you call them rubbers, i call them something else, but definitely NOT rubbers

last friday, my coworker visited the ny office. he lives in hong kong and like many hong kong residents, he throws around the word “honky” with the greatest of ease. mind you, he wasn’t using the word “honky” to mean the pejorative racial slur for people of european descent. instead, he was using the word “honky” to mean anything from the hong kong currency, to hong kong itself, to the people of hong kong. but that didn't matter. it was still embarrassing because everyone around us was collectively bristling each time he screamed “honky” across the trading floor.

i, too, have been in this situation. for example, when i moved to the east coast, i quickly learned that east coasters don’t use the word “thong” when referring to flip flops (i.e. “hey, hold on, let me put on my plastic thongs on before we go to the beach”). another example: the british say “pants” when they mean underwear, underoos, boxers. and let's throw in thongs (of the undergarment variety) just to make things more complicated. when i was a visiting student at oxford, i actually said to my friend “i went to miss Selfridges today and found the most amazing pair of velvet paisley pants that i want to wear to the party tonight…what else am i going to wear with them? probably just a t shirt and heels." REEAAAAAL classy. oh, yeah, and let's not forget the time i told someone that her boyfriend was seen at a black tie event wearing a tux accompanied by a "nice vest and bow tie". how was i supposed to know that in the UK, a “vest” means “tank top”? that’s right, i had just told my friend that her boyfriend went a fancy schmancy ball dressed up as a Chippendale stripper.

all this just means that one has to constantly adapt to the local vernacular. sure, i grew up calling my athletic shoes “tennies”, but now i call them "sneakers" and when i was in england, i called them "trainers". so if *i* make the effort to conform, so should other people.

i was 22 years old when i got my first corporate job at a big consulting firm. i was nervous, unsure, and scared of anyone whose billing rate was higher than mine (which was basically EVERYONE, including joe, our forlorn mail sorter). i knew i’d be in for many new experiences, but never did i think this scene would unfold:

project partner: well good morning Irene! you’re here bright and early!
Irene: (nervously) heh heh. yeah. heh.
project partner: it’s really terrible weather out there with the snow and sleet. did you drive here ok?
Irene: actually, i spun out of control in the bright green, tin can mustang that hertz hands out like stale candy. i almost killed someone on the way to work, but the car stopped spinning after 4 rotations and so i’m -
project partner: well, that’s fantastic! now, let’s get down to business.
Irene: oh ok – here’s the powerpoint deck that i worked ---
project partner: but FIRST (reaching down)let me just whip off my rubbers…
Irene: (covering eyes) AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
project partner: (clearly perplexed) what is WRONG with you?

important distinction: for dorky men over the age of 50, “rubbers” mean small plastic shoes that stretch over your fancy tasseled Florsheims. for people UNDER 50, “rubbers” mean something completely different.

And in England, “rubbers” means erasers.

PS: look what i found on wiki! “Prior to using rubber, white bread (without crust) was used to erase the mark of graphite pencil and charcoal.” i LOVE wikipedia almost as much as i love Suri Cruise. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eraser

please be good

a few months ago, i wrote a story called “introducing trouble.” if you remember, that’s what my parents called me. it seemed that wherever i went, mischievous drama nipped at my heels.

i have a hazy memory of huddling under a sink cabinet with a Handi-snak clutched in my hand, wondering how long i could survive on 4 crackers and a one square of spreadable, non perishable cheese. if i had to, i would also digest the red plastic stick. the damn S pipe under the sink was scratching my cheek. Everything was a little damp. and i had no bottoms on.

every Sunday my family went to church. my parents woke us up by blasting classical music through our intercom system and singing in a then annoying, now cute way, “Good morning Children!”. my mood when i woke up was wholly dependant on what dream they were interrupting. if they yanked me out of the tracks of a shadowy monster that was about to eat me, i ran downstairs grateful and smiley. i still haven’t forgiven them, however, for interrupting the BEST DREAM EVER. i was dreaming that i had the ability to fly by scissoring my legs back and forth. as i was flying through the rafters of an old medieval church, i turned to grin at my flying partner who was, surprise! the dashing fox from Disney’s Robin Hood.




I had the biggest crush on him, and i have to admit, i still kind of do. when the classical music hit my ears and gently pulled me out of sleep, i remember tossing and turning, squinting my eyes shut and trying to reclaim the dream, but the moment was lost. bye bye Robin Hood. i love you so much. will you be my boyfriend even tho you are a cartoon fox?

my mom dressed me until i was about 6 years old. the Monday after this particular Sunday was the last day she even tried. i was a particularly snazzy dresser, if not an incredibly opinionated one. i liked to wear clothes that made me feel FUN! and HAPPY! and PUNKY! and BREWSTERY!

enter grey wool skirt.

when my mom presented this skirt to me with great flourish, i fingered it’s grey wooliness and immediately thought “please sir, can i have some more?” i probably had a far away look in my eyes as i transported myself to center stage in the starring role of my school’s production of Oliver Twist. this drab, scratchy skirt would be perf!! My oma, on the other, hand, was thinking “Madeline in London” (author Ludwig Bemelmans wrote “Madeline in London” in 1961. It is part of a children book series where a little French girl romped around the world wearing a ridiculous hat).

anyway, when i saw that my mother intended to dress me in what i felt was a step below prison garb, i did what i had to do. i called upon my supernatural powers and willed my skeleton out of my body and fell to the floor in an un-grabbable, wiggly heap. when my mother stood up in exasperation, i quickly re-skelefied and ran away. a quick stop at the pantry and we’re back at scene one: handi-snacks under the kitchen sink.

This time, my parents didn’t try to find me like all the other times i “ran away”. Classical music floated through the air as order was restored. i felt SO disobedient. why was i always the bad kid? not to mention that i pulled this stunt on Sunday – a SUNDAY!! a day when i was supposed to be extra good and go to church and talk about how Jesus Christ is my lord and savior who saved me from my sins and then put a dollar in the offering tray to help those less fortunate than us.

Well, two things go through my head as i recount this memory:

•it’s funny and cute how i thought that the handi-snak incident made me a bad person
•it’s frightening and not cute how my idea of what is bad has grown exponentially with age

i see things around me that are truly evil. not six year old evil, but really really bad. and i probably do a lot of them without knowing that i’m re-circulating bad-ness into the universe. is there a limit to what i grow desensitized to?

anyway, that’s why i don’t watch horror movies. i don’t ever want to walk by a man getting his head cut off in a back alley and think, “huh. that's too bad.”

one more sky mall post. that's it. i promise.

I'm sorry. I know I keep harping on this SkyMall thing. But given the amount of travelling I have been doing the past few months, SkyMall is as comforting to me as a good old Korean ear picking.

I don't know how I missed this one the first time around. I mean, really. Do people really use these things? Isn't it better to buy one of those mattresses where you can set a glass of red wine in the middle of it and then jump around without spilling a drop of Bordeaux if you are experiencing lower lumbar pain?




Imagine it:

(dim lighting, strewn rose petals, Barry White in the background…)

Lover 1: "We're gonna take the receiver off the phone . . . because baby, you and me, heh . . . this night, we're gonna get it on" (citation: Barry White, Love Serenade (Part 1)", from his 1975 album Just Another Way to Say I Love You)

Lover 2: "mmmph mmphh hppphh hh?" (translation: can't you see my face is in a swedish polythyrene synthetic mattress pad?"

