Dances with Baby Wolves

     
I love my boys, but they're little animals. Sometimes they're hyper, poo-throwing monkeys, sometimes they're cuddly little baby kittens, and sometimes they're rabid little dogs. But most times...my baby boys are little baby wolves.

I am fascinated with wolves. They're beautiful, dangerous animals that have an amazingly complex social structure. Over the years, I've learned much through books, movies and, yes, the internet. Although I'm not Team Jacob or Alcide or Remus Lupin (a reference to Twilight, True Blood and Harry Potter for those of you living under a rock), I've found incredible similarities between the human and lupine worlds

Wolves are pack animals- they'll stick with the same pack (usually a family) unless they're driven out or choose to leave. Its a status-led society where everyone has a place in a hierarchy from the alpha male/female to the lowest omega member. Each pack has a territory that the alphas fight to protect, and the oldest siblings help take care of their youngest siblings when the older adults leave to find food. They hunt together, they play together and they'll fight to the death to protect the pack.

In other words, they're a suburban family.

My boys know the hierarchy: Mommy/Daddy are the alphas, followed by anyone older than them...then Aidan, then Liam, then Nala the cat (my poor omega kitty!). When Aidan or Liam challanges authority (as young wolves often do), a firm verbal nip on the backside quickly re-establishes the status quo. Baby wolves often lick the faces of the adults to wheedle affection and my boys know how to kiss to manipulate! They even pee in the bushes to mark their territory (an activity I am actively trying to discourage!). The whining...ah, the whining- its universal in any language, animal or human! Like the baby wolves, my boys playfight to practice dominance games when they become older. And when they become old enough, they'll leave to form their own packs, and have their own little baby wolves (God willing!).

As for me, I'm not much different from a wolf either. Like a mother wolf, I am ferociously protective of my kids. Nothing is more dangerous than a mother wolf protecting her cubs in danger. If you threaten my cubs, you're going to get mauled. My home town are my hunting grounds whereby I forage for food and clothing (generally on sale), and work with my mate to keep our territory from falling to another pack. Plus, wolves mate for life and so do I. If my mate cheats on me, he dies. Enough said.

I love my little cubs. I'll play with them, discipline them, feed them and educate them. I'll run with them, laugh with them and most of all, dance with them. What else can you do? They'll grow up too fast and you'll miss it if you don't.

Just don't mess with me during my moon cycles. Seriously.

The Rise of the Caisians!

     We are increasing. We are dominating. We will take over the world. This is our manifesto.

     I married a white man. When you ask Hubby what his cultural heritage is, he will answer "Protestant Mutt". He's a mix of English and Irish and Scottish with a German thrown in like an embarassing zit. I am a throrough-bred Korean, a "pureblood" as it were, a race that is more xenophobic than any other in the world. When you throw caucasian and asian genes together, you have the new race evolving...the Caisian!

    Caisian children, for lack of a better word, are f-bombing GORGEOUS. Most of the time they have the best features of either race, blended harmoniously into a sum that is better than each of its parts! You want proof? Keanu Reeves - can't act his way out of a paper bag but he's some serious eye candy! Kristin Kreuk (Smallville) and Dean Cain (The Adventures of Lois and Clark) - SuperHotties! Russel Wong (Romeo Must Die) and Brandon Lee (Bruce Lee's son)- droooool. Tia Carrera  and Kelly Hu (Hawaii Five-O) and Phoebe Cates...all absolutely beautiful women.
   
    And then you have those guys who unfortunately drew the losing set in the bag of genes. Rob Schneider - yikes. Tommy Chong (Cheech and Chong) - I think most of his asian genes ran screaming in the night. And then you have Genghis Khan (half proto-Turk and half Mongol, all asshole) - obviously those genes should never have been within one light year of each other! But thankfully, the ugly...I mean the aesthetically-challanged Caisians are the minority.

     My Korean parents, God bless their paranoid little hearts, raised me to believe that the White Man is the ruler of the whole world...and to some extent they're right. Most of the CEOs of the predominant Fortune 500 companies are white. Most of the billionaires in America are white. Lordy even our US Presidents (until just recently) have ALL been white (and how much more powerful can you be than the US Prez?). And why has the White Man historically been the ruling class you ask? NUMBERS I tell you. There's just more of them running around! Well no longer! The White Man seems to have a facination with asian women, associating them with the sultry/innocent Geisha girls of the past. The Caisians produced, being so damn beautiful, will have no difficulty mating like little good-lucking bunnies, producing MORE caisians! The numbers will logarithmically increase and soon they will take the world!

