I’m a Jinius

-I totally forgot to renew my domain name so I spent the better part of Wednesday frantically emailing my host server. I was scared that if I didn’t renew right away that some spam spider would kidnap my domain and make it into a porn site (this is what happened when I deleted my blogger account). So if one day you click on my blog only to find nsfw content, then you know it’s because I am too irresponsible to maintain a blog.

-Speaking of flakiness, I unwittingly walked around the office wearing one brown high heeled shoe and one black high heeled shoe. It’s not like they are even the same style or heel height. Sometimes I also leave books in the refrigerator. And sometimes I buy groceries but leave them at the checkout counter. I guess I am just always wrapped in reverie. Or I’m just exhibiting early signs of Alzheimers.

-My weekend was awesome. Spent most of the time catching up with peeps I haven’t seen in forevs. On Friday, I met up with Vidya and her boyfriend for happy hour(s). Devoted most of the time crushing on Don Draper on Mad Men. Then I went home and caught an episode of Mad Men and fell asleep. Was awakened at midnite by a phone call from Henri saying that he was at Angels and Kings so I got my ass out of bed and met up with him.

-Angels and Kings is owned by Pete Wentz of Fall Out Boy and Flat Ironed Hair Fame. The bar is okay but I am convinced that there are no more good bars in the East Village. ANOTHER good reason to move to Brooklyn SOON.

-There was a group of underaged girls in black wigs there. I know they were underaged and wearing wigs because Henri’s friend hooked up with one of them.

-Don’t trust girls in black wigs.

-I don’t wear a black wig thank you very much.

-On Saturday, went to PS1 with Henri and Vidya. If you guys have never been to PS 1 then hurry up and go now! Basically, it’s an afternoon dance party at the Museum of Modern Art’s Long Island City location. They have DJs and you can drink beer while looking at LOTS of attractive people. Oh, and art installations. But SERIOUSLY I think all the attractive people came out of hiding and went to PS 1.

-I even saw this dude I sorta dated in high school! (I say sorta because is it really considered dating when all you ever did was hangout at your locker between classes?) Anyway, I didn’t say hi because I was afraid he wouldn’t recognize me. And he obviously didn’t because he walked right in front of me and didn’t say anything.

-After PS 1, Henri and I went to a beer garden in Williamsburg. Drank too many belgian ales and ate bratwurst. Met a boy and exchanged the digits. We may have exchanged smoochies as well. Tee-hee.

-On Sunday, I had Sunday FunDay with Vidya and Sabbie. We started off at Inoteca and had panini and rosaaaay. Sabs had to leave afterwards so Vidya and I headed to Spitzers for more rosaaaay. During Sunday Funday it is imperative to drink a minimum of two alcoholic beverages and bar hop to at least two bars. It’s called Sunday FunDAY for a reason. It has to take up the entire day.

-The bartender at Spitzers kept commenting that we looked like we were having alot of fun. For some reason, Vidya and I always manage to be the loudest people anywhere. We are probs the loudest people in Manhattan.

-Then we drunk dialed Ursy–an original member of the Sunday Funday clan. She didn’t pick up so we left a long, rambling message. Something to the effect of “Omigod I’m so drunk and Sunday Funday isn’t the same without youuuuuu.”

-After Spitzers we headed to Schillers for jalapeno margaritas and mac n cheese. The bartender totally judged us for being too drunk. He said, “You’re drunk.” I don’t know why he thought that. I mean, we had only been drinking for,oh, seven hours.

-I’ve been trying not to go out during the week. Instead I spend my time watching old episodes of Mad Men and trying to finish The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. If you like tales about comic books, the immigrant experience, and World War 2, then you will probs like this book. I’ve already teared up about three times. The first time I cried I was on a plane to Vegas and thought it was just the altitude but I don’t have an excuse as to why I teared up the subsequent times.

-I am swooning over the clothes in Mad Men. I even went shopping for high waisted pencil skirts. From now on, I will prance around town in pencil skirts and heels whilst brandishing a cigarette in one hand and a glass of rye on the other. This may prove problematic on the subway.

-Oh, and between watching Mad Men and reading Kavalier and Clay (which takes place in the 1940s when the U.S. produced more tobacco than food), all I want to do is smoke cigarettes.

-So the dude I met on Saturday was actually pretty cool. He’s half Jewish and half Latin. Works in the film industry so he’s creative but also smart. He’s really nice and NORMAL. Oh, and he’s MY AGE. And he has a BEARD. He’s like a walking Jinius archetype!!!