Unreal.

milk me, audrissy!

audrissy makes me laugh...again.

audrissy: dammit i messed up
audrissy: i told my coworker "milk me" today when we were both getting cereal and he had the milk
audrissy: and he said it sounded weird
audrissy: and then got really embarassed

cornflake girl

Apocrine glands. Apocrine glands are the glands that make the scents that we usually call “body odor” also known as “B.O." What's really interesting is that the distribution of apocrine glands can differ widely from race to race. In fact, Koreans seemed to have won the apocrine gland lottery because not only do “Asians have an extremely low distribution of apocrines”, but “Koreans are among the least odor-producing people on Earth—50% of them have no apocrine glands at all”. (source: “The origin of “Races” by Bert Thompson, Ph.D.). Ok, fine. Some would categorize Bert Thompson in the "Whackadoodle" bucket what with his kooky creationist theories (and alleged misconduct with boys). So if you don't believe Mr. Thompson, why don't you go to your local Koreatown (every self respecting city should have one) or better yet, any Presbyterian church (we Koreans like the middle of the road Protestant demonimations, particularly those who were instrumental in the Ecumenical movement -I just made that up right now but I'm serious about Koreans = Presbos) and do your own smell test. Come on. Just do it. I'll even offer up myself as a data point, but then you have to buy me a drink.

Hold on. I didn’t start this blog entry with the intention of discussing body odor or to extol the virtues of fragrant (or at least, fragrant-less) Koreans. that would be weird. instead, i want to talk about something else that also is a unique Asian quality: dry ear wax. you heard me right. i want to talk about ear wax.

One can identify Asians from non Asians by their ear wax. i know that sounds weird, but it’s true. and lest you find this claim wholly ridiculous and seemingly unfounded, let me quote NY Times: “The wet form [of ear wax] predominates in Africa and Europe, where 97 percent or more of the people have it, and the dry form among East Asians”…
(source: NYT Article "Japanese Scientists Identify Ear Wax Gene" by NICHOLAS WADE, Jan 2006, http://www.nytimes.com/2006/01/29/science/29cnd-ear.html?ex=1296190800&en=7f6c667589328421&ei=5088&partner=rssnyt&emc=rss)

2006? TWO THOUSAND AND SIX??? Japanese "scientists" discovered this in TWO THOUSAND AND SIX?

I didn't need no NYT article to realize this. When I was 12 (in 1989, might i add, almost TWO decades before the Japanese "scientists" discovered the gene), my caucasian friend stuck a Q tip in her ear and when she pulled it out it was covered in orange, sticky goo. I knew we were different. I also thought she poked her brain out.

Ah ear cleanings! I have great memories about ear cleanings. It takes a strong person to admit this and I am willing to bet that a lot of korean americans share the same fond yet unconventional memory. Ear cleaning was a special and strangely comforting ritual in my household. Step one: You cut a hole in the box*. JUST KIDDING! No, really. Step One: I would either stand and put my head in my mother’s lap (or lie down as i got too tall for her). Step Two: My mom brandish a slender bamboo pick that had a shallow scoop at the end of it and a rabbit hair puff ball at the other end. Step three: she would go to work on my ear. Oh, step four: Mom would say “uh muh nah, Irene! did you put cornflakes in your ears this morning?” and, Step five: Irene would crack up. it’s amazing how that joke never got old.
when she was done, she would dust my ear with the other end of the bamboo pick which had a fluff ball on it. It was the best part of the whole cleaning. It felt … satisfying.

i know this practice seems strange and archaic. And I'm 100% sure that there is a direct (negative) correlation between how many times I have had my ears cleaned vs. how well I can hear a person 20 feet away.

So. Next time your korean friend seems to be ignoring you, maybe she just doesn't hear you. But at least she doesn’t smell.


*i just had to plug my favorite SNL skit ever. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BKOiBZpUKW8

ivr stands for...

IVR.

It stands for "interactive voice response". From Wiki, it is "a phone technology that allows a computer to detect voice and touch tones using a normal phone call. The IVR system can respond with pre-recorded or dynamically generated audio to further direct callers on how to proceed. IVR systems can be used to control almost any function where the interface can be broken down into a series of simple menu choices. Once constructed IVR systems generally scale well to handle large call volumes."

I have problems with this definition.

First of all, it should stand for "irritating & vapid robot-answerer". Or something like that. Second of all, it has never proven to me to be a system that has directed me on how to proceed. If anything, it has only heightened my creativity for using expletives and rude hand gestures towards inanimate objects, i.e., my cell phone.

A real life example:

Irene: (internal monologue) "shit, I'm going to miss my flight! Why didn't I take the subway to the airport…american airlines 800 number, please come through for me…"
IVR: (overly enthusiastically) HI!!!! I'm Claire!! Thanks for calling AMEEEEERICAN AIRLINES. Are you calling about a NEW reservation, an EXISTING reservation, or OTHER?
Irene: existing reservation
Claire: (contritely) I'm sorry, but I did not understand you.
Irene: EXISTING RESERVATION
Claire: (contritely) I'm sorry, but
Irene: boooooooooooooop! (That's the sound of Irene pressing "O")
Claire: (contritely with a touch of controlled panic to feign urgency) I'm SORRY, but I didn't understand…
Irene: BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!
Claire: (hopefully) Let's try this again. Are you calling about a
Irene: EXISTING
Claire: (encouragingly) I THINK I heard you say "Existing" is this correct?
Irene: correct
Claire: I'm sorry, I think I heard you say "correct". Is this correct?
Irene : YES.
Claire: (happily) OK! Great! Now, do you have a record locator or flight number?
Irene: NO. I AM RUNNING THROUGH THE STREETS OF MANHATTAN WITH A SUITCASE, A SOMBRERO ON MY HEAD, AND ZINC OXIDE ON MY NOSE. DO YOU THINK I HAVE THE FACULTIES TO LOOK FOR MY RECORD LOCATOR OR FLIGHT NUMBER?
Claire: (jovially) Haha. I'm sorry, was that a YES or a NO?
Irene: NO. for god's sake, that was a NO. No. No. no. no.
Claire: (cheerfully) That's OK! Let's try to look up your record by your last name. What is your last name?
Irene: KIM.
Claire: (incredulously) I THINK I heard you say "PIMP"
Irene: WTF? What kind of last name is PIMP? I said KIM! KIM, YOU MORON! KIIIIIMMMM!!!!!
Claire: (sadly) I'm sorry, but I am having a hard time understanding you. Let me connect you to a American Airlines Customer Service Representative.
Irene: Thank You
Claire: (confusedly, but understandingly) You need to poo?
Irene: Fuck you

FYI - link to the worst job in the world:
http://ph.jobstreet.com/jobs/2007/10/j/50/16074.htm?fr=J

THIS APPEARED ON CRAIG'S LIST

hello everyone! sorry for the long delay. i have been away for a while but now i'm back. i know this isn't a real irene post, but it made me laugh. it's from craigslist. yes, i was browsing on W4M, so sue me. just kidding, guys. do you really think i'd do that?!

ok, so here it is:

ORIGINAL INQUIRY

What am I doing wrong?

Okay, I'm tired of beating around the bush. I'm a beautiful spectacularly beautiful) 25 year old girl. I'm articulate and classy. I'm not from New York. I'm looking to get married to a guy who makes at least half a million a year. I know how that sounds, but keep in mind that a million a year is middle class in New York City, so I don't think I'm overreaching at all.

Are there any guys who make 500K or more on this board? Any wives? Could you send me some tips? I dated a business man who makes average around 200 - 250. But that's where I seem to hit a roadblock. 250,000 won't get me to central park west. I know a woman in my yoga class who was married to an investment banker and lives in Tribeca, and she's not as pretty as I am, nor is she a great genius. So what is she doing right? How do I get to her level?

Here are my questions specifically:

- Where do you single rich men hang out? Give me specifics- bars,
restaurants, gyms

-What are you looking for in a mate? Be honest guys, you won't hurt my
feelings

-Is there an age range I should be targeting (I'm 25)?

- Why are some of the women living lavish lifestyles on the upper east
side so plain? I've seen really 'plain jane' boring types who have
nothing to offer married to incredibly wealthy guys. I've seen drop dead
gorgeous girls in singles bars in the east village. What's the story
there?

- Jobs I should look out for? Everyone knows - lawyer, investment
banker, doctor. How much do those guys really make? And where do they
hang out? Where do the hedge fund guys hang out?

