07/02/01
Ok,
Q. What’ s more embarrassing than blushing in front of a really cute guy in a cowboy hat?
A. Having Ernie go up to him and say “Hey, are you into cute Asian girls?”
True. Yes I blushed. Lots. So did Mr. Cutie Cowboy as he pulled down his hat a bit.
Cute guy’s reply: “Uh gee… I don’t know what to say to that…” My attempt at aplomb…”Um… yeah, you are really cute” as I turn & walk away holding my steaming hot red face in my hands thinking to myself ***DUMBASS DUMBASS DUMBASS DUMBASS***
The reality of the situation being that Ernie, Myself, Roman & Bell went to try out as volunteers for the Webby awards. Ernie got rampaged by a fan…it was not pretty. But hey, when you’re an internet blog star & going to be on the Weakest link, what the heck can you do? To be honest, all four of us were checking cute cowboy out. Still no verification on if he’s straight, gay, taken, married, bi, or into Kimchi.
My attempt at being a fusspitality star?
Putting on a fake European accent and referring to everyone as “Dahhhling”. *Shrug* Maybe it’ll work. I’ve been told I’m nearly as fabulous as the gay men I know so hey, that’s gotta go pretty far for me, right honey?
Wah? Not my birthday…
Weee! I’ve gotten some more goodies this week.
Thank you to the anonymous II stix reader who sent me the ergonomic keyboard.
Thanks to a lovely British gent who’s kindness overwhelms me
Thanks also to one very beyootiful lady who is charming and delightful beyond words and who’s friendship I’m grateful for
Thanks also to Nicci Darling who sent a belated birthday gift to me as well this week.
I dig this loving. I really do. Thanksy!
Lunch Bags.
I’ve never really been partial to PB&J. Not jelly, nor marmalade nor jam. Nor did I ever get to the point of being particular regarding smooth or chunky peanut butter. Rarely, if ever, were these things in our refrigerator.
My parents never really made me these types of school type lunch sandwiches when I was growing up. Instead, mother would pack us bologna or turkey sandwiches. We rarely had sweets in the house, opting for fruit with much more frequency. To this day I have difficulty, discomfort with eating whole fruits, but once it’s diced or sliced into sections like my mother would serve her bible study group, I’m a munchie monster. Like the other kids, my brother and I had juice boxes and capri sun packets with the too weak straws that rarely punctured the silver skin on the first try.
I recall the year that my dad was laid off from Chrysler. I was eight and scrawny. Shy was an understatement. Mousy was slightly more accurate but still incomplete a description for who I was at that time. I was invisible. I was, after all, one of only three Asians at my elementary school. My ears would frequently burn when the chant “Chinese, Japanese, Look At These, Dirty Knees” would be slapped and clapped on the thighs of the other little girls there. They’re only reference for Korean people was from M*A*S*H. Otherwise, they’d sometimes refer to me as a “Crayon”, How appropriate. To them, I was colored after all. Not nearly as “awful” as being Hispanic, or Black or even Polish in this WASP neighborhood, but still I was an outsider. Midwest Suburbia circa 1982. The same year that Vincent Chin was murdered being mistaken for Japanese, and therefore personally responsible for the auto industry decline that included layoffs of my own father.
Mom was working furiously. Dad was set in charge of our lunches and watching as Mike & I walked hand in hand through the park to school. He’d made me a lunch of gghim bab.( Korean style maki rolls) With spam.
After several days of coming home ravenously hungry, he looked at me curiously, questioningly, but without expressing any accusations or scolds.
We were told not to be wasteful.
We were not poor, but were ingrained to be mindful. We never went out to eat at a sit down restaurant and a luxury for the family included stopping by McDonalds every other week after an exhaustive trip to the library.
I would never admit to my father, slightly crumpled from his embarrassment of not working, that I couldn’t eat the gghim bab at school because of the other children.
The following Monday morning, I ran out the door, conveniently forgetting my lunch bag.
Around 11AM my name was read over the speakers to come to the Principals office. It was more than a little surprising to me to hear my name, my English name - Julia, being called out so loudly. It echoed through the room and I was startled to see the other kids in my class turn around and look at me, really look at me, and squint as they squealed out “ooo oooo oooo” in that sing song that means you’re in trouble.
As my shoes timidly squeaked down the halls towards the principal’s office, the rest of my class had been dismissed for lunch. When I joined them, nothing in the world could cast a shadow on the grin from my face.
Clasped tightly in my hand was my lunch. Straight from McDonalds and with the fries still hot enough to cause my fingers to dance when plucking them out of the bag. Every day for the next few months my father brought a hot lunch for me to school with the emblazoned golden M, encouraging the envy of other girls and the infallible assertion of my American-ness. We’re talking McDonalds after all.
I was a princess with the extravagance of hot French fries every day.
Today, I am hankering for French fries and my Dad so much that it almost hurts.
In other news
This site will be celebrating it’s 1 year anniversary on 07/11/01
(The date when this site actually started getting updated regularly)
As I put together highlights of the last year, please email me with what journal entries you thought were memorable.
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