case the ghost reads my blog and I don’t want it to know that I’m really scared of it). I think this because I hear noises around the house at night...The noises I hear are noises houses make…you know, creaking and cracking and sighing and farting. Oh wait, that’s not the house. I will blame the farting on our non existent dog. MY POINT IS, they are noises that New Yorkers just aren’t used to hearing because no one lives in a house. So maybe, I thought, that's why I'm such a big scaredy-cat sometimes.

But THEN: my charger disappeared. So, I have a ritual. Every night, I charge my phone with the charger that is next to my bed. If I travel, I take ANOTHER charger so as not to be caught chargerless when I’m going to bed because I took it with me traveling and didn't unpack it. Bc there’s nothing worse than getting OUT of bed to get a charger when you're all snugged up IN bed because there’s also nothing worse than having an uncharged phone the entire next day. One night, however, the charger was missing. Except it wasn’t missing. It was in ANOTHER PLUG on the OTHER SIDE OF THE BED.

My hubby swears he doesn’t remember moving it. Which is different than swearing he didn’t move it. But STILL. SCARY!! Who moved it? 10% my husband, 90% the creepy San Diego Charger?

THEN. And this is why I’m cowering behind my computer in fear.

I just went outside to run and errand. Mind you, I had been alone in my office, nay! alone in the HOUSE for the entire day. When I came back from the errand, I saw this:

A FREAKING USED BAND-AID. A USED BAND-AID I SAID!! Obviously, I did a quick bodily once over to see if I had forgotten that I had hurt myself and then forgotten that I put a band-aid on. Then I remembered that I only buy Hello Kitty band-aids and there was NO WAY THAT BAND-AID IS MINE.

I’m so scared!!!!!!

sonic-ewwwww

so i needed to buy a new electric toothbrush yday so i naturally went to the largest e-tailer in the world - amazon.com - to do some price comparison:

look! YUCK! maaaybe i understand someone buying a used sonicare because you can just replace the head, but buying a used sonicare brush head???

that's just gross.

Dinner for Two

sorry sorry, i know it's been forever and a decade since i've last written on this blog. transitioning to a new place has taken over my new life.

this transition has not been without the normal hardships of missing friends, the energy of the city, etc. but i have to say little blessings do pop up on a daily basis.

1) blessing #1 - in san diego, people seem to take greater pride in their service jobs. i'm not kidding when i say that a recent trip to the verizon wireless store was one of the highlights of my life here.

2) blessing #2 - i've re-aquainted myself with the wondrousness of The Oprah Winfrey Show and am slowly coming to grips that this is her last season (i'm legitimately sad).

3) blessing #3 - we don't have to make reservations for any restaurant anymore.

ok, so maybe that last one is not always true. have you guys heard of P.F. Changs? it's kind of like an Olive Garden but for Chinese food. one look at the menu and you know that no Asian person of any sort was asked for input. this is not to say that the food is not delicious, because it is. delicious like Queso. delicious like Slim Jims. delicious like Cool Whip. fake. but delicious.

when i think about the board of directors at P.F. Changs, i envision a cadre of caucasion men, all rotund and rosy cheeked and loudly debating what they should name their dishes. "Moo Shoe Pork!" "Chinese Pig with Really Little Pan Cakes!" "Confucious say Moo Shoe Pork!" this is a restaurant where they actually have a loyalty program called the "Warrior's Club." (GONG!!!! (gong sound added for effect, that doesn't really happen when you sign up for the club tho i wouldn't put it past them)).

Anyway, i'm being totally unfair because the food is actually quite tasty at P.F. Changs. and we legitimately wanted to go there on Friday night. And as i said earlier, one doesn't need to make reservations in san diego, we rolled right up to the hostess counter and this is what happened...

irene: two for dinner, please

host: that will be 2 hour wait (handing me a abnormally large buzzer thing that will indicate when my table is ready)

irene: an hour wait???? here? (frantically waving arms around and pointing to the tacky chinese decor)

host: well. you know, this IS P.F. Changs...

it was as depressing a statement as saying a visit to the verizon store was one of my major highlights...

eat what you kill

p and i just got back from a 3 day culinary course in santa barbara. it was so top chef and i highly recommend it if you're into that kind of thing. our cherubic looking teacher julia (named after ms. child) taught us how to chiffonade, julliene, and brunoise. she taught us how to organize our pantry, how to flip over a tarte tartin, and how to make foccacia from scratch. but perhaps the thing i was most proud of accomplishing was not barfing up my homemade croissant at the fish market when she revealed that this was going to be our last lesson/meal:

just look at the terror on that fish face...the one on top. look! it's like the funny face i make when i'm pretending to be really really scared except this fish ain't pretending.

here's another shot:


the blobs on the right of the head are his EYES. his EYES!!! and yes, we had to eat it, too.

a tip to santa...

