To reminisce Jun 6, 2006 12:46 pm Mood: calm, 1387 Views When I first came to U.S., when I was in 3rd grade, my parents invited my elementary school principal for dinner at our home. I attended an inner city, public elementary school. There was no grass, only a concrete playground. We lived on the second floor of a doctor’s office. Mrs. Sherman came with her husband. They were a Jewish couple. I remember that my mother prepared some pork food, and they politely refused to eat it. Looking back on it, it is interesting that my dad, a seminary student, didn’t know the dietary restrictions of the Jewish people. Either that or he didn’t know that the Shermans were Jewish. I will need to ask him. He probably doesn’t remember the incident now. I was Mrs. Sherman’s favorite student. I visited her every year after graduation, throughout high school and college. I came back for visits during winter breaks and we would go to lunch together. She always gave me a buss on the cheek with a hearty laugh. She was just a wonderful person. She passed away some years back, and for some reason, I remember her vividly today. Occasionally, I would grouse about my dad, about how inept he seemed to be in doing things, and about how I seemed to be losing hold on the faith of my father. She would always soothingly say to me to observe, support and follow my father. She also told me the importance of maintaining the duality of culture. She taught me that it is very important to maintain my ethnic identity. She had a big influence on me. Fast forward many years to when my own children are born. Since my wife is a Korean-Korean, we spoke exclusively Korean at home, so much so that when my eldest entered kindergarten, during a parent teacher conference, her teacher appeared to be speechless when I told her I was Sarah’s dad. “But . . . you speak . . . English”. Sarah was of course born in U.S., but she was so thoroughly educated in the Korean ways, that she was mistaken for a recent immigrant. She ended up repeating kindergarten because of the language barrier. She blames me for it even to this day. In contrast to Mrs. Sherman’s counsel of maintaining individuality of culture, most of the other American friends that I met when I was raising my children said that we should speak more English at home so that my kids will adjust to the American society quicker and be less traumatized when they enter school. I heard them. Sensible. But by my own calculation, I thought that by speaking English at home I would be relinquishing the Korean culture. I wanted to hang on to it as long as possible. So, we continued to speak Korean at home. I think of the Korean culture as the recessive culture. When a Korean and a non-Korean intermarry, the Korean culture recedes and the non-Korean culture tends to dominate in that family. This is absolutely true if an American marries a Korean. Likewise, the American culture is so strong, that once it is unleashed, there is no going back to Koreanism. I’ve seen it too many times. Perhaps it is my personal bias based on limited sampling, but I tend to think this way. Anyway, what was my point about this entry? Sarah has grown up now, and she is now an English major at UCLA. I am proud of her. 0 Comments

my brother and me, again. Jun 6, 2006 3:01 am Mood: drained, 1569 Views Mother phones me at 11 pm tonight. I am in Koreatown, entertaining a guest. Come quick. It’s your brother. I fly into my Mercedes and cut through the dark air and arrive at my parents’ house, leaving behind my unwary guest in a hotel lobby. I survey the situation as I walk in. Confer with parents. I call 911. Police come. Confrontation. Handcuffs. Wailing sound of a pig in grave distress face on the grass. Continuous screeching from his mouth. I watch helplessly. I caress him on the head gently, and I tell him it’s okay, shhhh. I look him in the eye, but he does not see me. Dad tries to muzzle him by putting his hand over brother’s mouth. I take his hand away. Go ahead, little brother, tell the world your agony. You deserve this little bit of dignity to express what you see and how you feel, even though it is utterly unknowable to us standing beside you. Mom crying. Dad in tears. The pain and sorrow of watching a person taken against his will - killing me. Great struggle. It takes four policemen to put one person in the back of a cruiser. The finality of the thud of the door closing, and the vehicle and my brother recede silently into the night in contrast to the commotion of moments earlier. Neighbors are outside with cell phones in hand. They see. They now know – that a crazy man lived in their midst. How interesting. Hospital emergency – I am used to it now. It all seems familiar from these last few months – mother-in-law burst aneurysm; dad and his heart condition; and brother now to the psych ward. Will it ever end? Will there be anyone there for me when I reach my limit and break? A moment of self pity – highly unnecessary I decide. Of course there will be someone. And even if there isn’t, it’s okay. I expect nothing. I am strong - I tell myself. 2 am – Psychiatrist. History. Nodding. Thank yous. Byes. Mom and I steal a glance at each other. We silently promised an understanding many moons ago that we would never cry in front of each other. I will merely cry in my solitude. Sister is not moved on the phone. Rather a befuddled dullness resounds. She has decided she will not cry either. But I know that the pain is deep and she is about to cry, and I say good bye, leaving her to her thoughts. Sister lives in New York, just came from a relaxing trip to Italy I am told. Sorry to break bad news. I am sorry, bro, that I had to call the police. It was all for your own good. You will thank me some day. Sleep well, little bro. I hope you find a bit of peace tonight as you gather yourself from the multiple universes that you traversed in these few days. Now rest. You need it. 7 Comments

