Stories – Howling Korean

I’m not gonna lie

I’ve officially signed up for the Santa Rosa Half Ironman, and have loosely started training in January. Only a little over a month in and already I’m struggling to keep up with everything, from the swim, run, and bike. I thought I had it all figured out, little of this a bit of that. But like Lou Bega one too many ladies by your side and you know shit is about to get real.

I mean who can swim, bike and run all at once, I thought I could give it a try but, this old lady’s age is showing. The body lets you know when you about to break. Bodies were meant to be upright not hunched over for 2 hours on a bike, run for 3 hours; the bod is screaming no thank you, ma’am, and try swimming for 1 mile in open water-yikes!

Friends have asked why am I doing this and to this, I plainly say because I want to. My husband hears me complaining about the training, and he replies back, “are you even having fun?” And then there is the second guessing myself of why am I doing this for and is this benefiting me, or is it mentally and physically breaking me down.

And don’t get me started on the bike portion because all that in itself is beyond painful, not to mention remarkably expensive, just thinking about it makes my head explode. To give you an idea today I’m “supposed” to go for a 2-3 hour bike ride, but my back says, Hell NO Bitch! in the months to come I supposed to ride 6-7 hours and that just one discipline. If I make it to those months.

Oh and the kicker, I’ve also decided to limit my calorie intake so that I can drop some pounds for race day. Apparently, as I’ve been told and have read on the web, that I’m a “BIG SAIL.” I’ve always known I’m a big girl/big frame/ big bone, but now I can add another synonym to that list. My body frame is huge in this sport and makes me less “aero” for the bike ride.

So here we are, my progress report for the first month of training, we figured out that I hate biking, my back hates me and running for most of my adult life doesn’t grant me speed or mileage. But on the bright side, I’ve learned that there is more than one way of saying big boned.

getting my ass kicked by a 2.1 mile bike ride

After a well-needed getaway with my husband and dog, I’ve slowly realized that I have to get serious about my training. Today is the day to get back into shape, and not overindulge in drive-up windows, and greasy burgers (our all-time favorite In-and-Out). I’m not gonna lie we’ve frequented the joint twice over a 4-day getaway, and don’t get me started on the other overly processed food gingerly heated on a campfire. You know the usual suspects, canned beans, pork sausages accompanied with cold beers to wash all that down.

It’s getting serious I told myself, swim, bike, then run- ugh. So I tested myself once I got back to town, a shortstop to the bank, then to the market, no problem right, I’ve even googled the route. No biggie I told myself, I could maybe squeeze a swim and test out my lungs. Well as it turns out, I was in no shape for a quick dip in the pool. My little bike ride to the bank totaling 2.1 miles nearly knocked the wind out of me. This was when I realized that biking is going to be my weakness, not even a weakness but can I bike 56miles on a hilly terrain. All this after a swim that’ll be over one mile- one whole mile just thinking about making me want to hurl!

And I’m not trying to be modest, trust me if I was peddling up and down Lombard Street than I would have a story to tell. What I thought to be a very easy, no, leisurely ride to the bank turned into a chest pounding that I was not ready for and the calves were not happy with me either. On the bright side, I’ve noticed my running is getting a slightly higher boost from all the cross-training. I think all the lung pumping from the bike is growing my capacity to grasp for more air, can’t remember the last time I ran a mile under 10 min. Some of the runs are coming around 9:20 and 9:30, when I ran in New York most of my times were under 11min and on good days just below 10.

So not everything is a bust in these beginning stages. More updates to come and my thoughts on a new bike. But for now still going to lug around my hand-me-down bike that I’m ever so grateful to inherit from my friends. As the saying goes, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

10 things i hate (<3) about you

Twenty-six years of friendship is phenomenal. Nothing lasts that long. Partners come and go, styles fade and the size of our waistline grows, it’s life that’s what it does. But I’m here to say I’ve been one lucky girl to have two very generous, loving, and humoring friends. They have stuck with me through all my stupid shenanigans, short attention span, and obnoxious banter.

So in honor of my two best friends birthday, I’ve made a list of top ten memories that encompasses our hate to love memories in no particular order.

1. That one time when Ester and I hired a stripper for Stacey’s birthday, it was all in good fun, until the time was up. We all hovered over our male dancer as he awkwardly packed up his boombox and g-string in silence. Leaving us to stare at his bodacious body, twiddling your thumbs.

