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.

A crazy week: Sleep Apnea, Halloween, Irish Car Bombs Oh My!

This week has been a whirlwind of ups and downs. Let's skip Monday because it sucks and in general, I think we should start out the week on Tuesdays. On that day, I went to the doctor for a full checkup and everything else went fine except the doctor asked me a strange question: "What is your neck size?" And then he asked me to lower my head and chin and he touched the folded flab of skin that creates my third and fourth chin and pondered my flesh for several minutes from different angles. Then he asked me a couple of other questions related to me snoring and if my wife complains about how my snoring may sound like I am choking or gargling. He said, 'Given the size/girth of your head and neck area, I would say you might be highly susceptible to sleep apnea." Sleep apnea is a disorder in which one has one or more pauses in breathing while sleeping and often caused by weight (a flappy chin, for example) pressing against air passageways at night. I asked him what the solution for curing this disorder would be and he mentioned exercise. Hmm...then I asked him if he was calling me fat but the doctor refrained from answering.

So with that knowledge, one would repent and start purging and doing jaw/chin exercises but I did exactly the opposite and went to a Yankees game in grand fashion on Wednesday but you have to hear me out. I was able to partake in a once in a lifetime situation, something called 'Legends' seats and I think the only way to get these tickets aside from some egregious ticket broker is to be in with the mob or the Yankees or probably both (I went the easy route and simply mortgaged my soul and first born). I could go on and on about the benefits: a bathroom with fancy toilets and all the 'free' food that I can consume. Okay let me go on for a little bit: they had private buffets w/carving stations etc right before the game, they had a private dugout lounge where you can eat all the hotdogs, cheeseburgers, nachos, even sushi you want). The most amazing thing was the dessert/candy pyramid of treasures. All the Skittles, Starbursts, Snickers, Mike & Ikes, etc, that you can stuff in your pockets and stuff I did! When I got home that night, I unloaded my pirate's booty of sugar onto to the table for Babyboo (I am a provider!) and it was like Halloween in my pants! That night, FreePhil was so overstimulated that he was shaking in ecstasy and quietly wept to himself in sheer happiness.

And now yesterday, we had our team team/morale/building night out at a comedy club and it was great! Besides viewing some hilarious comedians, one of our colleagues who does standup on the side got up there and was so funny, he made us soil our pants. When his first joke singled out the compliance and HR individuals in attendance and told them to get the 'f*ck' out, I knew it was going to be a good night. Long story short, I had one too many Irish Car Bombs and here we are now ready for the weekend.

Confessions of a Shopaholic and the husband who loves her

This weekend Babyboo and I did not go anywhere or do much of anything at all. Instead, we placed all our focus, resources and energy in surviving the retail maelstrom that swept into New York known as the Barneys' Warehouse Sale. Everyone who goes there knows the drill: no fitting rooms, no exchanges, no returns, and no place for modesty when there are bargains to be seized. Everyone is equipped with comfortable shoes, eagle eyes, and quick hands to snatch away the best merchandise. This is a once in a blue moon sale that offers a treasure trove of designer clothing, shoes, accessories etc all discounted by 50-75% and afterwards, one must check into rehab.

Like an athlete preparing for gameday, Babyboo spent time looking at film (Confessions of A Shopaholic), while I worked on plays (Pick and Roll) to unleash on the field, and remembered that with no pain (credit card bills) comes no gain. After waiting a couple of hours in line to get in, we sprinted onto the scene and split up between floors for men and women's apparel. Here at this retail circus, the sight of people stripping down to their underwear between the racks to try on clothes rarely raises an eyebrow. I was just glad that I did not wear my 'man'kini that day although some dudes did (I think this is excellent strategy as it does temporarily blind other shoppers to create a competitive advantage).

I am a relatively efficient shopper and surveyed the field quickly and honed in on the shoe and jeans section. I found shoes in ten minutes but found myself lost and confused as I rifled through the jeans section. Elbowing against those trying to sustain their metrosexual street cred, I got sucked into the 'Third World Manorexic' skinny jean section (who wears a 25 waist?) when a worker saved me and guided me towards the 'Extra Extra Large' jean bin which had bell bottoms for whales.

Upstairs, men know it is best to steer clear of the women’s department and let the ladies claw it out amongst themselves which they do as Babyboo came back with a couple of bruises and no guy wants to come off as a leering perv although some do and are escorted off (not me, this time). After I finished, I waited in the unofficial holding pen right near the womens' department waiting with other purseholders and was called upon as the 'closer' only when Babyboo was ready to go to checkout. Usually she is almost out the door with her purchases and the cashier, confused, asks if she will be paying for things only to point to me who is lagging behind getting my wallet out. She loves this arrangement.

The trick to attacking this sale is timing when to go to hit the sweet spot of quallity items to maximum savings. You see, every few days the discounts increase another 5-10% but the supply becomes limited and terrible until the warehouse becomes an increasingly dangerous, pillaged village with nasty looters. These sales are so famous that people often buy the same patterned dress shirts and embarrassing antics ensue in workplaces. The third time one wears the same shirt at work, it is not so funny and there becomes a gentlemen's agreement on what days one can wear certain shirts in the week cycle such that I cannot where a certain blue striped shirt on Tuesdays and Thursdays, ever (not that this happens).

All in, this event is like a national holiday for Babyboo and I let her go hogwild: she went on Friday, Saturday, Sunday and then secretly, she went yesterday as well which turned out to be one too many as she received a sobering punishment for her sins when she called me in a panic saying that her purse had been stolen (sad but true). Given this badness, I hope that she will get this retail bug out of her system and if necessary, take up a different, less expensive addiction like..uh porn. Oh Babyboo!