On Not Messing With My Candy Crush Skills.

"What are you playing," scoffed the kid next to me on the train. I heard his voice through the music flowing from my earphones but I ignored him. My cold shoulder didn't stop him from looking at my phone screen. After the round ended, I gave him a death side-glance-glare.


"Whoaa...calm down. I just want to know what you're playing. It looks like a bootleg version of Candy Crush."

I turned down the music to tell him, "It's not. It's Pet Rescue."
"Pet Rescue? Sounds stupid. Why don't you play Candy Crush."

OH NO WHAT DID YOU SAY HOMESKILLET?


When I didn't respond, he continued. "You have a puzzle of candies and you make combos to break the candies so you can bring down certain ingredients or break jellies."

If I didn't know what Candy Crush was, I would've probably told him he was an eejit.


But of course, I had to defend myself. "I've played Candy Crush," I nastily said as I straightened my back so I didn't seem so lame. Then more coolly, "They're definitely not the same thing and one or the other can't be described as a bootleg of anything. Pet Rescue is much more difficult and requires way more strategy."

"Oh yeah? Cool! What level are you on?" Maybe the kid was trying to be friendly but what I heard was a challenge.

"I'm not sure...I haven't played in a while." And it's the truth. The mobile version doesn't go as high as the PC version. And I'm at the highest on both. But I was totally trying to give this guy an out. Because I didn't want to show off. *flips hair*


I guess that was an invite to compare levels because he pulled out his phone. "Oh yeah? I'm the furthest on my friends list." He tilted his phone screen towards me. Level 460. Okay, cool bro.

I opened Candy Crush on my phone, ready to bust out some shut-chur-mouf on him. I don't know what possessed me to say what I said next, but I did. And it was with all the condescending effort I could muster from my body. I could have stopped. I should have stopped. I should have just been the bigger person by letting him think he was further along than me.

But I didn't. I fed the fire.


I thumbed through the colorful map with the striped candy cane roads and they glowed up at me as I triumphantly showed him my screen when I reached the top of the map. Level 530. And try to rub salt into his wound, I added, "And on the computer, I'm even further." Real proudly, too. Like a little kid who has just solved some complicated long division - neat but not impressive. Complete with the "I'm sooo much better than you" tone. Without missing a beat, I felt the need to add, "Yeah, I just keep Candy Crush on my phone because I'm getting three stars for all of the levels." *flips hair*


Because I'm real mature. -___-

And then we started arguing. He told me I was cheating but I told him that he was crazy because I didn't need to cheat. I'm Asian. And I'm good at ALL computer and video games (not true because FPS games makes me super dizzy and RTS games move too fast for me and I didn't have the patience for RPG games--it took me five years to finish FF7). That wasn't my argument but I really wanted to use it. I told him I only used what was given to me via gifts or through the spins.

And then I did it.


I told him I would beat his stupid level for him. And guess what...I did. With four lives. But I freaken did it. However, this isn't new to me. There have been a couples nights when I've drunkenly offered to beat a Candy Crush level for some unassuming sober train rider. Once, LH started told me I should stop offering to help because some kid might stab me because they might be jealous of my mad skillz.

It wasn't until I got off the train that I realized how stooooooopid I had been. I just had a verbal disagreement with some random person on the train about...CANDY CRUSH. (!?!?!?)

What has my life come to? Who am I? Why do I not have more important priorities?!

On What Children Think of Me.

It wasn't until I started working in the Museum that I came into contact with kids. And it's not even direct contact. I actually avoid all eye contact and ignore everything and anything they say. Why? Because they're grade-school kids: the most terrifying kind of species known to man because they have developing brains and can talk and question you and everything they know nothing about. And worst...they know how to judge you because almost all of them have no filter.

* * *
Once you start commuting in New York City, you learn that you can't wear nice shoes every day. You're constantly standing, walking on pavement, walking up and down stairs, and/or getting stepped on by other commuters who are always rushing to their next destination. Sometimes people spit on your shoes. And you can't ignore all the dog shit that seems to be everywhere now that the snow is melting away. Everywhere. So because I'm a problem solver, I started wearing sneakers. I've been wearing sneakers for the past couple years because:

1- they're comfortable,
2- they're practical,
3- and it's a sign that you don't give a flying fuck what others think of you because you're a muh-fuhking thug.

And anybody who says otherwise can shoot me an email and we can fight via interwebz. Like idiots.

School groups visit the Museum in the mornings. And that's fine by me because I rarely ever have to walk around the Museum in the mornings. However, one morning, I had to use the copier machine located on the other end of the Museum. As I walked past one of the groups, a little girl spins her head to watch me walk past then whispers, loudly to a few of her friends,


"OH-MAI-GAWSSH THAT GIRL'S WEARING SNEAKERS WITH HER DRESS."

All the other little kids:

The few seconds it normally takes to walk through the gallery felt like slow-mo on slow-mo. The sneakers that should have helped me run away from those little judgmental New York-chic kids failed to do their one job: to quickly get me from point A to point B.


