Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Dear Barry

Apparently, my below post has some how found its way to upper management. I should know better than to use real names of businesses. As a result of my scathing review, apparently I hate America and your eyes. I am an evil person who hopes that your retinas burn in the sun and that you go blind.

This is not the case. I care very much about your eyes. In fact, if my post has at all, in any way, caused you NOT to buy sunglasses for fear of fashion suicide, please send me an email and I will personally purchase sunglasses for you from any store of your choice. I only meant to comment on how the ad made me laugh and reminded me of the follies of childhood. So to Barry and the rest of the folks, I apologize. Twas not meant to harm. I guess I'm glad to see that you are still live and kicking. Keep on keeping on. God Bless!

Oh Craigslist...you crack me up

Due to our current economic crisis and what seems to be my permanent state of funemployment, I peruse the Craigslists ads at least 3 times a day. Today, in the part time section, I unearthed this gem: (names have been changed to avoid lawsuits)

Love to work in Fashion? Come join us at (random sunglass store)!

Fashion? The (Random Sunglass Store)?

Hmm...lets see. When I think of the Random Sunglass Store, I picture some bleached blonded adolescent who couldnt get work at the Hip Clothing Store. In our mall, the Random Sunglass Store was placed right outside the Hip Clothing Store. The Random Sunglass Store boys would sit there and salivate at the young high schoolers exiting the Hip Clothing Store with large bags and Daddy's credit card. If they were lucky, a girl from that group would look over in their direction and wave. But no one ever bought sunglasses there. You could get sunglasses at Other Hip Stores. Not at the Random Sunglass Store. It was fashion suicide. Maybe it still is.

I'm glad to see their still working on their marketability.

Monday, September 29, 2008

F.A.G.

Heres a story for you. My great uncle, Uncle Frank, was a fabulous man. He was a joker, a smoker and a midnight toker. In fact, that song was written about my dear old Uncle Frank. Okay, so he wasnt a smoker. And I have no idea what a toker is. But my Uncle Frank was still a fabulous man. He was my grandma's brother and ever since I was a little girl, I always remember him depositing himself in my grandfathers leather chair, soaking in the circus that consisted of myself, my brother and my 8 cousins. With 10 children constantly running around and constantly demanding attention, Uncle Frank was always there to lend a hand, a pair of eyes or some discipline when needed.

When the dinner was done and all the children satiated and fed, he would sit in the corner partaking in the "adult" conversation, his dark brown eyes shining. He always had a small, sharp moustache that he liked to rub with his fingers especially when telling a joke. He was a killer poker player and his bocce form was envied throughout southern Italy. My father likes to tell me that Uncle Frank was the original Renaissance Man. A great man. A family man.
I was only 7 years old when he passed away. In fact, his was probably the first funeral that I can actually remember. His cold, lifeless hands scared the crap out of me and I didnt understand how these could be the same hands that showed me how to make a cross out of palms or showed me how to throw the bocce ball with back spin. Children process death very differently than adults. This is a fact of life. And a story for another time.

However, several years later in my teenage years, my grandparents moved out their house to a smaller condo. While helping them move, my brother and I found a large box with miscellaneous items labeled F.A.G. We snickered. Like typical immature teenagers, we thought it was hilarious that my grandpa had actually labeled stuff FAG. Everything in the box had a big F.A.G. taped to it. My grandpa didnt have a mean bone in his body so this trite label was both fascinating and scary. We finally showed the stuff to my mom who put on a very somber face. She informed us that these were Uncle Frank's possessions. My Uncle Frank. Frank Antonio Gallo. F.A.G. My brother and I felt like someone had just slapped us in the face with a wet seal. We silently took the box to the trailer, let our hands linger on it for while and pulled the door shut.

