Potsticker Diplomacy.

I love potstickers.  Potstickers, man doo, gyoza…those culinary gifts of crispy carbs that give way to little sinful bursts of meat and veggies…are the perfect blend of taste and texture.  It’s not just the flavor that makes them special.  One of my fondest memories of childhood is sitting around the table wrapping hundreds of potstickers with my sisters while my dad would pretend he was some famous chef and cook them in a way—homogenously crisped on the bottom, tender on the top—that to this day I am still unable to replicate.

I love potstickers so much that if I had only one day left to live, my last three meals would be:

1)     McDonald’s sampler platter

2)     Ribeye with truffle/mushroom risotto

3)     Potstickers dipped in green label Kikkoman soy sauce (although if the world was ending, I might as well use the pro-hypertension red label)

I love them so much that during my one hundred hour work weeks during residency and fellowship—yes, I was old school, unlike the wussy schedules residents have now!—I would sacrifice a few hours of sleep once in a while to stay up and make three hundred or so potstickers from scratch with Conan O’Brien and bad movies on the SciFi Channel keeping me company.

When my then girlfriend, now wife would come over and visit, the first thing I would always do was ask if she was hungry (it’s a Taiwanese thing) and then offer to cook her some of my homemade potstickers.  Years later, during one of our “who loves the other person more” arguments, I brought up the fact that I would always offer her some of my ever-dwindling supply of precious potstickers, to which she replied, “oooohhh, I’ve always wondered why you used to offer me cheap potstickers to eat whenever I would come over!”

What?!

All those years we both failed to grasp the meaning those potstickers held for each another.  For myself, it was more than just offering my favorite food, but also a sacrifice of time and an extension of a family tradition.  For her, they were just cheap things you would buy in the frozen section at the Asian grocery store that wouldn’t be your first choice to impress a future spouse (luckily I had more than potstickers to offer).  As a result, early in our dating period she wondered if I was a cheapskate and I thought she was being unappreciative. 

I thought of this the other day when we were at a karaoke bar and she was trying to explain to the worker how there was a mistake and we should be refunded the money for three songs.  I corrected her in front of the guy, saying that it was actually only two songs, not three, which promptly led to an icy stare…from my wife!  In return I got upset because I felt she was injecting unnecessary drama into a logical situation.  You see, for myself, the potsticker meant getting the number of songs correct.  For her, the potsticker meant getting the unequivocal support of her husband.  Neither of us were wrong, but neither of us were correct either, because we both failed to grasp the meaning the other held about the potsticker.

How often in our lives do we find ourselves in purposeless arguments, drawing proverbial lines in the sand because we fail to grasp what the potsticker means to the person across the aisle from us?

The ground zero mosque, illegal immigration and health care reform were all issues that millions of people across America argued about this past year, yet instead of trying to see what the potsticker meant to the other person, both sides dug trenches and used their potsticker as a shield.  Political discourse in this country would have been a lot gentler had both sides engaged in some potsticker diplomacy.

On a personal level, whether it be time, money, sex, in-laws, which school to send our children to, or something as mundane as picking pizza or sushi for dinner one could reckon that the majority of the ill effects of our disagreements with loved ones, if not the disagreements themselves, are rooted in the fact that we fail to grasp the meaning the potsticker has for the other person.  All of which is silly when to do so all you have to do is simply ask the other person.

My wife is going on a trip this week and since I haven’t really cooked a meal since we got married, I’m going to have to go back to my bachelor days of pizza and potstickers.  I won’t be wrapping potstickers from scratch, since that is now a married couple tradition, so I’ll just have to rely on the Asian market to feed me while she’s gone but don’t worry; I’ll save some potstickers for her when she gets home.

The truth behind the fantasy.

These are too awesome not to share.  What if Disney was run by manga boys?

To see more at the original source, go here.  (The best part is the gnarly cricket on Mulan’s shoulder.)

