Random Re*meme*ergence

I know, I KNOW! You people are blog vultures. Can’t you let a blogger hibernate in peace?

Okay okay… Well, what better way to reemerge than to start with a meme? I was tagged for the Random meme awhile back (by Kim, Hedgehog, and Angela), and I figured this is the best way for a slow re-entry. So, here goes:

Rules: Once tagged, you must link to the person who tagged you. Then post the rules before your list, and list 8 random things about yourself.

1. It has come to my attention that some of you actually absorb the shit I write on my blog and may have come to the incorrect conclusion that, when talking about one of my high school classmates in all of his glorious Hello Kitty gear, I was actually talking about an ex I mentioned in a past entry. Let me set the record straight: while C-Diddy is a great and funny guy, we did not date. The ex about whom I was talking shall remain nameless. He does have a movie coming out based on him, but it’s not an air guitar documentary. And that’s all I have to say about that.

2. I am so paranoid from watching Dateline and reading about kidnappings that when we stayed in a hotel over Thanksgiving, I kept getting up in the middle of the night to make sure the twins were still safely asleep in their bed. The more I got up, the more insomnia set in. Yes, I realize this does not bode well for my future in parenting, nor my future in sleeping.

3. My ideal man can best be described as a cross between Clark Kent/Superman, Maximus Decimus Meridius, Jason Bourne, and Coach Eric Taylor (you know — minus the kryptonite allergy, non-bathing, assassin, and lack of emotional availability during football season thing). I think I got pretty damn lucky with G. He’s sort of the civilian amalgam of my imaginary cinematic boyfriends.

4. I am vain enough to admit that I want Dr. 90210 to get rid of my muffintop. I am also vain enough to admit that I would never, however, show it on reality TV.

5. I love using tools. G and I once renovated our basement by ourselves. We framed, drywalled, laid down flooring… I wouldn’t want to do it all the time, but I’m glad I can. I’m too cheap to pay someone else to do it, even though they can do a much better job.

(We painted a room together too, with a special ‘linen’ effect. Because we made it through that experience, I know we can make it through anything. We were close to throttling each other’s necks. No joke. Painting a freakin’ room.)

6. I was once Fan of the Game at a Pirates game. My big round head was up on that Jumbotron, cluelessly stuffing a hot dog in my face before my friend Marcus poked me and pointed at the screen, then suggested that maybe I stop eating for a second.

7. Despite the fact that I worked in my parents’ jewelry store since I was ten years old (dude, Korean child labor laws are non-existent), I own very little jewelry. The only jewelry I wear regularly is my wedding ring. My sister also wears very little jewelry. FingKASIL is seriously perplexed by the lack of bejeweled fingers and necks in our family. I guess we got tired of it after being surrounded by it all of our lives. Too bad my parents didn’t own a Baskin Robbins or an Internet café. My life would be so much healthier right now.

8. I am severely incapable of remembering directions.

As a bonus (and if you got this far reading these boring details about me): These videos will never stop entertaining me. Go forth and enjoy.



Did you see Ellen showing these clips too? She begged someone — anyone — to produce this show in America. Dude, if this ever comes to American fruition, I’m so grabbing Superha and dragging her silver laméd ass with me to TetrisTown. Nina, get your silver condom costume ready!

I’m not going to tag anyone since so many of you have done this meme already, and I know some people don’t like to be meme’d anyway. But in case Momomax feels like getting off her pregnant duff, or FingKASIL feels like sharing, I tag thee. Maybe FingKASIL will share her move-to-CA rented truck story. It’s a good one.

Hope everyone had a fantastic holiday— er, December… and, er, November too.

See you in ’08!

Blog-xistentialism

Apologies to anyone who received 24 RSS updates to the same post yesterday. Technical difficulties.

And if you received updates to any old posts today, apologies again. I am freaked out by Mamazilla’s report that some random creep had favorited photos of Paloma, so I’m taking a cue from other bloggers. I deleted a bunch of pictures of the twins from past posts and left just a few innocuous ones.

This is disappointing — I’m sure more for me than anyone else — as part of this blog is for the kids. (You know, the ones where I don’t curse out strangers and such. …Okay, okay — it’s more for me so I can vent.) Luckily, we document Bean and Buddy-centric stories in private online locations that don’t have my ka-ka all over them because, you know, it’s all about them anyway.

I opened a private flickr account so that I can still post pictures for family and friends. We have been coveting Sarah’s Nikon so we finally went out and got one. I have a long way to go before I am anywhere near Sarah’s caliber. (Okay, a long, long way.) But this camera is amazing. If anyone wants a flickr invite, send me your email address and I’ll send you one. But I have to know you. And when I say I have to know you, I mean I’ve probably never met you before in person, but I know where your blog lives and I probably know what you did last summer too.

Speaking of Sarah, we saw her and Ted and gorgeous Cadence at Koreanfest last weekend. As she said, the food was meh. But it was fun watching the kids chase each other around. (Btw Sarah, thank you for the grocery store rec. I took the kids for lunch the other day and it was fabulous and SO CHEAP!)

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All of this blog privacy talk has made me wonder a lot. More so than my brain can handle, because I have conversations with myself in my head until I am confused. I’m going through a bit of blog-xistentialism. I haven’t been this confused about existence since I had to examine L’Étranger in a high school French class and I haphazardly scribbled the word l’existentialism in my blue book throughout my scrambled analysis. (I was proud that I spelled it correctly though.)

I’m reconsidering adding the ads, because while I was thinking about it, I started focusing on stats and numbers and page views, and then I realized what I was doing and who the hell should care about what I have to write, except myself? (See how profound I am getting here?) I’m not a writer; I just play one on the Internet. I don’t have aspirations to be one professionally — I’ll leave that to the real writers, while I treasure the freedom of having a mediocre blog through which I’ve met some amazing people. Plus, I can’t keep up with those pop blogs. It gives me a headache to think about even trying. And trying defeats the purpose of this blog for me.

Plus, I’m not crajee about the thousands of sidebar badges and stuff that seem to come with them. They are blog bumper stickers to me. And I’m not sure, but are they supposed to raise your traffic? Because if so, I would presumably defeat any marketing strategies by not adding them.

Clearly, I judge no one who does have ads and admire anyone who can make money off it. (Actually, it’s admiration-veiled jealousy.) But I myself was taking a dip in the wrong direction. I am weak like that. Like if I lived on Middle-earth, I would so be killing Frodo for that ring right now.

Plus, have I ever mentioned how lazy I am?

Maybe if I get to a point where I just don’t care as much about it and can control my Gollum-like tendencies, I’ll revisit it. For now, it’s on the back burner.

However, I will be moving this site in the future. And I may still be J.Lo-ing and BlogWhoring it up in other areas (i.e. professional areas). But for now, I’ll be leaving halfmama alone.

