Geisha School Dropout

Miracle of Modern Medicine

Duuuuuuuuudes.  Last night was ROUGH.  Emi threw up all night whilst screaming that her ears hurt.  We tried to stick it through, but finally gave in and decided to take her to the emergency room at 4 in the morning.  Tim and I then held an impromptu Brain Pageant to see who would be the lucky chauffeur, and I won because I could tell time on a digital clock.  So off we went to Downey!

Turns out the poor little urchin had an ear infection as well as possible stomach flu and was very dehydrated.  So after squalling hard enough to make 2 nurses cry, an IV was inserted into Emi's little hand and blood and urine were drawn for further tests.  She also got some fluids and the first bag was sucked into her body in record time.  I think the clinical desciption is: her veins were hella thirsty.  After a second bag with an antibiotic chaser, we were free to go.  We were in the emergency room for a total of 6 hours.

But it was worth it!  Emi has rejoined the land of the living (and on the aptly-named BRAT diet).

Before:

 

After:

 

Funny Emi-isms:

1. Even though she was screaming and weeping and moaning "Get OFFA me!!!" to the nurses while they were trying to insert her IV, she remained coherent enough to weepily respond "Okaaaaay Nurse" to all their admonitions to stay still.

2. After her IV was inserted and strapped into place by a whole roll of tape and a cardboard splint, Emi waved her arm around and wailed, "Where did my hand gooooooo!"  She also had an oxygen saturation sensor attached to her finger and she complained, "That is really sticky!"

3. When asked what her name was, she responded very calmly, "Princess Emi, and this," pointing to me, "is King Mommy."

4. After she woke up from an extended "nap," the first thing out of her mouth was, "Hey!  Where are my people?"

5. After handing me her discharge papers, I thought I'd show off and have Emi sing a song for the doctor to show that she was a-okay to go.  So as I prompted, "Miss Mary..." Emi roared, "DOCTOR!!!!"  "All dressed in..."  "POOP!!!"

Notice anything different?

Another day, another milestone!

Isaac's tooth popped out while biting into a pear yesterday. Hooray! For his troubles, the Toof Fairy gave him a buck. When I was his age, I got a quarter. That's inflation for you!

An Open Letter to "Akihabara Majokko Princess"

Dear Japanophiles and Japanophile enablers associated with this video:

If you must exist at all, can you PLEASE find something else to latch on to?  Step.  Up.  Your.  Game.

I GET IT ALREADY, OKAY??? Japan is one big crazy clusterfuck of people who do nothing but walk hurriedly amongst neon billboards and vending machines when they're not smiling giddily behind rice paper doors. I have already given up trying to debate the fact that Japan has more to offer than that, but at least stop filming the same things over and over again, all the while pretending it's fresh and edgy.  Save your money and just borrow footage from any other movie or home video filmed in Japan.

And I also understand by now that Japanese people are hideously dull and ugly compared to a dolled-up white woman.  Look at their flat, emotionless faces and funny glasses and weird hair!  Wow, Kirsten Dunst looks like an angel in a sea of trolls.  She wouldn't look nearly as leggy, cute, and alabaster-skinned in a European country, right?  Sigh.  Props to the kids who looked bored and aware of the obvious commercial objectification, and for the partygoers near the end of the video for providing the only real humanity in the entire video.  More people like you, and maybe they'll take the hint finally and find some other people to exploit.

And the same request for you, Takashi Murakami: I know you have raked in gonzo bucks with your happy flower/bear/yadda yadda yadda characters, what with the Louis Vuitton and Kanye West partnerships, but can you please create something else?  I could have handled sitting through a mediocre video starring a stoned Kirsten Dunst if it debuted some new fresh art; instead it tried to eke out every last penny from the same tired designs.  But props to you for your little cameo inside a furry human-sized soccer ball, that was cute, although I do know at one point you actually sold $400 soccer balls, which lowers your quirk factor quite a bit.  You are probably more businessman than artist after crossing that threshold.

And Kirsten Dunst!  Were you totally blitzed out of your mind, or were you actually terrified cavorting around these natives dressed as Rainbow-Brite-fist-fucking-Sailor-Moon, which from the many shots of anime-porn posters featured in the video, you probably guess is Salary Man Ogle Bait?  You looked overtly uncomfortable during some of your mystical wand-waving.  Maybe you were just nervous that the people who invented karaoke would give you a low score on your rendition of "Turning Japanese."  Or maybe you're a little bit smarter than McG gave you credit for and a part of you felt a little, I dunno, EMBARRASSED to be singing that song in front of real Japanese people.  Anyway, your dimples have not lost their charm, so I will give you the benefit of the doubt and think of you as the biggest victim of this clownshow.