But these are closer to reality than the Disney versions, no?  The truth behind many of our hallowed stories and heroes is often murkier than we would like to believe or remember.  Many of our country’s forefathers unapologetically owned slaves.  Martin Luther King, Jr. cheated on his wife.  So did John F. Kennedy.  His recently deceased brother Ted was involved in an accident that killed a young woman and he walked away without trying to get help for her.  King David had a man killed so he could sleep with his wife.  But yet all men, despite those acts of evil, did contribute greatly to society in their own way. 

There is no such thing as saints or sinners in this world.  We are all saints and sinners.

Growing up, we are regaled with fantastical stories from Disney and various bedtime novels about meeting a prince or princess, living at peace with the world, finding true and everlasting love, and walking through life with nary a physical or emotional scratch.  The truth?  Your journey through life will render you bruised and battered as you navigate a world hell bent on bringing you down.  And soon, like these alt-world Disney princesses depicted in these cartoons, doe-eyed innocence is replaced by a fiery intensity…to survive.

We are all saints and sinners trying to survive, but it is my hope that when all is said and done, I will be remembered more for the former, rather than the latter.

The Inception Diet.

I fear the darkness at times.

No, I do not fear death, nor do I fear the pain that will accompany it.  I simply fear the possibility that all that lies ahead is one vast, empty void that renders everything meaningful about me into nothing.

Oh, I am a Christian, no doubt.  I believe that Jesus Christ died for my (our) sins and that redemption is there for those who confess and believe in the ascension, despite all the best efforts of mankind to distort His words the past couple millennia.  But I am human, after all.So I do wonder sometimes about the consequences if I am mistaken. (Then again, faith without the occasional doubt isn’t really faith, is it?  Faith, by definition, is paradoxically more active than it is passive.)

So there are moments when I wonder about death without life and my skin constricts and my ears start to ring, just like they used to when, as a young child lying in bed staring at the ceiling, I would conjure up images of vampires and nuclear war.

That is one of the wonders of fear—it makes the rational irrational and the irrational rational.

One of the ironies about being a physician is that by now I have saved the lives of hundreds, if not yet a thousand, people—if you allow me to massage the data and use patient events rather than a simple patient count—but I cannot save my own.  Like my friend Kengi—younger and obviously more athletic than I—one day I will lay my head down to sleep and not wake up.  Whether right or wrong, early or late…it will happen.

All life really boils down to is the fact that you are born, you live, those of us lucky enough are loved and love, and then we die.  There is more pomp and circumstance reserved for some than others, but you get the point.  Highlander was just a movie and Cylons do not exist.  Corporeal immortality is a joke, and the only ones who get it are not laughing.

I have always waged a war with weight.  (Sing it with me: “I fought the fat and the…fat won!”)  Of course, I am not morbidly obese, neither do I need to purchase two seats when I fly Southwest Airlines, but with my penchant for reaching for all things cheeseburger and fries, I am a little more, well, cheeseburgerish in shape than I would like.  My wife has always bugged me about that, bless her heart.  But like most husbands, I found some way to take that good intention—I want you to live longer!—and convert it into some sort of irascible notion, not unlike an oversized mosquito or a hemorrhaging hemorrhoid (which, for the record, I do NOT have, thank you very much).

So what does this have to do with the movie Inception?

(Do not worry, there will be no major plot spoilers.  Anything I will write about the movie is located in the trailers or quickly revealed within the first 10 minutes of the movie.  I will not reveal the ending, unlike some callous people on facebook.  Ha!)

Leonardo DiCaprio’s character is married and has the ability to penetrate the dreams of others.  Of course, his wife shows up in at least one of those dreams and in such dreams, the rules of time and space are altered.  What is five minutes in one dream could be five hours in another.

Beyond the fact that it was brilliantly written and even more so filmed, the movie was also quite affecting.  The barometer of any movie’s success is its ability to allow each individual member of the audience to interweave the fiction with their own nonfiction, and Inception did that quite well.

