MORE THINGS I DON'T UNDERSTAND . . .
The producers of "Lost" can afford to get a long-term permit for some secluded beach on Hawai'i; house and feed its cast and crew, most of whom stay on the island and do not commute back and forth from Los Angeles during the season; pay everyone's salaries; and build that stupid looking faux boar. But they can't afford to look for and pay a decent Korean-speaking Korean-American actor in this vast and great melting-pot country of ours?
Oh, puh-leeze.
Listening to Daniel Kim (Jin) stutter through his Korean ... ouch. He CLAIMS in a recent magazine interview that he hails from a southern part of South Korea, where the dialect is such that his speaking seems clipped. But I have come across almost every dialect that is to be found in South Korea -- and even the North -- and no one speaks (or rather doesn't speak) like he does. Weird. It's painful to listen to.
And the other random allegedly Korean characters on tonight's episode: we see the little girl who DOES NOT EVEN LOOK KOREAN, and her vain call of "Appa! Appa!" evidences that fact ... we see the random old Korean men who sound like they are reading phonetics written in English on big placards in front of them. Does the glazed, slightly panicked look mean anything to you? No, friends, that's not acting. That's straining to sound like an authentic Korean on the 487th take of the scene, when you know your one-day contract is NOT going to be renewed the next day.
Look, ABC, just check me out for a second. This country is chock full of drama queen and drama king Korean-Americans who can speak Korean well, or at least as well as necessary for the viewing public. Check them out, give them a chance. Stop making me laugh with your alternative nonsense.
(Oh, and one more thing: I love the scenes allegedly set in Seoul, but look suspiciously like L.A.. Go on location, people! It's fun!)
Wednesday, February 23
Tuesday, February 22
HOW OPPORTUNE . . .
A water bearer in China had two large pots, each hung on the ends of a pole which he carried across his neck. One pot had a crack in it, while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water. At the end of the long walk from the stream to the house, the cracked pot arrived only half full. For a full two years this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water to his house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, perfect for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do. After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream ...
"I am ashamed of myself, because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your house."
The bearer said to the pot, "Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of the path, but not on the other pot's side? That's because I have always known about your flaw, and I planted flower seeds on your side of the path. Every day while we walk back, you’ve watered them. For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate the table. Without you being just the way you are, there would not be this beauty to grace the house."
A water bearer in China had two large pots, each hung on the ends of a pole which he carried across his neck. One pot had a crack in it, while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water. At the end of the long walk from the stream to the house, the cracked pot arrived only half full. For a full two years this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water to his house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, perfect for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do. After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream ...
"I am ashamed of myself, because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your house."
The bearer said to the pot, "Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of the path, but not on the other pot's side? That's because I have always known about your flaw, and I planted flower seeds on your side of the path. Every day while we walk back, you’ve watered them. For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate the table. Without you being just the way you are, there would not be this beauty to grace the house."
AS OF TODAY, ANYWAY . .
Thanks to Wilco and The Unlimited Mood for My Fifty Favorite Foods, a welcome distraction from a heavy workday ...
1. favorite main entree: Gop-dol bi-bim-bap.
2. favorite salad: A fresh, just-made-from-real-ingredients caesar salad, sans anchovies (at least the kind I can see whole, just laid out on top of my salad like "hi, i'm a dead anchovy.").
3. favorite soup: The curry-corn soup at Xaviar's at Piermont.
4. favorite appetizer: Seared tuna with wasabi.
5. favorite dessert: Vanilla bean creme brulee, or hot pecan pie with vanilla ice cream.
6. favorite fruit: Watermelon.
7. favorite vegetable: Asparagus.
8. favorite sashimi: I don't normally enjoy sashimi, but the local tuna from Sushi Village, in Whistler, B.C. really rocked my world.
9. favorite sushi roll: The S.A.S.S. roll from Sushi Village, in Whistler, B.C.
10. favorite soda beverage: Pineapple Fanta.
11. favorite non-alcoholic beverage: Room-temperature water.
12. favorite alcoholic shot: Absolut Citron.
13. favorite alcoholic drink: Black Russian, with Grey Goose vodka.
14. favorite cake: Carrot cake, or my 29th birthday cake that JKA picked up from Riviera Bakehouse, in Ardsley.
15. favorite pie: Warm pecan pie.
16. favorite ice cream: Coffee, or C's homemade ginger snap ice cream.
17. favorite milkshake: Broadway Shake from Tom's Restaurant (a/k/a Tom's Diner), on 113th Street and Broadway.
18. favorite cut of beef: Filet mignon.
19. favorite cuisine: Korean.
20. favorite part of chicken: Whatever part has the dark meat on it.
21. favorite fried food: Fried green tea ice cream, or a beignet.
22. favorite cookie: My cranberry-chocolate-toffee-oatmeal cookies.
23. favorite indian curry: Does chicken makhni count?
24. favorite gum: Eek, I don't chew gum.
25. favorite candy: Eek, I don't eat candy, but I'll take a dark chocolate nonpareil or a dark chocolate truffle once in a while.
26. favorite crepe: With bananas and chocolate sauce.
27. favorite sandwich: Chicken salad, bacon, lettuce and tomato on a half a hero from Hamilton Deli, on 116th Street and Amsterdam.
28. favorite pizza: Any NYC street-corner pizzeria pizza, plain, with extra-crispy thin crust.
29. favorite mexican dish: Fish taco, or carnitas burrito, with hot sauce and extra guacamole.
30. favorite vietnamese dish: Thit Xao Xa Ot = sauteed sliced pork with tri-color bell pepper and onion in lemon grass and chili sauce.
31. favorite korean dish: Kimchi jigae.
32. favorite chinese dish: Moo-shu pork.
33. favorite filipino dish: Embutido, or the mini eggrolls that Mrs. C makes.
34. favorite southern food: Collard greens, or beignets.
35. favorite instant noodles brand: Shin-ramen.
