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Category Archives: LOATHING IT

Code-name: Yellow Submarine

Why hello there…

Before we begin this communique I need to verify that you know the secret pass code, ok…

Sometimes the Rain In Spain…

Hmm… what’s that? You don’t know the secret pass code.

Well I guess that’s ok because at the end of this transmission I may just spontaneously combust. (What, you didn’t know I was combustible did you…) Lately I’ve been working on a little project that is slowly sucking my soul dry…

It’s very cloak and daggery (Ok not really, but hey I got to spice it up somehow, just smile and nod ok). I’ve been roped into being my little sister’s Maid of Honor for her last-minute, totally on the fly, going by the seat of our pants, might just make it by the skin of our teeth (like all those little cliché phrases– me too, me too) nuptials on the 20th of this month (and yes if you’re actually following me, I got the dates wrong in a prior post, and have since been reamed told that it is actually on the 20th, and not the 19th).

It’s a small wedding, with a total guest list of 30 people who have all RSVP’d. It should be nice, it’s going to be on the cliffs in a fancy shmancy part of San Diego, overlooking the beach, and then off to a really nice Italian restaurant/club/lounge place for the reception. Barring gale force winds and rains it should actually be lovely. But before we get to the lovely, trying not to cry while holding both bouquets part there’s a lot of planning and running around and making arrangements and sobbing hysterically in my beer stuff to do.

Last night I spent 4.5 hours at the mall with the bride to be (code name: Yellow Submarine) looking for the “perfect” pair of shoes to go under the wedding dress. Around hour 2 I suggested she just go barefoot, and almost got pushed down the escalator (ok not really, but if she had the power of telekinesis I would have gone flying…). At hour 3.5 I suggested she get whatever pair of shoes she wanted because who the hell is going to see them under the dress anyway… this was also met with utter disdain, tears, and a tirade on why “I don’t care about her or her big day.” At this point I checked out for a while and threw back Happy Hour Beers at the Red Robin.

40 minutes later I found her in Macy’s, trying on a pair of shoes that had nothing to do with the holy grail quest we were on before, and lo and behold the wedding shoes mission was over. She finally settle on a pair of shoes that she liked and that were comfortable because as she so nonchalantly said, “who’s going to see them under the dress anyway.” (PALM TO FOREHEAD, SCREAM, REPEAT)

We left as the mall was closing, and I felt like I had just gone through a small civil war.  I then spent my sleeping hours dreaming about ugly shoes that were trying to squish me. UGH.

That was just our shoe experience. We have yet settle on the final jewelry for the dress, pick up the wedding night attire (to put it politely. I also told her why bother it’s only going to stay on for 5 minutes or so to which I received the “if looks could kill you you’d be dead” glare…) and a whole bunch of other little odds and ends…

Please make it stop, I’ll tell you anything you want to know!

Anyway, the only thing I have going for me is that it’s all going to be over in three weeks, there’s an open bar (thank you Daddy!), and that I get to have my hair and make-up did… if I make it that long

(Don’t tell anyone, but I may consider defecting for the right amount of booze….)

So, ever deal with a bridezilla, last-minute wedding, God Awful colored Bridesmaid dress… how’d you keep your sanity and sobriety? Do share, PLEASE!


I’m the Mistress of Alliteration, and I Remember….

