Tuesday, May 26, 2009


You know how sometimes you see a movie for the first time, and you have no one else to discuss it with because everyone you know saw it ages ago?

Me: So Full Metal Jacket, that was troubling.

Friend: Uh ... yeah.  In 1987.

I just barely got around to watching Fatal Attraction.  I knew what it was about, of course, due to its presence in popular culture and whatnot, but can I just say one thing?  I was actually quite sympathetic to poor Ms. Close.  Of course, she's a bit of a nutbag, but she has a point.  

If Michael Douglas had kept it in his pants, none of this would have happened.  

If Michael Douglas had attempted to buy her off when she discovered she was pregnant with his kid (like a normal sleazeball), things might have gone OK.  

But no.  

Throughout the film, M.D. expresses NO remorse at the fact that he has cheated on his loving wife, only regret that he was dumb enough to do it with a total loon.  Yet does he ever acknowledge his own culpability?  No.  Instead, he breaks into Glenn's apartment, repeatedly threatens her life and then slams her up against a wall when she pisses him off.   Newsflash, Michael: SHE'S NUTS!  Just call the cops already!  Reasoning with and/or threatening the chick who tried to kill herself on your second date is a POOR CHOICE!  

It's just so troubling that he doesn't seem to realize that HE is responsible for all the twists and turns of his awful life.  While no one deserves to have crazy calling them at 2 am, there were so many things Mikey could have done to try and rectify the situation ... 


And that's when Glenn's character lost my support.

Friday, May 22, 2009

I'm off ice cream

Grocery shopping late at night can be a terrifying experience, particularly at the Smith’s Marketplace on 400 South.  You might think “terrifying” is too strong a word—you might think I’m just exercising the hyperbolic style of my generation.  But terrifying is precisely what I mean.

It’s not the cop cars that are parked outside the entrance.  It’s not that the entire parking lot smells like spilled beer—the ENTIRE quarter-block of parking lot.  It’s not the homeless dudes that hit on me on my way in (homeless dudes totally dig me, as do the elderly and the weird).  It’s not the creepy way everyone who shops at night is either A) a couple, holding hands to prove it, B) a weird guy or girl hoping to be part of a couple, or C) me.  It’s not even the dude who was scratching himself in arts and crafts – and sir, could I just remind you that even though you’re not making eye contact with me, I can still see you.

The most terrifying part is that you never know what to expect – there might be the guy who yells at you, and the government, in the produce section.  The positive pregnancy test you step on in the parking lot.  (Yes, I stopped to check whether it was – or +.) 

Tonight, it was the guy who came up behind me as I pondered ice cream flavors in the frozen food aisle.  He stood too close—he caressed my hand, which was holding open the freezer door.  He sang, “Haaaaa-gen Dazs Broooooown SU-gar!” as I ran away.  

(Family dinner AND a creepy guy at Smith's?  This is totally my day.)

Dinner with the Fs

The Lion’s Den in Ogden, Utah is one of the F family faves—unfortunately, due to the little thing called the implosion of the American economy, it’s closing at the end of this month.  To celebrate Charlie’s homecoming from South Korea, therefore, we figured we better cram in one final family dinner before the Lion’s Den shut its doors forever.

However, it’s easier to plan a successful family dinner than it is to have one.  First, we had to change the date of the dinner three times—first because Alpha forgot he had a Scout project on Tuesday, second because Echo got tickets to Dance Movie with her friend Juliet on Wednesday, and third because I had to cancel Saturday to go to my friend's cabin for a birthday/Memorial Day weekend.    

Then all our rearranging didn’t matter.  When we finally settled on Friday, Echo said she couldn’t go because, as a 23-year-old with a dental crank, she has been relegated to a diet of baby food.  So she dogged out.  (Why she didn’t remember this the first two times we rescheduled, I cannot tell you.) 

And then today, when I arrived to pick up the family in my sweet, sweet Toyota Yaris, Mother F (hee hee ...)* and Charlie announced that we would have to go in waves, since Alpha thought he had swine flu and was demanding that our father take him to the emergency clinic.

Thank you, sensationalist media.  You have successfully frightened a thirteen-year-old into mistaking a cold for life-threatening illness.

So I took Mom and Charlie to the Lion’s Den while Papa took Alpha down to the faithful Fairfield Clinic that has served the F Family so well in years past—removing fishhooks from hands (Mom), stitching scalp lacerations (Charlie), failing repeatedly to find a vein from which to take blood (me).  (Seriously, over five sticks, and not a drop of blood.) 

So Charlie, Mom and I made conversation while we waited for Alpha and Dad.  (Fun fact about Korea—you know how Americans have that stereotype that black people love collard greens and fried chicken?  Koreans think that Americans love bread and milk.  Oh, poor teenage American boy—you want us to go get you some milk and bread?  Hee hee hee hee hee.) 

And after we finished our respective meals, Dad and Alpha showed up, having never seen a doctor, nurse or someone who finished two semesters at the DATC.  Dad was outraged, describing every patient who was called up before Alpha, and the inane girl at the front desk who kept saying, “I’m sorry,” in that obnoxious, too soft/too high voice that all Mormon women perfect by age fifteen.  (See previous post for greater explanation of the too soft/too high voice.)  My dad was getting red in the face, and talking a bit too loudly.  “The Jews” (and really, whenever a story starts out with “the Jews,” no matter who is saying it, you worry that the next words will be racist—as evidenced by the fact that Charlie and I looked at each other in horror for a brief moment before Papa F finished) “wouldn’t be ok with an ‘I’m sorry’ from Hitler, would they?”

Touche, Father.  Touche. 

