Scribblings and Bibblings

25 random things about my mom

2010-05-04T22:49:00.000-07:00

Mother's Day is this weekend and I've been thinking a lot about my mom and missing her terribly. I don't know what she would have made of Facebook, or the fact that I have friends I've never actually met face to face. I want to think she'd like it - especially as Facebook has let me keep in touch with relatives and friends who live all over the globe.

So, to celebrate Mother's Day, I want to share 25 random things about my mom. There are many things about my mom to share, and were my sister and brother to share their own list, I'm sure they'd come up with different things. But... 25 seems like a good, round number. I hope you enjoy learning about my mom, and share your own list.

Happy Mother's Day!
25 Random things about My Mom

1. She was a HUGE New York Yankees fan. She loved Lou Piniella and Don Mattingly, especially. And a little guy she called Mike Pagalulu. We once took a drive to see Sweet Lou's house in Upper Saddle River, NJ. And she told me she'd like me to marry Mattingly. My sisters and I gave her a Cabbage Patch doll in a Yankees uniform for Mother's Day one year. She named him Donnie Junior and kept him with her to watch the games. (I have Donnie Junior now).

2. She had an amazing laugh. I wish I could explain it. It started out quiet, then got kind of rollicking. She didn't laugh a lot, but when she did, you couldn't help but laugh too.

3. Her name was Hyon, but everyone called her "Lee". Easier to spell and pronounce. But she made us call her "Mommy," no matter how old we got. We still call her "Mommy" when we talk about her. Even my dad calls her that when he talks about her.

4. She was a huge soap opera fan. From the time she moved to the US with my dad in the 60's, she watched the same shows: All My Children, One Life to Live, General Hospital. In later years, she'd tape each day's episode and watch when she got home from work.

5. She loved Christmas. Our tree was decorated with so many ornaments, candy canes and tinsel, you couldn't see the tree. My dad had to secure the tree to the ceiling to make sure it didn't topple over. We also got cans of "snow" to spray in all the windows. And Christmas lights stayed up outside the house all year round. She also never failed to give us socks in our stockings, in addition to other little gifts.

6. She was a pro bowler. She bowled in several tournaments a year. She had a number of bowling balls and shoes ("for different lane conditions") and took most of them with her. She'd never let us go watch, either. But she called every day to tell us how she did.

7. She was Korean but made a mean homemade spaghetti and meatballs, and baked ziti. I think my Aunts Ann, Cathy and Antionette helped her hone her Italian cooking skills a bit, but she was a whiz in the kitchen. And her garlic bread? Let's just say no vampires ever came to OUR house.

8. I once asked her for a recipe for bulgogi. She looked at me scornfully and said, "Recipe? Where's the recipe? You watch, taste, learn." So I watched, tasted and learned. Later on, I found a cook book that she and other members of the greater Washington, DC chapter of the Korean-American Wives Club put together. Inside: a recipe for bulgogi. But I still go by what I learned by watching her.

9. I played softball for 5 years. She never missed a game. She might not have gotten there for the beginning sometimes because of work, but she was always there for the last few innings.

10. She always drove about ten miles UNDER the speed limit, and moved her seat up so she was almost right up against the steering wheel. She didn't like to drive with me. Once, I drove her home from my older sister's house in Newark. I thought she'd fallen asleep. When we got home, I proudly told my dad that Mommy was comfortable riding in the car with me because she'd fallen asleep. She retorted, "Asleep? I was too scared to open my eyes!"

11. She was a huge fan of "Wheel of Fortune" and "The Price is Right." One year, she went to bowl in the National Championships in Pasadena, so I got her and her team tickets to "The Price is Right." Not only did they get to see the show, they got a tour of the studio and got to meet Bob Barker. She thought I'd set that up, but I hadn't. She didn't tell her friends - she let them continue thinking that I rocked.

12. She liked gefilte fish.

13. She made some pretty amazing fruit cake.

14. She had 2 refrigerators. One for groceries. The other for kimchee.

15. She met my dad when she was a teacher in Korea and he was stationed there. He said he and a couple of other soldiers went to the school to help move furniture. She was the only one who spoke English well enough to tell them where to put everything. He says, "And she's been telling me what to do since then."

16. Her favorite musical was "Phantom of the Opera." She went to see it a number of times, with a number of family members. She played the soundtrack a lot at home. She also liked the movie and soundtrack to "Dirty Dancing" and "Best Little Whorehouse in Texas."

17. She loved the "Indiana Jones" movies. But she'd leave the room whenever a scene involving snakes came on the screen. She hated snakes.

18. She was able to go home to Korea for the 1988 Summer Olympics. She loved watching summer and winter games. Her favorite events were: figure skating, gymnastics and track and field. She may have liked other events. I just can't remember all of them right now.

19. She loved watching Miss Universe pageants and always rooted for Miss South Korea.

20. She loved Johnny Mathis, Jim Nabors and Andy Williams. Her favorite song was "Danny Boy." My dad and I danced to Andy Williams' version of that song in her memory at my wedding. Every Christmas, she played Johnny Mathis' Christmas album. I'm sure my brother and sisters could sing you pretty much any Johnny Mathis Christmas song.

21. When I worked for a PR company in NYC, one of the clients was Andy Williams. When I told him my mom was a fan, he autographed a photo for her. When I gave it to her, she didn't believe he'd signed it. She thought I had done it. When I saw him again, he asked if my mom had liked the photo. When I told him that she thought I'd forged his signature, he had me call her, then chatted with her for several minutes. After their conversation, she yelled at me for telling him that she'd thought I'd forged his signature. But I know she was pleased.

