I never know when it’s sale season in France. It’s something like January and June—and only at those times because sales are government-sanctioned here, apparently.

So imagine my surprise when I rolled the Dae-by into BHV (a department store near my house) and saw 40% off signs everywhere. Turns out this is the “sale before the sales” and they’re happening all over Paris for a week! Why didn’t I get the memo?!

Probably b/c I’m a new mom who doesn’t listen to the radio or watch French TV, especially now that I’ve got an Apple TV. (And that’s worth its own post; I’m hooked on Glee* now.)

Anyway, I’m almost back to pre-pregnancy weight, except for the boobs, so I felt like I could do some worthwhile shopping. Which I did. And I got 40% off everything!** Plus an added 12% off for the detax. Wheeeee!!

And Dae already seems to have a shopping gene. She smiled and laughed the whole time I was trying on stuff during the sale madness. That’s my girl.

* I actually auditioned for a role in “South Pacific” at Lincoln Center in front of the dude who plays the glee club teacher (and about 8 other men). Turns out he was the male lead of that Broadway production. Clearly, I didn’t get the part, which was that of a 17-year-old virgin—a stretch by any imagination. And what the hell was I doing at Lincoln Center auditioning for a Broadway show, anyway?! It was a strange confluence of events and horribly embarrassing, as auditions tend to be, but I seem to have a vague memory of him being nice and telling me I was “excellent.” So I like watching him play the nice guy on TV, too.

** Sales in France are no joke. It’s not like the States where stuff is “on sale” constantly and it’s not really a sale. Hence, the major madness when sale season arrives.

Like most daughters, my relationship with my mom has had its ups and downs with the usual refrain of “Please don’t let me turn into my mother!” Complicating matters is the fact that culturally we’re pretty different: I’m American; she’s Korean, and (shamefully) I don’t speak Korean well (read: hardly at all). She speaks Korean to me; I answer in English. Oh, and my parents live in Seoul so I see them at most once a year.

These are not the ingredients that make for a close mother-daughter relationship.

Now the birth of my own daughter meant that my mom was coming to help me out, which I dreaded. I witnessed how stressful these grandma visits were for my sister when she gave birth (four times!) I wanted to avoid that at all costs and quite frankly, I thought her visit would be more aggravating than helpful. But Dman insisted that she come and see her granddaughter and since he was leaving for three weeks, it was the perfect opportunity to get some needed help with my newborn.

Mom arrived and I tried to be positive. But as the week wore on, she wore on my nerves. Everything annoyed me. She couldn’t figure out how our lighting system works. She kept insisting the baby and I were cold and should cover up. She seemed afraid to go outside and see Paris. Most annoying of all, she left wadded-up, wet paper towels all over the kitchen so she could re-use them instead of chucking them out. (What was annoying was that I would do that, too, and Dman pointed it out to me once, saying, “What is up with these used paper towels? Just throw them out!” All I kept hearing was, “You’re turning into your mother!”)

Anyway, after the first week, we had a huge fight about just about everything and I was ready to send the woman packing on an earlier flight back to Seoul.

Once again, my mom didn’t get it, I thought. She wasn’t the mom I’d wanted her to be since I was a teenager. Back then, I thought my best friend Lisa’s mom was the coolest. She could talk to us about boys and let us go out clubbing on South Street. She also didn’t freak if we drank (alcohol, duh) and let me sleepover so that I could extend my ridiculous 10pm curfew. In high school, that is the epitome of cool. When I married Dman, I also got a formidable mother-in-law who’s a movie director, travels the world, speaks three languages and was a cougar before the term (or Demi and Ashton) ever existed. For an independent New Yorker like me, that was again the epitome of cool.