Random thought: my life would be much simpler if people didn’t link to things in their posts anymore. If they do, they should all lead to this: The End of the Internet. That would just help me and my productivity so.

:::

In other news, I got that freelance job. Woot woot! I’m psyched about the project. On top of that, we found a wonderful, affordable school for the kids; one that will also preserve some of my sanity. I am really excited about this school and am hoping that the kids love it.

My glass today is half-full. Our MA house is still sitting, but life is good. I am feeling really really lucky right now. I’ve had a great week traipsing the kids around the city and taking a zillion blurry pictures of them with this camera that I don’t know how to use.

On top of that, I think I just managed to indirectly associate myself with Albert Camus. Sweet.

Have a great weekend, peeps.

TO DO

(Found this on swissmiss, one of my fave design blogs.)
A NYC art installation in DUMBO:

My favorite TO DO contributions (from swissmiss' flickr pages and Illegal Art's (the creators) previous installations):

- SMILE & MAKE OTHERS SMILE
(next to it:)
- ^ KILL THIS PERSON

- QUIT being afraid of Wisconsin


Here are mine:

- Sell house.
- Stop procrastinating.
- Finish reading motivational book.
- Try not to go postal in emails to clueless clients.
- Tell my kids how funny they are. Again.
- Stop finding new blogs to read.
- Finish blog post. Just one of them.

What are your TO DOs?

Plastic Surgery

Is anyone else getting annoyed about all these toxic plastic warnings? I’m talking about the plastics that occupy almost every room of my home; their toxins supposedly burrowing into our bodies like rude cancerous house guests. I don’t know if these articles are alarmist or not because for every article I read that says PLASTICS ARE BAD, there is another one that says PLASTICS ARE JUST FINE AND BY THE WAY, HERE’S HOW TO THROW A TUPPERWARE PARTY. Fan-fucking-tastic. All it does is make me feel guilty for potentially exposing my kids to anything bad. For the love of God — I just want to buy whatever I want to buy and not worry that it will give me The Plague or leach Bird Flu bacteria if I put it in the freakin’ microwave.

So. Anyway. I’m on a kick to slowly rid our house of this alleged-crap.

But GODDAMMIT it is not easy. I’m not kidding when I say we essentially bathe in PVC. And I hate feeling like some kind of hipster parent; hate buying into hype and jumping on any kind of bandwagon. If you see this little family of four walking down the street in The Emperor’s New Clothes, carrying our Sigg bottles and eco-friendly shopping bags and nothing else, I give you permission to point and laugh. (By the way, IKEA bags are less than $2 and if any of you have that stupid “I am not a Plastic Bag” bag and paid more than $15 for it please come here so I can mock you. To your face.)

I’m also doing a half-ass job of buying organic and hormone-free food. Half-ass because first of all, it’s impossible, and secondly, it’s stupidly pricey living that way. And since I like to do things half-ass, this is my stance. I have never been an extremist; my motto is ‘everything in moderation.’ (Unless you put me in a bar with a whole night (i.e. three hours) ahead of me. Shee-it, they don’t call me bottle rocket for nothing, people.)

Anyway… if my half-ass efforts keep my kids a little bit healthier in the future, and keeps them from hitting pub8rty at the age of, I don’t know, five, I guess I’ll feel a little better. However, they are probably growing extra n1pples and limbs as. I. blog. since we used to heat their Avent bottles in the microwave before we knew better. Back in the olden days when we thought doing so was safe. You know, three years ago. Oh, Lawd.

In an effort to get other people to join this bandwagon with me, I’ll pass along these links:

I like angry chicken’s post on how she is slowly ridding her house of plastics. This pace — I can follow. Even though we haven’t used some of our plastic kid utensils and cups in awhile, I just can’t bear to trash them for some reason.

Like I said, organic eating is straight up expensive. I like this article in Smart Money about Buying Organic Without Breaking the Bank.

One last link: what to avoid. Which might mean your kitchen will be entirely empty by the time you are done removing the offending items. (Canned foods are bad?? Are you f’ing kidding me?) I can’t rid us of all of this... I just can’t. We have a huge cabinet dedicated to canned items: soups, vegetables, diced tomatoes… And when I make some Fra Diavolo sauce, I’ll feel bad about it, but shit I will still enjoy it. Doesn’t it count for anything that I get the Organic Brand of Cancerous Metal Canned Diced Tomatoes?

How do you all deal with this? Am I the only one buying the hype?

And can anyone else tell me how they clean their Sigg bottles? I am tortured by these products that are not dishwasher-safe but have bottle necks that are as large as my pinkie. I bought a brush, discovered it was too large, and gave it an embarrassing haircut. Seriously. We have a brush with a mohawk sitting on our sink. Please tell me your Sigg-cleaning tips.

Inspired by Scott Baio

It’s a sloooow summer in the blog world. Seems like everyone is on vacation. Or maybe everyone is getting their hair/nails/boobs done for BlogHer. This is going to be a lame post. (Surprisingly, my ‘throwaway posts’ don’t attract the crowds that MetroDad’s do.) But this really was one of my lame thoughts today.

Has anyone watched Scott Baio’s new show? I caught part of it and — It. Was. Awesome. He lost his virginity to Joanie! I don’t care if it’s all staged. I hope all the MTV teens who are screwing around look at Scott Baio and get scared into chaste(r) living. He kind of looks the same with that closet-mullet of his, but with wrinkles and some sort of fuzz on his face to proudly announce that he is stuck in the 80s. And not that you have to be married to be happy (I get totally annoyed with those married people who believe that everyone else needs to be married too) but his story is just… well, sad.

Anyway. In order to figure out why Scott Baio is 45 …and Single, he seeks out old girlfriends and asks them for insight. Because apparently he’s too much of an idiot to figure it out himself. Or, VH1 is paying him a shitload of money to let us watch his exes tear him a new one. He needs a life coach to prod him along. So he travels about, asking his exes what the f his problem is. Genius.

Would you ever do this? (I think that I hear a resounding, “Aw, hell to the no,” echoing in my audience of seven out there.)

I used to be friendly with my exes, but as the years passed, we lost touch. I even have a favorite Ex. Yes, G knows this and knows him. In fact, G and I have hung out with him on various occasions. He was invited to our wedding (he couldn’t make it though). And in true friend fashion, he and another good friend went to Scores with me while I searched for my then-fiancé after our bachelor/bachelorette party. I haven’t spoken to Ex for several years, but maybe it’s time to track him down — ask him what the hell my problem is/was. I think his answer would be something along the lines of *You were f’ing CRAZY.*

Then again, maybe I won’t.

I have another ex who is soon to be the subject of a mainstream movie. Yes, weird. Very very weird. I think he hangs out with famous people.

I don’t think I’ll call him either.