22. She once had me call in sick to work, and stand in line for hours outside Penn Station in NYC to buy lottery tickets for her because the jackpot was something ridiculously high. As my luck would have it, a TV news crew showed up to interview people in line! I managed to hide my face and my boss never found out. Or maybe she did but decided not to say anything. (BTW, we did NOT win that jackpot)

23. She LOVED going to Atlantic City. She loved slot machines, period. A few New Year's Eves were spent at Bally's Casino. We'd start by eating the buffet, then having a champagne toast at midnight. Then, it was time to play the slots until the sun came up. She was pretty lucky, too. She usually won a good chunk of change. One year, she bowled in a tournament in Reno, Nevada. Every time she called home, we could hear slot machines in the background. She'd excitedly tell us she was playing slots at the supermarket. At the airport. At the gas station. And at the bowling alley!

24. She had a calculator in her head. She could add and subtract columns in her mind.

25. My mother was a tough, strict, determined woman. But she could not beat the illness that shut her liver down. She passed away on May 8, 1991 at the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center, where she'd been flown to undergo a liver transplant. Unfortunately, she was too sick to undergo the surgery. Visitation for her took place over Mother's Day weekend. We didn't think many people would come on Mother's Day, but the funeral home was packed. What a great testament to a woman who left her country and lived the life of an Army family and raise 5 kids. I like to think we all came out all right. <3

The Birthday Present

2010-02-16T00:18:00.001-08:00

My sister gave me the most awesome birthday gift: a pair of VANS sneakers. I have coveted these shoes since the new boy showed up in English class wearing a pair. He also wore ripped jeans, listened to punk music and was from Southern California. Back then, in the stuffy classrooms of Kaiserslautern American High School in Germany, those shoes represented more than the hippest of “hip” in style. To this awkward girl raised by a strict Korean mother, they represented freedom; a type of freedom I dreamed about when closeted in my bedroom, listening to KISS and Judas Priest and Duran Duran.

I already knew about the skateboarding craze lighting up Southern California; knew about the tremendous feats of guys like Tony Alva, Jay Adams and Stacy Peralta (Note: if you want to learn more, I highly suggest you check out the documentary “Dogtown and Z Boys” – very aptly put together by Peralta). I even dragged my friend Pat to see the cheesy movie “Skateboard” because, well, it featured the guys named above, plus it starred Leif Garrett (don’t ask). I learned how to skateboard. It wasn’t easy but boy was it fun (Hint: it’s all about balance). I learned about the punk rock movement; about bands like Black Flag, TSOL, X, the glorious Sex Pistols and PiL.

I moved to New York City at 19. Saw the movie “Surburbia” and longed to live like the homeless kids depicted in the movie, who squatted in abandoned homes and buildings by day and haunted the LA punk scene by night. I managed a little of that lifestyle when I lived in an abandoned apartment in Alphabet city for a few weeks with my friend Rebekah, who lost her apartment. We lived on free coffee and day old bagels that the guy who worked the counter at the Astor Place diner gave us. I eventually found other places to live, and Rebekah went back home to the Midwest.

I dove into the heavy metal scene and never looked back. Sang in bands. Went to see bands. Wrote about bands. Worked at record companies. I truly did live a life of freedom for several years, then moved on. Had to, really, but that’s another story.

I moved south and got myself a career and a family. We moved and moved again to further my career. Somewhere during that time, I grew up. Responsibilities and all that. You know how it goes. Where I once reveled in a brush with homelessness, I now strove to make sure my son has a roof over his head and food in his stomach. Where I once reveled in a carefree lifestyle, I now stressed over quitting my job without a new one waiting in the wings. I stressed over budgets, groceries, gas, new glasses for Ian. I stressed more than smiled. Hid in the house, going out only when I needed to, to conserve gas. My sister and I went out to lunch for my birthday, using a gift card I received from Schwartz Brothers Restaurants. Later that week, she called and excitedly urged me to come to her house so she could give me my birthday present, which had just arrived. When she called, I had been stressing about something (I don’t remember now) and didn’t want to leave the house, but I did. She made coffee and thrust a big gift bag into my lap. First, I opened two birthday cards (one funny, one heartfelt). Next, I opened the “smaller” gift – a beautiful book filled with the wisdom of Bruce Lee, accompanied by beautiful photos and artwork. Then, I pulled out a big, oblong box with the familiar “Vans” logo, and stopped. Not only had Kimberly gotten me Vans, she had gotten me special, limited edition “Iron Maiden” Vans. Slip ons, just like I’ve coveted for a long, long time.

I stripped off my socks and jammed my feet into the shoes. Immediately, the years melted away. I’ve worn my Vans grocery shopping. I’ve worn them to go pay bills. And even though my situation hasn’t changed (I still haven’t found a job; we still have budget issues), my problems don’t seem so insurmountable anymore. I know I’m smiling more. There’s definitely a spring in my step.

Today, while standing in line at Starbucks, a woman looked at my shoes and gasped, “Are those Iron Maiden Vans?” “Yes. Yes they are!” I proudly replied. “Where did you get them?” she demanded, keeping her eyes trained at my feet. “My awesome sister got them for me for my birthday,” I answered. The woman finally looked at me. She seemed to be my age and as our eyes met, I knew exactly what she was feeling. She was coveting my Vans… and dreaming of freedom.

The Mother I Couldn't Help

2010-01-27T14:24:00.000-08:00

It started out innocuously enough.

Elizabeth, our assignment editor, called out, "Su, do you speak Korean?"

"Yes," I answered. "Why?"

"The woman on the phone needs someone who can speak Korean."

So… I picked up the phone.

The woman on the other end introduced herself and gave me her background.

She had raised two sons alone, after her husband left years ago.

She was proud that she'd never needed welfare.

She'd never used food stamps.

