It's the shits. That Shit shit.

I'm BAAAAAAAAACKKKKKKK.  (Was that creepy?  I was trying for creepy.)  "Where the FUCK have you BEEN, Gookie?"  I've been holed up at home not going the fuck anywhere, not doing the fuck anything...aside from keeping my children alive n' all.  Sometimes being a mother is just the shits, man.  Let me lay it down for ya.

So PC is finally starting to slim down a bit, still off the charts for height and weight but relatively proportionate for a 9 month old.  I've turned into a fuckin' dirty hippie despite myself, I carry fuckin' EVCO in my purse for God's sakes, and I'm still breastfeeding.  A few of my friends are surprised by this, so evidently even though it SEEMS like I'm surrounded by extended breast feeders, I'm actually not (not that I think 1 year is extended breastfeeding, but you're pickin' up what I'm puttin' down, right?).  I've never enjoyed BFing (ok, here that is just WRONG - I've got to come up with another acronym for breast feeding, like, asap) like some moms and now even less.

I've got a beautiful family, a great job, wonderful friends...what's to be down about?!  It's that age old question that moms suffering from Post Partum Shittiness (PPS, for short) have; it's the question that takes however much "mom-guilt" we ALREADY have on our shoulders and TRIPLES it.  It is too much to bear.  But the descent into the quaint town of BLAHsville is an insidious one.  It started that I could never remember to take a list to the grocery store.  So I never bought all the things we needed and too much of what we didn't need.  So we ran out of stuff periodically.  An anomaly, right?  Then that shirt that Hubs wears every Friday wasn't clean by Thursday night.  What?  PC kept picking up bits of stuff off the floor which went straight into his mouth.  Dinner became like this huge monster that reared its ugly head at 4pm every, single night and I lost the battle of What's For Dinner more often than ever before.  It was like I was doing just enough.  Just enough to get by but not enough to actually be on top of things.  Actually, I don't think I was doing enough.  Thank God for Hubs.

This act of motherhood is causing me to spiral into nonexistence.  My body is here.  It goes through the motions, albeit poorly, but I'm so not checked in.  My long hiatus from blogging is due to the fact that I have to have PASSION to write and, man, it just ain't there.  I don't want to complain of sadness or depression, I was just so BLAH.  I have a stack of unread Food & Wine.  I have a stack of unflipped US Weekly.  I have a whole list of downloaded titles on my Kindle that haven't even been opened yet.  My Christmas baking was underwhelming, to say the least.  I don't even know where my crochet needles are.  My bathtub, my beautiful, deep jacuzzi tub, has turned into a storage crate.  I can't recall the last time I put a photo in a frame, and for God's sakes I have a beautiful infant and preschooler and a bazillion digital photos!!!

So I finally went to the doctor because, Whoa, dude, this is NOT just exhaustion/boredom/blahsville, this is NOT ME.  Turns out my Vitamin D levels were shockingly low and there's some PPS issues going on as well.  Being BLAH, in my case, WAS medical.  And I have a sneaking suspicion that if I quit BFing (lol) that my hormones will even out even more...I hope.  I dream of quitting BFing every day, but our Pediatrician (let's call him Dr. Awesome, because he IS) told me that there's some connection being found between offering more problematic foods (peanut butter) in the first year then BFing for a couple months after, was resulting in lower cases of food allergies later...so of course now my mom-guilt has me BFing for at least another two months...fuuuuuck.

But before I complain my way into a self-induced mom-guilt coma, I just wanted to be clear: I AM STILL ONE GRATEFUL, GRATEFUL BITCH, and I know I am so blessed to Have.  Yes, that sentence was complete.  To have anything.  My loves, my friends, my home, my clothing, my transportation, my warm water, my job, good mental health, use of my limbs, vision, hearing, taste...Damn it, I am fucking grateful to have a beating heart. 

So yes, PPS is the stinky ass of a dying donkey who ate the shit that Shit shit, with gangrene in its lower intestine. It sucks.  But for fucks sake, life is so GOOD also.  Our air is, like, a million times cleaner than the poor bastards in China.  My children are so healthy, it's almost ridiculous.  Hubs thinks I'm beautiful, like REALLY beautiful - even with my gnarly morning breath and stinking of spoiled milk, and I never EVER have to doubt that he loves me.  Our mortgage and bills get paid first so we don't worry about home and power outside of acts of God.  We don't live in a war zone.  My children don't know fear.  They don't know hunger.  They don't know want (the REAL wants).


I'll end with this: no matter how much your life sucks, someone else's life sucks worse.  HAhahaha!  That there is some uplifting shit just fer ya :) 

Things that make you go poop.

I was by the crib, sittin' by the little one,
Drinkin' leche on the puke stained rug.
 I got a familiar gurgle, what the fuck is that feeling?
Thought to myself then started to shrug.
Got to the shitter. Ding Dong. What is it?
My milk ran its course and diarrhea had paid me a visit.
Rumbly in my tumbly, I look at the wall,
I knew that I was completely fucked. Completely dropped the ball.
I'd run out of TP, shit, I couldn't even move,
I know my proctologist just wouldn't approve.
I didn't realize, my sphincter just wouldn't squeeze!
Yo, my butthole control just left me! No!
Yeah, but I lost control I just couldn't wait.
I yelled TP, baby, baby, TP, baby, baby, GREAT!
My Hub bust in, caught a whiff of that room,
He said, "Milk, again?"