Another ex? I don’t think he appreciates my existence much. Actually, by now, he probably doesn’t care one way or another. But definitely a no-go on that lead.

Oh, this is good: One of G’s exes? She’s a s*xpert. Let me elaborate: she is so much of a s*xpert that she is interviewed. For her s*xpertise. G got a message from his friend once that went something like this: “Hey… uh… so I just watched [S*xpert] on [National Morning Show] talking about [something s*x-related].” […long pause…] “Dude. Call me.”

I don’t think I would want G to call his ex either. Because, did I mention…? She’s a s*xpert. And I am not.

I know this is a random post. But c’mon, when else can you say that Scott Baio inspired you? Yeah, I thought so. I had to take advantage.

What would your exes say about you? Spill it.

Offsides

We came across these plastic glasses while packing for our move:


I have no idea where they came from. G is convinced they are my Dad’s. Because apparently my Dad looks like Benjamin Franklin.

They have officially been marked as a dress-up toy. Ben’s trash has become the twins’ treasure.

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Three people now have told me how much South Park Buddy looks like Real Life Buddy. And it’s true! Buddy’s head is adorably (disproportionately?) large and round. I guess our family tree includes a historic lookalike and a cartoon character.


One of the funniest scenes from a movie EVER:

Stuart Mackenzie: WILLIAM! MOVE YOUR HEED! Look at the size of that boy’s heed.
Tony Giardino: Shhh!
Stuart: I’m not kidding, it’s like an orange on a toothpick!
Tony: Shhh, you’re going to give the boy a complex!
Stuart: Well, that’s a huge noggin’! That’s a virtual planetoid! Has its own weather system!
Tony: Shh!
Stuart: HEED! MOVE!

Stuart: HEED! PAPER! NOW! Move that melon of yours and get the paper if you can! Haulin’ that gargantuan cranium about. I’m not kidding, that boy’s head’s like Sputnik! Spherical but quite pointy at parts. …Now that was offsides, wasn’t it? He’ll be crying himself to sleep tonight, on his huge pillow.

Surprises of the Week

I covet. But how the hell do this many people (est. 500,000!) have $600 to spend on a phone? Okay, someone pointed out to me that the majority of these people actually don’t have the money to buy this phone (note to self: buy stock in credit card companies). Still. I am way, WAY, too cheap to drop that kind of change for one.

CNNMoney: Evan Herman, 28, first went to an AT&T store several blocks away, but said the line was too short… “Half the fun is the experience of the line,” said Herman.

Dude, you need to find a new way to meet people. (And I thought I knew how to waste time.)

Even if I wasn’t cheap, I would at least wait until the second generation. I mean, I love Apple but c’mon… it’s Apple. Use some sense. Don’t get me wrong — if some idiot offered me one for free I would punch the idiot and run away with it before he changed his mind. But $600? Ouch.

Plus, in another year it’ll probably look as antiquated as my first Mac. You know it’s true.

That being said, if you have one, please… tell me all about it.

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After the melee over at SVMomBlog, I’m a little surprised to see a certain Ms. Roper still listed as a contributor on their About Us page. Granted, she has posted only one non-related blog since TPFKATPPTA (The Post Formerly Known As The Problem with the White PTA), so it’s a little vague if she’s lying low or if she is now an ex- and her name has yet to be removed.

Now don’t come trolling around here and yapping to me about free speech. I’m just curious. I’m not launching any campaigns here.

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This is an old surprise actually: the twins’ weight “issues,” which I wrote about the other day. Just wanted to add that we left that pediatrician behind when we moved, thankfully. Loser. I mean, nice guy… but what kind of bullshit diagnosis is that? And who gives their three-year-olds caffeinated sodas? Are you serious? People need their kids to be more hyper?

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Apparently we can’t even let our kids play in the backyard behind a fence. A six-year-old girl was abducted for several hours after being lured out by a stranger. Fortunately, she was released after a few hours, relatively unharmed. This is the stuff that gives me nightmares and makes me borderline-agoraphobic. I’m so relieved and happy for her and her family.

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I’m constantly surprised and impressed by the creativity of secret-keepers over at Post Secret. This is one of the first blogs I ever came across. Some of the secrets are surprising and haunting, yes, but sometimes the surprise for me is how these secrets bring out the artist in people. Brilliant.

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Dear Anonymous Commenters of My Blog,

I welcome you to comment on my blog and agree or disagree with me, but if you wish to do so, I only ask that you don’t leave behind shit droppings replete with condescending, preachy tones. Let me explain something: I do not read your comment and then smack myself in the head and say, “DUH! Anon commenter number one is right! What is up with my lack of understanding? When will I EVER learn?” Nor do I read anon comment #2 and feel the need to immediately call camp and withdraw my son. While I appreciate your concerns (albeit phrased in the most derogatory of manners), it’s just rude. But at least now I have a post. So spanks… spanks a lot.

AC #1 (signed Cece): Are you bitter about something? Did I harm you in some way? Do I know you? I think the only thing I will look back on and be amazed about is the need for some people to criticize strangers in such a manner. Is there a reason why you want to make other people feel smaller when you know nothing about them? Truly, it’s bad manners. I mean, it did make me laugh, but I don’t believe that was your intent. I promise you that I won’t look back on this and be amazed at my lack of understanding. I know my son. You do not. And by the way, I don’t believe I was expressing any uncertainty about bringing my son to camp, so thanks, but there is no need to dispel anything. This is the second time you’ve had something to say about the way I think or parent. If you don’t like me or what I have to say, you can leave. I won’t be hurt. I swear.

AC #2 (signed Alissa F.): Sometimes our parents force us to do things. Sometimes we must force ourselves to do things as parents. In my opinion, learning independence at any age is important; perhaps, in your opinion it is not. To each her own. If my parents did not force me into things that I wasn’t ready for, I would still be living at home sucking my adult-sized thumb. I was sent to a boarding school at 14 and I may not have been ready for it, but as an adult, I can honestly say it was one of the best experiences of my life. Some of my closest friends today are from that school. It shaped me into the person I am today. And I am forever indebted to my parents for ‘forcing’ me to attend, even though I know my mom cried and cried the whole way home after dropping me off, and even though I would call home and cry at times, completely homesick. You see, I understand that my parents were teaching me to be independent, and on top of that, providing me with an incredible opportunity. For that, it was worth any resistance.

I’m happy to hear that you have well-adjusted grandchildren. Hooray for you! (I’m sure this condescending tone is not winning me any points—you see how that backfires works?) If I took a moment to reciprocate judgement, I may wonder if your kids are too dependent and if you had a different approach than I about ‘forcing’ your kids to do things (e.g. dragging your kids while they are kicking and screaming). However, since I don’t know you, I’m not going to judge you or assume anything. I will hope that your kids did not learn to be as judgemental as you. Sheesh.