She'd worked several jobs at once to pay off a house.

Her sons were fine young men.

Until her eldest, just 19, left a note and vanished.

What kind of note? I asked.

A suicide note, she said frantically.

At which time, someone else picked up the phone and yelled, "It's not a suicide note!"

The other son had joined the conversation.

He was nasty to me. I understood. He had a hatred for all things media.

But I was not going to take his tone, especially toward his mother, so I admonished him.

"Do not disrespect your mother like that, especially in front of a stranger."

He hung up.

She called back.

Talked some more.

I asked her to read me the "suicide note."

It turned out to be one of the most eloquent letters I've ever heard, written by a 19 year old.

It paid homage to his mother's love.

To her amazing work ethic.

To the love she gave him and his brother as she worked to keep a roof over their heads.

Her voice cracked and she started crying as she read it.

I could feel the tears in my own eyes.

After she finished, I asked to speak to the other son again.

I wanted to get a sense of this family.

He refused at first, then he got on the phone.

I told him how amazing I thought his family was; how well-written his brother was; how loving their mother is—so desperate to keep her son out of harm's way.

I told him that I would not be splashing their story on TV, that I recognized in his mother my own mother, from similar backgrounds. Both worked hard to raise families, but in my case, my father DID stay around.

I told him his brother sounded like a wonderful person, and that her heartbreak broke my own heart.

"You don't know anything about my mother!" he shouted, after a long silence.

His mother got back on the phone.

Sadly, I told her that there was nothing I could do to keep him out of the Army.

He was legitimately recruited.

He was 19 years old.

She sobbed, "Going into the Army will kill him."

I could not reassure her that that was not the case, since I had 2 stories in my show THAT VERY NIGHT about two young soldiers killed – one – just 19 years old.

When I told her I could not help them, she grew quiet then thanked me for listening.

Then she hung up.

I cried helpless tears of heartbreak for her; for all the faceless mothers who feel that same desperation about their sons and daughters, joining the military, only to face dangerous and uncertain futures.

And I wondered if I will one day join their ranks.

The "F" Word

2010-01-27T14:19:00.001-08:00

Four little letters. One syllable. For me, the "F" word is NOT "FUCK". It's "FEAR." And I have been controlled by that word for far too many years.

When did it happen? When did FEAR move into my heart and hold me hostage?

It wasn't in my 20's. Then, I was FEARLESS. I moved into New York City with a box of records, a 25lb bag of rice and a huge jar of kimchee. I lived with a roommate who turned out to be kind of psychotic. I made $250 a week (before taxes) and still had money to eat and go out on weekends.

I rode the subway at 3am. I walked many places I would cringe to pass in a taxi now. I wore sunglasses at night. I got mugged twice. It didn't make me scared. It made me mad enough to carry a can of Raid around. I went to the Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens, even Staten Island on my own.

I auditioned for bands. I made friends with singers and ended up on stage, week after week. (One sweet man, Al, called me up on stage with him, 6 years after I left NYC and went back for a visit)

New York City was a giant playground and I enjoyed every second of my time there; the good, the bad and the indifferent.

It wasn't in my 30's. Alabama. A change of scenery. A return to sanity, so to speak. I needed to clean up my act, but even that thought didn't scare me. I called my best friend Pat (who saw me through so many drug-induced nights when I would call her at 3am and ramble for hours. She even called in sick to work some days, because she had been on the phone with me). Pat lived in Huntsville and said, "Come down."

I researched Huntsville. Rented an apartment and lined up an interview at a temp agency before I even left New Jersey. I drove down, pulling my worldly belongings (2 boxes of records, 3 boxes of books, some clothes, a battered stereo, a 25lb bag of rice and a giant jar of kimchee) in a U-Haul trailer hitched to my 1978 Chrysler Cordoba. My dad and my friend Claudia drove with me.

Once there, I set up- my apartment across from Pat's. I loved my one-bedroom apartment. I experienced joy there. I nursed heartbreak. I made a life-altering decision that I carry around with me still. But FEAR? FUGGEDABOUDIT.

Huntsville was a different playground, but once again, I climbed aboard for the ride. Community theater, temp jobs, unusual boyfriends (one had another girlfriend on the side who started calling me at all hours of the night, high on cocaine. I took her calls. I remembered a time, not so long before that, when I was the rambling voice on the other end). I broke up with Ryan, but remained friends with Tara until she vanished into a world of stripping and drugs.

I made friends with musicians. I ended up on stage, singing with some very fine people (Thank You, David, Antony and Andrew). I learned about tarot cards, crystals and Spirits That Should Not be Evoked. I learned about Wicca, Paganism and the need to nourish the earth. I started my TV news career.

Where was FEAR then? Nope, the only "F" word for me then was still "FUCK". I carried it around every day in my car- a button dangling from the rear view mirror that read: "FUCK YOU VERY MUCH".

I got pregnant. Got married. Got a job in Miami. Traded that one for a job in Seattle. Moved to Seattle. Got promoted. Again, then again. Won my first Emmy award. Won my second. Successful, right? But...somewhere during what should have been a time for celebrating success, FEAR moved into my life.

Now, I'm afraid all the time. Afraid to go to work. Afraid to show my feelings. Afraid to speak out. Afraid to believe in my own talents. Afraid to believe that should I fall, caring hands will catch me.

Each day, FEAR wakes me. "Well, good morning, Su! What can I make you fear today?"

Pat used to tell me that should a helicopter drop me in the wilderness somewhere, I would have a place to live, a job and daycare within three days. She said she never doubted that I would land on my feet, no matter what Life threw at me.

I'm not so sure now.