soccer craze Jun 5, 2006 10:50 am Mood: confused, 1361 Views Can anyone tell me what the big deal is regarding soccer in Korea or anywhere in the world? The World Cup craze is now settling in, but I grew up in U.S. I never played soccer. And even though I played other sports like baseball, football, and basketball, I don't remember any sports match in which everyone is so personally vested in it, like their whole day is ruined if their their team loses. My church will show on a projection TV, Korea/France soccer game this coming Sunday at noon, shortly after service. This goes beyond fanaticism. I wonder if there is a component of patriotism unlike anything I have ever seen in U.S. Of course I have seen chants of "USA, USA, USA" at Olympic venues, but it doesn't compare with the intensity of fanaticism for soccer as displayed in other countries. Why so much emphasis, intensity and fanaticism for soccer? Where did it originate? Who can forget the 2002 World Cup in Korea and the sea of red? But I just wonder what is it that drives people into the streets like that? And, I don't think it is just that people were dissastified with their lives and so they were looking for something to galvanize around. I think there is a more real answer. Can anyone tell me? 4 Comments

buffalo wings Jun 3, 2006 8:48 pm 1397 Views I am a gullible person, naïve at times, book smart, but not street smart. Unassuming would be a euphemism for me. A case in point. Someone told me buffalo wings were made from tiny winged appendages from buffalos. So, I imagined a bevy of migrant workers clipping off these small appendages from a buffalo herd in South Dakota and shipping them to restaurants across the U.S. Friends still laugh that I fell for it. I was in college then. If it was told to me today, I may still have believed it. Suspension from reality is not a difficult endeavor for me. What? You mean, you didn’t know that they were chicken wings from Buffalo, New York? Welcome to the unassuming crowd. 8 Comments

