Just One Thing

Can I just say one thing tonight?

I love California.

New Neighbors

Click to enlarge!

There's not ONE but TWO new businesses which have joined the little shopping area where I work. I work in a two story building -- some people call it mini-malls or whatever, but it's the kind of structure that is frequently visible in Koreatown. Most are two stories, and there's a congregation of little stores, usually one being a cafe, and another being a videostore, and a restaurant or two. The building I work, has two cafes, four restaurants, one cell phone store (me!), one video store, one manhwa-bang (a place to read and rent comic/manga books), and two clothing stores, and a few others as well.

Some stores just don't stay. And it's always the same spots that the tenants leave. While some have stayed for as long as I've known the business (my store has been where it's currently at for 15 years) and some stay less than a year. Regardless of how long a tenant actually stays, they all pass around dduk -- sort of a Korean rice cake. Delicious. We get a plate of it passed around at least once a year because at least one business has closed and another has opened. Today, we got two plates of dduk because two new businesses opened and became our neighbors. Above is an actual photo of the plate of dduk we received (minus a few round ones that I ate prior to taking a photo of it).

Another oddity of the day was that a customer gave an odd gift. A lot of people are very thankful for the service we provide, and often give us money (the best!) and other gifts. Some bring lovely bits of pastry, some bring a box of juice/beverages, and little things like that. Well, today, one customer decided to bring us -- can you guess? -- soju. Three bottles of soju.

I was kind of puzzled as to why this man would bring soju for me -- it really isn't a sign of gratitude! But then I was revealed the deeper meaning behind the green bottles. It was soju from Korea. Now, most of you are thinking, "isn't soju already Korean?" Well, yes, it is. But apparently, soju sold in the US are manufactured in the US, and taste very different from the soju that is made in Korea, even if it is the same brand. Then I recalled how some of my friends would go home to Korea and bring back little packs of soju (called pack-soju -- they come in little cubic cartons like some of the juices here), because they insisted that the soju tasted different.

It was weird leaving work with a bottle of soju in my hand. It made me appear as though I were an alcoholic and I just couldn't wait to hit the bottle! Well, I brought it home now, and while I'm just enjoying some beer for today, I will taste the soju and give a thorough review on the comparison between soju from Korea and soju from the US.

Of course, now you realize, that the amount of hits I get from the search word "soju" will now double. =)

Actually written:08:00-ish PM November 12, 2004 (Internet connection down again!)

Made for Cable TV, it says

Scott Peterson, Guilty!

Bad J.Crew!

I honestly don't care that this model is just the most jaw-droppingly hot model ever. This is still a definite "please don't" look in my book. I don't care if paisley pattern was revered by Babylonians as a sybol of life. I don't care if paisley pattern was perfected by the Indians as art. Why is this man wearing paisley printed pants? If that weren't enough, the damned pants are RED! And in all seriousness, everything about the image reveals that this is not meant to be worn as pajamas, but rather, it is meant to be worn OUTDOORS! With a blazer no less! Somebody should be fired at J.Crew and I don't think it's the model. This is the most heinous photo in any catalogue ever! I mean, was the designer colorblind? Blind? Having a bad day? You may not be able to see in the shrunk photo on the left (click for larger version) but it's just hideous. The worst part? It also comes in a "Christmassy" green color, and costs $78. If any men are reading this, please just say no!

You know, don't take this as a personal attack launched against J.Crew. I honestly just love J.Crew to death. I own nothing from J.Crew, but I still love their catalogue. It's like... Abercrombie & Fitch, grown up! The (male) models are just slightly rugged to look casual, but they look just taylored enough for a city gal. They're tall and good looking, broad-shouldered (gotta love those shoulders) and their smile indicates that they're mature, but still retain just a tad of boyish shyness and innocence. The J.Crew catalogue always featured impeccably preppy and stylish clothing, until this season. It will be the season of infamy. Paisley! As if!

Fathers

Who doesn't remember this moment from the debates? This was one moment when I actually liked Bush's comment. Most of the time, we are bombarded with messages that these politicians are commanders in chief, war veterans, leaders, men of integrity, and they're out there doing photo ops and they have agendas and they're evil or they're money-laundering or they're all powerful or they're stupid and making blunders (potatos anyone?). It's hard to recognize that underneath everything, they're just men. Just men. Men who are fathers and husbands and brothers, which is the most basic position of a man, isn't it? Before becoming teachers or presidents or surgeons or whatever. It's refreshing to realize that Bush (or Kerry for that matter) isn't just a politician, but an actual human being. I just wish they would show us this human side more often.

OMGomgOMGomg!

Oh my goodness. I am still shivering. Guess why?

