The Self-Deprechaun

Oink Oink Flu!

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 03:46:00 +0000

This week, Babyboo and I lived, not as if we were married but more like ad hoc roommates put together in a dirty, European hostel. It was as if we were like strangers who were suspicious that each would steal from one another but our marriage has not been any stronger than it is now. She fell sick with the flu on Monday and I asked her if her flu was of the 'oink, oink' variety. Apparently, her doctor did not say but suspiciously gave her Tamiflu to snort. So, out of love (for myself), I immediately segregated our apartment into two section; the living room became my 'healthy' zone where I slept on an Aero bed and lived like I was in college, while Babyboo was quarantined to the bedroom where the diseased lepers were to go.

I moved a lot of my clothes that I needed for the week into my living room 'dorm' space, and it piled together into a mountain topography forming my 'man cave', if you will, across the sofa and onto the television. The construction of the beautiful mess was strong and was often propped up by stacks of takeout and pizza boxes. Maybe some of my shirts were ruined because a sleeve congealed with leftover pizza but with the boss debilitated, I could do whatever I wanted in my own man'tasy land. All I needed was a large keg to complete the picture and it would be like college or the 'Old School' frat party that I had at my place with the Dudes on the Upper West again.

In the rare times that I did see her, Babyboo's nose was so red like Rudolph's and was so extremely runny like eggs that I wish I had toast to sop it all up. Attractive as she was with huge mounds of tissue stuffed up her nostrils, I kept at least an arms length away and patted her head to show my affection and kissed the air around her rather than her germy cheeks. Maybe I was a little paranoid but I created a make-shift SARS mask with a scarf to talk to her even though most of our conversations were through the door. Like a prison guard, I would leave food at the base of the door and then ask her to not open the door until I was a safe distance away just in case a toxic cloud suffocated me. After all my Babyboo encounters, even after phone calls with her, I would Purell myself all over liberally. She knows I love her though; I mean, I put a Post-It on the bathroom mirror telling her so (I also ordered her to wipe down everything she touches..eww..but the love part was first).

So, this may all sound very obsessive compulsive and horrible and it is but it has worked thus far and I feel great. She is doing much better and I may enter back into the war zone bedroom this weekend. One positive though is that my experience living outside in the living room this week was not all that bad such that I am more optimistic and prepared for when I get put in the dog house, which will definitely happen and probably soon.

Emo not Elmo

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 04:07:00 +0000

This weekend Babyboo and I ventured into an underground society that made us frightened, enlightened, happy and confused all at the same time. Our friends had won free tickets randomly and invited us to a concert that submerged us into the deepest, darkest pools of eye mascara in an emo rock fantasy world. Later, I would confront my inner demon in front of the mirror: "Why can't you say 'No' to free things? You are so weak Free Phil."

Given my storied concert resume and acumen, I thought I was hip enough to the jive to hang with the scene but it turns out, this would be nothing like a Taylor Swift concert and I was lost. We were propelled into a hipster, Brooklyn canvas featuring eclectic bands with a grassroots, MySpace following. Truthfully, I thought I knew a couple things about emo music but now I know that the main recipes call for screaming and kids in tight, skinny jeans.

I too would have loved to wear skinny jeans but the prerequisite to wearing them is that one needs to be skinny (FAIL!) and I was pretty sure blood would stop flowing in my meaty, thunder thighs. So, unfortunately compared to everyone else, Babyboo and I stuck out like a sore thumb wearing our cardigans and business casual and were greeted by judgment and hisses as if we were narcs or school principals ready to bust kids. To add to the pain, we would be packed in like sardines in a standing room only crowd and smothered against the huge, tower amps that could make my ears bleed.

Before the show, I thought that maybe I should call my mommy and ask for permission to go. I wondered where I could get black nail polish on short notice. I practiced looks of teen angst. I yelled ”No one GETS me” to no one in particular. I wikipedia’ed ‘Emo'. Some say that it is kind of like punk, only a little more pensive, broken hearted and somber or that it's a state of one's soul entwined with a music genre. Even now, I do not know what it really is. Even Microsoft's spell check doesn't even know, because it keeps underlining the word in a squiggly red line every time I type it.

I was brimming with a frothy mix of anxiety and insecurities: What if, during an overly depressing song, one of the goth kids started weeping and their black tears got on my dress shirt? What if my face melted or my oily hair caught on fire from the pyro technics? What if Babyboo launched me into a mosh pit?

And mosh we did (but not really). As the bands started playing harder and harder music, the mosh pit sprouted two feet to the right of me. I saw manorexic kids bouncing off each other and then coming out of piles holding their broken faces or bruised ligaments. Soon, the kids were getting slingshot into the pogo jumping masses and I considered diving right in to get some exercise or to get mildly felt up. Instead, true to form, like a senile, crotchety grandpa, I yelled and shook my fist at some of the kids to stay away from Babyboo and maybe told them to get a job too.

Still confused at the scene before us, our friends Googled an entry on 'fitting in at emo concerts' on their I-phone and gave us this how-to: "Try to look pale. Look gaunt. Look thin if possible. Don’t smile too much. Don’t look upset. Try to maintain a peaceful expression. Don’t feel obligated to talk. It’s okay to just stand around and soak up the ironic mutual understanding. If you choose to talk, avoid the following topics: your college fraternity or sorority; sports; hamburgers; cars; expensive wine." The 'pale' part I could do but everything else was going to take too much effort and I needed to distract or medicate myself quickly!

So when all seemed lost, I swam my way through the crowds to the bar in the back for some liquid solace. Sweet relief from this oasis was soon to be had;it tastes so good when it hits the lips. I felt like I could drown myself enough to lubricate and maybe blackout the experience before me. But as I reached the counter, it was then and there that I could really embrace what the emo angst was all about as I was brought to tears to discover that the concert was an 'all ages' show and only water and soda were being served! Oh the humanity!

Cut my wrist, black my eyes and dye my hair, I am ready for those skinny jeans now.

Hitch-hiking to disappoint kids.

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 01:20:00 +0000

It was a typical Saturday morning: I barely woke up to my alarm, stumbled into the shower and lay fetal position in the bath tub under running water hoping that the fear of drowning would shoot adrenaline into my senses. I should probably be dead but instead, I snoozed in my own waterworld for a bit dreaming of Maui waterfalls and Ford Mustangs. Then naked and half-conscious, I nose dived into the closet to dress myself.

Somehow, I remembered it was going to be cold and that I was going to be outside with the kids, so I dressed myself in various layers of clothes that have no business being paired together like a cashmere sweater and a layer of flannel pajama pants . Then, I covered my Project Runway hot mess ensemble in a huge Northwestern college hoodie, but by this time, I was overheating between layers in a hot broth of my own marinade and was ready for another shower.

Still in a zombie state, I raced out the door to catch the long subway ride to get to Harlem. Usually, I would read the paper on the way up but my eyes were extra swollen and puffy such that they were narrower than usual even for an Asian man and on this occasion, I blacked out. I was supposed to get off at the 175th stop but I found myself wiping drool off my mouth and in a hazy mess at the end of the subway line on 208th street.

How did this happen? In a panic, I started a Forrest Gump like sprint to the volunteer center because I was late and needed to catch up with the others. There would be buses there leaving promptly with the kids and other mentors because we had a field trip to a state park in New Jersey called Bear Mountain.

Panting, sweating, and maybe with a little crying, I saw some yellow school buses riding off into the distance and so, I started to chase after them frantically with arms flailing which brought back some devastating elementary school memories (I just needed a wedgie to complete the experience). But I could not reach them. The program director asked one of the parents to drive me to race to catch up to the buses and race we did; I have never been so scared being in a soccer mom mini-van before.

Unfortunately, we did not see any of the buses and this soccer mom had to get back to Harlem. So, I told the her to drop me off at a Citgo gas station in the middle of Palisades Parkway in Dirty Jersey to fend for myself. I was about 30 miles from Bear Mountain and I thought that maybe I could hitch hike/sell myself to get up there. This was mentor dedication at its best.

I had never hitch hiked before and reminded myself to be charming and handsome but not so charming and handsome that I would be kidnapped and/or defiled by strangers. Looking for my opportunities, my best chance was one family by the gas pumps who had a 'Northwestern University' decal on their car and I quickly accosted them earnestly and with familiarity making sure my Northwestern hoodie was in clear view as well (I thought this was going to be a slam dunk as we were practically family) asking if they were going to Bear Mountain. They were startled, and without a word quickly got in their cars, locked the doors and raced off.

Undeterred, I did what any New Yorker Douchebag would do in this situation: I bailed myself out and called a black car to pick me up. I was going to arrive in style and thought that the kids would celebrate my arrival with pomp and circumstance after all I had been through to get there for them.