Things that make you go poop.
Things that make you go poop.
Things that make you go poop.
Things that make you go poop, poop, poop.
Things that make you go poop.

Here's how it started, just an example,

Of how your intestines can trample,
Ruin your life, stab you in the gut with a knife.
Watch your behind!
There was a day I was feelin' kinda grey.
Would drink some coffee, to keep the Zzz's at bay.
I'd been up all night. I thought I was alright.
Had some caffeine...but my belly started gettin' tight.
So damned acidic,  my ass started doin' the rhumba.
Clenching my buttcheeks, my eyes go,t big,
My butthole wasn't going to make it to its next gig.
I'd had my coffee, now it was time to pay the piper,
All over the floor, I should just wear a diaper.
The time had come (to kick that coffee scene),
But I can't commit to tea in a way the Zzz's would believe.
So my bill came due in that bathroom.

The things that make you go poop.
Things that make you go poop.
The things that make you go poop, poop, poop.
The things that make you go poop.
Things that make you go poop.
The things that make you go poop.

 Jaysus Keeerist, Hub - gimme dat TP!

Give it to me, Give it to me, Give it to me, Give it to me! (x7)
Give it to me, Give it to me!

Thirty-four, and I was havin' a ball.
Just had another kid and, yo, I knew it all.
I was making mac and cheese, like every other time,
So much Tillamook, it would blow your mind!
It was delicious, it was in its own class.
I went back for seconds so fast I got whiplash.
I ate all that cheddar and pasta...then my heart beat stopped.
All that dairy and gluten filled me to the top.
Time went by and I filled my pants and the toilet.
 I couldn't get the stains out, my Mom says to boil it.
My boy kept tellin' me, "Yo, Momma, I don't know,
I think that mac and cheese is making you go."
I love pasta and pasta loves me, it's pathetic.
Why can't my ass understand?  Why can't it be sympathetic?
But no, it's gotta fill my plumbing with that special beat,
Its gotta bitch and moan, "Gonna stop eatin' that wheat?"

(Chorus)
Things that make you go poop.
Things that make you go poop.
It's the things that make you go poop.

(Repeat Chorus)

Hey ladies,
Have you ever had a beer?
Lookin' so sexy at the bar, but then you feel queer?
You're tryin' to be nonchalant, but it just don't work.
You realize the beer's hit you hard and you jump up with a jerk.
 Tellin' your date you don't have time to eat,
And you're not even hungry, you just want to RETREAT.
To the bathroom, your insides gots the hurts.
The poo's coming out in radical spurts.
A mysterious miasma of odorous ick,

Drifts out the door, when you realize the lock didn't go "click".
The door's hangin' open, full view of the bar,
You're so embarrassed, would've rather just shit in the car.
 You were dressed to a T to hang with the fellas,
 But now those other hoochie mommas ain't so jealous.
Comin' home early smellin' like that special perfume...

(Repeat Chorus x7)

Things that make you go poop.

 

NOTE: To those of you (like my Hub) who evidently don't remember this tune from C&C Music Factory: http://youtu.be/XF2ayWcJfxo

Uncommon Courtesy

What the fuck is wrong with people today?!

Really that could be my whole post...







But seriously, Common Courtesy is a total misnomer.  It is unbelievably Uncommon. 

A ridiculous number of people go around treating employees of every business in the universe as their own personal servants.  And not like the servants of Oprah (who I'm sure gives each of her servants a Porche as a bonus), but rather like the servants of Kim, Jong Un (who I'm sure gives each of his servants a narcotic-free root canal as a bonus).  I'm sorry, when did being a customer "server" equate to being a customer "servant"?  Is your name Emperor Fucktwat King of the God Damn Universe?  If not, then maybe you can speak to me like a fucking human being and not like a bug under your shoe.  Maybe you can say "please" as a human being requesting assistance from another human being and not as an afterthought as you answer your ass bumping ring tone and lift one of your beautifully manicured fingers...{finger} just a minute............please.  Let me give YOU a fucking finger, you fucking farce of a human.

Let me just say that how a person treats customer servers, typically entry level employees, is a good indicator of what sort of asshole they are in the rest of their compacted-colon life.  Let me reiterate that if you go to a restaurant and treat your server like shit, she/he may actually be in that gig to pay for college and WILL remember you when you are applying to her/him for a loan/part in a play/pro bono work/tutoring for your kid/plumbing your clogged toilet on a holiday weekend/etcetera/etcetera/etcetera.  Burning bridges is for stupid fucks in their teens and twenties.  When I see a total prick easily in their forties/sixties/whatever, there's an asshole that just likes being an asshole and has gotten away with it for way too long.  You make people feel like shit all the time, it makes you feel good about yourself.  But deep down inside you know you're a huge POS and aren't worth being pitied.  Talk about a bug under my shoe.

The area that I reside is right near the US/Canada border.  When the dollar was rad, northbound traffic was killer, deals an hour away were worth the drive, and it was pre-911 so when we returned, 19 years old and drunk as a skunk after Ladies Night, at Chicas in White Rock (bouncing penises, oh, yeah), we had our own Border Guy that would just wave us through without even looking at our ID's...that was really nice.  But now that the dollar sucks ass, we're experiencing the whole Turnabout Being Fair Play thing.  Not as nice.  As with all human beings, some are really talented at making another human feel like dog shit ground into a pair of deeply treaded Sorel's...  Bluuuugggggg.  You got to get it out.  You know it's gonna suck and stink of shit.  But it's got to be dealt with.