I have finally processed my order at Amazon.com for the ever so coveted, iPOD. I've been pondering for months now on which iPod to get, and at the final moments, there was a bit of drama, as I was trying to decide if I should just get a PDA, but I finally decided, and now it's all done. I have decided to go with the 4G (4th generation) 20 GB iPOD, in white, of course. I just had to pay the $49 difference, as I had $250 worth of gift certificates stored up. Can you say excited???

Yasser Arafat, Palestine Leader Dies

Yasser Arafat, the long time Palestine Leader has passed on.

It's SINGULAR, not CINGULAR DAMMIT!

I cannot put into words my contempt for the wireless company Cingular. Their wireless reception is tolerable, but their customer service is not. I think you have to be at least a bit related to the devil himself to qualify for a job at Cingular's customer service. Almost all of their reps come directly from the bottomless pit of hell, and whenever I have to speak to them, they talk back to me as though they are condemning me to join them in the eternally burning fire.

It's like, they TRY to rip you off. And they try hard. And if you try to appeal to a higher authority, i.e. supervisor/manager, this is what they say: "I'm sorry, in regards to this matter, no one at Cingular can help you." And if you say, "You know what? I'll take my chances -- can you transfer me to your supervisor?" Then they reply, "My supervisor will tell you exactly the same thing as I have, ma'am." Of course! How ingenious that all your brains are connected via giant cables connected to your spinal cord (a la Matrix) so all of you share your thoughts. Or perhaps all of you just have one brain to which you are connected.

"I understand," I say, grinding my teeth. "But I would still like to speak to your supervisor." Yeah. Just in case he/she is someone with a conscience! And this is the lovely rep's reply: "Ok ma'am. Please hold." And they play this lovely (brain-washing/hypnotizing) music and leave me on hold for a good deal of time, say 5 to 8 minutes or so. Sometimes the supervisor actually answers. Sometimes the rep returns after a few minutes, and there is hope in his/her voice, that I might have given up and hung up. Sometimes, the phone call is just disconnected. Routine procedures.

Well, listen up Cingular. I've never really liked you, and now I'm about to start hating you. Now that you'll be joining forces with AT&T Wireless (almost as evil as Cingular), you think you're just going to be the biggest bad ass in wireless. Well, lemme tell ya just one thing: It's Singular with an "S" you morons. Get it right.

Welcome to the Most Frequently Updated Blog

I blog too much. A lot of people wonder if I even have a life outside my blog. And the truth is, I do; just very little! As the saying goes, quantity does not equal quality, so maybe I should think about that before I blog more than twice a day!

I took the stat exam, and I did alright. I was given an extra 48 hours to finish the homework and turn it in, but I think I probably passed with at least a B-.

I went and finally took care of my laundry. I was running out of clothes to wear. It's a good thing I have enough underwear to last me a month or else I'd have to resort to wearing them inside out (was that too much info also?). I think I'm just in a really grotesque mood this week -- it's that very special time of the month and I'm just in the most foulest mood. And I feel gross. Like the feeling you get when you're long past due for a shower. Or am I the only person who have gone a few days without a shower? Like I said, I'm feeling grotesque!

Novel-writing, sucks. For me, it is. I'm still at about 500 words, and I'm about to end the story with the narrator committing suicide, just so that I can end the godforsaken thing. I've created a monster. The vast whiteness of the screen frightens me more than any horror film. Sometimes, when I stare at it too long, my monitor goes into that powersave mode and flicks off, so that the screen turns black -- and I can see a haggard woman with dark eyes and stringy hair, staring right back at me. And I jump back with a slight gasp because it looks like she's going to crawl out of the screen like she did in "The Ring." It takes a few nanoseconds to realize that I just saw my reflection and scared myself senseless by my own face. So that's how my novel-writing experience is going.

Now I finally have a few idle moments to sit back and take a breather before heading to class later. I'm sipping diet cherry coke on the rocks, and I can contemplate what to have for dinner. I had the nastiest pasta in the world for lunch today. Guess who made it? I did! It smelled kind of fishy and tasted kind of salty and later, it kind of gave me heartburn. WOAH. I'm just giving away tons of "too much info" today.

