It’s New Year’s again! Again! It happens once a year.

I am still waiting for my lunar horoscope from Doretta, who gets them from some old Chinese lady who is apparently an authority on all things zodiac related. It is unclear how someone becomes an authority on these things, but I’m guessing you have to be an old Chinese lady? Last year, if you recall, I was told I was going to have a good year for money, but bad year for health, which would impede on having a good year for money. Turns out it was a perfectly acceptable year for money, in that I had it and did not lose my job, and it was a bad year for teeth, in that I had them and did not lose them, but they hurt. This is the year of the dragon, which probably means money will continue to exist, but only a little of it will be for me. I will have an acceptable year for health, meaning that someone will sneeze on me. I will spill water, on my pants and on other people’s pants. I will break a keyboard and a mouse (I already broke a keyboard, actually). Something important will happen in space and no one will care. We will depend on foreign oil. Giant pandas will look exceptionally adorable this year and insects will win. My brother will call someone a “douche-and-dick,” as in “dude, that guy is being a total douche-and-dick,” and in that sentence “that guy” is our father. Our mother will continue to assess the quality of my skin, particularly its dangerously low moisture level, and continue to critique the shade of my lipstick, which is “the color that streetwalkers wear.” That’s loosely translated from the Korean.

The year of the dragon is going to be acceptable for hookers with dry skin.

This afternoon my co-worker and I were walking across the street to get lunch. On most days, I’d say eating is a real pain in the ass. Sometimes I wish I had just eaten so I could stop thinking about eating and move on with my goddamn life. You realize we have to eat EVERY DAY, like every four hours? That’s insane. It’s really taxing. You know, I’m kind of busy and I occasionally have shit to do, so eating gets in the way of me sometimes doing things. I realize there are people who don’t get to eat every day, so I should feel grateful, but you know what? I’m an asshole. Eating takes up time and energy and especially in New York, it takes up money. Dude, not even kidding you, I just spent $11 on a sandwich and a salad and no, I did not get a mouth boner from it.

Fact: the second worst question you can ever ask me is, “Where do you want to eat?” (The first is “Can I sleep with your mother?” Obvz.)

So anyway, my co-worker and I are crossing the street. It is raining. And this guy walks up to us and says, “hey” and we are like, “uh, hey.” It is true that people in New York do not like strangers saying “hey.” If we liked that then we would be living in Minneapolis where apparently everyone says “hey” and probably hug and invite each other over for dinner at their nana’s house to watch the Packers play the Knicks or whatever. I don’t follow hockey. Anyway the guy says, “I’m a recruiter for Hollister, would you be interested in being models?”

Now there are a few scenarios here:

1. We say yes. They take photos of us wearing something with seagulls on it and flip flops. Two things, by the way, I do not approve of. We get really famous and quit our jobs to be models for Hollister making whatever it is models make. No idea, but they save a lot of money since they don’t eat (which would solve one of my problems, see above).

2. We say yes. They take photos of us. But it turns out we’re the “before” photos. The “after” photos are two hot models probably from the Ukraine or Belarus with a combined weight equivalent of one, single zucchini. The “before” photos make it to some snarky site where we are berated for being totally average. They make fun of my hair, which I forgot to brush this morning. The good news is that we are not wearing flip flops.

3. We say no.

Guess which one we chose?

But really, I have no idea what this recruiter was up to, because if you saw us, you would not think Hollister. You would think we were more appropriate models for a store that makes clothes for tired, possibly hungover employees. Not sure what the clothes would look like, but they’d definitely be pre-worn.

The second issue of White Zinfandel is out now! The magazine combines food, culture, art, and fancy people doing fancy things and being fancy. I wrote a piece in there about people who take photos of their food. The piece includes VISUAL AIDS, and I don’t mean, like, getting AIDS in your eyeballs. I mean graphic organizers. I’d say the tone of the article would be best described as “enthusiastically enraged.” So, if you are a person who takes photo of their food (and I know some of you do because we’re fwendz on Facebook and I see your feed, don’t you dare hide from me, you coy little bastard), then you will either feel mildly embarrassed or enthusiastically enraged. Just know that I still love you with all my heart, of which there is very little left because my parents have more or less eaten it. As you know, Koreans will eat anything. They will ferment it first though.

New Yorkers: You can get the issue at the New Museum or Project No. 8.

Everyone else: Look here.

