The Small Pleasures of Life

Due to popular demand, I have decided to resurrect this blog from death. No, I did not fall off the face of the planet, but rather got caught up in the little known, yet extreme sport of library loitering that I forgot how cathartic writing was (oh, how soon we forget our roots). Actually, I stopped because I forgot my login name and password and thus could not even access my own blog. In my defense though, I have created exactly 5,345,656,768,354 usernames and passwords in my entire life for random websites that I cannot possibly be bothered to remember except for maybe my bank account and Blackboard grades. Current bank account balance: (-$60,000).

Anyway, here's a little toast to what I hope will be a little less rocky beginning to the world of medicine. Ironically, I created this thing to document my life, only to find that there is very little of it. Nevertheless, I find happiness in the small pleasures of life, such as going to the toilet every couple hours and walking home from the library at 1 am. According to bagofnothing.com, the above photo is a "cordless lighted toilet seat," and I am convinced that I should own it one day. In fact, I would have asked for one for Christmas had I known of its existence, but since I just googled it 5 minutes ago, I suppose I'll have to wait another year for Santa to deliver the goods. In the day-to-day bustle of lectures and powerpoint slides, coming home to a neon blue, lighted toilet seat can be a godsend. All it needs is a nice motivational tune like Tupac's "Last Muthafucka Breathin'" after each flush. After 10 hours of hardcore studying, I damn well better be the "last motherfucka breathin'," you gunners be damned! 

Anyway, I guess after a cordless lighted toilet seat, I should also ask for a taser. Given the unreliability of safe rides run by sketchy "service" fraternities (I want my Gray's Anatomy and BRS review books back!), I find walking home much, much faster. Besides, how awesome is tazing someone? You get all the satisfaction of electrocuting your attacker while avoiding 15 years' imprisonment for voluntary manslaughter (not to mention an opportunity to practice defibrillation! Two birds with one stone!). 

So you see, med school has made me an incredibly hedonistic, yet practical person. While I cannot enjoy the finer joys of prostate massage induced by excretion, I can certainly admire the blinky blue lights of a toilet seat run by AAA batteries. 

(Below: a demonstration of the tazing device).

A New Way of Life

19 days.

It's been 2 weeks and 5 days since I've begun this ridiculous adventure into the world of action potentials, protein compositions, and Einstein's glial cells. Who would've thought that my life would have dichotomized so completely in a little less than a month? It was not so long ago that I was deep in my knees in Shakespearean literature, seeing life through the post-modernist eyes of T.S. Eliot. What a wasteland it is.

Happy memories. Memories of London, the Royal College of Surgeons, and the aroma of tasty pastys while traveling through the brightly colored Underground. I can just barely remember the joys of a great glass of wine, spending entire evenings and early mornings wandering around the city trying to keep my friends from passing out in the middle of the street in a drunken stupor.

Now what?

Now I drink beer in the middle of the afternoon after a 3-hr exam. Some things never change, and yet they're never quite the same.

I may never again eat another Digestive biscuit in Regent's Park, but I sure as heck am going to enjoy a bottle of wine with friends.

And this time I will know exactly why they're vomiting.

Donde estas, life?

As I embark on this lovely journey that is called medical school, there is one thing that becomes very apparent very quickly: you have no life. Having come out of the working world, I had heard rumors of this pseudo-state of isolation, but never actually allowed myself to believe in this sad, sad fact. In fact, as proof of my non-living status, I recently got a phone call that went as follows:

Someone in the Real World: "Hello, is this LAG?"
Me: Yes
SRW: I'm just calling to confirm a reservation for two at TenPenh for 5:30pm this evening
Me: Uhh....(clueless. Wondering if it has anything to do with posttranslational protein modification, which it clearly doesn't. Damn)
SRW: Ma'am? Are you still there?
Me: Um, could you just cancel that reservation?
SRW: Sure. We're sorry you can't make it, but we hope you will come back another time.

So after hanging up the phone I realized that I had made reservations for restaurant week with a friend of mine who went on vacation. That was when I was a real person and went out to places like restaurants, drinking wine and having normal non-science conversations with actual people. Now I just sit in my room and have conversations with myself about protein trafficking.

Yes, I'm going to savor this journey for the next four years.

"Healthcare is Not a Right"

Who knows what a can of worms I'm opening by posting this article, "Health Care is Not a Right", but I found it an interesting take on the whole debate. As a student about to enter into the morass called "American Healthcare," I thought it prudent to analyze whether or not socialized medicine is a good idea. To those who say that quality of care can never suffer (whether it be the perceived "nobility" of medical professionals or otherwise), I would suggest reading "Doctors Press Senate to Undo Medicare Costs" for consideration. Physicians are increasingly refusing to accept Medicare patients on the grounds that their practices need to stay financially solvent. Try telling that to the multi-million dollar insurance moguls who continue to lobby for more protection from House and Senate Republicans.

On a related note, the whole idea of "rights" being a moral prerogative is a fascinating one. Where did people get the idea that they are entitled to the services of another human being? When my mom loses her job, why isn't it her "right" to continue working at the company, forcing it to absorb the losses? Business seems to be the one aspect of American society that is "free" in the original sense of the word. They are "free" to hire and fire at will, and while they do provide compensation for perhaps a month after termination, it is a small price to pay for the savings that they reclaim. Insurance is just one big business, and all this talk about Medicare cuts and coverage is just ignoring the 5,000 lb elephant in the room--Humana, BCBS, Aetna, Metlife, Kaiser, etc etc. People aren't questioning premiums because 1) they need the coverage 2) the lobbyists are too powerful 3) it's easier to attack at the point-of-service. The nebulous middle man always gets away.

What's another couple hundred....?

My advice to people trying to save money is to NEVER get into road cycling. It is an incredibly addictive sport which is ridiculously fun and expensive. The following photo was captioned as "The Best-Looking Lemond Ever Made." I have to agree.

One of the dangers of making a salary and not paying rent is that you think you can afford things you really can't. I found a pristine 2001 Lemond Tourmalet with Selle Italia seat, Reynolds steel tubing, and Shimano tiagra components going for $350. I really shouldn't purchase it, but man is that a good deal. Someone help me.

Misgivings

It is not uncommon to feel anxiety when undertaking a huge task that involves a lot of time, effort, and money. Medical school is one of those things. People say that if you have not seriously considered quitting or choosing a different career, then you are probably crazy.

I think there is something to that.