    My kids, not to put too fine a point on it, are bloody gorgeous. Fine, I'm biased, but I've been mugged by Chinese tourists at The White House and at The Intrepid asking to take pictures with my kids. Everywhere we go, people stop me to marvel at their green eyes with the slight asian tilt. In the winter their skin is the creamy peaches and cream you hear about in songs. In the summer they tan a gorgeous brown, unlike Hubby who burn/peels/burns constantly. And they are not alone! My BFF Liz is a Filipino who married an Italian and her 3 girls are going to cause an entire generation of boys heart failure. My friends Phey from college and Glendy from optometry school with caisian kids are achingly lovely. Everywhere I go I see more and more caucasian-asian couples with just beautiful caisian kids! Its happening, people! The proof is out there!

     Caisians are the rising power. Using their heart-stopping beauty and their brains forced to work by Tiger Moms, they will be the new CEOs, the new billionaires...and dare I say it? The new US President??? My heart a twitters...

     Caisians UNITE!

Why Do You Need a Degree from Mensa to Play With Toys Today?

    

When I was growing up I played with dolls. The most difficult thing about I found while playing with dolls was color coordinating Barbie and Ken's clothing. My brother had Hot Wheels and Legos, and we both played with kites and soccer balls and read lots and lots of comic books.
     Today's dolls can talk and walk and pee on their own (ew) and are hideously expensive! The Hot Wheels tracks my boys are playing with have complex links with motors that make the cars crash,fly,spin, AND blow bubbles...not to mention some of them change colors with hot/cold water! Baseball sets for toddlers will actually shoot the ball up so the kid can hit it. Books have been replaced with kid-size e-readers complete with sound and movies! My pretend cameras have been replaced with actual tiny digital cameras for kids! And now kids can start learning on their very own toddler laptops. RIDICULOUS!!!
     I bought for M2's birthday a couple of the new Transformer robots-in-disguise from an online site. Granted, they were supposed to be for 5 year olds, but we've bought plenty of toys that were supposed to be for older kids and they've loved them. When I had Transformers growing up, they were big, made out of metal and only needed 3 or 4 maneuvers to change car to robot. The ones I bought were cheap plastic, small and required 15 "easy" steps to change. FIFTEEN. And it was the "easy" level!!! What freaking 5 year old is going to be able to move teeny parts in a 3 dimensional axis? After I broke the fourth part off Bumblebee I was ready to get the hammer and go Godzilla on the damn thing. The Transformers have suddenly decided they'd rather stay as cars since being robots targeted them to social discrimination and possible deportation to the dumpster.

     To make matters worse, the toy companies have exploited every parent's psychotic need to provide educational stimulation for their child. DVDs like Your Baby Can Read and the de-bunked Baby Einstein Series, as well as video game products like Leapster and VTech promises an edge in your child's education - what parent WOULDN'T jump at the chance to give their kid every advantage to be head of the class? And all for the low, low price equivalent to your mortgage. An article published in babycenter.com featured a psychologist who found that kids get on average of 70 new toys a year (a low estimate in our household thanks to hubby!) but the kids who were the most creative and resourceful were the ones with the fewest toys. Having fewer toys encouraged kids to use their minds to entertain themselves, although I'm sure I'll never see a parent give their child only one toy to play with ("Here Timmy, play with this spoon until you're 16"). The book Freakonomics found that many of the things parents do to increase their child's success (from moving to a better neighborhood to exposing them to classical music) did absolutely NOTHING.

     Hubby and I aren't buying the "educational" toys because we believe the boys learn more just by playing, whether at home with their damned complicated toys or with sticks at the park. Their vocabulary is advanced simply because we're constantly talking with them. You want your kids to be smart? Spend time with them and TEACH them while you love them. No video game that makes you spell is going to be as good as that. And while I'm swearing at the freaking Transformer robot-in-disguise that only someone with a PhD in engineering can play with, I convince myself that the boys are learning spatial abilities simply by seeing what NOT to do.

     Stupid toys.