The Ring

2009-09-15T20:14:00.000-07:00

When I got ready for work last night, I did everything I usually do. I showered, did my hair, slathered on moisturizer, got dressed, spritzed perfume, put on my necklace. But I left one thing sitting on the bathroom vanity counter. I went to work without my wedding ring.

This was the first time in 14 years that I had intentionally not slipped the ring on. And my hand felt pretty naked without it. But this is also the first time that I've heard the words, "I don't love you like a wife. I don't want to be married anymore." Those words, while not really surprising, came as a shock nonetheless. And even though deep down inside, I understand and feel kind of the same way, the tears came. He kept apologizing. That only made me cry harder, even as I tried to say I understand.

Later, alone in bed, trying to catch a few hours sleep before having to wake up for work at 1am, his words came back to me over and over again. And I started wondering what happened to turn him away. Was it because I gained so much weight when I was pregnant and never lost it? Was it because I worked nights for so long that we didn't have much time together? Was it because I switched to the overnight shift and was too exhausted to do anything when I got home? Was I too selfish? Did I neglect him? Did he meet someone else? I asked him if there was anyone else and he said no. But don't people always say that? I don't know. I know that I could never have an affair, but that's me. But then again, I don't think anyone would give me a second look. And now, I face a future alone. As I wrote those words, the tears came again, hot and heavy. I'm afraid of that future. I'm not young. I'm not attractive. And boy, do I have a lot of baggage. No one will want to take that on.

So I brace myself. I have traveled this road alone before. I can do it again. Of course, I'm not truly alone. I have my son, who will split his time equally with both of us. For that, I'm grateful. I'm grateful that I don't face a long, bitter fight. We're not enemies. We're just not lovers. We're more like roommates who care about each other very much. I was willing to live with it. It wasn't bad. In fact, it was comfortable. But he can not live with it. And so he must go.

He says he's not in a hurry. In fact, he wants us to stay in the same house until the end of the year, at least. Maybe even longer. He doesn't want us to change our Facebook relationship status. The only sign that this marriage is over - the lack of jewelry on the third finger of our left hands. He says he lost his wedding band a couple of months ago. I believe him because he's never lied. I know exactly where my wedding ring is. It's sitting on the bathroom vanity, the diamond glittering in the silver setting. Icy, like my heart.

"Steel Goddesses": A novel about 80's heavy metal... and groupies

2009-08-23T08:53:00.001-07:00

Last month, I saw a lifelong dream come true when I became a published author. The road to publication was not as traditional as most authors', but the result turned out the same way. "Steel Goddesses" is available for sale on Amazon.com and I'm working to get it into bookshops around the Seattle area.

"Steel Goddesses" focuses primarily on three women and the paths they took to achieve their dreams during the early 80's, when heavy metal was in full swing and L'Amour was THE preeminent rock club for up and coming metal bands to play in the New York City area, and possibly, the US. White Lion was a fixture on the stage at the time. So was a little band called Metallica. Raven, Anthrax, TALAS (Billy Sheehan's first band), Exciter, Anvil, Yngwie Malmsteen, Loudness, Blue Oyster Cult (as "Soft White Underbelly"), Stryper. The list goes on and on. Bands that were big at the time (Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Motley Crue) didn't play at L'Amour, but bandmembers sure hung out there.

I was lucky to be part of the scene during that time and took in my share of bands, some more than others (I've seen Metallica so many times, I've lost count). I also met my fair share of "interesting" people, including some of the most hardcore groupies I've ever seen. I've taken all of those experiences and rolled them into a novel that is aimed at being both nostalgic and entertaining.

"Toni" is kind of like a Queen of the Groupies. I introduce a pimp-like character called Marius Man, who runs a sort of "heavy metal harem". As their leader, Toni pretty much gets her choice of any guy who plays at L'Amour. Business being what it is, Marius orders Toni to recruit more groupies, in order to spend one night with a man who has been out of her reach - a hunky guitarist named "Don". This is where the fun begins.

Toni begins grooming "Rusty", whose sole dream is to land a rich rock star as a boyfriend. Naive and extremely stacked, Rusty makes it a point to follow Toni's every instruction to a "T", with bittersweet results. Toni also tries to groom "Kris", a legal secretary trying to pursue a dream to be a rock journalist. But Kris has no intention of becoming a groupie, even as she harbors a secret crush on "Marty", singer for one of the biggest metal bands around.

Toni schemes desperately to get both girls on board, but seems to hit obstacles everywhere and each girl ends up taking a life-changing detour.

If you want to read more, here is the link to "Steel Goddesses" on Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/Steel-Goddesses-Ann-Brandt/dp/1434858553/ref=pd_rhf_p_t_2

Enjoy.
Su

Supermarket Karaoke - A New Game Show!

2009-03-17T05:14:00.000-07:00

I've found myself doing something a little strange lately, and I must admit, it's improving the quality of my grocery shopping. I park in the parking lot, hit the Starbucks next door and arm myself with a latte containing lots of caffeine, grab a cart, buckle my purse in, and away I go!

It happens as soon as I aim my cart toward the produce aisle. The music piping in from the overhead speakers permeates my brain, which blurts out, "Hey, I know this song!" Brain communicates with mouth and soon I am singing along. By the time I hit the cereal aisle, I've crooned 2 and a half songs. The other half of a song was ruined by announcements about fresh bread and a deli special. On that song, I kept singing and as soon as the announcement finished, the song resumed at the precise point where I was. The more comfortable I became, the louder I sang. I even broke into harmony on several songs.

As I unpacked the groceries at home, an idea struck me. This would be a great game show! We'd call it "Supermarket Karaoke". Contestants would win free products for every song they sang correctly. Extra points (or products) for those brave enough to harmonize. I think David Lee Roth would be a great host for this show. He's already shot one music video inside a small grocery store. I cant remember the name of the song but the video is very stark in my brain.