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The other day I was talking to a friend about being a thug,and maybe something about ho’s and pimps, and eventually we got to the subjectof my blog. She said something to the effect of “I’ve been waiting for you starttalking about you know, your story on your blog, are you going to?” I repliedwith laughter, and a quick answer, “well I think I want to keep it light. I’vegot so much blah blah blah blah going on right now, and I really like thehumor. I guess I could go there when things settle down, but I don’t know howserious I can get.” But you see, I was lying, not on purpose, not to be mean,but really I was lying to myself.  Ifthere’s one thing I’m really good at, it’s making up excuses, which is not tobe confused with procrastination. I am after all the Queen Grand High Poohbahof Procrastination; but what I’m getting at here is actually finding a stupidreason for not wanting to do something. (I know, you’re saying, but Becca isn’tthat really the same thing… well no, not really actually. Procrastinating is alot more fun than actually making up flimsy excuses as to why you don’t want todo something that actually doesn’t have to be done…) 
I guess I felt that I justdidn’t want to get into it, my sordid past (actually not very), and all theheavy luggage that goes with it (I don’t recommend trying to lift any ofit).  In an ironic way I didn’t want tomake myself vulnerable to you, the readers, because everyone loves a fun timegal, and NOT a Debbie Downer, right? Right. Or at least this is what I managedto convince myself.  But perhaps it’sworth a shot. If it doesn’t work I can go right back to slapstick and piratecurses, and we can just forget this whole thing ever happened. Deal?
It’s a motherfucking deal then.
So Snarksters, in an effort for you to get to know me, shallwe start Familial Fridays? (Oh man, do I have a way with alliteration—no notilliterate, alliteration, dude: look it up) Hmmm…. Now where to start… We couldalways go the traditional route ie “it was a dark and stormy night…” or thenon-traditional route, ie “sometimes you’re the statue and sometimes you’re thepigeon”… but all of that seems so convivial and trite at the moment and I’m inan erudite sort of mood (ok apologies my snark bugs, but I do sometimes usewords that are difficult to pronounce because they’re rattling around in myhead, but not because I want you to be more confused than you already are). Maybe we can try something more like this…
I remember.
I remember the first time he hit me. I thought it was amistake. In fact I was sure it was a mistake because there was no way that thisshining example of what it means to be a total shit bag of a human being wouldin fact actually raise his hand, pull it back and hit me. It was more shockingthan hurtful.
I remember.
I remember being frozen between halfway sitting and halfwaystanding, my fork precariously balanced between my fingers threateningclattering on the floor, bleeding out spaghetti. The tingle like insect legs onyour palm is what woke me up, as tears began to surge forward.
I remember.
I remember thinking, “why am I crying?” Why was I crying?The hot pools of shame wrestled their way down my face, leaving angry streakycomments in their wake. He had already sat down and had continued eatingdinner. “Sit down, and close your mouth.” It was almost whispered, and thrownat my way as to suggest I was the one who had caused the interruption in ourdinner routine. One more daggered glance sent me scrambling, limbs in everyimpossible and wrong angle to regain my composure and my seat, which onlydelayed the actual process of sitting down. “What’s wrong with you that you can’teven sit down.”  I wasn’t sure what waswrong with me, but it must be something.
I remember.
I remember we just kept eating. I did not utter one single syllable.I did not get up and leave. I did nothing. “It must be my fault” I told myself,repeatedly. I must have done something wrong. But what? I rewound the eventsbefore the conjecture of his hand against my skin, to ascertain what could havesparked such a discourse. We had been laughing over something stupid andinconsequential. He had asked me if I could go to a gallery opening, but Icouldn’t. I had a final to study for, and eventually had to go back to my ownplace. I had told him I couldn’t. We argued. It was settled with his physicalpunctuation that I would indeed attend the gallery opening.
I remember.
I remember I felt like I had eaten fistfuls of garden dirtfollowed by a cement chaser.  Later therewas whispered kindness, comforting embraces, and an insecure relief began tosettle at my feet, like a dog thumping its tail, warming the edges of my being.I stayed on. I stayed silent.
PHEW. That was HEAVY. And I’ve decidedly don’t do heavyanymore.  Such a burden. Really. But inall seriousness I dated a total douche bag of a human for about 4 ½ years.It/He was a large part of my adolescent life, shaping me, molding me in all thewrong ways. Things I’ve had to re-teach myself, re-learn what is or isn’t “normal.”In all of this I have managed to keep intact my sense of humor, somehow, andhere I am on the other side. Definitely, defiantly defying (ohh there’s that alliteration again) the statistics aboutbeing the product of an abusive relationship, what that means for futurerelationships, what that means to the future you.
Here’s a little bit of advice that has taken me YEARS tolearn, and I’m still struggling with it:
You, YES YOU, are a person of immeasurable worth.
You deserve to be treated with respect.
You deserve to be loved in an appropriate manner.
You are capable of loving in an appropriate manner.
Snarksters, NO ONE has the right to lay their hands on youin a manner that is physically abusive. Don’t stay silent, and don’t think thatthis is “NORMAL.” I assure you, it’s not. Please seek help if you are in anabusive relationship and can’t leave.  Help and resources can be found here.
Now that we’re done with those un-pleasantries you will allbe very happy to know that this weekend I’m attending the belated birthdayparty of Ms. VamipreS; so next week’s Conversational Mondays should be superAWESOME. I’ve promised to try to behave myself, but shit, who are we kidding?It’s me, after all.
“Pictures of last night ended uponline, I’m screwed, Oh well…” (KatyPerry, Last Friday Night) I’m guessing that’s summing up my weekend… how about yours?

