Because life is funnier than fiction

RSW was in Korea for work, so I decided to hop on over for a mini-vacay and hang out with her while she was there...1st let me start by saying you do not "hop on over" to Asia. It is a grueling 11-12 hour flight over the Pacific from San Francisco, plus whatever travel it took to get to San Francisco. All said, about a 24 hour travel day, with layovers and what not.

Needless to say, I wasn't in the most chipper of moods when I arrived in Korea, but the biz-class fold-flat seat sure helped (thanks to RSW and her elite-mileage status). RSW's Korea office had arranged for one of their sales people to come pick me up from the airport. I was actually looking forward to making the journey from Incheon to Bundang (suburb of Seoul) on my own, but it's bad form in Korean culture to turn down things, so I grudgingly accepted the ride. Now, on a normal day, it's about an hour's drive from the airport to Bundang (apparently it's an hour anywhere when you travel in Seoul). I stress "on a normal day" here, because my ride was anything but normal.

The nice fellow that was sent to pick me up was a little late, no big deal, but remember, I've been up for close to 24 hours at this point. All I want to do is get to the hotel, take a shower and fall asleep. So Mr. Jung shows up, looking positively frazzled (apparently the whole office was calling him at the exact same time to find out why he was late in picking me up). I walk up to him (he's got a nice little sign with my name on it) and introduce myself. In broken English, he apologizes for being late, and quickly grabs my roller. Nothing out of the usual so far, right? Oh, it gets sooooo much better.

Mr. Jung and I walk out of the terminal towards the parking area, and he immediately looks confused. Folks, he just parked his car not 5 minutes ago, and he's already forgotten how to get back to it! I ask him where he parked, and he says A7. Naturally, I start looking around for signs for the "A" parking lot. Once I found a sign, I took off in that direction. He was still unsure, so he went over to the information desk to ask them where the "A" lot was. It was, shocker, in the direction I was already walking. We take the elevator down to the "A" lot, and I start looking for signs for 7. There are none. It starts at around 10, and goes up to the 30's. We're now standing in a massive underground parking garage, and Mr. Jung is sort of aimlessly walking around, trying to find his nondescript Korean car, that looks like the thousands of other cars in the garage. As I said, he's wandering down random aisles, and BOOM! there's his car. Was it in A7? Not even close. A22. I can see how those two can be easily mistaken for each other, and I point that out to him, in my wise-ass way. For future reference, Koreans don't get sarcasm. Oops.

When RSW told me her office was sending someone to pick me up, I naturally assumed (oh, how very, very stupid of me) that the office would send someone who knew how to get from the airport to Bundang in a relatively reasonable time, or, at the very least, had a GPS device to tell them HOW to get from the airport to Bundang in a relatively reasonable time. Nope, nada, no way, Jose.

As we're making our way out of the Airport, I casually ask how long the trip will take, he says 1 hour. He picked me up at the airport around 4pm. We spent about a 1/2 an hour wandering around the parking garage, so I'm thinking we'll be at the hotel by 5:30, 6:00 at the latest if we hit some traffic.

As we're driving along, I can almost immediately tell this guy doesn't really quite know where he's going. How, do you ask, could I possibly know that? The fact that we had to make a U-turn to back track to an exit he missed clued me in. I'm trying to make the best of it, taking in the sights and talking with his wife (did I mention we stopped to pick her up somewhere?) about various things including New York City. Now I mentioned earlier that Koreans dont get sarcasm, but they get racism. Or rather, they are very good at stereotyping people. As I mentioned, I was talking with his wife about NYC. She says that one day, she would like to go there, but she is scared to, because of all the blacks, and they are very dangerous. Huh?

I attempt to clear up the (apparently very common) Korean misconception about NYC, and how there are all types of races there, and it's a fairly safe city. She's not hearing it. Oh well.

Now, Mr. Jung is still completely lost, and we're driving in circles. We passed a certain skyscraper three times, once on the left, and twice on the right (look kids, Big Ben, Parliament!)

Long story short, we FINALLY arrive at the hotel, almost 3 hours later. Yep, you read right. The 1 hour journey took the one guy in Korea that doesn't own a GPS 3 hours.

As I'm settling into the room, the telephone rings, and it is Mr. Jung, stating that his boss has "ordered" him to take me out for dinner. Remember how it is impolite to turn things down? Well, this time I did, saying I was tired and was going right to bed, when in reality, I just didn't want to be stuck in a car with him for another 3 hours.

Insert your own joke about Asian drivers here.

Godzilla!!!!

I turned 40 last week. It was not a pleasant event. I was dragged, kicking and screaming from my late thirties into what I would call "adulthood." I didn't ask for this, and I certainly didn't want it.