I was shopping the other day when that song, "What if God Was One of Us" came on. I started singing along enthusiastically, when something odd happened. As I finished one line, another voice joined in! We sang in unison until the chorus, when I broke off into a harmony. As the chorus ended, I rounded the corner and came face to face with my duet partner, another middle-aged mom like me. We finished the song, gave each other a high-five and moved on.

David Lee Roth, where are you?

Insecurities

2009-03-07T15:25:00.001-08:00

I love hockey. I love to watch it. I love to write about it. I hope to one day learn how to play. I love interviewing players, but I will never interview them face to face. It has to be done either by phone or email. At every Thunderbirds game I cover, the PR guy asks us during the third period, "Do you want to talk to the players?" I always say no. It's not because I'm shy or feel my hockey knowledge won't stand up. I say no because I don't want any player to look at me. I'm overweight. Strike that. I'm not overweight. I'm very overweight.

Sure, I'm working to lose it. I've gotten serious about my health. Actually, I've had to get serious. I've been diagnosed as being pre-diabetic. I have extremely high blood pressure. And I'm still young, dammit. I gained a lot of weight when I was pregnant and never lost it. Well, that's not exactly true. I did drop four sizes about 10 years ago, by diligently going to the gym every morning and walking on the treadmill for an hour. I know I can do it again. Yes, I have a few health challenges. I also have a few lingering aches from a car accident four years ago. But the fact remains that I can do it. I can lose weight.

But that doesn't change the way I look now and the way I feel about approaching hockey players. These guys are young and fit. They would look at me and just see the weight. They wouldn't see the pregnancy, the accident, the injuries. And no matter how well they've been brought up, they would not see past the weight to the brain that houses the passion for the game they play so well. I could not stand to see the disgust or even pity in their eyes.

So, I will continue to interview players by email or phone. I will continue to cover the games. But I will not meet any of these guys face to face, no matter how nice they seem. It's a step I just can't take.

Ride the Wave... or Freeze

2009-02-21T23:41:00.000-08:00

Lately, I've been feeling the pull of the ocean, even though I haven't set foot near the water.
No, the ocean I'm feeling is churning inside me, calling on me to make the changes I so desperately need to make.

But do I move to make the changes? No. I'm still standing, feet planted in the sand, even as the tide swirls around my bare ankles, shifting the sand around and under my feet, unbalancing me.
I catch myself as I start to fall, and as the tide rolls out, I right myself and brace for the next wave.

Why am I so scared to ride that wave of change? Why do I buck against it, standing rigid, absorbing each swell that soaks me to the bone, when it would be so much easier to let go and let the wave take me on a wild and joyous ride to shore?

I spent a summer on the Maryland coast. I remember body surfing from sunup until my dad called us for dinner, skin wrinkled like a raisin, teeth blue and chattering, heart pumping blood throughout my body so forcefully, I could hear the "whoosh-whoosh" in my ears. I remember the feeling of complete abandonment, the excitement of not knowing just where I would land. Oh, to relive those days again, even if only figuratively.

What am I waiting for?

Confessions of a Java Hussy

2009-02-21T23:39:00.000-08:00

I'm having an affair and I don't feel one bit guilty. Actually, if I'm truly honest with myself, I'm having several affairs. At the same time.

I know!

I live dangerously!

There's the Colombian. Ah… what a way to wake up. He's rich, smooth and knows just how to get my brain cells going. I need the Colombian before I hit the shower. Buenos Dias, indeed!

At lunch, I have a quickie with the Frenchie. My friends say Frenchie comes on too strong, but I like strong! Sometimes, I only have 10 minutes for Frenchie, but boy does he make those ten minutes count and sends me off with a buzz to beat the band!

Before dinner, I might take a nip from the Indonesian. Ooh, spicy and light. Five minutes with the Indonesian and I'm perky and ready for any dinner conversation.

After dinner, though, it's always the Italian. He's from Verona and knows how to get right into my veins. And stay there. The Italian makes me forget about dessert-- because he is the dessert.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "You brazen hussy!" (or maybe words to that effect). Go ahead, point your finger at me and hiss. I don't feel ashamed. I even flaunt my love affairs in front of my husband. He doesn't even notice. Well, once, he said, "what's that smell?" I played dumb, mostly because I couldn't tell if it was the Frenchie or the Indonesian. I'd had both by that time and both were affecting me, although their aromas had blended together into one heady scent.

I've pretty much kept to those four for awhile now. Until today. When I came face to face with the Cajun. Hmmm…. I grabbed other items then circled back for another look. The Cajun looked strong. Nice lines. Bold, hard to ignore. I try to walk away but swing my cart around again. The Cajun stood his ground. Was he taunting me? Obviously, this Cajun doesn't know me very well. I push my cart right up to him and say, "Jump in, baby, let's go!" The Cajun topples on top of the yogurt and pop tarts. Oh, he's a player, this one.

I got him home and went in for the kill, can opener in hand. As soon as I heard him sigh, I knew he'd become part of my java harem. There's just one question. Where does he fit… and how?

Time to reshuffle the lineup.

Who F**ked Up My Chocolate?

2009-02-21T23:37:00.000-08:00

Chocolate.

Just saying the word brings to mind stolen moments of bliss, sitting in a corner, in a car, in bed, savoring a truffle, a piece of fine dark chocolate, a Hershey bar. Just like there's no wrong way to eat a Reese's, there's nothing you can do to ruin a fine bar of chocolate.

Or at least that's what I thought.

Until recently.