There was an article in the NYT today entitled "Eyes Bloodshot, Doctors Vent Their Discontent" about physicians growing more and more dissatisfied with their careers. In the past, autonomy and real patient care could sustain the brutal working hours demanded by the profession, but nowadays, decreasing insurance reimbursement, increasing legal liabilities, and general exhaustion are driving doctors toward different careers--or even worse, depression.

Stories like that worry me a lot. It isn't enough for admissions officers to make sure that their students have "outside interests" to relieve stress. Yes, everyone needs a hobby. No, people do not need to be run into the ground. Do you want your doctor running on 3 hours of sleep to be making critical decisions about your health? Not reading your complete chart because it takes too much time and they only get paid based on volume?

I can see the rationale in overworking doctors. It's what the system has become. We're long past the days when you visited one primary care physician throughout your life. Now we have an arsenal of specialists with their newfangled instruments designed to milk insurance companies for all they're worth. After all, an MRI scan is more easily justifiable than "talking to patient about weight-loss strategies." It's always boggled me that lawyers can be paid to talk--even pick up the phone--while doctors don't. Both dispense advice, so why the discrepancy?

But of course, there is little sympathy to be had. Doctors, after all, make an amazing salary. Is it all that amazing though, to go through nearly 11 years of training (including undergrad classes and MCATs) and brutal residency to make some money to pay off $200,000-300,000 worth of loans? Most corporation CEOs do less than that and make a heck of a lot more. I consider the compensation just dues for such a difficult task. Maybe I'm expecting too much.

Or maybe I shouldn't do this at all. I like being able to take a ride along the Potomac River after work, meet up with friends, relax, have fun. I wonder if giving all of that up makes me crazy. When once I joked around about being a masochist, now I wonder if I really am.

Cycling Bliss

One of the great things about working is that I finally have time to take up the hobbies/interests/fetishes that I've always wanted to do as a student. For example, I wanted to go sculling, scuba diving, kite surfing, and real rock climbing in college. What I actually did was splash around in the tub, watch people fly kites, and climb knobby walls. Maybe I was just lazy, but actually, it was probably because I had no money.

So, now that I'm earning income and don't pay any rent, I can spend, SPEND SPEND!!! To prove my point, I just bought a new bike (see previous post).

However, this is not just ANY bike. It's a cool one. I can remember my early days on a bike. I was small, slow, and it wasn't a lot of fun. I think I rode it twice and for the rest of its dumpy life it sat outside, rusting. Suffice it to say, I didn't have much of an interest in bikes after that, but my Fuji is FAST (like all unbelievably awesome things in life; e.g., race cars, jet planes, a terrible date...).

It's awesomeness isn't only that it's light and quick, but it also gets me to school! In fact, there is a trail that takes me right to med school. I tested it today and it takes about 30 min, the parking is free, I don't have to pay for the metro, I'm not polluting the environment, AND I get exercise (goodness knows I'm not going to get any otherwise)! The bicycle is an amazing machine. Simple, perhaps, but some of the best things in life are...simple.

(On a related note, I almost got run over by a car when I lightly bumped some lady's bag and swerved into the road on my way home. The perils of green transportation! Never again will I touch a Gucci bag. Those things are killer. Literally).

I'm in Love...

People who don't believe in love at first sight have truly been deprived of a decent touring bike. After weeks of tirelessly refreshing the bicycle want ads on Craigslist, I finally stumbled upon this beauty:


It's a Fuji Del Ray--an awesome 19inch/48cm lightweight touring bike made in Japan. Its frame is Feather Si35 Triple-butted CroMo Ishiwata tubing with chrome fork and equipped with Shimano 105 Exage/Sport/Action components. It was made in the 1990's, but compared to the $800 Specialized and $300 Giant OCR 3s I've tried, the Fuji DR rides like a dream.

There are times in life when things just feel right. This test ride was one of them. Once I got on, I didn't want to stop. Weird for me, actually. The original seat was a bit uncomfortable, but after the seller offered to swap it for a Terry women's saddle, it rode like butter. So soft and smooth.

I shall call this beast Dr. Fuji in honor of its future role in transporting me to and from school. Everyday. Possibly in scrubs (^.^)

Another Lovely Poem

Despite the byline of my blog, I just noticed that there is virtually nothing related to medicine in my last few posts. Thus, in the spirit of my future career, I have provided some literary diversion:

Roses are red, violets are blue,
My medical education is going to be expensive,
So your co-pay will be too.

HOLY MOLY, YES!!!

This may come as a surprise to many of you (no, I am not going on vacation again), but I am a compulsive reader. Nary a day goes by that I don't have some sort of tome in my hand, be it a masterpiece fiction or erudite encyclopedia. However, as much as I enjoy reading, very rarely do I come across things that truly blow my mind.

I can think of a few authors--Woolf, Joyce, Kidder, Clavell--who have written works so engrossing and pithy as to make me anticipate when I'll read the next page. To be absolutely honest, much of my reading is driven by this desire to get high through discovering these gems. Nerd, you say? Hardly. A true nerd wears pocket protectors. Clearly, I have more fashion sense than that.

But the real reason for this post is that I have discovered such another worthy book. Quite by accident. One might even say as a result of destiny, which is ironic considering the subject of the book. It's called Yes Man by Danny Wallace, a BBC television producer who at first glance looks nothing like a serious writer. The story documents his decision to say "yes" to any and all questions for several months. No exceptions.

I really can't explain in one blog post why this book affected me so much. You'll just have to read it. And believe it. Open yourself up. However, I will say that even if you don't like it, you'll probably find it incredibly funny and entertaining. Either that or you're just a terribly dull person. But truly, it contains everything you could ever want in a book--humor, sarcasm, sensitivity, verbosity, puns, dogs, and of course, a real bona-fide meaning. A lesson. A "take-home message" my rambling, tangential college English professors would say but refused to come right out and tell you for fear of being too obvious.

Wallace isn't too circuitous, but he does take one on an adventure. Anyway, I can't help but think that maybe that's the whole point. As the saying goes, "life is a journey, not a destination." Yes Man is certainly proof of that.

It Doesn't Pay to be Cheap

As I prepare to descend into the bowels of destitute studenthood, I thought it prudent to read a few finance books about being thrifty (read: cheap). After all, I'd need all the help I could get given that I am part of that widely detested and spat upon Middle Class--that socioeconomic group which receives virtually no help from the government and even less from multi-million dollar franchises like McDonalds. Tragic, I know.