I AM NOT ANOREXIC!!

     Yes, I've lost weight. Yes, I've lost alot of weight. YES I weigh less now than I did in high school. But for those who think I'm anorexic, EAT ME (ironically speaking).

     During high school I was chubby. My parents owned a convenience store and boy was it ever convenient to snag a chips, candy bars and sodas whenever the hell I wanted. To make matters worse, I had 6 hours of piano practice a day preparing for my final grade at The Royal Conservatory of Canada, weekend tutorials, band practice (I was a band geek) and cramming 5 years of high school into 4 (Canadians stupidly used to have high school that was 5 years long, and no I'm not a dummy). So exercise was not on my to-do list.

     College was different- I started joining aerobics classes because I gained the dreaded Freshman 15. I managed to maintain my weight but studying was not conducive to weight control! When I started with my doctorate...that was pure hell. Eating and studying with very little sleeping started my chub factor to climb. And after I got my first job, all I ever wanted to do was eat! Living in NYC was absolutely to blame- sooo many great restaraunts to sample every day, SOOO many calories! I got pretty damn chunky and I hated it.

    When I became engaged, I found my perfect dress and you know what my frickin' size was? TWELVE. I ordered an eight because damned if I'm going to be married in a bloody size twelve. I started the Atkin's Diet, lost 20 lbs in 2 wks (I don't recommend anyone do that BTW) and started practicing yoga. I got married in a size 6 thankyouverymuch -they had to keep taking it in and the seamstress started to cry everytime I came in for a fitting.

     There was a Bloom County cartoon where Opus the penguin and Milo discussed various different fad diets to try while a cockroach kept screaming "eat less and exercise more!" - he was ultimately squashed by an irate Opus. But its true- the oldy but goody actually works! Every time I eat, I only eat about 3/4 to half my meal. When I go out and they serve those stupid ginormous portions, I halve it, then eat half of that. Believe me, I'm full. I try to practice yoga 2 -3 times a week and chasing 2 toddlers all day definitely counts as my cardio! But the most important thing is portion control. I still eat chips and sweets but in moderation! And I NEVER FINISH MY MEALS.

     Here's where everyone is now crying "people are starving in Africa!!!" I don't think anyone should be offended if I throw out a portion of my food. No one else is gonna want it so let it GO. Early in our relationship Hubby hated seeing it go to waste and usually finished my meal off with his...he gained 25 lbs in 3 months when we started dating. Now he gladly watches it go to the garbage. If wasting a little food means I get to stay at my ideal weight, then pitch baby pitch!

     I don't barf. I don't abuse x-lax. I don't skip meals or go on banana-and-melba-toast fad diets. I just eat less and exercise more when I start to gain weight. So let's STOP talking about my weight at dinners, let STOP screaming at my pictures, and please for God's sake STOP asking if I have an eating disorder!!!

     Ahhh....I feel better now. :D

I Have Lupus and it SUCKS ASS!!!

     Yes, I have Lupus . . . and indeed, it truly sucks ass. I decided to "come out" in this blog to let everyone know about it since the only people I have as facebook friends are actually only friends! I don't want sympathy or offers of help (cash donations might be accepted! ;D ) but just support during the days when Lupus is kicking my butt.

     Systemic Lupus Erythematosis (or SLE) is an autoimmune disease where my immune cells attack my own cells. I'm lucky in that I have the "mild" version with crippling arthritis, horrible fatigue and sometimes massive hair loss. The bad versions all pretty much involve failures of every organ in your body. My knees sometimes swell so badly I can't walk much less work. The fatigue is really sucky- on bad days it literally feels like I'm underwater and walking through mud. I have to slather on sunscreen because it can trigger a flare (an arthritic attack and a really dandy body rash!) and I was hospitalized twice. I had a patient not much older than me who had kidney failure, heart problems, was completely bald, and swelling so severe she couldn't wear clothing because it wouldn't fit! (Please God don't ever let that be me!) I've been taking multiple medications since I was diagnosed about 9 years ago, with little to no sucess. But it's not a matter of taking meds to get rid of the pain. . . its how much pain I can take on a daily basis.