My mom? Not so cool. Her career as a piano teacher was intermittent. She’s been married, not always happily, to my father for almost 40 years. She’s traveled a little bit, but isn’t the kind of free-spirited adventurer that I admire. She can be awkwardly timid around non-Koreans, which frustrates me because she can speak English—but always preferred us kids speaking for her when she lived in the States. She’s modest in how she spends money and wears clothes. And I don’t think I’ve ever heard her utter a curse word in my life. Basically, she couldn’t be more different from me and I was highly, highly critical of that.

Right after our fight, we went for a walk around the Marais with my sister (who was also visiting) acting as a buffer. At one point, my mom leaned over the baby carriage to coo at my daughter and suddenly, all of my hard, resentful feelings disappeared. Her open love for my baby made me realize how much she loves me and in that instant, I saw my mom for everything she was instead of everything she wasn’t. She’s kind and caring; thoughtful and resourceful; sweet and generous. And a fantastic cook, on top of it all.

Once I stopped acting like an adolescent whining about wanting a “cool mom,” I got my cool mom. I just had to give her a chance to show me or, more likely, I needed to grow up a little lot.

Mom cooked and cleaned for me everyday and took care of the baby so I could take care of myself for a change. She started telling me stories about her life in Korea when she was a young piano teacher (and mother) traveling between Pusan and Seoul to work when my father got laid off from his job. (I gathered that he was the stay-at-home dad, while she brought home the bacon.) She wound up giving a Korean cooking lesson to my chef sister-in-law and me—as well as making a Korean feast for my impressed in-laws. She even went out in Paris alone, doing the shopping because it was raining and she didn’t want me and the baby to go outside in the wet.

As for those wadded-up paper towels? The woman is totally green. She doesn’t waste a single thing. You should see how she peels and cuts up a mango—not a single piece of pulp left on the seed. Pretty amazing. What I used to see as parsimonious is actually pretty damn ecological. And yes, really cool.

So what’s my cool mom doing now? Heading to Phuket with her girlfriends for four days of beach and massage.

Mom, can I be more like you now?

P.S. I’ll be sharing her easy kimchi recipe in a post to come. It’s taken me moving to Paris and having a baby to finally learn the recipe!

It’s officially two months since D-Dae; that is, when I gave birth to my 9 lb, 22 inch baby girl, Dae. Whoa.

In a nutshell:

1) The labor was long (3 days long!) and yes, rather painful
2) Motherhood is cool and completely time-consuming
3) Breastfeeding is… ditto no. 2
4) Lost almost all the pregnancy weight after 3 weeks
5) I’m completely in love with my baby

Will elaborate more as I find the time… which is not  easy with a newborn! And for a look at my constantly growing bundle, check out her first appearance in a magazine.

Unfortunately, there’s nothing sexy about how I’m feeling right now in this Paris heat wave: hot and yes, very heavy. Everyone says the last few weeks of pregnancy are the worst and I can’t disagree.

However, as D-Day approaches, I figured I’d give a shout-out to all the things that got me through these nine months (for all you future mamas and papas):

1) Tummy Honey. My friend Alicia advised me to start using this at six weeks of pregnancy (even though I didn’t start showing ’til about six months.) But whether it was the Tummy Honey or just my OCD nightly application of it, I can happily say I don’t have a single stretch mark, which was a GIGANTIC fear of mine. (Anyone can tell you I’m obsessed with the state of my skin.) It also smells nice.

Look Ma, no stretch marks!

2) Topshop maternity jeans. These are the only “maternity” clothes I bought. What’s great about them is that the stretchy bit is designed into the pockets, not in the belly area, so they don’t even look like maternity jeans. They’re also skintight like Cheap Mondays and cost $80, which seems like a bargain since I wore them almost daily for months.

Sexy, stretchy, maternity?!

3) Leggings. Or “stretchy pants” as Dman calls them. Actually, stretchy anything is a godsend when it comes down to it. In between your big boobs, big belly and big ass, stretch (especially black stretch) is a pregnant woman’s best friend.