I didn't realize that I was actually giving too much info when I was writing in my comments -- honest! But when you visit my blog, you have to be aware of the fact that my life involves things of grotesque nature -- poop, vomit, diarrhea, kitty's litter box, gas and constipation, belching the alphabet, dancing in my underwear when no one's looking, phlegm, pus, and blisters (hmm... have I left out anything?) and that's all before starting the nursing program! Maybe I should blog about my nursing program experiences somewhere else -- I'm pretty certain that it can and will get pretty gross. Being sick is really gross, but yanno, being gross is just part of life. I mean, how many super-diaper-changer-parents do you know, that have never gotten baby poo/pee all over their hands? Aren't babies just the cutest? They vomit up a lot of stuff too, and they take extreme care to vomit when you're dressed for work/job interview/life-altering moments. And when you make sure that someone else is burping the baby because you're dressed up for some important event, they pull their secret weapon on you: projectile vomiting. Lovely little critters.

Which brings me to the topic of babies. Am I afraid of them, or are they afraid of me? I think it's probably the former. Despite the fact that I've actually spent a lot of time around infants, I really don't know how to deal with babies/young children. Usually, I just treat them exactly the same as I do adults, which appears odd to other people. I make baby-talk with my cat and other people's dogs, ("oooooh look how adowable you are ~~ yesssss, aren't you just a big dawwwwg?") but to any humans, I use my normal voice. I mean, I'm sitting with a 18 month old, and he's doing his thing, playing with blocks (or mostly stuffing the blocks into his mouth) or watching TV. And I'm just there. And I'm not exactly an ultra friendly person either. But then, the baby starts doing baby things, and the situation escalates from mildly uncomfortable, to squirmish.

Like, for example, the baby farts. Baby's can't break wind very loudly, and if it's audible at all, it's not likely that you'll hear it. So there's absolutely no warning, and by the time a waft of air brings contact to your nose, it's too late. There's no time to gain composure and pretend it didn't happen. Your face just scrunches up into this awful look, and you give a piercing look at the 18 month old, and he just looks at you. Then the worst thing happens. He smiles. I swear that monster knows what he did! But it's not like you can accuse a baby of farting, and even if he did, it's really not considered ill-mannered of the child.

The worst is not over; try telling the parent(s) that his or her child just passed gas and smiled about it. The average human being passes gas 12 times in a day (that seems a bit high, even for me, but hey, I don't make the statistics). But if you were to take part in this activity in public, wouldn't you at least apologize? And if your child did so, wouldn't you apologize for your child? Alas, no. Just by the event of producing offsprings, people become parents, and parents, have no shame. "Hey your baby just broke wind and let it loose and you better do something about it." That doesn't sound right. So you find yourself alone, in your contemplations and pain and suffering. You have faced and braved the Baby Fart Attack™. Believe me, you are not alone. It really is mind-boggling. How can something that looks so adorable and sweet produce such gawd-awful smell?!

Well, that was my editorial on farting babies. Believe me, they're out there. True story actually. I was left alone with my friend's baby for a few minutes -- the most awkward moment of my life! Since then, that baby's kissed me with his mouth full of fruity jam, took a swig of my shot of soju (I didn't condone that behavior -- accident, honest!), and he pooped while sitting on my lap. We've gotten real close, I tell you. To this day, I'm pretty certain that I've got to be his favorite auntie. Blech. Can't wait for that child to grow up!

So there you have it. Another blog post where the point I was trying to make was lost. What was I going to write about anyway?

The Joys of Nursing

Here are a few things that nurses HATE:

Gotta love it when they poo, pee, and vigorously wipe with 2 whole squares of toilet paper...then they reach up and grab ya (with the same hand) to get up from the toilet......oh that pi$$es me off! What were ya thinking?!!

I gotta agree on the dumping syndrome- those bedpans smell and look worse than ANYTHING I've ever dealt with- makes me literally gag! and I agree with those who say dumping stuff in the toilet is the worst part- with those bedpans, there's just something about the sound of it hitting the water, and the smell rising up- oooooohhhh ughhhhh, shudder!!

[...] With the smelly stuff you just need to learn how to totally breath thru your mouth......need to do a total nasal bypass. then the smelly's won't get you.

If I had to pick ONE thing thatreally makes me want to yak, it would be taking dentures out of someone's mouth and there's food and stuff caked all over them. Now, I've never had a problem with bedpans, I can even suction people without a problem, but just the THOUGHT of handling those slimy things with only-god-knows-what all over them makes me want to blow chunks...

manual disempaction!!!! I can clean up poo on an incontinent person, but I can't stand to dig it out!!!!

What have I gotten myself into?

Anecdotes from the allnurses.com forum.

The sum of the squares of the derivatives of the root of ...

You know, I've taken calculus and handled it well. I've read math texts and comprehended the complex theories of L'Hopital's Rule (not to be confused with the word Hospital) and the Simpson's Rule, and understood how each formulas and theorems were derived. I wasn't too bad at it until I decided to give up.