2. Secretly I like to make people cry, I don’t know why, but it’s a thing. So I found a perfect opportunity after one of our friend’s wedding. Stacey, Ester and I were good and drunk, getting ready to leave when I grabbed Ester who has a fear of being touched. Hugged Ester hard enough to squeeze some unicorn teardrops from her. Apparently, she cried all the way back home while her boyfriend drove. Was I happy to make my best friend cry? Yes, yes I was.

3. Do you remember your first special brownies, well for us it was during our college years, believe me, it was the first and the last? The only thing I remember saying was, “I don’t feel a thing, I need more,” and the last words before I passed out in a friends bed hiding underneath the covers “don’t let them rape me.”

4. In Junior High School I had no friends, big surprise there. So I profiled the only other Asian in the school with no friends. That was Ester, Stacey, on the other hand, had numerous friends, a dorkier version of the Benetton ad if you will. But I digress, back to the only solo Asian, I’d stalk Ester like a pretty little prey in the midst of the concrete jungle, and attached myself to her. Quite literally asking “why don’t you be friends with me” or “You’re Asian, I’m Asian, we’re meant to be” or “You have no friends, I have no friends.” By then Ester would fume and walk away in a fury.

5. Stacey’s strange quest of photographing her friends peeing and pooping.

6. That time I made my friends take “artistic” pictures of them, til this day I still don’t know what it all meant.

7. Blindfolding my friends, kidnapping them into my car, driving very very far.

8. Testing out Ester’s strength the hard way, in high school for her birthday I placed a string bikini on her head. In front of all her honor roll peers. That’s when she grabbed me by my hand, with her hand of steel. Never again, I learned my lesson.

9. Love it or hate it but we would eat a bagel, cream cheese and cholate chip cookie sandwiched between.

10. Lastly were always each other’s dates, when one one asked us to the school dances. Yes, something not everyone likes to admit but there you have, we were the queens of “going stag.”

Thank you, ladies, for being friends with this nut job, I don’t know how you stand to be near me. I won’t ask why. Let’s keep this thing going till we’re forced to go stag into our centennial.

I’m Good Enough, I’m Smart Enough, and Doggone It people like me

When you’re a good looking white boy, with blond hair and a charming smile, words roll out of your tongue, like molasses. That was Jamie; he was that kid who was popular, good looking and well-liked. So he was excused for any silly questions that would blurt out of his mouth. As if he’d asked what’s on the lunch menu or did I give that kid a wedgie already? Kids would think hey that’s just Jamie. So when he asked how much I weighed, in front of my classmates, I was shocked but not surprised.

“How much do you weigh?” casually probing again, there I stood looking at him blankly, thinking do I lie or just tell the truth. “Come on…” he’d say trying to get a rise out of me. Frozen, the only thing I could do was look for some support from the girl standing next to me; luckily she took my cue, said: “that’s rude Jamie.” But he replied back, “Oh how heavy could you be 120 max.” Which goes to show you, men (and boys) don’t know much when it comes to women and their weight. Feeling faltered and anxious all at once, I exclaimed it was none of your business and sat back down on my chair to shut him up.

I hated myself that day. But it started well before high school when I was an adolescent, having moved to a foreign place with new friends, new sights, and new customs. Part of those traditions would include late night snack gorging on Doritos and hamburgers. Somedays I’d wake but my parents still asleep from working late hours, so I’d indulge in the occasional ice cream for breakfast.

With all this self-care, I grew and grew, vertically and horizontally, but that didn’t stop me, it just made me want more. My parents noticed and shamed me telling me that I was too fat, not knowing how to stop their child from growing in every which direction. I outgrew my classmates, I outgrew my clothes, and I grew myself. To the point of hating myself, I couldn’t see the end of this vicious cycle of comfort eating. If I had a bad day at school, I’d run home with a bag of chips in one hand, soda in the other and go to my hiding place. In the closet, it was dark, contained, but most importantly no spectators. Numbing myself of all the bullying and shaming that came with being a chubby girl with a funny accent.

Looking back I wished I had someone to look up too, but then again, maybe I wouldn’t be who I am now. It goes to show how strong our young minds can me, overcoming life’s obstacles. We all do it; somehow we cope with them. Some are lucky they can turn to family/friends, but I had my chocolate bars, ice cream sandwiches, and neon colored chips to keep me company.

