Oink Oink Flu!

This week, Babyboo and I lived, not as if we were married but more like ad hoc roommates put together in a dirty, European hostel. It was as if we were like strangers who were suspicious that each would steal from one another but our marriage has not been any stronger than it is now. She fell sick with the flu on Monday and I asked her if her flu was of the 'oink, oink' variety. Apparently, her doctor did not say but suspiciously gave her Tamiflu to snort. So, out of love (for myself), I immediately segregated our apartment into two section; the living room became my 'healthy' zone where I slept on an Aero bed and lived like I was in college, while Babyboo was quarantined to the bedroom where the diseased lepers were to go.

I moved a lot of my clothes that I needed for the week into my living room 'dorm' space, and it piled together into a mountain topography forming my 'man cave', if you will, across the sofa and onto the television. The construction of the beautiful mess was strong and was often propped up by stacks of takeout and pizza boxes. Maybe some of my shirts were ruined because a sleeve congealed with leftover pizza but with the boss debilitated, I could do whatever I wanted in my own man'tasy land. All I needed was a large keg to complete the picture and it would be like college or the 'Old School' frat party that I had at my place with the Dudes on the Upper West again.

In the rare times that I did see her, Babyboo's nose was so red like Rudolph's and was so extremely runny like eggs that I wish I had toast to sop it all up. Attractive as she was with huge mounds of tissue stuffed up her nostrils, I kept at least an arms length away and patted her head to show my affection and kissed the air around her rather than her germy cheeks. Maybe I was a little paranoid but I created a make-shift SARS mask with a scarf to talk to her even though most of our conversations were through the door. Like a prison guard, I would leave food at the base of the door and then ask her to not open the door until I was a safe distance away just in case a toxic cloud suffocated me. After all my Babyboo encounters, even after phone calls with her, I would Purell myself all over liberally. She knows I love her though; I mean, I put a Post-It on the bathroom mirror telling her so (I also ordered her to wipe down everything she touches..eww..but the love part was first).

So, this may all sound very obsessive compulsive and horrible and it is but it has worked thus far and I feel great. She is doing much better and I may enter back into the war zone bedroom this weekend. One positive though is that my experience living outside in the living room this week was not all that bad such that I am more optimistic and prepared for when I get put in the dog house, which will definitely happen and probably soon.

Emo not Elmo

This weekend Babyboo and I ventured into an underground society that made us frightened, enlightened, happy and confused all at the same time. Our friends had won free tickets randomly and invited us to a concert that submerged us into the deepest, darkest pools of eye mascara in an emo rock fantasy world. Later, I would confront my inner demon in front of the mirror: "Why can't you say 'No' to free things? You are so weak Free Phil."

Given my storied concert resume and acumen, I thought I was hip enough to the jive to hang with the scene but it turns out, this would be nothing like a Taylor Swift concert and I was lost. We were propelled into a hipster, Brooklyn canvas featuring eclectic bands with a grassroots, MySpace following. Truthfully, I thought I knew a couple things about emo music but now I know that the main recipes call for screaming and kids in tight, skinny jeans.

I too would have loved to wear skinny jeans but the prerequisite to wearing them is that one needs to be skinny (FAIL!) and I was pretty sure blood would stop flowing in my meaty, thunder thighs. So, unfortunately compared to everyone else, Babyboo and I stuck out like a sore thumb wearing our cardigans and business casual and were greeted by judgment and hisses as if we were narcs or school principals ready to bust kids. To add to the pain, we would be packed in like sardines in a standing room only crowd and smothered against the huge, tower amps that could make my ears bleed.

Before the show, I thought that maybe I should call my mommy and ask for permission to go. I wondered where I could get black nail polish on short notice. I practiced looks of teen angst. I yelled ”No one GETS me” to no one in particular. I wikipedia’ed ‘Emo'. Some say that it is kind of like punk, only a little more pensive, broken hearted and somber or that it's a state of one's soul entwined with a music genre. Even now, I do not know what it really is. Even Microsoft's spell check doesn't even know, because it keeps underlining the word in a squiggly red line every time I type it.