So, what do all these personal wealth gurus suggest as a means of becoming rich? Why yes, it is to SAVE MONEY! Basically, one should try to skim wherever one can, even if it means cutting a corner or two. Being somewhat lazy, I thought I might manage to put this wisdom into practice in my own life!

I might've mentioned how enamored I was with how people got around in Asia--namely, by foot or bike. Since the subway system around my house is pretty limited, I decided that I would start riding my bike more. The first thing I thought about was getting a trunk rack like that pictured above. That was the rational option. However, being influenced by trashy self-help literature, I opted not to spend the $90 and came up instead with this brilliant idea: "why don't I just try to cram my 21-speed mountain bike into the backseat of my car??!!!"

Yup. It was a frugal epiphany.

In fact, last weekend (before my car died for other unrelated reasons), I shoved my bike into the backseat and drove off to the trails like a proud soccer mom. Granted, it took me 15 whole minutes to maneuver the bike into my car and out again, but hey, so far so good.

That is, until the return trip.

I had stuffed my bike into my car butt first, handlebars last. When I arrived home, I took it out the same way, not realizing that the handlebars would get caught on my low-ceilinged sedan and rip the top to shreds. As I tried to manhandle my bike out of the car, the front wheel and handlebars got stuck on the frame while the rest of the bike hung out of the car rather pitifully. It was so sad that my neighbor who had been smoking and watching me for quite sometime eventually asked, "you need some help with that?" I hope he was entertained by my half-hour struggle.

Fortunately, I got the bike out, but not without scratching up my car and detaching the front wheel unnecessarily. After that experience, I learned a very good lesson: never take life lessons from a financial adviser. If you need to transport a bike, then BUY A TRUNK RACK. Trust me, you'll thank me one day.

But you can thank me now by sending me $1 to laginnad@gmail.com. Thanks!

Fatty Cakes

The one nice thing that happened to me while traveling around China was that I lost weight.

Quite a bit of it.

Perhaps I did not lose as much as the picture above suggests, but it was noticeable enough that my co-workers kept commenting on it (apparently, I am wasting away). Indeed, I noticed that my pants became progressively looser as the days went by, but I chalked it up to stretching them out and just generally abusing them by walking around so much. That much was true, but it was also because my food didn't exactly absorb completely through my intestines.

In a nutshell, Shanghai is a fat man's heaven. Not only are there copious amounts of ridiculously delicious food (rice cake-filled lotus root, enoki mushrooms, fried sesame balls, turnip cakes, milk tea...I could go on indefinitely), but one walks so much that the food is magically burned off! Yes, unlike in America where people complain about parking 2 feet further away from the supermarket than their peers, people walk around in China. A lot. So much so that foot massages are commonplace and (I think) mandatory.

However, this is not why I dropped pounds. It is perhaps unsurprising that in a foreign country with sub-standard sanitary conditions, one is likely to have quick and dirty bowel movements. Due to the frequency of my own, I fairly guessed that my diet back home was so clean I had absolutely zero gastrointestinal tolerance for real Chinese food. This was a shame since there were many things that I wanted to try, but was deathly afraid of expelling all my guts into a squatting toilet. Each day, I made do with maybe 1.5-2 good meals. The rest of the time I was either trying to stay alive, not get cheated, or not collapse with exhaustion.

Moreover, I didn't drink at all. It's amazing what sobriety can do for the waistline.

It goes without saying that I will once again fill out. I tried to keep up the frenzied pace back home, but I can't get anywhere by walking and will most likely get run over if I try to bike. I always knew how commuter-unfriendly the US was, but never was it as apparent as it is now. No wonder we need diet books. Our way of life is so removed from evolutionary existence that it's amazing we can survive in the midst of obesity, diabetes, heart disease and myriad other epidemics caused by excessive eating and little exercise.

Thus, I shall inevitably return to my former size, which is a sad thought indeed. Oh well, they don't call it Happy Hour for nothing.

Ahh, Onsen

Going along with this month's theme of "bodily awkwardness," I thought I might relate my first time at an onsen. Onsen is the Japanese term for hot springs, and it is much like any other spring in which people go to bathe for good health or general relaxation. We stayed at an onsen hotel on Lake Ashi on the Izu peninsula, which is widely known for its gorgeous scenery (it pains me to write that as I'd taken many photos of the lake's cliffs). When you stay at the hotel, everyone also wears a complimentary yukata, pictured at left.

One thing that distinguishes a Japanese hot springs from a Chinese or American one is that one must be completely naked inside. As in no clothes. Butt naked.

Of course, I had heard rumors about this even before going. In fact, a few weeks before our trip the following exchange took place:

Mom: LAG, don't forget to bring your swimsuit so you can bathe in the springs (I don't have one).
LAG: Mom, you can't wear a swimsuit. You have to be naked. It's impolite to wear anything.
Mom: What? That's impossible.

Since my mother never believes anything I say, she opted to ask her Japanese friend in the States who indeed confirmed that one must be completely naked in the springs. Call me conservative, but I'm the kind of person who is deathly afraid of taking public showers at the pool. Everyone may be the same sex, but the last time anyone saw me naked was probably my mother. And I was probably three.

So I had made up my mind then and there to enjoy the waters of the hot springs in the tiny bathroom hotel with a 3-foot-high tub (yes, Jean Hou style :)). When we finally arrived at the hotel, it was late and my mom decided to go downstairs. "Are you coming?" she asked. I politely declined. After all, we had bought a bottle of sake to help with the jet lag, and I thought it nice to have a refreshing glass of alcohol while watching Japanese people try to play human tetris.

However, the next morning my mom awoke me at 5 am and compelled me to try it out. "It's great! If you don't go, you'll regret it." After asking about 50 questions, most of which included, "Is it really steamy inside? So steamy you can barely see?" I agreed to try it out.

She lied.

It's not foggy. It's hot, but you can see VERY CLEARLY inside the hot springs pool, especially since the water is crystal clear. It was an enclosed spaced that looked out onto the lake, and after I got over myself, it was beautiful and quite relaxing. I spent a little too much time cooking because when I stepped out, I felt a little dizzy. Luckily, my clothes were right near the door (pictured at right), so I had easy access out.

Later on we found out that everyone at the hotel pays a hot springs tax, so if you didn't bathe, you basically wasted your money. Despite flagrant deceit by my mom, it was certainly worth the experience. There is nothing like basking in a hot spring with breath-taking scenery in front of you. If I ever had the opportunity, I'd do it again.

I'm definitely going back to Japan someday.