I don't believe that because I live near Canada that I, and my PNW compadres, have cornered the market on being Much Abused By International Visitors That Can't Drive For Shit And Buy Too Much Fucking Milk...  But those of use on the Canadian border have an unusually detailed knowledge of how the Canadian Government's control of the dairy industry is a real money maker for those willing to Nexus their way across a 1 hour border wait on a daily basis.  Jesus, our west coast franchises of Trader Joe's have 86'd a dude REselling their shit in Canada under the name of Pirate Joe's (OMFG it still makes me laugh).  I mean, don't get me wrong, I am APPRECIATIVE of how our northern neighbors have kept our local economy afloat, milk not withstanding, but some God Damn courtesy would be appreciated in our local grocery stores...

Now, Hub likes to really pick on the Canadians for being awful drivers, buying all the milk, and being, in general, big ass fucktards...  To which I usually remind him that a huge number of our cousins (his by marriage) are Canadian...which usually leads to a quick subject change. :)  I love my family in British Columbia.  They are giving, generous, full of laughter, loving, gracious, and all that wonderful mushy crap.  Seriously, they are wonderful people.  But I wouldn't doubt that many of them go to the Costco that is 30 minutes south of my town when they come in this area...hmm.  I wonder why. ;)

I enjoy the infusion of racial diversity in our town these days though.  It's nice to see a real white bread area get blended the fuck up by some colorful peeps.  I AM equally curious about two international things though: WHAT is under those turbans, and is the androgynous thing currently HIP in Japan or is it a cultural thing like Samurai now?  Also: why do Koreans keep opening up Japanese restaurants?  Or Thai?  Not that a Korean can't cook some fucking Thai food, I'm just sayin' that Korean food is fucking delish, yo.  Shit ton of Koreans in this town and not ONE SINGLE FUCKING Korean Fusion Taco Truck...so sad.

Ok, I got distracted by Korean Fusion Taco Truck again.  It happens.  Sorry.  A fond desire that is as yet unfulfilled in this Podunk town of mine...

Back to  Courtesy.  You know that saying, "When in Rome do as the Romans do"...the continuation of that saying is..."Except when in the US, speak any language you want, get paid benefits while here illegally, get mad at me in your own language so I don't know what the fuck you're mad about, pretend you don't speak English so I want to pull my hair out (of my crotch), eat a fucking sandwich while giving me a pedicure and speaking to your coworker in whatever bumfuck language you think is still appropriate to speak in front of an evidently totally ignorant, stupid fuck who takes it without complaining.  Seriously.  If I'm paying you to care for my hands or feet and you are having a conversation in another language with a coworker...you ARE about to cut me while trimming my cuticles...which has happened enough times that I no longer get manicures or pedicures...  And yes, the sandwich anecdote DID actually happen.  Although that was in SoCal, so is probably par for the course. 

I DO miss the crazy ass driving of SoCal, though.  No one is a shitty driver because if everyone is awful, everyone is just normal.  You have to be a REALLY fucked up driver to stand out in CA.  Typically the traffic would move at 90 mph, pausing and drifting down to the speed limit at each well known cop stop then quickly moving right back up to 90 again...or higher.  I loved that kind of driving.  Darting in and out of traffic was fun.  God, it really is amazing that I'm still alive.  Hub says that the first time he got in the car with me he was actually afraid for his life (fuck, even thinking about that makes me want to laugh like a psycho - it is SO funny!), although if you consider that I have really shitty depth perception, maybe he's just the smartest person to ever ride shotgun with me... :P

There's a really shitty road in my town that goes from two lanes of 35 mph regularly moving traffic to a bottleneck single lane just before the freeway on-ramp back to the glorious BC...  This is the nearest freeway entrance to/from Costco...the mall...the big grocery store...the new bigger grocery store...the Walmart...the Best Buy...  This is a seriously shitty freeway entrance.  It is ALSO the closest to my home.  The one I use to go to work.  To take my kids to the doctor.  To get to the ER.  Fuuuuuck. 

So I don't pull out into the intersection...ever.  I was taught to be embarrassed to be caught in the intersection when the light changes.  I feel like a specimen under a microscope when I'm caught out like that, RARELY, when I misjudge the distance (again, depth perception issues SUCK).  So when a wanker gets pissed that I'm not going out to the middle of the intersection pulls out around me in the RIGHT TURN ONLY lane and jumps out into the left turn intersection in front of me, effectively blocking ALL traffic so he could beat me by ONE car's length...that shit pisses me off.  I wanted to do serious bodily harm to that fuckface.  ...When I leave space open in front of me because there is an intersecting road with just a stop sign but no light that someone MIGHT want to turn off of or onto and then some asshat pulls in front of me like, "Oh!  Thank you SO much for holding that space open for moi!", that REALLY makes me want to use my First Degree Yellow Belt in Tae Kwon Do to kick some major ass.  You know what would make it less incensing?  If those assholes would at least acknowledge that I have now done them a favor.  When I slow down to let you merge.  When I wave you in to cut in front of me in a line that reaches back to Cougar territory.  When you're on a bicycle and I've had to crawl behind you at 5 mph in a 40 for 5 miles.  What would it take for you to give a fucking courtesy wave, prick?  Maybe you don't realize that I DON'T know who you are and DIDN'T plan ahead to do you this favor our of obligation because you are the SUPREME RULER OF ALL THINGS.  Be courteous, DickWad.