I was brimming with a frothy mix of anxiety and insecurities: What if, during an overly depressing song, one of the goth kids started weeping and their black tears got on my dress shirt? What if my face melted or my oily hair caught on fire from the pyro technics? What if Babyboo launched me into a mosh pit?

And mosh we did (but not really). As the bands started playing harder and harder music, the mosh pit sprouted two feet to the right of me. I saw manorexic kids bouncing off each other and then coming out of piles holding their broken faces or bruised ligaments. Soon, the kids were getting slingshot into the pogo jumping masses and I considered diving right in to get some exercise or to get mildly felt up. Instead, true to form, like a senile, crotchety grandpa, I yelled and shook my fist at some of the kids to stay away from Babyboo and maybe told them to get a job too.

Still confused at the scene before us, our friends Googled an entry on 'fitting in at emo concerts' on their I-phone and gave us this how-to: "Try to look pale. Look gaunt. Look thin if possible. Don’t smile too much. Don’t look upset. Try to maintain a peaceful expression. Don’t feel obligated to talk. It’s okay to just stand around and soak up the ironic mutual understanding. If you choose to talk, avoid the following topics: your college fraternity or sorority; sports; hamburgers; cars; expensive wine." The 'pale' part I could do but everything else was going to take too much effort and I needed to distract or medicate myself quickly!

So when all seemed lost, I swam my way through the crowds to the bar in the back for some liquid solace. Sweet relief from this oasis was soon to be had;it tastes so good when it hits the lips. I felt like I could drown myself enough to lubricate and maybe blackout the experience before me. But as I reached the counter, it was then and there that I could really embrace what the emo angst was all about as I was brought to tears to discover that the concert was an 'all ages' show and only water and soda were being served! Oh the humanity!

Cut my wrist, black my eyes and dye my hair, I am ready for those skinny jeans now.

Hitch-hiking to disappoint kids.

It was a typical Saturday morning: I barely woke up to my alarm, stumbled into the shower and lay fetal position in the bath tub under running water hoping that the fear of drowning would shoot adrenaline into my senses. I should probably be dead but instead, I snoozed in my own waterworld for a bit dreaming of Maui waterfalls and Ford Mustangs. Then naked and half-conscious, I nose dived into the closet to dress myself.

Somehow, I remembered it was going to be cold and that I was going to be outside with the kids, so I dressed myself in various layers of clothes that have no business being paired together like a cashmere sweater and a layer of flannel pajama pants . Then, I covered my Project Runway hot mess ensemble in a huge Northwestern college hoodie, but by this time, I was overheating between layers in a hot broth of my own marinade and was ready for another shower.

Still in a zombie state, I raced out the door to catch the long subway ride to get to Harlem. Usually, I would read the paper on the way up but my eyes were extra swollen and puffy such that they were narrower than usual even for an Asian man and on this occasion, I blacked out. I was supposed to get off at the 175th stop but I found myself wiping drool off my mouth and in a hazy mess at the end of the subway line on 208th street.

How did this happen? In a panic, I started a Forrest Gump like sprint to the volunteer center because I was late and needed to catch up with the others. There would be buses there leaving promptly with the kids and other mentors because we had a field trip to a state park in New Jersey called Bear Mountain.

Panting, sweating, and maybe with a little crying, I saw some yellow school buses riding off into the distance and so, I started to chase after them frantically with arms flailing which brought back some devastating elementary school memories (I just needed a wedgie to complete the experience). But I could not reach them. The program director asked one of the parents to drive me to race to catch up to the buses and race we did; I have never been so scared being in a soccer mom mini-van before.

Unfortunately, we did not see any of the buses and this soccer mom had to get back to Harlem. So, I told the her to drop me off at a Citgo gas station in the middle of Palisades Parkway in Dirty Jersey to fend for myself. I was about 30 miles from Bear Mountain and I thought that maybe I could hitch hike/sell myself to get up there. This was mentor dedication at its best.