Ever since my mother’s gotten her fancy car with BUILT IN SPEAKERPHONE she has been ambushing me with spontaneous phone calls to relatives and rando friends and forcing me to talk to them whenever I’m in the car with her, which happens to be all the time. Half the time I have no idea who I’m talking to. “Say hi, this is Jay’s mom, the one with the bakery. You remember him? He went to Stanford. For LAW SCHOOL.” Then I have to remind my mother that like all of her friends’ kids went to Stanford for whatever how can I possibly keep all these highly successful and wealthy Korean sons and daughters straight? You know who I’d remember? The kid who ran away to NYC to pursue a successful career in costume design for drag queens. Yeah I’d totally remember him.
Anyway this is our number one mother-daughter activity: sitting in traffic and getting phonebushed. So I’ll be at the wheel because there’s no way in hell that lady is driving when my life is on the line, I mean seriously she is the world’s shittiest driver, and all of the sudden her bony freakishly long fingers are pushing some buttons and then oh hey there my uncle’s voice is coming through the stereo totally interrupting my groove to Crystal Blue Persuasion. It is SUPER annoying. Because now here I am in traffic talking to my uncle about not being married. “Don’t worry, Annie, next year you’ll have a boyfriend.” OK THANKS I’M NOT WORRIED BUT YOU APPEAR TO BE. So then my mom dials my father and he says, “Take care of you self, Anne.” I thought this was sweet and then he says, “Because you don’t have husband. Who take care of you? You so alone. No one care for you.”

My mom laughs because to her it’s one of those funny-because-it’s-true situations. I laugh because you know what else is there to do? I am in traffic.

It’s been exactly one year from this day last year. Weird, right guys?

So today I eat lunch with my mom and dad because we didn’t have the usual New Year’s get-together-thing with all 100 of my cousins. Note that I avoid using the word “party” in this case because it would be totally misleading since parties have 1) alcohol and 2) fun. So really, it’s considered a “get-together-thing.”

Anyway my dad sits down to the table in his pajamas. It is 3 pm on a Sunday. He is wearing pajamas. Like the whole matching set. Maroon paisley, in case you are wondering. I ask, hey, did you just wake up? And he says no, I went to work this morning and came back. I should note that my mother, father, and I do this thing where we change right when we come home. Like we return from work or whatever, and immediately change into something comfortable. Like house clothes. In my mom’s case it’s sweats and shirts. In my case it is “leisure pants” because skinny jeans look cute but dude they are so fucking skinny I cannot be wearing that shit all the time, I’ll lose feeling in my feet. In my father’s case it is pajamas. So he sits down to eat in his pajamas. He is no stranger to comfort, my father.

As we are eating, he just stares at me, hey, he asks, are you STILL vegetarian?!? And he makes this face. It is what my friend Doretta would call “kidney face”. The face you make when you learn people are stealing kidneys from other people. EVERY SINGLE TIME I eat with my father, he asks me this. I went vegetarian in high school. I’m like dude, roughly half my life has been spent as a vegetarian, so yes, Dad, I am still vegetarian. What is wrong with you?

He says, Anne, vegetarian look not so healthy. Maybe on inside they healthy, but on outside they not healthy. Vegetarian have face that look like this: And he proceeds to make a V shape with his hands. People who eat meat have face that look like this: And he then makes an O shape with his hands. So I say, are you telling me my face looks like a V? And he just sorta stares at me as if to say well duh, you have the American Apparel super deep V of faces. And then I look at my mother, as if to say, hey you care to weigh in on this issue because this guy is either insane or a total asshole. And she says, why do you even talk to your father? I stopped talking to him years ago. Then the woman proceeds to ditch us and go into the living room to watch the rest of the Korean version of the Oscars. And throughout the afternoon I hear her commenting on dresses. Oh that is a tacky color, or ohhh is that Versace? For some reason it is hard for my mom to say “Versace” and it ends up coming out like “vuh-thah-chee”.

So then my father says, Anne, you will never find husband if you vegetarian. Who wants to live with a vegetarian? Then he looks at what we just ate, which is like the most ridiculous amount of food. There’s so much food that the dishes barely fit on the table. And he says to me “you didn’t eat anything.” And I’m like what are you talking about, all I’m doing right now is eating, I’m on my second bowl of rice LIKE A BOSS, and he says, there’s no nutrition. I’m like dude, look at this food. This is Korean food. An entire country is eating this same shit, this tasty, tasty shit. And he’s like no nutrition! He says this to me as if I’m starving. Only in our house can you be eating yourself into some insane kim chee coma and someone implies that you are starving. I think you guys should start a non-profit to save me right now because clearly I’m wasting away.

Right, so happy new year, everyone! I hope none of you starve in 2012.