- How you decide marriage vs. just a girlfriend? I am looking for MARRIAGE ONLY

Please hold your insults - I'm putting myself out there in an honest way. Most beautiful women are superficial; at least I'm being up front about it. I wouldn't be searching for these kind of guys if I wasn't able to match them - in looks, culture, sophistication, and keeping a nice home and hearth.

* it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 432279810

THE ANSWER

Dear Pers-431649184:
I read your posting with great interest and have thought meaningfully about your dilemma. I offer the following analysis of your predicament. Firstly, I'm not wasting your time, I qualify as a guy who fits your bill; that is I make more than $500K per year. That said here's how I see it.

Your offer, from the prospective of a guy like me, is plain and simple a cr@ppy business deal. Here's why. Cutting through all the B.S., what you suggest is a simple trade: you bring your looks to the party and I bring my money. Fine, simple. But here's the rub, your looks will fade and my money will likely continue into perpetuity...in fact, it is very likely that my income increases but it is an absolute certainty that you won't be getting any more beautiful!

So, in economic terms you are a depreciating asset and I am an earning asset. Not only are you a depreciating asset, your depreciation accelerates! Let me explain, you're 25 now and will likely stay pretty hot for the next 5 years, but less so each year. Then the fade begins in earnest. By 35 stick a fork in you!

So in Wall Street terms, we would call you a trading position, not a buy and hold...hence the rub...marriage. It doesn't make good business sense to "buy you" (which is what you're asking) so I'd rather lease. In case you think I'm being cruel, I would say the following. If my money were to go away, so would you, so when your beauty fades I need an out. It's as simple as that. So a deal that makes sense is dating, not marriage.

Separately, I was taught early in my career about efficient markets. So, I wonder why a girl as "articulate, classy and spectacularly beautiful" as you has been unable to find your sugar daddy. I find it hard to believe that if you are as gorgeous as you say you are that the $500K hasn't found you, if not only for a tryout.

By the way, you could always find a way to make your own money and then we wouldn't need to have this difficult conversation.

With all that said, I must say you're going about it the right way. Classic "pump and dump."
I hope this is helpful, and if you want to enter into some sort of lease, let me know.

it's back again!

heidi curtiss took a snapshot of this REAL LIFE MAN who willingly (i presume since i don't see no gun to his head) bought and wore this outfit. let me guess, your jaw is to the floor and everything else you were thinking of flew out of your head because you just cannot believe your eyes. recall that these pants were first introduced to us from from blog "i don't know what to say", 6/12/07.

can you BELIEVE that his shoes and his belt do not match?!?! that's just ridiculous.

anthurium

i walked by "ovando" today. it's a hoity toity flower shop near where i live in the west village. in the window was the most gratuitous and wasteful display of anthuriums. what, pray tell, are anthuriums? well, the ONLY reason why i know what anthuriums are is because of this story:

my summers at 381 wagon wheel way were fun. mostly because i got to spend the night with erin, my best friend, at least 3 times a week. we would push up two couches so they were facing each other and for reasons adults cannot understand, this was a comfortable and fun way to fall asleep.

i remember one time erin and i went into her garage after dark to see what the rabbits were up to. they were, for reasons CHILDREN cannot understand, kept in separate cages.

erin and i put heartcakes in cocoa's cage just to see if they would play. and play they did. as cocoa mounted heartcakes (or was it the other was around - i forget which was he and which was she) - we looked on in horror as heartcakes' eyes were filled with fear and rolled around like a loose marble in the cup holder of an All Terrain Vehicle.

when i reached into the cage to save heartcakes, i saw something that i will never forget. it looked like, yes, the stamen of an anthurium.

i tried to erase this memory from my head. but anthuriums are popular flowers. exotic and colorful, they were present in at least 5 of the 14 weddings i went to this year. which meant that i couldn't focus on the most important moment of my friends' lives. instead, i was thinking of rabbit penis. which i find highly disturbing.

i was going to post a picture of an anthurium and indeed, i found several pictures that would do the trick. but i couldn’t bring myself to do it. here’s a link if you really want to know: http://www.video-hawaii.com/dreams/free/anthurium.html

rabbit penis.

Sex, shopping and thinking pink

Evolutionary psychology
Sex, shopping and thinking pink

Aug 23rd 2007
From The Economist print edition
http://www.economist.com/science/displaystory.cfm?story_id=9682588

The brains of men and women are, indeed, different

WOMEN really are better than men at shopping. And they really do prefer pink. And, surprisingly, it is possible that these facts are connected. The first conclusion was drawn by Joshua New of Yale University and his colleagues. The second was drawn by Anya Hurlbert and Yazhu Ling of Newcastle University in England. The connecting theme is that in the division of labour that forms the primordial bargain of human hunter-gatherer societies, it is the men who do the hunting and the women who do the gathering.

Blackberry-picking aside, urban humanity does little gathering from the wild these days, so Dr New decided to look at what seemed to him to be the nearest equivalent—shopping at a farmers' market. There is a fair amount of evidence that men are better than women at solving certain sorts of spatial problems, such as remembering the locations of topographical landmarks. Many researchers suggest such skills may have been important in the past for man-the-hunter, who needed to be able to find his way round the landscape. If that is the case, then woman-the-gatherer might have been expected to develop complementary skills not shown by males. And that, as he writes in this week's Proceedings of the Royal Society, is what Dr New found.

Dr New used the market to test two hypotheses. The first was that women remember the locations of food resources more accurately than men do. The second was that the more nutritionally valuable a resource is, the more accurately its location will be remembered.

To prove these conjectures he recruited 41 women and 45 men and led each of them individually on a merry dance around the chosen market. In the course of this peregrination, each participant visited six of the 90 food stalls in the market. At each of those stalls, participants were given a piece of food to eat. They were asked their preference for the taste of the food, how often they ate that food in normal life, how attractive they found the stall and how often they had made purchases from that stall in the past. After visiting all six stalls, they were taken to the centre of the market and asked to point toward those stalls, one at a time, using an arrow on a dial. In addition, they were asked to rate their own sense of direction.

In the pink
On average, women were 9° more accurate than men at pointing to each stall—a significant deviation if you have to walk some distance to get to a place. This was not because those women had more experience of visiting the market than the men had. Nor did the women rate themselves as having a better sense of direction—indeed the men rated their own navigating skills more highly.

Dr New suggests that these results show women are better than men at the particular task of relocating sources of food. That contrasts with the idea that men are better at navigation in general. In other words, women's minds are specialised for their ancestral task of gathering the sort of food that cannot run away.

That such food is in a different mental category from the one occupied by general landmarks was suggested by the answer to the second hypothesis. The higher the calorific value of the food sold by a stall, the more accurately Dr New's volunteers were able to point towards it. And that result applied to both sexes, though women still did better than men.

How much the participants liked the food did not have an effect on this accuracy. Indeed none of the secondary attributes of the food or stall in question (taste preference, the frequency of an item in a volunteer's normal diet, the appearance of the stall and how often a volunteer used that stall in daily life) were found to affect pointing accuracy. Only the calorific value of the item in question was relevant.

For their part Dr Hurlbert and Dr Ling, who report their study in Current Biology, used coloured patches flashing on a computer screen to find the preferences of their set of volunteers. These volunteers were men and women of British and Chinese origin who were in their early 20s.

Mostly, the two researchers found that people of different sexes and from different continents did not differ in their colour preferences. But there was one exception. Among both the British and the Chinese, women preferred reddish hues such as pink to greenish-blue ones. Among men it was the other way round.

Moreover, though anatomical sex is binary, mental “gender” is more pliable. To see how masculine or feminine the brains of their participants were, Dr Hurlbert and Dr Ling used what is known as the Bem Sex Role Inventory, which asks about personality traits more often associated with one sex than the other. This showed that the more feminine a brain was, regardless of the body it inhabited, the more it liked red and pink.