You see, I am one of the lucky ones that are loved and love.  And I have to be prepared to face the fact that this dream of a life is going to end one day, and if given the choice, would you not try to make the dream last as long as possible?  If sacrificing five minutes of pleasure attained by eating a cheeseburger can translate into five more hours of living the dream, then that is a sacrifice I am willing to make.  Foolish is the man who would have millions of dollars or a Nobel Prize replace the opportunity to lie next to his wife and watch her sleep—warm, comfortable and safe.

So what was once a lunch littered with burgers and fries was replaced by Subway sandwiches, replaced with home lunch made from wheat bread and turkey.  (I still have not given up Diet Pepsi in favor for water and eat “bad” food on the weekends, but nobody is perfect!)

I do hope and pray that at the end there will be a new light, where I can be reunited with my father, grandparents and others who went before me and I can, in turn, wait for my wife.  But if all that awaits me after I awaken from this dream is darkness, then you can be damn sure that I am going to make the dream last as long as possible.

(Already down ten pounds…hopefully more soon…)

Banned ESPN Interview With Lebron James: The Decision.

The practice interview ESPN didn’t show you!

Remember, homies, movies don’t kill people.  People in movies kill people!  Peace out like rainbow trout!

The future of Asian American hip hop?

Asian American hip hop, one could argue, is still in its nascent stage, but we are starting to see the fruit from its evolution.

Take a lookie for yourselves:

Mike-Dash-E and Chariz: “The Funeral”

Jimmy Boi featuring Smitty: “All the way turnt up”

454 Entertainment (Drew Deezy, Nump Trump, Thai): “Go hard”

I’ll have to admit that the production behind these songs are a lot better than what Jin got in his album with the Ruff Ryderz (which makes me wonder what could’ve happened with Jin’s career if he got better support):

“Learn Chinese”

And Chuckie Akenz in his iconic “You got beef?” video (sounds like he made the song on a computer in his bedroom):

I’m not hatin’ on the lyrical skills of Jimmy Boi, Mike-Dash-E, Chariz and the boys from 454, or questioning whether they’re really from the hood or not, but I’m just wondering whether taking a step backwards is the right direction.  In trying to carve out a niche in the hip hop scene they’ve fashioned themselves into ghetto clones, complete with chains, grillz and the usual rap video bling.  I would much rather prefer to see Asian Americans succeed in hip hop by doing their own thing, whether it’s Far East Movement with their techno rap:

“Girls on the dance floor”

Or, dare I say, the Notorious MSG with their comedic-blowing-up-your-butthole-Chinatown rap:

“No good muthabitch”

As the smallest minority with the shortest history in America, Asian America as a whole is still struggling to find that balance between assimilation and cultural identity.  There’s no glorification of the Asian lifestyle (other than having exotic looking women with bad accents), unlike that with inner city African Americans and our cultures and languages do not permeate society (except for orange *cough* chicken *cough*), unlike that of Latino Americans.  Anything of entertainment value is either yellow-faced (Avatar: The Last Airbender) or denigrated into bad colloquial ethnic jokes (watch out before I Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon your ass!!!!).

There’s nothing wrong with assimilation.  That’s what you’re supposed to do when you move to another country and have children.  But there’s also nothing wrong with finding your own way and shining so bright that the rest of America has no choice but to notice.

So peace out, muthabitches, and enjoy the Mountain Brothers:

“Galaxies”

P.S.–If you’re interested in checking out more Asian American hip hop artists, go look up Blue Scholars, Shogunna, Rookadamus and check out the collabo single Still a Chink.

Poop.

As one who hardly drops a numero dos in public (my God-given strong rectum usually allows me to hold it until I reach a quiet, sanitized place), I have always wondered what was the correct poop etiquette. 