Well, the evening continued.  Alpha shoved five scones in his mouth in under ten minutes.  When my Mom said, “Alpha, pass your broccoli if you’re not going to eat it,” he picked it up with his fingers and tried to hand it across the table.  Then he did the same thing a few minutes later when she said, “Pass the scones.”  Charlie regaled us with stories about how dog meat is prepared in South Korea, and then Mom told him to stop scratching at the pre-zit on his chin because it could cause skin cancer.  Finally, she and my dad re-told the story they read in the paper about an Egyptian guy who hired someone to kill his mistress, and then seamlessly transitioned into a conversation about how there is no point to keeping all our old toys if we don't get them some damn grandkids already. 

* Yes, this post has been edited to ensure my sound financial future. 

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Girl of constant sorrow

I don't mind the theory behind taxes. People pay money to the government, which then uses money to feed the poor, educate children, pave roads, and cure cancer.  I love all that stuff.  
But the 2008 tax returns were a troubling time for me … a time that has still left repercussions on my life today, weeks after April 15.  I chose to forgo my dad’s accountant this year, since I am (as I believe has been previously mentioned) impoverished.  Instead, I took a trip to the good folks at Volunteer Income Tax Assistance, or VITA, who were willing to file my taxes for free, free, free. 

Now, to be clear, everything I say from this point on should in no way reflect on 90% of the VITA people.  In fact, a good friend recommended this program to me, and so I had nothing but high hopes.

At the end of this lovely process, I found myself in the position of owing to the State of Utah $2,000.  How can this be? says I, a lowly research assistant who made $10 an hour during the spring of last year.

Oh, said the VITA person, you made money in Arizona when you did that summer internship with a law firm.

But nay, I reply, I paid taxes on that money to Arizona!  Forsooth, tis but true!

(The subject of my most recent tax return makes me a little early American revolutionary.) 

To which the VITA person sadly shook their head – poor, math-challenged law student – and explained that Utah was entitled to glom onto the money that I made in Arizona, since Utah was my primary residence. 

This seemed … I don’t know what the word for it is … “unconstitutional,” perhaps?  And as I sat, baffled, the helpful VITA people electronically submitted my taxes for me.

The next day, I was still so bothered by this whole taxed-by-every-state-I-entered-in-2008 thing (despite being grateful for the failed-to-mention-vacations-to-California-and-DC-lest-they-tax-me-too thing), I went to go see my dad’s accountant after all.  And he found several mistakes in my tax returns in under 2 minutes of review that could have saved me the $2,000 dollars, plus $100 more from the feds. 

I say “could have” because remember how the VITA people ELECTRONICALLY SUBMITTED MY TAXES FOR ME? 

Now I wait for the State of Utah to act on my amended tax return and send the money back. Which, despite Utah’s reputation for conservatism and low tax burdens, I don’t see happening any time soon.  

So you're probably wondering, Hey, this happened over a month ago - why are you complaining about it now?  Well my friends, I am complaining now because now I really want some Cafe Rio ... but can't afford it.  I would like to stay in Salt Lake for the summer, but instead I am packing my apartment so I can move back in with my parents while I study for the bar.  Also, I got a really cute swimming suit from Victoria Secret that I ordered and paid for months ago (when I wasn't broke) that finally arrived after back-order, and I feel like I should return it because really, I have a Target version that's very similar.  

Ugh, fiscal responsibility.

Sunday, May 17, 2009


I have a complete inability to do accents. 
Australian comes out British, Scottish comes out Mexican, and sometimes when I’m trying to speak in a totally normal way, it comes out Canadian-Southern, all “eh’s” and dropped g’s. 

While my siblings, Echo, Charlie and Alpha can hold full conversations like recently naturalized Asian immigrants, I can’t even do a Brooklyn after hours of watching Newsies.

However, I am blessed to do an amazing General Relief Society President, which makes up for all of that.  

Sunday, May 3, 2009

I turn my head to the north

I know, it's a total tragedy - I start this awesome blog for all of you to read, and then I go on vacation that weekend?  Not cool, Ru, not cool ... [say my three readers, Eric, Rich and Echo.]   It's basically Season One of The O.C. all over again, when after a brief taste of awesomeness the series was yanked away for an early season hiatus.

Friday, May 1, 2009

Big pimpin

There were a few mundane tasks my brother Charlie* left for me to do while he was on his mission.  Frequently update his facebook.  Check his email account. Get him re-registered for college classes for Fall 2009.  Find a dog to mate with his dog so his lineage would live on and there would be puppies at his homecoming.  You now, typical little tasks like that.

Over the last six months or so, I have scoured KSL Classifieds online in hopes that I can find Max’s eternal companion.  Charlie gets home from South Korea on May 16—a dog gestates for 63 days.  At the very latest, Max would need to do his thang by March 15. 

Unfortunately, all did not go as planned.  Remi, Max’s intended, a cute-as-cute-can-be yellow Labrador, is apparently unaware that a dog is supposed to into heat twice a year (though I guess I can’t blame her for holding out, I hate my period too.) 

But finally the day came, and Remi’s parents drove her up to Kaysville for a couple days of “congress,” as I have liked to call “it” ever since I had to do a book report on the Puritans in seventh grade.  Charlie wouldn’t get puppies by his homecoming, but knocked-up puppy mama is close enough. 

And then … nada.  


According to two reputable vets, dog ovulation (which I have adorably shortened to “dogvulation”) occurs on the 11th, 13th, and 15th day after a female dog menstruates. (Why didn’t NBC ever do a “The more you know” public service announcement about this???  I can figure out racism is bad all on my own.)  So Remi's parents took her home, to return in roughly two weeks.

So the long-and-the-short of it is, Charlie will get neither puppies nor puppy mamas at his homecoming, but if he's lucky, he might just get a visual of some good-old-fashioned dog sex when my parents pull up to the house with him on May 16.

 * Not his real name.