When we pulled up, the kids did swarmed the car. It was a 'papa, paparazzi' mob scene of hyper kids all out of control and they were all trying to look into the tinted windows to see if it was a Yankee player who happened to be visiting Bear mountain. But when I got out, I cannot even describe how disappointed they were to see that it was only me. (It is the same face I get from Babyboo when I come home). I think I even got jeered and 'boo-ed'.

So was it worth it? Shut up.

'Don't mind if I do': The story of the Self-Deprechaun

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 22:18:00 +0000

This week was a blur and I know that sounds like every week for me but that's only because I am a junkie and a part-time wino. I cannot believe that I went out every night this week. I felt like I barely touched my bed and remember occasionally, bathing. I confess that I have not seen Babyboo awake this whole week. When I get home, she is asleep, and when I leave in the morning, she is asleep and we have not been happier in our marriage.

I am not that important but I think that I am and so it's been a whirlwind of client dinners, fundraisers, random meetings, peer pressure and other excuses to go out. I am pretty easy. So as I look upon this week, I can pretty much pinpoint when everything was ruined: let's call it Monday. On Monday, I went out with a volleyball team made up of lawyers who have a fun co-ed team for which I am the mascot. The fun starts after our games as their company pays for drinks afterwards and I simply cannot turn anything like that down. "Don't mind if I do" is the story of my life.

What started out as one beer turned into Oktoberfest. Like a 'choose your own adventure' book, I chose poorly and saw an early night turn into something epic in a matter of seconds. These lawyers were nuts! First it was tequila, then it was bourbon, then Wild Turkey whiskey and then rinse and repeat (on a Monday!). Somehow a handful of us piled into a diner so loud and obnoxious and licked several greasy plates clean like our mamma's told us to. I don't remember much but I do remember some fool in our group ordering a seared tuna to satiate himself (who orders that at a grease joint while completely wrecked?).

The best part was that the next day, one of the lawyers emailed the group and said that he stumbled into the subway to go home and before he knew it, he had passed out and woke up at 2 in the morning on the L train (a train that goes back and forth, East to West, West to East from Brooklyn to Manhattan) going the wrong way. I think he was on it for... a long time.

So now, I am clinging onto the reality that the week is over like a child to his blankie. And I am waiting until lunch time because I have insider information that one of the groups at work is going to get a decent order of food. As usual, I will wait it out and look desperate and hungry until one of them has pity on me and passes over a steak sandwich. Usually though, the colleague who has pity on me is the other Asian guy adjacent to my group who (I think) secretly gives me food because he wants to make sure that I am the fatter Asian on the floor at all times. I understand my role.

You look more Chinese than usual. (I'm Korean)

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 09:59:00 +0000

This weekend was the first one back for me at the school tutoring program in Harlem since Maui and the first regular session for the kids. The previous weeks, there had been several neighborhood events at the local park district to which the kids were committed, so the program director informed me that the kids would be extra hyped up this week to be with the mentors (Grrrreat!).

And he was right. As soon as I walked in, a motley crew of runny nosed, tantrum-throwing trouble makers, who seemed to be on a sugar high greeted me warmly (and I am just talking about the other mentors). But then the kids rushed at me as if for a punt block and swarmed like buzzing bees. Even after the program director pulled the kids off, my kids were still climbing on one another and were hanging onto my legs like anchors. It was then I remembered what it felt like to be a little more than a ‘Manny’ (man nanny) who doubled as a glorified jungle gym (a sweet feeling it was).

The welcome did not end there; the kids looked me up and down and noticed that yes, somehow I was a little more tanned than usual and one kid pointed it out in a special way for me:

"You look more 'Chinese' than usual. Did you go somewhere?" (I am Korean but I took this observation as a compliment.)

So here is a typical snapshot of a Saturday morning: In my kindergarten/1rst grade class, we usually sing some songs but the usual guitar player was not there this time and somehow I was volunteered to do my best Mr. Roger's impersonation and sing a lick or two. Relying on my amazing 'Guitar Hero' abilities and all my high school and college years of playing Nirvana covers, I fumbled through the songs but then my inner Kurt Cobain got the best of me and it turns out, the kids look at you funny when you try to make 'The Wheels on the Bus' and 'If You're Happy and You Know' more rock n' roll.

After the songs, we do stories, alphabet and math lessons and when the kids cannot stand me anymore, we let them out to play. Unfortunately, it was raining this weekend and the usual outlet to dispense of the kids' pent up energy and/or anger (going to play at the park), was not an option.

So, we chose to play some board games, which I did not mind. As I have mentioned, I selfishly viewed these Saturday mornings as a time to drown out the stresses of work and feel better about myself. Nothing is more amazing than crushing these kids in Connect Four every week or winning at spelling games when they are just learning to read.

This time around, we played Monopoly: The Here and Now Edition. This is not your grandma's Monopoly and involves all sorts of twists to the classic game: Railroads have been replaced by airports like O'Hare and JFK. Utilities have been supplanted by cell phone and Internet service. And the game pieces have all been updated: laptop, cell phone, a hybrid car (Prius), Starbucks coffee mug, jumbo jet, and even super size fries (I chose this as my piece).

Not to say the kids really understood what was going on in the game but by a roll of the dice, we were visiting some of your cities and buying up the properties: Texas Stadium in Dallas, Centennial Olympic Park in Atlanta, The Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, Wrigley Field in Chicago, etc. The funny part of the whole game was when we landed on the White House property (apparently it is for sale), the kids went crazy when I told them that we could visit Obama.

Then I said to one of the Kindergarteners, "Emil, you can date Sasha and your brother can date the older one, Malia."

This suggestion was greeted by a chorus of jeers and 'ewww's' and game time ended abruptly thereafter and I ruined the party as usual (and probably their lives).

Maui Wowee

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 10:54:00 +0000

Reunited and it feels so good. Rested and recharged, I am ready to 'Phil' your void again (whether you consent to it or not). Here are the highlights of the last two weeks in my version of an 'Aloha Mixed Plate' (a little bit of everything, so to speak) complete with two scoops of rice and macaroni salad.

We started our adventures in frigid Utah where the no booze, no dancing, and thus, no fun 'Big Love' wedding took place. It was an outdoor wedding and I had to awkwardly put my hands under my armpits to keep them warm for most of the time (okay, they are usually under there anyways). Babyboo and I had hoped that the wedding favors would be fur lined parkas or long underwear onesies. I medicated myself early and often with cold medicine (to be preventative) but one attendee went All-Madden on me and actually took the initiative to BYOB to the reception. He brought Maker's Mark and had one of the waiters hide it for him behind the buffet table (so smart and yet, so red neck). He did not even share. To me, Utah was the means to the end--sweet Maui.

In Maui, we arrived to sunny, 90 degree weather and I could hear my buttery skin starting to sizzle, snap, crackle and pop under the sun's rays. At the rental car place, the attendant there seduced me out of a pansy car and into a Ford Mustang convertible. I could not resist and despite, Babyboo's objections, I got to have my midlife crisis sports car about 5 yrs early while I still have hair.

Upon arrival at the hotel, we were taken aback by the opulence of the hotel and the fact that the front desk assumed it was our honeymoon (we didn't correct them) and we were upgraded to the honeymoon suite with all these freebies. I was used to being in the honeymoon suites prior to getting married but usually it was often with a small frat of 5 other dudes with a lot of roll-away beds (it's more cost efficient) and usually in an even more romantic place like Capri adjacent to the rooms of couples who were visibly irked by us. But this time around, I really felt like a somebody, a VIP, and a princess for the week except that everyone in the hotel called me Mr. Song (Babyboo's maiden name) the rest of the time we were there.

For the first few days, I went to the beach asking a lot of the sun to drench this man-opolis temple that I call my body with its vitamin E fruits. As many of you can bear witness, I am extravagantly pale, almost to a gleaming, glorious radiance. I burned myself early on such that I was often the insecure loser wearing a t-shirt in the water. This past week, my back went from red, to peeling off, to new pale skin! So sadly, whatever tan I had that made me look my species has been washed away or has already faded.

For most of our time, when it was my turn to pick the activities, it usually involved riding down the hotel's water slides but I found that my dreams of pushing fat kids down these slides were delusional and out of touch when it turned out that I was the only fat kid there. When Babyboo dictated our activities, she put my body through a ringer from surfing and snorkeling to bike cruising down a crater but luckily, she put us up for a couple's spa day and it was simply amazing.

Under my masseuse, Ludmila's man hands I was tenderized like a pork shoulder and limbered up like Gumby and felt so great except that the facilities had all these tempting soaking pools, saunas, whirl pools and like a lost puppy, I did not know what to do with myself except stay there for several hours. It turns out, you're not supposed to do that and I had a critical case of prune hands and became so dehydrated and overheated that I felt more hungover than I have ever felt without drinking and Babyboo had to carry me to our room.