My dad and me Jun 3, 2006 1:46 am 1308 Views My father is a tower of strength. I have always envisioned him as this unassailable pillar. Although he was never an athlete, and thus his body may have its pointed frailties, his spirit always dominates. He is a rather quiet, earnest, honest, hard worker. A great man. I admire him – not in all respects, but enough to say I am proud to be called my father’s son. He escaped North Korea all alone after having just witnessed his father being assassinated by the communists in cold daylight. His mother wriggled free her gold ring from her finger and squeezed it inside the palm of my father’s little hand and with tear-filled eyes bade him good-bye. “Son, you must go away for just a little while until this conflict is resolved. It is too dangerous for you here.” Dad’s alert eyes lay rest on the faces of her two younger sisters, the image that will be burned into his mind for the rest of his life. He said good-bye. “I will be back in a week or two. Be well. Promise.” The week stretched to over 50 anguished years. The yearning to see mother and sisters again is my dad’s lonely theme etched into his bosom reaching beneath to his very heart. Last night, mom called me, my dad complains of pain in the chest. This morning, I pick him up and drive him to my cardiologist friend. An angiogram and CT scan later, I come in behind the curtain and visit him at bedside. It is hard to imagine, but this is the first time that I have ever seen my dad’s face so closely. He is unconscious, so I take a moment to steal a long look at his facial features. He is a handsome man still. His nose and mouth are big and business-like. His eyes are small, but I see that he is losing hair, skin is folding on itself, and the hairs of his eyebrows are overgrowing as if needing a mowing. And I myself feel a sense of aging as well. When I was little, I was embarrassed of my father. My friends’ dads took their kids to baseball games, talked basketball, tossed football around, but my dad threw a baseball like a girl, and never came to any of my baseball games. I also didn’t see very much of him. He went to school during the day and left for work at 4 pm, exactly 15 minutes after my brother and I arrived home from school. He came home at 1 am, and I rarely remember catching him coming home, although one of the biggest thrills I remember was seeing him come home from work. Once, my mom and dad worked as a part-time janitor at a very exclusive private school in Philadelphia. The place reeked of wealth, which was so far beyond our status in life that my mom and dad were practically in awe of the place. My brother and I tagged along, helping empty trash cans and tidying up books. We thought we were being very helpful to our parents, but in reality we were just being a pain in the butt. All I heard was don’t touch that, don’t run, don’t be so loud, and later. . . wake up, time to go home. The memory still flows sweetly lapping over the neurons of my brain. I am digressing. Turning back to the original thought train . . . because he was so overworked, he was always sleep deprived and he did some crazy things. One time, I was in 3rd grade, and we were going on a field trip. We were supposed to bring brown bag lunch but I either never understood it or I had completely forgotten about it. I went to the school office and phoned dad, asking him to bring me a sandwich and a drink. My mom was working at a sewing factory so she was out of the picture in the mornings. He shows up at school about thirty minutes later. He’s got this sheepish grin on his face. He was glad to see me. On the one hand, I was embarrassed that he came to school, but on the other hand, I was so proud that he came. Later in the day, during lunch, I opened up my brown bag, and I see a peanut butter sandwich, a banana, an apple, a club soda, and an aluminum foil with a stick and a puddle of liquid. I had no idea what the content of this aluminum foil was to be or how I am supposed to ingest it. So, I ended up throwing the aluminum foil away. Later, I asked dad what it was. He said he had wrapped a popsicle in aluminum foil and put it in the bag because he knew I like popsicles a lot . . . of course it had melted in the three hours to lunch in the heat of late spring. He was my defender. When I first started elementary school in America, I would get in fights. Kids would taunt me – chink, slant-eye, Chinese, and blah blah blah. I hated being called Chinese. One kid in particular was vicious. Frank was his name. He would not let up. It got so bad that I complained to mom. Mom must have told dad. One Saturday, he and I went to Frank’s house. I was embarrassed and stayed far beyond my dad’s reach. He rang the bell, out came his mother. I saw them talking for a few minutes. He came back to me and we walked home. On Monday, Frank apologized to me. We became best friends. The power of dad’s intellect is legend in my family. When we were in elementary school, we thought he was the smartest man on earth, and even though that hero worship was tarnished once we learned of others who were equally or perhaps of surpassing brilliance, still we held him in high regard. I still do. He speaks several languages fluently – all self taught. His English writing ability is better than mine. His English speaking ability is amazing as well. He loves books. I could do most of my research projects in high school without going to the library. All of the resources were inevitably in our basement book collection. I must say though that I did not see much of my dad when growing up. We rarely had any type of dinner table talk like normal families are supposed to. He was always at his desk preparing his sermon or doing something. Even though we did not talk much I feel as if I am close to him because I knew what he stood for and the security that he provided to me. Mom never said a bad word about dad. There were times when I complained about dad’s seeming ineptitude in dealing with American system or his general inability to navigate some common sense things in life. But mom tenaciously defended him, “there is no one like your dad.” As he lay there today, all of these memories began to flood me. His strength was not sapped at all. The shell was a little older, but I was happy to see that his inner strength still shows through. 4 Comments