-But then the next day I freaked out and hoped he wouldn’t call me because I am so fucked up with intimacy issues. I like to sabotage things before they even form and make excuses like “oh, what if he gets in the way of my social life or oh, what if my friends don’t like him?” I mean, who does that after meeting someone for the first time? Oh, yeah, ME.

-So the title of this post is a line from Mad Men. Don Draper jokingly tells his beatnik mistress that they should get married. She dismisses him with: “I don’t make plans and I don’t make breakfast.” This line captures my view on relationships. Oh, except I will make challah back french toast.

-But, of course, now that he hasn’t called, I want him to call me.

-I need therapy!

monologue from thejinius on Vimeo.

I love Vegas.

I love that Vegas is wrapped in a miasma of consumerism, vulgarity, and fake tits. Everything is fake. From the ersatz sky in Caesar’s Palace to the replicas of the Eiffel Tower and Brooklyn Bridge. I love that you see the same senior citizens at the same slot machine at all hours, gambling away their social security. I love the guidos in Armani Exchange shirts, collectively wearing so much hair gel that they are a sea of patent leather heads. I love the girls wearing their cleavage like it’s the new black. Or the morbidly obese who unapologetically wear string bikinis in public (I still demand an apology!) And I love all the families. “Hey, kids, today we’re gonna gamble away your college savings!” I love that they pay ten dollars to wait in a twenty minute line for the Eiffel Tower experience. I wanted to remind them, “Hey, you do know this isn’t the real Eiffel Tower, right?”

I love Vegas because it is designed to gratify your id. And with all the eating and drinking I accomplished this weekend, I am evidently stuck in the oral stage.

I flew to Vegas on Thursday morning for my friend Chelsea’s 30th birthday. (We met through my friend Sarah who is Prom Date’s sister. See all the connections?)

Chelsea is like a pint sized version of Karen from Will & Grace. She lives on the Upper East Side and has a tiny dog named Sylvie. If she could carry around a flask of champagne around her neck, she would, and probably has. She isn’t afraid to tell strangers to fuck off or fuck you or any derivative of the word fuck. She is awesome.

I met Sarah through my friend Prom Date. He always thought that the two of us would get along “swimmingly”. He is also the type of person that says “swimmingly” in the colloquial. Sarah and I became fast friends through our shared fondness for good food, strong drinks, and hot boys. She is usually the voice of reason, the fulcrum that centers me and Chelsea when we get off the ground. Sometimes literally.

The three of us hail from Florida. The three of us like to drink. And the three of us certainly like to eat. I don’t know what it is about people from the Sunshine State, but when we get together we like to party hardy.

Did I just say party hardy?

We stayed in a suite at The Bellagio. We had THREE bathrooms. There was so much space that Chelsea’s mother encouraged us to meet boys and bring them to our hotel room. (Unfortunately, I did not bring any boys because I don’t like dudes with patent leather heads!) There was also a mini fridge that housed an endless supply of champagne.

I never thought I would say this…

But I don’t think I can ever drink champagne again.

SERIOUSLY.

My piss is carbonated.

In the mornings, we’d wake up and have chocolates and champagne. A veritable breakfast of champions. (more…)

Now that we are approaching August, I am trying to live each day like it’s the last day of summer. That means every day should involve at least one or two of the following: barbecue, pool party, rosaaay, Daisy Dukes and bourbon.

And this weekend my friends and I manage to do all those things. (more…)

1. So last night I am out with Michael and his friends at Spitzers (be tee dubs I am OBSESSED with their BLT&E sandwich. I want to carry its picture in my wallet and call it every night) and I get a text. It is from the bearded guy. He has sent me about three texts in the past week and I have not responded. I feel like at this point it is just better to ignore than respond. I mean, how do you break up with someone when you were never dating in the first place?

His text says: Hey are you mad at me you don’t answer my text

I am with a bunch of dudes and they all think that I should just politely tell him I’m not interested because it’s the nice thing to do and it will impede him from texting again. I don’t know about you, people with feelings, but if someone sent me a text expressing they were not interested in me I think I would cry and then eat the entire contents of my fridge.

So I text my girlfriends and ask what they would do to show how differently girls and guys respond.

Ursy says: Tell him you are supermad at him or tell him you moved.

(I like this one)

Vidya says: No u should not respond. unless you want that kind of attention which I assume u don’t.

(For the record, I do not appreciate slightly creepy verbiage via text. Although I would have nothing to blog about if i didn’t receive them.)

Sarah says: If you must, say: I am not angry or upset, this is just not going to work.

