Dog Walking, Part 1


Around the time that I turned 12 years old, I became an avid reader of 17 Magazine, particularly of the flirting advice columns liberally sprinkled among its pages. But, being a resident of Korea, I found myself faced with two major obstacles to following the sage advice of these teen-advice columnists, which were that:

  1. I didn’t have the (American) audience on which to practice these very (American) flirtation tactics, and,
  2. I only had in my possession the one copy of 17 that I of course read the shit out of between ages 12 and 17.

When I finally returned to the U.S. for the first time since age 7, 16 years old and ripe with teenage hormones and boy-craze, you can imagine how excited I was to dip in to my arsenal of long-treasured 17 tips for attracting the opposite sex.

The one in particular that I was most eager to use was none other than dog-walking. I was in luck: My hosts in LA had two adorable dachshunds eager to leave their cramped backyard quarters. Unfortunately, I had failed to account for two key factors that would completely negate said “luck” in the course of my grand dog-walking, boy-attracting experiment utterly and in whole, and these were that:

  1. These were the most misbehaved, least well-leash-trained dogs ever, and,
  2. I didn’t know the streets of the neighborhood nearly as well as I thought I did.

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Locker Room

Remember how I told you I recently decided to dig through my old Xanga?

I guess the first sparks of “inspiration” that started this blog started way back when I was in college and still thought Xanga was cool. Yes, albeit sloppily worded, some of the stories from my old “blog” were quite amusing and even salvageable.

Here’s one episode I almost forgot about that took place in a Locker Room (only very slight edits):

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College game

As an English and Journalism “specialist” (at least according to my college and graduate school degrees), one thing I always like to pay attention to is how, not even eloquently my or other people’s writing comes across, but just how thoughts are voiced and sentences are constructed in their pithiest, most elucidative expression, without the embellishment of excess onomatopoeia or frivolous emoticons or sPeLLiNgZ lyK DiS.

That’s why reading through my writing in the past fills me with nothing more than disgust and consternation. A writer with any faith in his/her craft prides his/herself on the ability to arrange inspirations and words in a way no other individual can. But a writer who takes faith in her craft while writing like a pre-teen high on glue deserves to be shot.

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Parking the go-kart

Too often in my life, I’ve ignored the old “adage” (if you will) that all preening and flashing of feathers and plumage should be left to the boys. After all, is it so wrong for a gal to try to reel in her own prey when she tires of waiting for her predator to catch up?

This sort of overly self-assured thinking is clearly what gets me into the messes I tend to get myself into. Remember that go-karting date? Common sense and caution would have been most constructive, whereas unfounded pomp and circumstance instead overruled reason and cast massive shame on my person.

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When the swimsuit doesn’t fit…

What I thought I could look like…

Skiing wasn’t the only occasion during which I utterly failed at attracting my high school crush, Fred. My affections continued well through freshman year into the summer before sophomore year, and I maintained my delusions of confessing my sentiments at some grand outing. This time, I invited him to come along with some girl friends of mine to Caribbean Bay, a water park located just outside the city of Seoul.

It was a beautiful sunny summer day when we headed off. I strategically placed myself near Fred at all times, not too difficult a task given that the my other friends in our group were not nearly as well-acquainted with the boy. In fact, not long after we left the locker rooms and began exploring the park, we lost sight of the girls altogether.

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High school game is tough

When I was but a wee innocent lass back in my secondary school days (sorry, too much Downton Abbey over Memorial Day weekend), I had a huge crush on a boy. Incidentally, this was Fred. Suffice it to say he was (a little) nicer and somewhat more intriguing (he being a sophomore, and I just a tiny freshman) then.

One week in February, I was very, very excited. To my great delight, Fred had asked me if I’d want to check out the local ski resort with him that Saturday.

I considered the proposal: An intimidate day, just the two of us, on snow-covered hills, feeling the freedom and glory of gravity-induced speed and windswept hair? This was it! This was my chance to tell him how I felt! I immediately accepted his offer.

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How not to hit on Rahm Emanuel

The default shocker.

Around this time last year, I had the “pleasure” of running into former White House Chief of Staff and current Mayor of Chicago Rahm Emanuel.

The time: After school in 2011, some months before Rahm was elected mayor.
The where: Top of the stairs at Jackson Red Line Station in Chicago.
The wear: Wearing a bright red coat with a silly hairband, skipping along with my classmate Emily to go home.

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