At some point during all this, I managed to swipe a mini magnifying glass that my Uncle Frank had used to read the paper. There in big letters on the front, a bold F.A.G. I slipped it into my pocket thinking that it would come in handy some day. To this day, I have not used it. But it sits on my dresser for all to see. Some people see it and snicker. Some hold it up and give me a sort of WTF look. Others ignore it. But every time I look at those three letters, I think of my Uncle Frank's twinkling brown eyes, his sharp grey moustache and that magnificent bocce form.

Friday, September 19, 2008

Guests of House

I have some houseguests coming over this afternoon who I dont really know. Now, I am not in the habit of inviting strangers over for dinner or to enjoy a beer or two during a warm summer afternooon, but every once in a while, I will open up my home to be used as a meeting grounds of sorts. Such an act results in strangers showing up at your door. I have met a few of these people once or twice before but both times, either party has been a.) in a drunken stupor b) ridiculously distracted or c.) not interested or some combination of a, b, and c.

I love meeting new people. This is what life is all about. Well not completely but life is half comprised of the people we know and love and adding to your circle of friends will give your life more meaning, or so the fortune cookie said. Regardless, these things still stress me out. Do I need to go hide that book because its contents are offensive to the Buddhist coming over? Do I need to take down that painting because it causes my guests to go into hyperventilation? Does the sofa color remind my guest of some horrific childhood accident? All these things cause Asiankp to sweat like a mule pulling a 200 pound man in the Grand Canyon. I know its never good to sweat the small stuff and I shouldnt really care what these people think of my house and my decor but dont pretend that these thoughts never go through your head. Because they do. And it makes me never want to have guests over. Ever.

Monday, September 15, 2008

I Miss the Rains

It has been incessantly raining in the Chi-town. I hear there are hurricanes elsewhere and tragedy striking the southern states but here I am, acting like a pre-pubescent teenager frolicking in the rain:


Anyway, rain can be fun. Very fun. However, rain is also incredibly damaging. Since my poor little apartment is probably an eyesore to the large condos on my block, it is no surprise that our roof is leaking and the ceiling is starting to crack. Its a little scary since the crack resides right over our staircase and every day is a challenge because I know that just when I least suspect it, the ceiling will start to crack and ginormous pieces of plaster will fall on my head giving me temporary amnesia.
In order to save our pathetic carpet, we have devised a very advanced and cutting edge way to stop the rain.
Thats right. A bowl. And not just any bowl but a large, mother of pearl colored plastic bowl. We are a fancy lot. However, this bowl does nothing for the aesthetic of the staircase nor does it detract from the ridiculously dirty carpet or the walls which happen to be painted 3 different shades of white. Nor does it hide the semi-dead flowers, a love token from our previous roommates' now husband, that hang on the wall.

Inspired by my friend Leah, who has two of the most adorable children you will ever see in your life and the most creative person I know, I decided to "make-over" our slightly trailer-park esque aesthetic.

The result:


Ha. These things dont happen overnight. I'm probably better off getting hit by the plaster.

Friday, September 12, 2008

I'm a Horrible Person

For many reasons. One particular glaring reason is the fact that I didnt realize it was 9/11 yesterday until 8:00 this morning. Most dates come and go with little to no significance for me except holy days, close friends birthdays and national holidays. 9/11 however is a date that holds significance for pretty much any American. Even if you dont agree on the logisitics or the vast conspiracy theories surrounding the day, a sane human being cannot argue that 9/11 is most certainly a day to be remembered. To mourn those lost and to remember the sacrifice of so many.

Now I've never been one of those extremely patriotic folks...dont get me wrong, I love my country, support my troops, and appreciate democracy. I dont, however, get weepy every time I hear the national anthem nor do I own American flag print boxers. My apartment does not boast the American flag from our doorstep nor do we have bald eagle busts on the mantle. For those of you who think thats crazy, I should mention that my grandmother used to have not one, but two bald eagle busts. One for the kitchen and one for the study. She also used to have a small sliver of the orginial American flag that her ancestors suppposedly passed down to her. In addition, she had several George Washington prints adorning the walls of her modest retirement home condo.