Sincerely,
Me

PS: AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Hello Goodbye

A couple weeks ago, a little something caught my eye.  And by little, I mean TINY:

He was covered in grease, yapping his head off, attempting to cross a very busy street.  Sometimes the trucks accelerated at the sight of him, trying to hit him or at least give him a good spook.  To make matters worse, the chihuahua had no street smarts at all; I knew he would be dead in a matter of minutes.  So I swerved my steering wheel to the left, blocking traffic on both sides, to see if I can grab him.  It took a lot of coaxing but he eventually jumped into my open car door.  He then jumped into my lap and put his hand on the steering wheel as if to say, "Let's burn rubber, woman!"  I laughed, named him Bito, and promised him I'd find his owners.

It took a week to find them.  I had ads out on Craigslist, Animal Control, a few local vet offices, FidoFinder, the Press-Telegram, and the LA TImes.  Craigslist won out, and I agreed to meet with Bito's owner at a nearby supermarket.  Bito's daddy was probably 19 years old, every part of his face plugged up with stainless steel body jewelry, shivering in the cold as he didn't own a coat or a car.  Apparently Bito was actually Buster and he was a recent acquisition, and that explained (but did not excuse, harrumph) the fact that he had no collar, no tag, no neutering, no microchip.

I wish they found him earlier.  A full week was enough to get to know and fall in love with this dog.  As the days passed, he revealed his complete personality.  Bito was quite the little rascal, and he pranced like a deer when he was happy.  He played with Maggie, egging her on by nipping at her neck, then daring her to chase him all over the house and the backyard.  He was much, much faster and more agile than she was, in fact his lithe, long-legged 6.5 pound frame made her look like Jabba the Hut in comparison; it was disgusting.  It was hard to believe they were the same species.  I realized this was how some women felt when they compared their bodies to Gisele Bundchen's.

He barked at the mailman, he didn't beg at the table, he was unafraid of the kids and actually taught Maggie to tolerate them (they were more likely to give them treats).  At night, he loved to sneak under the covers and fall asleep between my feet, his tiny chin perched onto my instep.

Oh, well, so it goes, so it goes.  I hope his owners treat him better now that they know how it feels to lose him.

Bye bye, Bito!

 

Sometimes, I Like to be Proven Wrong

Okay, the LoveScrooge forgot one key thing: little kids can make anything cute, wholesome, and meaningful again.

And I joined in on the fun:

Valentine's Day, we're friends again, at least until Isaac and Emi start rolling their eyes at me.  Or if Tim gets a really bad case of backne.

Bah Lovebug

Like mother, like daughter: Emi on her first Valentine's Day

It's no big secret that I'm a Valentine's Day curmudgeon.  In fact, I proclaim the fact every year like a true Ebenezer Scrooge of the heart.  My reasons change depending on my mood, but the biggest contenders are:

1. There are so many lonely people among us.  There are kids who are unsure if their parents love them, love-crazed young adults who press razor blades to their arms over some pimply paramour, people who have lost their partners to divorce or death, the elderly who have outlived their friends and children who sit alone in a dark room.  Do we really need to disenfranchise our brethren even more with our red and pink-tinged gaiety?  I don't think so.

2. Okay fine, I'm not personally sitting alone in a convalescent home quite yet.  But in matters of the heart, I love to love spontaneously.  Sure, there are many unromantic, unglamorous aspects of my life, (most of them smell like poop), but the most unromantic thing I can think of is setting aside a specific day as Romance Day and purchasing the requisite gifts along with the rest of the western world. Happy Tuesday Roses yes, Sorry I'm Late Roses sure, but give me roses on Valentine's Day and you will have not only spent $100 on them, you will spend the same amount on your emergency room copay after I shove them into your unimaginative ears.

3. Yes yes, everyone feels what I feel and yet they still play along, they can change their Facebook profile picture to a recent picture of them with their sweetheart(s) without being an asshole, and most of all they don't ruin the day for everyone else.  I know that, and I'm honestly sorry I'm like this every year.  But believe me, I have HECKA GOOD REASONS.  If you really want to know the true source of my vitriol, then I shall tell you my story of The Worst Valentine's Day Ever:

I was 22 years old with no boyfriend, and although I wasn't particularly lonely, I decided to mark the upcoming Valentine's Day weekend by going out on a date.  And not just any date, I was going to go where I had never gone before: go up to the first hot guy I see and have a one-night-stand with him.  At the very moment I came up with the idea, in walked this hot guy.  He looked like Ashton Kutcher, had no overt symptoms of herpes, and best of all, he was down with my suggestion for a Fuck-Saint-Valentine date.