     For the last year and a half I've been on chemotherapy consisting of IV infusions once a month and they've definately helped! Yesterday was my first infusion of a brand new drug called Benlysta which is the first IV infusion specifically for Lupus. Even though my rheumatologist warned me I wouldn't feel better until at least a month, I'm hoping I'll feel some improvement soon. I have my good days and my bad days, ranging from feeling almost normal to feeling like I was 87 years old. Good days means I can play with my kids at the park. Bad days have me crying in bed at night hoping Hubby doesn't hear.

   One of the hardest things about Lupus is its deceptiveness- I don't LOOK sick. I don't have a gross things growing out of my skin (cancer), I don't turn another color (liver disease) or lose a finger (diabetes). I look perfectly fine but on a pain scale I could be off the charts. I tell people at work I have to go home early and I can tell in their gazes that some wonder if I'm really faking it. Having a disease is hard enough without having people judge you for it! That's why I've only told a few friends and family in the past . . . it was a burden but it was my burden to share. Poor hubby has the short end of it. . . he's the type to attack a problem until he fixes it but there's no fixing me. Sometimes I think he feels quite helpless but he deals with it by bullying me into taking care of myself. Alot. There are times when I've told him that his bids to decrease my flares are so stressful it might trigger a new flare! But that's love, I guess. :D

     I was in denial for a while when I was first diagnosed (boy howdy was I!) but its hard to deny a fact when its beating the living crap out of you! Now I take better care of myself, eat better and exercise regularly with yoga. Stress is one of my flare triggers so I try to surround myself with calmness and family and friends (which doesn't always go hand in hand!), and attempt to live my life the way I want to live it: with happiness and joy. I am not going to let Lupus define my entire life and hopefully this new therapy will allow me to have it be a very small, inconsequential part of my life.

     Lupus can kiss my ass!

Bugs Love ME

     I hate bugs. I hate everything about them. I don't care that they feed pretty birds and cool animals like the aardvark - they're repulsive and gross and have waaay too many legs. What do they need all those legs for I ask you? I'll tell you . . . to chase after me while I'm running all over creation screaming like a little girl. Bugs are the one thing that my world could do without.

     I don't think I'd have such an intense dislike of insects if they weren't so weirdly attracted to me. I am a mosquito magnet- everyone will want to stay near me because I'll get bit by every damn bug and they'll be bite-free. If there is a huge, hairy, nasty wingy thing within 1 mile, I'm the one they'll call on. Once, when Alan and I were in Washingston State, we were having a romantic walk along a pier at sunset. It was beautiful...the sky in blues and greens, the water quietly lapping against the beach, Alan gazing adoringly into my eyes! It was one of the most romantic moments in my life . . . up until a mutant roach with wings dived into my hair. I started running in circles screaming "Get it out! Get it out!" and the disgusting little bugger wouldn't get out! Alan was wrestling with it and the more he tried, the deeper the thing burrowed into my hair! I swear I think the thing took up residence and was buying throw pillows or something. Finally, just before I was about to lose it and jump into the water, Alan pried it out of my locks. I spent the rest of night traumatized, twitching at random times and thinking it was still in my hair.

     Another time I was getting up for work at 6am and walked into the bathroom to wash up. I came face to fangs with the most humungous spider I have ever had the misfortune to meet. It was literally the size of a golf ball and it had an alien intelligence in its 50 billion eyes. Every single one of those eyes followed me as I slowly backed out of the bathroom and slammed the door. I then proceeded to scream shrilly, ran to the the bedroom where Alan was sleeping and shook him awake. He jumped up, thinking there was a fire/burgler/earthquake/end of the world and then I told him to go kill a big spider in the bathroom. He got pretty mad. After telling me what to do with the spider (which was anatomically impossible), he went back to bed. I decided I really didn't need to brush my teeth or my hair and went to work hoping the eight-legged beast bit Alan's ass when he sat on the toilet to poo.

    The worst part of bugs in my universe is that I am completely incapable of killing them. Not that I don't want to...oh dear Lord I want to smush those horrid things into paste...I can't kill them even when I try to! Everytime I swing to smack them, I miss. And then I see them pointing and laughing and mooning me. Last night I brought M2 into the bathroom to brush his teeth when a very large, very hairy, very vomit-inducing fly buzzed in. I started shrieking and danced around while M2 starts laughing his little butt off. I decided to sacrifice my Cosmo magazine to kill the thing and thanked the Lord it was slow. I took a swing and got him!...but he buzzed off. I hit him again . . . and he gave me the finger. I smacked again . . .  and he started doing his nails. I managed to find the fly version of the Terminator! This thing had kevlar or something, I swear! Alan came in and made a few disparaging remarks, and while he was mocking me took a swing with the flyswatter. The SuperBug still lived! After 2 more hits Alan finally sent to him buggy hell, but it was scary how die-hard that thing was!