One of my good friends, knowing I was having a stressful week littered with mines called "deadlines," dropped off several bars of chocolate to help fuel my brain and ease my consternation. Looking at the wrappers, I knew she had taken some time and care before making her selections. The bars were not cheap. They were also organic (although I'm not fussy). They were waiting for me when I staggered back to my desk following back-to-back meetings about topics I know nothing about and care about even less. I spotted the bars on my desk and alighted on the first one, clutching it in my desperate hand. Doing a quick sweep of the room to make sure no one had seen the confection on my desk, I opened my drawer and swept the other two out of sight. Then, leaning back in my ergonomic office chair, I unwrapped the bar in my hand and took a huge bite.

And promptly spit it out.

Simply put, it was AWFUL. I smoothed the wrapper out to see what this chocolate was made of. The label read: 85% cacao (okay, it's really really dark. I can live with that). The label continued: Contains: chunks of crystallized ginger.

WTF??? Crystallized ginger??? Why, in name of all that is sacred in your world, would anyone put crystallized ginger in chocolate? I grabbed my cup of 6 hour old coffee and chugged, trying to get the taste of said ginger out of my mouth. I loathe ginger on principal. The fact that it somehow sneaked into my mouth via an innocent piece of chocolate makes it more vile.

Looking for respite, now, I yanked open the drawer and pulled out the other two bars. One was milk chocolate with chai. Chai. That's Middle Eastern tea. Hmm…. I eyed the chocolate. Dare I try it? I finally decided to give it a go, thinking it couldn't be any worse than the dark chocolate with ginger.

It was just as bad.

After washing my mouth out with even more 6 hour old coffee, I threw the two opened bars of chocolate away and placed the third bar on a table we affectionately call "Ingestation." It was formally known as the "trough". Any food that gets placed there disappears within moments. Picture a cloud of locusts descending upon crops and decimating said crops in mere seconds. You get the idea.

A week has passed. That chocolate bar is still sitting at the Ingestation.

Seems even broadcast engineers with cast-iron stomachs steer clear of chocolate with questionable things added to it. Or maybe we're just not sophisticated enough to enjoy it.

Eh. I don't even want to find out.

Just pass me the Snickers and shut up.

Remembering James

2009-02-21T23:29:00.000-08:00

"He had an easy smile."

I've read those words many times, but never have they rung so true as when I use them to describe my friend James. When he smiled, his entire face lit up and you felt your own face light up, even if you were in a dark mood. James did not have a mean bone in his body and nowhere was that more evident than his million-megawatt smile.

I met James and his brother Eric in Germany. Our fathers were stationed there and somehow, we wound up on the same traveling bowling team. James was 2 years younger than me. Eric was 4 years younger. Where James was languid, laid back and comfortable wherever he happened to be sitting, Eric was bright, bubbly and ready for action. The two brothers complemented each other perfectly and both doted on their mother, one of the most beautiful and vivacious women I had ever seen. I loved being around them because it usually meant that a lot of laughter would ensue. And it did.

I remember watching James, Eric and a few others mooning other cars during a long bus ride between Kaiserslautern and somewhere (maybe Spangdahlem, maybe Hanau) to bowl in a tournament.

I remember long hours spent at the Vogelweh bowling alley, eating fries and playing those blasted video games. (Okay, I did not play that often. I sucked. I mostly watched the guys play)

I remember James deciding that I needed to learn how to drive and that he was going to be the one to teach me. In his friend Chris' BMW. In the parking lot of the commissary at Vogelweh. In his disarmingly charming way, he talked Chris into actually taking part! Next thing you know, I'm behind the wheel of a Beemer, James planted next to me, Chris in the back seat with this "Oh, sh*t, what have I agreed to?" kind of look on his face. I remember starting the car. I remember hitting the gas. And I remember James yelling, "STOP! STOP!" and mashing the brakes so hard, we all nearly went through the windshield. End of lesson.

I remember, several months later, running into James in another parking lot. He had had a bit too much to drink and could not drive, but did not want to leave his car. Even drunk, he talked me into driving his car. I still did not know how to drive, yet I maneuvered his Beetle to my house. Did I mention it was a stick shift? I helped him up to our apartment, where he, my sister Kim and I watched movies until he sobered up.

I lost touch with James when my family moved back to the States, but several years later, reconnected with Eric. Eric put me back in touch with James, who was in Germany with their mother. We talked on the phone. We wrote letters- yes, actual, handwritten letters. He did not have a computer, nor do I think he wanted one. He wrote long letters talking about everything and nothing. He talked about his job. He talked about his mom. He talked about the child he had not seen because he was in Germany and the child was in Florida. That was the only time I heard sadness, regret. Every other time, it was hard to miss the smile in James' voice. Every conversation immediately brought his face to mind, split wide with a grin, eyes crinkling and twinkling. We talked about me visiting his mother and him in Germany. We talked about how Eric lives kind of close to me (he's in Oregon, I'm in Washington). We talked about where we would go to drink. Some of the old stomping grounds.

This morning, I received an email from Eric. Entitled: "Sad News", it was short and to the point:

"I regret to inform you. My only brother James died unexpectedly in his sleep last night 10/22. He was 42."

As I read those words, the years sped by in fast-forward through my brain. James bowling. James joking. James laughing as I try to make him stop smoking, even as he lights another cigarette. But most of all, I see James grinning that million-megawatt smile. And I cried. I cried for Eric. I cried for their mom. I cried for their dad. But most selfish of all, I cried for myself because I will never hear that lazy voice. Never see that brilliant grin.

But I will always remember.

Rest easy, my friend. I hope you are at peace.

Letting Go

2009-01-21T20:05:00.000-08:00

"And loveIt's not the easy thing
The only baggage you can bringIs all that you can't leave behind"

This line from a U2 song has been dancing around my head today, especially the line "All that you can't leave behind."