Big Brother China

If you've grown up in the US, then at some point in your educational career you've been made to read George Orwell's 1984 or Aldous Huxley's Brave New World. Both of these fictions lay out a nightmarish dystopia from which its citizens are powerless to escape--and indeed--even unwilling to acknowledge. If you've ever thought such fantasies were the product of an overactive imagination, then you've never been to China.

Not to hate on The Middle Kingdom or anything (I may seem bias after the camera incident), but one will invariably see extreme censorship by the government in any developing country. It's simply a lot more obvious in a place with over 1.3 billion people. Throughout my one-and-a-half week stay in Shanghai, not once did I see or hear news about the outside world. Media censorship is outrageously apparent, and one is more likely to hear about a Chinese cow getting assaulted by a moped than 4,000 people dying after a cyclone in Myanmar.

Case in point: there was a blurb in Fortune magazine recently about the Beijing Weather Modification Office preparing rocket launchers full of silver iodide to fire into incoming clouds to flush out excess moisture so it won't rain on the main Olympic stadium. Now, I'm no meteorologist, but preliminary research indicates that the kind of cloud-seeding that China is intending to engage in is sketchy at best. Silver iodide can freeze the cloud's moisture, but the particles are so far apart that it's hard to guarantee precipitation unless a secondary event occurs (aka., the vertical motion of air).


Not to bore you with too much nerdiness, but this is just another example of China's attempts at control. Unsatisfied with censoring your television, radio, newspaper, and internet, Chinese officials have to go and screw with weather patterns too! What's next? Gravity? Maybe they can help really fat people lose weight (the solution is actually going to Shanghai. If you can gain weight after walking around and taking public transportation, then you are truly a hopeless case).

In fact, when I met up with my good friend Jason (who is on scholarship in Beijing), he told me that the local government already proposed ridiculous measures such as even- and odd-numbered license plate driving days and a completely new taxi service to take over only during the Olympics. Basically, the city is being overhauled and all non-Olympic foreigners are being kicked out of the country.

None of this is surprising, especially having been there once. What worries me is that the population at large doesn't much care. Of course there are the academics and the college students who may raise a small cry, but most people are so involved in day-to-day shopping and survival that they could care less about unfettered access to information. Nevertheless, it's the dangers that we aren't aware of which can prove the most insidious. Orwell was right: "To see what is in front of one's nose needs a constant struggle."

Don't Touch My Butt, Please

Aside from getting robbed, assaulted, and yelled at in Shanghai, I had the rare opportunity of getting a full-body massage. Apparently, my aunt whose house we stayed at frequented one massage parlor who could relieve "the most serious tension" that one had. Well, I wasn't one to turn down spa-like treatment, and with a foot massage thrown in for approximately 70RMB (that's about $10 for two hours of human labor), it was a deal that I couldn't refuse. Besides, my mom wanted it so I had no choice but to come along.

Now, the only massage that I've ever experienced is from a Peer Health Educator gripping my shoulder blades in a painful, vice-like grip. We PHEs pretended to teach people how to massage and relieve stress in college, but as we all know, Americans are deathly afraid of bodily contact. In fact, there is a term for this. It is called the "Personal Bubble" and must be observed at all times. In China, however, this idea is laughable. Instead, they follow a different rule, which is: "shove or be shoved." In other words, the only bubbles that you'll be observing are the ones that some little Chinese toddler is blowing into your face on the overcrowded subway. So, as you can imagine, getting massaged in China was an intensely violating experience.

Because I was a young girl (a "xiao gu niang"), they decided to request a female masseuse rather than a male one. One can debate whether it's more awkward to have a guy or girl rubbing your body, but to me, it's pretty uncomfortable either way. The beginning was alright since she started out massaging my neck, back and face. In fact, she spent so long on my back that I thought that was all there was. However, midway through she told me to lie on my stomach and put my face through a hole in the bed so my face wouldn't get squashed (a rather clever innovation, I thought).

All was going well until her hands made their way to my butt. Now, I don't know the protocol for massages, but I didn't realize the butt was a muscle that needed any manual manipulation. After all, it's just made of fat tissue. Although I did sit a lot on the plane, my butt did not cry out for manual relief, and even if it did, I'd probably just sleep it off.

In any case, the butt massage was thankfully short-lived. Once she got to my legs, I felt a little better, but the whole time I was still thinking: "This is such a violating experience. This is such a violating experience." Strangely enough, when we got to the foot soak and massage, my masseuse commented that I was "unusually relaxed" for a first-timer. Hm. I guess I'm really good at faking.

Kirei Flight Attendants

My Japanese is really quite poor (ok, non-existent), so the above title is supposed to read: "Beautiful Flight Attendants." On my way to Tokyo and Shanghai, I had the rare opportunity to fly with ANA--All Nippon Airways--and true to the Japanese spirit, they provided kick-ass service. Not only does the airline staff bring you everything you could ever want, but they have to use Ms. Japan to do it. Seriously, I felt like I was entering a beauty pageant bereft of high heels and cute uniforms with complimentary scarves.

The practice of hiring attractive flight attendants is perhaps not much surprise to anyone who has flown on any airline that is not American. After all, the rest of the world hires people who are hotter than your grandma--Asia no less. So, one might wonder, why make special mention of it?

Because on this same flight was a gaggle of men part of a Formula One racing crew. Now, I'm sure you can guess what a recipe for success Testosterone-driven white men+pretty Asian women= ??? if you can't, well then, you're probably female or a gay man. In fact, these racing guys were so obviously sex-driven that even my mom's interest was piqued.

During dinner, one has the option of drinking any beverage--beer, wine, champagne--that one wishes, so naturally many people take advantage of the alcoholic option simply because it's free. I've never tested it myself, but I'm pretty sure you can have as many drinks as you want, and these F1 guys were certainly getting their money's worth. Sometime after the flight attendants came and cleared away our dinner trays, I settled down for a good movie and a short nap. My mom decided to use the restroom and 15 minutes later, she came back with an excited look on her face.

Mom: LAG, you have to go to the bathroom.
Me: Why? I don't need to.
Mom: You have to go. There are a group of drunk men clustered around the bathroom talking up the stewardesses [the kitchen was situated right next to the bathroom].
Me: Oh, haha. I'm not surprised. Men are men.
Mom: They're so hui-hui [translation: sleazy]. Go see! Go!
Me: Jeez! Fine, I'll go.