There's a lot of things to Be.  Courteous.  Kind.  Gracious.  Loving.  Charitable.  Friendly.  Welcoming.  Positive.  Effusive.    None of those are expensive.  None of those require a particular Nation Of Origin pedigree.  None of those require extra schooling.  None of those take a whole lot of extra effort.  So again, what the fuck is wrong with people?! 

In an effort to practice what I preach.  My next entry will be full of the warm fuzzies for which I love living my life. So I'll see y'all next week when I'm huggin' trees, dancing in the rain, handing out fucking daisies, and appreciating my many blessings.  I hope you'll join me in one week of not being a total douche bag.  Maybe we can have it added to our calendar: Not Being A Douche Bag Week.  Like Black History Appreciation month, but shorter...

My promise for the future.

Time travel.  It IS possible!

I'm a closet Trekker - not full blown I Got A Pair Of Spock Ears In My Dresser craziness (although Hubs would probably steal them to fulfill his LOTR obsession...sigh, definitely more on that later.) - meaning that I have watched every episode of TNG, DS9, and Voyager and ALL of the newer movies involving Picard (yum, Patrick!).  During my stint in Physics/Astronomy during college (I'm kind of smartish), I used to daydream about how to bring the awesome tech from Star Trek to reality.  Like force fields, transporters, cloaking technology, warp drive, etc. (Michio Kaku is one of the raddest Theoretical Physicists out there and is doing this exact thing on the SciFi channel...lucky bastard.  Although, when you build your own particle accelerator in high school, I suppose getting your own tv show is part and parcel of awesomeness).  The best episodes were the ones about time travel, though.  And those make ya think...especially when you get to the realm of paradox.  Of course it's total nonsense - time travel in the linear sense IS impossible, the second you went back in time you'd change the future and you'd actually be living an ALTERNATE timeline, not at all what Gene Roddenberry scripted (also not nearly as fun for a 1 hour episode).  And going forward in time?  Abso-fuckin'-impossible!  Our actions change the future in every Planck second.  Google that shit (http://bit.ly/13nuv7Z) and learn something awesome.

Time travel is complete and utter nonsense. 

You be saying, "Bitch be all types of Cray-Cray!"  ...well, yes, but not in this instance.

I look at my children and I see the future.  It's like a fucking crystal ball.  I see hope, fear, love, happiness, dreams, aspirations, and yes, YES, YES, I see hilarity!!!  My hope is for my children to be happy.  Blah, blah blah.  Of fuckin' course it is.  Can you imagine the mom that wishes for her children to be sad, angry little shits out to fuck up other people's lives as much as possible in the few years of their wretched existence before they die an awful death remembered by no one?!  The shitty thing is that there probably ARE moms like that out there...they take Angry Bitch to a whole new level.  But as I am the NORMAL level of Angry Bitch, I do NOT wish that craziness for my kids.  But yes, wishing for my children to be happy is rather blasé.  In totality, I wish for my spawn to savor life, relish nonsense, devour silliness, and squeeze as much ridiculousness out of life as possible!  Yes, I want them to go to college, tech school, travel, give charitably, be polite, be generous.  But those are a foundation for what I REALLY want to be my legacy to the world - HILARITY! 

Laughter really is the best medicine.  And ladies, it's hot as hell, am I right?!  My boys are pretty cute little monsters, but as they grow up, who knows where they'll land on the scale of hotness to their peer potential partners.  The best thing I can do for them (in regards to their love life, anyways) is to give them a creative silliness that will make them irresistible to the Right Sort Of Life Partner (ok, I'm trying to be PC - it's weird, I've never done it before, but I'm going to stop now and just say Girl, Lady, Woman, Women, whatever.  My boys can be as gay as Tom who put his Dick in Harry, but for speed and clarity, I'll just refer to their future loves as female, sorry if that puts your panties in a knot...hahaha, there I go being PC again, I really am not sorry.), the kind of girl that appreciates laughing over just being arm candy on the quarterback's...um...arm (that was awkward).

You'll get use to me writing like this, like I have to plan my life fifty years in advance.  I'm a planner, what can I say?  I don't dust, so I can't really be called OCD fer reals, but I feel like having no fuckin' idea where the hell you are or where the fuck you're going is just a huge recipe for disaster.  How do you plan for tomorrow if you don't start today?  Shit, that's the only reason we teach our babies to walk and talk so they can earn money and leave our house and bring over our grandchildren someday.  We plan ahead for preschool (gotta potty train!), we plan ahead for summer camp (does he have enough underwear, figuring in all the wedgies?), we plan ahead for one fuckin' day at the park (do I have enough diapers/wipes/food/snacks/extra snacks/change of clothes/wet sack/travel potty/bottles/toys/sanitizer/titty tent/vagina visor/bib/hat/sunscreen/leg warmers/chewy toys/cat food/tv/rocking chair/crib/ukulele/etc), so why not plan ahead for some hilarity? 