I had never hitch hiked before and reminded myself to be charming and handsome but not so charming and handsome that I would be kidnapped and/or defiled by strangers. Looking for my opportunities, my best chance was one family by the gas pumps who had a 'Northwestern University' decal on their car and I quickly accosted them earnestly and with familiarity making sure my Northwestern hoodie was in clear view as well (I thought this was going to be a slam dunk as we were practically family) asking if they were going to Bear Mountain. They were startled, and without a word quickly got in their cars, locked the doors and raced off.

Undeterred, I did what any New Yorker Douchebag would do in this situation: I bailed myself out and called a black car to pick me up. I was going to arrive in style and thought that the kids would celebrate my arrival with pomp and circumstance after all I had been through to get there for them.

When we pulled up, the kids did swarmed the car. It was a 'papa, paparazzi' mob scene of hyper kids all out of control and they were all trying to look into the tinted windows to see if it was a Yankee player who happened to be visiting Bear mountain. But when I got out, I cannot even describe how disappointed they were to see that it was only me. (It is the same face I get from Babyboo when I come home). I think I even got jeered and 'boo-ed'.

So was it worth it? Shut up.

'Don't mind if I do': The story of the Self-Deprechaun

This week was a blur and I know that sounds like every week for me but that's only because I am a junkie and a part-time wino. I cannot believe that I went out every night this week. I felt like I barely touched my bed and remember occasionally, bathing. I confess that I have not seen Babyboo awake this whole week. When I get home, she is asleep, and when I leave in the morning, she is asleep and we have not been happier in our marriage.

I am not that important but I think that I am and so it's been a whirlwind of client dinners, fundraisers, random meetings, peer pressure and other excuses to go out. I am pretty easy. So as I look upon this week, I can pretty much pinpoint when everything was ruined: let's call it Monday. On Monday, I went out with a volleyball team made up of lawyers who have a fun co-ed team for which I am the mascot. The fun starts after our games as their company pays for drinks afterwards and I simply cannot turn anything like that down. "Don't mind if I do" is the story of my life.

What started out as one beer turned into Oktoberfest. Like a 'choose your own adventure' book, I chose poorly and saw an early night turn into something epic in a matter of seconds. These lawyers were nuts! First it was tequila, then it was bourbon, then Wild Turkey whiskey and then rinse and repeat (on a Monday!). Somehow a handful of us piled into a diner so loud and obnoxious and licked several greasy plates clean like our mamma's told us to. I don't remember much but I do remember some fool in our group ordering a seared tuna to satiate himself (who orders that at a grease joint while completely wrecked?).

The best part was that the next day, one of the lawyers emailed the group and said that he stumbled into the subway to go home and before he knew it, he had passed out and woke up at 2 in the morning on the L train (a train that goes back and forth, East to West, West to East from Brooklyn to Manhattan) going the wrong way. I think he was on it for... a long time.

So now, I am clinging onto the reality that the week is over like a child to his blankie. And I am waiting until lunch time because I have insider information that one of the groups at work is going to get a decent order of food. As usual, I will wait it out and look desperate and hungry until one of them has pity on me and passes over a steak sandwich. Usually though, the colleague who has pity on me is the other Asian guy adjacent to my group who (I think) secretly gives me food because he wants to make sure that I am the fatter Asian on the floor at all times. I understand my role.

You look more Chinese than usual. (I'm Korean)

This weekend was the first one back for me at the school tutoring program in Harlem since Maui and the first regular session for the kids. The previous weeks, there had been several neighborhood events at the local park district to which the kids were committed, so the program director informed me that the kids would be extra hyped up this week to be with the mentors (Grrrreat!).

And he was right. As soon as I walked in, a motley crew of runny nosed, tantrum-throwing trouble makers, who seemed to be on a sugar high greeted me warmly (and I am just talking about the other mentors). But then the kids rushed at me as if for a punt block and swarmed like buzzing bees. Even after the program director pulled the kids off, my kids were still climbing on one another and were hanging onto my legs like anchors. It was then I remembered what it felt like to be a little more than a ‘Manny’ (man nanny) who doubled as a glorified jungle gym (a sweet feeling it was).