36. favorite juice: I don't normally like juice, but I'll imbibe cranberry juice for my health, if you know what I'm sayin' ...
37. favorite snack food: Potato chips. Or jalapeno Monterey Jack cheese and wheat crackers.
38. favorite fish: I'm a sucker for good ol' salmon. And do scallops count? Because I sure do like scallops.
39. favorite cereal: Special-K.
40. favorite pho: Pho suon nuong = rice noodles in a beef-based soup, with a grilled pork chop on the side.
41. favorite breakfast food: Eggs, especially poached. And sausage, especially linked.
42. favorite french food: Beef Wellington, a/k/a boeuf en croute, especially at One if By Land, Two if By Sea, on Barrow Street.
43. favorite mcdonalds food: Big Mac.
44. favorite pasta dish: Linguine with white clam sauce. Or penne a la vodka. Or fettucine alfredo. Or lasagna bolognese. Or Soy's mandarin-chicken-watercress-farfalle salad.
45. favorite bread: NHF's communion loaf, obtained from some almighty supermarket bakery near Yorktown. Once de-blessed, it's soooo good.
46. favorite tea: Chamomile, with milk and sugar, or jasmine, plain.
47. favorite 7-11 slurpee flavor: I can't stand Slurpees.
48. favorite hershey's kiss: With almonds.
49. favorite flavor of m&m's: With peanuts.
50. favorite candy bar: I don't normally eat or enjoy candy bars, but when the craving strikes, I can't resist a mini-Snickers bar.
Thanks to Wilco and The Unlimited Mood for My Fifty Favorite Foods, a welcome distraction from a heavy workday ...
1. favorite main entree: Gop-dol bi-bim-bap.
2. favorite salad: A fresh, just-made-from-real-ingredients caesar salad, sans anchovies (at least the kind I can see whole, just laid out on top of my salad like "hi, i'm a dead anchovy.").
3. favorite soup: The curry-corn soup at Xaviar's at Piermont.
4. favorite appetizer: Seared tuna with wasabi.
5. favorite dessert: Vanilla bean creme brulee, or hot pecan pie with vanilla ice cream.
6. favorite fruit: Watermelon.
7. favorite vegetable: Asparagus.
8. favorite sashimi: I don't normally enjoy sashimi, but the local tuna from Sushi Village, in Whistler, B.C. really rocked my world.
9. favorite sushi roll: The S.A.S.S. roll from Sushi Village, in Whistler, B.C.
10. favorite soda beverage: Pineapple Fanta.
11. favorite non-alcoholic beverage: Room-temperature water.
12. favorite alcoholic shot: Absolut Citron.
13. favorite alcoholic drink: Black Russian, with Grey Goose vodka.
14. favorite cake: Carrot cake, or my 29th birthday cake that JKA picked up from Riviera Bakehouse, in Ardsley.
15. favorite pie: Warm pecan pie.
16. favorite ice cream: Coffee, or C's homemade ginger snap ice cream.
17. favorite milkshake: Broadway Shake from Tom's Restaurant (a/k/a Tom's Diner), on 113th Street and Broadway.
18. favorite cut of beef: Filet mignon.
19. favorite cuisine: Korean.
20. favorite part of chicken: Whatever part has the dark meat on it.
21. favorite fried food: Fried green tea ice cream, or a beignet.
22. favorite cookie: My cranberry-chocolate-toffee-oatmeal cookies.
23. favorite indian curry: Does chicken makhni count?
24. favorite gum: Eek, I don't chew gum.
25. favorite candy: Eek, I don't eat candy, but I'll take a dark chocolate nonpareil or a dark chocolate truffle once in a while.
26. favorite crepe: With bananas and chocolate sauce.
27. favorite sandwich: Chicken salad, bacon, lettuce and tomato on a half a hero from Hamilton Deli, on 116th Street and Amsterdam.
28. favorite pizza: Any NYC street-corner pizzeria pizza, plain, with extra-crispy thin crust.
29. favorite mexican dish: Fish taco, or carnitas burrito, with hot sauce and extra guacamole.
30. favorite vietnamese dish: Thit Xao Xa Ot = sauteed sliced pork with tri-color bell pepper and onion in lemon grass and chili sauce.
31. favorite korean dish: Kimchi jigae.
32. favorite chinese dish: Moo-shu pork.
33. favorite filipino dish: Embutido, or the mini eggrolls that Mrs. C makes.
34. favorite southern food: Collard greens, or beignets.
35. favorite instant noodles brand: Shin-ramen.
36. favorite juice: I don't normally like juice, but I'll imbibe cranberry juice for my health, if you know what I'm sayin' ...
37. favorite snack food: Potato chips. Or jalapeno Monterey Jack cheese and wheat crackers.
38. favorite fish: I'm a sucker for good ol' salmon. And do scallops count? Because I sure do like scallops.
39. favorite cereal: Special-K.
40. favorite pho: Pho suon nuong = rice noodles in a beef-based soup, with a grilled pork chop on the side.
41. favorite breakfast food: Eggs, especially poached. And sausage, especially linked.
42. favorite french food: Beef Wellington, a/k/a boeuf en croute, especially at One if By Land, Two if By Sea, on Barrow Street.
43. favorite mcdonalds food: Big Mac.
44. favorite pasta dish: Linguine with white clam sauce. Or penne a la vodka. Or fettucine alfredo. Or lasagna bolognese. Or Soy's mandarin-chicken-watercress-farfalle salad.
45. favorite bread: NHF's communion loaf, obtained from some almighty supermarket bakery near Yorktown. Once de-blessed, it's soooo good.
46. favorite tea: Chamomile, with milk and sugar, or jasmine, plain.
47. favorite 7-11 slurpee flavor: I can't stand Slurpees.
48. favorite hershey's kiss: With almonds.
49. favorite flavor of m&m's: With peanuts.