So I got up and made my way over to the drunken white guys trying to hit on sober Japanese flight attendants. I must've missed all the action because by the time I got there, most of the attendants were gone and the F1 guys were just talking amongst themselves. However, they were pretty buzzed and as I exited the bathroom, one of them gave me The Eye--most likely because he couldn't tell the difference between one Asian and another. I gave him the Evil Eye in return that he probably interpreted as being coy.

I'm not sure why my mom wanted me to see that other than to serve as a warning that men are obsessed with sex. It was a lesson largely lost on me because I already knew that. Nevertheless, I humored my mom by telling her "Yes! It's true! They are so hui-hui!" And that made her very happy.

No Photos For You

After spending two-and-a-half weeks in Asia, I have finally returned to the beloved USA. I must say, I have never been happier to step foot in a country so full of trees, grass, orderly lines, and general cleanliness. Of course, Japan was awesome and anyone who says otherwise is surely a Neanderthal, but China was a completely different story.

Now, some of you may be thinking: "Little Asian Girl, where are all the glorious photos that you promised to regale us with?" Well, the short answer is that it got stolen in Shanghai. Yes, some ruthless Chinese thug currently has in his/her possession a broken camera with over 900 photos of me and my mother in various tourist areas looking like silly Americans. The display on my $300 camera broke after taking photos in the rain in Japan, but those enterprising Chinese--God bless their hearts--will take advantage of anything they can get their grimy hands on. As we speak, he/she is probably selling it on the streets of Shanghai at a discounted price: "100RMB! GOOD DEAL BECAUSE DISPLAY BROKEN. LESS TROUBLE FOR PHOTOS TAKING!"

To all the naysayers out there, I do accept part of the blame for the loss. After all, I was carrying it in my messenger bag in the outside compartment rather than the inner one with a zipper where my wallet was. To be fair, it provided easier access since I was the resident photographer for the entire trip. However, you can be assured that after that incident I switched to a tiny purse with a 2-inch strap that I clutched under my armpit for dear life. Public transportation is a veritable goldmine for theft, so it's no wonder why everything in China is fake. At the very least, when stolen, you can comfort yourself with the fact that it only cost you 2 dollars to buy and can be easily replaced.

Anyway, that is the reason that I must continue my egregious habit of stealing other people's photos to post on my blog. I really wish I could show you original art, but at this point, I can't even fake it by snapping pictures around my house. I have no camera.

~Bon Voyage~

Warning! I must relate some news that may strike many of you as terribly disappointing: I am going on vacation!!!

Yes, although I will not be in the lovely US of A for the next three weeks, I will nevertheless think of all of you while I eat delicious fish babies and their parents. If I'm feeling particularly adventurous (and my travel companion has the energy), then I might also make it to the Tsujiki market to eat some live octopus. Be assured that I will post those pictures.

In the meantime, here are some photos that I continue to steal from the internet because I have none of my own. I provide them for your oogling pleasure (I totally understand the appeal of pornography. Blasted hedonism!)




Loving Japan is not enough. You have to love it
SQUARED!








Shibuya, Tokyo. Like NYC, only much cleaner and cooler. Gosh, I'm such a sucker for bright, blinking things.







I know that secretly, my mother wants to be this woman (FYI: Japanese, not a geisha).








Back to my roots! I hope they don't "errr" everything like the Beijing-ers. I'd like to understand my brethren.








The Fat Man who will bring me lots of money so I can pay for medical school.

A Pausch for the Ages

If you haven't heard of Randy Pausch, then you have seriously been living as a troll in some inhospitable part of Antarctica. For the benefit of such societal bums, he is a pioneer of virtual reality and has taught at such prestigious institutions as Carnegie Mellon and the University of Virginia. Although I have not had the pleasure of taking any of his classes or even seeing him live (I'm old like that, you see), I nevertheless have an antenna that steals TV signals from that corporate monster, ABC.

Having watched the special that aired tonight, I must say that Diane Sawyer is about as engaging as a colony of lichen. No really, even Randy had to pose questions for himself to answer, which is fitting given that he's a lot better at this "life" thing than she is. After being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, he doesn't waste time asking "what about the children??!!!" (um, isn't it obvious? Spend time with them), but rather offers some practical advice for us morons who are so concerned with being PC that we fear asking the tough questions.

A few things that Randy mentioned which I found to be absolutely essential:

#1: Never lose your imagination
Whether your dream is to become a stripper to pay off medical school bills or to simply travel to Italy to drink some real wine, never lose your ability to dream the impossible. I have always had a passion for this. Case in point: I arrived 20 minutes late to work today because I was daydreaming and totally missed my exit on the highway. What was I dreaming about, you ask? Why, my kick-ass weekend! No, it wasn't anything productive like promoting world peace or alleviating world hunger, but dammit, I'm going to dream of my future life even if it interferes with the present one. Or at least deceive myself and then cry terribly when things don't work out like I'd planned.

#2 Always be honest
I don't know how seriously to take this because some things are better left unsaid (like the time I got really messed up after a wine festival and could barely make it to work the next day). However, although you cannot always rely on your parents' threshold for forgiveness, you can certainly turn to strangers on the metro and tell them that they smell real bad and need a shower. Hell, they'll probably even let you give them one! It's one of the amazing things about living in America. If they don't thank you, then they'll certainly try and shoot you.

#3 Always maintain a sense of humor
He didn't actually say this. It's taken from my co-worker's dad who is an awesome guy. But Randy provided a variation to the effect of being the Tigger in life rather than the Eeyore (you know, the cartoon character whose face looks more abysmal than his butt). I wholeheartedly agree with this statement because as cynical, dumb, irreverent, and cruel as I am, I really do love what I write about. It's just funnier when you make fun of it. However, I try not to take things for granted, and my method for doing just that is to point out the ridiculousness of it all. Life is crazy, hilarious, monotonous, boring, and really, really frustrating, but when someone leaves a burning bag of poop on your doorstep, you can't help but laugh. And then call the police to have them arrested.

#4 Never listen to what a guy says. Only trust what he does
Admittedly, this applies mostly to the ladies, but also to a few fruity ones out there. I have not been given any better advice than this. If all women took the above statement to heart, John Gray would not be making millions off variations of Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus (you can bet he's laughing all the way to the bank. I myself thought about writing Men Might be Dumb, but Women are Idiots for Trying to Figure Them Out). Please. Just stop. We live on Planet Earth for crying out loud.

Land of Hello Kitty, Here I Come!!!!