So all in, the only thing worse than the groggy Monday back at work after a long vacation is the Sunday before, where you think about the upcoming week and wonder if committing some drastic aggravated assault and getting thrown in prison is a better short term career choice.

For now, I am just struggling to get used to wearing proper attire. One spends the entire vacation week in a thong and flip flops (I like to move it, move it) and now one is expected to wear pants all day and not drink pina colada lava flows in the sun during lunch? Who can I assault?

U2, Mother's Milk, and Drunken Doctoring

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 21:47:00 +0000

Week in review, let's skip to Wednesday.

Here was the high:I went to a U2 concert with Babyboo and some babies' mamas (some of her friends) and it was righteously awesome. To a sold out crowd in Giants stadium, Bono and company rocked it out. I screamed out like a little school girl to all the hits (lots of Joshua Tree and Achtung Baby). I was raising my hands and closing my eyes just like the hundreds of thousands around and it felt like a religious awakening. In front of me was this large alien ship type structure to greet me: a 90-foot tall, four-pronged monster that had a jumbo tron that wrapped around 360 degrees and gave everyone the same view.

But while the show was happening frenetically in front of me, there was another show happening directly to the right of me and Babyboo. A couple had brought what seemed like a freshly new born baby (she was so tiny) and apparently they had been to other concerts with her across the country (Bob Dylan, Jimmy Buffet, etc). They were the ultimate hippy parents and were so laid back. The baby was cute and playful and seemed to be enjoying Bono's croonings but then she started crying and kept on getting more upset.

The parents didn't know what to do at first but then realized that she might be hungry. (Here is the show part) Before I knew it, the mom whipped out the goods and was feeding her right in the open. It was both amazing and awkward at the same time. I had to tell Babyboo to stop rubber necking and someone told me that we should have taken a family picture with them at the time. I think everyone was just happy that I was not whipping out my goods and nursing anyone.

Here was the low:
I went to a colleague's going away drinks after work yesterday and I was probably the most efficient drinker/appetizer eater for about half an hour. A little tipsy, I told everyone I had to race off and people conjectured that I wanted to workout (clearly they don't know me) but really, I had to go to a doctor's appointment (really? yes really). Probably not a good idea.

I fell over myself onto the repulsed receptionist's desk and filled out the insurance forms poorly with awful, scribbled penmanship. All in, I think I made the doctor's diagnosis easy: "So, Phil, here's the problem; you are drunk." Well my momma only told me to always have clean underwear on before a doctor's visit but nothing about not having dirty martinis right before.

A crazy week: Sleep Apnea, Halloween, Irish Car Bombs Oh My!

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Sat, 19 Sep 2009 04:40:00 +0000

This week has been a whirlwind of ups and downs. Let's skip Monday because it sucks and in general, I think we should start out the week on Tuesdays. On that day, I went to the doctor for a full checkup and everything else went fine except the doctor asked me a strange question: "What is your neck size?" And then he asked me to lower my head and chin and he touched the folded flab of skin that creates my third and fourth chin and pondered my flesh for several minutes from different angles. Then he asked me a couple of other questions related to me snoring and if my wife complains about how my snoring may sound like I am choking or gargling. He said, 'Given the size/girth of your head and neck area, I would say you might be highly susceptible to sleep apnea." Sleep apnea is a disorder in which one has one or more pauses in breathing while sleeping and often caused by weight (a flappy chin, for example) pressing against air passageways at night. I asked him what the solution for curing this disorder would be and he mentioned exercise. Hmm...then I asked him if he was calling me fat but the doctor refrained from answering.

So with that knowledge, one would repent and start purging and doing jaw/chin exercises but I did exactly the opposite and went to a Yankees game in grand fashion on Wednesday but you have to hear me out. I was able to partake in a once in a lifetime situation, something called 'Legends' seats and I think the only way to get these tickets aside from some egregious ticket broker is to be in with the mob or the Yankees or probably both (I went the easy route and simply mortgaged my soul and first born). I could go on and on about the benefits: a bathroom with fancy toilets and all the 'free' food that I can consume. Okay let me go on for a little bit: they had private buffets w/carving stations etc right before the game, they had a private dugout lounge where you can eat all the hotdogs, cheeseburgers, nachos, even sushi you want). The most amazing thing was the dessert/candy pyramid of treasures. All the Skittles, Starbursts, Snickers, Mike & Ikes, etc, that you can stuff in your pockets and stuff I did! When I got home that night, I unloaded my pirate's booty of sugar onto to the table for Babyboo (I am a provider!) and it was like Halloween in my pants! That night, FreePhil was so overstimulated that he was shaking in ecstasy and quietly wept to himself in sheer happiness.

And now yesterday, we had our team team/morale/building night out at a comedy club and it was great! Besides viewing some hilarious comedians, one of our colleagues who does standup on the side got up there and was so funny, he made us soil our pants. When his first joke singled out the compliance and HR individuals in attendance and told them to get the 'f*ck' out, I knew it was going to be a good night. Long story short, I had one too many Irish Car Bombs and here we are now ready for the weekend.

Confessions of a Shopaholic and the husband who loves her

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 20:20:00 +0000

This weekend Babyboo and I did not go anywhere or do much of anything at all. Instead, we placed all our focus, resources and energy in surviving the retail maelstrom that swept into New York known as the Barneys' Warehouse Sale. Everyone who goes there knows the drill: no fitting rooms, no exchanges, no returns, and no place for modesty when there are bargains to be seized. Everyone is equipped with comfortable shoes, eagle eyes, and quick hands to snatch away the best merchandise. This is a once in a blue moon sale that offers a treasure trove of designer clothing, shoes, accessories etc all discounted by 50-75% and afterwards, one must check into rehab.

Like an athlete preparing for gameday, Babyboo spent time looking at film (Confessions of A Shopaholic), while I worked on plays (Pick and Roll) to unleash on the field, and remembered that with no pain (credit card bills) comes no gain. After waiting a couple of hours in line to get in, we sprinted onto the scene and split up between floors for men and women's apparel. Here at this retail circus, the sight of people stripping down to their underwear between the racks to try on clothes rarely raises an eyebrow. I was just glad that I did not wear my 'man'kini that day although some dudes did (I think this is excellent strategy as it does temporarily blind other shoppers to create a competitive advantage).

I am a relatively efficient shopper and surveyed the field quickly and honed in on the shoe and jeans section. I found shoes in ten minutes but found myself lost and confused as I rifled through the jeans section. Elbowing against those trying to sustain their metrosexual street cred, I got sucked into the 'Third World Manorexic' skinny jean section (who wears a 25 waist?) when a worker saved me and guided me towards the 'Extra Extra Large' jean bin which had bell bottoms for whales.

Upstairs, men know it is best to steer clear of the women’s department and let the ladies claw it out amongst themselves which they do as Babyboo came back with a couple of bruises and no guy wants to come off as a leering perv although some do and are escorted off (not me, this time). After I finished, I waited in the unofficial holding pen right near the womens' department waiting with other purseholders and was called upon as the 'closer' only when Babyboo was ready to go to checkout. Usually she is almost out the door with her purchases and the cashier, confused, asks if she will be paying for things only to point to me who is lagging behind getting my wallet out. She loves this arrangement.

The trick to attacking this sale is timing when to go to hit the sweet spot of quallity items to maximum savings. You see, every few days the discounts increase another 5-10% but the supply becomes limited and terrible until the warehouse becomes an increasingly dangerous, pillaged village with nasty looters. These sales are so famous that people often buy the same patterned dress shirts and embarrassing antics ensue in workplaces. The third time one wears the same shirt at work, it is not so funny and there becomes a gentlemen's agreement on what days one can wear certain shirts in the week cycle such that I cannot where a certain blue striped shirt on Tuesdays and Thursdays, ever (not that this happens).

All in, this event is like a national holiday for Babyboo and I let her go hogwild: she went on Friday, Saturday, Sunday and then secretly, she went yesterday as well which turned out to be one too many as she received a sobering punishment for her sins when she called me in a panic saying that her purse had been stolen (sad but true). Given this badness, I hope that she will get this retail bug out of her system and if necessary, take up a different, less expensive addiction like..uh porn. Oh Babyboo!

Korean Clubbing 101

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Tue, 01 Sep 2009 00:42:00 +0000

This weekend Babyboo and I went to a place that we did not think we would ever have to go back to since we got married: a Korean club. We thought we had hung up our glow sticks for good but my friend was having his birthday celebration there and asked a special favor for team Philistine to make a cameo. Let me be clear, this was not a bar or a lounge, this was a hot mess of go-go girls, glitter, fog machines, and neon lights that cause mild epileptic seizures. Korean clubs are much like regular clubs where one goes to dance, hang loose and maybe, when lubricated with the proper amount of liquid courage, find Mr. or Ms. Right Now (now but not now, okay maybe..now).