50. favorite candy bar: I don't normally eat or enjoy candy bars, but when the craving strikes, I can't resist a mini-Snickers bar.
WISH IT WAS FRIDAY . . .
What is your favorite...
1. ...color? Dark red, the kind that makes a nice splash of accent color, enough to lend some excitement and pizzazz to khaki-colored furniture, or that adds that extra jolt of energy when revealed from underneath a long black coat, or that draws your eyes up and stirs your heart when slapped on a wall.
2. ...day of the week? Thursday. The day of anticipating the last workday of the week, when a weekend brimming with possibilities of fun and relaxation looms just over the horizon, and you know that "CSI:" and "Without a Trace" are just a click of the remote control away.
3. ...ice cream? Coffee. Which I can't have until Easter. Or homemade ginger-snap, which I can have if only someone would make it for me.
4. ...actor and/or actress? Colin Firth, because he is brooding and British. Julia Roberts, because she just seems like a nice lady with whom I could kick back and have a brewskie. When she's done breast-feeding, of course.
5. ...sound? The chirp-chirping of wee little birds early on a sunny spring or summer morning. That alone makes me get out of bed -- to see what they are so happy about, to look outside the window and feel the same sun's warmth that they feel, to flit about the same vast world as they, to be active with my friends and family just as they are. There is no happier sound, no signal to me that morning has broken and a new day has been created.
What is your favorite...
1. ...color? Dark red, the kind that makes a nice splash of accent color, enough to lend some excitement and pizzazz to khaki-colored furniture, or that adds that extra jolt of energy when revealed from underneath a long black coat, or that draws your eyes up and stirs your heart when slapped on a wall.
2. ...day of the week? Thursday. The day of anticipating the last workday of the week, when a weekend brimming with possibilities of fun and relaxation looms just over the horizon, and you know that "CSI:" and "Without a Trace" are just a click of the remote control away.
3. ...ice cream? Coffee. Which I can't have until Easter. Or homemade ginger-snap, which I can have if only someone would make it for me.
4. ...actor and/or actress? Colin Firth, because he is brooding and British. Julia Roberts, because she just seems like a nice lady with whom I could kick back and have a brewskie. When she's done breast-feeding, of course.
5. ...sound? The chirp-chirping of wee little birds early on a sunny spring or summer morning. That alone makes me get out of bed -- to see what they are so happy about, to look outside the window and feel the same sun's warmth that they feel, to flit about the same vast world as they, to be active with my friends and family just as they are. There is no happier sound, no signal to me that morning has broken and a new day has been created.
Friday, February 18
PETER PAN . . .
Remember when you were, say, six or seven years old? There you were, doddering along on your little banana-seat bicycle, perhaps with ribbons flying out of each handle and interwoven through the tire spokes. Watching those big bad teenagers -- the fifteen-year olds -- whiz back and forth past you on their ten-speed bikes, the kinds that made that cool click-click-click noise as they slowed down when they deigned to say "hey, what's up" to you. And all you could think was "I can't wait to grow up. I can't wait to be fifteen and have a cool grown-up ten-speed bike that looks sleek and awesome even without ribbons."
And then, BAM! Here you are, approaching thirty and wishing you were twenty-two again. What is up with that?
At the end of every February, my old musical comedy troupe at my law school alma mater gets together for a reunion of sorts. They watch the Saturday night show of the annual production, then spend the rest of the night at the cast party drinking and inhaling all manner of things. They wake up -- or remain awake -- on Sunday morning, thinking that that was the best time they've had in a long time, and counting the days until the next reunion weekend.
In the months and weeks preceding the reunion, our inboxes fill with messages from random troupe alumni -- some are people I've never even met, and at this point, are several years younger than I -- extolling the virtues of a weekend-long drunk-fest, dredging up old dirty jokes, referencing things which confuse me for I can no longer tell if they are my memories, or memories implanted in me by younger Follies folk. I sort of know what they're talking about. Lord, my law school days were one big mish-mash of hard-core studying until the wee hours of the morning, chain-smoking Marlboro Lights, and imbibing every alcoholic concoction known to man (although cranberry-and-Absolut were largely my drink of choice until I spilled an entire tumblerful on myself and permanently stained a good pair of jeans). I laughed at the dirty jokes, and came up with some of my own, thank you very much. I stayed out just as late, emoted just as dramatically and flung myself about with careless abandon just as much as the next castmember.
But I kind of grew out of it. Sure, I love the taste of a good non-cheap cheap cigarette now and then. And sometimes, my tension can only be eased by a few sips of a glass of red wine, a green-apple martini, a Black Russian, or a quick shot of ice-cold Grey Goose. I still act like a crazy fool, living it up and laughing and screaming when necessary. I haven't been dancing in ages, but should the right opportunity arise, I'm ready to be unleashed. But I don't totally comprehend my fellow alums' persistent need to recreate the hey-days of the party life. I just don't get it.
Is it that they really enjoyed those days? I mean, we were so stressed out all the time with our schoolwork, and the additional pressure of having to write, direct, produce, finance and stage a 2.5-hour-long musical comedy in a month and a half ... sure, perhaps that merited an extra drink or two. But was it really fun to get that sloppy all the time? In hindsight, not to me. It was a temporary balm -- and, if I'm really honest with myself -- a way to fit in, to succumb to the peer pressure. For yes, even among twenty-somethings, there is peer pressure. But this temporary balm was gross! Waking up headachey and pukey with that nasty stale taste of cigarette in your mouth, and your clothes reeking to high heaven ... who really likes that?
Is it that their lives right now are so stressful that a weekend of partying like college kids is really the only thing that will give them release? Is it that they don't know that the sight of thirty-somethings reveling like that is embarrassing and pathetic-looking, especially to younger observers? Is it that they have nothing else fun and exciting in their lives, so they have to relive days from five, six, seven years ago in order to experience a little bit of a thrill? Or more likely, is it that they expect to feel pressured to drink and party hard, and so they preempt the pressure by blustering about it instead?