All this suggests a biological, rather than a cultural, explanation for colour preference. And Dr Hurlbert and Dr Ling have produced one. They suggest that their result may be connected with the fact that the colour of many fruits is at the red end of the spectrum. An evolved preference for red, pink and allied shades—particularly in contrast with green—could thus bring advantage to those who gather such things. And if they can also remember which tree (or stall) to go and visit next time, then so much the better.

hazy memories

if you have been reading my blog, you’ll notice that a lot of my stories involve my shenanigans as a little girl. a few of my dear readers have commented on how good my memory is. not to be a braggart, but i do have a pretty good memory. ask me what we were doing when i first met you and 9 times out of 10, i’ll be able to tell you. i’ll also probably remember what you were wearing (e.g. audris shau: i saw you, you didn’t see me and you were wearing a hat. jen parks: first year, warren hall at a rugby meeting, you were wearing cool pointy shoes. sylvana sinha: on the bus, i just remember your eyelashes, chris pollak: on the rugby pitch eating cheetos).

my first real, cohesive memory takes place in San Diego, circa 1982. the kim family had just moved to san diego from los angeles, the city where i was born. we chose a nice cul-de-sac that had a mere 6 houses on it at the time. it was peppered, however, by empty construction lots that would one day be filled with homes that would one day be filled with families who would one day experience laughter, sadness, love, divorces, contentment, scandal, empty-nest syndrome, dog bites, pet deaths and lost baby teeth.

side story: a man who would eventually become my ophthalmologist moved in across the street in 1987 with his family. he was softspoken and gentle. his name was dr. montgomery. my dad (and i swear every other korean dad with a korean accent will do this) called him dr. MUNGLEMERRY. it wasn’t until i was 16 yrs old and getting fitted for glasses at his office that i realized my mistake. “DR. GORDON MONTGOMERY” was written in neat golden block letters on his door. i had called him dr. munglemerry for 6 yrs. heh).

my family and i went to the construction lot almost every day to see how the house was coming along. it was fun for me and my brother because we would find neat things like arrowheads and dead birds and interesting shaped pieces of wood.

one day i saw a nice big piece of white sidewalk chalk just hanging out in the dust. i could hardly believe my good fortune! what a serendipitious day! today, i thought, will be the day where big smiley faces are drawn on the sidewalk. but when i tried to pick it up, i realized that it was not a piece of chalk. it was a piece of dog shit that had been bleached white by the sun. it just looked like a piece of chalk. the white log of shit crumbled into a fine powder between my fingers when i touched it and i felt disgusted. i remember thinking "this thing fell out of a doggy bung hole. grody."

i wasn’t really sure what to do. i walked over to the adults trying to decide if i should tell them what happened. they were too busy talking to each other and i remember feeling ignored. so i just stood there with my fingers outstretched as far away from each other and my palm as possible. i was contemplating my next move. but then something really funny happened: my parents and the contractor were sniffing the air and lifting up their shoes to see if they had stepped in something like poo. i found this really amusing bc they still didn't realize i was there and certainly had no idea that the odorific fumes were emanating from my tiny right hand.

so, i never did tell them what happened. it was too complicated and i just wanted to go home and wash my hands. when we got back into the car, i sat in the backseat and rubbed my hands on the fuzzy underpart of the car seat over and over again until my fingers were burning.

everyone should try it. think back to your first memory and see what you come up with.

Milkshake bah buh better than yours, ba boo buh better than yours

04:07PM jparks1: What are the lyrics to the Milkshake song?
04:08PM jparks1: its been in my head all day, and I just realized I actually only know 3 of the words I'm singing
04:08PM ikim3: "my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, and they're like, it's better than yours, damn right it's better than yours i can teach you, but i have to charge, my milkshake...
04:08PM jparks1: awesome!
04:08PM jparks1: thanks
04:08PM ikim3: it used to be my ringtone.
04:08PM ikim3: why?
04:09PM jparks1: I was singing. Milkshake bah buh better than yours, ba boo buh better than yours

sky mall is an undiscovered gem

i take a lot of flights. whether it's to my home home in san diego or any one of my client locations, i always do two things as soon as i settle into my seat: (1) i check to see if the arm rest is in its horizontal position and if it's not, i make sure it is. this sends a firm signal to the person sitting next to me that i am in no mood for small talk, and (2) i study the SkyMall magazine.

SkyMall is an underdiscovered gem. i have found many relevant gifts for loved ones from 35,000 feet in the air.

here's a list of six things - categorized into "cool" and "why why why?"

(1) COOL:

if there's EVER a reason to do the Beyonce Bounce in the shower, here it is. a wall mountable back scratcher.

(2) COOL:

i am SO MAD at myself for not thinking of this portable pillow myself. it's so much better than the neck pillow. the only drawback is the slight embarrassment of blowing it up and then feeling awkward about deflating your breath into recycled airplane air after you land.

(3) COOL:



also useful if you're into sex with little people. i'm just saying that there are other uses to this Pet Staircase. i'm just saying.

...on to "why why why":
(1) WHY WHY WHY:


there's really nothing i can say about these tailgate chairs. it left me speechless.

(2) WHY WHY WHY:


i can see this conversation piece kicking up a lot of trouble at cocktail parties. one drink too many and a compromising photo of you and the sumo wrestler will be tagged in facebook faster than you can say "yokozuna".

(3) WHY WHY WHY:

this is a FAKE security camera. i've seen similar burglar retardant devices and think they are all dumb. included in this list is the fake dog barking tape and the blowup man.

check it out for yourself: www.skymall.com

also, learn about the etymology of the word "midget" and why it's not politically correct: http://www.arturogil.com/m_word.htm

look a little closer and you will see...

A few months ago I blogged about the quadri-colored trousers by Vineyard Vines (Blog "not sure what to say" 6/12/07).

If I ever saw someone wearing those trousers, I would (after I pick myself up from the ground from shock) immediately look around to see if I was at the entrance of the Octagon, New York City's first municipal insane asylum, around closing time.

If I were, I would probably also see someone wearing these (tip sent in by loyal blog reader Sylvana):



All I have to say is that it's lucky for her (and for us) that she wasn't fibbing like the rest of us when she put down "attention to detail" as one of her more marketable attributes on her resume. "what's wrong with that skirt" you ask? Well, look a little closer:



HOT TRAMP? Who thought this was a good idea? I'd really like to be in the design room when this skirt was being discussed. It may have gone something like this:

X: I think the problem with fashion these days is that nothing really sticks out anymore. Everything looks the same. It's always blah blah blah.
Y: I agree with you. We live in a homogenous society filled with fashion lemmings. We need something that SAYS something. Something that makes a statement. Something that makes me say, I AM WOMAN. HEAR ME ROAR!".
X: I got it!! HOT TRAMP.
Y: It's brill. Break out the Beadazzler*, everyone.

Come on people. Hot Tramp?

*The Beadazzler: a popular gadget from the 1980's, the beadazzler is still a stunner at just $19.95. this little blue plastic object, closely resembling a stapler, can be used with special sets to add sparkle to just about anything from scrapbooks to clothing TO THE BUTT OF REALLY EXPENSIVE SKIRTS WITH THE WORDS "HOT TRAMP" ON IT. When you purchase the beadazzler, it comes with plastic rhinestones and studs as well as amini version of itself (cute! but what for?). Since today's fashion is all about glimmer (Paris Hilton's phone is crystallized with Austrian crystals) girls might really enjoy having this handy little bling tool to add a little magic to their wardrobe, OR THE WORDS "HOT TRAMP" TO THE BUTT OF YOUR REALLY EXPENSIVE JEAN SKIRT.
http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/69809/ten_great_gifts_for_teen_girls_under.html (with some editoralizing by irene j. kim in BOLD)

the hungarian guy spy

my parents were extremely inventive when it came to halloween costumes. i find this very impressive considering that Halloween is a tradition that is nonexistent in their homeland of korea. My parents were REALLY good. as in, my brother and i won contests.