REALLY NOW? is this gigantic psychedelic headband really the PERFECT christmas gift? come on!!!

i'm the master of hyperbole, but this is ridiculous. if i gave anyone this gift for christmas, i'd expect a sock in the face in return. a well deserved one, at that.

i miss nyc shopping. i really do. which is weird because i actually hate it. nyc shopping is wonderful in theory, but in actuality, it's too crowded, too expensive, too impulsive, and too time consuming. not to mention all that walking and carrying bags! theoretical shopping in san diego shopping is SO MUCH BETTER. you go to a single location, walk around in the sun without ambition, and buy stuff from pleasant sales people. when you're tired, you go to the food court and eat delicious mexican food. when you're done, you go get your car from valet, and with a flick of your wrist, your bags are in the back of your car and you are driving home recklessly (everyone in san diego is a bad driver except for my husband who is just an angry driver because everyone else is such a bad driver.)

there is one problem: there is nothing to buy in san diego malls. this got me thinking...maybe i'm been looking for love in all the wrong places. so, i did a quick yelp search for "san diego boutique" and these were the stores than came up.

Temptress
Ooh La La
Girly Girly
Love Me
Dream Girls
Lusty Lady
Bubbles
Unicorn**
Kyss

i seriously had to scroll up to the "search for" box to see if i had accidentally typed in "san diego finest strip clubs" instead of "boutique" but no, i did indeed type "B-O-U-T-I-Q-U-E-S".

this is a huge problem. next time you see me, i'm going to be wearing eddie bauer jean pants with a tucked in Gap Tee. either that, or i will be wearing nipple pasties and 5 inch clear heels and nothing else. i don't know which is worse.

**i know i'm slagging off all of these names, but w/regards to "Unicorn", it's simply the BEST STORE NAME EVER. i'm SO mad someone else took it before i thought of it.

wax on, wax off

i just got an email from a friend. men may not want to read this. it involves hair removal. come to think of it, women may not want to read it either. but what the heck! i'll post it anyway. i took out some of the words to make it less graphic and more mad libby.

here's the email:

"First of all, I haven't had a wax in awhile. Fair enough, & you know how [insert color here] people have a LOT of [insert body accoutrement here], not like our friends in the rest of [insert country here]. So the Eastern [insert country here] [insert noun here] comes in, & she's like, "oh no you've never been waxed? We have to [insert verb here]." I was like, I've been waxed, just not in awhile. She says, "Oh, you have to wait maximum [insert number here] weeks between each waxing. I will have to [insert verb here]. So she gets out [insert common household tool here] & literally [insert verb here] my hair down there. I've NEVER had any one do that! So I'm already thinking this is a little weird. But I'm like, ok fine.

Other things she said/did during the course of the waxing:

1. She kept saying "good [insert noun here]." I think she doesn't speak English so well. One time she said "ok baby".

2. After she pulled off the [insert noun here] she set it down in between my [insert body part here, plural]. So by the end of the waxing it was as though I had pooped out an entire pile of [insert noun here].

3. She made me get up off the [insert furniture piece here] immediately when the wax was done so she could remove the pile of [insert noun here] asap.

4. On her left hand she was wearing a plastic [insert noun here]. It would accummulate [insert noun here], but she would still hold my [insert body part here] taut with that hand. So after she removed a strip of wax there was an additional moment of pain when she had to remove her hand from my body. It hurt more than the regular strips because it had old [insert noun here] on it!

5. When she put the [insert noun here] on me she patted it down and said "do you feel like a baby when I do that hahaha?"

6. MOST SHOCKINGLY: when she was almost finished she was more deeply in my "area" than any one's been for a long time, & definitely more deeply than any waxer has been ... & she goes, "ok just a little [insert type of shrubbery here] now, almost finished"

At least it was clean but I would NEVER recommend this place!

(ed: i feel traumatized and violated)

this commercial hurts...

have you guys seen the cymbalta commercial? an authoritative and melancholy voice asks you if you are depressed. and if you weren't depressed before you saw the commercial, you certainly will be after.

it's the most depressing thing i've seen in along time. excuse me as i cry my heart out into my pillow for 5 minutes....

*5 minute sad music interlude. the background music for cymbalta will do just fine*

ok, i'm back.

what is UP with that commercial? it's nothing if not predatory! catch me on a bad day and i'll be chomping on pills in no time. and i used to think this guy was bad:



(that sad, cute little dude is the zoloft mascot. heartbreaking, isn't he?)

it's time to leave NYC when...

i had the most embarassing encounter at home depot the other day.

the home depot in san diego is not at all like the one on 23rd street. it's super hardcore and intimidating. the people who frequent the SD home depot are building skyscrapers using only their teeth and maybe their left arm if they're feeling weak that day. NY home depot is to SD home depot as bell pepper is to habanero pepper times infinity.

we needed lots of stuff...a propane tank for our new grill, some wooden slats to fix our bed, some work gloves so as not to contract splinters when handling aforementioned wooden slats, and some WD... wait. WD...