Or, most horrifically, is it that they are actually stuck in the past and can't get out? Maybe the men still feel like they have to drink everyone else under the table in order to be real men. Maybe the women still feel like they have to keep up in order to be cool. Maybe they cling to the "fun" they had, back in the day, and want that so badly that they can't let themselves chill out and be who they are now -- adults. Maybe they think their glory days have passed them by, and the only thing keeping them alive as a shell of their old, fun, relaxed selves is that one weekend in late February.
I don't know. I confess I'm a coward -- I haven't been to a reunion since the first one I attended the year after I graduated. I can't relate. I can't keep up. I can't handle people asking me why I'm not drinking more than one beer. I can't stand the stink of pot. I don't want to tell people that my life is great when I'm completely sober, and that I really enjoy the time I have to myself in the evenings when I sit back with a glass of wine and a good book, or a cup of tea and my knitting project. I don't want them to know that crude dirty jokes make me cringe. I don't want to say to them "we're not really friends, we never were, and this is all fakey-fakey and only exists because you're drunk off your rocker."
I'm not attending this year either. I don't have the time, nor the extra money, to head up north. I don't have the energy to ward off peer pressure that shouldn't even exist, or to sustain fake friendships that were always temporary in my mind anyway. I have such excellent memories of Follies and the experiences I had those three years with those people, and I would hate to tarnish those recollections with my own behavior -- either joining the pack, or withdrawing in a corner. I read their emails now -- just two weeks to go before the big event -- and I'm sort of sad that I'm on the outside, even though I know I've put myself there. I'm sort of bemused at the continued rehashing of jokes. I'm sort of sad for them, especially the lady who is three-months pregnant and jokingly wondering if she really can't have a shot of tequila. I'm sort of happy that they're there for each other and seemingly all in the same place in life. I'm sort of -- a tiny bit -- wishing I was there, too. But I'm also sort of glad that I am where I am, how old (or young) I am, how toxin-free I am, and I'm just longing to open a bottle of wine and start my next baby blanket.
Remember when you were, say, six or seven years old? There you were, doddering along on your little banana-seat bicycle, perhaps with ribbons flying out of each handle and interwoven through the tire spokes. Watching those big bad teenagers -- the fifteen-year olds -- whiz back and forth past you on their ten-speed bikes, the kinds that made that cool click-click-click noise as they slowed down when they deigned to say "hey, what's up" to you. And all you could think was "I can't wait to grow up. I can't wait to be fifteen and have a cool grown-up ten-speed bike that looks sleek and awesome even without ribbons."
And then, BAM! Here you are, approaching thirty and wishing you were twenty-two again. What is up with that?
At the end of every February, my old musical comedy troupe at my law school alma mater gets together for a reunion of sorts. They watch the Saturday night show of the annual production, then spend the rest of the night at the cast party drinking and inhaling all manner of things. They wake up -- or remain awake -- on Sunday morning, thinking that that was the best time they've had in a long time, and counting the days until the next reunion weekend.
In the months and weeks preceding the reunion, our inboxes fill with messages from random troupe alumni -- some are people I've never even met, and at this point, are several years younger than I -- extolling the virtues of a weekend-long drunk-fest, dredging up old dirty jokes, referencing things which confuse me for I can no longer tell if they are my memories, or memories implanted in me by younger Follies folk. I sort of know what they're talking about. Lord, my law school days were one big mish-mash of hard-core studying until the wee hours of the morning, chain-smoking Marlboro Lights, and imbibing every alcoholic concoction known to man (although cranberry-and-Absolut were largely my drink of choice until I spilled an entire tumblerful on myself and permanently stained a good pair of jeans). I laughed at the dirty jokes, and came up with some of my own, thank you very much. I stayed out just as late, emoted just as dramatically and flung myself about with careless abandon just as much as the next castmember.
But I kind of grew out of it. Sure, I love the taste of a good non-cheap cheap cigarette now and then. And sometimes, my tension can only be eased by a few sips of a glass of red wine, a green-apple martini, a Black Russian, or a quick shot of ice-cold Grey Goose. I still act like a crazy fool, living it up and laughing and screaming when necessary. I haven't been dancing in ages, but should the right opportunity arise, I'm ready to be unleashed. But I don't totally comprehend my fellow alums' persistent need to recreate the hey-days of the party life. I just don't get it.
Is it that they really enjoyed those days? I mean, we were so stressed out all the time with our schoolwork, and the additional pressure of having to write, direct, produce, finance and stage a 2.5-hour-long musical comedy in a month and a half ... sure, perhaps that merited an extra drink or two. But was it really fun to get that sloppy all the time? In hindsight, not to me. It was a temporary balm -- and, if I'm really honest with myself -- a way to fit in, to succumb to the peer pressure. For yes, even among twenty-somethings, there is peer pressure. But this temporary balm was gross! Waking up headachey and pukey with that nasty stale taste of cigarette in your mouth, and your clothes reeking to high heaven ... who really likes that?
Is it that their lives right now are so stressful that a weekend of partying like college kids is really the only thing that will give them release? Is it that they don't know that the sight of thirty-somethings reveling like that is embarrassing and pathetic-looking, especially to younger observers? Is it that they have nothing else fun and exciting in their lives, so they have to relive days from five, six, seven years ago in order to experience a little bit of a thrill? Or more likely, is it that they expect to feel pressured to drink and party hard, and so they preempt the pressure by blustering about it instead?
Or, most horrifically, is it that they are actually stuck in the past and can't get out? Maybe the men still feel like they have to drink everyone else under the table in order to be real men. Maybe the women still feel like they have to keep up in order to be cool. Maybe they cling to the "fun" they had, back in the day, and want that so badly that they can't let themselves chill out and be who they are now -- adults. Maybe they think their glory days have passed them by, and the only thing keeping them alive as a shell of their old, fun, relaxed selves is that one weekend in late February.