Like other clubs, it takes a Herculean effort to get in especially because our 'posse' was rolling with all dudes (aside from Babyboo who is technically counted as a dude because she is married) which is generally, the absolute recipe for disaster when going out. At this particular place, they even split the lines up into 2: one for girls and one for guys with crazy, spiky haircuts who looked as if they were rejected extras from the Fast and the Furious movies. They let the people who get the overpriced bottle/table service in first, girls in second and let the dudes graze in line to spear each other with their gelled up hair. But for us, one guy knew a guy who knew another guy's cousin who knew a guy who knew a guy who owns the place so all we had to buy was 4 bottles at a table and we were all in.

Once in, one is taken aback at how crowded the floor is as managed through the wall of sweaty button down shirts and slinky sequined Halloween costume dresses. In that instant, however one understands why the population control happens outside as the guy to girl ratio equals sausage fest which is good for no one. As the married couple, Babyboo and I felt and looked like the mom and dad to our group making sure glasses were full, shirt collars up, and wing men paired together as honing missiles to the scene. I tolerated being there because I felt tall compared to the average Korean dude but also found great interest in the unique, awkward mating rituals that remind one of middle-school dances, if they were held along the DMZ (Korean Demilitarized Zone). On one side is one part sweaty-palmed Asian gangsta boys who seemed to have gone to the same barber (Fade the Bowl!) and clothing stores and on another side are overly bashful girls who are unable to relax and have a normal conversation. It is a tribute to social dysfunction at its best and a bit like watching Animal Planet.

Unlike other clubs, within these contexts, a passive-aggressive matchmaking of guys and girls called, 'booking' occurs. 'Booking' is speedier than speed dating and is a pairing that is sparked and extinguished as fast as you can down a shot. It might be a Korean secret that I am uncovering here and I may be excommunicated from the community but this is how it works: waiters act on your behalf and surreptitiously grab club-going ladies (sometimes willing, sometimes not) at another table or on the floor and ferry them over to a table full of geeks like my friends. The girls engage in conversation briefly before the waiters whisk them away to another table unless they want to stay. Basically, the boy does not have to put his ego at risk and try to woo a girl with a devastating pick-up line; instead, with a proper greasing of the palm, he leaves it all up to his waiter and the girl gets to drink/eat and do whatever she wants after that point. It sounds sinister and illegal but it's not, it's just awkward. Our table did not partake in such activities but selfishly, there were times where I wish I could have been sent to some of the tables because the girls were partaking in some premium jungle juice (Johnny Blue).

The real headache comes at the end when the exorbitant bill arrives as all table members (who were probably captains of their high school math teams) furiously calculate derivative formulas to ensure the appropriate individual payments based on one's BMI, percentage of alcohol consumed, and the multiplier of fun that was had. The number always comes out to something very upsetting.

Why did we go?

So, this may all sound overly primitive, sexist and unbelievable but that is because it is but let me know if you want to go :)

For me, as one of you suggested, I probably need to get new friends.

Taylor Swift! Young girls and 4 Asians

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Sat, 29 Aug 2009 05:45:00 +0000

Yesterday was one of those nights that I have experienced before and one that I vow each time would never happen again, but it always does because of guilty pleasures and because I crave public shame and judgment. At the end of it all, there's really no one to blame but myself. What I am talking about are concerts, where one finds that the main demographics that are drawn to these events are not four, overweight, aged Asian dudes but rather screaming, pre-pubescent girls and their moms and dads. Taylor Swift was the poison last night. (Yes, her). One of my creepy friends loves her and wanted to see her for his birthday and so we all held hands and jumped right in. I remember mentioning the concert to some of the guys on the desk here and after the immediate disgust on their face, they mentioned how their 7yr old and 13yr old daughters love her too. Grreat!

As soon as we entered into the concert hall, my deaf ears and my sudden awareness of my age that night made me want to curl into a ball but luckily, they were selling liquid courage at the concessions and I was double fisting beers all night to get me through. I knew this was going to be a great night when I heard one dad asking a security guard if there were any men's bathrooms on the floor. I had the same question. When I finally found the the men's room two floors down, it was desolate (tumble weeds passed through) while the ladies' room had lines out the door. Also, when the four of us sat down in our seats to a sea of judging eyes and laughter, two girls who were immediately next to us got up abruptly and left (they never came back for the rest of the concert). I saw parents corral their kids closer to themselves for protection and suspicious dads and boyfriends stare us down. Clearly, we looked like a gang of pedi perverts and losers, which is all true. Despite the awkwardness, the show was good, the music was catchy and our friend knew all the songs and let his inner teenage princess in him out, which gave us instant street cred amongst the teenage girls who eventually embraced us as one of their own. Let's never speak of this

Doing nothing is a lot of work

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 11:18:00 +0000

This weekend, I did absolutely nothing. I made no attempts at social interaction except a few Facebook friend requests and acceptances (I am a friend whore) and some random grunting and snoring at Babyboo. After a couple of weeks of covering (and probably ruining customer relationships) for several colleagues on the desk who were out on vacation, I was running on fumes by Friday and wanted to just melt into a human smoothie for the weekend and re-solidify for today. For the most part, I accomplished my mission because in a blink, the weekend was gone and here we are on Monday (did I even change clothes or bathe this weekend? Not sure)

There is an art of doing nothing and having attempted to be athletic or active in the past which has only resulted in injury, the gods have spoken and told me that this temple is better suited for repose, just being, and enjoying a sedentary orgy. The directions for doing nothing are as follows: 1) Cancel all plans, errands, appointments; 2) Indent myself onto the sofa couch on and let its leather embrace me to become an extension of my body. I literally felt my rear expand its reach and surface area and on the rare occasions that I had to peel myself off the couch, it was only for the sole purpose of answering the door for food deliveries and/or bathroom breaks (if this body was not so high maintenance and needy, I would just be as is).

Really, the crucial skill in just being is the ability to gear down, from second to first, and then down yet again to a special, neutral gear that is nearly paralytic. It's a bit like being dead, but with better posterior support. I was doing nothing, and doing it with panache and could have done 'nothing' better in a tropical location.

Babyboo even gave me a weekend off from doing invitation folding and was out and about and out of the apartment. Like a pet, everytime she left, she made sure to leave me a bowl of water and cracked open the windows. When she would come back, she told me it was hard to tell if I had been truly drinking or not because the liquid level went down so slowly it may have been merely because of evaporation.

But at some point Babyboo got a bit peeved at me for 'doing nothing' so well. I tried to justify myself and told her that behind the scenes of my closed eyes, I was merely letting my brain be open to receive whatever great money making inspiration that the universe wanted to send me. Why, I was prepared to sit in that position as long as it took to feel inspired. So in doing nothing I was actually being highly productive. Time is precious, so I must waste it well (see, the logic? yeah, it was not convincing when I said it either).

Unfortunately, the joke was on me as Babyboo is the ying to my yang, the salt to my pepper and the debit to my credit. While I was reclined and reposed thinking of money making ideas all that , unbeknownst to me until later, she was out and about actualizing secret money spending ideas as shopping bags accrued nicely in our bedroom.

Wake Me Up Before You Go Go!

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 23:29:00 +0000

Babyboo came back home to me late on Friday and although she may have been thrown off by the recent growth of my fourth chin or had a hard time getting her arms around me, she did not runaway from me in the airport (I was holding on too tightly). Then, in the wee hours of the night, we raced off to her family's timeshare in Newport, RI in a Kia Rio which fit my 6'2" beefy frame like a clown car. After a week of not seeing my Boo, I was excited for what I thought was a weekend getaway for two but surprisingly became an unromantic five some as Babyboo's family surprised us up there (Yippee :( I had to put my shirt on immediately as I walked through the door). After confessing my week of binge eating to her, I was sure that Babyboo was going to have me gnaw on laxatives and Lipitor to get my weight and cholesterol in check but she surprised me with her voracious appetite for seafood and confirmed why we belong together and why we will die young, hand in hand, from corroded arteries.

For most of the day, Team Philistine lived up to our namesake as uncouth, eating whores by camping ourselves at the docks where fishing companies were selling raw oyster/shrimp/lobster/crabs. We were very selective on what we took in but the amount of seafood we bought was inappropriate, as if we were trying to create our own Long John Silver/Red Lobster eating orgy or re-enact scenes from The Little Mermaid.

Shamefully, despite all the time I spent at this dock with the fisherman and given that I play a salesman in real life, I could not negotiate any good deals on the fresh catches of the day and bring a bounty back to nourish the clan. Apparently, others had been able to get amazing deals like 12 lobsters for 12 dollars. I must have offended the fisherman with my attempt to show leg because he was charging me double the amount for less quality lobsters. Luckily, my better half, Babyboo, who often curses like a sailor came in time to relate with the fishermen on their level and bring the price down.

