The Yura Chronicles

If you've been reading for a while, you know I *heart* Yura Han.  She makes my heart swoon and my uterus cry out.  She is sass on a stick. She is quick on the uptake and knows when to call bullshit.  She is a nine-year-old smartass with a heart of gold.  Of course I jumped at the chance to have her and her mom over for lunch.

About two months ago I got a phone call from Yura reminding me my birthday was fast approaching.  She called to inquire about what I might like as a gift and if she could come to my house for lunch.  Our convo went a little something like this:

Yura: Mindy Teacher (I love that she still addresses me as teacher!) what do you want for your birthday?

Me: Socks. I like socks.

Yura: Be serious.

Me: I am. I like socks. (This is how you know you're old.)

Yura: Maybe I will draw you a picture. What do you like? (She's always so succinct.)

Me: I like animals. You know, giraffes and dogs and cows.

Yura: Do you like flowers and trees and houses?

Me: Yeah. What can you draw, Yura?

Yura: Flowers and trees and houses. (A girl with a plan, I see.)

Me: What do you want to eat for lunch?

Yura: What can you make? (You see what she did there?!)

We carried on like this for a while longer, finally deciding to meet Sunday afternoon, April 11th.  And this is where my geniosity sets in.  In my infinite wisdom, I thought it wise to schedule a lunch with a Korean family at NOON the day after my 30th birthday party.  The same birthday party I spent a small fortune on?  The same birthday party that found me stumbling home around 12:30 as I'd already consumed enough alcohol to blitz an entire frat house?  The same birthday party I cannot exactly recall?  Same, same, and same.  Apparently I'd been battling a bout of Koreasoning that day, as I rationalized this ill-timed lunch by telling myself it would help keep me in check Saturday night.

Oh, how foolishly, ridonkulously wrong I was.

(Side note: After years of working with criminal offenders, I learned that addicts revel in retelling war stories. Their greatest pleasure comes from recalling that night of ultimate fucked-up debauchery and mayhem.  So if I recount just how disgusting I was, that'd be akin to admitting I may have a problem.  Which I don't.)

I stumbled out of bed miserable, but coherent.  I tidied up my place and my face, threw my sheets in the wash, and headed to the subway to fetch the Hans.  On my way I downed a Coke and a few Excedrin and was feelin' fine.  However, all the bobbing and weaving through Gangnam Sunday Afternoon Retarded Korean Street Wanderers did not agree with the remnants of the alcohol cage match raging in my stomach.  I suppressed the urge to retch (which is saying a LOT), and seouldiered on...

*It's getting late and I'm still feeling blah.  I'll finish this bitch tomorrow.