My earliest memories of Halloween begin in San Diego, around age 5. at the time, I was attending the allan school which was just down the hill from where i grew up. One day, as I was running down our big ass hill, my feet wanted to go faster than my hip joints were capable of churning out rotations. do you know what i mean? anyway, i fell on my face and for a moment it felt like inertia was going to lift my feet clear over the top of my head. “i’m going to be the world’s first human slinky!” i thought. it got me kind of excited even tho i was in a lot of pain. alas, i only did one flop down and before i knew it, my mother was already picking me up and giving me a good shake to make sure nothing was broken. "Irene, you have a hard head!" Apparently, even tho my mother was a good 20 feet behind me, she could hear the loud crack of my forehead against the sidewalk.

allan school had an annual Halloween fair. i entered the costume contest, as did my brother. My parents got creative. They put an itchy rainbow clown wig on my head, dressed me up in my father's hospital scrubs and his white coat, and wrote "MAD SURGEON" in squiggly letters on the back of it with a red "Marks A Lot" permanent marker. Fake blood stained operating gloves hung out of my side pocket and a stethoscope was draped around my neck. Sarah P, my best friend at the time, ran up to me in her sugar plum fairy costume. blond and angelic, she asked me if i was a crazy clown. i rolled my eyes and said, "i'm a mad surgeon", as in, "you are so dumb for not getting it, sarah" but wished that i was also in a princess costume. I stuck the stethoscope on her forehead and said very gravely "I'm very sorry, but you only have 3 days to live. let's go do the cakewalk."

my brother was darth vadar. he wore black cords and a black long sleeve t shirt with a black polyester cape. brother had a complicated 2 part mask that dad bought from Kay B toy store. the piece de resistance, however, was the tape recorder that hung from his neck. in the tape recorder was a tape that had 60 minutes of "hhaaaaaaaaaa huuuuuuuuuuuuu hhhaaaaaaaaaa huuuuuuuuuuuuuu" over and over and over again. and in case you were wondering what "ha hu" is, that was my onomatopoetic version of darth vadar's creepy breathing. can you believe it? my dear father spent an hour breathing into a tape recorder! 3 years later, he would spend an hour blowing up a 5 foot inflatable raft for my 8th birthday. I sat in it gingerly, holding my breath to make myself lighter. I was deathly afraid of popping the raft and then marinating in the miasma of someone else's breath. Ingrate that i was.

Anyway, my brother and i handily won the Halloween contest.

In 8th grade, my mom got really inventive. She dressed me up in her long skirts (several of them), wrapped my head in a colorful scarf, clipped 5 earrings on my earlobes and bought me a ba-zillion bangles. I was a gypsy...a HUNGARIAN gypsy, in fact.

Again, people asked me what i was. "Are you a bag lady?" And again, i sighed and explained, "no, i am a gypsy, a HUNGARIAN gypsy". By this point, i was kind of used to explaining my costumes every year. "i'm a traditional korean girl wearing a traditional korean dress. it's called a HAN BOK. a HAN BOK."... i'm charles dickens - can't you see that this jacket is English tweed? feel it"... "i'm a orthopedic surgeon, look how strong my hands are. they can fix your bones," i would say with a bored look in my eyes.

As expected, I won the costume contest tho my victory was severely undermined by the fact that my teacher introduced me as a HUNGARIAN GUY SPY. "WTF? You actually have credentials to educate young minds?" I thought. "What the hell is a guy spy?"*

It was during one Halloween that my heart broke for the first time. It happened when my best friend forever erin and i were trick or treating. we heard a pitiful mewing in the distance. it sounded just awful, like a squeaky hamster wheel. no, like a squeaky hamster wheel where the exercising hamster was also singing the rodent version of "rigoletto". we discovered that the noise was coming from a beautiful Persian cat who was trapped under its owners garage door. the door was pressing on the cat's back and a stream of urine was zigzagging down the driveway. erin and i gasped in horror and we ran to ring the doorbell. "your cat your cat! peeing on your driveway! open the door NOW." i am pretty sure our voices dropped a couple of octaves when we said the word "NOW". I may have even rolled my eyes into the back my head for special effect.

the owner lifted up the garage door and picked up the cat as if it was dryer lint. he didn't even canoodle it or ask it if it was ok. i ran up to the cat and tried to speak to it through my eyes. "If you want me to rescue you from your horrible horrible owner, lick your nose, okay? lick your nose, you hear me? i'll rescue you!" the cat didn't lick its nose so i tried another method, "mew mew meeeeeeeeeewww. mew mew, mewmew!!!!"

The weird thing is, i don't even like cats very much. I think they are sneaky. But no one wants to see a beautiful thing suffer. no one wants to see an ugly thing suffer. later, i found out that the cat had broken its back and died. and i cried as if it were my own cat. i cried because no one cared and my heart felt sad for weeks. it felt even sadder than when i accidentally starved my own pet turtle, shelly, to death and found him dessicated atop his rock. Because indifference is colder than ignorance.


*Actually, there is a Guy Spy. "Guy Spy and the Crystals of Armageddon: In this interactive cartoon, you are brave English soldier, who must stop Fascist Von Max, who wants to build a Doomsday Machine with the special crystals. http://www.mobygames.com/game/guy-spy-and-the-crystals-of-armageddon"
Fine. But in 1990, there was no such thing.

sorry, mole

the mole came back benign.

i *really* miss it now.

http://www.justicedenied.org/

my mole martyr

jalvles100: so how is everything
jalvles100: I mean
jalvles100: now that the mole is gone
irenejkim77: i miss it a little.
irenejkim77: it was adoooorable.
irenejkim77: super tiny and brown. just a little freckle, really.
irenejkim77: but then it raised itself - probably bc it was trying to get closer to the sun.
irenejkim77: but by doing that, it called attention to the fact that it could turn into a malignant baddie and got itself violently dug out of my shoulder.
irenejkim77: so. moral of the story is - don't speak up bc there's a chance that you'll be executed.
irenejkim77: anyway, it's a martyr. it's my mole martyr.
jalvles100: wow
jalvles100: I suspect the mole will be immortalized in your blog
irenejkim77: what.
irenejkim77: oh yeah.
irenejkim77: good idea.

vacation planning

I'm trying to plan a vacation with a few friends. B and I are trying to convince P to go to Colombia. This is what happens when you get three girls in finance trying to reason things out…

ORIGINAL EMAIL WHERE B AND I ARE TRYING TO CONVINCE P THAT COLOMBIA IS SAFE:
From: Chambers, Rebecca M
Sent: Monday, June 18, 2007
To: P W
Cc: Kim, Irene (EQ - New York)
Subject: RE: Vacation

I definitely don’t want to go if you don’t feel comfortable. That being said, I think that is just an outdated perception. Also, there is that article from NYTimes, I can’t imagine that they would highlight the city as a great place.

Here’s the Colombia kidnapping index on Bloomberg!!


(COLOMBIA MONTHLY KIDNAPPINGS - COKPMON INDEX GP GO)

P HAS A TRADING IDEA:
From: P W
Sent: Monday, June 18, 2007
To: Kim, Irene (EQ - New York); Chambers, Rebecca M
Subject: RE: Vacation

I just sent the index to my co-workers and they said, 3 unaccompanied American girls going to Colombia, they’re going long for sure.

(note: as in, they are going to buy this index in the hopes that we get kidnapped so that the graph goes up so that they make money).

IRENE'S RESPONSE:
From: Kim, Irene (EQ - New York)
Sent: Monday, June 18, 2007
To: P W; Chambers, Rebecca M
Subject: RE: Vacation

were they joking?

P HEDGES HER RISK:
From: P W
Sent: Monday, June 18, 2007
To: Kim, Irene (EQ - New York); Chambers, Rebecca M
Subject: RE: Vacation

No and they told me I should too, to hedge myself.