Hate is a strong word, but if you grew up fat, it takes a lifetime to heal from all the fat shaming, or at least that’s what I have experienced. I may not be the weight I want to be but at this point being happy and healthy is more important. Let’s face it I only have this one body and if it’s happy and functioning my psychosis can shut the hell up! Enough already, torturing myself thinking that one morphed body type is ideal for oneself is overrated and stupid.
Gone are the days of lusting over Kate Moss, Cindy Crawford, or Naomi Cambell. The young girls now have Ashley Graham and other body positive ladies to look up to. Ms. Graham posted on her Instagram, a photo of her sitting on the beach while vacationing, showing off her lumps, bumps & cellulite as if they were a badge of honor. I’m there right with her sipping on a colorful cocktail when my brain tells me I’m not good enough, and she politely pushes aside all my negative thoughts.

Oh I have some grievances

Happy Festivus everyone, a day for the rest of us. A day where one can rant on and on of their grievances, and oh boy do I have some to share with you. Typically I like to think myself to be a happy go luckily person, but this year has been a tough nut to crack. The only way I can remedy all the dark energy inside is to let it all go and start 2017 with a fresh new look.

In no particular order here are my Festivus grievances.

Guy trying to get my attention at the gas station, yelling “ni hao ma, ni hao ma” we get it, you know how to say hello in Mandarin. But news flash not all us slanty eyes are from China. And yes like most people I know you are trying to be a nice person, and greet me in my native tongue, but a simple hello would do.
This is a big time New York thing, but anyone working a retail job, smile. After living in NY for over 11 years, I’m still not used to trying to make the sales person smile, I’m not the one behind the counter. I get it, working retail is the pits I do it myself but, everyone has a job to do, and a smile won’t kill you.
My lack of motivation after Trump won the campaign, get over it you. He won, he stinks, and I hate looking at his ugly face, but guess what get used it cause he’s going to be around for about four years. So move on with your life, be positive, try not to think of the Donald and be a better person.
Facetime in a group setting, please do not put me in this awkward spot (hint hint Kenneth), I hate it. It’s bad enough I have to look at myself and the recipient while talking, but what makes the group setting worse is that I feel like an ugly girl with braces. Being passed down from person to person. “Oh hi, it’s you, okay bye now” till the next person comes along, “Hi, I don’t know you, but how are you? okay bye now” My arm gets tired, and I have to make awkward convo’s with strangers, enough already, no more group chats.
Laundry, can you wash then fold and place yourself where you belong.
While we’re at it, Dishes, you do the same and stop hiding those spoons from me, I need them for eating my goddamn yogurt. Mama needs her probiotics.
To all the hip/hipster hostesses/waitresses out there in the world, you are not as cool as you think. Don’t judge customers by the way they look, it’s not cool man. Watch, you’ll see you too are not susceptible to age and un-coolness. You’ve been warned.
The white guy who married a mail ordered bride, yeah I see you, man. I am happy for the two of you, and I bet you will live a long prosperous life. But I have a very deep grievance with you man, could you not shame or embarrass your new wife in public or in private for that matter. She is doing her best to make a new living in this country, and she doesn’t need your snide comments. You may think you know more than her or want to school her about her culture; that is a big faux-pas.
Nutcracker, I was so excited to see you for the first time in my life, but I have to say it was a bit of a letdown. Especially the derogatory display of Asians dancers, it’s 2016. I know you are a classic, but all classics can use an update.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dS7-jcsB_WQ

Happy Festivus everyone and may all your grievances be plentiful.

I broke my leg… i mean I ripped my pants

“What happened to you?” classmate
“I broke my leg” me
“What?!” classmate
“I broke my leg, see” me limping along stiffly as possible
“Hey, Carl look… Young says she broke her leg” classmate
A curious kid comes over lifting his glasses to make sure that my leg is, actually broken.
“Ahhh, I don’t think so, prove it” Carl
“see, it hurts so bad.” me lifting my leg, like a bag of bricks
“if you really broke your leg, you would be crying, you didn’t break your leg!” classmate

Moments later bored the boys finally left me to tend to my leg; I kept limping around the playground tightening my sweater of a bandage. Making sure that the rip in my pants was not exposed to anyone’s eyes, making sure I keep up appearance. Then no one would question my broken leg or my ripped pant leg.