So bargaining is not my strength but as we all know, eating is. With great power, comes great responsiblity. I needed to remember that adage as I unknowingly ate more than my fair share of lobsters at the cost of malnourishing my annoyed little brother-in-law. (Whoops!) I had never seen Babyboo's family so happy to see me leave after a weekend of me accidently strutting around in my boxers one too many times after being asked to refrain, clumsily breaking a couple of dishes in their kitchenette, and then on a more dangerous note, over-pumping gas on their mini-van such there was an overflow of gas all over the car like a water hydrant (I swear that the sensor was not working on the pump correctly but the thought that I would perish in a freak gasoline accident like the care-free gasoline fight scene in Zoolander with Wham's "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go" playing in my head was eerily fascinating).

All in, it was a fun time and I think I wore a lobster bib for the whole weekend and still reek like the salty, seafood ocean sprays, which is perhaps why there is not a soul sitting to the left or right of me today and probably for the whole week. Given the antics of the last week and a half, I guess I would not want to sit near me either.

Happy Monday

I need a babysitter to babysit me.

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Sat, 15 Aug 2009 02:35:00 +0000

Babyboo comes home tonight! She left last Saturday for a business trip. This week of 'freedom' has been devastating for me after a self-inflicted marathon of binge drinking and uncontrollable eating whose wear and tear has been apparently noticed by others. Case in point: earlier this week, out of the blue and unprovoked, a co-worker asked:

"Can I ask you a personal question? (I knew that the question following this question was not going to be a good question) How much weight have you gained since marriage?"

Confused at why he would be asking, I proceeded to answer with this scary statistic that I have mentioned before: on my wedding day, when I said 'yes' to Babyboo, I was weighing in at 185lbs and in the ensuing months at the peak of my fleshiness I was ringing in at 215lb+. Since this revelation, when I have done my 'Free Phil' thing this week to scavenger for available food, this trader stands up and shakes his head at meand says, "Remember what we talked about earlier this week?" (Shut up you!)

Here is the brightspot: this week alone, I have defeated manorexia (an affliction I just self-diagnosed now). Please be proud of me. Here is a recap of how I did it and how you can too:

Saturday through Monday night: I ate pizza for every meal.

Tuesday: I had 5 deadly tequila drenched frozen margaritas and then proceeded onto a dinner w/a bottle of wine. (note to self: the liquid cultures of Mexico and France do not get along!) I do not even think that my body let me be get inebriated because it felt like I went straight to being hung over after dinner. (There was also some purging, so I did lose some weight, for the record)

Wednesday: Rooftop wine party (this was a light pitstop on humpday to make sure my heart was still beating)

Thursday: Korean BBQ, Korean hard liquor (Soju) and for added indigestion, Kim-Chi (a spicy, pickled cabbage that waters people eyes when they smell your breath)

Friday: To round it all out, we have pre-ordered a 'Crave Case' from White Castle for lunch today

As my fleshy belly has inflated and tightened my pants, I know that there will be more of me for Babyboo to love when she comes home tonight (Surprise!). Next time she is gone for an extended time, I really think Babyboo needs to get me a babysitter. How dare she trust me to be responsible for myself!

Happy Friday!

I cannot escape from being moist.

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Wed, 05 Aug 2009 21:59:00 +0000

For most of the summer and including this weekend, it has been raining cats and dogs in New York (April showers in August). It's the rawest deal with mother nature: for every sunny day, we pay for it with six terrible days. I have not been active in general but this weather makes me more lazy, more sleepy and more of a fat@$$. The accompanying humidity of this month has finally blanketed the nooks and crannies of the city as well as of those in my body to help me achieve some amazing glandular feats. Whether by mother nature's hand or by my self-brewing abilities, I cannot escape from being moist all the time.

My wife is not very helpful during these monsoon times as she has lost or given away all our umbrellas recently and has left me to fend the storms off with a dainty, purple umbrella that is so ornate, that it could have been a vanity cane. Functionally, its properties as an umbrella is as useful as the tiny umbrella that one puts in cocktails. And frankly, given that my head/face region has been permanently swollen since birth, I was already asking a lot of that umbrella.

Unfortunately, because the rain likes to swish sideways, I often have to position myself to have only my backside sponge the torrential downpour. So the frontal face of my shirt and pants is relatively dry but the rear surface of my back, sleeves, and pants are soaked through and become colored a darker hue. On Friday, I went to a friend's party like this and I tried to prance around and position myself such that I am always facing everyone I speak to, while having my back to the wall and never allowing them to see the glory of my shame just on the other side. But affectionate friends were rudely greeted by an ocean spray when they came to embrace me or patted me on the back (fist pound might be the better choice when saying hello to me).

But as many of you know, even on the days when it is not raining, my body seems to miss the aforementioned marshy context and I end up wilting and dripping of perspiration. Friends are always befuddled when they see sunny, clear skies just outside, but I look as if I was caught in a flash storm. In the mornings on my way to work, I wait in the subway corridors and can often wear a wrinkled dress shirt knowing that it will be steam pressed when I actually get into work, as I am cradled in the suffocating bosom of humidity. Shamefully, I find a sick pleasure in doing an armpit check in the mornings to see how the sweat radiates artfully outward like crop circle formations on the canvas that is my work shirt.

In the past, people have recommended that I soak in a tub of melted deodorant/anti-perspirant cakes or envelope myself in a body suit made of that Shamwow material. But I think I found the solution to escaping the rains and letting my body be perpetually cool and it has been staring at me every morning for the last month. This will sound disjointed and random but follow with me. So, there is this apartment building that is adjacent to our floor's coffee room. When I go to get my water and coffee in the morning, I look out into the apartment and there he is: the ugly, naked man across the street (straight out of a Friends episode).

At first, he startles you because no wants to necessarily see a shirtless man so early in the mornings but then he grows on you. The routine is the same: he sits by the window the whole day and just stares out the window; I look at him and he looks at me. No waves nor gestures are given, just staring. This might be a little disturbing but he has a bit of a cult following here and maybe it is the inner voyeur in us but like an accident on the road, some of us cannot keep from staring at him. At first, some of us thought that we were peeping into his bathroom given his au natural context but nope, people have confirmed that he is definitely naked in his kitchen. (I hope I never have to confirm that) Some are disgusted, some are afraid and turn away but to me, he is my hero. There is a freedom about the idea of him and his unencumbered lifestyle that becomes more compelling in these summery, humid times and even moreso, when I am brewing in my rain/sweat soaked business casual. He is living the dream!

One thing I know now after reading what I just wrote: I am deeply in need of a vacation. Sorry for the small throwup in your mouth.

Immigrant worker #3

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 11:35:00 +0000

As I have mentioned before, ever since our wedding, Babyboo has been highly motivated in starting up her own wedding invitation business on the side. (I really did not think I would have to be this knee deep in invitations again until my next marriage)
bad joke :)

But by default and without my consent, I have become the company's principal financial backer, its bumbling IT intern (I bought the domain humblebeginningspress.com but have no clue how to build a website) and its only sweatshop assembly line worker, who can fold stacks of invitations and maybe also make poor Nike (Nikey with a 'Y') knockoffs in dim lighting on the weekends. Babyboo keeps me on the job as an equal opportunity hire and because I do not complain when sexually harassed.

In the past year, Babyboo has gone head long into this venture and has found sick pleasures in draining our funds on letter press classes, large, cancer-radiating color printers and reams of paper that litter our apartment. The people at our neighborhood Kinkos know us by name because of late night paper cutting jobs and even call us pre-emptively on the weekend to see if we have any projects.

Recently, Babyboo has gotten a fair amount of orders and has even taken days off of work to design, order plates and complete jobs. Usually for me, come Saturday, my share of invitations to assemble are neatly placed in the corner for me to do. This past weekend, however, Babyboo had several orders and was forced to have me run an order for her on my own at the letter press studio (a promotion!).

I found that the process is extremely manual, very long and a little less enjoyable than stabbing oneself as one must set the pre-printed plates, ink up the rollers and then roll the press for each individual invitations (lather, rinse, repeat). If the invitation is multi-colored, one must do the same process over and over again for each color at a time. I did 200 invitations but it had 4 colors, so it was as if I had rolled 800 and it was on #650 that I realized how ridiculously whipped I am.

But the worst part of it was that when it was all done and over with, Babyboo looked the invitations over and saw that the printing plate had a typo on it where the wedding date read October 3rd, 2008. I started crying like the emasculated man I am but fortunately, as we wait for the next design, it looks like I know what type of sexy adventures are in store for this weekend. Unfortunately, the job security for this venture is 'till death do us part' and definitely 'for poorer'. Anyone looking for a job?

Magnum Sake!