4) New Chapter Perfect Prenatal Vitamins. They’re organic and a whole food vitamin so you can take them on an empty stomach at any time of the day or night. I actually started taking these before I got pregnant because they’re supposed to help your body get ready for pregnancy, too.

5) Reading List: Harry Potter, Twilight, Something Borrowed (and its sequels), Memoirs of a Geisha, Love in the Time of Cholera, What to Expect When You’re Expecting. To be honest, my shrinking pregnancy brain (your gray matter actually does shrink) could not wrap itself around anything too serious or heavy; hence the adolescent and/or romantic stories I devoured like ice cream. (Except for Love in the Time of Cholera, which I read early in the pregnancy, when my brain was less shrunken, I suppose.)

6) A good chiropractor. Unfortunately, I haven’t found anyone in France to take the place of the amazing Dr. Stephen Oswald in NYC. Fortunately, I was able to see him for a few sessions while I was touring in May. I’m still trying out different osteopaths here. Will post when I find someone great. Fingers crossed.

7) The Hypnobirth relaxation CD. Follow the link to learn all about hypnobirthing, which is how I plan to give birth. That’s right, ladies, no epidurals, no other pain meds, totally natural birth. The French think I’m crazy. Actually, a lot of Americans do, too. I’ll let you know how it goes… if and when this baby ever arrives!

So there you go. I hope this helps all the other expectant moms out there! Congrats to you!!

Well it looks like my nesting instinct has feebly kicked in… somewhat. Yesterday, I finally got around to tackling my overstuffed closets.

I’m something of a reformed clotheshorse and a trying-not-to-be pack rat. Dman helped out by giving the definitive, “Hell no, throw that out!” whenever I got too sentimental—or pack-ratty.

But it got me to thinking… Just how long are we supposed to keep our clothes? On the one hand, I’ve got my mother and mother-in-law who have clothes from 40 years ago taking up way too much space in their jam-packed closets and then there’s Dman who will happily trash anything he hasn’t worn in three months.

Of course, I think we ladies are a bit more attached to a certain dress or a pair of shoes, but really, does that necessitate hanging on to them for years and years? I mean, I actually decided to keep a few dresses that I know I’ll never, ever wear again because I thought it would be nice for my not-yet-born daughter to someday have the chance to wear them. (These weren’t even my YSL, Valentino or Bill Blass gowns, which of course I would never throw away!)

But who’s to say my daughter will even be the same size as me? Or have the same taste in clothes? God knows when either of my moms try to hand me down their clothing from decades ago, I accept out of politeness or obligation rather than excitement over an excellent piece of vintage wear.

So what rules should I be following here? Keep the designer pieces, chuck all the High Street stuff? Sadly, there are plenty of designer things I’ve shed (i.e. a long, red leather Marc Jacobs skirt; the famous “bump dress” by Comme des Garcons) and I have to say I regret those hasty decisions to purge.

The bump dress (I actually have worn this out)

Anyway, I wound up chucking most everything that I haven’t worn in awhile, was stained or pilly, wasn’t really my style but I’d fantasized at the time that it was (i.e. all my Polo Rugby stuff—seriously what was I thinking?!)

But any advice for the next round of closet cleaning would be much appreciated!

I know the US Postal Service leaves a lot to be desired, what with the endless lines, the bored-out-of-their-skulls workers, the inane people who don’t know how to use the automatic stamp machines. (It’s just like a soda machine, folks.)

Incredibly, the French postal service is even worse! The post offices themselves are pretty much exactly like their American counterparts, but I think the French don’t follow that whole “whether through sleet or snow or hail…” mantra that the American postal workers do—or are at least supposed to.

I can’t tell you how many packages I’ve not received or were misplaced or were simply returned to sender because they couldn’t find a way to “reach” me.

Just today, I received a letter saying that there was a package for me but there had been a problem delivering it to my address. The same address they delivered this letter to, which obviously had no trouble getting to me!

Seriously?