Earlier that day I was running around after lunch, and all of a sudden I saw something that caught my eye on the floor. So like an old Korean man, I decided to crouch down to take a good look, when- rip! No joke two seconds flat, the inner lining of my amber colored corduroy split. I felt paralyzed, not knowing what to do I stood there, I wanted to cry and go home. But how with these stupid pants all ripped up everyone would laugh.
A scenario kept playing inside my head, my parents asking how my pants ripped, thinking for a moment then inevitably one of them squeezing my belly while nodding their heads side to side. As if anyone had to say why, and how the pants ripped. Poor chubby thighs, I’ll take good care of you, I thought.
After, my pants ripped, after the interrogation, after the imagined ridicule and lastly the self-pity a white knight came to my rescue. The beautiful nurse walked me over to her office. It was my first experience going into this fascinating place, where a kid can sit and rest, from bullies, sickness, or even imagined broken leg. The nurses will comfort you and ask how you’re doing and if you’re lucky they’ll let you sit there till your pride mends itself. When I ripped my pants in fourth grade, it was a big deal, because I understood it. When you’re a baby or a geriatric its expected nobody cares, if I saw a toddler or old grandpa rip their pants, I’d take a good hard look then shrug to myself, no harm no foul. But when a fourth grader rips her pants the whole world stops even if you didn’t break your legs.

the race is giving me nightmares

Everyone has to be sick of the presidential race; every day we see the same faces blazing through our social media feeds and television screens. So it’s no wondering everyone, and their moms want this race to be over with, and let’s face it before the debate everyone’s minds were made up before, and there was a little difference after.

Fatigued of Trump, I think I hit the wall when he came to me in my dreams. Yes, folks, it’s getting bad, and I wouldn’t think twice usually but this has legs, and it went something like this.

doodley do doodley do dissolve…
Trump is on the scene already, as I observe from the background, he intrigues me, especially because we are so close in proximity. He (Trump) is engaged with others trying to convince voters/onlookers to vote for him. Later, we take a walk, on the way to his house, all of sudden, I’m somehow informed that I’m his girlfriend.

Yes his girlfriend, I seem interested in figuring out how, and when we have established this in the dream. I go along with it, cause when will I ever be in this situation again?! We reach a white house like complex, not Trump Tower. Once we enter the house, I’m introduced to both his sons; the younger one seems nice, but the other one grabs my hands and pulls me in real close. He murmurs to me something inaudible; I try to decipher if its “take care of him” or something very racist. My fuzzy mind can’t make up my mind. I follow the Donald up the stairs they are grand, all made of marble, I’m impressed. However when I get to his room, I notice, he has no bed?! it seems as if his place of sleep is made of Tiger Print Mink Cashmere-Like Material, the type you would find in Mongolia or Asia. I’m not impressed.

The Donald is exhausted, as he tells me already lying down on the blanket and summons me to his bed with his tiny hands. Strange, I think cause his suit is still on him, but at last, I must break from his invitation and go for a refreshing bike ride. He doesn’t look disappointed, I guess he is fatigued, but he does add that I must avoid the wrong side of the area and only ride on the right side of the tracks.

I ponder this while outside of his grand house, and walk my bike toward a familiar supermarket, inside most of the items are Asian goods. I also see some familiar faces that also happens to be of Asian descent, at first they seem to talk about the products but once I get a little closer to say hello I overhear them talking about the Donald. They are saying fanciful words I can’t understand; I get frustrated at myself for not knowing these words. The experts were discussing how it’s not Trump’s fault for who he is, and that it’s his disorder. He can’t help being this way; this neurosis makes him act like a narcissist, and there’s nothing he or we can do about it.

As I woke from the fog, the thought of having sex with Trump in my dreams made me want to gag. I wasn’t sure if I should share this with anyone, but I feel that this race is getting weirder by the day and nothing is going to stop this train wreck. If you can’t win them join them as the saying goes, so if you too have strange dreams I’d love to hear them. I can’t be the only one having nightmares over this year’s election?!