Statistics should be easy. Relatively speaking. I think the prereq for this course is college level algebra. Which is something I probably learned as a 14 year old. Not to brag or anything, but I've always been a fantastic student in any English class as well. But, would somebody please explain this to me?

Least-Squares Regression Line

The least-squares regression line of y on x is the line that makes the sum of the squares of the vertical distances of the data points from the line as small as possible.

Uhhh... what of the what what from what? It's past midnight, and exam is in less than 10 hours. Should I forgo sleep and attempt to understand this madness, or should I just get some sleep? Is this even supposed to make sense?

Uhhhhhh. It's going to be a long night. I'm going to need something much stronger than a beer to numb the pain I'm getting from this stuff. Which reminds me -- self-note: do not procrastinate 5 chapters worth of homework until the night before exam, because it leads to me, sitting at my desk trying to pull out all my hair the night before.

Guess What I'm Drinking?

Yes. I had to have a cold drink in preparation for the massive amounts of statistics homework I have to do tonight (due tomorrow, and exam tomorrow). I don't think it is possible to do statistics without getting slightly buzzed beforehand -- hopefully this bottle of Corona (aka La Cerveza Mas Fina) with lime wedges should do the trick (see left image -- notice the "Shakespeare" book in the background -- that's Richard III!). Where would I be now had I not bought beer on my trip to Ralph's yesterday?

Did I mention my affinity for alcohol? It's like the fountain of youth, bottled; make you feel happy just enough to keep you grounded to earth (although excessive amounts will kill you). I also bought a bottle of vodka (Skyy) yesterday so that I can have my bloody maries and cosmos. Habee is rolling her eyes, after seeing me gulp down the beer -- clearly she is ashamed of her alcoholic owner. Come on, kitty. Lemme have my alcohol. Due to some new law allowing random drug testing for nurses, I'll never be able to take illegal drugs or take drugs illegally (there is a difference) as long as I'm in the health care biz. NOT THAT I TAKE DRUGS of course. I'm being serious. Scout's honor. I'm too poor to take drugs -- sometimes I can't even afford Pampirin for cramps! But anyways, since I haven't taken drugs and I can't take drugs and I won't be able to take drugs and I'll be "just say[ing] no" for one heck of a long time, lemme have my beer in peace.

I am reminded of the joke, "don't drink and derive." As I recall, calculus was always much more fun with a bit of alcohol -- I was able to understand derivatives and integration and have more fun solving problems under the influence. So let me repeat -- drink and derive if you can and if you must, but NEVER EVER DRINK AND DRIVE.

That was my version of the "public service announcement."

Well, here I go plunging into 5 chapters of stat homework. Yay.

Political Asylum?

Whatever happebned to that song, "Blame Canada"? (I think it was from South Park.) I got this info from OutOutBlogSpot (see left for link) who got it from Salon.

So you want to move to Canada? David Cohen, partner of Cohen-Campbell, a leading Canadian immigration law firm, had barely settled into work Wednesday morning when his phone started ringing with Americans seeking legal guidance to taking up residence in the land of the maple leaf. The Bush victory did it, they told him: America's shift to the right had finally squeezed them out of their own country. Farewell Ten Commandment statues in public squares, hello single-payer health care. So just how hard is it for an American to become a Canuck? A recent Harper's article suggested that bailing from Dick Cheneyville entailed a rather onerous legal dance. "It's not difficult at all," says Cohen. Basically all you need is a B.A. and a passing fluency in English and "Bingo, you're in." Canada wants you. Turns out the populace, not too big on breeding, is not getting any younger. Our neighbors to the north need 1 percent of new immigrants every year just to keep their population of 31 million from shrinking. Bad for the economy and all that. Interestingly, not many Americans decide to remake their lives in Canada. In 2002, only 5,288 Yankees immigrated there, compared to 14,164 folks from Pakistan. However, Cohen says his business among Americans has picked up considerably in the past year. He's received numerous calls from "parents who have lived through the Vietnam era and now have children soon to be draft age." To put down roots in Canada, you need a permanent residence visa. First, you fill out a scorecard that awards you points for who you are -- you're shooting for 67. That B.A. in Communications from Chico State will do the trick but so will two years as a tradesperson; Manitoba is always looking for good sheet-metal workers. If you only have a high school education but sold that software program you wrote in your bedroom one night to Oracle -- that is, you have a net worth of $200,000 -- start packing, your Canada's kind of person. There is, however, a little bit of a Gattaca thing going. You get more points for being under 49 years old. One warning: "Don't all of a sudden show up with a U-Haul trailer and all of your personal belongings in it," says Cohen. That's a legal offense called "centralizing your mode of living" and will quickly earn you official Canadian directions back to America. If the prospect of living one more day in Bush Land has you leaving tomorrow, better start looking for a job once you get to Canada. You can bop around for six months; after that, you need a work permit to stay longer. Now, if you're really ambitious, and can't stand the thought of calling yourself an American while Donald Rumsfeld walks in the White House rose garden, you can apply for Canadian citizenship. Which requires passing a civics test and naming the three prairie provinces (Manitoba, Saskatchewan, Alberta). That will earn you the right to vote and discuss Wayne Gretzky's early years with the Oilers. Keep in mind, red tape being what it is -- and provided you don't break any major Canadian laws like littering -- it will take one year to get a permanent visa and three more years to earn citizenship. By that time, the political scene back home could look a whole lot different. Finally, you may want to think kind thoughts about forefather George Washington before you are required by Canada to recite its Oath of Citizenship: " I swear that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second, Queen of Canada." -- Kevin Berger