The welcome did not end there; the kids looked me up and down and noticed that yes, somehow I was a little more tanned than usual and one kid pointed it out in a special way for me:

"You look more 'Chinese' than usual. Did you go somewhere?" (I am Korean but I took this observation as a compliment.)

So here is a typical snapshot of a Saturday morning: In my kindergarten/1rst grade class, we usually sing some songs but the usual guitar player was not there this time and somehow I was volunteered to do my best Mr. Roger's impersonation and sing a lick or two. Relying on my amazing 'Guitar Hero' abilities and all my high school and college years of playing Nirvana covers, I fumbled through the songs but then my inner Kurt Cobain got the best of me and it turns out, the kids look at you funny when you try to make 'The Wheels on the Bus' and 'If You're Happy and You Know' more rock n' roll.

After the songs, we do stories, alphabet and math lessons and when the kids cannot stand me anymore, we let them out to play. Unfortunately, it was raining this weekend and the usual outlet to dispense of the kids' pent up energy and/or anger (going to play at the park), was not an option.

So, we chose to play some board games, which I did not mind. As I have mentioned, I selfishly viewed these Saturday mornings as a time to drown out the stresses of work and feel better about myself. Nothing is more amazing than crushing these kids in Connect Four every week or winning at spelling games when they are just learning to read.

This time around, we played Monopoly: The Here and Now Edition. This is not your grandma's Monopoly and involves all sorts of twists to the classic game: Railroads have been replaced by airports like O'Hare and JFK. Utilities have been supplanted by cell phone and Internet service. And the game pieces have all been updated: laptop, cell phone, a hybrid car (Prius), Starbucks coffee mug, jumbo jet, and even super size fries (I chose this as my piece).

Not to say the kids really understood what was going on in the game but by a roll of the dice, we were visiting some of your cities and buying up the properties: Texas Stadium in Dallas, Centennial Olympic Park in Atlanta, The Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, Wrigley Field in Chicago, etc. The funny part of the whole game was when we landed on the White House property (apparently it is for sale), the kids went crazy when I told them that we could visit Obama.

Then I said to one of the Kindergarteners, "Emil, you can date Sasha and your brother can date the older one, Malia."

This suggestion was greeted by a chorus of jeers and 'ewww's' and game time ended abruptly thereafter and I ruined the party as usual (and probably their lives).

Maui Wowee

Reunited and it feels so good. Rested and recharged, I am ready to 'Phil' your void again (whether you consent to it or not). Here are the highlights of the last two weeks in my version of an 'Aloha Mixed Plate' (a little bit of everything, so to speak) complete with two scoops of rice and macaroni salad.

We started our adventures in frigid Utah where the no booze, no dancing, and thus, no fun 'Big Love' wedding took place. It was an outdoor wedding and I had to awkwardly put my hands under my armpits to keep them warm for most of the time (okay, they are usually under there anyways). Babyboo and I had hoped that the wedding favors would be fur lined parkas or long underwear onesies. I medicated myself early and often with cold medicine (to be preventative) but one attendee went All-Madden on me and actually took the initiative to BYOB to the reception. He brought Maker's Mark and had one of the waiters hide it for him behind the buffet table (so smart and yet, so red neck). He did not even share. To me, Utah was the means to the end--sweet Maui.

In Maui, we arrived to sunny, 90 degree weather and I could hear my buttery skin starting to sizzle, snap, crackle and pop under the sun's rays. At the rental car place, the attendant there seduced me out of a pansy car and into a Ford Mustang convertible. I could not resist and despite, Babyboo's objections, I got to have my midlife crisis sports car about 5 yrs early while I still have hair.

Upon arrival at the hotel, we were taken aback by the opulence of the hotel and the fact that the front desk assumed it was our honeymoon (we didn't correct them) and we were upgraded to the honeymoon suite with all these freebies. I was used to being in the honeymoon suites prior to getting married but usually it was often with a small frat of 5 other dudes with a lot of roll-away beds (it's more cost efficient) and usually in an even more romantic place like Capri adjacent to the rooms of couples who were visibly irked by us. But this time around, I really felt like a somebody, a VIP, and a princess for the week except that everyone in the hotel called me Mr. Song (Babyboo's maiden name) the rest of the time we were there.