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Fri, 24 Jul 2009 22:08:00 +0000

Throbbing headache and a difficulty enunciating words but luckily it is Friday.

Thirsty Thursdays took a new spin yesterday when a fun bunch went to Tao (website: http://www.taorestaurant.com/ says it's "a sensual trip through the cusines of Asia.") It sounded great. I was just happy that I was going to eat the food rather than deliver it. We were a hungry and thirsty crew so we placed ourselves in the gentle hands of the server with the simple instructions of leaving us "over full" rather than under.

Those words would come to haunt us.

She then prodded me to get a large bottle of sake for the table. I asked why but she just said that I should "just do it." And of course that was absolutely convincing enough for me to pull the trigger. I was so easy that she probably could have sold me floor mats, undersiding protection and the shirt that I was wearing at that point. She then unveiled this huge 'Magnum' Sake in grandiose fashion. Have you ever heard of such a thing? I expected a slightly larger one than a normal sake bottle but what came out was a propane tank of clear poison. She did not serve them in dinky shot glasses either but in what seemed like junior beer steins so that one gets a large mouthful each time.

Everything about the dinner was huge and made us 'over full'. I did not even wear a belt today because there was no need.

Even the fortune cookie that we had for dessert was almost as big as my head and filled with chocolate and vanilla creams (like in my head).

I am not sure what happened after that. I think at one point I was rubbing the belly of the large Buddha statue in the restaurant.

But after all that and a couple of pub stops later, I remember going home and found Babyboo with her girlfriends in our living room. I went to the bedroom to change and go back outside to be social but apparently I passed out and never made it. I woke up this morning shirtless and pantless and not being able to remember how that all happened. I think Babyboo took advantage of me! Damn you Magnum Sake!

Have a good weekend. Don't let it happen to you!

Outeating a man named Shamu!

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 11:07:00 +0000

This weekend Babyboo and I attended a clam bake in Long Island. We had gone last year as well and I remembered how that first time, Babyboo let me intoxicate myself in a seafood seduction before subtly, slipping in the idea that it would be a mini-reunion with all of her high school girlfriends and their respective boy toys. What really happens at these girl fests is that the men get duped into coming and then are penned up in a room and watch TV in silence as the next guy after the next starts to pile in, each with the same defeated look, knowing that he just got punked, while the ladies are in the next room getting liquored up and of course, laughing at our expense.

This time was not that much different except it turned out I was one of the few guys who actually showed up this year (fool me once...) and also the only loser who showed up early so that I could be bossed around by the other girls and put to work shucking oysters, rolling crab cakes, and listening to why men are terrible. Babyboo kept herself busy and sedated by spiking..er mixing drinks and made hard iced tea lemonades with enough vodka to singe nose hairs and discovered an interesting combo of green tea with Hennessy whiskey that should cure arthritis and help grow hair.

Because Babyboo was busy brewing her jungle juice and ignoring me, I confess that I started fraternizing with the other ladies and shamefully made an emotional connection with one in particular; a large Rottweiler named Samantha who slobbered a thick drool all over me all night to mark me as her property. In fact, she became so protective of me that she growled at any of the girls that came near me, especially Babyboo (who did not fight for me).

The actual eating was delicious as we stuffed our faces with tubs of clams, mussels, and Maryland style crabs that made me sweat seafood. Eating those crabs, however, were quite frustrating, as one expends more energy cracking them open and searching for meat than actually getting full. And despite wearing a large moo-moo eating shirt, I quickly soiled it with all types of stains as did others such that I suggested that we eat shirtless or in swim suits and get hosed down later for quicker clean up (I was ignored).

The best part of the night was that somehow, Babyboo found herself in a crab eating contest with a large house of a man, nicknamed, 'Shamu' (like the killer whale, no joke!) who had even brought his own mallet and claw cracker to this event. But slowly but surely, she out ate him! I do not know if I should be proud or frightened at this result. Should I call her Shamboo now?

What's in that Diaper!

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 23:40:00 +0000

Yesterday, Babyboo and I attended a co-ed baby shower for one of our friends. Have you ever heard of such a thing? This was my first co-ed baby shower, if not my first regular baby shower to which I had ever been and I was initially skeptical of the "fun" it would entail (I love cooing at all the itty-bitty baby jammies like the next guy but that only lasts for an hour, then what?) or if dudes should even be present (we are a waste of space and rendered fairly useless after helping to initiate the pregnancy). So, what does one do at a baby shower? I blamed Babyboo for getting us into this mess as she created the invitations for the event and thereby, guaranteed our attendance.

At least, in the past, when Babyboo mandated me to accompany her to different, horrific events from the Sex and the City movie to expensive retail therapy sessions, I could find safety by falling asleep, hiding away into another store, or zoning out and commiserating with other significant others who have been equally tortured. At a baby shower, however, the quarters are tight and one cannot disappear in mind, body or spirit but instead, is forced to squirm secretly, while putting on a happy face for the expected couple and whispering 'serenity now' to oneself.

To offset these concerns, another couple joined us at our place prior to leaving for the event, and I can neither confirm nor deny that we may have pre-partied for the event to numb and ready ourselves. But my pre-conceived notions that this baby shower was going to be a boring, dry event with unoriginal games and bad food was shattered when our friend's mother-in-law showed up at this event bearing a bottle of Jack Daniels for the expectant mother. Then, we saw caterers bringing in trays of barbecue, fried foods and the kicker...a keg! Let the party begin! It turned out to be a great time and a true celebration of the couple and the golden bun in the oven. The environment was loose and easy with terrible jokes made and with several awesomely bad games played like, "What's in that diaper?" where guests guess at the contents of a simulated, soiled diaper.

When the expected couple started opening gifts, Babyboo and I waited in anticipation for ours to be opened. We had reviewed and studied the registry with great effort and saw that many large gifts had already been purchased. Not to be undone, we decided to package many smaller gifts based upon a common theme that made us giggle a little: nursing (i.e. breast feeding). I felt a little uncomfortable explaining the items I was looking for to the Babies R' Us employees. Not to be overly crude but we packed together valves, pumps, creams, pads, bottles and a great invention called "My Brest Friend" (no joke!) which is a firm pillow that wraps around the mother to help her and baby maintain ideal positioning during feeding, which ultimately prevents sore backs and strains (Great idea! Apparently, some single guy created it randomly.) Our gifts were a big hit and we have no doubt that the Lee's faces will be remembered whenever feeding happens (I guess that is what we wanted).

Does this mean I am ready for kids? Hell no! I'm ready for more co-ed baby showers

Obesity and Swine Flu: It starts w/pigs and ends w/pigs.

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Sat, 11 Jul 2009 19:14:00 +0000

I have been very distracted and distraught this morning after my buddy sent me this story and told me to stock up on Tamiflu.

What is he trying to say?

Come on! :(

Obese Exposed as Swine Flu Collides With Fat Epidemic 2009-07-10 00:44:26.280 GMT

By Jason Gale

July 10 (Bloomberg) --

An unexpected characteristic has emerged among many swine flu victims who become severely ill: They are fat.

Doctors tracking the pandemic say they see a pattern in hospital reports from Glasgow to Melbourne and from Santiago to New York. People infected with the bug who have a body mass index greater than 40, deemed morbidly obese, suffer respiratory complications that are harder to treat and can be fatal.

With the new virus on a collision course with the obesity epidemic, the World Health Organization says it’s gathering statistics to confirm and understand this development. Drugmaker Roche Holding AG is combing through studies to determine whether heavier people should get bigger doses of its Tamiflu antiviral.

"Morbid obesity is one of the most common findings turning up in severely ill patients," said Nikki Shindo, who is leading the investigation of swine flu patients at the WHO in Geneva.

"It’s a huge problem."

In Canada’s Manitoba province, three out of five people treated for the new flu strain in intensive care units are obese, said Ethan Rubenstein, head of infectious diseases at the University of Manitoba in Winnipeg. Patients with flu symptoms should be considered at risk of complications if they carry excess weight, according to Rubenstein.

So far, the evidence is anecdotal. No global or national data have been reported. Scotland, where deep-fried foods such as Mars bars and pizzas contribute to the highest obesity rate in Europe, reported the continent’s first two deaths from H1N1 and has experienced a fifth of the region’s fatalities.

Growing Trend

"We do seem to have more than our fair share of people in intensive care," said Hugh Pennington, 71, emeritus professor of bacteriology at the University of Aberdeen. "When the dust has settled, people will look at that."

No deaths or severely ill patients have been recorded from among the 2,146 laboratory-confirmed cases in Japan, said Yasuyuki Abe, a health ministry spokesman in Tokyo. Only 1.6 percent of adults in Japan are obese, according to the WHO.