I don't know. I confess I'm a coward -- I haven't been to a reunion since the first one I attended the year after I graduated. I can't relate. I can't keep up. I can't handle people asking me why I'm not drinking more than one beer. I can't stand the stink of pot. I don't want to tell people that my life is great when I'm completely sober, and that I really enjoy the time I have to myself in the evenings when I sit back with a glass of wine and a good book, or a cup of tea and my knitting project. I don't want them to know that crude dirty jokes make me cringe. I don't want to say to them "we're not really friends, we never were, and this is all fakey-fakey and only exists because you're drunk off your rocker."
I'm not attending this year either. I don't have the time, nor the extra money, to head up north. I don't have the energy to ward off peer pressure that shouldn't even exist, or to sustain fake friendships that were always temporary in my mind anyway. I have such excellent memories of Follies and the experiences I had those three years with those people, and I would hate to tarnish those recollections with my own behavior -- either joining the pack, or withdrawing in a corner. I read their emails now -- just two weeks to go before the big event -- and I'm sort of sad that I'm on the outside, even though I know I've put myself there. I'm sort of bemused at the continued rehashing of jokes. I'm sort of sad for them, especially the lady who is three-months pregnant and jokingly wondering if she really can't have a shot of tequila. I'm sort of happy that they're there for each other and seemingly all in the same place in life. I'm sort of -- a tiny bit -- wishing I was there, too. But I'm also sort of glad that I am where I am, how old (or young) I am, how toxin-free I am, and I'm just longing to open a bottle of wine and start my next baby blanket.
Thursday, February 17
THREE LITTLE WORDS . . .
Pitchers and catchers.
Oooooooh, yeah. Together with the weirdly warm weather lately, these three words have got me in a frenzy for baseball season.
But, lo! What is this oddity from today's New York Times?: "Reliever Felix Rodriguez did not report for his physical on Wednesday, and General Manager Brian Cashman said the Yankees did not know where he was."
What do you mean, you don't know where he is?
That's weird.
***
LENTEN UPDATE . . .
My ninth day without coffee, or anything resembling or related to it.
I'm doing alright ... but I'm excessively sleepy.
My brain and body do not accept that tea has caffeine too.
But of course, every time I look upon that delectably hot coffee pot in the morning, I think to myself, "well, Jesus didn't have coffee, and He did alright."
So there.
***
NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY WEB . . .
The Internet is a bad, bad place. WebMD is a bad, bad website.
In the course of five hours, I have convinced myself that I am suffering from two auto-immune diseases, three skin conditions, a half-torn knee ACL, post-traumatic stress disorder and dehydration.
So I did what any logical person would do: I made an appointment with my doctor so I can share with her all the things that are wrong with me and make her cure me.
(N.B.: when I was on vacation, I had no worries at all! Coincidence? You decide.)
***
WAKEY-WAKEY . . .
I have become a recent convert to -- and newly-devoted fan of -- early-morning workouts. Sure, it's a tad surreal and depressing to find myself behind the wheel of a car in the still-dark, yawning widely and unable to reach for a cup of coffee, starting in surprise when I see another set of headlights in front of or behind me. But the endorphins ... man, those endorphins are so worth it.
The gym is nearly empty; just a few folks who also simply need to make time for themselves are spaced around me on ellipticals, stationary bikes and treadmills. The piped-in music is set to the good ol' stuff -- U2, Madonna, old-school George Michael, The Who, Pearl Jam -- and not the horrid bubble-gum pop that passes for music these days. The locker room hasn't been littered with a day's worth of hair and sweat molecules yet. The weight rooms are beefcake-free. Seven or eight men and women lift and press quietly at their stations; no grunting, no yelling, no squealing, and best of all, no gratuitous flirting in between sets. The stretching mat is blissfully open; I can wave my arms and legs about as much and as far as I want. The only person I'll hit ... is myself. (And I really do say that because it's happened.)
Leaving is almost as inspiring as the actual workout. What once was dark and sleepy is slowly bubbling awake to the rising sun. On a clear day, you can see forever, and the peekaboo sun glints off the Hudson River and the roofs of the passing commuter trains. There are just a few more cars on the road, just a few more people walking to the train station, just a bit more urgency in the air.
I merge onto the highway, ignoring the impending bumper-to-bumper traffic. I am zen, and I breathe deeply through my nose all the way home, the better to keep the endorphins pumping along. Throughout the day, I feel a sense of accomplishment, pride even, that I am healthy and will become more so, that I sit up straighter and feel stronger, that when I lift my arm to reach for papers I can see my teeny-tiny bicep muscle even through my turtleneck.
And the best part is that when the whistle blows at the end of the day, I can truly relax and put my feet up. No battling rush-hour traffic to hit the gym. No racing for an open treadmill. No waiting around for those goofy guys who think resting between sets means sitting on the weight machine for ten minutes doing nothing. No wiping up after sweaty, clueless gym rats who leave disgusting imprints behind. No elbowing for changing space in the locker room. No getting home so late that by the time I shower and prepare dinner, it's almost bedtime.
It's just a matter of getting up. If I say I'm going to do it, I do it. I don't make excuses. I get some extra sleep the night before. I tell myself over and over through drowsy eyes that this is good for me. And I think of those I might let down if my body is not strong, if my health is not maintained.
Ahhh, morning. Ahhh, endorphins. A better drug than caffeine any day.
Pitchers and catchers.
Oooooooh, yeah. Together with the weirdly warm weather lately, these three words have got me in a frenzy for baseball season.
But, lo! What is this oddity from today's New York Times?: "Reliever Felix Rodriguez did not report for his physical on Wednesday, and General Manager Brian Cashman said the Yankees did not know where he was."
What do you mean, you don't know where he is?
That's weird.
***
LENTEN UPDATE . . .
My ninth day without coffee, or anything resembling or related to it.