The date started out quite normally: we had sushi and a movie, and Ashton even brought an ironic bouquet of flowers.  The movie we picked, however, was Hannibal.  Totally romantic, right?  Well, by the way we were making out in the theatre, you would have thought so.  But the reckoning time came when he rolled up to some random Sunnyvale motel.  He arched one eyebrow and I quickly weighed the pros and cons in my head: he's cute, but I don't know him, but he put out such an effort, oh but I'm not a slut what am I doing here, aw hell he bought me flowers why the hell not.

So in we went, off went the lights, and after a few minutes of awkward fumbling, we settled into a pre-coital embrace and HOLY UNSANITARY, BATMAN, this person had the worst case of backne I had ever seen felt.  I mean, his back was like a topographical map of Mars, if Mars' craters were slippery and the Olympus Mons was filled with pus.  Oh, it was horrifying.

Maybe it was the Accommodating Asian in me or sheer stubbornness, but I didn't sit up and leave the room with the modicum of dignity I still possessed at that point.  No, that would just be rude, I reasoned to myself; I kinda signed up for this, we're already naked, he paid for the room, etc. etc. etc., so I squeezed my eyes shut and took one for the team.

Taking one for the team led to taking FOUR for the team.  Believe me when I say that the sun could not come up soon enough for my taste.  Such a shame, since the rest of his skin was actually pretty nice.  And definitely a shame that the gory scenes from Hannibal were fresh in my mind the whole time. 

Ashton dropped me off at my car, I put on my game face one last time and thanked him for a wonderful evening, then I drove home and took an hour-long shower, at one point scrubbing my body with detergent.  I cursed the name of St. Valentine as I raised a sudsy fist to the heavens.  Never again will he catch me in a moment of weakness, the sadistic bastard.

So now you know.  Now get off my lawn, you lovesick hooligans.

In My Bedroom

    

I am working in bed, my favored office of late, listening to my corgi, Maggie, sigh into the blankets.

We are not very different, Maggie and I.  Fill us with food, water, and pats on the head and we are yours forever.  And we both find nothing more luxurious than doing the downward dog on a down comforter before surrendering to the fluffiness.  Can I get an Amen up in here?

I now realize that this room and the lives it shelters are a long-running love letter to myself.  In my haphazard, wandering way, I have assembled these pieces into this house, each an offering of hope and healing to my battle-worn heart. 

Dear Julie, here is a nice bed to make up for all the nights you were too afraid to fall asleep.  Love, Me. 

Girl, I painted these walls celery green to celebrate that this is our house to decorate as we will, and no landlord can boss us around or kick us out anymore.

Hey, here is a closet full of what everyone used to tell you doesn't exist: cute plus-size clothing.  Fight the good fight; stay fabulous.

Dear Julie, you dragged yourself out of the murky swamp of self-loathing, figured out how to love, and now you have a family of your own.  Amazing!

This bedroom is security and sanity, even when there are toys, clothes, and books strewn around the floor.  Right now, it doesn't seem like a mess.  It's more like kid confetti.

I wish I could send this moment to 8-year-old me, 16-year-old me, 21-year-old me, during various crisis periods.  This moment would push the hair back from their faces and make a quiet promise: 31-year-old me will be happy in her own skin, processing lab data while lying next to a Welsh Corgi, while her beautiful children are at school. 

To top things off, the most perfect song will be playing in the background:

Now the world can be an unfair place at times
But your lows will have their complement of highs
And if anyone should cheat you
Take advantage of or beat you raise your head
And wear your wounds with pride

You must stick up for yourself son
Never mind what anybody else done
Stick up for yourself son
Never mind what anybody else done
Stick up for yourself son
Never mind what anybody else done

This post was inspired by Mrs. Flinger's {W}rite of Passage Challenge #9: Looking Around. Below is a list of other participants. Feel free to explore!

Honto Ni Umai Desu Ne!

This just in!  Area Asian Man Deemed Sexy Enough for Calvin Klein!

 

I'm not normally a fan of the uber-athletic washboard stomach, but the way he's looking at me is so hot, my wedding ring spontaneously combusted.

Hidetoshi Nakata, you can play in my world cup anytime. 

(Thank you, seriously, THANK YOU, to the Disgrasian Nation for the scoop.)