We (I am speaking for myself AND sffamilee here, who is my SIL) are good parents. Fuck that—we’re fucking kick-ass parents. My SIL is one of the best parents I know and if I could bottle her parenting skills I would do that and sell it for a lot of money and call it Skillz of the FingKASIL and I might have even offered you a discount had you been a bit nicer. It sounds like you could have used it when you were raising your young’uns (according to you). If you are implying that we could not possibly have well-adjusted children because we ‘force’ them to go to school or camp, I invite you to come see us in action. Seriously, we’re good. Our kids are sweet, compassionate, well-adjusted little people. In fact, we are complimented quite often on their behavior and their general dispositions. My kids and my nephews… well… they kind of kick ass. Really. I do not lie.

So. If you ACs (or anyone else for that matter) cannot comment in a more civil manner, I hereby cordially dis-invite you to my blog. No need to RSVP. I won’t get all up into your business and tell you all the things I think you are doing wrong to F up your own kids, grandkids, whatever (not that I can, since you either don’t have a blog that I can judge or you are posting sans links so as to leave no trail). Your kids, your family—do with them what you will; parent/grandparent however you wish to. I care not. Please reciprocate this favor, not only to myself but to anyone else’s blog where you have an urge to leave shit droppings. You have better things to do with your time, I promise. You can go home now and care about something else.

One final thing to you both though: Thank you, because there’s nothing like realizing the kind of shit lessons and manners that other parents pass along to their kids to make me think I’m the fucking Mother-of-the-Year. I’m awesome and I F’ING ROCK!

Sincerely,
halfmama

P.S. Obviously AC #1 and #2 don’t care because they have pre-conceived notions about the kind of parent I am, but to FingKASIL and other FTB (Friends of This Blog): The evening after Buddy told me he would “be hurt,” we attended Camp Orientation. We wanted to show the kids where they would be going and also introduce them to their teachers and their classroom. By the end, Buddy didn’t want to leave. And asked the next day when he would be going to camp. And again the next day. When I finally dropped them off for their first day, Buddy gave me a kiss goodbye and sat down happily for his new adventure in camp. Who would have thought that gentle easing could work for transitioning your kids to new things? To quote Cece: Duh!!

So I don’t believe he is too traumatized by my harsh parenting tactics. He seemed quite happy at pickup as well. Thank you, FingKASIL and FTB, for caring about Buddy (in a sincere and nice way). You guys have open-ended invitations to MY BLOG. And if you want to disagree, feel free! I know you will disagree respectfully. (Since, you know, you guys aren’t total douchebags.)

Wax On Wax Dull

My latest favorite line from The 40-Year-Old Virgin (because yes, I’ve watched it that many times—you gotta problem with that?):

“I like your sweater. Does that come in a v-neck?”

(My previous favorite line was: “You look like a man o’ lantern.”)

Here’s the scene, but if you don’t like immature and stupid humor with a large dose of cursing—which apparently, I do—I highly recommend you avoid clicking on this.

Paul Rudd. That guy is sofaking funny. (They all are, actually.) This has nothing to do with anything but every time I think of that line, I laugh. And today has been a freakin’ pisser of a day so I could surely use a laugh.

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Something else to force a smile—here is the current exhibit in our gallery, courtesy of Twin A and Twin B:

Happy Twins
Bean


Not-So-Happy Twins
Buddy
(If I read into this, I would say it’s Buddy conveying his need for space.)


“That’s my girl, Sabrina.”
Bean
(Aunt/uncle/cousin’s cat… and apparently, Bean’s ‘girl’.)

Self-Portrait
Buddy


Bean
Bean

Too cool to watch the beginnings of penmanship.

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That’s all I got today.
Excuse me now. It’s Happy Hour.

Kickass

Now that we’re (sort of) settling in, I am dedicating myself to getting my shit together and using my brain on things other than boxes and rearranging furniture and getting through to do lists. To start: this is a delayed response to everyone who has been commenting—thank you! I love seeing old and new commenters (who doesn’t?) and reading what you have to say; I especially loved reading what everyone wrote about their kids looking Asian vs. White (seriously—we need to start a colony). Love the group of online friends here I’ve never met! You guys kick ass.

So this is what’s on my mind lately: phobias. I’ve written before about my fear of birds, for which I have Alfred Hitchcock to thank. I know someone who has a fear of bicyclists—I believe because she was almost run over by one. G is freaked out by goats—because of a shower curtain he had growing up.

Lately Buddy has been scared of my hair dryer. Granted, it’s a powerful and noisy little sucker, but his reaction to it borders on ‘impending issue.’ The other day I was drying my hair in the bathroom and saw something out of the corner of my eye. Buddy was peering around the door. In a flash he scooted across the doorway and walked briskly down the hall. (No running!) Later, I had the dryer off for a moment and was just about to turn it back on when he walked cautiously into the bathroom and said, “Mommy, please don’t turn that—.” My finger, already at the ready, pushed the button on and he was out of there like he was being chased by wild hyenas.

(Shit, next time I need some peace and quiet I just need to hole myself up in a room with my hair dryer on and a stack of magazines! Who knew?)

Anyone else have any interesting/crazy/funny phobias? The most fascinating part to me is learning the root of them. My fear of birds is pretty nutty, I admit. Because besides picturing birds picking at my head, I also picture Fabio on the roller coaster. I remember when that was on the news, I turned to G and said, “SEE?” To which, I’m quite certain, he rolled his eyes. I mean, it’s Fabio, I know. But at least I’m not scared of goats.


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Here is where I share a few select recent interactions with the kids, because they are freaking funny. I know, this is SO mommy blog but I don’t care. I’m committed to my sappiness almost as much as I am to my cynicism. And I know I love reading about all your kids on your blogs and seeing their adorable pics. So here you go:

Bean, pointing to Buddy at the playground, says, “That’s my best friend, [Buddy].”

On a separate occasion: Bean, pointing to me, tells G, “That’s my best friend, Mom.”

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A few days ago I tell Buddy that he and Bean need to work out their argument over who-knows-what themselves. He leaves the kitchen, comes back a moment later and says, “Mom, I don’t want to work it out myselves.”

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When G comes home from work, I am more-or-less ‘off-duty.’ We eat dinner, and almost every night at the end of the meal, Bean turns to me and says, “Mom, I’m all done.” And every night, I make a gesture towards G and tell her, “Talk to the Big Man.” Whereupon she turns to G and says, “Big Man, I’m all done.”