My Shit’s Fucking Real

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Since we’re on the topic of self loathing and the fakeness (<–new word)….

These are photos of my wedding ring, yes my actual ring. Notice the grime and the old lady hands, which is just great, since at 28 I want to have like 80 year old hands–> yuck.  I also have problem taking pictures, they always come out blurry, which is probably why my hopes of being a famous photographer have been broken like a good china plate…
Hello Granny Hands!
Good thing you went and did your
nails before you posted a picture
of your hand online…..
Now pray tell, why would I post a picture of such a lovely piece of jewelry? Well besides bragging rights………….
I have an acquaintance through a really good friend of mine. I knew her in high school, we were cool but indifferent. Well over the years my good friend got really close to this other person who we’ll just call Heather for the sake of me not having to say acquaintance in every other sentence.  So needless to say at my good friend’s functions there was Heather and her Husband, Mr. Stanford, as in “remember that time at Stanford…, or they say the hardest school to get into now is Stanford…” (have I mentioned I hate pompous pretentious assholes as much as I hate ignorant fucktards… they pretty much balance each other out on scale of fucking stupidity).  They are cool and polite. Distant and yet approachable. I can’t really wrap my mind around them, so for the most part I ignore them, until….
Heather looks down at my ring and goes, “oh hey that’s nice.” I say the usual thank you, and compliment her on her wedding ring, which bears a resemblance to mine but is not quite the same. I genuinely think it’s lovely. I give her a sincere compliment. She returns the compliment by saying very snobbish, “well you know it’s quite old, it’s been in Mr. Stanford’s family for awhile. What about your ring, has it been in the family?” Wow. That’s to the point I suppose. But I  brush it off, I’m practicing being nice, and I don’t want to start shit at my good friend’s party. So I say, “well, no it hasn’t. I did pick it out though, I mean the stone and the setting.”  So Heather (who’s been eyeballing my bling for awhile now) says, “Ohhhh. Well, what does your husband do for a living then?” Excuse me…. WHAT THE FUCK. I swallow down some vehement cuss words, and tell her, “He’s an Operations Manager.” Heather is bored now or something because she says in a very nonchalant voice, “oh, I didn’t think they made that much money.” At this point my eyes are bulging out of my head and I’m about two seconds away from shanking the hooker right there with witnesses around. Instead my voice gets really tight and I say, “what do you mean.”  Heather says, “oh, nothing. I just, well what do you do again?” I can tell where this is going, and exactly what she’s trying to get at. This is a thinly veiled attempt to say “hey bitch, I think your ring is a fake because there’s no way you could afford that shit.” The fucking nerve of some people.  This bitch used to cry at lunch time over stupid boys and then went out and acted like a freaking whore, literally. And just because she married some yuppie white guy she is suddenly better than me? Classier than me? (<– actually I might be willing to give her this one, because well…. it doesn't take a lot to be classier than me, but you get the point) FUCK. THAT. SHIT. It doesn't matter what the ring cost, if it's fake or real, none of that crap matters. You can't outclass me hooker, fuck that. If it's a game of words and slight insults you want to play at, game fucking on.
I say, “Well I’m an Executive Assistant for a small start up Biotech, in which I own stock, and get paid very, very well.”
Heather: “oh, so you’re like a secretary.”
Me: “Not really, I oversee all the Administrative Operations within the company, I head the Human Resource Department, etc.”
Heather: “Oh, so you have to work.”
Me: “Actually I don’t, I just don’t want to sit at home letting my mind get stale, or thinking that you know I’m entitled to be yuppie upstart while my husband makes all the money.” (Ok, ok, so I really didn’t say anything past “actually I don’t.” But I did think the rest)
Heather: “Oh.”
Me: “So anyway, I had this ring custom designed. I picked out the stone and everything. The setting is vintage Cartier, how about yours?”
Heather: “Uhh well like I said, it was in Mr. Stanford’s family.”
Me: “Oh how nice, so he didn’t actually but it then?”
Heather: “Well no.”
Me: “Oh, well the phubster bought mine, CASH. Which is nice, because you know we’re not like a slave to payments for it or anything. And I had it insured, you know just in case.
Heather: “In cash?”
Me: “Yeah.”
Heather: “Can I see that again?”
Me: “Actually I have to go now, the phubster’s probably looking for me.”  
At this point I jumped off my bar stool in the most lady like way I could (legs closed) and walked away very smugly.  So answer me this Snarksters… why are people so quick to assume the worst, or to be pretentious or just flat out rude.  First is started at the grocery store with me, and the encounters I have just keep stacking up out of my favor. It’s a quandary  If I were a thinking person I might argue something about Karma, and being a bitch before, but I mean who’s got time to ponder the infinite mysteries of the cosmos? Not I. Nay, not I. 
At any rate, haters, self loathers, pretentious asshole, fakers, losers all ABOUND and I am drowning in them. Which I hate. Don’t front what you ain’t got. That’s what I say. And here’s the thing about Karma, or just life in general. If you can’t genuinely be sincere, and give out nice compliments now and then you’re going to burn in hell. Even if you think your shit smells like roses for realz, stop to be kind, at least once a day.  You never know who’s watching (like the Devil, or God for that matter), and your one act of random kindness will make a difference. You don’t have to do a major “Pay it Forward” act, just something small.  Case in point, yesterday I opened the door at the Mexican taco shop for my phubster. He got the stroller stuck, and when he finally pulled it through I clapped for him, to which he gritted his teeth and said, “Really? Thank you.” Oh phubster you ARE so WELCOME. It’s the little things people, the little things. 
Lessons Learned:
1. My ring is fucking real. God Damn it. Challenge me and DIE.
2. How is it that 100% Asian girl, who only dated Asians marries a white yuppie guy and then thinks she’s the Golden Calf. Home girl’s about to get knocked the fuck off her pedestal
3. Be kind, Karma will get you
4. Stanford is not the be all and end all of colleges. FUCK THAT.
So got anything to share, got a hater you want to put on blast? Do so…. we can have a group shanking…………
And in case you’re wondering…. box wine did strike this weekend, but that’s a post for another day because I don’t know if I can handle talking about Passion Parties and Lube right now, which is another kindness I’ve done today. Shit I’m good at this stuff.