Coming up with new blog topics isn't easy. However, when you live with my dad and travel to a few places, the process becomes a lot easier. Rather than regale you with more stories about England or my dad's many faux pas, I will instead fascinate my thousands of readers with my upcoming trip to Japan and China. Yes, given my penchant for living vicariously through other people, I have artfully stolen the following photo off the internet and painted myself in. I figure it's what you're going to see anyway--cities really don't change much from week to week (save Godzilla intervention, that is). So, violating all established laws of physics, this is me in the distant future:

A Poem For You

In celebration of National Poetry Month (thanks Wolfie), I have provided some leisurely reading below:

Where Are All the Lovers?

A strawberry for all lovers

Having had a series of conversations about potential mates with people of various ages and races, I decided that I would finally write about it. Now, it would seem that most people meet their romantic interests in college or (more likely) at work, but when both of these venerated institutions/vocations fail in the love department, where is a naive soul to go?

According to one co-worker, (we'll call her Young Twenty-Something or YTS, for short), one meets people during happy hours at bars around the city. Given the slightly rotten quality of her encounters, however, YTS is beginning to rethink this strategy. Although I am not a big fan of meeting people at bars, and really only reserve this fraternizing venue for people I know very well, I am willing to give people the benefit of the doubt. After all, if all bar people were sleazy, and you yourself frequent them, then what does that say about you?

Thus, I consulted another friend--Young, Musically-Inclined Male (YMIM)--who told me about the book The Millionaire Mind by Thomas J. Stanley, Ph.D. Clearly a doctorate in business administration knows where to go to get the "goods," and those places are: 1) The Church and 2) Classes. I'm not even going to touch the first idea with a ten-foot pole, particularly if you're going there with the sole intent of getting lucky.

The other possibility is to take a class. Or, like one woman in Stanley's book, pretend to study at the medical school library and bait yourself a doctor husband. I'm serious. She was smart, pretty, ambitious, and looking to get her MBA until she "happened" to meet a doctor while studying at the library, promptly giving up her education to throw outrageously amazing tupperware parties. Could this method work for me? I will be studying there too! But as I am informed, men will actually run away :*(**

Reaching the end of the line, I finally consult a social Mother-of-Three (MOTHR). Apparently one can find many good prospects on public transportation such as the metro and bus. I don't know about you, but I have never spoken to strangers on the train before. Most of the gregarious ones seem to be rather crazy, but who knows? Perhaps I'm being too hasty.

So in the end, the best way to meet a potential "friend" is to frequent bars in a highly religious town while taking MBA classes and metro-ing it in to work.

Other suggestions?

A Sad Excuse for an Asian

It is a rare occasion when my parents go out to eat. When they do, it's typically some faux-Asian dim sum place or The Cheesecake Factory (which is good save their obesity-inducing portions, but being Asian, of course we share). So after viewing the lovely cherry blossoms over the weekend, we decided to head over to China Garden for some greasy Chinese grub. For all you wannabe (or be) Asians out there, China Garden is a fan guan, or food hall in loose translation. This means that management attempts to squeeze as much cash out of their clientele by cramming in as many people as physically possible before some white person decides to call the fire department.





This is what it looks like on FDA inspection day




By the time we got there, there was already a 45-minute wait, and being too lazy to go anywhere else, we simply waited. As we sat there, my mom noticed a white guy sitting across from us reading a Chinese newspaper.
Sensing that some bad shit was about to go down, I held my breath and waited.

Mom: "Look, that white guy is reading the Chinese newspaper."
Me: "Yeah. He's pretty talented."
Mom: "How come you can't read the newspaper?"
Me: (looking around nervously for my dad) Well, they never taught us.
Mom: I sent you to Chinese school for 12 years and you can't even read the paper? You are a sad excuse for an Asian.
Me: ...

Yes. It is true. Despite speaking Asian Chinese to my parents everyday, I am less Asian than a white guy. As a child, I was rebellious and read such subversive literature as Curious George Goes to the Zoo (without his master's permission!!!) and Clifford: The Big Red Badass Dog. After a couple pages of Clifford, let me tell you, that pooch was headed straight for the state penitentiary. Forswearing such juvenile propaganda like Sesame Street's A...B...See? (printed for the foolish masses, no doubt), it's no wonder that I turned out the way I did.

[Actually, I did try to read in Chinese. Once I asked my mom about a panel in a Doraemon comic, and she replied: "It says: HA! HA! HA!" Me: "That's not funny at all"].

[I also wonder, do white people comment when they see me reading The Post? "Billy Bob, why cain't you read no paper? Even 'dem orientils can do it"].

So goes the story of my life. I studied the likes of Shakespeare and Milton in college, only to graduate and manage the finances of some poor, ailing corporation who probably knows more about balance sheets than I do. And, in a few short years, this very same individual will be making crucial decisions about your health when you are two breaths away from the Grim Reaper.

Inspires one with confidence, doesn't it? Thank goodness for the American Dream where even a non-Asian Asian girl can succeed in society.

Chronicles of a Trip Untold: Le Paradis England

Rummaging through my computer for pics to upload to the web, I stumbled across a smorgassboard of photos from my trip to London a few years back. Having never written about it, I'd be remiss if I gave up the juicy opportunity to bore you to death about our relatives across the Atlantic (relatives for all you white people out there).

As you may or may not know, England is a lovely little island with rolling green hills, vats of Guinness (admittedly Irish, but wildly popular in the pubs) and lots of white and brown people with funny accents that Americans have deemed "incredibly sexy." Familiar with only the latter aspect of English culture, I eagerly parted with more than a semester's worth of college tuition for a one-month stint of booze in lofty Cathedrals (the British, bless their hearts, are largely agnostic), cluttered museums filled with plundered relics from third-world colonies, and one exhibit filled with 7,559,452 specimens of dead dissected animals (I had the rare fortune of seeing a diseased penis preserved in formaldehyde. Not a pretty sight, but damn interesting).

But before I regale you with those stories, we shall start at the beginning. For an entire 30 days, I lived and breathed the Tube, which is the American equivalent of the metro but much, much classier. As a bold demonstration of their advanced sophistication, the British have abandoned dingy industrial rail cars in favor of those designed by Gymboree. Yes, there may be a lack of ventilation in the summer, but as one train official informed me, one can always take comfort in the GLORIOUS COLORS! (I suspected pot use).

Inspiring daycare centers worldwide

One station particularly near and dear to my heart was Baker's Street Station. You might think that I lived there, but in fact I lived across from Regent's Park, shown below:

The Gates of Heaven and the Garden of Eden... if I could bloody afford to live there.