(note: as in, if you're going to get kidnapped, you might as well make money. nevermind you will be in the back of a car, bound and gagged. at least your portfolio is doing well)

Btw, I’m laughing out loud at my desk, people just keep staring at me.

P RUMINATES SOME MORE:
From: P W
Sent: Monday, June 18, 2007
To: 'Chambers, Rebecca M'
Cc: Kim, Irene (EQ - New York)
Subject: RE: Vacation

This is hilarious…and yet not funny at all. Irene, can you please practice your Spanish? I asked my Venezuelan friend, “will i die in Colombia?” He said “does someone in your group speak Spanish?”

IRENE PUEDE HABLAR ESPAÑOL!!
From: Kim, Irene (EQ - New York)
Sent: Monday, June 18, 2007
To: P W; Chambers, Rebecca M
Subject: RE: Vacation

por favor, no quiero morir.
(pls, i don't want to die.)

P IS SCARED:
From: P W
Sent: Monday, June 18, 2007
To: Kim, Irene (EQ - New York); Chambers, Rebecca M
Subject: RE: Vacation

Oh, we’re going to die for sure.

IRENE DISAGREES:
From: Kim, Irene (EQ - New York)
Sent: Monday, June 18, 2007
To: P W; Chambers, Rebecca M
Subject: RE: Vacation

ALTO P!
(stop p!)
estoy muy fuerta!
(i am very strong.)

well, my friends, that was entirely the wrong tactic. p ix-nayed colombia. quiero estudiar espanol mas en escuela!"*

* my colleagues on the european sales desk tell me that the correct way to say "i wish i studied harder in school" is: quisiera que yo hubia estudiado mas en universidad. dammit. maybe p was right.

mean thoughts

sometimes when i see morbidly obese people standing passively on the down escalators, i want to tap them on the shoulder and say, “excuse me. this is an escalator, not a ride. this may be why you have a Body Mass Index of 50*. you are resting when you should be burning calories.”


is that wrong? ok, i feel bad now.


*http://www.nhlbisupport.com/bmi/

puff, the magic irene

Every morning I try REEEEEEALLY REALLY hard to remember to take my vitamins. They are exactly one inch long and a muted orange-y yellow color. These gel caps are filled to the brim with a mysterious and magical powder. I dread taking it every morning because it feels like a dry piece of crack pipe as it makes it's way down my esophagus.

This morning I did something stupid. I stuck the vitamin in my mouth and washed it down with my hot Dunkin D. I sat there, blinking back tears of pain, and tried to calculate the rate at which a gel cap would deteriorate when surrounded by fleshy esophageal varices. By my rough calcuations, I figured that even the speed of light would not be fast enough.

I solved this problem by inadvertantly letting out a super loud, bodacious burp (the body works in amazing ways) and I felt the pill pass through my throat. But the coolest thing happened to me next. Right when everyone turned around to see who burped, a cloud of orange powder floated right out of my mouth. I think they all think I'm a dragon!

beautiful spoils

now listen:
when it feels like it was all for naught, remember.
when it seems to me
that you are someone else, i remember.
when my life seems far from yours, please remember.

together we built it up and
together we tore it down.
but the fact remains: once

it was the most beautiful house on the block.

i believe you

today at work i saw something weird in the bathroom. when i walked into my stall, there was a little altar of Splenda packets in front of the toilet. They were arranged with care and from my vantage point of 5’ 4” above ground (in addition to the fact that I never wear my glasses even tho i really should), they looked like soft canary feathers against the gray tile.

I thought to myself, "well, that's strange. Why would anyone ever bring 6 packets of Splenda into the bathroom and then leave them there?"

I came to the conclusion that a lot of things seem weird when you don't have all the information. And then when you do have all the information, you think, “Of course! How could I have thought it to be any other way? Silly me.”

My mom and I used to go shopping almost every weekend when I was in high school. Not to buy, just to browse is what we would say. Mom and I would walk around Fashion Valley, an amazing outdoor mall, and just "catch up”, often hand in hand. I remember one time, in front of Wet Seal, there was a man bent over a bunch of wires working away. A “work man" was what my mother called him. Other people would probably call him an "electrician." But I knew exactly who she was talking about when my mom whispered to me, “Uh muh nah! Look at what that work man is wearing” because this work man had on the most curious outfit. He had a very tiny white wife beater that stopped right under his pectoral muscles. This wife beater was paired with extraordinarily low jeans. His entire midriff was exposed and while that is not THAT strange in and of itself, what WAS strange was the fact that his midsection was a perfectly smooth, mottled tan, and completely devoid of hair. It was the hairless thing that seemed particularly odd given the fact that the work man had hair pouring out of every other visible nook and cranny. And i mean every. We literally stopped in our tracks.

Then the work man did the most peculiar thing. He took his entire midriff OFF. Well, okay fine. He didn't really take his midriff off. He was wearing a super wide, super tan, super hairless work belt. And he took THAT off. But the point is, well, we felt bad for jumping to conclusions before we knew the whole story. We should have given him the benefit of the doubt.

This takes me back to senior year at Wellesley College to a time when I hope someone gave me the benefit of the doubt. I lived on the top floor of Claflin Hall, one of the prettiest, most storybook dorms on campus. And to get to my room, one had to take a separate set of stairs up to the turrets.

In college, i had a friend who was very soft spoken. Let’s call her Tootsie. Tho Tootsie was quiet, she expressed all of her pent up aggression through activities that required force. Any kind of force whatsoever. What I mean by this is that she would SLAM doors shut. She would CRASH her books on the library table. She would CRACK every pencil she used. Tootsie stomped up my stairs with the grace of a hundred and one pachyderms. And, just in case there was any confusion, that’s not graceful at all.

It’s 9 am on a Sunday and I hear her heavy footsteps. Damn her. I'm going to teach her a lesson. I jump out of bed, dizzy/sleepy/drunk and stick my left foot in a shower slipper and the right foot in the high heels I wore the night before. I wrap a towel around my body and wobble through the door and scream BOOOOOOO!!!!!

It was a work man, not Tootsie, on the other side. Yup, there was his tan leather belt! The poor guy fell against the wall in surprise and screamed. I can hear his scream even now as I type. I really did think he was going to cry.

I felt so bad.

I jumped back into bed and could only hope that he would give me the benefit of the doubt. Just like I'm going to give the person who brought six packets of Splenda into the bathroom stall and left them there. There must be a reason that makes sense.

everybody toots...sometimes

03:13PM bonita: omg
03:13PM bonita: omg
03:13PM irenejkim77: what
03:13PM irenejkim77: ?
03:13PM irenejkim77: are you ok?? what?
03:13PM bonita: just made the loudest noise
03:13PM bonita: somebody HAD to have noticed
03:14PM irenejkim77: like...what kind of noise?
03:14PM irenejkim77: uhhhhh....
03:14PM bonita: THE kind
03:14PM irenejkim77: HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
03:14PM irenejkim77: you are HILARIOUS!!!
03:14PM irenejkim77: calm down calm down
03:14PM bonita: I am giggling like crazy
03:14PM irenejkim77: no one will notice.
03:14PM irenejkim77: shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
03:14PM irenejkim77: shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh quiet. stop.
03:14PM bonita: x and y aren't here
03:14PM irenejkim77: thank GOD!
03:14PM irenejkim77: hahahaha. hahahahaha!
03:14PM bonita: but the guy on the other side of my desk is
03:14PM irenejkim77: don't worry.
03:14PM bonita: HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAa
03:14PM irenejkim77: you have to hahahahahahahahaha I can't hahahahahahaa
03:15PM irenejkim77: ok.
03:15PM irenejkim77: calm down.
03:15PM bonita: SO LOUD
03:15PM irenejkim77: no one will remember.
03:15PM irenejkim77: hahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
03:15PM bonita: ok
03:15PM irenejkim77: that's REALLY funny.
03:15PM bonita: am bright red, trying not to laugh is making me hyper-ventilate
03:15PM irenejkim77: dude. chill. take a deep breath.
03:15PM irenejkim77: and go to the bathroom.
03:15PM bonita: NOOO
03:15PM bonita: then he'll think I have a problem
03:15PM bonita: haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
03:16PM irenejkim77: haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
03:16PM bonita: if you blog this, can you pls change my name to bonita?

sweet dream

last night
i dreamt of you
and we
were on a hill
and we
were just talking
(as if)
we were best friends

all i wanted was a churro

When I was maybe 16 yrs old or so, I worked at SeaWorld in San Diego for one summer. I drove my little red Honda Civic to work. From where I grew up, (Bonita, CA) it was about a 35 minute drive. It was actually my brother's Honda, but he got the Jeep Cherokee when he went to college. So I was left with the little Honda which was trusty and looked like a cinnamon tic tac.