I’m Not A Self-Loathing Asian….

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I’m just going to come right out and say it. I’m not fucking Thai. Not that I have a problem with Thai people, their language, food, or customs; in fact I rather LOVE Thai food, but that aside, NO I AM NOT NOW, NOR HAVE I EVER BEEN THAI. Nor am I Hmog (from Laos), Filipino (and why do you spell the Philippines with a “ph” but refer to the people with an “f”?), Vietnamese, or any other ethnicity from those Eastern Asian Countries below China, which is not to be confused with countries adjacent to China.

Call me Chinese, ehhh, no big deal, Japenese, I’ve heard that before too.  Correctly guess I’m Korean and I’ll do you a song a dance right there. Where is all of this coming from….  The other day I was at the grocery store, looking at salsa (of all things), when this woman comes up to me out of no where, invades my personal space and asks,

Lady: “Hey you know that sauce.”
Me: “Uh what sauce, salsa?”
Lady: “No, that sauce that has peanuts in it, and you put it on stuff.”
Me: “Peanut sauce?”
Lady: “Yeah I think so. Do you know where it is?”
Me: “No, not really.”
Lady: “But aren’t you like, that type of Asian?”
Me: “What do you mean….”
Lady: “The kind that makes and eats that sauce.”
Me: “You mean Thai?”
Lady: “Yeah, that’s it, Thai.”
Me: “Nope. And I don’t know what isle that sauce is on either. Oh by the way, do you happen to know where the nearest KKK clan is?”
Lady: “What?”
Me: “Aren’t you that type of white person?”
Lady: “What.”
Me: “Yup, seems you are: totally ignorant.”