(For those who are over-analytical, there was actually a tube stop called "Regent's Park," but in a cruel twist of humor intended to spite those "Bush wankers" (read: Americans), it was further away from our lodgings than Baker's Street).

One curious thing about the British is their subtle nationalistic bent. Do not be fooled by their blasé self-deprecating remarks about their pseudo-socialist government. They love themselves. In fact, the only thing they love more than themselves are their fictional storybook characters. Somehow, the British got to writing books about crazy detective mothafuckahs (excuse my French) and the next thing you know, Sherlock Holmes is more popular than the Queen! So popular that he has a statue unto himself. At an imaginary address that doesn't even exist. God I love the Brits.



"Tell me, my dear Watson, why am I an ugly, cast-iron figure canonized outside of a random tube station?"







There are few things in life that impress me, and having the opportunity to see this man's imperturbable face each and every day was a true delight. How could I stand to marvel at such a brilliant achievement for an entire month? The master said it best:


"It's elementary, my dear Watson."



Actually, some pot would have helped.

Conversations With My Father: part III

Dinnertime has always been a heart-warming activity for my family. As dusk falls around our cozy little home-in-the-'burbs, we descend into a comfortable evening chat about our respective days. Typically, me and my mom have pretty ordinary tales punctuated by the occasional irritant co-worker or difficult customer, but my father clearly works with individuals who have lives as colorful as his own imagination.

background: "FBI-Ma" is a fellow co-worker of my dad's and long-time acquaintance of my mom's.

Dad: Did you know that FBI-Ma's son is in the FBI?
Mom: Really?
Dad: Yeah. They investigate everyone you come into contact with. Even your girlfriends.
Mom: How do you know?
Dad: Well, FBI-Ma was telling us all about it today. She said that ever since her son started working there, he's become a lot more quiet and doesn't talk about his job with her. He had to marry a fellow FBI worker because they won't let him associate with just anyone.
Me: I don't think they control who you marry. They probably just make sure you aren't involved with a spy.
Dad: No. These government people, they know everything about you, but they don't say anything. Her son can only tell people that he works with "computers," not the FBI.
Me: Then why did her mom tell all her co-workers about her son's real job?
Dad: Well, now she tells people that her son is in "computers."
Me: Isn't it a little late?
Dad: I don't know. She says she can't talk about her son's activities. Who knows what he's doing? I bet he's involved in some pretty shady business. You know the FBI has a hand in the crumbling economy and the political elections.
Me: .....
Mom: Talk less and finish your hamburger.

Conversations With My Father: part II

Not a day goes by that I don't wonder how my dad chose the wrong vocation in life. Rather than being a boring government worker, he should have become a serial novelist or editor of the National Enquirer. With an uncanny knack for devising hopelessly irrational conspiracy theories about the government (all this despite being a faithful employee for some twenty-odd years), it is easy to see why I became an English major. It runs in the family. Except he's a lot better at it than me.

Let me illustrate with a true story.

Sitting on my bed one evening just reading myself to sleep, my dad suddenly bursts into my room.

Dad: Can you look at this? (it's a permission slip for my brother's chorus trip) I shouldn't sign it right?
Me: reads the sheet. The school wants you to sign and verify that your child isn't bringing any illegal weapons on the trip. If you sign it, then the teacher doesn't need to search his belongings.
Dad: But why should I sign? Doing so means they have the right to rummage through your stuff! There's no privacy! I think it's ridiculous to be searched.
Me: But that's why you sign. So they won't search.
Dad: No. We shouldn't sign. I heard on the news that the government can just come to your house and search you for no reason!
Me: ....
Dad: You could sign your life away and not even know it!
Me: You're right, dad. Everyone is out to get you.
Dad: Yes, always be careful about what you sign.

postscript: my dad did eventually sign the permission slip

Conversations With My Father: part I

disclaimer: the following views expressed in this post are most decidedly NOT PC and are in no way intended to offend. I would not write about it if not for the fact that my dad's just so ridiculous it's funny.

Waking up one rainy Thursday morning, I walk into the kitchen to pack my lunch for the day. Typically my mom is already up, having cooked breakfast for my brother and seen him off to school, and my dad too--usually for lack of anything better to do (like sleep). So, when I see him bolt into the kitchen like a madman with that wild gleam in his eyes, I know it's going to be one of "those" days.

Dad: "Did you hear? Islamics are now lending money to people at zero interest!"
Me: "I know dad. Islamic law prohibits usury. It's been around since the 8th century."
Dad: (clearly not listening) "But now they're lending money to non-Islamics! Where do they get such money? The Federal Treasury doesn't back them. I wonder where they get all that money to lend people."
Me: "....."
Dad: "You should take out a loan from them. It's available for everyone now."
Me: "Where did you read this?"
Dad: "It was in the news .(it could have come from a monkey on the street and he would still say it was from the "news")"
Me: (facetiously) "Well, they probably do it so they can eventually force you to convert to their religion and take over the world."
Dad: "Yeah. I bet they brainwash you with their money."
Me: "Mmmhmm. The only smart investment is to painstakingly save your money penny-by-penny in a low-interest savings account that won't even compensate for inflation."
Mom: "That's right! Never be greedy. Nothing good can come from easy money."

Robert Allen is My Boy!

800-267-4152. Called 3 times in a 3-hour time span.

Now, either someone really wanted to reach me or it was just another telemarketer wreaking havoc on the world. Wary of 800 numbers (do you see a trend here? I'm really not this paranoid in real life), I envisioned an overweight, slightly unshaven pothead sitting on the other side of the line trying to convince me to sell my soul to The Man for the low, low price of $64,000/year. Too late, dude.

Reluctant to call the offender, I decided to do the next best thing--Google it! Curious to see what evils lay behind that esoteric combination of 10 numbers, my search eventually pulled up a long list of complaints about what turned out to be Robert Allen's "Enlightened Millionaire's Institute," or EMI, as it is affectionately called.

I don't know Robert Allen personally, but judging by other people's comments ("Apparently the service they provide is so useless that nobody wants it, and so they go out and harass people into taking their seminar"), he is not a universally-loved character. However, despite his unpopularity (or perhaps because of it), I found the whole idea intriguing and not altogether random. Someone wants to create wealth? For me? Could it be that they caught wind of my impending descent into the bottomless pit of usury whose trip holds no promise of return?