I'm doing alright ... but I'm excessively sleepy.
My brain and body do not accept that tea has caffeine too.
But of course, every time I look upon that delectably hot coffee pot in the morning, I think to myself, "well, Jesus didn't have coffee, and He did alright."
So there.
***
NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY WEB . . .
The Internet is a bad, bad place. WebMD is a bad, bad website.
In the course of five hours, I have convinced myself that I am suffering from two auto-immune diseases, three skin conditions, a half-torn knee ACL, post-traumatic stress disorder and dehydration.
So I did what any logical person would do: I made an appointment with my doctor so I can share with her all the things that are wrong with me and make her cure me.
(N.B.: when I was on vacation, I had no worries at all! Coincidence? You decide.)
***
WAKEY-WAKEY . . .
I have become a recent convert to -- and newly-devoted fan of -- early-morning workouts. Sure, it's a tad surreal and depressing to find myself behind the wheel of a car in the still-dark, yawning widely and unable to reach for a cup of coffee, starting in surprise when I see another set of headlights in front of or behind me. But the endorphins ... man, those endorphins are so worth it.
The gym is nearly empty; just a few folks who also simply need to make time for themselves are spaced around me on ellipticals, stationary bikes and treadmills. The piped-in music is set to the good ol' stuff -- U2, Madonna, old-school George Michael, The Who, Pearl Jam -- and not the horrid bubble-gum pop that passes for music these days. The locker room hasn't been littered with a day's worth of hair and sweat molecules yet. The weight rooms are beefcake-free. Seven or eight men and women lift and press quietly at their stations; no grunting, no yelling, no squealing, and best of all, no gratuitous flirting in between sets. The stretching mat is blissfully open; I can wave my arms and legs about as much and as far as I want. The only person I'll hit ... is myself. (And I really do say that because it's happened.)
Leaving is almost as inspiring as the actual workout. What once was dark and sleepy is slowly bubbling awake to the rising sun. On a clear day, you can see forever, and the peekaboo sun glints off the Hudson River and the roofs of the passing commuter trains. There are just a few more cars on the road, just a few more people walking to the train station, just a bit more urgency in the air.
I merge onto the highway, ignoring the impending bumper-to-bumper traffic. I am zen, and I breathe deeply through my nose all the way home, the better to keep the endorphins pumping along. Throughout the day, I feel a sense of accomplishment, pride even, that I am healthy and will become more so, that I sit up straighter and feel stronger, that when I lift my arm to reach for papers I can see my teeny-tiny bicep muscle even through my turtleneck.
And the best part is that when the whistle blows at the end of the day, I can truly relax and put my feet up. No battling rush-hour traffic to hit the gym. No racing for an open treadmill. No waiting around for those goofy guys who think resting between sets means sitting on the weight machine for ten minutes doing nothing. No wiping up after sweaty, clueless gym rats who leave disgusting imprints behind. No elbowing for changing space in the locker room. No getting home so late that by the time I shower and prepare dinner, it's almost bedtime.
It's just a matter of getting up. If I say I'm going to do it, I do it. I don't make excuses. I get some extra sleep the night before. I tell myself over and over through drowsy eyes that this is good for me. And I think of those I might let down if my body is not strong, if my health is not maintained.
Ahhh, morning. Ahhh, endorphins. A better drug than caffeine any day.
Wednesday, February 16
NONSENSE . . .
Jennifer Lopez looked a bit ... fleshier than her normal self during Sunday night's Grammy performance with her husband Marc Anthony. She was also lethargic-looking. In fact, as I flipped over to that channel and saw them crooning, I noted to myself "hmmm, her dress is very loose and cover-up-ish, not at all clingy and sexy like she normally chooses, and she looks so SLEEPY."
Then today, I read on CNN.com that she has canceled a trip to London for a charity screening of her latest film, as well as the European leg of her concert tour.
I think she's pregnant.
(Of course, none of this is at all important, to me, or anyone else aside from perhaps Jennifer and Marc, but I'm just taking a break from working for a few minutes and felt the need to share and play People Magazine columnist.)
Jennifer Lopez looked a bit ... fleshier than her normal self during Sunday night's Grammy performance with her husband Marc Anthony. She was also lethargic-looking. In fact, as I flipped over to that channel and saw them crooning, I noted to myself "hmmm, her dress is very loose and cover-up-ish, not at all clingy and sexy like she normally chooses, and she looks so SLEEPY."
Then today, I read on CNN.com that she has canceled a trip to London for a charity screening of her latest film, as well as the European leg of her concert tour.
I think she's pregnant.
(Of course, none of this is at all important, to me, or anyone else aside from perhaps Jennifer and Marc, but I'm just taking a break from working for a few minutes and felt the need to share and play People Magazine columnist.)
Thursday, February 10
JAVA NO! . . .
2005 is the year of the coffee.
You heard it here first: I'm giving up coffee for Lent.
That's right. No morning coffee. No weekend coffee. No late night decaf coffee. No coffee-based drinks, even if there's liquor in them. No coffee ice cream. No coffee syrup. Not even a chocolate-covered coffee bean (which I find foul anyway).
So ... is Easter here yet?
2005 is the year of the coffee.
You heard it here first: I'm giving up coffee for Lent.
That's right. No morning coffee. No weekend coffee. No late night decaf coffee. No coffee-based drinks, even if there's liquor in them. No coffee ice cream. No coffee syrup. Not even a chocolate-covered coffee bean (which I find foul anyway).
So ... is Easter here yet?
Wednesday, February 9
HAPPY NEW YEAR ... AGAIN . . .
It's the Year of the Rooster, y'all.
Cock-a-doodle-doo.
(It's funny to me, we Koreans spend all our lives moaning about being oppressed by this imperialist power and that imperialist power, but here we are, a gazillion years later, still abiding by the Chinese lunar calendar and rushing back to our hometowns, homelands, or just permanent home addresses for big ol' meals. Not that I'm complaining about the big ol' meals, but you know what I mean.)