SHOOT! i'm doing it again! WD-40 or WD-50*? which is the metal lubricant and which is the uber high end molecular gastronomy watering hole for NYC epicureans?

i gambled and i this is what i said in a high pitched, nervous voice: "can you tell me where i can find some WD...um. some WD FIFTY?????". well, i lost that bet, my pride, and my home depot street cred, too.

remember kids. WD-40 is what you're looking for if you're in a hardware store.


*www.wd-50.com/
so yum. ken and yael took me there once.

this, not that

one of the best things about moving back to san diego is that national public radio is back in my life. i love NPR, but for some reason, I enjoy it best when driving, and i'm happy to say that my NPR famine is officially over.

anyway, I just listened to a fascinating segment was on pat robinson - you know, that freaky televangelist. side note – back in the 80’s, when televangelists were all the rage, didn’t you JUST KNOW that something was not right withTammy Faye and Jim Bakker, Jimmy Swaggart, Jerry Falwell, and Pat Robinson? If it’s not obvious from this picture below, then I hope your job doesn’t require you to operate heavy machinery:



Even as children, we knew something was not right. They they gave you Sunday Morning heebie jeebies even if you got a glimpse of them when flipping through the channels. Then, we found out that not only are they weird, they are bad people, too.

Take a look at this Wikipedia list titled, “List of Christian Evangelist Scandals”. It’s crazy!!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Christian_evangelist_scandals

So back to Pat Robinson. To be perfectly honest, I have now forgotten most of the details of the story because I was so distraught after hearing it, but this is the gist of it: pat robinson is allegedly involved in some situation involving blood diamonds. Supporting not just any blood diamond cartel, but the most violent one. meaning, the cartel that coined the phrase "blood diamonds" because they chopped off PEOPLE’S HANDS. I KNOW! ICK!!

FURTHERMORE, he was involved in the trafficking of ARMS!!! DOUBLE GRODY!!! ARMS?!?! who the heck buys ARMS? who WANTS ARMS?

it wasn't until i was parked in my driveway that I realized I was thinking about the wrong kind of arms.

Not this kind of arms:
That kind of arms:

land of dum dums

I took a picture of this cheese at the place I always go to for lunch. For those of you who can’t see the image above, it says, “GOODA REDUCED FAT” on its label. As if sucking the fat out of her wasn’t bad enough, they then called her “GOODA?” Is that like “Krab Meat”? Are they trying to tell me that I'm not actually eating cheese, rather, processed FISH?

Wanting to give the manufacturers of “GOODA REDUCED FAT” cheese the benefit of the doubt, I did a quick Google search. Sure enough, I got a “DID YOU MEAN GOUDA (ya dumbnut)?” (the “ya dumbnut” is editorialized, but you know that’s what the Google is thinking).

Of COURSE I meant GOUDA!

This reminds me of an encounter I had with a travel agent in 2005. I was booking an annoyingly elaborate trip that had me stopping over in all sorts of places. For reasons still unknown to me, flying out of San Diego and into Palma, Mallorca proved too difficult for the itty bitty red-hatted gnomes working behind the scenes at Travelocity so they asked me to call a booking agent and speak to a real live person.

Real Live Person: “This is Bernice. I see that you’re trying to get from San Diego (also known as whale’s vagina (quote from Anchorman (she didn’t really say that))) to Mall Orca.”

Me: “ummmm. Right. It’s actually pronounced “Ma YORKA”, unless you’re South American, then you’re more likely to pronounce it with a slight “J” sound. Like this: “Ma chorka.” But I digress. Yes, Bernice. I’m trying to get to Mallorca.”*

Bernice: “well, it looks like you can get there if you don’t mind a stopover in Pragway.”

Me: “Pragway?"

Bernice: “or maybe it’s pronounced, “Pra-goo.”

Sigh.

PRAGUE is the capital and largest city of the Czech Republic. Nicknames for Prague have included Praga mater urbium/Praha matka měst ("Prague – Mother of Cities") in Latin/Czech, Stověžatá Praha ("City of a Hundred Spires") in Czech or Zlaté město/Goldene Stadt ("Golden City") in Czech/German, and PraGOO, if you’re a Travelocity travel agent.