Pencil it in to your Decade Planner, dudes.  Our world is all set for angry wanktards with no sense of humor, anti-social psychopaths that should be institutionalized but there's no funds for that kind of fuckin' humanity, meatheads with more muscle than brains, creepers in long trench coats that immediately make you wonder if there's a rifle under it, and that sort of ilk.  I seriously think that some hilarity might very well save this civilization of ours.  Humans really need to learn to lighten the fuck up.  When did everything become so SERIOUS and need to be so politically correct?  Jaysus, you can't say shit without worrying how someone else will take it.  Why even speak?  Humanity trudges willingly towards a dark, scary future if we don't start teaching our children to laugh, sometimes at themselves.  And KEEP on teaching them until they start teaching THEIR children. 

So do I know if I'm raising engineers or physicists?  If B will end up being President...of the Washington chapter of HPFC (Harry Potter Fan Club) or if Pork Chop will end up being the founding leader of GFUADD (Gay Furries United Against Drunk Driving)?  I don't know and I don't give a crap.  If they're happy, healthy, and give of themselves to the betterment of society (Harry Potter and the Furries notwithstanding) then I feel like I will die satisfied that my children aren't completely fucked and may be the downfall of human civilization.  Although my eldest is only three...so there's plenty of time to fuck them up by accidental-like.  So yeah, that's my promise to the future.  My kids are gonna eat, drink, and be merry.  And in them, I will live forever.  So don't fuck with me, Imma be round for a loooooong time. :)

I'm Asianic.

What was it like to grow up Asian in Washington state?  Well, for one, most people assumed I was from Vancouver (the Canadian one) when I was in college (this was a number of years ago, before 1/2 the University population was from Japanish countries - meaning all of Asia :P ).  But mostly it wasn't weird.  I just thought I was white.  Remember when kids in high school used to call other kids "wiggers"?  How did we EVER think that was ok - it is so ugly!  But yeah, you could've jumbled my sorry ass into that stupid group of dumbtards.  A Korean chick that thought she was White but wanted to be Black...  Isn't there a Lifetime special about this yet?!  Geez, my poor folks probably didn't know what the fuck happened when I left 7th grade a little angel and entered 8th grade a Grade A POS, smoking pot, drinking, huffing...it's a fucking miracle I'm still around.  Thanks, folks...

Let me introduce my childhood fam:
    Dad: looks like Santa Claus, loves to debate, can definitely be an ass, but has a huge heart and gives fabulous bear hugs.
    Mom: had the most beautiful red hair that made me so jealous with my glossy black hair...really!..., paper-thin skin that looks just like Grandma's, a love of silliness that I come by honestly, and a baffling inability to drive around a town she's lived in for over 40 years without asking me for directions.
    Brother: looks more Native American than Korean, except that time he blasted off one eyebrow and singed some hair - he looked more like a soft-boiled egg, holds a part of my heart like my children, broke more glasses than I can remember by "accidentally" smashing me in the face with baseballs and soccer balls..., can charm the birds from the trees, but has had some challenging times in his life that continue to thwart him at times.
   And: now there is a SIL, a wicked Step-Mother (WSM - ha), a nephew (aside from my hub's nephews), and other Step-Family (they'll probably come into this blog at some point, they are the cat's fuckin' pajamas (that sounds like pajamas for fucking, not what I intended, but funny)), but they don't work in until well after my childhood was past.

So if you add a Santa Claus to a red-haired beauty, you can easily reach the conclusion that my brother and I were adopted by a couple as different looking from us as possible :)  But I truly believe that genetics don't matter for shit in personality because I am SO much a product of my parents, as is my brother.  This is very handy for blaming them for all my issues :)  Obviously things like bipolar disorder, ADD, schizophrenia, and those type of chemical/brain issues are exceptions to this, but for the most part, I think environment plays such a larger role in child development than genetics.  Honestly, I forget that I'm different looking from all the Whitey's.  I grew up on a small island with fewer than 800 people from 3 to 18 years (and back a bit after a while, blerg) that were mostly Caucasian except for fewer than 10 ethnic kids - and yes, we were all kids, no ethnic adults for the most part. The most kids in my class from K-6 was 5 one year, but I was only one of two 6th graders. 

Being from a small island community through 6th grade then being thrust into a large middle school of hormones, peer pressure, and social awkwardness was not a great thing for me...or my brother for that matter.  I had danced ballet from age 4 onward up to 5 days a week off the island so while my compadres were becoming life long friends (at least 7 Islanders just recently flew to Brooklyn, NY to go to a fellow Islander's wedding - they're still THAT tight), I was dancing solo.  So I really was awfully alone when I went to middle school.  One lone Korean girl, adopted, so already filled with shitty abandonment issues and a strong sense of wanting to belong.  Luckily, I was placed in a advanced block of classes with the other smarty-farty kids who were so lovingly accommodating to a scared new kid...they were the shit, I wish I'd've realized it at the time how generous they were.  But then the stupidest thing happened: in 8th grade they split up the 3 class block and threw us to the fucking wolves.  I'd've turned out completely different if they'd kept me in that same 3 class block with the other smarty-pants...

