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2020- The Bizarre, The Humorous, the Good

In the year of 2020, we have found out, not how resourceful and intelligent our great country can be in times of trouble, but what bumbling idiots we are as a collective mass. In a time when we needed to social distance, we made all Americans squeeze into a handful of stores.  And when we all needed to be eating healthy for nutrients, for a time period, all restaurants closed with the exception of fast food. This caused an acute and turbulent need for toilet paper. It’s no wonder that human rights protestors have emerged- some politicians like Los Angeles mayor Eric Garcetti have gone so far as to ban all unnecessary TALKING- I mean WALKING! When Mayor Garcetti announced this, the press room erupted, “Mayor! Mayor! What about skipping?” “Excuse me, Mayor! What about sashaying?” “That will be enough,” Garcetti said curtly, as he tipped his hat and moonwalked out of the press room. We did know from being teenagers that when we have nothing to better to do, “Would you rather” argu
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When I Did Something Bad, and Then Did Something Even Badder

When I was about 4 years old, I was playing with a neighborhood friend.  While running in her house, we came upon a little shrine of her grandmother, lit with candles, attended with warm tea. My friend immediately looked at me and said, I don't know about you, but when I was a kid, and I heard the words, "Don't touch that!", the FIRST thing I wanted to do was TOUCH IT. I was incredible. I knocked over the grandmother's tea. I know childhood memories can often be clouded by trauma, but prior to the tea spilling, I visualize my friend as this spunky, fun-loving Vietnamese girl. Immediately after the tea spill, I remember her turning into some creature out of a horror movie. She said four words I will never forget.  I tossed and turned many a nights after this, wondering anxiously if I was going to go to hell. It made me question the fairness of the universe. I mean, if the grandmother was so aggro about me spilling her tea, shouldn'

More Bling For Me

            For my birthday, Kayla made me a wallet out of duct tape.   So I watched her move all my cards, coins, and dollar bills out of my sophisticated, sleek Louis Vuitton wallet and into a new hot pink duct tape wallet, which would have been completely rockin’ in I were still in seventh grade.               Even though we are all smiles and “happy birthday”s, I have this paranoid feeling that I’m getting played and that someone is laughing at me.   I’m not exactly sure who is sacrificing more- my daughter or me.             I’m not sure why I’m the parent who ends up getting suckered into using all these kiddie crafts.   My husband only wore his puffy paint tee shirt made by our daughter once- and that was to the Daddy Preschool Day when all the other Dads were wearing their kids’ puffy paint tee shirts.   Doesn’t count.               And when my daughter begged him to wear his puffy paint tee shirt another time out in public, he looked into her eager, pleading face a

Made to Run. Hate to Run.

            I really don't like to brag, but I have great running shoulders;   so my 7th grade PE teacher Mrs. Finley told me as I ran in third to last on our mile run.    Grabbing my shoulders, she arrested them with her eyes and declared, "Great running shoulders!"             So every once in a while, when Won Bin and I chat with friends who are training for octathons or running to China daily, I meekly and modestly chime into the athletic conversation, "I've been told that I have great running shoulders."             You would think that my husband would find great family pride in having a wife with shoulders that   Marion Jones envies.   "My wife has shoulders who's blades are so quick that wind cannot resist them," he ought to be saying with his chest puffed out like a robin.                          But instead, he argues, "There are no such thing as running shoulders.   You run with your legs and feet."          

15 Reasons To Look Forward to Getting Older

          As some of you know, I have 9 months left in my 30s. Some of my friends have said that when they turned 38 and 39, they just "considered themselves 40". NOT ME! I'm still in my 30s and I'm hanging on for dear life!                     According to Wikipedia, the United States life expectancy for an average woman runs at 80 years old. That means that when I turn 40, I'll be closer to the day of my death than from the day of my birth! I'M A GONER!!! I'M OVER THE HILL AND SLEDDING DOWN!!!    <uncontrollable sobbing>                     Recently I went to a party with a lot of friends who were mostly in their 40s. One of the guys forgot his reading glasses, so it seemed to me like the rest of the ENTIRE party offered to share their reading glasses! Is this how people socialize when they get old? "You forgot your dentures? Here, borrow mine!"                      Aside: Being that my parents in their 60s and 70s

The Day I Got Snubbed By Beverly Hills

                My mother in law (may she rest in peace) was a colorful, loving woman who loved to shower us with expensive, obscure gifts: an air purifier advertised as being strong enough to purify the air of a passenger jet, a huge mint green comforter (to remind us to brush our teeth?), an ice cream maker, etc.. . . I suppose the ice cream maker wasn’t that obscure, except that every time I went to buy ingredients to use it, I ended up wanting to buy ice cream .                 Every once in a while, she’d hit gift giving on the nose, and this one time, she bought me a Cartier watch. Having only bought $10 wristwatches from Best, I had no idea what a Cartier watch was.   This was evidenced by the fact that I pronounced the “r” in Cartier.   The correct way to pronounce Cartier is “Car-tee-yay”.   But you can’t say the “yay” like a Yankee, you need to add a soft “h” sound at the end.   If designers would just spell their names properly, like Shanelle, Shhhshaydough and Carteeyay

Psycho Sports Parents vs. Laid Back Sports Parents

                 Since Won Bin is working so much more, our seasons on the baseball field are on hold, which is fine with me because now I can avoid awkward situations like having   guests over and finding my son's athletic cup on the dining table.             "Haha!" I say, pretending like it's not a normal thing.             I do miss the fun spectrum of parents that I get to meet at the games- all the way from the laid back ones to the psycho ones.   You know the psychos because usually they're the ones who are yelling at their kids with the same intensity as the Hulk,   "JIMMY!   JIMMY!   GEEEET THE BALL!   GET THE BALL!   JIMMY!"   As if someone has pressed the slo mo button on the kid, you can see the light bulb slowly forming in Jimmy's mind, "Huh.   I think they're calling me. Maybe I ought to get the ball?" Then the psychos start screaming with blood spilling out of their pores, "THROW THE BALL!   THROW THE BALL! NOO