::
We are officially in the ‘why’ phase with Buddy. The only way to deflect the constant barrage of whys (per my very intelligent and f’ing kickass sister-in-law) is to offer an argument that makes no logical sense in his world. Then it’s like getting rid of hiccups; you wait for awhile in quiet anticipation, hoping it won’t start up again:

“Mommy, please I want to try that?” Points to my wine.
“No Buddy, I’m sorry, this is for me.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s my drink and you have your own drink.”
“Mommy, why?”
“Because you have your drink and I have my drink and Daddy has his and [Bean] has hers and we all have our own drinks.”
“Why?”
*sigh*
“Because if I let you drink it you will get drunk and pass out and then hug the toilet while you puke and you’ll probably get alcohol poisoning and later develop some toilet-related infection and then Child Social Services will come and ask me all kinds of questions and then the police will arrest me and I don’t want to go to jail for giving you some of my drink.”

[… pause… pensive contemplation… pause… then defeated acceptance…]

And we’re clear! (For a few minutes anyway.) Phew.


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Finally, on a more personal and cryptic note, this is for my other very intelligent and f’ing kickass sister- and brother-in-laws: good luck to you guys! We love you and we’re keeping our fingers crossed for you. We’re so glad to be here with you guys. (Now I feel like I’m signing your yearbook. So BFF and KIT and go kick some ass.)

Sofaking Blog

In an effort to clean up my language and get back into the good graces of the DDR Police, I’m going to try really really hard to be 2-legit-2-quit over here. (Or at least curse in code.)

My last post was over a month ago but I feel like I’ve been gone for twelve years. I followed the VT shootings on TV while I packed box after box, anxious to get back to everyone’s blogs, mourn for these victims, commiserate with fellow Koreans/Asians about the shooter’s background. I can’t even comment on that right now because it’s an entire blog in and of itself, plus I’m late on the news and won’t have much to add that hasn’t already been said anyway. But, I still have to add my condolences to all of those who lost loved ones and to the rest of us who didn’t, but mourn with you. I am deeply saddened for what those victims had to go through, what VT has gone through, and for all the families and friends involved. Truly, the courage and unity shown in the aftermath was inspirational.

Now in the worst and most awkward segue, I’ll move on to much lighter, much less-important crap about what we’ve been up to on my blog hiatus. I apologize for not making a smoother transition:

Sofaking Confused
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Before we moved, we took the kids and spent a night in Boston. First we took the kids to the MFA, where they recognized Degas paintings and a huge portrait of George Washington. A woman turned, surprised, to look at Buddy after he said, “Look Dad, it’s John Adams! Hey, where’s Thomas Jefferson?” (This is the kind of trivial crap we teach our kids strictly to entertain ourselves because they are, in fact, put on this earth solely to entertain us, you know.) While we walked down Comm Ave, Buddy kept telling us he wanted to go to Boston.

“[Buddy], we’re in Boston.”
“No, I want to go to Boston!”

We had no idea what he was talking about so after a minute of debating, we gave up. Later, his eyes lit up as he noticed some larger buildings in the distance.

“Wow! Look at all the Bostons!”
Oh shit. We’ve been living in the suburbs too long. He thought city buildings were called Bostons. Get this kid to a city, STAT.

Sofaking Tired
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Luckily, we did just that. After packing for two weeks straight (I don’t exaggerate when I say we packed morning to night while making our raggedy kids entertain themselves with empty boxes) and shutting ourselves off from the world, the movers came, picked up our stuff, and we headed west. Well, first we headed south to NY to visit my family. Then we headed north to upstate NY (or what we southern NYers refer to as Canada) to visit G’s family. Then we drove to Ohio to stay with friends of family. And finally, we made it here.

Sofaking Anti-Racist
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First order of business: get these kids into school for the fall. We are way too late getting our kids into a pre-K program in most schools. However, there’s an excellent program near our house, and I’ve been trying like mad to get the kids into it for September. The most fascinating and mind-boggling thing to me in this experience has been the little bit of extra attention I’ve/we’ve received due to our race. Shocking. I’ve never experienced anything like it. I knew some schools were looking for diversity, but because I’ve only really experienced the opposite (subtle but less attention due to my race), it’s a little bit shocking. Who knew that just showing my face would be such a positive thing? Seriously. Not used to it. Not sure what to do with it.

Sofaking Gentile (or Koreantile?)
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Second order of business: get these kids into camp. Mama needs a break. We enrolled them in the JCC Summer Camp program. Awesome. If you haven’t read about the theories of Jewish-Korean linkage, do so here.

Sofaking Not Ready for That Talk
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Our new place has been a chaotic mess. At one point, I had some pantiliners lying who-the-hell-knows where. G told me that Bean came up to him one day, holding one.

“Daddy, what’s this?”
“Ummm... that’s Mommy’s. Can you put it back please?”
“Daddy, is it for cleaning? Like this? I clean like this?” And she pretended to wipe something down with it.
“Uh... sure [Bean]. Can you put it back now please?”

Sofaking Embarrassing
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Until we get our bearings here, we’ve decided to rent for now (plus we still have a mortgage to pay until we sell our house). We have a lovely apartment near the lake. We also live on the floor above our very nice landlords, who are sensitive to noise and who warned us (indirectly through their broker) that they didn’t want noisy people living above them. They were somehow all right with us living here, kids and all, and after looking at some very disgusting fraternity-level apartments around the city, we jumped at this place.

The apartment has a very long hallway that just begs to be sprinted down, and it’s an effort in restraint with two three-year-olds. To assuage their temptation, we tell them that our landlords are sleeping downstairs. And that’s all they do. All day. Constantly. Sleep. Nap. Then sleep some more. They are very, very tired people. One day, G took the kids out for a walk. On the way out, they saw our landlord. Buddy, surprised upon seeing him, pointed and excitedly said, “Look! [M]’s awake!!”

Sofaking Restrained...
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Along the same lines, shortly after we first moved in, Buddy walked down the hall slowly with his hands in his pockets talking to himself: “No running. No jumping. No hopping. No stomping...” These poor kids.

... But Not
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However, we are within two blocks of two playgrounds, a library, too many restaurants, too many drugstores, many modes of transportation, and the lake. So we have a lot of running around to do outside. And we are loving every minute of it. The twins constantly tell us that they “love our new house.” Joy. Success. Relief.

Sofaking Experiment-Gone-Bad
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In Boston, they had their own rooms. That’s because at four months old, they were constantly waking each other up while I was constantly ripping my hair out (although it didn’t need much help at that time—did anyone else have chunks of hair falling out? Another thing other moms don’t share with you *grumble grumble*). So once we got here, we decided to let them share a room. Bad idea. We’ve since learned that Bean will do anything to try and get Buddy to laugh. ...Or cry. Whichever mood they’re in. And she will do it Lionel Richie style: All Night Long.

Sofaking Nice
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Midwesterners are some of the friendliest people I’ve ever met. Period.