*i didn't really say this, but i definitely thought it.

picture pages

i have undertaken the herculean task of organizing my family's box of photos. most families have a collection of photo albums that act as a timeline of their lives. we have a photo box. which basically means 30-odd years worth of photos dumped into a box. pretty simple.

so for christmas vacation 2009, i spent $300 on photo archival paper, $50 on 8 hot pink binders (mom's choice) and 10 hours and counting so far on coercing each picture into its glossy place with my mom's korean soap operas playing in the background.

some of you may regard this project as the punishment given to medieval thieves and other social miscreants before thumb screws were invented, but i actually enjoyed my solo walk down memory 6 lane highway.

though i now have a ravaging "alexa ray joel/christy brinkley" syndrome (you know, realizing that your mom is way hotter than you are), don't worry, my friends, i won't curse out my dad for his dominant genes and then chomp on 8 natural sleeping pills. maybe my mom's genes skips a generation and my kid will inherit her perfectly perfect nose. (picture: my mom desperately trying to sculpt my nose into place while the cartilage is still young and malleable).



i also came to realize that between the ages of zero to 12, i only had two faces that i like to call, "you are the funniest person in the world!" and "i really need to take a dump." see exhibits below (funny, followed by dump, in case there is any confusion...i understand that there might be).





the hardest part of this project is not the attention to detail required (particularly since i have none), but the decision of when it's OK to throw away pictures. some decisions are easy. i guiltlessly threw away all of the pictures that had my dad's finger in front of the lens. and all the pictures that came back from Vons with a removable sticker that said, "best quality. no charge. take photography lessons" but then came the harder choices. do i throw away the double pictures? the quadruple pictures? do we really need 4 pictures of me playing piano, especially when we have 20 others just like it? do i throw away the pictures of the unidentified animal from the San Diego zoo? a picture taken just when the tiger went back into its cave?

it's kind of like playing God. or deleting history. or stealing memories. i find myself contemplating throwing away people in my life that have broken my heart or people that i just don't like anymore. i do. because they are my memories and i choose to hit the delete button on them. i consider throwing away pictures of people who have broken my mom's heart. pictures i know will cause her pain. people she has actively tried to forget. do i? is that my decision? i keep them but put them in an envelope with a big heart with an X through it. she knew exactly what those pictures were and said i could toss them.

do i throw away the pictures of my dad's home perm (lady ogilvie, tight curlers, administered in the kitchen by my mom, the amateur esthetician) because i KNOW he'd rather forget that experience? i kept them and made them the front cover of one of the albums.

what about all the ones from college where i don't even look like myself (amazing what 30 pounds can do to you)? i burn them because, truthfully, i'm tired of filing.

just kidding. i kept those blasted pictures. just so i'll have something to tape on the fridge when i need to lose some weight.

now, if you'll excuse me, i have 2,000 more pictures to file.

i'm a crier

i'm not sure when the transition happened. it must be hormonal. there is no explanation for it. i'm a crier. and what's more..i kinda like it.

when i was kid, i wasn't a crier. maybe because my best friend erin was a big ol' crier for both of us. remember her from my previous posts? erin and i got our way because all i had to do was nudge her and say, "psst. erin. cry. ahora*." and erin would cry on cue. this frequently resulted in our moms handing over mint chocolate ice cream.

or how about: "erin. cry".

BAM. sleepover thursdays were reinstated.

sometimes it was more like: "one more time, erin. cry."

new jelly shoes to match our jelly bracelets that we got bc erin cried would magically appeared at our feet.

crying was great.

anyway, i was a stomper. a yeller. a runner. hardly ever a crier. when i was frustrated, i stamped and yelled and ran away. but around year 30, i noticed that things just made me cry.

things like:
(happy things)
* when my co worker told me that her niece may be able to play viola once again after a dog attacked her arm.
* when they "MOVE THAT BUS!" in extreme home makeover
"CHRISTINA AGUILERA: BEHIND THE MUSIC", on VH1
* a picture of suri cruise delighting in the park in US Weekly


(sad things)
* when fabio the italian got kicked off of top chef season 5
* the "hero" music video by enrique iglesias
* lost kids looking for their moms in malls
* lost moms looking for their kids (arguably sadder)


(just things)
* the cotton commercials ("the fabric of our liiiives")
* the mcdonalds commercial where the kid is dropped off at college and he's emotional but prefers to appear stoic.
* when i see a baby picture. of myself.
* dead plants i've killed with my own two hands.

all of the above have brought tears to my eyes within the last 30 days. so if you see me blinking rapidly and swallowing hard, you can be sure something happy, sad, or just plain thingy, made me cry. and it feels great!

*ahora: means NOW! in spanish. i used it liberally and with emphasis with an astonishingly impressive spanish accent for a 9 year old.

No Wonder

The past couple of days I have been sleepier than usual in the morning. I'm talking eyes glazing over, chin hitting chest sleepy. The kind of sleepy where you actually catch yourself fantasizing about cutting off your arm in exchange for a pillow top bed with crisp sheets and cool pillows.

THIS is why:


SHOOT - i can't get a clear shot - but, THEY SWITCHED MY MORNING COFFEE TO DECAF!

There You Are!

