Driving is not the easiest thing to do for me. Two days before I went to California for college, I took the driving test in Hawaii. The tester forgot to dock me for not checking my side mirrors when I was parallel parking and decided not to fail me by two points. I had to beg her and lose a part of my dignity that I will never get back. On the bright side, I did get my driver’s license.
Anyway, the other day I needed to go to the Art Supply Warehouse in Westminster using my boyfriend’s car. Needless to say, driving in Hawaii is much slower and easier than driving in California. My heart was pounding the entire drive there but I made it to the Art Supply Warehouse in one piece (even though google maps decided to give me the wrong directions). I felt very confident in my driving ability at this point and pulled over at a gas station.
After filling up my tank, I pulled towards the gas station exit. I safely put on my right blinker to let oncoming drivers know that I wanted to turn into the street. A few cars passed me and a lagging car turned on its right blinker. I assumed the car was going to turn into the gas station I was coming out of so I slowly rolled forward. However the car did not slow down to turn and I quickly braked in a panic. Then, as the car passed in front of my car, the driver rolled down his window looked at me, pointed at me, and then shook his head at me disapprovingly.
Not only did the angry Asian man shake his head in disappointment, but (after making long eye contact with me) he had the nerve to honk his horn. WHAT WAS THE POINT OF THAT?! We already established with the glaring, pointing, and head shaking that I made a mistake. Did you also have to honk your horn?! I did not even get close to his car! There was at least a five feet between our cars and his blinker was on! Even though I feel indignant about his outrageously unnecessary reaction to my mistake, I am haunted by his image. The sound of his horn echoes my nightmares and I see his face everywhere I go. When I turn the corner in Albertsons with my shopping cart…… hes there…..
When I go to Tijuana for some “me time”…… hes there… drinking a beer with his big-busted Baywatch gold-digging wife.
Why is he with her when shes obviously in for his retirement money? Why am I in Tijuana on a school night? None of these questions will ever be answered if his image continually pops up every time I attempt to drive somewhere. I’m not sure if I feel guilt or anger towards him. All I know is that sometimes I yell “YOUR BLINKER WAS ON” in rage in my sleep.
Bedruum is my pronunciation of bedroom. I never noticed my awkward pronunciation of bedroom until I moved to California from Hawaii. I can’t speak on behalf of Hawaii but I want to say that almost every local calls “room” “ruum.” In Hawaii, I would be easily understood if I said “Can I have a room?” In California, I could ask the same question and I would get the reply: “Do you want Bacardi or Captain Morgan?”
I am constantly ridiculed by my “ruummates” who over exaggerate my pronunciation by saying “rum” like the alcohol. This upsets me because if you’re going ridicule me at least get it right. Just imagine staring into the excited face of a fool repeating “rum, rum, you wanna go to your rum?” That image is usually followed by the image of my fist in their face.
I suppose it would be ironic to call them idiots when I am the one with the constant mispronunciation. However I have no problem calling them out. Entitlement and rage comes naturally to me. I am a Korean woman, and if you don’t know anything about the stereotypes of Korean women you should go watch a couple K-dramas. Thus, this blog is dedicated to the idiots and a**holes who drag down my daily existence. Welcome to bedruum.com!