I didn't work feeding the dolphins or cleaning fish tanks, so in a way, I was a SeaWorld impostor. I worked at a kiosk as a poster roller. Let me clarify…you know those Asian men who sit on the sidewalk of Times Square and paint a word (usually your name) using colorful flowers/dolphins/trees instead of letters? E.g., the "I" in IRENE would be a palm tree. The "R" would be a curved porpoise. The "E" would be a hula dancer with a really bad goiter... you get the picture. And no, silly! I didn't paint the names! I was the authentic Asian girl who rolled up the scrolls and put them in the tube. Day after day. Hour after hour. I nearly drowned myself in Shamu's piss pool out of sheer boredom.

So when I completed my last day of work ever at SeaWorld, you can imagine my joy! I skipped out of there like a little girl, my long ponytail swinging behind me. On the way to the employees’ parking lot, I thought to myself, "You know what, Irene? Why not treat yourself to a delicious Mexican donut dusted with cinnamon sugar, also known as a 'churro'?” (roll the ‘r’, please, in churrrrrrro). It was a fine idea, indeed.

I paid for the goods and was poised to take a bite when someone knocked me over the head with her purse. BAM! I staggered to my right. I was furious and embarrassed. Do I pretend it never happened? Do I stagger to the left, finish off with a twirl and start a little dance? Before I even had a chance to figure it all out, the same crazy Coo-Coo-Head hit me again over the head again, this time pitching me forward several steps. By this time, a small crowed had gathered around me. Did you see that? Do we help her? That was so funny! I was the circus freak! I was the car wreck! And I was still clueless as to what was going on!

I decided the best way to handle this was to pretend nothing had happened. The person who was shoving me ran away too quickly for me to tackle her anyway. I re-poised myself to take a bite out of my churro when, as if I had suddenly acquired Tourette Syndrome*, my arm shot straight up in the air. I looked up. And it was a strange moment for me. Initial confusion was chased away by a shock of total clarity.

I was under attack by two monstrous seagulls. MONSTROUS. One of them had my SeaWorld windbreaker cuff in its mouth. And the other one was repeatedly flapping me on the head with its wing. My "fight or flight" response was called into action and I fought them valiently for my hard earned churro. To tell you the truth, I really wanted to JUST GIVE UP! But a latent "Rocky Balboa" surged in me and it would not let go of the damn donut.

Eventually, a massive shit squirt dangerously close to the eye left me defeated. And all I was left with was a small 3 inch length of churro. Smushed, greasy, inedible. I was sad. Only then did people try to help me! But it was too late. I brushed them off brusquely and ran to my little red tic tac Honda.

As I drove home, I came out of my shock and I started to cry. I was crying because my knees were skinned and I had poop in my hair. I was crying because I had repeatedly looked into the butt hole of a seagull. I was crying because my churro had gone to wrongful owners. I walked in through the garage door that led into my house. My mom was cooking dinner. When she saw me, she dropped the pan she was holding and said, "UH MUH NAH!" (translation - oh my goodness!).

Poor Mommy. She must have thought I had gotten jumped or even worse. I cried and cried as she held me and smushed the bird poop all over her shirt. Something only a mother will do.

I can actually laugh about this incident today. It's really funny, in all honesty. But churros make me quiver with fear. And seagulls? Forgetaboutit.

*I know it’s really un-PC to talk about Tourette Syndrome so glibly. I apologize to anyone I have offended. Did you know: One of the less common possible symptoms of Tourettes (yet the most recognizable) is Coprolalia (outburst of obscenities and curse words). Coprolalia is actually very uncommon in Tourette Syndrome and only effects as low as 5% to 15% of Touretter’s. Learn something new every day.

i'm pro female and all, but...

irenejkim77: oooh. THAT makes total sense. ok.
irenejkim77: go tit.
irenejkim77: hahahahah!
irenejkim77: gooooooooooo tit!
irenejkim77: hilarious.
irenejkim77: GOT it. (is obviously what I meant)
irenejkim77: I used to be a cheerleader, but even that is a little excessive for me.

you! don't bring me flowers anymore...

i don't like flowers. i don't like receiving flowers as gifts. i don't like giving flowers as gifts. similar to my dislike of soup spoons (blog: "slow day at work" 5.31.07), i can logically defend this prejudice. (let me take this moment to tell my readers the only actual phobia is the one i have of fr*gs. i don’t even like to see that word in print. they creep me out. as do pickles since they resemble fr*gs).

cut flowers are beings en route to death. i hate to be so macabre, but it’s true. their misleading vibrancy is masking the fact that their roots have literally been cut and their days are quite numbered. when i see a bouquet of flowers, i cannot help but think that in a few days, those pretty, quasi living di/monocotyledons (dude, remember that from 5th grade science?) will be face down, feet up in my trash can.

so, AS IF i needed another reason to deeply, deeply resent flowers, something terrible happened to me yesterday. i even took a picture of it but i think i forgot to save it because i now i can't find it on my phone.

the flowers which were pushed on me by the clean up crew at a wedding i attended last week, spawned a caterpillar. when i saw this larvae with it’s undulating and segmented body just hanging out in my living room, i felt like i was being punk’d. i was praying that ashton kutcher was hiding in my bedroom along with my brother, best friend, and mom. please, ashton, tell me this is not real. i’m waiting for you to holler “surprise! it’s not a real caterpillar! it’s a GUMMY caterpillar! hahahahahaha!”

i am not kidding when i say that my gag reflex kicked in. and after my mini gag session, i did a really peculiar thing: i started jumping up and down, shook my head, shot my hands straight up into the air, all the while started screaming "ahhhhhhh!". i think the clinical term for this sudden and violent outburst would be “to engage in a freak out.”

i did what any convulsing woman would do…i steadied my twitching hand long enough to knock on my neighbors door and when he answered, i managed to squeak out, “caterpillar, help me…please, i *insert freak out dance here* can’t do it. caterpillar. flowers. *insert gag reflex*”

i honestly cannot believe that he followed me into my apartment. for all he knew, i was a crazy psychopath with a sadist tendencies. but he did and i’ll never forget the image of the tightly coiled caterpillar being flushed down the toilet. i know it’s not rational, but now when i go to the bathroom, i feel like the caterpillar will exact it’s revenge on my bum one day.

the great french cover up

11:53AM ikim3: i have a fashion question.
11:53AM jparks1: yes
11:54AM ikim3: if i am wearing a black dress with red lipstick, is red (short) nails overkill?
11:54AM ikim3: or should i get a french manicure?
11:54AM jparks1: i hate french manicures
11:54AM ikim3: really? why?
11:55AM jparks1: short red nails is fine
11:55AM ikim3: ok. thank you.
11:55AM ikim3: why do you hate french mans?
11:56AM jparks1: french mans are tacky
11:56AM jparks1: and I especially hate it on toes
11:59AM ikim3: ew.
12:00PM ikim3: the problem i have with french manicures is that it's covering up dirt.
12:00PM ikim3: which is never a good idea.
12:01PM ikim3: ppl with french manicures look like they have nice white nails when in fact, lots of dirt could be stuck under there.
12:01PM ikim3: it's misleading. the french. they do that with perfume, too.
12:01PM ikim3: covering up B.O.
12:01PM jparks1: yep
12:01PM jparks1: its like a cover up
12:01PM ikim3: the great french cover up.

