Archives for August 2011

Monday Dare: Sir, your hand is on my ass.

Every Monday, I’m picking from the List of Things to Do, Places to Go, Possible Acts that Help, and Possible Fun to Have. It’s a list I made before The Project started, and I’m still adding to it. If you have suggestions, please feel free to throw them my way. I’m calling the list my Monday Dares, as I get overwhelmed just looking at the words “challenge” or “goal.”

This week: Say it

Before my trip to Las Vegas over the weekend, my checklist to gauge whether I had a good time on vacation was simple.

  • Did I come back with all four limbs? (Preferable answer: Yes)
  • Did I offend anyone? (Preferable but totally unrealistic answer: No)
  • Did I get in trouble with the law? (Preferable answer: Yes. Surprised every time I accomplish it? Yes.)

Since returning home last night, I’ve added something new to my list.

  • Did I end up alone in a piano bar at 2 a.m. crying like a little girl? (Preferable answer: No)

I’m assuming this list looks a lot like your own Vacation Success Checklist. If it doesn’t, I would suggest adding these, especially the last one. And maybe the one about coming back with all four limbs. I hear it’s a bitch trying to learn how to floss your teeth with your toes.

My friend Kris and I meet in Vegas several times a year. We’ve known each other for 19 years. Sometimes, I wonder how we’ve been friends for so long. She’s the embodiment of class and diplomacy, and I, well, you know what I’m trying to say here folks.

We got separated in a nightspot roughly the size of a football field on Friday evening. No biggie. We pick a spot before the night starts in case this happens. Plus, a local friend was stopping by, so I knew it wouldn’t be long before I saw a friendly face in the crowd.

Do you know what makes a female a target for all kinds of lewd and lascivious behavior when she’s standing alone in a club at 1:30 a.m.? Being a female standing alone in a club at 1:30 a.m.

Men grabbed my ass, my waist, my breasts, made rude and perverted comments, spilled drinks on my dress, ashed their cigarettes on my feet, pushed, shoved, screamed in my ear, tried to entice me by talking up their fancy jobs and cars, flashed jewelry in my face, and offered to buy me drinks in return for favors.

At first, I tried to be a good sport. I laughed it off. Then, I ignored it. Finally, I left. I can’t say that this is the first time any of this has happened. Usually, I am better about calling out bad behavior or sticking up for myself. I wish I had said something to each of these men. But, I didn’t. I didn’t find my voice.

I found a piano bar and sat in a quiet corner, trying to convince myself that I hadn’t spoken up because I’ve been working so hard on controlling my temper and behaving like a lady. Those were excuses. I didn’t say anything because I let myself be intimidated. I chalked it up as crazy, alcohol-induced behavior.

If this happens to you, all you have to say is “Listen here, you stupid motherfucker, I understand you are shitfaced, but your behavior is not okay.” If you feel like being a lady, you can even say it with a smile. I’ll be practicing this line as well. I may have just spared you from crying in a piano bar. You’re welcome.

P.S. Pictures of the Vegas adventure on the Flourish in Progress Facebook page.
image via

I FAILED. shit.

At least a megajillion a few times a week, I get an email asking “Pssst- be real with me here. Have you been cheating on your Project, young lady?” First, I would like to thank these people for calling me a young lady. And second, YES, I did cheat. Once. In December. Kickin’ it old school with my shame post from December. 
When my family moved from a podunk town in South Korea to a slightly-less-but-still-relatively podunk town in Texas, I had two things working against me. One, I was a dumber-than-average 5-year-old, and two, I didn’t know a lick of English.

Shortly after we moved, my mom got wind of the Great American Concept- garage sales. Every weekend, she convinced my reluctant dad to drive around while she scoped out random neighborhoods for steals and deals.

As we were walking home after kindergarten one day, my mom spotted a garage an apartment sale in a unit close to our own.

I was still trying to learn to speak me some American, so I didn’t understand what the mother-and-daughter duo were saying.  Before I knew it, we were inside their apartment. Were we taking a tour? Were we looking at additional items for sale? Who the hell knows; I was five.

In the daughter’s room, I spotted a Monchhichi doll. Yes! I’d been eyeing one at the local five-and-dime, and I couldn’t believe I was going to get one that day…at garage apartment sale prices, no less.

I started carrying it around. In my mind, we were already at home and I was adoring it and loving it and playing with it. God, I loved America. I asked how much they wanted for the doll in broken English as we were about to exit.

The next five minutes were a little fuzzy. All I could piece together was that the doll was NOT for sale and the little girl was getting a little worried that I was doing some sort of immigrant five-finger discount.

I didn’t take that baby home. My mom refused to buy it for me full price. Damn you, garage sales, for teaching my mother to think everything should cost a quarter.

At Target this week, I spotted a Monchhichi doll. I wanted to bring it home for Cal so that she wouldn’t have any repressed Monchhichi doll issues as an adult.

Who am I kidding?? She doesn’t even know what a Monchhichi doll is!

I wanted it for myself, but shit, you know, The Project. I stood in front of the display for nearly ten minutes. I gave myself a little pep talk. Surely, I should be able to walk away from a furr-baby.

Apparently, the market rate for doom is $9.29. I bought it. It’s official. I’m a Project Fuck-up.

I thought about returning my new friend, Chhichi, but I’ve already kissed her and petted her and licked her face, so I’m not sure Target wants her back.

A DOLL did me in, folks. I hate myself. But only when I’m not busy kissing Chhichi’s face

Is there anything you desperately wanted as a kid but never got? Would you still buy it today?

P.S. Friends, I’m an asshole. I haven’t been keeping up on Twitter. If you’re already following me, would you do me a huge favor and leave your Twitter handle in your comment today? That way, I know who’s who, and I can follow y’all back. I’m @noshoppingliz, by the way.

top photo via