The most egregious example was an order I put in with the Vitamin Shoppe. I paid about $50 to have it shipped to me. After a month, I finally enquired where it was. I was told that there was a problem with the delivery address and so they just returned it to the US, without ever bothering to reach me—although they had my contact info and everything. The customer service rep told me, “Oh, well you should have received a postcard about that.” Oh, well I didn’t. Why didn’t they just call or email me? And again, if they’re able to get a postcard to me, shouldn’t they be able to deliver my package?

I was so pissed, but could not properly convey that in French, unfortunately. Putain!

So I can’t tell you how much I miss the good ol’ USPS these days. Consider yourselves lucky, Americans!

P.S. Calling customer service in France always costs you, too. (It’s so many cents per minute: 15, 45, 85…) You actually have to pay these idiots to find out why they didn’t do their jobs. Quite frankly, customer service is not a concept that the French understand. But that probably deserves its own blog.

With no K-town in Paris (though there’s Chinatown in the 13th and Japantown in the 2nd), finding a Korean restaurant with really good food hasn’t been easy. So far, I think I’ve tried about 10 of the 50 or so here in the City of Lights.

Can you believe there are actually 50?  I couldn’t, but then I picked up the “Guide to Authentic Korean Restaurants” and sure enough, Korean food has definitely made an impression on this town.

Anyway, Dman’s back from his latest trip and we were both craving Korean. I had heard about this place Han Lim in the 5th which specializes in Korean fried chicken (but slightly different from Bon Chon in NYC). We went there for lunch last week and WOW!

It was empty except for us, but everything from the pajun (scallion pancake) to the banchan (side dishes) and the kimchi was impeccably executed. To be honest, it’s the closest I’ve gotten to my mom’s cooking in a long time and is better than a lot of the K-town places I’ve been to in Manhattan.

I got the lunchtime menu (reasonably priced at 12,50 euros), which came with a choice of three starter soups and three main dishes. I picked the fried chicken special, of course. What surprised me was the sheer quantity of chicken they gave me; usually lunchtime menus have smaller portions, but whether it’s because I’m Korean and/or pregnant, they gave me a huge, generous serving. And thank God they did because Dman obviously devoured half my plate.

Here’s a look at the chicken, my seaweed soup and some banchan:

Yummy Korean!

A close-up of the ridiculously good garlic, sesame and scallion fried chicken that Dman is shamelessly making a grab for (stealing the food right out of his wife and baby’s mouths!) Seriously, it’s been a long time since we’ve had something this good:

Chicken!

For simple, delicious Korean food while you’re in Paris—not to mention, some out of this world fried chicken—you must try this place. We’re heading back there this week, we loved it so much!

I’m still going to try every place in my guide, but so far Han Lim is my #1. (It’s got the best kimchi so far in Paris, too.)

Address:
Han Lim
6, rue Blainville
75005 Paris
Metro: Place Monge
Tel: 01.43.54.62.74
Closed Mondays and Tuesday lunch

I just can’t sugarcoat it: Nine months of pregnancy is a long time. Although we humans should count ourselves blessed that we don’t have to give birth to almost fully-functioning babies like most other mammals do. I read somewhere that it would take 2 YEARS of gestation then! Quelle horreur!

It’s coming down to the wire for me. A couple more weeks. I can’t tell you how glad I am at the thought of being able to wear some cute, normal clothes again. To be able to sleep on my back. To seriously work out. It all sounds terribly shallow, I know, but I’m carrying 30 extra pounds of weight, mostly in my stomach. Imagine having a giant, growing watermelon strapped to your stomach for months. That is not fun.

However, there have been some nice things about being pregnant.

People are really kind, in general. They get up to give you their seat on the subway. They move out of the way of you and your belly. They let you cut in front of them in line. They smile. They give you things. I must look hungry because I’ve gotten free cakes, bags of biscotti and drinks in the most random places: the Corsican airport, an Italian place in New York, a Paris cafe. (And I must have been hungry because I accepted—and ate—all of it!)