introducing trouble

let’s go back to 381 wagon wheel way. the most salient memories i have of those years are of the glorious san diego summers and of playing with my beautiful best friend erin cory who lived across the street. when erin was about 6 (and I was about 9) she procured two lop eared rabbits named heartcakes and cocoa. heartcakes and cocoa made my lips and eyes and ears itch. tho it was painfully obvious, i didn’t want to admit that i was allergic to rabbits. (side note, i am also allergic to potatoes, tomatoes, corn, soy, and peanuts. and anything else that produces dander). so what i would do was put my brother’s striped tube socks over my arms like long gloves and touch the rabbits lovingly through the hole in their wire cage. it didn’t do jack shit, but I think allergies are 50% psychosomatic anyway.

i was a little prankster. i was that kid who jumped out from behind doors, fell and cried only to yell “just kidding! when help arrived”. i even faked running away from home when i was really just hiding in the back of my mom’s car while she frantically drove around looking for me. can you believe it? i thought it was funny at the time…if only my 7 year old brain could have understood the depth of panic my mother felt, i would take it back and never do it again. all in all, i was just a really *happy* little girl.

erin and i played tricks together. one of our favorites was the peanut butter trick which we did but once. the set up was this: get some chunky peanut butter and shape it into a long piece of turd. then put the fake turd on erin’s doorstep. borrow a dog if you don’t have one yourself ( we used the lucas’ little dachshund…let’s call him “ziggy” because i can’t recall his name right now). ring the doorbell and wait. what unfolds was seriously hysterical. for us, at least.

we could see sharon (erin’s mom) come up the stairs to answer the front door through the white shutters. sharon was the world’s most perfect mother. gorgeous, loving, huggy, perfumy. it’s not surprising that erin is exactly the same way. sharon was my “i’m going to run away and live with sharon” sharon. sharon was the epitome of what i thought an american family should be like (and what i myopically thought the kim family was not.) sharon was not just another lovely person, she was an aspiration. i loved her penchant for hunter green. i loved her perfectly golden pancakes topped with squeezable butter. i loved the way she cut my food into tiny pieces of mush and I just loved sharon.

as sharon opened the door, my transformation into an oscar worthy actress began. “look sharon! ziggy did an accident!” i would glare accusingly at dear little ziggy who was probably vigorously licking his anus. sharon’s eyes would catch the peanut butter turd innocently lying on the grey concrete and before she could do or say anything, i would say, “but don’t worry, i’ll take care of everything. “ i picked up the peanut butter turd and jammed the whole thing into my mouth.

what happens after that is unclear. i can only imagine peals of laugher mixed in with screams of horror mixed in with an attempted heimlich maneuver mixed in with one wriggly irene running home.

it’s really ironic that i developed an allergy to peanuts as an adult. that means I can never play that trick on you.

"not sure what to say" (real item from www.vineyardvines.com, the WASP-iest, mass label out there)

From: Ali, Wajahat
Sent: Tuesday, June 12, 2007 3:58 PM
To: Mascarenhas, Mark A; Kim, Irene (EQ - New York)
Subject: Not sure what to say...

http://www.vineyardvines.com/index.cfm/fuseaction/products.detail/categoryID/4a6fd419-651c-4c88-a341-31f39f1f6129/productID/49493234-b52c-4db3-8ba6-be5400134249/


Wajahat


-----Original Message-----
From: Sinha, Sylvana [mailto:Sylvana.Sinha@xxxx.com]
Sent: Tuesday, June 12, 2007 4:23 PM
To: Kim, Irene (EQ - New York); tanyaxxx@xxx.com
Subject: RE: Not sure what to say...


I can't believe they are $98!

Estado Libre Asociado de Puerto Rico

This weekend I had to go to Saks Fifth Avenue to return a dress I bought during one of my frenzied retail therapy sessions. Honestly, even I am shocked and awed at the unrestrained and voracious nature of my spending. Just to put it into perspective, I spent more than 3,000 USD in 1 hour. WTF? Who do I think I am? Princess Haewon of Korea? (she's real - and I am obsessed with her: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haewon,_Princess_of_Korea). So, to make wrong things right, I sheepishly went from store to store returning all that I didn't REALLY need. Which was pretty much everything, including the ivory alpaca cape from Barney's.
I forgot that the Puerto Rican Parade was running right up 5th Avenue on Saturday. But for once, I had time on my hands so I didn't mind waiting in line as the police managed the flow of non Puerto Rican Parade revelers across 5th Ave. The Po-Po let us trickle through bit by bit by moving the metal barricades a few inches and then closing it off abruptly, without warning, and with great mirth. We were like a human titration across 5th Ave - a very delicate balance had to be maintained.


Some observations:
1) Ricky Martin has a foundation. That's Ricky's bom bom in the picture.


2) Long nails hurt when they poke you in the chest. See, I wanted to take a snapshot of the pretty Puerto Rican girls. This picture was taken right after I yelled "LOOK UP THERE!" so that I could take the picture without arousing much suspicion. The one in the middle turned to me and said, "what are YOU (poke) looking at?"


3) The way out of a situation like the one I detail above, you only have to do one thing: raise your hands and yell "BORIIIIIQUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAA" (http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=boriqua) and...

4) ...you are INSTANTLY inducted into the Puerto Rican circle of love, regardless of race, gender, or the fact that the entire time you are listening to Pete Yorn wailing about something on your iPod. Whatever it was, it was quite possibly the most un Puerto Rican song possible.

(And by "un" I mean "anti/opposite of/contrary to", not "un" the Spanish word for "one/a"...i know this seems nit-picky, but i have a co-worker named "se" and everytime someone would say "yo, se!" i thought they were saying "i know" in Spanish. Being multi-lingual can cause much confusion.

a story by st kim

http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=151806215

*this* bothers me

I get up really early to go to work. I am usually on the train platform by 6:10 am bc I refuse to let myself get stuck in the golden handcuffs and take a taxi to work. Which is what everyone else on my trading desk does. In any case, it only saves me 20 minutes of sleep. Which begs the question, would you pay 10 dollars for an extra 20 minutes of sleep? Which over the course of the year is 2400 dollars which is really 4800 pre tax. So the REAL question is, would you pay almost 5000 to sleep an extra 20 minutes a work day? It's a personal decision, but for me, the answer is, NO.

Anyway, I digress. Sometimes I walk out my door and step over drunk hobos or locked out boyfriends curled up like guinea pigs in my lobby vestibule (and I'm being generous by calling it a lobby). Sometimes, as a resident of Christopher Street, I will run into a gaggle of barefooted trannies coming back from a big night out. As I wiggle myself between them, I think "this is what salmon feels like when they have to swim upstream to do whatever they do upstream". The trannies know me at this point and they all pretend to touch my hair and coo, "oooooh…pretty business lady!".

None of that bothers me.

What DOES bother me is particular short man in a super tacky leather/pleather/naugahyde jacket who is also at the platform every morning. He will walk *this close* to me and say, "hey baby" in a very salacious way that makes my skin crawl. He makes a point to sit across from me every morning. The one time I ran out of a subway car to avoid being in the same one as him, I missed the train. I was so mad! Once I am on the train, however, I am usually on my blackberry or listening to my ipod or reading my book or paper. So over time, he has become a non entity. Kind of like a hooker's plantar's warts. In the grand scheme of things, it's the least of her worries.

This morning, I hit a wall. I saw him coming out of the corner of my eye and I just DID NOT WANT TO DEAL WITH THE SHORT MAN. I turned to him and said, "It would be awesome if you could PLEASE F*CK OFF." but I said it really sweetly bc who needs that kind of agression at 6:10 in the morning?

We sat in different cars this morning.