I am now at the JFK airport where I am waiting for my flight to Hong Kong and listening to an extended Muzak version of “Whatever Lola Wants”. The original song is already “easy listening” but I have to say, this version has to be the easiest thing I’ve ever listened to. It is like the audio interpretation of 1 + 1 = 2. If this song was a quiz question, it’d be “What is your last name? _______” I suppose someone could find that question not so easy. For example, Prince. He might be like, ladies and gentlemen love has no last name. Madonna might take issue with the question too. But, I take issue with Madonna, so there’s that. Oh and Cher! What about Mr. T? Point is, this song sucks it and Mr. T is a bad ass. His underwear is made out of Chuck Norris.

I am here way too early. This marks a very important milestone for me and I demand some form of acknowledgement. Even a slow, sarcastic clap will do. Normally I am running through the airport and cursing everyone in front of me who hasn’t learned that dude, you can’t bring that 40 oz of Gatorade, oh look you are trying to chug it like a pro, and yes, take off your shoes, oh hi there lady on the cell phone with the perfume. you are wearing boots with a thousand lace holes, maybe you should’ve worn your Ughs. Sometimes I want to die because I’m behind the family with a toddler and infant twins on the lap of
an old lady in a wheelchair, yeah I know that makes me an insensitive prick to children and the elderly but you know when I’m late I’m a total insensitive prick and do not act like you have never been in that situation before.

But now I’m luxuriating at Gate 6 with like an hour and a half till boarding. I’m dying of boredom even before I get on my SIXTEEN HOUR FLIGHT. Why is Asia so far? Let’s move it to California. it belongs there.

So yes, I’m super stoked about going to HK and Ho Chi Minh City!!!!! It’s on like Kong, yo.

I forgot to point out that my mother called and told me they were going to Italy…FROM THE AIRPORT. From what I understand, parents tell their children about big trips WEEKS or at least a few DAYS before a trip like that, right? My friend’s parents would tell him oh hey we’re going on a trip to Holland in TWO MONTHS we’re so excited! Meaning that two months PRIOR TO GOING TO THE AIRPORT, they told their children. Like, hey, heads up big exciting fun trip! Shit, some parents tell their kids whenever they’re going to the grocery store. And I know parents who print out their itinerary and mail it to their children, and it’s got an entire schedule including what cities they plan on visiting, all the hotels, plus phone numbers, and even what train they’re going to be taking. My parents don’t do this because…because I don’t know. There’s a lot I don’t know, actually.

A few years ago I once called my parents’ place and my dad picked up and we’re chatting and I’m like ok put Mom on and he’s like oh she’s in Korea, and I’m like oh really for how long? THREE MONTHS. After she came back she called me, oh it was such a fun time and I’m like oh that’s great, mother, you didn’t tell me you were going and she’s like no no, I told you. In that scenario one person was lying. That person was not me.

So I’m going to Hong Kong and Ho Chi Minh City NEXT WEEK. I leave on Friday. It’s going to be EPICALLY AWESOME HOLY SHITSNACKS. I’m visiting Doretta, the Canadian Prime Minister of Annietown. Anyway, I thought, maybe I should call my parents on Friday, at the airport, and say, hey I’m going to Hong Kong and in addition, Vietnam where I will feel guilty about being American but feel lucky that I don’t actually look American on the outside so I can just feel totally horrible on the inside. But I decide that might be a dick move and instead she might freak out on me. So when we talked today I mentioned I was going to Hong Kong and she was totally nonplussed and said, buy me scarf but beware of knock-offs. Then I said, OK fine, I’ll get you a scarf, what kind, heavy, light, silk, wool, etc. And she said, remember that scarf you TOOK from me? Get me something like that!

NOW, here’s some information. I DID NOT take a scarf from her. She GAVE the scarf to ME, her daughter. It is a nice scarf, and no, it’s not some Hermes shit. It’s just a regular scarf probably from TJ Maxx where my mother often enjoys maxximum savings. I borrowed it one night and then she’s like, actually just take it. So I did. It’s a nice scarf. BUT NOW, she says I TOOK the scarf?

I say, dude, I did not TAKE that scarf. You GAVE me the scarf, as a GIFT and may I remind you the time you LOVED my hat and so I GAVE that to you? Remember that? And she goes, I don’t remember giving you the scarf, but you can have it. It’s a nice scarf. But get me one similar to that in Hong Kong.