My brother and me Jun 1, 2006 9:35 am Mood: contemplative, 1550 Views I love my little brother as myself – no, more than me. The wound cuts deep, and I feel I have reached a dead-end. Two nights ago. I am careening down I-110 purposefully in my black Mercedes thinking a crush of thoughts in the rush of the situation at hand. Another relapse. Parents called me for help. His medication isn’t working anymore. He hasn’t had any sleep for five straight days. He runs out into the mid-night streets naked to warn neighbors that the Iraqi army has landed near us and are attacking us. He knocks on people’s doors. My parents chase him down and hold him, rein him in, and subdue him with soft words. Damn! Medication again. When are they going to get it right!? In January, 1991, my mother told me over the phone that my little brother was mentally ill, and that they checked him into a hospital. I panicked at the news. My fragile world came crumbling down. I could hear the deafening whirl in my ears of blood vessels coursing through, my heart beating stronger and faster. I thought it must be a nightmare. No! No! No! Not my brother! It can’t be! God, not my brother! Take me instead! Take me instead, as if my brother had been kidnapped by the devil. I took out a picture of us together from my desk drawer, and I grieved and wept uncontrollably. Maybe I caused it. Maybe . . . when we were growing up, I, as the older brother was too harsh with him. . . Maybe I can make a difference now. But. . . God, why my brother?! My family immigrated to America in 1970. We had no relatives here, and none came to us. We were all we had – mom, dad, bro, sis and me. We grew together. He was the smartest of us. He was also the kindest – not a bone of unkindness in him – incapable of hurting anyone. And this is how he lives today, going door to door warning others about phantom nuclear attacks. But in fact, in my heart, he died back in 1991. I still grieve for him. I arrive at the house, finally. He is incoherent, can’t form words. I vowed a long time ago that I will never cry in public, least of all in front of my parents. I have kept that vow. Now, I cry inwardly only. I joke with him. He laughs. I joke with my parents. They relax, but it is clear they are tired, for they have not had any sleep either. I offer to stay the night. They are grateful. We say a short prayer together, my brother and I, and he goes to his bed and I to mine. I cannot sleep. How can you sleep with a crazy man in the house? Now I know the torment my parents have gone through for each and every night for the last fifteen years. It is mid-night and I am awakened by a sudden rumbling of feet racing down the stairs. I rise quickly and immediately follow him. I was already fully clothed because I anticipated struggling with him later in the night – I just didn’t know the exact time it would happen. He opens the front door and I stop him. I close the door. I hug him - not to restrain, but because I wanted to just hug him. I looked at his eyes. I saw fright. He whispers something to me close to my ear as if no other soul on earth is to know what he is about to say. But I cannot make it out. I move him upstairs to my bed. I tell my weary parents that I will take care of him tonight. He lies by the wall, and I by the door so that if he makes a move again, he would have to get by me to get to the door. I lay awake for a little while and I drift off. He awoke a few times, startled at something, and I patted him on the head and assured him that I was here and everything is okay. Assured, he immediately began to snore, and this was repeated through the night. And I was only too happy to do it – to do something for my parents and my brother whom I had ignored for too long, giving the excuse that I had my own family to raise and my busy work. Now I was transported back to where we were before the madness of life had taken over each of us in its own way. Despite the circumstances, on this night I felt at peace to be with my brother again. 10 Comments

Shortcut to death May 25, 2006 11:49 pm 1130 Views I remember it like yesterday. Last year at about this time, I took my Sunday school kids for a walk in the mountains behind my house. It was to be a short excursion lasting at most an hour, just to get some fresh air. About a dozen of us including my wife, all of us in tee shirts, short pants, sandals, a bottle of water and no map, drove to the base of the mountain, got out and without any organization or planning began meandering onto a trail leading into the mountain, the San Gabriel mountain as some of the boys ran ahead and others trudged behind. I was in the rear. Conversations about this and that and three hours went by. It was now 2 pm. We were deep in the mountain. Suddenly, one girl blurts, “I have a piano recital today.” “What time?” “Five”. I panic. “You should have told me earlier, Judy.” Since it took us three hours to get this far, going back the way we came would not work for Judy. My wife chimes, “I saw a shortcut. Awhile back, I saw a signpost for a trail that led to the other trail we were on. You want to try it? It might be faster.” I made the executive decision to go for it. We spent the next hour or two hours climbing a twisting trail until all of our energies were sapped. The short cut had led us further into the mountain. After a few miles of going in this wrong headed direction, I told everyone to just retrace the trail back down exactly where we came. Forget about Judy’s piano recital. This was now a matter of survival. We turn around and walk down. We were all dehydrated and deliriously hungry. Part of the way down, I began to suddenly lose strength in my legs. My heart beat faster with slight discomfort. My legs turned into rubber. I could not stand. I could not walk. But more importantly, it was getting late, and I knew that it is not good to be in the mountains after dark without a flashlight and without warm clothing. I told the kids to move out as fast as they could before the sun goes down. My wife and I were left alone. I was thirsty but there was nothing to drink. I lay there for awhile. My wife, normally a frail woman, wrapped my arms around her shoulders and pulled me as a stubborn mule would, my useless feet dragging along behind me on the well-worn trail. “Where did this sudden strength come from?!,” I laughed to myself even in my semi-conscious state. A couple of the older kids came back for me with a half-bottle of water. I drank and it helped but not enough. I just could not get up. I told them to go ahead and get help. I lay in my wife’s lap and she stroked her gentle hands on my head and it felt good. My head spun and thoughts turned to the meaning of life in this solitude. Even though my wife was next to me, it was indeed I alone that faced this destiny of life or death, and I could not bring her with me, whichever route I chose, or it chose. I thought about my goals in life which have not been scratched, such as helping young people to have vision with their lives, and my own inadequacies of a life not fulfilled to its potential, perhaps my book ends with this chapter in the mountains, and my children will put it on their fireplace mantel and tell about their dad who was never home and never seemed to care for them, when in fact I cared so deeply, so painfully deeply. And my thoughts turned to my wife who is my closest friend, an angel in disguise. I fade. She picked me up, and dragged me some more, until we were not very far from the end, and I collapsed, and I muttered, “no more”. It was dark now, and both of us were lying down on the cold rocks. Suddenly, three seraphim Eagle scouts appeared before us with a sack full of water and power bars. They were so happy to see me, and I them, even though I never knew them. I drank and drank and drank the life force, pumped it into me. I inhaled a power bar or two, and lo, strength came back to my legs. I could walk as before. They helped me up, and we finished the trail together. Fortunately, all of the kids had made it out, and as they had exited the trail one by one, they saw the Eagle scouts camped near by and had asked for help, and that is how they came to rescue me. I saw a sheriff’s car. He told me they were going to call a rescue chopper if I had not showed up in the next half hour. I thanked him. I looked at my cell phone as its signal bars danced again, and blinked 77 missed calls. I cried for the first time. Do I believe in angels? What of the Eagle scouts that saved me, and what of my wife, who gave me comfort on the barren trail, she was an angel, too, and still is. 2 Comments