Life's Great Mystery

Yesterday I went to the optometrist to get a prescription for contact lenses. There, I ran into an old friend -- a friend from high school. She was a year younger and graduated a year after I did, and I haven't really talked to her since I graduated. I saw her a while ago, maybe about two three years ago, but didn't make much more than small talk.

We had orchestra together -- we shared a music stand. She is a great violinist -- she started playing when she was 6 or something. She eventually went onto UCLA and majored in music, and now plays in an orchestra and teaches students. She looked great -- very pretty and stylish, and although she was just a year younger than I am, she had the youthful jubilance in her smile, which held a collective aura of both naivete and sophistication, but she seemed genuine and genuinely happy. Which seems to be more than I can say for myself.

I am aware that I can't judge the extent of her happiness or expect to uderstand her whole life by chatting with her for a few minutes; but the slice of time I spent facing her should be somewhat reflective of the life she leads, no? If someone I hadn't seen in years would see me and talk to me for a few minutes, would they see that I exude such confidence and stability and bona fide joy for life? No, they probably wouldn't. Even through my very own, contact lenses adorned eyes, I see myself to be far more gloomier. Besides the fact that I weigh 20 lbs more than I did a few years ago, my face has aged with stress. Not in the form of wrinkles or dark under-eye circles, but the fact that I just look tired. I don't look excited by life. The corners of my lips shoot downward and my pupils are lackluster.

That is what life has done to me. This was caused by sitting at my desk, elbows digging into the wood, palms supporting my heavy head, while I worry as the night deepens, for the nursing program; the nights I lie wide awake in bed with sleepy and tired, but sleep-deprived eyes, playing the waiting game with Homeland Security while they approve my visa petition; the hours spent infront of the television, creating a personalized groove on the couch, imprinting my body on it, while mindlessly snacking away -- subconsciously feeling that the more I eat the less I worry; it is wishing that I don't wake up in the morning, just so I don't have to report to work, or at the very least have some kind of serious illness that prohibits me from going to work, and waking up each morning with that nasty feeling.

That is what drained the joie de vivre from my life. It has sucked the life out of me. And until now, I hardly recognized the slow progression into the labyrinths of unhappiness. When I saw my classmate's face, her smile, her poise, her laughs, the sparkle in her eyes, and her girlish giggle -- I saw, in harsh contrast, all that I am not. I am not even half the ambitious, excited, eager, bright, and smiling person I had been. I feel like a shriveled up hag who lives day to day not expecting too much from life, lest it expects too much from her.

It is the truth; that has been the way life has treated me, and most of it, I couldn't do anything to fight. But instead of trying to control life, I should have controlled myself. Look introspectively and figure out what makes me happy, what makes me calm and at ease, and what helps me deal. I should have exercised and eaten balanced, nutrious-wise meals. Instead of just shopping for a lipstick as a therapeutic measure, I should have gotten up 10 minutes earlier in the morning to apply it to my lips. I should have invested more money and more time in my hair and get it cut/colored more than once every two years. I should have invested in shoes that not only look good, but feel good, instead of opting for flip-flops just because it's cheap and I can get away with it nearly year-round in SoCal. I should have had more chocolate, instead of denying myself the pleasure of it, only to munch on potato chips and sip sugary fruit juices. I should have drank less coffee, or at least, less black.

I could have done so many things that would have made me happier -- not happy, but at least happier -- and would have made me at least have half the smile my classmate was able to show. I am miserable, but it is my own fault. All this time, I had only contributed to my downward spiral into gloom. I already know what my new year's resolution is now. It is to be good to myself, to my body, to my mind, to my soul. So that I can smile with confidence and not pull a facade of forced lips, pursed tightly but slightly upward, in hopes of deceiving the viewer into thinking that I am happy.