Now urinal etiquette is well known, but what about the standard two-stall bathroom in most places of work when you have to drop it like its hot?  Thanks to my wife secretly increasing the fiber in my diet, I had no choice today but to release the bowel hounds and went out of my way to find a hidden–and clean!–bathroom at work.  “Rectum don’t fail me now!” I screamed as I navigated the hospital to the best bathroom.  Upon sitting down (double TP layer on the seat, homie) I noticed a pair of shoes in the stall next to me. 

CRAP!

What now?  Do I try to be as silent as possible?  Courtesy flush (knowing full well that my chocolate highway will get splashed with other people’s germs)?  Wait until the other guy finishes first?  Make sure that the other guy doesn’t see me seeing him outside of the stalls?  Can I grunt like Serena Williams if I start having trouble?  Don’t tap your foot!  Don’t tap your foot!

I sat there–brow furrowed, rectum clenched like the fist of a cuckold–as I silently pontificated on the proper yet puissant way to poop.  But before my mind and bowels could come to a compromise, biology took over and the U.S.S. Crap exited port on its maiden and final voyage.  Courteous as I am, I thought it best to take my time and let my anonymous neighbor finish his duty and leave without so much as a peep or holler from yours truly, so as to avoid any awkward chance encounters in the real world.  But in doing so, I ended up sitting above my crap, like Poseidon over his vengeful flotsam, far longer than I would have liked.

How often does this happen in the rest of our lives?  Holding in the crap that plagues us so as to avoid any outright shame, awkard glares and behind-the-back whispering from others? And if accidentally released into the public, hovering over it to delay its discovery?

Whether it be an unrequitable vice, caustic relationship, the wages of sin, fatal hubris or something as simply complex as a perceived slight at the hands of another, we all have crap in our lives that we need to just dump and flush down the toilet, and yet refrain from doing so because we are afraid of what others may think about us once the beast is released.  And yet that is the most ridiculous part because those other people are not the ones burdened by crap.  You are.  We are.  Holding it in or hovering over it only serves to prolong the stench in your life and keeps you locked in your own theological/spiritual/cultural/emotional bathroom.  It benefits no one.

So the next time I have to drop a physical or metaphysical numero dos?  Who cares about my neighbor?  I’m just gonna drop it and move on.  And so should you.

Hate on me hater.

Have you ever had someone hate you for no reason whatsoever? 

Well, apparently, The Franksabunch™ does.  This past weekend The Wife™ went back to the bay area to attend a bridal shower, where she ran into a friend of a friend who told her, “I heard you married that guy.  He was a jerk.”  What in the world?   I found it interesting that Bertha [name has been changed to protect the guilty], who I have never had a single real conversation with in my life, thought I was a jerk. First, some history…

Years ago, before I met The Wife™, I had just moved to Portland for residency and one of my high school friends who lived there took me out to eat with his girlfriend and a few other people.  It was evenly divided among gender lines, so the boys sat on one end of the table and the girls sat on the other.  I spent the whole time playing catch up with my friend and another dude.  A couple weeks later my friend called…

Friend: Hey, Franksabunch™, what did you think about Bertha?

Franksabunch™: Who?

Friend: Bertha, from the sushi dinner.

Franksabunch™: Who?

Friend: You know, one of my girlfriend’s friends that night.

Franksabunch™: Ooooooh, you know, I never talked to any of the girls that night, so I don’t remember any of them.

Friend: Well, me and my GF were thinking about setting you guys up.

Franksabunch™: Oh, I appreciate it, but I seriously do not remember meeting any of the girls that night except for your GF.

By then residency was in full swing so I never called my friend back to take him up on the offer.  Time flew by and eventually I met my future wife who later mentioned about a friend of a friend named Bertha she met.  Bertha found out we were dating and told my then GF how she didn’t like me, that I was cocky and stuck up or something.  My response was, “Who is Bertha?”  The Wife™ replied, “you know, the girl you went on a date or something with.”  “What, I never went on a date with her, I don’t even remember her face!” was my reply.