"You don’t have to go to Scotland or Japan to figure this out," said Anthony Fauci, director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases in Bethesda, Maryland. "About

75 percent of patients have underlying conditions, and clearly obesity stands out as a statistically significant factor involved in the seriousness of the disease."

‘Shake Out’

It’s the first time that the prominence of obesity has been noticed among severely ill flu sufferers, Fauci said in an interview yesterday. "It’s very likely that if we went back retrospectively and looked at people who did poorly during seasonal flu, what would shake out is that obesity would be one of the risks," he said.

Researchers at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta noted the association among Californian

H1N1 patients in a May 22 report. The agency is investigating whether overweight people need different antiviral treatment or flu vaccinations. Last year, 26.1 percent of adults in the U.S. were obese, up from 25.6 percent in 2007, the CDC said in a July 8 statement.

"We were surprised by the frequency of obesity among the severe cases that we’ve been tracking," Anne Schuchat, director of the CDC’s National Center for Immunization and Respiratory Diseases, told reporters on May 19. "If there truly is an increased risk of severe complications on obese patients, it would be important to take steps to attend to that."

Suffocating

The bug is reported to have killed 429 people worldwide since its discovery in the U.S. and Mexico in April. The infection, which has now spread as far as New Zealand and Norway, causes little more than a fever and cough in most cases. The majority of those who died were pregnant, had asthma, diabetes or other chronic diseases, according to the WHO.

Drugmakers including Sanofi-Aventis SA, GlaxoSmithKline Plc and Novartis AG are preparing vaccines to have them ready by the time the weather turns colder in the Northern Hemisphere later this year.

Some patients are showing up at hospitals with viral pneumonia so severe they are suffocating.

The first two people to die from the bug in Peru -- a 38- year-old woman and a 4-year-old girl from impoverished areas on the outskirts of Lima -- were both obese, El Peruano newspaper reported on July 6.

Shallow Breaths

Scientists don’t yet know whether extremely overweight people get sicker because of associated conditions like heart disease and asthma, or whether the excess fat itself makes them more vulnerable. Both may be to blame.

Fat cells secrete chemicals that cause chronic, low-level inflammation that can hamper the body’s immune response and narrow the airways, says Tim Armstrong, a doctor working in the WHO’s chronic diseases department in Geneva.

What’s more, excess fatty tissue compresses the chest, and the fatty infiltration of the chest wall causes a decrease in lung function and an increase in the pulmonary blood volume, Armstrong said. "If you are obese, you tend to be less physically active and have an associated shallower breathing pattern. All these compound, leading to breathing difficulties."

The morbidly obese are also more likely to experience insulin resistance, a condition that makes it harder for doctors to lower the level of sugar in the blood of critically ill patients, said Greet Van den Berghe, head of acute medical sciences at Belgium’s Catholic University of Leuven.

Studies in Mice

"The question has always been, is it the obesity or the other problems?" said Melinda Beck, professor of nutrition at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. "There haven’t been studies that looked just at weight. In my research, it appears to be the obesity itself."

In mouse studies, flu killed about half of the rodents made obese by a high-fat diet, compared with a mortality rate of about 4 percent in lean animals, according to Beck’s research.

She is studying whether obese humans might need stronger doses of vaccine or a different method of delivery.

Of the first 32 people who died from swine flu in New York City, three-quarters had one or more underlying medical conditions, most often diabetes and heart disease, said Isaac B.

Weisfuse, deputy commissioner of disease control at the city’s Department of Health and Mental Hygiene. Of seven with no known medical condition, at least four were reported to be obese, Weisfuse said.

The city plans to look at how many of the 32 patients were obese, Weisfuse said in a July 6 presentation to the European Centre for Disease Prevention and Control in Stockholm.

No Smoking

People may reduce their risk of developing complications from swine flu -- as well as many other diseases -- by maintaining a healthy weight, quitting smoking, exercising regularly and moderating alcohol intake, said Frederick Hayden, a clinical virologist at the University of Virginia.

Obesity rates have tripled in the U.S., U.K. and Australia during the past three decades, according to the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development. The ranks of the overweight are also swelling in the developing world. In China, obesity doubled among women and tripled in men between 1989 and 2000 and it may double again in 20 years, according to research released last year in the journal Health Affairs.

Studies are needed to better understand the immune response of obese people and determine whether excess body weight impairs their ability to fight the infection, said Pamela Fraker, a professor of biochemistry at Michigan State University.

"It’s sort of strange that it’s been neglected with this major population," Fraker said. "We need to know about this for the further care and protection of the growing number of obese we have and for society in general."

--With assistance from Rodney Jefferson in Edinburgh, Michelle Fay Cortez in London, Tom Randall and Elizabeth Lopatto in New York, and Kanoko Matsuyama in Tokyo. Editors: Marthe Fourcade, Phil Serafino, Kristen Hallam.

Sonoma Coma!

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 11:18:00 +0000

Babyboo and I came back from gallivanting in wine country all weekend in Northern California. And while we went there primarily for a friend's wedding, I do not believe Babyboo got the memo; she treated this trip as a vacation for herself as she booked spas, restaurants, vineyard tours, and wine tastings in a schedule so jam packed that she double booked us on the actual wedding day. (Whoops!) I wanted to start the trip out right and was so close to renting a cherry red Ford Mustang convertible but Babyboo promised me that I can have one later when I enter my mid-life crisis and instead, we opted for the equally as sexy and show-stopping (not really) but culturally appropriate (Korean) Kia Optima. Grreat! :(

Despite that initial hiccup, the trip proceeded amazingly as we were immediately baptized in a West Coast burger spiritual awakening at the first In-N-Out Burger (church for burgers) that we saw. I cradled my burger lovingly for a couple minutes before gorging. If you have never had it, it is something special:toasty bun, fresh beef patties (I think I heard the cows moo just outside) covered in melted cheese and grilled onions, hand-leafed/picked produce and all ready to be eaten with a fistful of freshly made fries (none of the ingredients are ever touched by microwave, heat lamp or freezer). The In-N-Out corporation is not paying me to endorse them, so I will stop lusting but order a "Double Double, Animal Style, with a Neopolitan Milkshake" if you ever head West.

With full bellies, we headed up towards Sonoma (50 miles north of San Fran) and hit up several wineries along the way. The micro-climates of the region were confusing and annoying as we started out in cold, foggy weather in one area but became hot, sunny and clear in another and I dearly wished I had brought my rip away hot pants for such occasions. All that attitude faded away after only a couple of hours and maybe it was the fresh air, the beating sun, the rolling hills or most likely, the flowing wine, but I felt myself unraveling from the stresses and tensions of New York and into a free-spirited, laid-back lull in what the locals call, "the Sonoma Coma."

Babyboo, however, was an utter taskmaster and had a (letter pressed) printed schedule (on invitation paper) of all the events she had planned for us. The worst of all was that while I was still dehydrated from the tastings before, she made us go on a 4 hour bike tour of surrounding vineyards. Biking + Wine tasting = Bad Idea jeans. I cannot emphasize how dangerous and dehibilitating this ride was with fears of getting 'BUI' citations (biking under the influence) and dealing with an uncomfortable bike seat that I believe has rendered me sterile (I am still waddling).

The wedding itself was beautiful, picturesque and seamless but we almost missed the whole thing. Our little confession is that hours before the ceremony, we went to an innocent, private wine tasting at an estate nearby but as we were tasting this and that, the proprietor became overly generous and opened several special bottles for us to which we could not refuse and we ended up completely over served. In dizzying fashion, I do not remember how we walked home but we definitely passed out in our room because I woke up with red wine stains on my shirt and a bag of spilled Cheetos crunching underneath me with only a half hour to the ceremony. Cold showers were had, liters of water were chugged and somehow we got ourselves to the wedding. The funny thing is, later as I was piecing the events from the afternoon, I found an order form receipt in my wallet for several large orders from the aforementioned proprietor. So that's how these places stay in business!

Uncle Phil!

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 01:54:00 +0000

This weekend Babyboo and I went back home to Chicago to see my niece and nephew. They are so very precious but it is getting more and more expensive to buy their love. The ratio of toys bought versus the return of smiles and laughs is becoming a negative correlation and I am ready to go explicit and paste Tickle-me-Elmo's and 529 plans onto my face to show how much I care. For the weekend, I set my goals high and vowed to regain my status as their favorite uncle for at least the afternoon before they could forget who I am again.

As I have said before, I am the shallow uncle of good times, who bears mounds of gifts and is full of energy to entertain the kiddies for a max of four hours and then I expire and get the hell of there. Unfortunately, my nephew, Jonah, did not recognize uncle Phil during those four hours and cried rivers of tears with every glimpse of me. Not surprisingly, I have grown numb to such rejection, as I have had to deal with Babyboo's disappointment when she wakes up everyday in cold sweats only to find that it was not just a nightmare but that she is, in fact, really married to me.