That line describes my life. I have a lot of baggage, but it's nothing compared to some very close to me. They've got so much baggage, it's slowly pushing my life to the wayside, as I am forced, time and time again, to deal with their baggage at the cost of my own.

It's like a giant, super-sticky spider's web filled with baggage. Baggage to the left, baggage to the right. Baggage in front of us, baggage trailing behind.

AND IT'S NOT MINE!

I have been taking on their baggage for years, to "keep the peace," to "not rock the boat," to "make things okay," to "not upset the apple cart," or however that fucking saying goes.

I'M TIRED OF HANDLING THE BAGGAGE.

So... I started forcing some decisions. Ultimatums, if you will. Oh, how people hate ultimatums. I can't stand the fucking things. But here I am, forcing ultimatums on people. Trying to free myself from this giant, super-sticky spider's web, one strand at a time. Trying to live the life I put on hold, to help others live a lie.

No more.

If this house of cards ends up crumbling, then so be it.
It's not my baggage.

Mommy

2009-01-21T19:52:00.000-08:00

(written: May 5, 2007)

Mommy.
That's what she wanted us to call her, no matter how old we got.
She was strict. She was hard. She was tough. And dammit, did I love her! I pushed all her buttons, and I know she pushed mine. Criticized me, but praised me behind my back. She didn't want me to get big-headed, you see.

I triggered her temper on many occasions. I seemed to have the knack for it. "Who pissed Mommy off again?" "Susan."
I wanted her approval desperately. I never knew that I'd already had it.

She hated heavy metal, but she came to see my first band. We played originals and also covered Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden, Ozzy. That night, I forgot the words and swore into the mic, "Shit, I forgot the words to this song." She didn't leave. After the show, she said, "I don't know how you stand it!" To her friends, she said, "My daughter sings in a band."

I appeared in a video for a band called Raven. I was in the crowd. You could only see the back of my head and my arm. I caught her pausing the video to show a friend. "That's my daughter's head."

I got a job as a secretary at CBS. I got the chance to get her and her bowling team tickets to "The Price is Right." They got the royal tour. Mommy was treated like a queen. Her friends told her, "Your daughter must have an important job at CBS." She said, "My daughter is very important."

I got hooked on cocaine. I lost my job, lost weight, lost hair. I lived in an apartment without power for six months, ashamed to go home and show my family what I had become. My father begged me to come home. I finally did. My mother said, "What did I do wrong that my daughter is on drugs?" She didn't say, "What the fuck is wrong with you?" I promised her that I would never do it again.
That was almost 19 years ago and I haven't touched the stuff.

I couldn't hold down a job. I had the reputation of staying for a year at a time, then getting bored and moving to another job. My mother called me "Queen of the Part Time Jobs." But she didn't kick me out of the house.

I moved to Alabama, got a job in TV news. I got promoted, again and again. One year stretched to two, three, five. Mommy was proud. I was moving up at the TV station. But she missed me, she said. "Come home." I said, "No, Mommy. I found a job I really like. I'll see you at Christmas." I didn't go home for Christmas. I couldn't afford it.

The next year, Mommy asked me to come home again. "Mommy, I'm the 10pm producer now. I'm producing the main show. I can't come home." My older sister helped me fly home to surprise her for Thanksgiving. I wondered why our dinner tasted so bland. "Mommy can't have salty foods," said my sister. "She's sick." Mommy was happy to see me. When I left to fly back to Alabama from New Jersey, she said, "I love you." She rarely said that. When i would tell her, "I love you, Mommy," she would say, "Me, too."

I didn't go home for Christmas. I had to work. January turned to February, March, April. At the beginning of May, my father called. "You mother needs a liver transplant. We're flying to Pittsburgh for the surgery." He put Mommy on the phone. "I love you and everything I ever did was to make you the best you can be." I shushed her. "We'll have plenty of time to talk about that. You focus on getting better. I love you, Mommy." "Me, too."

But she didn't get better. She was sicker than we thought. She couldn't have the transplant. Instead, on May 8, several days before Mother's Day, our mother left us. Our strong, tough mother couldn't beat the illness that ravaged her.

Here's where I'm a bad daughter. I can never remember whether the year was 1990 or 1991. Did I have her a year less or a year more? It seems like yesterday.. and it feels like forever.

Dammit, how I miss you, Mommy.

A Child's Hug

2009-01-21T19:48:00.000-08:00

(written: April 12, 2007)

I saw video of a child hugging his dad, crying.
Let me back up a bit.
The dad, just back from Iraq, decided to surprise his son at school.
Our photographer backed into the classroom first, followed by the boy's mom.
Then Dad walked in.
The camera swung around- caught the look of shock on the boy's face.
His lips trembled, his little body shook.
Then he launched himself out of his little chair and charged up to his dad, who swung his boy up in one motion and hugged him close.
The wireless microphone picked up the emotional exchange.
Dad: I missed you.
Boy: I missed you too, Daddy.
Cue the tears. Grab the tissues.
That video, shot by our photographer, has made it around the world.
The Today Show ran it.
Inside Edition ran it.
Access Hollywood ran it.
AFN ran it.
The Pentagon channel ran it.
I've seen that hug at least 20 times.
Each time I watch, I cry.
I cry because I remember the day my own dad came for a visit.
The year: 1969
The war: Vietnam
My mom and I were living in Seoul, South Korea.
We lived near her family while my dad did his duty for Uncle Sam.
It also make it easier for him to visit on the rare occasion that he got to take r'n'r.
He flew to Tokyo, then to Seoul.
He surprised me, not at school.
He was waiting when I came home from school.
Sitting on the front steps in full dress uniform.
I remember seeing him from down the street.
I'm sure my lip trembled.
I'm sure my body shook. I don't remember.
I do remember running down the street and launching myself into his arms, crying.
Dad: I missed you.
Me: I missed you too, Daddy.
Then, I took him by the hand and paraded him up and down the street, crying out in Korean, "Yuh-ghee nah abu-jee ee-suh-yuh!" "Here is my dad!"
You see, I had been teased unmercifully in the time I'd lived in Korea without my dad.
I have the curly hair and round eyes of my dad.
I speak the fluent Korean of my mom.
The kids said my dad must have "had his way" with my mom then abandoned us, as had happened with so many other families.
When I said, "No, my daddy is fighting in Vietnam," they laughed.
"That's just what your mom tells you."
Well, here was living proof.
Flesh and Blood.
My Daddy.
Visiting from Vietnam.
Letting me drag him down the street to meet everyone once and for all.
So they could see my Daddy loved my Mommy... and he loved me, too.