The not-so-nice things include all the bodily complaints: backaches, leg cramps, constipation, breathlessness, heartburn, nausea, brain fog, fatigue, having to pee four times in a night, never feeling comfortable, the people who don’t get up to give you their seat. Pregnancy is not for the faint-hearted!

Dman said to me the other day, “Once we have this baby, we should start working on another one right away.” I said, “We can, if we get a surrogate.” That shut him up. (Note to men: Do not suggest another pregnancy when your woman is nine months pregnant.)

Of course, I’m very excited for the arrival of our baby girl. It’s just that time seems to be moving in inverse proportion to the rate my belly is growing. Could that actually be possible??

I love that expression “the pen is mightier than the sword” because I really believe it to be true. The written word can be used to hurt, to woo, to make someone laugh, to bring someone to tears, to incite war, to promote peace, to start a revolution. Maybe that’s why I’ve always been such an avid reader and writer.

Sometimes, I have the privilege of writing something that many people get to read and, hopefully, relate to. The other day, MSN reposted a piece I wrote awhile ago about dating a gorgeous guy; for some reason, it strikes a chord (not always harmonious) with people and I wind up getting an earful.

Of course, I love the people who say they loved what I wrote (who wouldn’t?) but I often get as much of a kick (in the pants?) from the people who are ready to take me down with their pens, er keyboards, drawn. Most times, I don’t respond because it doesn’t seem worth it, but today, I feel like answering some of the questions thrown, grenade-like, my way. I’ll answer some of the sweet ones, too.

1. Just who the hell do you think you are anyway?

I’m Maggie Kim. Who the hell are you? Actually, I’m a Korean-American-New Yorker-turned-Parisian who’s fairly recently married with a baby on the way. I’m a musician and a writer. I’m sincere and unusually truthful, especially when it comes to my music and my writing, which places me nearer to the geek category than the cool one, I know. I lean towards airy-fairy and love all things organic. I used to be a lot cooler in some people’s eyes when I was more selfish and insecure. Now, I’m probably too nice, but at the same time, care less what others think of me.

But seriously, who the hell are you?

2. Who told you you could write? I think you suck and I could write way better than you without trying. You’re also a shallow bitch.

Good for you! To have an opinion and to have the courage to share your passionately ungrammatical words with me—via anonymous email. I suppose no one “told me” I could write. I just always wrote. Then people started paying me money to do it.

And why do I get the feeling that these vitriolic emails come from not-so-attractive-and-possibly-impotent-or-under-endowed-men? I’m sorry I pointed out the obvious fact that women like good-looking men. Now go jerk off to your Megan Fox screensaver.

3. While you’re at it, can you explain the appeal of Robert Pattinson? (Mike, this comment made me laugh out loud—thank you! You rock! )

Where to begin? The sexy hair, the dreamy blue eyes, that jaw, those lips… Sigh. Yes, it’s mainly because he’s got the face of an angel, but I think it also has to do with the noble, self-sacrificing and romantic vampire he plays in the movies. The British accent and the fact that he’s a dewy-skinned 23-year-old doesn’t hurt, either.

4. You’re one of those Twinkie* Asian girls who would never date an Asian guy—just Westerners—and rejects her own culture. Insecure beeyotch!

Actually, my first boyfriend who I dated for three years is South Asian, but I suspect that doesn’t “count” to the self-doubting, angry Asian guy who wrote me this? (<cough>small dick!<cough>) Again, I hate to point out the obvious, but I’m ethnically Asian and culturally Western. So yes, I’m more attracted to “Westerners,” who could be white, black, Hispanic, Asian, mixed, etc… I’m an equal-opportunity dater (or was before getting married). My criteria? That he’s hot, hello! As questioner 2 duly noted, I’m shallow. Har-de-har-har.