What group of people are friendly to a fault, inviting, and expect little in return?  Users.  People that are kind, generous, compassionate, intelligent, and all that goody-goody bullshit actually expect their friends to exude at least SOME of those traits.  They expect at least SOME return of those qualities.  Users expect nothing.  And for a fact?  They're a hell of a lot of fun.  And I was surrounded by them.  They welcomed me, made me feel like a part of the cool gang, they made me feel like I belonged.  What a slippery slope.  This is where I learned that Birds Of A Feather Flock Together.  But I wouldn't realize I'd learned it for another 15 years at least...  This is where my conviction to control the friends my children make as much as possible comes from.  My kids are gonna be PISSED when they realize that Fun Mom has Been There, Done That and they ain't gonna get away with shit...  Sorry kiddos, God gave me a fuck-up youth so I could be a better mom to you. 

It took me a long, long time to sow my wild oats, to make stupid mistakes, spend too much money, save too little, create memories that were made in a haze of alcohol/drugs that I now can't remember.  Being Korean factored very little into all this craziness, aside from a general feeling of being different that did add to my desire to BELONG.  I have realized over the years how incredibly blessed I was to be raised in the Pacific Northwest.  Yes, it's mostly Caucasian, but SO welcoming!  The diversity of the spirit is here if not the physical ethnic numbers.  I was called a Gook in middle school once.  I remember thinking it was so funny at the time because I had just, that previous weekend, learned that word (yes, I made it to 8th grade never knowing that word, thanks, yet again, folks) when reading an article in the newspaper about a gay, Asian man who had been murdered at a university.  Reports stated that he was bullied by other students and called Gook.  A sad, sad story, but where I learned the word, nonetheless.  So I just assumed she had learned that word over the weekend the same as I.  It didn't hold a lot of power over me because I just didn't understand it - although I held some anger over it years later when I got all sensitive over bullshit like that.  I was right way back in 8th grade, it's not worth doing ANYTHING but laughing over!!!  Ironically, she was the one Black girl in school with us at that time, you'd think she of all people would understand being different!  Now looking back I wonder what treatment she was getting...definitely food for thought.

So is being Asianic (my new favorite word after that Asianic flight fiasco in the news - bah hahahaha! Captain Sum Ting Wong!!!  Hilarious!) took a long time for me to love, but that road to feeling comfortable in my yellow skin was worth it, cuz damn, girls, self love rocks, especially in my early thirties.  Some of us don't get it till much later (some sooner, damn show offs).  In conclusion, I think we could all just ease the fuck up a little about all the racial stuff.  Stop taking it so damn seriously!  Laugh about it!  Take that fucking power away from those words and just chill about it!  I see people getting all up in arms about a stupid fucking app that gives faces an Asian "look" - like seriously, it slants them all up.  That is AWESOME!  But some Asians Of The World Unite To Make The World Just A Little Less Fun group got the app banned from Google Play or wherever it was.  I mean, come on!  A little slanty never hurt anyone.  I know a few people personally that would be much improved by the addition of some slant.

Is there ever a time that getting pissed about racism is okay?  Of course.  I think Paula Deen sums it up just perfectly.  I think she's filled with a racist hate that she glosses over with her slow "Y'aaaaallllll"'s, caked on foundation, and fluorescent white veneers.  After reading her deposition and the original lawsuit, it's clear to me that she's a phony.  ...My favorite go-to red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting were her recipe, but I don't want to feed my loved one's food borne of hate.  So yeah, I'm pretty serious about not supporting her bullshit.  But that's racism born of a combination of ignorance, dislike, and habit (the worst reason, really, I mean, grow a fucking brain of your own already).  There's plenty to find hilarious with regards to the different races...

For example.

Slanty eyes.  This by itself is funny, especially for one born around you round eye's like me.  But this is even funnier in my case since I also have a lazy eye.  My brother shot me with a bb gun bulls-eye when I was 6 years old.  Luckily, I was far enough away to escape totally losing my eye, but it left scar tissue on my retina so I have a blind spot.  Due to this, my right eye is way stronger - like I use it almost completely by itself most of the time (I do have fantastic peripheral vision, however, so don't be afraid if you see me on the road...although I do have some difficulty with depth perception, so it's best to not drive immediately in front of, or to the side of, me...lol, I'm mostly kidding).  So my lazy left slanty eye...  If you are up and a little to the left of where I'm looking, I'm probably looking at you...or I'm looking at something up a little and to the left of you.

So back to the original question of "What was it like to grow up Asian in Washington state?"  In answer, it was just like growing up any other fucking color, you fucking racist.

WhatTF is the deal with Gookie?

Ok.  Before I go all ADD and forget to address it, here it is: I am a Gookie Fucker.  What does that mean to me?  It means that I think being Korean is fuckin' hilarious.  It means that I think if you can't laugh about it, it doesn't matter for shit.  It means that, yes, I'm Korean, but only on the outside (in HS I wanted to be Black, seriously.  I used to joke that I was like a rotten banana; I don't think the three black kids at school were too impressed with me.).  I mean, Gook.  Say it out loud (you MAY want to look around you for listeners first, this could be shocking).  It's a damn funny word.  I grew up thinking it was like N*gger for Black people, like SUPER fucking bad.  I heard a rumor that saying "Korean" in Korean sound like "Gook"...  I don't know if that's true (if any of you jack holes post a comment with lmgtfy.com, I gonna kick your asses), but it sounds educationalish to me.  All I mean is that if you call me a Gook - I'm probably going to do a double take then laugh my ass off - unless you're being a serious dick, then I respectfully reserve the right to kick your ass.