I hadn't seen his subway ad for over a year. Maybe I was riding the wrong subway cars? Maybe he left the business. Maybe it was because of fraud! Who could really believe his unequivocally confident technocolor "Beautiful Clear Skin" ads, after all? But two days ago, as I (ironically) was poking the carbuncle growing on my forehead, I looked up and there he was!!! His weird eyeless eyes staring at me. My goodness, I almost genuflected right then and there.

THANK YOU DR. ZIZMOR! I MISSED YOU!

words that people can't say

when i was a kid, i couldn't say the word "specific." i could only say "suh-pacific." ever determined, i trained myself to say "specific" by reasoning, "irene, if you can say SPAGHETTI, then you can say SUH-PACIFIC." makes sense, right?? this kind of self coaching paid off and soon enough, I was able to say "specific" with no trouble at all. (incidentally, the other word that gave me problems was the word "intrigued." I pronounced it "introoged" in my head for over 8 years before i found out how it was really pronounced. and then i actually said, "that's very introoging, mr. pilch!" in 6th grade and it was really embarassing.)

Anyway, the other day i took a an abs class at my gym. my instructor, marcus, couldn't say the word "two". he would count, "ONE STEW THREE FOUR! ONE STEW THREE FOUR!" and it was highly distracting. Especially since he started the class by saying "Class: Today, we are working on perfecting our plank position." If he can say "today", why can't he say "two?".

I guess it's a bigger problem than people realize 'cause I once knew a person who couldn't say the word "shrimp." I noticed it because he would say "prawns" instead of shrimp. When I asked him why he said "prawns", he said it was because he couldn't say "shrimp" because he sometimes had issues with the "sh" sound. obviously, I forced him to say "shrimp" 10 times over really fast. And this is what it sounded like "srimp srimp srimp srimp srimp srimp srimp srimp srimp srimp" can you believe it?

I told him about how I used have issues with the word "specific" and that we all can get over minor speech impediments with tenacity and practice and told him to say, "Shirley's Surely Shrimpy!" 5 times every day. He thought I was making fun of him and he walked away in a huff. What a same.

her ana is like, dead

irenejkim77: look at this picture of suri. i'm dying of cuteness overload. http://www.people.com/people/article/0,,20273213,00.html?xid=rss-topheadlines


bff@work: what a cutie patootie! i hear katie wants to leave tom
bff@work: do u think that's tru?
irenejkim77: omg. i don't now.
irenejkim77: know.
irenejkim77: i hope not. for suri's sake
bff@work: do u think tori is ana?
irenejkim77: of COURSE she is. spelling?
irenejkim77: tori spelling? bobble head?
bff@work: i kind of think she isn't
irenejkim77: WHAT?!??!??!????!????
bff@work: shes just like, at a skinny point in her life
irenejkim77: are you blind, woman?
irenejkim77: she's def ana !!!!!
bff@work: no, i get that she's too skinny
bff@work: but is she literally starving herself or is it unintentional?
irenejkim77: uh, literally starvinv herself.
irenejkim77: (like i can't blf you can't tell )
bff@work: no i can tell she is not eating enough food
bff@work: i'm wondering about her mental state behind it. like "i can't eat, i'm not thin enough blah blah"
bff@work: or what she says "i'm running around crazy and haven't really been eating properly, i get that i'm too thin"
irenejkim77: tori has SAID that she feels pressure to be thin.
irenejkim77: post pregnancy.
irenejkim77: i think everyone is ana in h-wood who looks too thin.
bff@work: we see a lot of these hollywood types get bobble headed after baby
irenejkim77: except that their standards are all reset...
bff@work: i would prolly be ana too
irenejkim77: so they think they're not.
irenejkim77: right.
irenejkim77: i would be, too.
irenejkim77: totally paranoid about what i eat.
bff@work: bcuz it's so much pressure! and so much upside if u are thin
bff@work: and we're regular sized
irenejkim77: bc everyone is a midget. In h-wood. a midget.
bff@work: like no paparazzi
irenejkim77: right. that's what i'm sayin.g
bff@work: agreed
irenejkim77: tori may not THINK she's ana. but she is.
bff@work: aha! understood
irenejkim77: total paradigm shift.
bff@work: like our ana is her normal
bff@work: her ana is like, dead
irenejkim77: HAHA made me laugh.

This summer has been a very wet one in New York City. I think I read somewhere that June 2009 was the 4th wettest June in NYC history. Which doesn’t sound all that impressive because nobody remembers 4th place (this strikes a personal chord with me because my business school seems to be perpetually stuck in #4 purgatory. With a logo like THAT, we're NEVER gonna be #1!)



Anyway, I've started to notice a pattern. A sudden summer rainstorm is almost ALWAYS followed by distant fire engine sounds. Have you noticed this and if so, do you have a theory as to why? I realize that there are dangers related to driving in the rain. I'm familiar with the concept of Hydroplaning. Not only because I have done it before (WHHEEEE!! I'm driving down the 805! WHHEEEEE! I'm SLIDING down the 805!) but because Californians are notoriously bad drivers in rain and I have witnessed more cars spinning down the freeway than I have heart-shaped items in my apartment. But…if a car hydroplanes and ultimately ends up in a car crash (God Forbid)…doesn't that usually involve the Fuzz, not the Fire Department?