Sofaking Pissed
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I’m still navigating the policies and politics of playground etiquette. I’m not sure if it’s because the twins are older and running with a different crowd/age group now but at times, I’m at a loss. At what point do you step in if the parent/caretaker is not paying attention to their child and try and assist-parent in the least obtrusive way possible? I don’t helicopter my kids; God knows with two, I can’t anyway. But if I see one of them not waiting their turn or potentially about to run over a smaller kid, I’ll go over and tell them they need to wait, or be considerate of the other kids around them. They’re kids of course, but they have to learn somehow, right?

Last week, a little girl had bubbles at the playground that she was blowing in Bean and Buddy’s faces. The twins happily started chasing the bubbles and popping them, at which point, the little girl yelled at them to STOP! They were HER bubbles! I looked at her caretaker (grandmother? nanny? I’m not sure) only five feet away, who was busy looking in a bag. So I asked the little girl if she wouldn’t mind sharing her bubbles, after all, she was blowing them RIGHT IN THEIR FACES. (Okay, I didn’t say that last part.) To which she adamantly answered, NO. They were HER bubbles.

The twins were frozen, uncertain how to proceed. So, I gently guided them to the other side of the playground and explained to them that the bubbles were the girl’s, and she didn’t want to share them right now. They hesitated for a second, then accepted it and slowly walked away. Then I suggested to the girl, as nicely as I could muster, that perhaps if she wanted to play with her bubbles and didn’t want anyone to pop them, that she could blow them elsewhere.

Honestly, I wasn’t upset with her—I realize she’s just a little girl—but I was sofaking pissed with her caretaker. Are you f’ing kidding me? You’re going to bring bubbles to the playground and expect other kids NOT to run after them and try and pop them?

Snickollet asked others what they thought about kids sharing... I understand under certain circumstances, it’s difficult for some kids to share. But if that’s the case, it’s perfectly acceptable to explain the situation. If the reason is solely that your child doesn’t like to share—I’m sorry, but what kid does? Shit, I don’t like to share sometimes!

In any case, this girl was perfectly pleasant up until she brought out the bubbles so I don’t think she had any problems with other kids or people. We were talking to her and having a normal conversation. And—go figure—we saw her again a few days later, and the twins played with her the entire time we were there. She and Bean bonded over their identical Dora sunglasses. And she was very sweet the second time around. But woman-who-was-with-that-little-girl: Listen up! Kids don’t learn to share unless they are taught. So please, get your act together. Or, don’t bring the damn bubbles to the playground.

(Sidenote: How am I doing with the cursing? Nah... I didn’t think I’d get far either.)

Sofaking Proud (and Sofaking Scared too)
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While I’ve been blog-MIA, the twins had a birthday. A very lame birthday by some standards, but figuring this is probably the last year we can get away with lame birthdays, we took advantage. And, they were perfectly content just going out to dinner and having some chocolate cake that got them so wired I felt like I had just provided drugs to my kids. They were in a different state of mind, I tell you.

All in all it’s been a good year for us. I’m so proud of our kids. They are well-behaved, well-mannered, sweet and empathetic, considerate and funny, reasonable and (in my obviously biased opinion) smart kids—all at the ripe age of three. Buddy’s laugh is contagious. Bean’s energy is exhilarating. I love these kids and sometimes I can’t believe they are my kids. A few days ago, I caught them hugging and saying to each other, “Oh I love you SO MUCH!”

Then again, a few days later I caught them—I suppose—wrestling and laughing, but in fact it looked like Buddy was humping Bean. Therapy, I tell you. Therapy for all of us. I just don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for this parenting gig. Dude. It was messed up. For reals.

And... back to Sofaking Confused
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The other day, Buddy looked out the window on a foggy day, frowned and said, “I don’t see any Bostons in Chicago, Mommy. Oh no! Where did the Bostons go?”


Sofaking Back
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Psyched to be here in Chicago, and psyched to be back to the land of blogging. Hope you all have been fantastic.

See you around the water cooler.

(Here are some pictures that the kids took with their sweet new cameras they got from Uncle A and Aunt B for their birthday. The first day they got them, Bean slid into the room on one knee, click-click-clicked, then got up and ran out. Paparazzi-in-training. You’ll see that feet and socks are a mild obsession around here, as are commercialized toys.)

“Would you lie with me and just forget the world?”

I have been avoiding my Google Reader, packing my desk all around my computer and eyeing that link with near-starving temptation. But I know if I get started I won’t stop and before I know it, the movers will be here and I’ll deliriously begin ranting to them about MN’s crazy in-laws/racist neighbors and showing them pictures of all these adorable kids while my house lies in unpacked shambles around me.

So, admittedly, I’ve been avoiding you, blogger friends. It’s not you—it’s me. Really. My addiction is not something that I am easily able to control. But this morning I caved and hopped on with a cup of coffee to skim over some of my favorites. Then, over on Kimchi Mamas, I learned that Snickollet’s GH had passed away.

And now my coffee is mixed with many many tears.

It’s amazing how tied I feel to Snickollet, when I’ve never even met her. Maybe it’s the b/g twin connection, or the Boston connection... I’m not sure. As I told her, I think it’s because she has shared so much of herself and her life with all of us — I know I’m not the only one who feels this way, as evidenced by the many comments on her blog. I feel awful now for avoiding my Reader; like a bad friend who has been totally self-absorbed with packing and making arrangements and being excited. Ugh. I’m in mourning now for this blog friend and her little ones.

Chances are I won’t get to meet Snickollet before I leave Boston. Snickollet, if you happen to be reading this, I’m sure you are getting a lot of help and visitors right now, but if you need to escape from that... I’m here, if only for another six days. That seems silly considering we’ve never met, but I don’t care—I’ll put it out there anyway.

This morning I had to drive into Boston for an appointment. Driving on Storrow for one last time, Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol came on the radio. And I thought of Snickollet, curled up next to GH… every time I hear this song, I’ll think of you and hope that you and your kids are somehow finding peace in the middle of this storm.

As Mrs. Chicken said to me: Peace to you, friend.

Virus Hiatus

After two visits to the pediatrician, one ear infection, confirmation of a virus brewing on top of another that was ending, and a few episodes of barfing, I finally caught the bugs’ bug. Along with it came a three-day fever. I don’t think I’ve ever had a fever for that long. No amount of medicine would bring it down. And I felt like I had just run a mile (a mile is equivalent to a marathon for me). (For the record, I still believe in Airborne, but after a week and a half I thought I was immune to my kids’ colds. Little did I know that another one was lurking in the shadows. So I got a little lazy with it. Fool.)