So now that I am officially an adult, I decided it was time to do adult things, like get in better shape.

To that end, I have started running again. I use the word "running" loosely, because what I do can only be described as watching an elephant wade through a mud pit while dragging thirty ton boulders with jumper cables hooked up on one end to a jumbo jet sized battery and the other end to his testicles.

Yeah, that bad.

Every stride I take, I expect a small Japanese man to jump out of the bushes and scream "GODZIRRA!"

To keep me company on these Bhutan death marches, I bring my Chocolate Lab Cooper along. Although I'm not sure I should, because he is quite demoralizing. Since I'm "running" at such a slow pace, he pretty much fast walks next to me, tail high in the air, strutting along like a show pony.

If I could catch up to him, I'd probably kick him in the ass.

So I plod along like a Clydesdale, huffing and puffing and sweating like a whore in church. Now, I've only been doing this for a week, but I've done it every other day. It seems to me, that after a week's worth of effort, it should get a teensy weensy bit easier, since I'm "running" the same distance at roughly the same pace. But no, it actually seems like it's getting harder. Here's the kicker: I've lost ten pounds (give or take), but it feels harder! WTF?

I'm going to keep at it, if for no other reason than to keep my dog in shape. And the little Japanese man, of course.

There are no stupid questions, only stupid people

The other day, I was in Seattle for work. My flight was late, and I didn't arrive until 9:30pm local time. Naturally, I was tired and cranky. Plus, I couldn't remember the name of the hotel, and had to search through old e-mails to find where I was staying. When I finally got to the hotel, a co-worker was checking in as well. I told him that I couldn't remember the name of the hotel, and had spent 10 minutes searching through old emails to find the name of the hotel. He responded by asking me, "Did you find it?"

Naturally, I responded by saying, "nope, I couldn't find it, I'm still looking for it now. You're imagining this conversation...or, I'm a hologram...you pick."

And I'm the asshole.

Chocolate porn

I have 1.3 dogs... a Chocolate Lab, and a sorry excuse for a canine known as a chihuahua. Cooper (lab) and Louie (rat) were outside today, languishing in the late afternoon sun. I opened up the sliding glass door to check on them, and I caught Cooper blowing Louie. I'm serious. Louie was stretched out on his back, his big bug eyes rolled back in his head, and Cooper was going to town on Louie's giant four pound cock (the damn dog only weighs 8 pounds). I saw them, and yelled "Hey!" Cooper jumped away and proceeded to give me the hung dog look he does when he knows he's done something wrong. I went back inside, but I started thinking that Cooper thought he was in trouble, so I went back outside, and said "I accept you for who you are!"

I feel better now.

March in Colorado

RSW is traveling again, this time in the Great White North. It's not a 47 hour time difference, only three, so we can have the occasional conversation on the phone and not on the interwebs. The problem is my life is pretty f-ing boring, so the most exciting thing I have to tell her about is finishing the taxes (exciting? taxes? same sentence???).



Right now there is a raging snowstorm going on (did you see "Day After Tomorrow?"), the power has cut out twice, and the stupid Direct TV is knocked out because of the storm, so I don't get to watch "Lost." To which my RSW would surely reply, "Big deal, they're still lost, and they're still on the island." To which I would surely reply, "Shutup."



See, I don't even need to talk to her to know what she'd say.

Puke and Poopsicles

RSW is working in Korea (again) for the next two weeks. So, I am King of the Castle, Master of my Domain, Head of the...well, you get the idea. As much as I enjoy my mini-bachelorhood during these periods where I am sans RSW, I do miss her for many reasons. One of them (not the biggest, or I'd be permanently sans RSW) is for her ability to pick up dog shit in the yard without puking.

Me? I'm not so good at it. Here in Colorado, we have the remains of a snowstorm still on the ground. Since the backyard was starting to look like a white sheet of paper with little piles of shit all over it, I thought I would be helpful and pick it up (and by pick it up I mean use a shovel to chuck it over the fence). So I grabbed my trusty shovel and started chucking. The great thing about picking up dog shit (really? did I just say there was a great thing about picking up dog shit?) when there is snow on the ground is that it typically is frozen - or, as I like to call them, poopsicles.

So I began shoveling the poopsicles; let me tell you, frozen shit still smells like shit. I made it through about 4 piles of poop, and then my orange juice came back up to visit. The funny thing about when you throw up orange juice is that to me, it tastes like orange julius when it comes back up. So, not too terrible, but still no one likes throwing up (unless you're a super-model).

This is what I get for trying to be a RSH.