Btw, who says Asian guys wanted to date me??? Because very, very, VERY few ever asked! (Those who did, I went out with.) Grow some balls, gents—and some good manners—if you want to get the girl. Make me some good kimchi while you’re at it, too.

*Twinkie: yellow on the outside, white on the inside.

5. I dated and/or married a gorgeous guy, too! Are you still with your man?

Bravo, ladies! And yes, I married said gorgeous guy I wrote about. (Clearly, he’s many other things besides handsome.)

6. Please tell me, how do you get a writing gig with MSN or a magazine?

That’s a question with many answers. I think all writers/journalists go about their profession in different ways. As I said, I’ve always written: stories, poems, songs, etc (since around the age of 7? 8?) Got my degree in English lit. Landed my first job as an assistant fashion writer at Glamour magazine and branched out from there. It’s easy once some editors know you and your work because often, they’ll ask you to write something and you don’t have to pitch an idea. I can be extremely lazy and not pitch a single idea for months—years, even! (And that’s a very, very bad thing. Don’t do as I do!)

Keep writing. Start a blog. Hone your skills. One thing I will say that’s very valuable for a writer-for-hire is learning to put aside your ego to the publication you’re writing for. It’s not about your style and voice; it’s about how well you convey ideas and express your creativity in the voice of that particular publication. Writing for Glamour is not the same as writing for Cosmo or People or MSN. And bite your tongue when your piece gets edited (sometimes beyond recognition). Editors are just doing their job, too. If you want to keep your job, learn what you need to do so your work doesn’t continue to get hacked to bits. Editors might be doing their job, but like anyone else, they like when their job is easy.

7. I love your music! Where can I buy it?

I love you! You can buy it on iTunes worldwide (Amazon, Rhapsody, Amie Street, etc…) Please leave comments on said sites, too. That will make me happy. And help put my baby in college one day

8. You think you’re so hot, don’t you?

Sure, I do! I’ve put on about 30 pounds, my fingers are too swollen to wear my wedding ring, and my ass has grown so that I no longer fit into even my fat-day jeans. I think I’m sizzling!

Anyway, thank you to everyone who was moved enough to email, comment, hate, love and so on. I hope you continue to read and listen. It’s my great honor and pleasure if you do. (See, there’s that geeky earnestness again.)

Something hit me today. Literally half an hour ago. And I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to finally grasp the concept.

I am no longer single.

I know what you’re thinking. “Hello, you’ve been married a year now and are about to have a baby. It’s taken you this long to realize you’re not single anymore?”

It’s not that I’ve been acting like a swinging singleton this whole time Dman and I have been seriously committed to each other. It’s just that I’ve never really thought about it, in the whole nail-in-the-coffin-of-your-single-life way. I’ve been happily newly-wedded and knocked-up and haven’t given it much of a second thought.

So what triggered this not-so-revealing revelation? The Twilight books. (Groan. I know it’s pathetic.)

Reading these teen romances and subsequently surfing the net about the dreamy Robert Pattinson (aka Edward Cullen) shocked me into awareness that I’m not going to be going to some bar in New York anytime soon to try to seduce some famous model-actor who plays a vampire for a living. Oh the humanity!

Hottie Robert Pattinson

Because I’ll explain something about single life in Manhattan when you’re young, kind of dumb and just looking to have some fun. That kind of thing—finding hot guys and/or celebrities to hook up with—isn’t that difficult to do. Stupid, maybe, but not difficult. And although I put that lifestyle behind me a few years ago, I guess some habits do die hard. (Plus, I’ve always had a thing for vampires…)

Anyway, it’s not regret so much as a bit of wistfulness as I transform into this brand new creature called “Mom.” I think I’m figuring out how to finally let go of my sometimes-sordid, sometimes-exciting and sometimes-lonely single life. It’s not a bad thing. In fact, it’s actually mainly good and I’m probably happier now than I’ve ever been.

But to all my single ladies out there, do it up. I’m living vicariously through you now!