However, even to a slightly jaded mid twenties freelancer, 9/11 remains an important event in history and perhaps even more significant because it has become my Neil Armstrong moment, my JFK assasination moment, my US Hockey team beats Soviets moment, my George Washington crossing the Delaware moment. Its a moment that someday I will share with my children. I will tell them how I was scared, college freshman sleeping in and about to miss my English Lit. class when a air horn went off and I heard the pounding of feet in the hallways of my dorm. I will tell them how I gathered with hundreds of my fellow students watching footage of the attacks in stony silence. I will tell them how the entire university gathered in our chapel to pray for those who perished. I will tell them how moving it was to hear stories of courage and how our nation handles crisises with dignity, resolve and compassion. I will tell them that however cliche and corny it sounds, it is always important to never forget.

I only hope that I can follow my own advice from here on out.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

A Peeping what?

There is a small window in my front door. It slightly resembles a doggy door but at eye level. Its backed by several small steel strips that create a sort of pattern or formation and offers a slightly obstructed view to those looking in and those looking out. Some days I am very happy that this window exists because it allows me to spy on the occupants outside the window, offering me a small view of the outside without betraying my position. On the other hand, sometimes I hate this window because if a person places their hands against the window and peers in, they have a direct and clear view of the couch and our subsequent main living area as well as a slender of the kitchen. This makes it difficult to sit on the couch and ignore who ever is knocking because they can clearly see that you are ignoring them causing them to knock harder and maybe even wave, which is utterly distasteful, especially when you are intent on ignoring them. Its almost by waving they are acknowledging that you are ignoring them, yet they continue to make a fool of themself with a pilthy greeting. Its like they know that you know that they know they are annoying you with their presence. I do abhore pyschology.

Anyway, this occured today with a certain subject. I was enjoying a late breakfast when I heard a knock at my door. I craned my neck to see who it was but said person had already placed their hands against the window and was looking in. Our eyes met and I had no choice but to walk over and open the door, interrupting my breakfast and my reading of a highly informative website. Said person had been going for a run and was sweaty and then proceeded to walk around the apartment to "cool down" and then sat on my couch. I could do nothing and after a bit of hemming and hawing, said subject left and I resumed my morning routine. But it got me thinking about Peeping Tom and the legend of Lady Godiva and I wished that I could place a spell and that all folks who peered through my humble window while pressing their dirty paws against the glass would suddenly and swiftly be struck blind in the eye.

If only life imitated legends...

Tuesday, September 09, 2008

Random

My commuter paper has recently taken on a new look. It is now wider and fatter and less newspaper-y but more Rolling Stone-esque. Modern writing template and bigger pictures and smaller type. I dont like it.

Dont they know that wider and fatter is never better? For a newspaper, of course.

Good Gawd

Its been a while...I dont really know where to start seeing as my lack of blogging was due to a lack of content in my life and since my life hasnt changed that much, I can't imagine my blogging will thrive.

However, I am 25 now. Yes, thats right. The big 2-5. A quarter of a century old. Being 25 feels like 24 and 23. No big significant change. Only a slight reminder that I'm closer to 30. And most of my friends who are 25 have two children already.

But I digress. What I really want to talk about is sheets. You know, sheets on your bed. Well, far be it from me to judge other people and their cleanliness or their hygenie but seriously people...you should wash your sheets at least 3 times a month. If not more. You excrete so many bodily fluids that you arent even aware of, that washing your sheets is the only sane thing you can do to prevent any kind of weird infection. AND...lets not get into odor. I can't think of anything nastier (except feet) than that distinct sleep smell. Even describing it, is starting to make my coffee come up...that slightly hazy dreary smell which washing sheets eliminates or abates. Either way, its time that the masses take a page from the Asiankp handbook of hygenie and wash your damn sheets.

Did I mention that now that I'm 25, I've become increasingly anal?