     I don't like bugs but bugs looove me. Maybe that explains the multitude of low-lifes that I've dated . . . I seem to attract the lowest form of life in every species! Every single creepy, crawly, nasty, slimy climb-in-your-ear-when-you're-sleeping-and-knit-slipcovers insect needs to die . . . unless you're cute. If you're a butterfly you're okay (I just have to look the other way while you're a caterpiller).

Which is probably a sad statement on how I see the world. Whatever. :D

The F-Bomb: Its Uses, Mis-uses and History!

F*ck : to engage in coitus with. Origin: akin to Dutch fokken: to breed (cattle). First known use before circa 1500 in a satirical poem "Flen flyys" = ".non sunt in coeli, quia fvccant vvivys of heli, which translated means, "They are not in heaven because they f-bomb wives of Ely".      

    The F-bomb...what a powerful word that is! Saying it as a kid guarantees an energetic response from your parents involving punishment and/or pain! You whispered it under your breath at your boss, and yelled it out loud when you hit your funny bone. Sometimes you used it to replace every other word! There is no other word in the english language that is used so freely or so diversely!

     According to Wikipedia, the F-bomb can be used as a verb (they're f-ing in bed), a noun (you f-bomb!), an adjective (you f-ing jerk), an adverb (he ran f-ing fast) and is one of the only english words that can be used as an infix (abso-f-ing-lutely). Logically, you can use it in every word of a sentence = F-bomb the f-ing f-ers f-ed! Its used as an exclamation to denote anger, disgust, surprise, pain, arousal and sometimes complete and total joy. But it is a universally known word, and its known to be a vulgar profanity. Tell someone in Nuk-Nuk, Alaska to "f-bomb off!" and dollars to donuts you'll get punched in the face.

     On the other hand, a study reported by Scientific American showed that saying vulgarities such as the F-bomb when hurt or stressed lessens the pain. Its thought that our brain circuitry is linked to pain, and when our flight or fight response is activated, our tolerence to pain increases. Simply put, when we swear, our heart rate increases thus triggering the ability to feel less pain. Therefore, yelling the F-bomb is good for us! Science has proven it!

     Personally, I chose this word to blog about today simply because I have kids. Rather than have 2 toddlers running about screaming "F-bomb! F-bomb! F-bomb!" at the top of their lungs, I have been trying to cut the word completely out of my vocabulary. Like the bloody elephant in the bloody room, it is almost impossible to do. During the era of BC (Before Children) it was a word that was interjected without pause or thought, used everyday in every way! Now, when I trip on one of their Legos on the floor I have to yell "fargendargen" or "motherlover" or just go with the ever popular "gaaaahhhhh"! Somehow, it just doesn't feel the same. Its not that I miss swearing, no not at all! Its that I miss the freedom and the ability to swear. I resent having to catch myself at every vulgarity, and the guilt that comes with every lapse! I may not have liked having a potty-mouth, but I liked being forced to clean it up even less! But I will do it. I will endeavor not to spew filth since my kids will repeat it ad nauseum, guaranteed. Like selective tape recorders, they inherently know which words are naughty and they will commit it to memory, the little buggers. Do I give up the F-bomb to preserve the innocence of my little angels?

F-bomb yeah!

The Three Types of Gay Men (or Why My Gay Clinic Manager is Such a Bitch)

     I grew up in catholic schools by a typical Tiger Mom so I've never actually interacted with a whole bunch of gay people. In point of fact, I've never actually interacted with a whole bunch of anything (how could I when I wasn't allowed to leave the house until my thirties??). However, in my admittedly limited life experience, I've found that there are 3 types of gay men. The first is the One Man Crime Against Womankind - he's gorgeous, he's clean, he's sensitive and a killer dresser. He drinks wine, not beer, and knows how to cook. He likes art. He leaves the toilet seat down! He's dress you better than yourself and is the bestest girlfriend you will ever have the pleasure to shop with. He's perfectly perfect for women...but for that teeny, tiny "will only sleep with guys" issue. When women learn that truth, they sigh and say, "well of course he's gay" in resignation, then plod back to their beer-belching, butt-scratching, raised-by-wolves men, more depressed than ever. Its like being shown a big, thick, juicy steak when starving and then given some smelly beef jerky. I love this gay type but they're totally infuriating.