Autumn May 24, 2006 12:03 pm 1149 Views Last night, as I lay awake, an intense swirl of memories swept over me of being wrapped in late autumn dusk with a slight nip in the air my body rubbing against a lone tree under a panoply of gold and saffron leaves hanging from above, in an idyllic park somewhere on the outskirts of Baltimore – Patapsco park, I believe it was called. My father was a pastor. I had just graduated from college, with nothing to do, and every Sunday, we drove down to Baltimore from Philadelphia to attend church. The chilly, crisp air, which foretold of winter and yet was beauteous in its presentation, with its late fall colors, and the smell of fresh grass cut down to release its tonic sweetness, to bind my wounds for having nothing, and desiring a future, and yet so good to be home with mom and dad, my brother and sis. Just the five of us, as it was from the beginning – before I had left for college. My mind lingers on God’s gift of wonder – to sense it in nature, the seasons, and my family. How gifted we are to recognize such things. There is a belonging associated with autumn, as the autumn chill sets, we look to each other for comfort and to share our “jeong” for another year about to go by. Families are sought, and it seems that the core of our being is being jousted out to touch those around us. I look back on my haunting youngness, the freshness of the senses, and the wonder of the seasons, especially the refreshing chill of autumn. Darkness falls early in late autumn, but the people are cheery, bright faced and red, rubbing their hands just aching for the warmth of another human touch. And the sun goes down on still another day and another day is shorter, and I am sad that another day has passed in my sojourn. As the days ease on, I sense a forboding, and the power of the inexorable movement of time. But in place of the darkness, I see beyond the coming winter and I imagine spring, that there would be also spring, an eternal hope to mark the cycle of the seasons. My mind flashes to another autumn montage - of my time in Daegu as a child, apples were aplenty then. I remember my cousins bringing baskets of these delicious red apples to my house at the foothill of the mountains. We munched on them and bit hard into raw chestnuts. The chill of the air is forever intertwined with these happy and carefree childhood memories. Things seemed to be more plentiful, and although there was less, there was more to be enjoyed. In some ways, autumn implies the decline, a looming end and segue into winter death. Late autumn does imply it, but in contrast, I think of early fall as a new beginning. School begins, friends are met, and with an eternal two month summer vacation separating us, they come back changed and some have indeed molted into other creatures. New things to learn, new adventures, new challenges, and why not start fresh in autumn? Sometimes, I feel that I am in the early autumn of my life. Rather than a decline, I vow to enhance my life and return to my younger days advised with the experience gathered over the years, and recharge the ability of my senses to sense, and to be no longer afraid. I write this as I sit in front of my computer on a balmy spring day in Los Angeles where autumn carries virtually no separate meaning from winter or spring. But for all the world, I love autumn, my favorite season. 4 Comments