So I think that finding the hilarious and the ridiculous in life is definitely more fun and entertaining a way to live my life than to go around all grumpousy and spewing hate.  I work at a Bank and I am amazed EVERY DAY how many people put SO much effort into being in a shitty mood.  It doesn't take me ANY energy to be happy, but man, it's so tiring to want to kill bitches all day long!  As you probably remember, this Angry Bitch has hormones HELPING her to want to kill bitches all day - can you imagine having to do all that hate mongering on your own?!!!  Crazy talk!

Side note: would it fucking KILL people to say please and thank you?!  WTF happened to common courtesy?  And get off your fucking phone when you're doing business!  I swear sometimes when someone puts up their index finger to tell me to hold on...Imma rip that shit off your hand, fucktard.

But back to being a Gooky Fucker.  This Gooky Fucker is also a mom.  My eldest, B, really likes Sesame Street, especially Elmo - Kevin Clash and all (eww).  My favorite character when I was a kid was Cookie Monster - he always had cookies!  But now with all this modern "got to eat healthy and shit" propaganda out there, poor Cookie Monster has vegetables all the time!  I personally feel that he is of the Cookie religion and it is tantamount to a hate crime that he is being so negatively prejudiced against.  Although on the other hand, he always eats Prairie Girl's Letter Of The Day even though she politely asks him not to EVERY time and then I'm all pissed at him again.  It's really a tough relationship that they have.  I mean he's blue and shit, she's kind of a pussy, and they've both got hands up their assholes so that's got to kind of suck. 

C is for Cookie is one of my old school favorite songs.  Good ol' Cookie Monster just resounds with me: the good, the bad, the ugly.  So in honor of him, my Korean heritage (that I know almost nothing about, more on that later), and being a Mom, G is for Gookie was born.  Hate crimes can't exist where there's only laughter and love.  And I gots a shit load of that right here.

Anger.

Ok.  I realize that my blog name deserves some explanation.  But I'm in some sort of PMS/PPD vortex of shittiness so excuse me while I bitch and moan about other things.  But I promise you, I will return to give credit to Gookie Fuckers all over the world at a later date.

So I'm a mom.  Inasmuch as I pushed two large humans out of my loins (both with a delightful epidural, yeehaw), I am a mom.  But sometimes (tonight), I am the biggest piece of shit, asshole that ever walked the earth (more on that later).  I have such a case of the creepy crawlies.  I told a coworker that I felt like I had a big, mean monkey, dressed up as a clown, with long Freddy Kreuger claws climbing up my back.  That is PMS to me.  Add a healthy dose of Post Partum Fuckiness to it (my youngest is 4.5 months old - we call him Pork Chop) and by anyone's terms, it is reasonable that my husband looks on me with cautious fear and a worry for his safety.

I used to be such a great fucking sport.  I was the Go Along Gal, "yeah, whatever, I'm cool."  Well, I am NOT cool.  I do NOT want to Go Along.  And it's more, "nah, notanything, I'm a bitch."  But something about motherhood changed the nature of my DNA.  I'm not so handicapped that I think that DNA itself can change, but I think that essence IN our DNA that makes us US, our soul, for the lack of a better term, can change after forcing humans out of ones naughty bits.  I went from a totally satisfactory Type B Go Along Gal to a COMPLETE and UTTER Type A Do The Fuck What I Want Because I Am A Control Freak And I Will Fuck Your Shit Up If You Don't.  I was the Go Along Gal, shit, but it's tiring writing that over and over, let's just call her GAG, when I met my hub, let's call him Hub, so you can see that it has been quite a learning experience for him...  Men say, "She's not the woman I married."  Well, for fucks sake, after you put your sperm in her and forced her to carry your spawn for nearly 10 months, do you expect her to be GAG still?! 

Anyhoo, so when my eldest Loin Popper came home for the first time, all of a sudden my inner Slobby Pig sprouted wings and flew away!  It was so odd having a clean kitchen every day.  I knew the "schedule" for the next MONTH!  I had a LIST when I went shopping!  I NEVER had to race to the store for diapers!  I mean, 10 months prior to that momentous occasion, I had sent my poor newly banded Hub to the store to get me tampons and chocolate because I'd "forgotten" that I get kinda bloody once per month for the last, oh, 17 years...  But this new Organizational Whiz that was born on the date of my eldest's birth (let's dub him B), forced GAG out of my DNA and brought in Angry Bitch. 