Luckily, as I was writhing around in bed looking SO-not-sexy, G worked from home as much as possible and took care of all three of us (seriously, I am eternally grateful for this man). When he wasn’t home, I kept the kids in bed with me and let them watch TV (don’t even think about judging me here or I must kick your ass). I tried to sleep off the fever as much as I could and lay in bed reading The Aquariums of Pyongyang, drifting in and out of sleep and, in my feverish delirium, dreaming that Kim Il-sung’s legion of border soldiers were hunting my ass down. Finally, after complaining much more than my kids and warning G that I was going to die like The English Patient after I am set aflame by my fever, I awoke yesterday feeling more-or-less like myself again.

Relief.

I spent the day catching up on freelance work that I had blown off to be sick. And then took today to get through my Google Reader. Not only because I’m a very slow reader, but because damn, there was a lot to get through. Three days of blogs! But a good indication of what will happen next weekend when we are visiting the in-laws/grandparents and I am, most likely, unable to connect too much to the outside world.

Anyway. It’s good to be alive again. But now, I must go and catch up on even more of that work.

Spongecake

After that very heavy last post (thank you for letting me get that out), I am going to keep this light and airy. Like spongecake.

Let me preface this by revealing that the Internet is my concubine (oh I know: only males have concubines, yada yada yada, but give me a break—I just called the Internet my concubine). Someone—*cough G cough*—may add, “uninvited concubine,” (although that seems like an oxymoron), but oh Concubine! how I love thee!

I foresee one of those “it’s-either-me-or-it” ultimatums in my near future. So PLEASE someone-with-more-ambition-than-I: I beg you to open a fancy rehab facility for Internetters Anonymous. I say someone-with-more-ambition-than-I because I am lazy. And I say fancy because I’m a snob and want to rehab it up with celebs like Britney and Keith and Lindsay, not the trolls who lurk and skulk around random site after random site.

Oh wait, that’s me.

Well. Anyway. I thought I would share a few of my favorite, funny, and mind-/time-suckage links, courtesy of my loverly concubine. Concubine comforts me when I’m sad; entertains me when I’m bored; feeds me when I’m curious; and supports my hypochondria when I’m suffering from a life-threatening paper cut that I’ve Web MD-diagnosed. Because Lord knows I don’t have anything better to do with my spare time except spend it canoodling with my concubine.


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best of craigslist (Who are these people and where can I find their blogs??)

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Guess the Dictator and/or Television Sit-Com Character (I can’t stop until I beat that damn thing.)

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Beloved Babbling reminded me of this one: Overheard in NY (Thanks, Beloved!)

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Haiku-O-Matic

This haiku is for you, Married to Asian lady in San Francisco:
Your Asian lady
Sentimental? Perhaps not.
Funny? Fo’ shizzle.

If you return east
Then your site shall receive help
No charge for white man.

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Cluttered Mom Journals
You’ll love her. Her Peanut is adorable. She won’t judge you if you want to webcam your muffintop over IM. And she and her now-husband, aka MTALISF (see above), kindly requested haikus from their wedding guests in lieu of RSVPs. No shit. It’s ingenious. If you couldn’t guess, ours was very bad (I think we quoted Gladiator). But maybe you can convince her to include some of the good ones on her shiny new blog.

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The other night I had a conversation with G. I asked him to recall a detail about a fart he once had. (Yes, because his farts come with their own stories and details.) He hesitated before answering, then naively asked, “Is this going to be on your blog?”

Oh you silly man. Of course it is.

His question reminded me of this video from Henri: Scenes From a Marriage: Bloglight. Watch it. It’s freakin’ hilarious. And I’m wondering how many others have had conversations similar to this… Because I have a feeling that I’m not the only one whom my concubine is seeing. Yes?

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News. Gossip. Videos. Shops. Weather reports. Live action updates of a building in the middle of nowhere. Blogs. Bloggers. Blogging. I. Can’t. Stop.

Weirdmama: Korean Edition and Random Blogging Thoughts

My last ‘weird’ post made me realize that some of the weirder things about me are Korean-based. So I thought I would write an addendum. I’m not sure if these are limited to Koreans, or open-ended to include all Asians, or just limited to my family. So feel free to share, plead the Fifth, or point your finger and laugh.

* Behold my eargasm tool. G thinks this is really weird. And he’s normally very open to new things. While he tries not to make me feel weird about it, I sense some sort of ‘ick’ feeling emanating from him. So I’m driven to go underground with it. It’s taken out of hiding during me time. If you don’t know what it is, click here. (This may gross you out, so consider yourself warned.)

And, did you know that Asians have a different earwax gene than Americans? Who knew?

* While I wouldn’t say I’m fanatical about this coveted dishrag, I do admit I extol its benefits to G. My Dad went to Korea last year and brought back no less than 50 of these (per my sister’s request) to hand out to all of our Eemohs (aunts). (I don’t understand this. I’m told they can’t find these here in the States. Is that true?) At Thanksgiving, they each grabbed as many as they could and ran towards their respective purses and bags, holding them tightly in their arms and giving the rest of us sideways warning glances in case we felt inclined to tackle and wrestle them. My cousin casually asked her mom if she could have one, and after hesitating, Eemoh threw one at her and quickly darted away before my cousin decided to get any greedier. Part of the reason I’m dedicated to these silly little things is for the sheer reason that my Eemohs love them so much. And I love my Eemohs. They are so f’ing funny.

* My cousins and siblings and I geekily entertain ourselves by applying English conjugations to Korean words. On a related note, G loves the Korean word for fart: panguko (I’m sure that is phonetically incorrect) and has taught it to the kids. When they fart now, I ask them if they need to go to the bathroom and they reply, “No, I just panguko’d, Mom!” or “I’m just panguko-ing, Mom!”

[Ok, why or when they started calling me Mom instead of Mama or Mommy, I have no idea. It kills me but also makes me laugh.]

* When I first lived with G, it became very apparent how much I use chopsticks. For everything. To cook hot dogs in a pan. To smear mustard on said hot dog. To flip steaks. To mix batter. Beat eggs. Get that crumb that fell between the stove and the counter. Change a light bulb. I kid. But really—is there anything for which these things can not be used? (No, of course using chopsticks isn’t weird. But G used to think my many uses for them were a little odd. But hey, now I see a convert turning those hot dogs with chopsticks too.)

The following are not so much weird things about me per se, but some of the weirder things my parents have taught me (or tried to teach me):

* Fans will kill you if you sleep with them while they are on. Oh Lord, what is UP with this one? Anyone else have to deal with sleeping in sweltering heat as a kid? My mom or dad would turn my fan off in the middle of the night and if I woke up to protest, they would quietly scold me and mutter something about death and this extremely dangerous habit.

* Hot water is dirty. It’s okay to rinse food off the dishes with hot tap water, but not okay to rinse soap off the dishes. Only use freezing cold water for that.