For the first few days, I went to the beach asking a lot of the sun to drench this man-opolis temple that I call my body with its vitamin E fruits. As many of you can bear witness, I am extravagantly pale, almost to a gleaming, glorious radiance. I burned myself early on such that I was often the insecure loser wearing a t-shirt in the water. This past week, my back went from red, to peeling off, to new pale skin! So sadly, whatever tan I had that made me look my species has been washed away or has already faded.

For most of our time, when it was my turn to pick the activities, it usually involved riding down the hotel's water slides but I found that my dreams of pushing fat kids down these slides were delusional and out of touch when it turned out that I was the only fat kid there. When Babyboo dictated our activities, she put my body through a ringer from surfing and snorkeling to bike cruising down a crater but luckily, she put us up for a couple's spa day and it was simply amazing.

Under my masseuse, Ludmila's man hands I was tenderized like a pork shoulder and limbered up like Gumby and felt so great except that the facilities had all these tempting soaking pools, saunas, whirl pools and like a lost puppy, I did not know what to do with myself except stay there for several hours. It turns out, you're not supposed to do that and I had a critical case of prune hands and became so dehydrated and overheated that I felt more hungover than I have ever felt without drinking and Babyboo had to carry me to our room.

So all in, the only thing worse than the groggy Monday back at work after a long vacation is the Sunday before, where you think about the upcoming week and wonder if committing some drastic aggravated assault and getting thrown in prison is a better short term career choice.

For now, I am just struggling to get used to wearing proper attire. One spends the entire vacation week in a thong and flip flops (I like to move it, move it) and now one is expected to wear pants all day and not drink pina colada lava flows in the sun during lunch? Who can I assault?

U2, Mother's Milk, and Drunken Doctoring

Week in review, let's skip to Wednesday.

Here was the high:I went to a U2 concert with Babyboo and some babies' mamas (some of her friends) and it was righteously awesome. To a sold out crowd in Giants stadium, Bono and company rocked it out. I screamed out like a little school girl to all the hits (lots of Joshua Tree and Achtung Baby). I was raising my hands and closing my eyes just like the hundreds of thousands around and it felt like a religious awakening. In front of me was this large alien ship type structure to greet me: a 90-foot tall, four-pronged monster that had a jumbo tron that wrapped around 360 degrees and gave everyone the same view.

But while the show was happening frenetically in front of me, there was another show happening directly to the right of me and Babyboo. A couple had brought what seemed like a freshly new born baby (she was so tiny) and apparently they had been to other concerts with her across the country (Bob Dylan, Jimmy Buffet, etc). They were the ultimate hippy parents and were so laid back. The baby was cute and playful and seemed to be enjoying Bono's croonings but then she started crying and kept on getting more upset.

The parents didn't know what to do at first but then realized that she might be hungry. (Here is the show part) Before I knew it, the mom whipped out the goods and was feeding her right in the open. It was both amazing and awkward at the same time. I had to tell Babyboo to stop rubber necking and someone told me that we should have taken a family picture with them at the time. I think everyone was just happy that I was not whipping out my goods and nursing anyone.

Here was the low:
I went to a colleague's going away drinks after work yesterday and I was probably the most efficient drinker/appetizer eater for about half an hour. A little tipsy, I told everyone I had to race off and people conjectured that I wanted to workout (clearly they don't know me) but really, I had to go to a doctor's appointment (really? yes really). Probably not a good idea.

I fell over myself onto the repulsed receptionist's desk and filled out the insurance forms poorly with awful, scribbled penmanship. All in, I think I made the doctor's diagnosis easy: "So, Phil, here's the problem; you are drunk." Well my momma only told me to always have clean underwear on before a doctor's visit but nothing about not having dirty martinis right before.