I can see! I can see! My glasses arrived in the mail and I got lenses and now I can see. The gift of sight is a precious gift, remember that. I was using my old glasses before which had severely scuffed lenses so it was like seeing through a tub of vasoline. Also the bridge was cracked and a piece of plastic kept stabbing me on my nose. But now, when I DO see a girl wearing my glasses at yoga, I’m going to cut her. Look, I am not afraid to cut a bitch. You best stay out of SoHo.

So I get this call from my mother. She says, hey, what are you doing? I’m like well, it’s Wednesday afternoon I am at the office like a normal person so why are you calling me now, why can’t you call me at night like normal parents and not bug me during regular business hours. I’m not even sure why I pick up her phone calls during the workday. I guess a small part of me thinks that if a parent is calling during 9 to 5 I should pick it up because OMG WHAT IF IT’S AN EMERGENCY. Because really most parents only call during 9 to 5 if there’s some grave, illy shit, right? Not mine. This is what my mom thinks: Hmm, I am stuck in traffic. Let’s see, who can I call to pass the time? I know, I will call Annie because it is Wednesday at 2 pm, it’s not like she will be busy. And even though I know that this is what my mother is thinking, I still pick up her phone calls because I still think she is capable of normalcy and is in fact desperately trying to contact me because someone we know got into a horrific car crash or someone we know died or someone we know has fallen ill with Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. But no, she is just calling to say hello and I end up getting annoyed because dude, I’m at the office.

So she says, to celebrate our 40th wedding anniversary, we’re going to Italy! And I’m like OMG that’s so awesome because seriously my parents never go anywhere other than Seoul. Once they went to Santa Barbara and that was pretty exciting for them. So I’m like oh shit you’re gonna love Italy. You have to be a real asshole not to love Italy. Which is to say even my grumpy father will love Italy. So I ask, hey, when are you leaving?

She says, oh we’re at the airport now.

We have a 4-hour layover in Philadelphia, why don’t you come meet us?

It turns out that Philadelphia is not actually the same as New York City. They are, in fact, in two different states. It takes a few hours to get to Philadelphia, depending on what mode of transport you use, train, bus, car, surrey. I explain this to my mother, who says, but it’s close. You should meet us. I’m like I can’t just meet you at the Philadelphia airport. This is not like swinging by the grocery store on my way home, you crazy person. And she says,

I can’t believe you are not going to meet your parents in Philadelphia. I can’t believe it.

And she does that tsk tsk tsk thing. That is the sound of disappointment: tsk tsk tsk.

I’m like, woman, Philadelphia is far, I don’t even know where the Philly airport is and it’s not like they will let me meet you at the gate to just chill like a gangsta, we live in a post 9-11 world and in addition, I fucking hate airports, and OH YEAH IT’S WEDNESDAY AT 2 PM. I’m WORKING for fuck’s sake.

Language! You talk like that at work?

She says, can’t you just take the subway. And I have to explain uh the subway does not go to Philadelphia and she’s like you know what I mean, can’t you take the train? And I’m like sure I can take the train but WHY WOULD I, once again it is Wednesday at 2 pm, I have like 4 more hours of work.

So she says OH gotta go, our plane is boarding.

Yay family.

No glasses = sad times. I called the yoga studio and went back and looked again. I also left a note on my cubbyhole asking people to look in their holes, which incidentally your mom also said last night. Your mom says a lot of stuff, turns out. So I just resolved myself at the fact that some bitch took my glasses and is now wearing them and being an epic asshole and everyone is probably saying to her, oh wow, those glasses look great, which is what everyone used to tell me, and then later, when she gets home, she will die in a grease fire. OK fine, she won’t die, but maybe she’ll lose all of her stuff and then know what it feels like to get shit taken from her.

I keep wondering why ANYONE would steal fucking GLASSES. It’s like stealing crutches. Stealing glasses means that you are leaving someone BLIND. That is effed. Like I understand stealing sunglasses, maybe. Especially if they aren’t prescription, you can just wear them. Easy, like your mom. I can understand stealing money, so you can go buy drinks and be a fucknut in some shit bar. I can understand stealing credit cards. Sure, I get all of that. But stealing glasses? You’d have to get lenses made for them, which costs about $50 – $100 in NY. So stealing is hardly worth it. The whole point of stealing is that it’s FREE. So anyway, someone stole my vision and my sense of general well being at the moment.

But there is some good news.