Top 10 things I find my husband to be good for

There is always that stupid rom-com where a woman sees a bug, screams, calls for help and a man runs into the rescue. Well, I think we’re all a bit over those stereotypes where the woman “eekkkks” and the man comes out running with a bat in one hand and sandwich in another. Not to say that I’m not a lover of the romantic comedies (far from the truth), it’s just I think there also other things husbands can be good for.

for example

“Liking” your stuff on social media, just as you need that pick me up- I know vain!
Walking the dog when you’re too lazy, or picking up her poop – cuz poop.
He’s always down for one more drink not making you feel like a booze hound.
Getting the nerve to tell you when your really shit, cuz lets face it, we’ve all been there, especially me to my husband. I don’t know what it is when you are close to someone makes them for an easier target, I know no excuses. So Yeah, when my anger management is off the charts.
Bringing me back to earth, when one too many of my plots to dominate the world are over the top. He is there to remind me that we have responsibilities, you know the boring stuff, mortgage, dog, work, and bills.
He doesn’t mind waking up 3 in the morning to walk me to the campsite bathroom when I need to go.
He lets me drive the car all the time, did I mention I have control issues along with my anger management. (oh man this list is starting to look like, problems Young needs to work on)
He doesn’t mind that I forget our anniversary… well, to be honest, we’re both bad at that kind of stuff.
He always lets me pick out the dim sum first, cause what’s marriage if a girl can’t get her shrimp dumping game on.
Lastly, I do hate to admit, while I have no problems with bugs, however, bears and mice are somehow in the same realm. I will squeak in a New York minute if I see a mouse, as cute as they are. I just freak the fuck out, so if there ever is a time to kill cute little Mikey Mouse, well that is a job for my husband. So there still is little room for some stereotypes, I guess old habits die hard.

Fashion Don’t – FOB addition

When you’re fresh off the boat, no one tells you what to wear, but more importantly, no one tells you what not to wear. Of course, I can see now why it wasn’t my parent’s top priority to make sure that I make the glam squad or be one of the popular girls in school. My parents like many other parents were busy trying to put a roof over our heads and food on the table, so a girl had to make do with hand-me-downs. To be perfectly honest my parents would have been happy if a potato sack fit me.

Here is a school portrait of me in the Fouth grade, Little House on the Prairie called, and they want their dress back.

Here is another one, before I moved to the states, I look like a goddamn communist, ready to work a full 8 hours, pitching hay.

This picture practically looks staged, as if I knew running for government office was in my future. Proving to the people that I too can have a real good time – Wheee.

If anything can be said about the young me is that she was consistent. The girl sure loved her young Republican look, and if there are two things that the teenage Republicans are good for are 1. Alex P. Keaton, and 2. you can bet your ass a button up shirt can be pulled off by any aspiring chubby yuppie. Despite not knowing what Republican meant back then, I figured it made for a cool look. As for me now, not much has changed, can’t go wrong with the whole American psycho look. Tailored made suits, slick back hair, and enough coke to last a lifetime sounds like a dream come true. So if I had a time machine to go back and change things around for my portly self, maybe I’d have her start on the coke earlier, because a coked out look is very chic. But then again, I don’t think I would like myself after learning the true definition of a Republican.

Saddest Boy I ever knew

When I was a child, I played a game with myself, it was not so much a game and more like a pity party – for others. I’d stand in the center of the playground looking at each kid, stare at them for a long time, and tell myself how sad it must be, to be them. Evan Kwan (not his real name) was one of those “sad pathetic souls” lost in the world of tetherball and foursquare. I had no clue as to why I thought this way, Evan actually had friends, not like myself and he fashioned a smile most days.

To believe that this poor sap was putting on a brave face for the whole school, showing them that Evan Kwan of Meadows Elementary School was happy and well adjusted. But he didn’t fool me; I knew deep down inside he was sad- tormented even. My goal, no my dream was to convince him to be buddies with me and be less sad together. Conquering the whole playground with our force, of course using our melancholy powers for only good, never bad.

Evan was a sweet looking kid with large doe-eyes, you know the kind, lost in headlights kind of eyes. They were magical, I could get lost in them for days, aways a bit watery, never ending of the droplet of tears, glistening from any angle you look. It’s not that I was in love with him, but there was a constant sadness I felt for him. Some days I’d sit in the cafeteria and imagine why he was possibly sad, is it his family, a girl he likes or the fact that it’s pizza day again. It sure was disappointing to have a pizza day; I know because I hated cheese at the time.

One day I got the nerve to sit next to him, I’m not sure if it was the fish stick or the chocolate milk that gave me the guts to go to him. He seemed like he was having a “fun” time with his buddies, but I knew he was sad inside, and I truly wanted to fix it. So I asked how he was doing, “fine” he replied so breezily, but I persisted. “No, no… how are you really?”

He looked at me a little dumbfound, shrugged and said: “Okay… but the lunch lady ran out of chocolate milk right before my turn, but otherwise good.” He got up, to bus his try and left, I sat there for a bit thinking wow this guy is the bravest boy I ever knew.