So I googled "Fire and Rain". The only thing that came up was : ""Fire and Rain" is a folk/rock song written and performed by James Taylor. Taylor publicly said that he composed "Fire and Rain" in 1968 during a stay in the Spanish island of Formentera, a place that he jokingly defined as a place (then) "full of goats and drug smugglers".

(Cool! I went to Formentera! I didn't see any goats! See blog: http://iwantpink.blogspot.com/2007/07/vacation-planning.html)

I don’t know this song "Fire and Rain". Mind you, I'm the person who thought Jim Croce was African American. Tom Jones, too, come to think of it. So I'm not exactly your "Phone A Friend" when it comes to these matters. I looked up the lyrics and nope, the song doesn't ring a bell. And it didn't shed any light on why sudden rain storms are frequently followed by the fire engine siren sound. I know it's a random post. But I was just wondering why, that's all.

Toe Jam

I was in Boston yesterday. Until recently, my list of Why I Love Boston were negated by a list of equal length of Why I Don't Always Love Boston, netting me neutral on the city. After what happened to me yesterday, why IDALB is winning by a nose.

It was 1:51 pm and I was frantically looking around for a cab to take me to Logan Airport to catch a 2:30 flight. There was none to be found. And I wasn't alone; there was a pack of us roaming around Congress Street trying to flag a cab. As the minutes sped by and my competition increased, I knew I had to take action. I exchanged my high heels for my black flats and broke out in a wind sprint down the cobblestone streets around Faneuil Hall. In less than 3 seconds, I somehow simultaneously kicked off BOTH shoes in OPPOSITE directions, rendering me barefoot and sprinting for a good 5 lopes before I put my Flintstone breaks on and screeched to a grinding halt. The ring toe* on my left foot took the brunt of the trauma but I paid no attention because I was too aware of the people pointing and laughing at the stressed out Asian girl running barefoot. I'm sure the veterans who had been warily eyeing me earlier were immediately brought back to Hiroshima, circa August 6, 1945.

Anyhoo. I picked up my shoes (they were at least 15 feet apart from each other, with me as the Epicenter of Trouble) and lo and behold! A CAB! I hopped in the cab and made it on my flight. I, unfortunately, sat behind two Finance guys who talked the entire time of why "Hamachi" was better than "Yellowtail". I was thiiiiiiiise close to tapping them on their shoulders and saying, "Listen Turdface, Hamachi and Yellowtail are THE SAME THING". But I didn't. Because I was reading SkyMall. CHECK THIS OUT!



It's a little microwave for YOUR CAR! It plugs into the CIGARETTE LIGHTER! Oh, SkyMall! You never fail me.

Anyway, the point of my story is that I think I broke my toe. It's running a fever and the nail is turning black.

*no,i would NEVER EVER wear a ring on my toe. and if you thought this even for a second, you are dead to me.

laundry day

Sunday night. It’s the night that everyone in Manhattan does laundry.

I’ve always felt fortunate that I have never seen someone in the laundry room. Which, now that I see it in writing, is kind of scary, because my laundry room is the perfect backdrop for a gruesome crime scene: flickering lights, low humming in the background, and a mystery room (a door with 4 deadbolts on it – what’s in there? Bodies, that’s what). Nevertheless, I still feel fortunate, because having to wait for a washer/dryer is really annoying.

This Sunday night was different. I went to the “LL” floor and for the first time in over a year, there was another person in the room. She was very tiny. Like a child. But she wasn’t a child because she had a red thong in her hand. And I don’t know any children who wear red thongs. Even in Manhattan. Anyway, I knew then and there that our cycles were off. Our laundry cycles, that is, because she was putting things and thongs in the dryer. And everyone knows the dryer is on a 60 minute cycle while the washer is on a 34 minute cycle. WTF? are industrial use washer/dryers made by the same people who package hot dog and buns in off-ratios, too?

I place my clothes in the washer as she finished placing hers in the dryer. There was no way this was going to work. I watched exactly 34 minutes of “Old School” on TBS and then went to go check on my clothes.

My cycle was done. Hers was still humming away as i knew it would be. What to do?

I did what any college student would do. I took her laundry out and put it in the metal basket. Then, because we live in adult land, I took it a step further and began folding her clothes.