***
CHICKEN N' BEER . . .
Michael's Tavern in P'ville just got a new chef who's cooking up all manner of fancy and plump burgers.
I can't wait until spring so I can wrangle my friends into heading over there on a lazy afternoon to chow down, guzzle some suds and watch some Yankee baseball ...
***
DOO-DEE-DOO . . .
After our Chinese lunar new year dinner -- go figure, we're still Korean -- Appa scurried away from the dinner table and down the hall to his office. "What the...?" I thought to myself and looked quizzically at Omma, who just shrugged her shoulders.
As Omma and I were clearing the table and chattering away, I heard the faint strains of something vaguely melodious coming at us. I turned to look at the kitchen doorway, and there he appeared: Appa, a large six-string guitar strapped to his body, a grinning, cooing look facetiously pasted on his face, strumming some harmonious chords. He slowly paraded around the kitchen, strumming away, winking at Omma and I on occasion, then departed the kitchen and floated back to his office.
For all of you wondering how I got to be the way I am ... now you know.
***
FORTY DAYS AND FORTY NIGHTS . . .
Eek. Today was Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, the period of fasting and penitence leading up to Easter, the time of rising again and new life. I am not Catholic, but I really appreciate this time of fasting and introspection, and for the past two years have tried to give up something I hold dear, in an effort to remember to be Christ-like, to think like Him, to act like Him, to be like Him, and ultimately to realize that even without pasta (2003) and beef (2004), I have much in life for which to be thankful.
I say "eek" because I forgot today was Ash Wednesday. I forgot to think about what to relinquish for the next forty days. I forgot to be observant of my faith and thankful for my life and everything in it. So now, I have a night's sleep to think up something that I would consider a "sacrifice," something that would make me recall the love of God everytime I cannot have it, eat it, touch it.
The boldest step I could take would be to give up use of the Internet for a month and a half. But get real. I am not nearly mature enough yet to do that. I could give up television -- with the exception of being in the company of my friends, that would not be a great sacrifice for me. Besides, I could beg Camp Capio to TiVo "American Idol" and "Alias" in the interim. I suppose giving up going to the gym might suffice, but puh-leeze. Like I need more incentive to stay in bed in the mornings?
Frontrunners for deprivation right now: potato chips and other salty snacks. Lord, this might actually kill me, but at least I'd be less bloated in the end ...
It's the Year of the Rooster, y'all.
Cock-a-doodle-doo.
(It's funny to me, we Koreans spend all our lives moaning about being oppressed by this imperialist power and that imperialist power, but here we are, a gazillion years later, still abiding by the Chinese lunar calendar and rushing back to our hometowns, homelands, or just permanent home addresses for big ol' meals. Not that I'm complaining about the big ol' meals, but you know what I mean.)
***
CHICKEN N' BEER . . .
Michael's Tavern in P'ville just got a new chef who's cooking up all manner of fancy and plump burgers.
I can't wait until spring so I can wrangle my friends into heading over there on a lazy afternoon to chow down, guzzle some suds and watch some Yankee baseball ...
***
DOO-DEE-DOO . . .
After our Chinese lunar new year dinner -- go figure, we're still Korean -- Appa scurried away from the dinner table and down the hall to his office. "What the...?" I thought to myself and looked quizzically at Omma, who just shrugged her shoulders.
As Omma and I were clearing the table and chattering away, I heard the faint strains of something vaguely melodious coming at us. I turned to look at the kitchen doorway, and there he appeared: Appa, a large six-string guitar strapped to his body, a grinning, cooing look facetiously pasted on his face, strumming some harmonious chords. He slowly paraded around the kitchen, strumming away, winking at Omma and I on occasion, then departed the kitchen and floated back to his office.
For all of you wondering how I got to be the way I am ... now you know.
***
FORTY DAYS AND FORTY NIGHTS . . .
Eek. Today was Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, the period of fasting and penitence leading up to Easter, the time of rising again and new life. I am not Catholic, but I really appreciate this time of fasting and introspection, and for the past two years have tried to give up something I hold dear, in an effort to remember to be Christ-like, to think like Him, to act like Him, to be like Him, and ultimately to realize that even without pasta (2003) and beef (2004), I have much in life for which to be thankful.
I say "eek" because I forgot today was Ash Wednesday. I forgot to think about what to relinquish for the next forty days. I forgot to be observant of my faith and thankful for my life and everything in it. So now, I have a night's sleep to think up something that I would consider a "sacrifice," something that would make me recall the love of God everytime I cannot have it, eat it, touch it.
The boldest step I could take would be to give up use of the Internet for a month and a half. But get real. I am not nearly mature enough yet to do that. I could give up television -- with the exception of being in the company of my friends, that would not be a great sacrifice for me. Besides, I could beg Camp Capio to TiVo "American Idol" and "Alias" in the interim. I suppose giving up going to the gym might suffice, but puh-leeze. Like I need more incentive to stay in bed in the mornings?
Frontrunners for deprivation right now: potato chips and other salty snacks. Lord, this might actually kill me, but at least I'd be less bloated in the end ...
Tuesday, February 8
LATER AND LATER . . .
It must be the jet-lag.
What is your favorite...
1. ...Sugar cereal? I don't eat sugar cereal. It makes me gag. The sugar milk left behind? Ick. I'm Special-K all the way. On very RARE occasions, I indulge in Honey Nut Cheerios, but only when I'm craving that thick coating of sugar-gunk on my teeth in the mornings.
2. ...Candy bar? I don't eat a lot of candy, but when my body needs a pick-me-up, I reach for the mini-Snickers bars. Eating a whole one, once again, makes me gag.
