“That’s how it goes. Designing clothes. Cats on everything, cats on everything.”
“That’s how it goes. Designing clothes. Cats on everything, cats on everything.”
Last week THREE people told me they thought I was only 22 or 23.
BAM, there go those ASIAN genes, y’all. I’m on my fourth decade!
My favorite conversation was this one:
Dude: Wait, wait, what? You have a kid?
Me: I’ve got two. They’re 9 and 6.
Dude: TWO? NINE? (I forget what we’re talking about now and I’m trying to think of why we’re just saying numbers to each other, and then thinking about which numbers I’m going to say next.)
Me: Yup. So, back to the topic at hand: selling my house. We were talking about me selling my house.
Dude: You OWN a HOME?
Me: Yes. I own a home. I have two kids. I’m divorced. I’ve already lived the American dream and had it all. I hope to start working on my second sure to fail marriage soon.
Dude: Oh. Kay. *Turns away from me at the bar*
I mean sure, the conversation ended in biting sarcasm, but I took it in stride because I LOOK 23 YOU GUYS!
But then a few days later my Azn mom brought me back down to earth by doing what Azn moms do REALLY well.
Here’s me and my Azn mom:
They tell you you’re fat. Even if you are not, by any normal American (or health) standards, fat.
I’m driving to Charleston after a rough week. Mother calls to check on me.
Ma: How are you?
Me: Good. I’m good. I’ve been, you know, just doing things for myself. Going to the gym a lot.
Ma (reminiscing of fonder days): Oooh, remember when you were in high school and you were REALLY skinny and went to modeling school? Remember that?!?
Me: YEP. I was 14. I remember it, even though it was SIXTEEN YEARS AGO.
Ma: Welll, if you lose a LOT of weight, I will buy you some new clothes. REALLY EXPENSIVE clothes (said as if she were dangling a carrot—no wait, a celery stick—in front of me and I was supposed to jump for it).
Me: Oh. Thanks?
And then I let it go, because I’ve learned that that is the best way to deal with it.
So, in sum, the Azn side of me makes ‘Mericans think I look really young, but the “Merican side of me makes the entire population of Korea think I’m obese (I’ve been to Seoul. I SAW the looks).
You win some, you lose some.
In related news, I’ve decided to just move to Canada.
you know the goddamn difference between a cat and a kitten.
This song is the prettiest thang i’ve heard in a while. can’t stop listening.
yeeeeah. you should probably to your local taqueria and get some TAKIS yo.
well it seems that crazy things often happen in the beautiful historic city of Charleston. and if you venture over to west trashley or james island they get even crazier! my first date shenanigans from a few weeks ago reminded me of another night in charleston during which i was surrounded by no less than 4 police cars. i swear, this has only happened to me TWICE, and it’s not me, it’s them, you know, those beautiful, crazy Charlestonians. you can’t live with them, can’t live without ‘em—well maybe without this one, a man i’ve dubbed DreadGlock.
i was about 3 months prego at the time, and had just finished my first very shift waiting tables at the delicious Sushi Hiro downtown. i was super stoked, having made about $100 in 4 hours—but DAMN SON i was tired. being pregnant is tiresome. thus, standing up for 4 hours felt very similar to, i don’t know, workin’ on a chain gang bustin’ rocks in the blistering sun all day.
SO, i was driving home to my sweet ass apartment in west ashley—a nice place that rested on the site of what used to be low income housing. so yeah, lovely balconies, nice pool, but you know, a porn shop on the corner and some sketchy motherfuckers hangin’ out outside of the food lion on the reg. OF COURSE when you’re really tired and pregnant and your feet feel like useless painful stumps at the ends of your legs, you’ll suddenly notice that yes, you are almost out of gas, and you will have to GET OUT of the car, ON YOUR PREGNANT FEET and PUMP some gas (yes, my feet felt pregnant too, they had had a long night. all my body parts were FEELING my sweet fetus leech the life blood out of me). and naturally, it’s midnight. in the ghetto.