I nervously looked at the elevator light. It was firmly on “6”. If it started to creep downwards, I knew I had approximately 3 minutes to finish folding, put MY stuff in the dryer, and sprint up the back stairs to my room and remain the anonymous Laundry Fairy. I shook out a pair of jeans. HOLY COW she’s tiny! Size 24? Who the hell wears size 24? A CHILD, that’s who. I folded them and place them in the cart. An “I Heart Obama” T shirt. Most likely educated, consensus-building, and a student, as most Liberals who wear their political proclivities in public tend to be. I continued folding. Oberlin College…aha. Maybe that’s where the pot smell always comes from. So far, she was a red thong wearing pot smoking child genius who would have voted for Obama if she were old enough, interning in Manhattan. I pulled out one Mens Boxer shorts. Boxer briefs (nice) but size T for Tiny. They must be a good match. But…only one pair of boxer briefs in this whole pile of laundry? A one night stand ending in a Commando dash back home? Who knows. Heh. This is kind of fun, folding the laundry of a red thong wearing pot smoking child genius who would have voted for Obama if she were old enough, interning in Manhattan, doing Tiny Men.

Oh SHT!! The elevator is going down! 3 minutes and counting! I started folding like a folding maniac. Matching gym socks with knee socks, wadding up her camisoles and throwing them back into the metal basket. It was too late. It was GAME OVER. Like a DVD on rewind, I started putting everything back into the dryer. Hurry hurry hurry!

The door opened just as I slammed the dryer door shut. I casually leaned on it, and smiled what I hoped was a serene smile.

Tiny Person: “WEIRD. My T shirt came out of the dryer perfectly folded.”

Me: “Huh! Hey, I love Obama, too!”

haha - this is why working with people in asia can be funny

From: xx, xx: Research
Sent: Thursday, July 02, 2009 4:52 AM
To: xx, x: Sales
Subject: RE: Feedback: REITS

Hello XXX,

Basically unemployment rate tends to be lagged with office vacancy rates and market expects vacancy rates will still continue to go up for a while so the question is when it will stop deterioration.

Sorry for not allowed to provide you any onion at the moment.

Regards

ASIAN CO WORKER

and he calls them "beetles"

Not even a week ago, I blogged about my ability to see disgusting things that others do not.

I am squiggling in my seat bc I can't decide whether I want to VOM on my keyboard or do the Chicken dance. Ok, so my team took the head of Asia XXXX (I am making this work generic…just know that he's very very senior. Let's call him Mr. Asia) to a Thai restaurant. I was sitting at the head of the table, he was to my right. My coworker, we'll call him MR. BLIND, was to my left.

Our entrees had just arrived. I got Beef with Chilies and Scallions and a side of Brown Rice. It was GOOD! And then I saw it. A 3 inch Cockroach on Mr. Asia's right wrist. It was rapidly making it's way up his arm. I looked over at Mr. Blind - because there was NO WAY he could have missed the cockroach since he was sitting DIRECTLY ACROSS from Mr. Asia, unless he was, well, blind.

Mr. Blind saw my pleading and silent eyes and pushed my water glass closer to me because(in his own words) he "thought your dish was too spicy" Useless bag of turd.

I closed my eyes and I made a decision. I would excuse myself and discreetly brush the Cockroach off onto the floor, which was now on Mr. Asia's back. No one would even know. I had to take one for the team.

When I opened my eyes, I realized the Cockroach had already made its way down his LEFT arm. Fast little ucker-fay. Without thinking, I slapped at Mr. Asia's forearm with my BARE HAND. Mr. Asia looked up at me with a "what's wrong with you, girl?" look on his face. I clamped my hand over my mouth to supress a scream and pointed to the Cockroach that had just flown over two tables and was doing a Zulu Backspin like a B-Boy on the floor.

So, I understand that there are Cockroaches in New York City. I just don't understand why I have to be the one to spot them first.

I AM

SO DISGUSTED.

everyone has a special talent. and mine is to gross myself out. i'm also very good at cracking myself up. but one talent at a time. what I am very good at doing is noticing things that people are not supposed to see. i mean, things that humans do in secret or on accident and then hopes that that no one caught them "doing that."

examples? nose picking. everyone does it. i barely blink an eye when I see someone casually brushing their nose with their digit and allow their finger to linger. but i seem to take it a step further and spot the people who not only pick their nose, they also lick their fingers afterwards. correction. they SUCK with RELISH on their fingers afterwards (you know who you are - and i always see you! STOP, PLEASE!). another example just happened two minutes ago and is the inspiration of this blog entry: i just saw a co-worker, who I swear is one lab test away from being diagnosed with the swine flu, cough out plegm halfway out his mouth, and slurp it back in.

(I'm cracking myself up right now! that’s how unbelievable it was! talent number two!)

the worst part is, he furtively looked around to see if anyone saw him. and we made eye contact (TERRIBLE!) to which i started reciting hamlet's soliloquy "To Be, Or Not To Be" very loudly so that my randomness would abate our mutual embarassment because i'm so...random. similar to the time my dad passed gas very loudly in a movie theater and so I burped even louder so that people would forget that he arted-fay (that's farted in pig latin).