More time flew by and the next time I ran into Bertha was at another mutual friend’s wedding, where Bertha came up to say hello to us.  And I have never seen her since.

Fast forward another 4 years and Bertha tells my Wife™ that I am a jerk at a bridal shower in front of the bride!  When The Wife™ came home and told me about it, it took me 5 minutes to even remember who Bertha was!  So, apparently, the only person in my entire life who I have ever heard—directly or indirectly—call me a jerk is some random girl that I have maybe said 4 words to total and have seen maybe twice in the past 7 years.

Why does she hate on me so much? 

Theory #1: She thinks I am a stuck up doctor?  

(She’s also in the health field.)  I am wondering whether her first impression of me from the sushi place was that of an arrogant miscreant who took pleasure in subjugating others.  You know how it is when old high school boys have a reunion, it’s all farts and insults.  Whenever I see homies from back in the day, all we do is rip into one another, cutting each other down like there is no tomorrow.  (It’s the male equivalent of hugging and slumber party pillow talk.)  Everyone knows that, and even if she didn’t, the fact that we were laughing through the whole dinner should’ve given her a clue that my friend didn’t mind.  (I probably did throw in a couple, “you’re a pharmacist, I’m a doctor, I’m your boss!!!” lines to my friend as a joke.)  And if even if I was being an arrogant bastard that night to my reciprocating friend, why should she care, even after all these years?

Theory #2: She thinks I rejected her? 

Piecing together my phone conversation with my high school friend and my then GF/now Wife’s accusation that I had gone on a date with Bertha, makes me think that perhaps Bertha had the expectation that the sushi dinner night was the actual set up group date and that my not talking to her or asking someone for her phone number later was my way of rejecting her.  If that is the case, it’s certainly not my fault because no one told me I was being set up to meet her that night.  If I knew, I would have at least tried to make some small talk, but as it was, I was meeting up with my old pal and that’s all I cared about.

The more I think about it, theory #2 makes more sense.  Why else would she continue to stir the cauldron of bitterness all these years, despite the fact that I’m now married and she’s engaged?  But even if she was right about me—and she’s not—I think this whole tomfoolery says a lot more about her than me.  What kind of person goes up to someone at a bridal shower and in front of everyone, announces that her husband is a jerk?!?!?!  She obviously has some forgiveness and insecurity issues.

So why are there some people in this world that love to hate on other people, while the rest of us move on? 

In all my years of treating patients, seeing them and their families at their most vulnerable, I have come to notice that love and hate come from the same place and are often interchangeable.  (What?)  Seriously.  They both are manifestations of unbridled passion, are cathartic and are what we turn to when logic and reason are not enough.  When nearing the end of life, patients and their families often resort to one or the other, and seldom land somewhere in between.  People love when they can’t hate and hate when they can’t love.  So where in Bertha’s life is she missing love that she has to hate?  Only Bertha can answer that question.  But if I had the chance, I would tell her to choose love over hate…it’s much more fulfilling. 

So, Bertha, if I ever offended you in some phantom way, I’m sorry.  But know this…the fact that years later you still harbor such ill will over a petty incident that never happened the way you imagined and insulted my wife in public shows that even though I was never a jerk to you, you certainly deserved it.

Good luck to your future husband.  Peace out.

My dad is a FOB.

Just the other week an old xanga friend, Kena (not her xanga name and she is not active anymore), referred me to a website called mydadisafob, which makes light of the cultural divide between FOB (“fresh off the boat”) parents and their 2^nd-generation Asian American children.  While the website certainly entertains, it also had me reminiscing about my father. 