i pull into the hess station by my apartment. due to the less than safe nature of the hood i am in, this is one of those classy establishments where you’ve got to go prepay at the bulletproof window before pumping your gas. and yes, i’ve got cash money, so i’ve gotta do that.
in a disgruntled, pregnant haze, i drag my maternal ass over to the building, vaguely aware that some dude is ahead of me in line. i sort of zone out for a minute, gazing over at the porn store, scoping out all the creepy dudes sneaking around from the back where their cars are hidden.
a particularly painful throb from my feet jerks me back to the hess station and i realize that i’ve been standing there entirely too long, and that this SAME dude is still standing there shootin’ the shit or something with the hess station attendant. i don’t think i even really register much about him beyond his grizzled gray dreadlocks, because (once again) i’m tried and pregnant, and i really don’t give a fuck who this guy is or what he’s doing.
so i tap this dude on the back of his shoulder, put my hand on my hip, and when he turns around and settles his crack-addled eyes on me, i say:
“Excuse me. Do you think you could get the fuck out of my way so I can pay for some goddamn gas?”
it seemed like a perfectly reasonable request. after all, i just needed him to stop holding up my life.
as it turns out, he was holding up the gas station.
the hess station attendant is staring at me like i have two heads. i slowly register that i may have made a mistake. and i grip my keys in my hand in case i need to stab this crazy man in the eye (my other thought was to start screaming, “i’m pregnant, i’m pregnant, what are you, some kind of baby killer??”).
enter charleston’s finest. what timing! at precisely that moment four cruisers pull into the hess at top speed and surround us, slamming on their brakes and jumping out of their cars, guns drawn and pointed right at me and this beauty of a dreadlocked crackhead.
officer 1 yells: “throw down the gun!”
i’m pretty sure my eyebrows raise somewhere into my hairline. gun?
and so, DreadGLOCK pulls a gun out of his jacket and tosses that lovely thing right on the ground at our feet.
officer 2: “AND the knife!”
and at this point i actually say, “KNIFE?!”
and out comes a long—probably about 10 inches—bone-handled knife, which homie tosses next to the gun.
i step back a bit, remembering, hey dummy. you’re pregnant. you need to steer clear.
at this moment a couple of officers attack DreadGlock, and before i know it he’s on the ground and the officers are cuffing him and searching him for more goodies.
i stand there awkwardly for a moment, shifting my prego weight around to ease my feet, wondering what the hell i’m supposed to be doing and if anyone gives a shit about me in this particular situation.
turns out they don’t. despite being the only other person standing there and being pregnant and smelling like teriyaki chicken, the cops are just swarming around as if i’m not there.
so i turn to the hess station attendant expectantly, because, let’s not forget, i still need some goddamn gas. i knock on the window, to which she does not respond at all. she is still mesmerized by the swirling blue lights that are reflecting softly off of DreadGlocks grizzled mane.
so i POUND the window and she jumps about a foot in the air.
“LOOK. i still need some gas. what do i have to do to get some goddamn gas???”
I shove 10 bucks in her hand (remember when that got you more than a little ole baby bit of gas?) and march back to my car through the swarm of police officers, still, apparently, invisible. and that’s fine by me—i pump a few gallons of gas into my car while they jerk DreadGlock up off the ground and prepare to load him into a squad car. i briefly make eye contact with him, and suddenly realize that this man was my kindergarten teacher!!!.
just kidding. he was just some crackhead.
i practically fall into my car, drive the additional block home and then drop into my bed as soon as possible, where my significant other immediately notices, unlike all the cops, that yes, i do smell like teriyaki chicken. i don’t even bother to tell him about DreadGlock because DAMN SON, i’m still so tired.
i do decide, as i drift to sleep, that henceforth, i will refrain from harassing strangers at the gas station, seeing as how i’m with child and all. in related news, i will be penning a companion book to “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” called, “Things Pregnant Bitches Shouldn’t Do.” i’m clearly the most qualified person to do this. you’re welcome, future prego women of america.
(or any other swanky new toy)
I received a couple of emails from Usain in the wee morning hours of Saturday, to the tune of, “I’m the worst, I’m sorry, I can explain, I’m sorry, and also, I’m sorry.” And i thought, well, it’s nice that he somehow evaded the police and made it a priority to apologize to me, but still, WTF???