* Every week, the Korean newspaper would confirm yet another household object that was going to give me cancer. It’s a miracle we didn’t live in a bubble, but I’m not sure if my family would have survived without our cancer-inducing TV. Apparently, there was a limit to how much of that nonsense we would really listen to. Why are Koreans so paranoid? (Not related to cancer-inducing products, but related to the Korean paranoia: I love this entry by citymama on Kimchi Mamas and what she says about her mom and the insurance company. Hysterical. And classic.)

And finally…
* If you don’t always have toothpicks in your home, you’re not Korean (Asian?). I have a box of toothpicks that are used for two things, and only when my dad comes to visit: his teeth, and to poke into fruit after dinner.


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These are just my random thoughts about blogging… I had a private blog for awhile, basically to keep our families and friends updated on the twins. And as much as I love sharing their stories, and think they are damn adorable, I needed another outlet. One where I can curse and vent while also exploring my Korean roots. After having kids and already being somewhat of a loner, I now may be borderline-agoraphobic. Living in the suburbs certainly doesn’t help. One of my closest friends keeps me company quite often—over IM. Thank God for her. With my built-in iSight I can share the latest progress (or lack thereof) on my muffin top, and I can occasionally see one of the cutest little baby girls—ever—living on the other side of the country. It’s almost like we’re back in boarding school living next door to each other in the dorm. Almost.

So thank God for the Internet. I am totally and utterly addicted to it. I have been hooked on email since freshman year at my techie college. I remember my senior year, when I sat down and discovered Netscape. (How totally nerdy am I that I even remember this?) I was late for class, and deep in the proverbial rabbit hole. Obviously, it was nothing back then like it is now. But still, it was fascinating. And I was hooked.

I think I stumbled upon my first real blog affair several months ago when I found Kimchi Mamas. You see, blog friends, I have become incapable of making decisions without the Internet. And that means all of you (yes, all five of you and the other billions of people who are not listening to me) have input. At the time, I was consulting the Internet to see how early other moms gave their kids kimchi. Because I desperately wanted to have some kimchi. And I wanted the twins to start loving kimchi too. As soon as possible. But I wasn’t sure if it would make them panguko and give them suhl-sah. So I had to turn to my friend, the Internet. Anyway, I found myself digging down that rabbit hole and somehow coming up for air at Kimchi Mamas.

From there, I kept going. And going. And now I am finding a great community. Not only Koreans, but all kinds of different people—moms, dads, and other random people or interests that make me laugh, smile, or cry. I love it.

But… I still feel a little lost. There is blog etiquette to be learned (so I hear). There’s a blog language too. (Meme? What’s a meme? I had to wikipedia it.) And there are certain manners you need to uphold while leaving comments. Right now, I’m just trying to catch up on all the blogs I have just recently found, and continue to find everyday. But last week, I left a comment for Daddy in a Strange Land, asking him if one of his ‘weird’ meme habits was a Korean thing, and was embarrassed when he reminded me that he was hapa Japanese-Jewish. Rut ro. Then the other day, I tagged Mama Nabi, and she told me that she had recently done this meme. Double rut-ro.

Yes, yes, I admit it. I hadn’t read everything on their (your?) blogs, and what I had read, I got all mixed up. In my search to help me find my Korean roots and digging deep into that blog abyss… well, you all started to look the same.

Ok, bad joke. Anyway, I apologize if I offended or offend. I didn’t mean to. If I am missing other etiquette rules, please share. I want to comment on the posts that move me (and there are certainly quite a few) but I’m not sure if I’m opening mouth, inserting foot. Am I? Or is this just more Korean paranoia?

Weirdmama

Uh-oh. Kim has tagged me with the Six Weird Things meme. Since I’ve already written about my overloaded sense of smell, here are the other ‘weird’ (and as Beloved said, it’s all relative, right?) things I can think about myself:

1. I am somewhat of a germaphobe, but it is selective germaphobia. I’m totally paranoid in a public bathroom—more so than the normal human being (or so I’ve been told). Part of the reason I’ve held off on potty training is because the idea of bringing the kids into public bathrooms triggers my gag reflex. And then my mind wanders and I picture all the people who walk out without washing their hands, and that one time my friends and I walked into a bar bathroom and there was a pile of shit on the back of the toilet seat, and then I go on to remember Britney walking barefoot out of a gas station bathroom. And then I vomit a little in my mouth.

2. When I was younger, I would stay up all night reading, and it was somewhat of an obsession. I would lie on my side and hold the book with one hand, then lift my other arm straight up in the air so that when it dropped, I would hit myself and wake up. And then continue reading. These days, I still like to read or do crossword puzzles before bed. I’ll read until the book falls out of my hand, or the pencil drops on my face (G has pulled plenty of books off my face late at night. I like to believe he thinks it’s one of my endearing qualities). But thankfully I haven’t resorted to literary self-abuse in my adult years.

3. I don’t like other people’s feet touching me. Period.

4. I suffer from ornithophobia (a fear of birds). To be honest, I don’t really like anything flying towards me, but since I’m not usually in the vicinity of bats or flying fish, birds are at top of the list. It takes a lot of convincing for me to attend a picnic. And when we go to the beach, I am maniacal about exposed food. If I see someone near us setting up a grill like it’s the freakin’ Fourth of July, I immediately start packing up. A friend of mine once told me that during a picnic at the beach (oh horror of all horrors), a bird swooped down and grabbed the sandwich out of her three-year-old’s hands. This image gives me nightmares at night. I’m sure this phobia stems from watching The Birds at a young age. If I see a bird coming towards me, my mind dims to black and footage starts rolling of a black crow pecking at my skull; my brain unravelling and spilling out of my head like gray-mattered worms. Picture Isaac, the painter from Heroes, and his eyes rolling back when he paints the future. I’m pretty sure that’s how I look when a bird comes within 20 feet of me.

5. I like burnt toast. When I was little, I used to beg my mom to burn my toast for me, and she always refused. I don’t intentionally burn my toast anymore… not every time anyway.

6. For as long as I can remember, letters and numbers (in my mind) have had genders, colors, and personality traits. When I learned that this was not the norm, I—and the other people whom I shared this with—assumed it was due to an overactive imagination. But I recently discovered that there are others who do this, and it has a name: synesthesia. I think these characteristics helped me in math and spelling and I’m sure other subjects as well. Still—G thinks this is very weird.

(I know this only calls for six but…)
7. G wants me to add that I have freakishly strong forearms.

I’m tagging bokumbop, Mama Nabi, and my friend who I’m waiting on to start her blog. You know who you are. Stop pretending to file your papers. You and I both know you’re just cruising the Internet and waiting for your next visit from Meredith, Christine, and McDreamy. You officially have your first assignment. I would love to tag our other friend, but her baby is newer than yours, so I’m excusing her.

Bring it, people!

happy 02.20

[spoken in the voices of bean & buddy who speak in the voice of band camp girl in american pie]

TO G:
remember… our wedding?
remember… tribeca?