My father, an immigrant from Taiwan, was no uneducated rube.  However, he also reveled in playing the part of the seemingly unaware FOB victim to amuse his children.  I chuckled wistfully as I recalled memories of his FOBness:

• “Canyon, saaaave me!” his mutilation of Conan the Barbarian which he would utter on occasion, often while wielding backyard tools
• “Tigger [his hooked on phonics Winnie the Pooh version of the word ‘tired’], use too much brain”
• His penchant for wearing pomelo peel on his head as a farmer’s hat
• And his fondness in embarrassing me by yelling out, “my son!” (in half Taiwanese, half English) whenever he spotted me across a room crowded with his friends or coworkers

While memories of him have always been bittersweet since his death, they recently have become all the more poignant as I navigate through the Theener years (thirties + tweener) between the exuberance and ascendance of youth and the burgeoning irrelevance of middle age on the horizon.  Trying to survive as a Theener—married without children, done with school/training but not quite ensconced in a specific career trajectory—it is easy to lose hold of the foundations of who you are while you reach to establish new ones for your family and career.  I guess that it is times like these that I wish my father was still here to both guide me to the future and remind me of the past.  As 2^nd-generation Asian Americans, it is so easy for us to reap the benefits of our parents’ struggles while neglecting to take ownership of those sacrifices as well.

I took my mom to watch the movie Formosa Betrayed tonight, which is a murder mystery that also shines light on the 228 incident in Taiwanese history where native Taiwanese people were massacred by settler Nationalists from mainland China and the ensuing decades of oppression from their hubris.  In that movie (don’t worry, no plot spoilers in this post) there is a scene where protesters have a sign listing victims who were murdered during the 228 incident.  My mom pointed out to me afterward that one of the names on that list on the movie screen was a relative of mine, the cousin of my father’s father.  I have always known that my forebearers fought, bled and died for the right to be called Taiwanese, but to see that blood splashed across the movie screen finally struck a nerve in their descendant, sired in the sterile safety of the United States.  It also reminded me further of the hurt my dad endured to become the man that he was, the father that he was.

I am not sure who The Franksabunch™ will be when he emerges from the Theener years, where my career will be or what my children will be like at that time.  But after tonight I can promise you this:

They will know that their grandfather was a FOB and that their father is a Taiwanese American.

Damn straight.

Not hip to be white.

It’s a sad day for white people.  Yes, white people, though you may love him, Barack Obama isn’t half-white, he’s just black.  So much for the post-racial period in America, eh? 

I have always found it interesting that whenever people are of mixed race, they tend to identify themselves as whatever non-Caucasian blood runs in their veins.  A woman once identified herself to me as Native American and when I asked her how much of her blood is Native American, she replied, “one percent.”  It goes without saying that society plays a not insignificant role in it as well, placing anyone with a skin tone slightly darker than mayonnaise in the non-white box (case in point: Harry Reid’s remarks about Barack Obama’s lack of a “negro” vernacular), but that isn’t the only factor.  You can’t choose the labels others place on you, but you can choose the ones you apply on yourself.  Obama is an interesting example.  The son of an African father and a white mother, he has been very open about his father’s absence in his life as he was largely raised by his white mother and white grandmother and attended a presitigious school in Honolulu that is well known locally for being, well, a school for rich white kids and Asian bananas (yellow on the outside, white on the inside, in case you’ve never heard the reference before).  He is not a mixed-race child who was raised by an African American parent, growing up in a neighborhood where African American culture was predominant, nor did he suffer some sort of childhood trauma from a paternal Caucasian figure that would lead him to despise that particular bloodline.  And despite all this, when he filled out his census form, he only checked the box that said black.  Would that not constitute an affront towards the two women who raised him?  I’m not insinuating that Obama was making a direct statement against his mom and grandma.  He loves them dearly, he’s made that clear.  (I was touched when I saw pictures of him going to visit his grandma here in Hawaii for the last time.)  But why deny that which is such a large part of himself?  I can only imagine the palpable hurt I would feel if my future children identify themselves as being Korean only, instead of half-Korean, half-Taiwanese.