Blech. I feel ill.

yo

I almost scared myself death this morning. TO DEATH.

I was taking a shower when I noticed that the bandaid I put over my blister was coming off. I gently peeled it off and placed it on the edge of my tub, telling myself not to forget that it was there.

As I bent down to inspect the blister in closer detail, I saw a cockroach surf down a rivulet of shower water towards the foot I was standing on. I screamed. Nay, I ( more like) SHRIEKED, "YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Yo?

You see, I was so frightened that I couldn't decide whether to say, "YEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" or "NOOOOOOOOOOO" so instead I said both, i.e., "YOOOOOOOOO!" which sounded like exactly the wrong thing to say at the time.

I mean, seriously, I said YO? YO was actually in the running for the last words uttered by me? (Not being melodramatic here, just very realistic...I slipped and saw grades K through 5 scroll through my brain before I grabbed onto the towel rack).

I felt silly. And then felt really silly when I realized that the cockroach was actually the bandaid that I just placed on the side of the tub, yo.

*crunch*

S turned me on to these little crostinis. Simple ingredients - durum flour, olive oil, water. delicious and a real satisfying crunch.

I was munching on some when I came up with the MOST BRILLIANT experiment. How Many Crunches Before You Get A Real Person While Waiting On The Phone For Time Warner?

I was a nerdy knocked-kneed girl in 8th grade (incidentally, that was the vertex of my intellectual parabola (the kind of parabola where a<0). i was valedictorian AND i won the spelling bee). and even tho i may have looked really cute in my uniform, i was tooootaly a nerd. por ejemplo, i didn't know why people giggled when i said, "i'm going to wear my maryjanes to school." who knew that meant marijuana? not me, that's who. anyway, that year, i won the 8th grade science project with my scientific method approved "testing plants with bleach." (the same year, i believe, erin won for her year for inventing the "pooper scooper"...a tool that scooped the poop rabbits ooped!)

i knew i was up for the task.

THE EXPERIMENT:

Overview
The purpose of this experiment is to disprove that it actually matters if English is spoken when in the grips of the Time Warner IVR (interactive voice recognition) system.
Safety
Glass of water to mitigate chocking hazards.
Chair to administer self Heimlich should subject choke.
Procedures
1) Dial 212 358 0900
2) whenever prompted to speak, CRUNCH on a crostini
Equipment
1) Crostini
2) Phone
Bias
Previous experience dealing TW.
Control
Navigating IVR with English
Outcome
IT DOES NOT MATTER IF YOU SPEAK CROSTINI OR ENGLISH. YOU STILL DON'T GET A REAL PERSON.

why does that not surprise me?

isn't it interesting (mildly) that

Vaseline and Baseline don't rhyme?

I'm just saying that it's okay to spend 2 seconds thinking about it, that's all.

...the size of your leg...

On my way to the subway on 18th and 7th last week, I saw a cuuuuuutie pie Yorkie. Actually, it was only cute because it was tiny and everything tiny has a better chance of being cute (like Vern Troyer. A life size Vern would be terrifying. Just terrifying). The Yorkie was about the size of three apples (exactly the size of Hello Kitty, btw), and it had a RED FLOWER behind its ear. iiii know! RIDICULOUS, but also so adorable that you wanted to smash it because it was so cute it was causing you intense pain in your chest.

Anyway, the Yorkie was quivering…as if it's Burberry trench coat was doing little to keep out the Spring chill. But WAIT. It wasn't the chill that was causing the Yorkie to quiver like a bowl of jello on a vibrating bed…it was TOTALLY DOING A POOP!!!! (EWWWWWWWWWWWWWW).

This has always grossed me out and always will. The thought of having to pick up warm POOP through a plastic bag makes me want to violently retch. But I was just FASCINATED by the size of the poop. It was at least 3.5 inches long. This is LONGER than the Yorkie's LEG. CAN YOU IMAGINE IF HUMANS DID THE EQUIVALENT? Um, let's not imagine.

i'm MAGIC! (use me wisely, soldier)

lostsomething99: ok so I lost something I don't want to tell you what bc it will make it more real but send good vibes and pray I find it ok?

irenejkim77: ok...i know that feelign and can empathize. (sending vibes)

lostsomething99: OH MY GOD

lostsomething99: You are magic

lostsomething99: I was just putting on my sweatshirt

lostsomething99: and heard a loud noise

lostsomething99: and I found it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

lostsomething99: THis is amazing

lostsomething99: it is my diamond locket

irenejkim77: ARE YOU SERIOUS?

irenejkim77: wow! (i have magical powers...and i never knew)

lostsomething99: YOU ARE MAGIC!!!!!!!!

irenejkim77: I'm MAGIC!

lostsomething99: it was like seconds

ok friends - giving all of you guys *one* chance to use this trick. IM me if you lost something. let's see if it works again!