Life

2009-01-21T19:46:00.000-08:00

(written: June 8, 2006)

My Life
It is what it is
The storytelling
That blossomed into lies
The depression-fueled lows
The cocaine highs
The dreams that came true
And those that failed miserably
Money evaporating before my eyes
Leaving me in the dark
I fell hard
But I never stayed down
Does that make me a victor
Or a sucker for more
more pain
more gain
more pride
more shame
New life
New strife
with no end in sight
Each failure increases hesitation
Do I try again?
Whats around the bend?
Wouldnt it be easier to lie down
and never wake?
But I cant do that
For Ians sake
Pick yourself up, girl!
Take a look around you!
My brain chides, cajoles and berates
Pick yourself up
Theres nothing wrong with
your legs
your eyes
your brain
Take it all in
Use the lessons youve learned
Brace for those yet to come
Some may not be pleasant
Some may be quite fun
But whatever you meet
Face it with your head held high
It is what it is
This thing called Your Life.

Hiding Places

2009-01-21T19:44:00.000-08:00

(written: September 1, 2006)

EVERYONE HIDES.

That's a fact of life. HOW we hide is a different story.

I know a woman who hides behind hair extensions, fake nails and colored contact lenses. She's a beautiful woman, but you'd never tell because she looks like such a Barbie. She also hides what could be a lovely personality behind bitterness, jealousy and pettiness. There's not much to enjoy in her company anymore, and what's worse, no one can tell her.

A good friend of mine is hiding behind loneliness. She is planning to marry a man she does not love. He is not a nice man. He's very conniving, making decisions for both of them, then apologizing after the fact. I won't go into detail but you know what I mean. I think she's afraid she won't find love if she lets this man go. I love her dearly, but know that she needs to make her own decisions. That's the hardest part.

Another friend of mine hides behind what he calls "his career". He's been working away at the same job for 20 years-- moving from city to city. He keep saying he'll think about "settling down" once he finds a city he likes. He's still looking for that city.

Do I hide? You'd better believe it! I hide behind the biggest wall of all - my weight. I packed it on when I got pregnant and never lost it. It comes in handy when I want to be invisible, because no one looks twice at an overweight woman. I've tried to lose weight a countless number of times. But I realize, I really DON'T want to lose weight. I don't want attention. I like being invisible. I don't even mind the sneering looks I get from trim, fit people who think I'm a lazy slob. Let them. They don't know me. I don't care what they think.

I hide in my shell. Will someone crack it?

Symphony of Life

2009-01-21T19:42:00.000-08:00

(written: June 4, 2006)

I took time to listen today... and I heard quite a lot.

I heard the light patter of my son running down the hall from his bedroom to the computer room to watch morning TV. (He's done this every weekend morning since he could walk - he's now 11)

I heard the soft snores of my dog as he napped in his crate. He's a black lab/golden retriever mix and a real bundle of energy except when he's sleeping. He snuffled and snored until I threw my blanket back and touched the carpeted floor with my bare feet. In that instant, Marley scrambled to his feet and was ready for me to open the bedroom door so he can bound joyfully down the hall, his nails clicking and scrabbling on the hardwood floor.

I heard the soft fall of rain outside my kitchen window, drops plinking on the cover of my barbeque grill, or slapping on the leaves of all the trees in the backyard.

I heard the whir and whine of the weed-wacker as my husband trimmed the jungle-like grass at the foot of our front yard.

I heard the dulcet tones of Stephen Fry narrating the latest Harry Potter book on my cd player as I layered ingredients for our lasagne dinner.

I heard the running shower, accompanied by my son's wordless humming, sometimes swelling to aria-like proportions as he indulged in his nightly waterfest.

I heard the soft whirr of my computer as I sit in my lamplit office, catching up with emails as the rest of the house grows silent in the night.

Another day has gone-- and with it, the sounds that make up a Symphony of Life.

Soul

2009-01-21T19:38:00.000-08:00

"The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience."~Emily Dickinson

Yes, Su is quoting again! Seriously, I saw this and it really spoke to me. It's so easy to shut our souls down because we are upset, tired, frustrated or depressed. I am guilty of that. My heart and soul shut down, then the rest of me quickly follows. Before I know it, I've sunk into a pit of depression and lethargy. This usually lasts days to weeks- and takes a major event (or a good beating), to bring me out of it.

Lately, though, I've tried to find reasons to keep me from sinking into depression (lifelines, if you will... as in "throw me a line, I'm going down for the last time"). Anything that will light a spark of hope, which can blossom into moments of self-love.

So... the above quote comes at a very good time. It's a good reminder to keep the door to your soul open, even if a tiny bit (ajar), so that when the next ecstatic experience arrives, it can come in-- instead of bouncing off the door and ricocheting back into the stratosphere.
The quote reminds me that there's always good around the corner, once you slog through the shit.