Why all the haterade on being white?  When I was in residency I remember a medical student complaining about Portland and how it is so “white” and had less culture than a single serving of Yoplait Yogurt.  Of course, the girl was Caucasian.  I thought that was strange, given that under the all-encompassing umbrella term of “white”–yes, the term “black” is another all-encompassing yet glaringly insufficient moniker of race–one can easily find different cultural contributions by the Irish, French, Italian, Greek and other tribes of the Caucasian nation.

There’s nothing wrong with being black.  There’s nothing wrong with being white.  And there’s certainly nothing wrong with being both black and white.  There is, however, something wrong in denying where you came from and I just wish that the president who was supposed to usher in a new period of bridging the gaps between both sides of America would have done the same on his U.S. Census form.  Everything you are today is the result of the people who came before you. 

So just remember, my friends and frenemies, the only wrong answer on the U.S. Census form is to not answer.

Have a great week!

The Curse of the Murse

[A friend of mine who has a blog through the local newspaper asked me to write a guest post for him and I figure if I'm going to take time to write, I might as well "unretire" for a moment and post it on Xanga the same day it is in the newspaper website.  So here it is.  Makes me miss blogging.  Hope all of you and yours are doing well!]

So, the other day The Franksabunch™ and The Wife™ were rollin’ through the Las Vegas MGM hotel with a gangsta lean and The Franksabunch™ was gobsmacked and mortified by the scene before him…a man carrying his woman’s purse!

Full disclosure: The Franksabunch™ has been known on occasion to “protect” his wife’s purse for her while she’s, ahem, powdering her nose at public restroom.  It’s a matter of simple courtesy!  (And besides, like learning to squeeze your butt cheeks together before every sneeze, being kind to your woman is an essential survival skill when it comes to navigating the treacherous waters of relationships.)  However, this homie was holding her purse and walking with it while she strode aside him simultaneously empty handed and yet with both hands holding a death grip on his boiled eggs.  I instantly poured a little liquor on the ground from the 40 oz. I was carrying in honor of yet another ninja lost to the curse of the Murse a.k.a. the Male Purse.

Editor’s note: the current use of the term Murse in this post is not to be confused with the term murse, which can be applied to male nurses, male curses (such as David Hasselhoff) and male purses (large bags designed for men), because this Murse is not a purse for men, but rather a Male Purse accessory for women. 

Note the distinction, my friends and frenemies, because trust me when I tell you that it is better to be an asset rather than an accessory.  While there is never a relationship that is truly equal, you would rather have the balance be 51% vs. 49% instead of 90% vs. 10% because in order to love her, you must also be able to love yourself first.  And you can’t love yourself if you cease to exist.  So, my ninjas, are you a Murse?  Here’s a little quiz!  You get one point for every “yes” answer to the following questions:

1. Instead of painting her nails, does she paint yours?
2. Have you ever changed the TV station from a college football or basketball game without her asking you to when she sits down on the couch next to you?
3. Do her girlfriends ask you for dating advice?
4. Have you ever participated in a Bikram Yoga or Pilates session?
5. Have you had a slice of vegetarian pizza in the past month?
6. Did you ever do the fast clapping part in the “Friends” TV show theme song?  

Results!

• 0-1 points – See you at the next BJ Penn fight.  IMUA!
• 2-3 points – Sorry, friend, but the store is called Ann Taylor, not Mann Taylor
• 4-5 points – Oh Em Gee!  When is the Sex and the City sequel coming out?!
• 6 points – Nice Hello Kitty tattoo there, son!

But all kidding aside, homies, you do not want your life to be relegated to that of an accessory.  One of the purposes of a relationship is to push your wife or girlfriend to be a better person and you cannot do that if you are spending all of your time under her feet instead of by her side.  You also do not want to wake up one day and find yourself unfulfilled with the life of a Murse.

So be strong, my ninjas.  Beware the curse of the Murse!  The next time a girl tries to make you into a Murse, pretend like she’s a girl who shops at Hot Topic and run for your life!

Franksabunch™…..out!