(Sarah sounds like a dude)

2. Mean Girls was on the other day and it’s just one of those movies that gets funnier with each viewing. My new favorite line is: I don’t hate you because you’re fat. You’re fat because I hate you.

I am soooo gonna say that to my friends.

3. I texted the bartender last night and he never wrote me back. I am tempted to text: Are you mad at me? You don’t answer my text.

4. See, guys do this shit to girls all the time. And as long as women refer to men to make their moral decisions, the world will continue to be populated by assholes and liars.

5.So that was the first time I ever texted the bartender to hangout. And I think it will also be my last. Whatevs, at least my texts make sense. The bartender’s texts are like the Da Vinci Code and I need Tom Hanks to explicate them.

6.I can see the search words people use on this blog and I guess guys I formerly dated are reading it because they are typing their name in the search box. Are you really that vain to think that I would blog about you and use your real name? Because everyone knows I use really creative nicknames. Like the bearded guy!

7. I have stomach cellulite. I know, I know, HOT. So I googled how to get rid of it because I thought you could only get cellulite on your legs but apparently you can also get it on your stomach and arms. Ugh.

So these are some of the causes:

Cellulite on the stomach, especially in the lower portion, are thought to be linked to digestive disorders. Indeed, many women with stomach cellulite have irritable bowel, constipation, or liver disorders.

True. True. Double True.

A month ago, I received a call from Citibank notifying me that my card was compromised and that they would be blocking my card. I corrected them and said my account wasn’t comprised. I was just broke. You may all remember when I was on the poverty diet? My account had slipped to the double digits and I guess Citibank suspected fraud. I told them not to block my card because I had no other means of obtaining cash.

Fast forward to today.

I try to pay my utility bills online and my card number doesn’t go through. I call Citibank to find out what’s going on and it turns out that they blocked my card because they were worried my account was compromised EVEN THOUGH I TOLD THEM A MONTH AGO THAT THERE WAS NO QUESTIONABLE ACTIVITY I WAS JUST REALLY POOR THAT MONTH.

I’m pissed off for three reasons:

1. I don’t understand why they cut off your card before you receive your new card
2. I don’t understand why they cut off card even though you’ve already clarified that there was no misuse
3. I don’t understand why it takes a MONTH to get your new card

If Citibank is that concerned about my financial well-being, don’t you think they’d at least overnight my new card? How’s that for a novel idea? Hmmm Citibank? Even Amex overnighted my new card when I didn’t get it on time! You can even overnight lobster rolls. Did you know that Citibank? If you can overnight perishable items then maybe you can also mail new debit cards!!!!

And on top of that, I’m going away this weekend and going on vacation next week. THIS IS HIGHLY INCONVENIENT!

The worst part of this whole ordeal is the glib customer service. They actually end the calls with “Hope you have a great day.” Oh, yes, it’s so great living in New York without any access to cash.

Have a great day.

I’m having a craptastic day thank you very much!

Evidently they will supply me with a temporary atm card that is only valid for a week. Who knows when I’ll even get my new card? It’s probably floating in some postal black hole with Victorias secret catalogs.

Why?

WHY???

WHYYYYY IS LIFE SO DIFFICULT?!?!

And you know when you have one of these days, a really trivial problem suddenly snowballs into detesting your life and convincing yourself that you will die alone.

I will die alone and penniless while Citibank wishes me a great day.

My first lie was about going to church.

My family and I lived in an area of Miami, Florida that was predominantly Cuban. We, along with the people who worked at the one Chinese restaurant, were the only Asians in the area and probably the entire state. I was six years old and thought spanish was the national language of America and that everyone ate arroz con pollo.

My parents enrolled me at a Christian private school even though they were both Buddhists. I don’t think my parents cared if the school inculcated biblical lessons as long as they taught me how to read. But aside from the morning prayers, my school wasn’t that pious. My teacher even read us Charlotte’s Web after lunch. And even though I was the only Asian kid at a Christian school, I still felt like I belonged. My class was small–about six kids–and we were all friends. We didn’t see any differences. We just all played together during recess.

But then one Monday morning this would all change.

My teacher asked each student to tell the class what they did that weekend.

Most of the stories varied and involved some kind of family outing like the beach or the zoo. But they all shared one common activity. Each student mentioned that on Sundays they went to church with their family. My turn was coming up and I didn’t know what to say. My family did not go to church on Sundays. My family and I went to McDonalds and ate hotcakes. I grew nervous. Would my teacher yell at me if I said we didn’t go to church? Would she tell the principal and have me kicked out? Would the other kids still play with me? Would everyone think I was some impostor and have me shipped back to Korea?!?!