And before you get all pompous and ask me why I didn't just take off my shoes like an adult should have done when she first got to her desk, let me remind you how comfy sneakers are compared to heels or wedges or any other thing doesn't elevate half your foot. (Flats make my legs look stumpy.)

UGH. On the way back to my desk, I had to walk through the same gallery and of course, the same group of kids were still there. And this:


I get it. I'm not the most fashion-forward person and I don't claim to be but got-dang homies, CAN'T I LIVE? Apparently not. I don't have the confidence of an 8-year-old who grew up in Manhattan. I sometimes wish I had the balls to be like:


But then I remember they are children and if I did that to them, their parents would come after me with their diamond studded knuckle rings and I would probably cease to exist. Instead, I hold it all inside because I know that when they grow up, they may one day become my underlings. And until then, I will remember to change into my work shoes so they won't be able to cast another judgmental look at me.

Topless in TJ MAXX.

My metabolism is truly failing me. In an effort to start the year off as a healthy adult, I decided to get my fitness on, I've signed up for a gym and received a gift of three months of unlimited hot yoga.

However, one problem I've run into is that I will run out of sports bras before the end of the week. Hot yoga makes like a muhfugger.

I had time last night before my Pilates class so I decided to visit TJ MAXX to check out some fitness gear to hold my lady bits together.

The first thing I see when I enter the store is active wear. Probably to cater to the crowds of people who have made resolutions to get in shape. I quickly made my way to the clearance section, and grabbed a couple of sports bras in from the small section and rushed into the fitting room to try on the goods.

And of course, nothing ever goes my way. I pulled the first bra over my head and it got stuck. At my elbows. No! I thought. Sports bras are supposed to be a little tighter. I can do this!!! But I couldn't. So I tried putting my head through first. That worked with a lot of squeezing my shoulders together. Then I slipped my left arm while leaving dry scrape marks all over my arm. I worked my right arm through and bam!!! Mission completed. Except that instead of going over my breasticles, the band of the sports bra was squishing down on the top of my chest. Making my lady honkers dangle like a old, sad dry milk cow's working goods. But not to fear!!! All I had to do, was pull the band down past the girls and all would be well. But it wasn't. Because there was still massive underboobage. Massive.

Might I add...I am not endowed with any curvy upper body parts. But because there was sooo much underboobage, it looked like legit funbags.

And then I started thinking...why wasn't all my lady bits fitting in? I checked the sales tag on the bra. XS. And not the SMALL I assumed it was because it was in the SMALL section.

The hell. If you're an XS, do you even need a sports bra? What are you trying to hold together?!?! Lol...kidding. Butnotreally.

By this point, all circulation had been cut off from my torso. My toes were going numb. The skin area around my shoulders and chest were turning a palish blue. And I was suffocating. And my norks were spilling out all over place. And I was sweating. Everywhere.

My left arm went through the arm hole and was free. I forced it to pull the other half of the bra over my body. Then I heard it. The sound of the beginning of death for all articles of clothing. Ripping. From the seams. Slowly. And then I stopped.

I didn't want to be that customer. Nope.

I worked my arm back into the bra and wiped the sweat from my back and stomach. After catching my breath and cooling down, I restarted my escape plan by pulling the bra over my head.

This is literally what went through my mind: (I'm really my own best cheerleader.)

Underboobage. Again. OK. This is a great start.
Nipples. Nice. They haven't been sliced off during the rescue.
And then ripping at the seams again. So I moved slowly...slowly...
Rest.
Shoulders are pinched together in the back and breathing is short and painful.
Bra has made it over the top of the lady lumps, pushing on them to look like two dangly water balloons.
Arms are up in the arm and I can no longer feel my fingertips.
I see stars. And I feel lightheaded.
And then...without any limbs to help guide the rest of the bra off my body, I was stuck.
Arms fully extended in the air.
Stuck.

Have you guys ever tightly tied a straw off with a rubber band? I used to do it all the time to see how much liquid I could suck up. I know. I was such a cool kid. And most if the time, little to no liquid that could free itself from the straw. That or I was really bad at sucking.

And that was exactly how I felt that night in the first stall of the changing room of that TJ MAXX. Like all those straws I once choked off for my entertainment. Stuck. And helpless.

I couldn't even rip it off at that point because my arms couldn't reach that far down. And so I caved. I needed help. EXCUSE ME?!? IS ANYBODY THERE??? HELLOOOOO??? CAN SOMEBODY HELP ME?

I felt more vulnerable than that one time when my mom and I stopped at a rest stop late one night on a drive from Minnesota to New York. My mom had finished peeing so she left me to finish my numero deuce. Except that I didn't realize that the stall I was in had no toilet paper. And of course the rest stop had to be out in the middle of nowhere during the dead of the night with nobody else was in the women's restroom. And so after making sure there weren't any silent patrons, I quickly ran into the next stall. And cleaned myself. If you haven't run from one stall to the next with your pants at your knees with a dirty butthole, you have never felt true terror. (LOL okay, I'm exaggerating.)