Periodically my mother will ask me: "are you sure you want to go to med school?" when she really means: "do you really want to be enslaved for 10+ years of your life while your beauty wastes away and you end up as an embittered old spinster conked out on crack?" Tired of fighting such rhetorical questions, I sometimes answer: "yeah. Maybe I should just become a writer and make millions." To which she replies: "you will never succeed in life without hard work. Don't worry, someone will give you money for school."

I can't help but think she misses the point.

Anyway, the greater point is that I could call the 800 number and ask to be taken off their phone list, but why would I want to do that? If what my mom says is true, then this Robert Allen could be the key to a wildly successful medical career.

Until that day comes, I'm putting 800-267-4152 on speed dial.

O Vino, How I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Ways...

Next to getting laid (if I were a man) and winning the lottery (if I were a money whore), wine is the greatest thing that man has ever invented. A delicate tease, the golden acidic aroma of promised debauchery is enough to drive the most abstemious ascetic wild with passion. It is, in so many words, the liquid of love. I often marvel at how progressive the Europeans are in this respect. They embrace the lowly grape as a valued member of society. Most assuredly, wine is welcomed like a long-lost uncle whose unannounced return promises abundant self-expression and unbridled personal liberty. It is reason to celebrate in the Bacchanalian style--with no rules, just right.

Therefore, I'm sure that everyone can relate to my sudden urge to get tipsy in the middle of the week. Like a thirsty sailor, I fell easy prey to the siren call of EtOH, longing to rid myself of balance sheets and ridiculously convoluted state income tax returns (I understand now why there are so many alcoholics). Unwilling to pollute such a precious experience with dive-bar douche bags and cretins, I chose to imbibe with none other than Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential.

Kitchen Confidential is a rags-to-riches tale about an inebriated, coke-sniffing, weed junkie who doesn't deserve fame but is so ridiculously bad-ass that one cannot help but fork over millions to watch him eat raw meat in Cambodia on the Travel Channel. However, to each his own, and since I did not pay for the book or even check it out from my local library (that would be public support, you understand), I have no moral qualms about indulging in such shameless self-aggrandizement (all things considered, I need to take lessons).

It is a novel mildly amusing at times but really just exhausting as every other chapter is about humping on flour sacks, illegal drugs, ass molesting, and extortion. If you thought your toilet was dirty, you sure as hell don't want to eat at any restaurant in the USA after reading his book.

But ultimately, this post is not about Bourdain's book. It is about wine, and what wine does to people. In a sad attempt to be creative, I brought along a notebook to record my thoughts with Tony and Chardonnay. This is just a little excerpt, in sober retrospect:

"Oh, alcohol, that lovely nectar of the gods. You are exactly what I need to get through a particularly difficult week! You are the solution to my unlimited boredom, beset as I am with debt that I will never be able to pay off in 10 lifetimes! Overly dramatic, you say? Hardly. I cannot be responsible for any actions under this pixie liquid that courses through every fiber of my being. Isn't that amazing? To relinquish all personal responsibility in favor of some absolution is my ultimate goal! @#%$ my job. Accounting is as boring as a pig trying to gain admission into a pony show! (I have no idea where the hell that came from) It simply cannot happen! Hopefully someone will see through the shit that is living a life horrendously boring. I stand corrected. There is nothing to salvage. I am lost. I am broken."

That excerpt would be poetic were it not for the fact that all of my English professors would have epileptic fits over my nonsensical turns of phrase and general incompetence in the thought department. I'm not even going to try to understand that garbage.

It's the wine, my friends. Live it, love it, drink it.

No Thanks, Mate

As a newly christened post-grad--one of the lucky few catapulted into society without any useful skills--the learning curve of life has been a steep one. It isn't so much paying the rent (I live at home), scouring for 99 cent deals on groceries (my mom, bless her heart, still cooks), or even foregoing cable television to buy a car (I've had one since college) that's difficult. It's the social aspect. Namely, guys.

Some of you might have heard the adage: "Men are dogs." This is entirely true. No, they're not the loyal, slobbering-but-endearing type that bring a smile to your face after a long day in the trenches, but rather the dry-humping, pee-all-over-the-carpet kind that you can't seem to get rid of fast enough. Armed with a bank account and unctuous Armani shirts from the discount section, these creatures are unleashed en masse upon the world with a singular thought in mind: Get laid at all costs.

Let me illustrate with a true story.

I was at a happy hour mingling with people interested in improving their language skills. As I chatted with a bubbly Japanese woman on my left, I barely noticed the unassuming Australian guy on my right. Barely noticed, that is, until he introduced himself to me as "D-bag" (pseudonymed for privacy) and innocently inquired about my background. Giving him very little to go on, we had a surprisingly intellectual conversation and for all intents and purposes, he appeared to be a "good guy."

So we went out to dinner, a movie...even lunch. I asked if he dated often, to which he replied "not really" and indicated that he had just moved to the area and was not in any sort of relationship. Having been accused of being intensely cynical (can you blame me?), I decided to try on the optimist's hat. Who says that you can't meet a nice guy randomly?

So one day, D-bag calls me and asks: "Would you like to accompany me to a work function next weekend? I'm going to Guyana on business, but will be back before Friday."

I tentatively agreed. He said he'd call before Friday.

So a week goes by and no call. One of my friends wanted to go out and since I am a stickler for promises, I call him to see what's up. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I can't make it to the event because I won't be back from Guyana. Let's get lunch on Saturday instead." Sure. Unforseen circumstances. I understand.

Two days later, I get this email:

"hi honey,

i'm making dinner right now. i know aren't u surprised? i wanted to tell you that you presented yourself very nicely at my work function. you were very beautiful and im glad you could come.

also, im' sorry for making u cry...im not good at saying what i think but we are a good combination. our problems are not as bad as other couples and i hope you will forgive me. i hate to see you cry. anyway i want to see you again so don't think too hard about things ok? they will work out. i love you.

-D-bag"

then I get another one: "please delete previous email."

In addition to his frightening inability to follow proper writing convention, D-bag was a sleazy, yellow-dog cheater. And an idiot to boot. There is no excuse for being unfaithful, but a male who cannot send emails to the right woman is just downright sad. I wrote back to the effect of: "you have serious issues to work out so don't ever contact me again," and since I haven't heard from him, I'd venture to guess he probably got the message.

In sum, I will leave you with a funny Andy Rooney quote imparted to me by a female friend:

"For all those men who say, "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?", here's an update for you. Nowadays 80% of women are against marriage. Why? Because women realize it's not worth buying an entire pig just to get a little sausage!"

Exactly.