So when my turn came, I talked about my weekend and at the end I said, “And then on Sunday we all went to church.”

Just like that.

The words just tumbled out. Oh, yes, church. Go there all the time. I love Jesus.

I was convinced that my teacher would see through my feeble attempt to come across as a devout Christian but she didn’t say anything. And for the rest of the school year, I had no problem telling everyone in class that I went to church on Sundays. Of course, at that age I never saw the irony that I was lying about going to church and thus, committing a sin in the eyes of god, but whatever. At least I fit in.

My second biggest lie was after we moved away from the Cuban neighborhood to this area called Pinecrest. If Southwest Dade was predominantly Cuban then Pinecrest was all white people. Like the white people I would see on tv shows. They were blonde and tan and had names like Jessica and Jennifer.

My new neighborhood had a lot of kids my age. Every single girl was blonde. All the houses had swingsets on their front yard and a basket ball hoop on top of their garage. Our house had weird smells of fish stew emanating from the kitchen. Other kids were allowed to roam around their house with their soiled sneakers. We had to leave our shoes by the door and come in barefoot.

My family and I stuck out like a cold sore.

When the girls finally introduced themselves to me, they said their names were Holly, Claire, Jennifer, Allison.

It was my turn.

I told them my name was Jennifer.

To me, Jennifer seemed like the most American of American names. And in that instant I had a new biography. Isn’t that what America was all about? To carve yourself a better identity? And in my eyes, I was a Christian girl named Jennifer.

Amazingly, my parents never noticed that all these kids were calling me by a totally different name. So this advanced my new identity. Until we started school and my teacher called out my real name.

So that’s when I learned my two biggest lessons about lying. One, you will always get caught. And two, when creating a new identity for yourself, it is probably unwise to give fake names to people that go to your school.

I just spent the past thirty minutes reading Rachel Shukert’s essays on Salon and Nerve. I instantly knew that I would like her writing when I saw the title of her Salon essay: Sweat, barbecues, bathing suits, I hate summer.”

Do you ever read someone’s work and think oh my gosh this person is JUST LIKE ME only I’m the Korean version of them? Okay, I guess you wouldn’t be the Korean version–unless you are Korean–in which case may I ask why you are reading this blog instead of studying to be a doctor?

After reading her essay, I scoured the internet for more pieces and came across her bio. She was one of the few Jewish kids in a small town in Nebraska. I was one of the only Korean kids in my small town. Okay, so by small town I mean Miami, Florida. She studied theater. I studied theater! She married an alien and experienced the onerous immigration process in this country. I AM an alien and need someone to marry me so I can endure the onerous immigration process. She’s a contributing writer for Salon. I wrote two pieces for Salon and then the editors decided they didn’t want to run both stories. Oh, and she also has a book out called Have You No Shame and Other Regrettable Stories.

Er, I guess it’s not really considered parallel lives when the other person is in a completely different plane.

But I plan on buying her book and reading it on my trip to Vegas. I figure Vegas is the perfect place to veil yourself in shame.

It is so hot in New York right now that the city feels like it is wrapped in a hot, wet towel. It is so hot that I had three nervous breakdowns in the span of half an hour. It is so hot that you could get drunk off of one beer. It is so hot that when I said goodbye to Ursy on her last night in New York, I cried and had no tears left because I was so dehydrated. No, I still cried like a big baby. But more on that later.

Thursday

For Ursy’s last weekend in New York, we decided to eat at Supper Restaurant in the East Village for her last supper.

Supper is one of my favorite Italian restaurants in the city. It’s laid back, the food is good, and it’s inexpensive. My only complaint is that the hostess acts like the Mayor of Stankonia. I don’t understand the need for such attitude when ostensibly the hostess’s role is to greet and welcome the customers. The hostess sets the tone for the rest of the evening. And she started it on a bitter note. Hello, we are in a recession. If you want asses in your seats then you need to treat people like you actually want them in your restaurant.

Basically, she wouldn’t seat the two of us until Sabbie showed up. Okay, I get that some restaurants don’t like to seat you until your whole party arrives–especially if your restaurant is busy and there are other parties waiting. But we were just three people. It’s not like we were a party of twenty and only two of us had shown up. And the restaurant was not that busy. Plus, did I mention how freaking how it is in New York and that we were grilling on the sidewalk like fucking shawarma?!?!

So Sabbie shows up and we are finally seated. And the rest of the meal was lovely because it’s not really about the restaurant but the people you are with. And these are my favorite lizzadies. Oh, and it also helped that the waiter gave us a bowl of icecream on the house. Fabulosity! (more…)