The second gay type is the Man in Shining Armoire - he's the guy who stays in the closet and possibly in denial. Some of them pretend to be straight in order to live a "normal" life. They often have a "beard" or a girlfriend to further this illusion, and the poor chmucks don't realize that the only person they're kidding is themselves. Everyone more than likely KNOWS he's gay and just looks on him with pity as he stumbles through his bad, bad act. No one believes you're straight when you undress my husband with your eyes, dear! Some of them hate themselves to the point that they actually become homophobic, which in my opinion is just fu*ked up. It makes me want to throw a Gay Intervention where we lock him in a room with his friends and beat on him rainbow flags until he admits he's a Friend of Dorothy.

The third type of gay man is the absolute worst: The Mean Bitch. This gay man takes ALL the worst characteristics of a woman and makes it his own. He gossips and bad-mouths you behind your back. He's vindictive and petty and will get you back if he thinks you've wronged him. He's manipulative, loves to play mind-games, and god help you if he's your boss! He will go out of his way to belittle you, your clothes, your hair and your dog...while trying to convince you that he's your best friend.

Guess which gay man I have as a Clinic Manager?

 As I am the only female doctor in my clinic, he seems to single me out for his bitchiness. Perhaps its because I'm prettier, perhaps because he's insecure... or maybe because he knows I hate his freaking guts. Regardless, he makes it his personal mission to put me down at least once a day. I once recieved the Employee of the Month award at the hospital (complete with a gorgeous wooden plaque), and when I happily showed it to the Chief of Ophthalmology, the creep said, "they give those out to everybody". See? A total gay bitch. But I believe he's this way because he is also the second gay type- in the closet. He's told everyone about his girlfriend the dancer, but whenever he gets a cell phone call we all hear a man's voice. He's also got the typical gay trappings that set off anyone's gay-dar such as calling everyone "girlfriend", snapping his fingers when he thinks he made a cutting remark, and using the word fabulous. And don't get me started on his mincing little walk. At work he's in the closet...but honey, we all know he's in there. He's frustrated about hiding his sexuality at work so he takes it out on the only person he doesn't want to bump uglies with = me. I am his competition for male attention and jealousy makes him mean.

     Whatever. There is only so much I take before I politely tell him to suck it. And publicly. He'll then tell everyone I'm having my period and then things quiet down before he'll pick on me again. What can I say? Its a job.

...but if you hear about a doctor who stabs a gay man in the eye with a sharpie, bail me out of jail, would you?

My Quiet War Against My Reproductive Organs.

The universe is conspiring against me. I swear it.

     My two boys are the light of my life. I love them more than I've loved anything in my entire life. I would literally set myself on fire before I do anything to hurt either of them. BUT...they're boys. They love to wrestle, punch, roll around in the dirt, smash anything/everything to bits and do it while constantly running. They are unable to speak without screaming and will only play with things that have wheels. I just cannot relate to them on a molecular level as I do not like to be hit, hate getting dirty, like my eardrums the way they are and have never played with cars/trains/planes in my entire life. They are my mystery, wrapped up in a conundrum, surrounded by an enigma. BOYS.

    I've always wanted a little girl. I loooove the frilly little pink dresses with the darling little foofy underpants and sweet little shoes! I've dreamed of playing Barbies and dress-up and having little tea parties with a gorgeous little version of me (a Mini-me, as it were). Girls are soft, quiet, sweet and smell good. They love to cuddle, and giggle and give kisses like they were candy. And every little girl seems to know instinctively how to bend their hapless fathers around their pudgy little pinkies from Day 1. I love little girls!

     My boys are energetic, and these days its all I can do to keep up with them. I cannot even IMAGINE having another baby right now. I don't think we can even afford another one right now! But I seem to be surrounded by little girls. My BFF Liz has 3 gorgeous girls. My brother has 2 gorgeous girls. My friend in Spain, Vicki, just gave birth to a DELICIOUS baby girl. My brother-in-law has 2 fabulous girls. Everywhere I look I see ruffles and lace. And everytime I see a sweet little girl smile at me . . . something very strange happens...