Except that I couldn't help myself. I couldn't open the fitting room door because my arms were too busy being stuck. I tried kneeling down but of course the fitting room had to be New York-sized (small).

After what seemed like hours (read: a minute), another customer responded.

Her: Are you OK?
Me: No...
Her: (Irritated) What's wrong?
Me: (Meekly) I'm stuck...
Her: What? Where? How?
Me: (Embarrassed) In this sports bra I thought was my size but turns out it isn't.
Her: (Commanding) Open the door.
Me: (Stupidly) I can't.
Her: (Irritated, again.) What?
Me: (Even more stupidly) I'm stuck. My arms can't reach the handle.
Her: (Defeated)..........I'm going to get the attendant.
Me: Yeah...ok.

When the attendant arrived, she asked the same questions as the customer. She crawled under the door (and barely made it through too). I stood in the corner like an orphaned and wet, exposed baby mouse: half nekkid with only my tights to shield my shameful body. Was this what Adam and Eve felt after they ate fruit from the tree of knowledge and hid from God???

She looked at me pitifully. To make space for the both of us, she unlocked and opened the door. The other customer who initially responded to my pleas for rescue stood on the other side. <i>Well, why did you have to go and do that?<\i> She asked.

I tried explaining but it didn't matter. Because the all the damage in the world had been done. I stood before two complete stranger women, semi-bare chested...with my bosoms exposed, arms in the air, sweat gushing out of my pores and down my back and stomach. Ugh, probably the most humiliated I've ever felt...ever.

"I guess I'm going to have to cut it off," she said after trying to pull the bra.
"I guess you gotta do what you gotta do..."
She started snipping away at the bra. Once she was done, my flesh slowly regained its color and I wiped off dewiness from my body. And then I slowly backed into the fitting room and hid my abused cans behind my bloodless arms.

And then I went home and ate a pack of ramen because that was my workout. And also because I was already 20 minutes late to the class. Fail.

On Pseudo-Sleepwalking. And Farting.

I like most people the best when they're asleep. Because they can't bother you. And also because you get to see their real faces. They're not trying too hard to look good. They're not faking a smile. Nor will they ever give you the stink eye. It's their real resting face, I suppose.

* * *
I must have been 5 or 6 when it happened.

I sat on the edge of my bed thinking...Wait, why am I up? Suddenly I was looking down the dark hallway that connected my room to the living room. I blinked and suddenly, I felt a cold metal doorknob on my fingers as I opened a door.

I sat on my parents' bed in the dark and watched the outlines of my parents' bodies next to one another. I heard their deep breaths and struggled to reach out to my dad who was laying closest to me.

Then.

I farted. Really, reallyyyy loud.

I felt my parents' bed vibrate beneath me. And then, I guess my dad heard/felt/smelled it because this:


But instead of across my face, he slapped my knee. I woke up with a quickness.


"MA-LA-KA-PEE*!!! (I don't know what this means, so I can only assume that this is a curse word.) WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" My dad screamed at me. And of course, I had no idea why I was in their room. Or why it stank so badly. My response:


He sent me back to my room. As I left, I heard my mom ask, "What was it?"
My dad: Can't you smell it?! Your daughter farted. What have you been feeding her?

-___- My parents. SO MUCH LOVE.



* * *
To this day, it is still the single loudest and stinkiest fart I have ever dealt. EVER. After that day, I've tucked myself in by pushing my covers and blankets underneath my body. I thought that if I was trapped underneath something, I wouldn't be able to walk around and get hit again. It's worked for the past twenty-some years.

On Potty-Training (A Follow-Up to Peeing on My Boyfriend's Bed).

After my accident on LH's bed, I asked my mom how I was potty trained.

My theory was that part of the reason why I have bed accidents as an adult is because I was poorly potty trained. Yes, I blamed my parents. Haha.

"You had just started talking. Barely. You watched your cousin use the toilet one afternoon. And the next day, you wouldn't put your diaper on."

What? So...that was it? I didn't struggle? I didn't get whooped? I never peed in bed?!?! I was that super-genius child who potty trained herself JUST by watching another person sit on a toilet?

"Yeah, when you needed to pee, you would say 'sssssss' and when you needed to poop, you'd tell me 'ack-ack.'"

Hails yeah. I was that kid.

"Well, you were that kid who waited until the very last second before your bladder exploded."

Oh. So I'm not as brilliant as I thought I was.

"It only happened a few times. After we beat disciplined you, you were fine."

A few things:
1- I wasn't my parents' fault.
2- I don't know how to deal with stress.
3- This says a lot about my learning style. I'm definitely a visual learner.

The mystery lives on. Why can't I get out of bed before I empty my bladder?