My old frames were the king shit of fuck mountain of glasses. Some of you may remember how AWESOME they looked on my face. They were also vintage. A while back I bought a pair at a store in the East Village, wore them to death, and then they started cracking and I STARTED TO FREAK OUT. So I went back to the store and looked for a new pair of glasses knowing that it was a longshot. I mean what are the chances of finding the same pair of vintage glasses from the 60s, right? Then HOLY SHIT found the SAME PAIR just in a different color. I was like this HAS to be once in a lifetime thing. What are the odds, man. So the store owner tells me he gets the glasses from this guy in Germany. This German bought up thousands of overstock glasses from some IRS seizure of a warehouse in White Plains, NY. So now the German sells lots to this vintage store in the city. That’s the backstory. SO I bought the same glasses again and CONTINUED TO BE A BOSS.

Now after losing the second pair again, I think WHAT ARE THE FUCKING chances of finding them a THIRD time?

I looked on the Ebay and FOUND THEM AGAIN. Not only did I find one, I found THREE. THREE PAIRS, same glasses, different colors. Overstock vintage. And guess where the seller is? Germany.

So, I bought two pairs. I’m going to staple them TO MY FUCKING FACE and if someone even comes close to them I will hose them with mace. And if you see some ho wearing my old glasses, call me and I will go rough a bitch up with thunder and lightning.

So today I go to yoga. Because I want to, you know, “step into the flow of the universe” and “align mind, body, spirit” and “be what is” (whatever that means). So I go to the studio and take the mat out of my cubbyhole. Then I place my glasses inside my cubbyhole. This is what I do. I put my glasses there so I don’t have to wear them while I get all namasté. I also put them there so no one steps on them. Because what would happen if someone stepped on my glasses? Bad things. Bad, bad things. Might involve some crying. Perhaps some bloody feet too. Point is, I put my glasses in my cubbyhole. I’ve been doing this for years.

So today, I come out of my class, go put my mat back and my glasses are not in my cubbyhole. I think hmm, maybe I put it in the wrong hole, which incidentally is what your mom said last night. So I look in other cubbyholes. Nothing. So I look in the bathroom. Nothing. Then the locker room–perhaps I left it on a counter. Nothing. So then I START TO FUCKING PANIC. Because why? I have no glasses. It is very hard for me to see because, you see, I need glasses to see. I do understand there is quite a bit of irony in trying to LOOK FOR SOMETHING while one is blind. So I go up the front desk and ask, hey, maybe someone turned in some glasses. And they say nope, nothing here. And I go, OK, well I’m missing some glasses and a kind lady comes and helps me search the other cubbyholes because oh right I’M FUCKING BLIND.

So it dawns on me, I guess they might be stolen. FUCKING STOLEN.

WHO STEALS FUCKING GLASSES? WHAT ASSHOLE LOOKS AT A PAIR OF GLASSES AND SAYS OH YEAH I WANT THIS. I’M GOING TO TAKE THIS AND HA HA HA TO THE BLIND FUCK WHO WILL CONTINUE TO BE BLIND AND IN ADDITION, CONTINUE TO BE A FUCK. That is a shit move. A fucking low blow. I’m trying not to jump to conclusions. I am trying to think that someone accidentally picked them up from MY cubbyhole (they are assigned) and accidentally thought this sweet pair of glasses was theirs and accidentally brought them home. This is what I’m hoping. But the New Yorker in me knows that some FUCKING ASSWAD has stolen my glasses. Which, by the way, are EXTREMELY awesome looking and vintage and one of a kind and everyone loves them, and apparently someone loves them enough to STEAL them. But for WHAT? Why would you do that? If I see some bitch in the yoga studio with my glasses on I will fucking cut the shit out of her.

And really, who steals at a YOGA studio? Have you not learned anything from YOGA? So while people are meditating and nailing their revolved triangles and feeling at peace, some dickless asshole is LOOKING THROUGH PEOPLE’S SHIT and taking their prescription glasses? WHAT? WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? I guarantee this shitbag does not have the SAME EYESIGHT as me. My left eyeball is SQUISHED and the right eye is like basically perfect. So what are you going to use my glasses for? WHAT. To ‘look smart’ while you….do what? Go to a bookstore? A bookstore you will steal from because if you steal from a fucking YOGA studio you’re certainly going to steal from a bookstore. Why not go to the pre-school and steal their crayons? Might as well right? Everyone loves crayons.

So I had to walk home blind, at night. I had to walk really slowly because I don’t know if you ever notice how blind people walk very slowly, but they do this because they do not want to TRIP over shit or BUMP into shit or even GET HIT by a VEHICLE. So that is what I did. I should also add it was POURING rain and I’m walking like a blind geriatric with a club foot.

BLIND FURY YOU GUYS. LITERAL BLIND FURY.