Don't get me wrong, I've been an angry bitch before.  Like when I get cut off on the freeway when I'm trying to cut someone ELSE off.  Or when I've bought the most vomitously darling new stilettoes and find they've been put on sale the next week.  Or when I've made a total slutty ass of myself in front of/or with a Hot Guy and then he doesn't call.  Those are all times I've railed against humanity and the injustice of it all...  But to be Capitalized, a true Angry Bitch, there MUST be Post Partum Fuckiness juices running amok inside the shattered shell that was once high and tight and decided to become a mother instead of bouncing coins off her abs (just an illustration, I have not intimately known those abs, myself, sadly).  Tranny's can be angry bitches, but the injustice of not having been born a woman is more of either a Psychotic Bitch or a Mangry Bitch (angry in a much more mannish way, therefore not quite the same as an Angry Bitch).  Women who have not birthed children can be angry bitches, of course, but not at quite the same level of someone having labored and freely given up the beautiful folds of vaginal exquisiteness for ripply roast beef lips (although as a friend/proofreader pointed out, her child was born via emergency exit - fyi: that is NOT her ass, haha - that even though her labia are in fine form, she is definitely an Angry Bitch, as only Post Partum hormones can create...so I stand corrected).  For example, I was adopted, so my own Mother, while I will attest to her ability to hone in on a perfect example of angry b****iness, can never truly be an Angry B****, since she has obviously outwitted Mother Nature by adopting BOTH of her children.  She falls into the category of Passive Aggressive B**** or Guilt Trips Like A Jewish Grandmother B**** or Sits Back And Allows Her Children To Make Huge Asses Of Themselves So They Can Learn A Lesson B**** (she's my mother, c'mon, I can't call her a B****).  Of course, she's reached the age of Menopause, so that brings its own lovely B**** bracket, so she's pretty well covered.

Anyways, back to Angry Bitch Numero Uno.  It was really hard on Hub when I had a shitstorm combo of PPD and new hormones from the Mirena IUD doing a happy dance and having crazy coo coo chillens.  I HATED him.  I was Angry Bitch squared, maybe cubed.  I do wonder sometimes what it must have been like for him.  But then I remember labor and the state of my vag and I go, "Meh."  I suppose that's not super supportive.  But I'm a wife, not a jock strap (yeah, Bones!).  Things are mostly better now, but even though I'm not bloody, apparently I'm back on my cycle (I'm exclusively breast feeding, shall we save some time with EBF, so luckily the crimson tide hasn't returned yet) hormonally so I am just WICKED today.  Bitchy to my customers at work (very odd, I'm usually quite good at compartmentalizing), dropped a couple S-bombs while talking to my boss, and then...drum roll...  I totally fucked up with my kid.  :(

Yes, that was a frowny face.  I utilize them a lot.  Get over it.

Let me take this opportunity to let the Grammar Nazi's out there know that they can officially Fuck Off.  I will spell how I think it sounds unless it's a real word, then I will spell it correctly.  If you think it's not a word, it probably isn't and that's how I roll.  If it's a word that you think is real but misspelled...YOU are wrong.  You might want to get your learning checked.

So I was fucking up with my kid.  It was a long day.  I was tired.  Nothing spectacular happened, just regular shit: house, food, bills, work, interspersed with kid and baby.  Oh, and with the raging shitstorm.  I finally get home and it's only an hour and a half until B's bedtime.  B wanted me to put him to bed so badly (usually Daddy does this as I am knee deep in my well deserved glass of vodka, er, wine, by B's bedtime) so I thought I had it in me to read a book and call it good...  Ah, not so simple.  As I'm kissing him goodnight and about to close the door, I hear a "Mommy, I want you to sing to me."

Fuuuuucccck.

It is REALLY hard to sing lovingly to your child when bashing your face into the wall sounds a lot more fun because the crazies are crawling up your back and gouging your eyeballs out.  I tried to hum along with a lullaby cd.  No dice.  "I want to hear you siiiiinnnnng, Mommy!"  So of course, my first instinct is to CONTROL the situation, "No, B, it's time for bed, I'm turning off the lights, goodnight."  Cue the uncontrollable wailing.  It was the most heartbreaking sound I've heard since at least the night before last. "I...(heave)....just...(heave)...want...(sob)...you...(sob.)...to sing...(heave)...to meeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!"  ...Just as I am about to say, "FOR FUCKS SAKE, KID, WHATD'YA WANT FROM ME!" (not really, I actually don't curse in front of my kid, but from reading this you can see how fucking difficult that endeavor is, but I really wanted to say that to him) I realize that my son is 3.  Now, I knew that before, but it really hit me that in another 10 years, he will be embarrassed by me singing (God Almighty, why isn't he embarrassed now, that's the question!).  My son actually WANTED me to screech at him in my dulcet sand paper tones.  How much longer will he want that?!  I actually started crying, I was so ashamed that I'd tried to brush him off, or even worse, make him feel badly for asking me to sing!  I was ashamed that I've been peeling him off of me the last few days and needing SPACE.  I'll have space enough in the shitty old folks home he and his brother will put me in after I've killed their father with my incessant nagging and bitching and crotchety attitude...  Hmm.  Wow, I really paint a pretty picture!  :)

Needless to say, I've learned a lesson today.  So that makes today worth it.  And even though that Monkey is on my back (not the one B named Peanut Butter, probably George) and I'm one inch away from throwing this computer through the window, I've been laughing despite myself...  Hub thinks that I "probably need anal sex" to feel better, and after pouring me a double glass of Chuck 2.5 Pinot Grigio (we so klassy, yo) stated, "maybe I'll get head after all" and then after I said, "probably not" he replied, "It's not like I believe what I say but semen will make you feel better."  ...Life is pretty good, shitstorm and all.  Well played, Hub, well played.

PS: My Hub is a sweet, darling man and has requested that I inform those of you who don't know me already that I'm not actually as bitchy as it seems in what I've written.  If it weren't obvious already, I'm very hormonally charged and vibrating with the crazies.  ...Maybe he'll get head after all. ;)