3. ...Salty snack? Oh Lord, is there a salty snack I don't love? Let me count the snacks: mini-pretzels, pretzel-sticks, Lay's potato chips (sorry, can't stand the Ruffles because they have ridges), sour cream and cheddar potato chips, sour cream and onion potato chips, popcorn, Cheetos, Wheat Thins, Fritos, blue corn chips, and even the occasional Dorito.
4. ...Movie snack? A bottle of water. I know, that is so nerdy, but I get really thirsty just sitting around for a couple of hours doing nothing.
5. ...Home made snack? Popcorn popped in a pot, with a light ... okay, not so light, dusting of salt.
***
SPAWNING . . .
Appa is so cute. He has become a major computer hog lately, and sends me the most amusing emails which manage to both crack me up so hard I fall down, and melt my heart so much I weep.
Here's the latest most adorable excerpt. If you don't smile a cheesy grin at this, you are a heartless, heartless person:
"It is a Lunar New Years day wednesday. Becasue so many peoples visit their
hometowns on holidays such as Chusuk, or Sullal, I read some foreign residents in Korea said,"Korean peoples are like salmon." You are a Korean, so see you on Wednesday, ok salmon ?"
It must be the jet-lag.
What is your favorite...
1. ...Sugar cereal? I don't eat sugar cereal. It makes me gag. The sugar milk left behind? Ick. I'm Special-K all the way. On very RARE occasions, I indulge in Honey Nut Cheerios, but only when I'm craving that thick coating of sugar-gunk on my teeth in the mornings.
2. ...Candy bar? I don't eat a lot of candy, but when my body needs a pick-me-up, I reach for the mini-Snickers bars. Eating a whole one, once again, makes me gag.
3. ...Salty snack? Oh Lord, is there a salty snack I don't love? Let me count the snacks: mini-pretzels, pretzel-sticks, Lay's potato chips (sorry, can't stand the Ruffles because they have ridges), sour cream and cheddar potato chips, sour cream and onion potato chips, popcorn, Cheetos, Wheat Thins, Fritos, blue corn chips, and even the occasional Dorito.
4. ...Movie snack? A bottle of water. I know, that is so nerdy, but I get really thirsty just sitting around for a couple of hours doing nothing.
5. ...Home made snack? Popcorn popped in a pot, with a light ... okay, not so light, dusting of salt.
***
SPAWNING . . .
Appa is so cute. He has become a major computer hog lately, and sends me the most amusing emails which manage to both crack me up so hard I fall down, and melt my heart so much I weep.
Here's the latest most adorable excerpt. If you don't smile a cheesy grin at this, you are a heartless, heartless person:
"It is a Lunar New Years day wednesday. Becasue so many peoples visit their
hometowns on holidays such as Chusuk, or Sullal, I read some foreign residents in Korea said,"Korean peoples are like salmon." You are a Korean, so see you on Wednesday, ok salmon ?"
Monday, February 7
A friend asked me today to post more pictures from our trip to Whistler/Vancouver. I think that was code for "gimme proof that you actually snowboarded in Whistler and didn't waste your trip out there."
So here we are, the girls of Whistler 2005. (I suppose that implies there is going to be a Whistler 2006, although Bahamas 2006 has a nice ring to it too.) Admittedly, I am merely HOLDING my snowboard in this picture. But does not my pose scream "BOARDING BETTY!!!!"? I think it does.
I boarded three of the four days available to us. The fourth day, my left knee jumped out of its socket and said, "NO YOU MAY NOT SNOWBOARD TODAY. TAKE ME TO GET A HOT-STONE MASSAGE POST-HASTE!" I mean, really. Who am I to disobey my left knee?
All photographs courtesy of CCJr and MAhn
So here we are, the girls of Whistler 2005. (I suppose that implies there is going to be a Whistler 2006, although Bahamas 2006 has a nice ring to it too.) Admittedly, I am merely HOLDING my snowboard in this picture. But does not my pose scream "BOARDING BETTY!!!!"? I think it does.
I boarded three of the four days available to us. The fourth day, my left knee jumped out of its socket and said, "NO YOU MAY NOT SNOWBOARD TODAY. TAKE ME TO GET A HOT-STONE MASSAGE POST-HASTE!" I mean, really. Who am I to disobey my left knee?
All photographs courtesy of CCJr and MAhn
Again from the top of Blackcomb Mountain. Had it snowed more and not been so warm in Whistler, one would not see the bare patches you can see here. Not that a novice as I would know the difference. All I know is that falling on powder at the top of the mountain is slightly less painful than falling on slush here.
Ribs. Nachos. Fries. Veggie sticks. Ribs. Ribs. Another round of ribs. Beer. Oh yeah, and tequila. So much tequila. So very much tequila. I don't even remember taking this picture.
But let it also be known that I ate SO MUCH FOOD that I was sober enough to kick C's butt in foosball (okay, only one game) AND drive home. Lord, I love BBQ!
But let it also be known that I ate SO MUCH FOOD that I was sober enough to kick C's butt in foosball (okay, only one game) AND drive home. Lord, I love BBQ!
Our complete condo gang at Cows, the allegedly premier ice cream shop (or is that shoppe?) we visited every night we were in Whistler.
The ice cream is ... well, it's just ice cream. But they had such cute cow-related knick-knacks. "The Mootrix." "Cowry Potter." "Finding Nemoo." "Elmoo." And of course, everything said, in big bold letters off to the side: "THIS IS A PARODY." You know, because people might not catch on.
The ice cream is ... well, it's just ice cream. But they had such cute cow-related knick-knacks. "The Mootrix." "Cowry Potter." "Finding Nemoo." "Elmoo." And of course, everything said, in big bold letters off to the side: "THIS IS A PARODY." You know, because people might not catch on.
Strolling down Robson Street, we stopped in a Kiehl's store to browse and play with the free samples. As we turned to walk back out, we saw this spectacle through the window. Thankfully, C was outside and in a position to snap the shot. How funny ... and freaky, at the same time. Do I laugh? Or do I worry that those kids might not be getting enough oxygen?