My uterus twitches.

I swear to God I'm not kidding you, its like my womb tries to lunge for the baby girl to grab and run! It must be a physiological response that has an evolutionary basis to perpetuate the human species but it really is disconcerting. And that's not all, Ladies and Gentlemen! My ovaries start to do a little dance (I think its the Macarena) and don't even ask about what the rest of my reproductive organs are doing (suffice to say they are having a party)! My head says "NO NO NO" but my baby-bits are saying "PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE". Its like the universe is trying to mess with me by constantly throwing all these wonderful baby girls at me, drowning me in estrogen and longing day in and day out. And people wonder why I'm bitter.

     I am not giving in, so stop asking when I'm gonna try for the little girl. Its just not going to happen. I try to make myself feel better by remembering that these beautiful, sweet baby girls go through puberty to become snotty little bitches who dress like tramps and hate their mothers. Today's girls hide razors in their hair and get pregnant and go on reality tv shows. I am grateful I have boys. Viva los ninos!

But I can dream a little . . . can't I?

Please, Sir, May I Have Some Boobs?

Last night at dinner (after the kids were abed, of course), I told Hubby that I'd like breast implants.

"NooOOoooo!" He whined. I expected this. For the last year we've been having an ongoing battle over my boobs, or the lack thereof. I am a girl with what's known as "Asian Horizons" . . .  flat as far as the eye can see! My shirts bag in the front. Bras never fit right. Worst of all, I look like a little BOY in a bikini. I can deal with the flat ass since big butts never did it for me. But I WANT BOOBS. It's my body and I have a right to have knockers if I want'em!

Hubby disagrees. He believes that breast implants will look and feel fake. This is the guy who won't let me wear earrings because "they're distracting and annoying". He doesn't like too much make-up (it's gross) and hates it when I wear heels (to save my feet from bunions). Hubby is they guy who likes the all-natural, girl-next-door who apparently doesn't need to have boobies. I think he has this idea that I'll roll over in bed and crack open his skull with my rock-hard, triple-D jugs. I earnestly assure him that I only want a modest B-cup (something NORMAL for Pete's sake!) and the surgeon came highly recommended by our oculoplastics surgeon in my clinic. Even better, it would incredibly low-cost since I work there and they would be doing me a favor while treating me like a queen! Its perfect!!!

AND YET. . . Hubby likes my itty-bitty titties. He wants the glorified mosquito bites, the radio-knobs, the nothing-but-nipples-there chest! He thinks I look lovely with fabric sagging in the chest on my dresses and totally thinks my training bras are sexy. I know what you're thinking- he's faking it. Hubby really wants the boobs but knows the wife will resent him for it and chooses a happy marriage instead. But believe it or not, we've actually gotten into multiple fights over this! He insists he hates the huge, fake breasts and will not give me permission (excuse me?) to ruin my perfect body. Jeez. How do you fight with someone who loves you just the way you are??? He's fighting completely unfairly, which is why I still have no boobs. I'm not going to go ahead and have the implants without his approval, then have it be a focal point for resentment for the rest of our married lives. Its not like me buying an exorbitantly expensive Louis Vuitton handbag without his permission- I could hide it and use it when he's not around. Breasts are RIGHT THERE, ALL THE TIME, right in your face. And he'd hate them forever, even if they looked and felt great. He'd hate them because we didn't make the decision together as man and wife.

And so, like Oliver, I find myself begging "Please, sir, may I have some boobs?" every other week. And like the mean headmaster at the orphanage, he cruelly refuses.

O well. Maybe I'll go get me that expensive handbag.

I'm a Bitch...or Maybe Just a Reactionary Asian Girl

Bitch (def'n): a malicious, spiteful or overbearing woman.

...Yep, that's me. Not all the time, mind you, but when needs be baby. I don't take abuse from anyone, I don't stand for anything less than fair and I certainly don't stand by while things happen around me. If that makes me a bitch, then slap that perjorative on me! In fact, just call me the Anti-Asian Girl - a bitch hiding in a culturally stereotyped body.