I think as this point this woman turned five shades of red and made some strangling gurgling noises as she more or less ran away from me. After my last fiasco in the grocery store I was going to make DAMN sure that this time I would say something, anything. I might have gone too far.  As I related this story to the phubster later he assured me that I am really totally rude (duh), and wondered aloud if I was a self loathing Asian. What. The. Fuck. Really phubster, you wanted to go and play that card huh… FINE.  Then I asked him, “if I just walked up to you in the store and said, hey can you put your hands in my front lawn and ask the grass why it’s dying, that wouldn’t be rude?” (I should mention that the phubster is one sizzling hot Mexican) That son of a bitch said (with a glint in his eye), “I’m pretty sure that’s a come on. And I’d certainly take you up on the offer.” GAH, BARF, EYEROLL. He’s so cheesy sometimes.

The point of all of this? I’m not even sure if there is a point. I just thought it was kind of funny. I mean really “self-loathing Asian?” Ok there was that one summer where I almost went blonde, and that other time where I got really tanned and tried to pass myself off as… oh just forget it. I don’t think I’m that self loathing, no more than the average adoptee. What, hmm… oh yeah that’s right I am adopted. Into a completely WHITE family. I’ve been suffering WTF looks my entire life. So you’ll see now that it’s totally understandable when I get touchy about being an ethnicity I’m not.  As my brother often tells me (who is also adopted), “we’re just bananas, you know, yellow on the outside, and white on the inside.” This is true.  For the most part our parents tried to give us cultural advantages, a couple of summers at “Korean Camp,” books, information, etc on our ethnic and cultural roots, but really it just wasn’t quite the same. The only thing I’ve managed to walk away with from all of that is a deep and pornographic love of Korean Food. I want it all.  This is ok with me. It really is. I just don’t like being lumped together in that “all Asians look the same, therefore they must be the same” category. I mean, should I just assume every white person I see is Italian or Irish? Nope, didn’t think so, works with Asians too. Self loathing–>no; people loathing–> Hell to the yes.

And since we’re talking about loathing…

I’ve been reading a blog… I can’t tell if it’s real or not. SERIOUSLY. I don’t want to link it here because if it is real and there’s a ton of traffic over there because ya’ll are checking it out, that doesn’t look so good. But in all honesty I can’t make up my mind. There’s a part of me that thinks this fucking shit CANNOT be true (it’s not a happy blog BTW), I Mean people don’t just do that to other people, this is NOT TRUE.  And then there’s that other part that’s like, OMG what if it is true, this poor girl, I mean fucking sickos out there. But the writing is so advanced and articulate for her “supposed” age, which I’ve had to take a guess at because she doesn’t actually mention her age, just talks about maybe enrolling in High School, and her home schooling studies, and if it is true then the girl’s a freaking genius because her ramblings are extremely intelligent, her concepts and connections are light years ahead of her peers, and then some.  I don’t know it’s confusing, like that time in college when I kissed that girl… I just don’t know what to make of it, it’s a hot mess. I mean are there fake blogs out there? Sort of new and naive to this whole thing, I guess it’s a possibility.

In the blogosphere is there blogism (kind of like racism), just judging the blog by it’s category without actually seeing if it fits? There’s been a couple of other things I’ve read lately where I’ve thought to myself, “self, this is going to be about xyz,” and BAM, WAS I WRONG. In reality it was about vibrators, and IVF babies, and shit. Really Snarksters, I’m curious to know, is there a group of fake blogs out there floating around, am I being duped at this very moment, feeling sorry for someone who may not technically exist? I hate being duped. I will shank you.

So Lessons Learned:

1. I’m not Thai
2. I could stand to be a little more patient
3. I should not have a serious discussion with the phubster, or mention anything about lawns or grass because apparently that’s a turn on for him, fucking weirdo
4. Wondering why someone would post a fake blog is really time consuming and possibly pointless
5. Restricting yourself to boozing it up on Fridays and Saturdays only, SUCKS.

So… read any good fake blogs lately? Been totally rude to someone who thought you were some other kind of ethnicity that you are, in fact, not? Share…. I promise to be nice…….