My niece, Ava, who was initially on stranger danger alert eventually caught on to the fact that my presence equates to treasures and riches for her toy bank. If you see the picture enclosed, it is evident that Ava has embraced her inner narcissist/rockstar. She eventually rifled through our bags of gifts and coyishly (already knowing the answer) asked us (in the third person): "Are these Ava's?" She will be a heart breaker and an amazing gold digger.

For the rest of the weekend, like Jonah, I was babied by my mama and loved it. Mamaboo fed and fed me, cleaned up the drool, and stopped short of changing me. She cooked up all my favorites for breakfast, lunch and dinner in a mathematically impossible caloric orgy and my teeth felt great. I should be dead right now based on the volumes consumed and in fact, I had terrible heartburn and shortness of breath for most of the time at home because I was so full. Babyboo looked at me and my stomach and noted that rolling hills had emerged majestically on my belly but said that "these hills are not alive with the sound of music but the sound of obesity." Ouch.

Anyways, here are some pictures. I am looking for the cheap aww's and so that you can see why my niece and nephew's smiles are like gold nuggets to me...Moviestar Ava, Country Club Nacoleptic Jonah (he fell asleep while taking that picture), and then "Untitled".

Mother effin' Wisdom Teeth Extraction

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 11:00:00 +0000

On Thursday, I was a nervous wreck fearing the corporal punishment that the dentist was about to wage in my mouth. I know that many of you would have gladly lined up to extract my wisdom teeth (and the rest of my teeth) with rusty pliers, while others of you have mentioned that you would have taken great pleasure to numb my face up with your fists (thanks, that really calmed me). At the dentist's office, the oral surgeon had this unnervingly sinister smirk as he prepared his shiny, weapons of misery ready to make me sob like a baby.

Before he began, the dentist re-looked at my x-rays and said that I only needed to take out my upper wisdom teeth and not my bottoms. I felt pretty good about his assessment and was glad that he had my best interests in mind rather than his Porsche monthly payments. But then all those warm feelings changed when the surgeon set me down and unleashed this ridiculously huge horse needle to Novocaine my mouth and proceeded to prick me about eight times. The actual extractions only took ten minutes and I only felt a little pressure, snap, crackle and pop. Afterward, I was ready to be princess for the weekend and have Babyboo baby the hell out of me on hand and foot and even considered having her piggy back me home.

I drowned myself in a liquid diet that I thought would help me to lose weight, but I seemed to have overcompensated for the caloric deficit and increased in flesh on tubs of pudding, yogurt and ice cream per day. I had gory nightmares that first night that involved me eating a whole bag of sharp Doritos and a box of extra chewy Milk Duds (it was very bloody and graphic). I took the doctor's order of 'taking it easy' to another level and caught up on all the latest celebrity gossip to feel in tune with the world (Jon and Kate plus 8 WTF is going on?). Babyboo would leave me at times during the day but would find me in the same position on the couch hours later as I dug in deep and partook in marathon sessions of MTV's "Real World/Road Rule Challenge" and its new reality show called "Hot Chicks with D-bags".

Throughout, I did not feel any discomfort as I was loopy on painkillers so good that in my delirium, I asked Babyboo to blend me a Vicodin smoothie (I hope to peddle it on the streets for secondary income). I did have some complications with my gums though; I was given gauze to create a blood clot in the wound but it did not hold and I read that biting down on tea bags would release tannic acids that would help to stop the bleeding. We did not have the good old regular Lipton black tea, however, and Babyboo gave me some herbal, stimulant, laxative blend of tea called "Organic Smooth Move." It did the trick, on so many levels.

All in, the experience was not so bad and I did not writhe in fetal position all weekend weeping and wailing as I had expected...well at least not because of my teeth, it was just the usual weekend crying alone in the dark.

Speaking in public: M.C. Deprechaun

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 23:11:00 +0000

Yesterday, I was an emcee for a charity bar/concert night to benefit North Korean refugees seeking asylum. It's a great cause but as you can imagine, a very delicate issue, which is why I was boggled that they wanted me, "Mr. Instinctively Inappropriate" to frame the night.

In order to do this, I had to squash all instincts of wanting to dress up as the NK crazy dictator, Kim Jong Il as that would probably be both insensitive and frightening, although I would have loved to wear those big, thick framed Harry Caray like glasses.

To give you some background, here is a view into my 'impressive' list of public speaking credentials: acted as an emergency ( 'junior varsity') fill-in emcee at one wedding; read instructions at some Habitat sites/activities; yelled at kids at my niece's birthday; and anything Karaoke (technically, that is public speaking). So given that level of "experience," I would probably have entrusted myself with undertaking a more remedial and low key engagement on the likes of a motivational speech to myself in front of a mirror (You're good enough, smart enough, and gosh darnit, Phil, people like you!)

The show, however, must go on and I proceeded boldly with the night but was met by a very tough and ADD crowd at an unforgiving bar venue with shoddy acoustics. Also unfortunate for me: right before I was supposed to get on stage, an attractive bar hostess was setting up the mic on stage and it was very evident that when I got up there after her, the crowd was disappointed with the pale glory I brought to the table. I guess it was a bit of bait and switch: tempted with steak, only to get cauliflower (and lots of it).

I had to roll with the punches:

"Hello party peoples!" (no crowd response)

"I can see a tear of sadness on your faces as I got up here and I know what you're thinking, 'Why couldn't they get someone hotter?'"

"Instead you have me, a second-tier, mildly tolerable chump who looks like he, himself is a charity case. I'm sorry about that and I'm sorry for this eyesore of a shirt (I was wearing a really loud sea green t-shirt, which I thought was pretty hipster bad@ss at the time of choosing)"

But then I sassed up and reminded the crowd,

"Unfortunately, you suckers already paid and are stuck with me and will need to learn to love this moneymaker (as I pointed to my face). Let it burn in your minds."

Apparently, that first bit struck a common chord as I went down to the crowds and saw that many had made a b-line for the bar to immediately loosen up on a couple of shots. (So I induce alcoholism, so what?) Fortunately, I think the more the crowd had a couple of rounds (as did I), the funnier I became to them and the night turned out well.

The only small SNAFU that I can confess now was that at one point, I tried to get up on stage without using the stairs and I got up in such an awkward stretched out way that I heard a rip in the back area of my apparently very tight jeans (again I was trying to be hipster).

I paused a little waiting for laughter and finger pointing but when I turned around, it seemed like no one knew anything. So, all good. Frankly, I think the rip makes the jeans even more trendy and helps ventilate the swampiness inherent in that region.

I'm available for Barmitzvahs, Birthdays, and Funerals.

Potty Patrol Phil

noreply@blogger.com (The Self-Deprechaun) — Mon, 15 Jun 2009 11:11:00 +0000

This weekend, Babyboo accompanied me for the first time to the school tutoring program in Harlem. She wanted to see what kind of 'fun' that I had with the kids every Saturday morning that made me expend all my energy and left nothing but a narcoleptic husband for the rest of the day. Partly, I think she was convinced that I was not really 'volunteering' with kids but forced to serve a community service sentence of picking up garbage on the highways and asked if we had to change into an orange correctional facility jumpsuit before leaving.

Fortunately for her, Babyboo would get the full taste of the experience as this past Saturday was a field day/picnic and the kids were extra hyper to go to the park. As expected, the kids welcomed Babyboo warmly as if one of their own and maybe they thought that my child bride was really one of their own. But upon introduction as my wife, Babyboo was immediately disarmed by their questions: "Do you really love Mr. Phil?" "You guys make babies together?" and there were even cruder questions that we could only respond with nervous giggles and aggressive blushing and that was just the first five minutes.

To get to the park, we had to take the subway and like usual, the mentors had no control; the kids swung off the poles until they were dizzy and then piled onto each other and into the other riders, who cursed us with their glower power. I saw more than a handful of frustrated riders sprint from our car to the next subway car for solace at each stop.

Once there, we played several rounds of capture the flag, dodge ball, and ended with a grand ole water balloon fight (mentors vs kids) where I was a prime target by both kids and mentors (friendly fire) and wet my pants earlier than usual. Otherwise, I spent most of my time accompanying the wee ones from one end of the park to the other end where the bathrooms were and attained street cred as the 'Potty Patrol' or 'Potty Phil' (my future looks bright!). As the games went on, Babyboo and I could feel the little devils becoming stronger and stronger as they magically siphoned energy from our souls. By the end, the mentors were paralyzed from exhaustion and lay prostrate on the grass, while the kids were all over the park and causing havoc for the park district patrols.

Nothing against the breeders out there and I will hopefully be able to infect the gene pool in time but one thing is for certain, we are not ready to have kids and this experience was the best birth control ever for us. We stayed away from each other the rest of the weekend. :)