Hollywood Bowl Saturday NIght May 22, 2006 12:01 pm 1582 Views I don’t go to many of these happenings, but I attended the Korean Music Festival at Hollywood Bowl last Saturday night. Many Korean stars performed. I hardly recognized any of the performers since I don’t follow the Korean music scene at all. I knew Lee, Sun Hee and Tae Jin Ha (old timers), Seven, and Hyo Ri Lee. Hyo Ri Lee had a wonderful style to her. Very, very good looking. Seven wasn’t bad looking either, neither were any of the other stars. They were all good looking people. Little girls in the audience were screaming and waving signs. You look at some of these boy bands though and these kids are clearly androgynous. They are cute. There were one or two girl bands. They sang beautifully. The line-up was definitely geared toward the younger set. I was hoping for performances of the 70’s, 80’s music. There were maybe one or two songs I recognized. I long for these songs, to be transported to a life smothered in innocence when songs were sing-able, and softer. I find songs these days are too hard to follow. I think the message they carry today are relevant and are probably as powerful as any, but it seems to have passed me by, and I do not desire to chase after it. The times, they have changed. When these Korean kids were doing rap songs though, my honest thoughts were that this is not the medium for Koreans. For me to be moved, the thing must possess raw energy, an uninhibited sense of magic unleashed. Rap music to me belongs in the realm of the black artists. They have the voice, the timber, the movement – they invented it, and it is their performances that are raw and exciting. Everyone else, every other culture imitating them is just a pretender. I got the sense that these Korean kids, using mannerisms that mimic black ghetto, just don’t convey to me the uninhibited, powerful savant rap. I understand that one Korean rapper kid was a Stanford University English Literature major. He did a really good job, but mostly I found it to be just loud. Despite all of the rappers and nouveau crooners, the highlight of the night was Tae Jin Ha (I think I got the name right), the only representative of the old time Ahjussi songsters. His son came out first and sang a couple of songs, and his dad came out and they did a duet (a moment when I teared up briefly – it is always good to see a parent/child combination doing something together that they are both passionate about), and the son left and it was Tae Jin Ah alone, and it was magic. He came in with Katrina like force and waded into the audience and the crowd went nuts – everyone, young and old was clapping and screaming. This is KOREAN music. And after all, the music of Koreans courses through their veins. And on this night, we were one. 7 Comments

Well-being craze May 18, 2006 10:34 pm 1154 Views Koreans are funny about health. They are so gullible, too. I am married to a Korean-Korean woman. It is just amazing to me how many pills, powders, juices, herbs that are on the market and that our kitchen cabinet is a repository for all of them. This is in addition to “han yak” the Chinese herbal medicine. I have been the unwitting and sometimes coerced (or, as my wife would say, friendly persuaded) subject for much of this regimen. Anytime I say I feel tired, out comes the juices, herbs, the vitamin pills, the juice pills, the noni juice, the goji juice, the juice from heaven, the artichoke powders, and on and on. She gives me so many pills to increase my stamina I learned how to swallow five or six of these pills at once. On top of this, there are the three thousand dollar “ee-bul”, four thousand dollar infra-red machines, deionizers, back supports, foot massagers, massage therapy, foot massage therapy (pain!), and on and on. I think we spent nearly a fortune on these “well-being” things. Personally, I don’t believe any of this stuff. I believe a good plate of 14 oz. medium rare filet mignon will cure me of all of my ennui. But Koreans clamor for this well-being stuff, which makes me think that Koreans are a strange bunch of people. Sometimes, “well-being” in the pocket books can lead to “well-being” of the body, which concept seems to have gotten lost somewhere in the frenzy for better health. Koreans also very much abide by oriental medicine. I was amazed at how many Koreans actually look to these han-eusa than Western medical doctors for what ails them. The other day, my wife went to a “han eusa”, and the man told her that she should not drink ginseng or hong-sam extract because it is harmful to her physiology (after she had drunk tons of this stuff already). Instead, he recommended that she drink deer antler extract, which is more consistent with her body physiology. She believes this of course like the gospel. Surely, this will be her next purchase. I told my better half, “I don’t believe in this stuff. I don’t want to take these pills, and drink this stuff. Why are you making me do this?”, to which she replies, “Just be thankful you have someone taking care of you like me. Now drink up.” Reminiscent of Custer’s last stand, my protestations were to no avail, another battle is lost, and I dutifully comply. 1 comment

 aconfusedman

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