As an asian girl growing up, my mother would constantly sit me down and lecture me on how a lady should act. "You need to be meek, never look anyone in the eyes. Always talk quietly and never laugh out loud. Agree with anything a man says. Trowel that makeup on, you need to look pretty all the time! And housework is only woman's work. This is what a Korean man is looking for in a woman." My facial expressions would range from appalled to disbelief to outright laughter, which would always piss her off, but she'd be at it again the next day when she saw me do something she didn't approve of. Once I said to her, "Mom, I'm not that girl. I'm never going to BE that girl. No Korean man is going to want to marry me so give it up." She'd reply, "Just PRETEND to be that girl until you marry...then you can be whoever you want and he's stuck with you." Thanks mom...and you wonder why I married a white guy.

Maybe I became more assertive growing up because of my inability to conform to those expectations. You should see the 2 sides of my mother! In the privacy of our home she is loud, domineering, and doesn't take crap from anyone. In social settings she becomes a doormat, with all the personality of one. Its truly amazing, this woman deserves an Oscar. I can't do that. I want to guffaw at a great joke, drink and eat a healthy amount and, dammit, argue with anyone about anything at anytime. The more my family tried to suppress these traits, the more I actively tried to develop them. So now, voila, you have me...the Anti-Asian, otherwise known as the Bitch. Hopefully everyone who knows me realizes I'm not actually a bitch (not hearing the snorts, NOT HEARING THEM) but a strong and confident woman. Yet in a roomful of Koreans straight out of Korea, I'm the equivalent of white-trash at an English Ball. Sigh.

I'm going to argue my point of view. I'm going to stand up for what I want, when I want and how I want it. I'm not going to let anyone screw me or anyone else I love. I'm going to make anyone who tries to screw me or anyone else I love BITTTERLY regret it.

I'm an asian bitch, but a good one. :D

Godzilla vs. Ghandi: How Should a Parent React to Their Kid's Bully?

Today my youngest (who shall henceforth be named Monkey2) was grabbed and pushed down in the playground by a bigger kid. The little bastard even had the balls to do it right in front of me! I barely managed to grab M2 and was just about to land on the little bugger when his grandfather ran up and started yelling at him. "Play nice!" he said, "You want to go home? You play nice! Now say sorry to that little boy!!". The boy threw an insincere "Sorry!" our way while he ran off to the swings, while I held a hysterical boy and contemplated murder.

In this situation, there are only 2 ways a parent can realistically deal with it. The Ghandi Way: both parents grab their kids, discuss in a rational way why that behaviour was wrong, apologise to the wronged party, and then walk away. Then there's just the Wrong Way... which is any other way. You can't talk to their kid, point at their kid, and God-forbid touch their kid, because that will trigger that parent's inner Psycho-Mom. Inside every mother is a Psycho-Mom, a feral, vicious beast that will tear any possible threat to their baby cubs into gooey chum. If you don't want to instigate World War III with mommies in the playground (which I've seen many a time), you can only use The Ghandi Way, as unsatisfying as it seems.

Now as a parent, I am always preaching to my boys about the glories of "playing nice" and "sharing is caring"...but now I'm beginnning to think maybe we should include a little dose of "push me and I'll push you back" with a side of order of "Mom's Massive Retaliation". In the pre-child era, I used to shake my head at those crazy, hyper-protective mothers (like mine) who'd make the situation worse by screaming at other children and further embarassing their poor kid (like me). Then I had kids and BECAME that mom. Psycho-Mom! And y'know what? I like being that mom. It actually fulfills a deep-seated need in me to snarl at potential threats, to give bigger kids the Evil Eye and to make sure the kids all know that THESE kids are not to be messed with! And when they get old enough to complain vociferously of my rights to be a Psycho-Mom, I shall smugly point to the smoking, texting, white-trash mom who studiously ignored their kid getting punched in the face.

Today I hugged M2, kissed his boo-boo and told him I loved him. I assured him that the little creep was very mean, and he should not have pushed him down, and went down the slides with him for extra protection. When we come back I'll keep a hairy eyeball on that kid (he will forever be on my Shit List now!), secure in the knowledge that his care-giver and I acted as adults in a sucky situation with The Ghandi Way.

...and then maybe I'll "accidentally" trip the little bastard on my way out.