ANYWAY, post-date, still reeling at how incredulous my night had been and admiring the neat little bruise on my wrist from those incredibly uncomfortable handcuffs, i decided to TAKE THAT DATE IN STRIDE and share it with the world. because why the fuck not? it was AMAZING. so i took to facebook and tumblr and made my life into a joke, because that’s what i do!!
Through most of Saturday I alternately chuckled to myself and then thought, WTF?, and then chuckled again. I then received an email from a facebook friend.
(paraphrased for humor’s sake):
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … . .
HER: hey.hey. who’s this guy? sounds oddly familiar.
ME: USAIN EARNHARDT (obviously a REAL name)
HER: OMG.OMG.OMG. HE’S CRAZY, HE DID THIS CRAZY SHIT TO MY GOOD FRIE….OH WAIT. nevermind. he didn’t. he’s not that crazy guy, MY B, he’s this other guy i know, my husband’s totes in a bromance with him because he’s FUCKING AWESOME, like SUCH A GOOD DUDE. i mean, usually. i mean, wtf? i dunno.
ME: *confusion* + *feelings* + *weirdness*
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … . .
so now, i’m all, wait, what? what explanation can there be that’s any good? but he’s an AWESOME guy and this is TOTALLY OUT OF CHARACTER? because let me just reiterate, it was a #greatdate y’all, and i’m not talking about the sushi anymore (though it was truly top notch).
so i send Usain an email back (email@example.com) and you know, say something to the tune of, “um, um, WTF HAPPENED? you best be glad your friends who are also my friends vouched for you bc that’s the ONLY reason i’m emailing you USAIN. i. need. answers. CALL ME YO.”
the next day, the Lord’s day, i received a text message from a mysterious 843 number: ‘It’s me, the fastest runner on the goddamn planet. i’m SO SORRY, etc.’
apparently the nice policeman had Bolt’s phone and car, so he had procured another. Later that evening, he used this new phone to call me and do some ‘splainin. without going into too many nitty gritty details, suffice it to say that Usain was full of regret, very apologetic, and also missed a critical turn that would have landed us back at his house in a jiffy, because apparently we were quite close to his house all along (i’d no idea, because of the SAKE, remember?). I mean, CLEARLY he fucked up, but clearly, he knew.
he took the whole, ‘there are four warrants out for my arrest’ thing remarkably well. took it in stride really. he was like, ‘i made the BIGGEST mistake of my life and potentially FUCKED UP EVERYTHING, but you know, i just have to deal with it.’ And he had a lawyer, he had a plan. he was also really good, it turns out, at evading the police, so now we’ll call him Harrison, the Fugitive.
me: ‘so, you know, i wrote this blog post. about the date.’
me: ‘yeah. i mean, i didn’t use your name, and part if is complimentary!! the point is, it is HYSTERICAL!! i mean, you might not find it funny today but you know, maybe in a couple of weeks???
Harrison: ‘yeah, as long as you didn’t use my name, i’m totally fine with it. i’ll read it later, but yeah, you know, not this week probably.’
me: “HEY! you should totally tell me WTF you did to escape the police, etc., and we should co-author another one! you know, YOUR perspective, eh, eh? whaddya say?’
Harrison: ‘okay! i mean, if i’m not in jail. i might be in jail.’
The conversation ended this way:
Harrison: ‘Well, have a good night. Again, I’m so, so sorry. I have a meeting with my lawyer tomorrow. I’ll text or call you to let you know if I’m going to jail.” (COMPLETELY normal way to end a conversation. i mean, if i had a dollar for every time i heard THAT)
me: ‘okay. good luck staying out of jail.’ (ALSO a totally normal thing i know I’VE said a million times)
this morning Usain Harrison Earnhardt had a bond hearing. i’ve yet to hear the news.
it’s safe to say that this has been the most interesting week i’ve had in QUITE SOME TIME.
and i like that! nobody can ever accuse me of having a boring, typical life. YOLO and shit.
Masterful. Mitt Romney, explained, by himself.