Structure Fire.

Slow carb die-it

2011-06-18T16:05:00.000-07:00

Carbs are your friend. Well, they're MY friend at least. And I will never abandon them again.

I recently experimented with the Slow Carb Diet by Timothy Ferris as an act of curiosity and moral support. It's supposed to help build lean muscle and slim you down. I only want one component of that, but I thought, let's try it.

On this diet, you can basically eat as much as you want as long as you're not eating carbs or fruit. The second you agree to this, you will become hyper aware of just how surrounded we are by carbs and fruit. They're everywhere. Flaunting their starchy and/or juicy selves and daring us to jam them into our faces.

At first, it wasn't so bad. 'Cause I love meats. I could eat meats all day every day. (Insert joke.) And veggies are a-ok in my book. But I didn't realize how many calories carbs and fruit were accounting for in my diet. I ended up having to eat 2 or 3 servings more of protein and veggies to make up the difference. And even then, I wasn't getting enough calories to supplement my calorie furnace body because I was working out as if I was eating like an American.

To take on this diet you have to plan ahead and carefully think about your grocery trips. Things I was not doing well. So, I became hungry. Really hungry. All the time. I would eat whatever I could find that was within the rules. Some days, I would even eat an extra dose of gummy vitamins in a sad attempt to fill my carb-free void.

Even though it was completely counterproductive to my weight gain goals, I saw it as a test of will. An epic test of will that would last a whole FOUR DAYS. When I almost dropped a weight on my head, it was all over.

Well, I guess my moral support will have to come from inspirational signs made out of cardboard. I could fashion them out of pizza boxes.

Che Chen!

2011-06-17T19:47:00.001-07:00

Congrats to Cherish (aka Che Chen) and Chad on their marriage!

This past weekend the majority of our Chug For Five reunion group got together to watch one of our own tie the knot. The ceremony was short, sweet, and fun of Penn State references. Just the way it should be.

Highlights include the card we got them. A fancy-looking number that said "Love and Cherish" in glittery script on the front. We put our own C45 touches on it and crossed "Love" out with a thick sharpie and wrote "CHAD" right above it. Classy.

I love this group of friends. This group is that group of friends you have that you don't always get to see and sometimes you fall out of touch with them for a while, but every time you're reunited it's like you never left that dirty, condemnable rugby house on Atherton Street.

Yes, some things are different. We're all real people now. With real jobs. (Some for the first time ever.) We know a little bit more about ourselves and the world around us.

But we can only suppress our natural instincts for so long and then this stuff come out. (This flying kick belongs to a doctor. A real life certified practicing health care professional.)

Looking forward to all the mystery bathrobes, the fruit loops we'll steal, and the Marriot Rewards we'll earn together in the future, ladies.

Lui vs. Hulu

2011-06-16T21:15:00.000-07:00

Even though I work in advertising, I find that I am constantly trying to undermine it. Maybe I secretly despise it. Maybe it's latent frustrations bubbling to the surface. Maybe I am just an asshole.

In my latest battle, I've been picking a fight with Hulu. When it asks me for feedback about ads I go out of my way to give the most confusing answer possible.

If it gives me this screen, I do nothing.

If it asks me this...

... I always click no, hoping to leave it scratching its head and wondering what a isolated self-sufficient cave dweller with no disposable income is doing watching Glee on Hulu.

It tells me "Thanks! We'll use your input to improve your ad experience." Well, Hulu, I can tell you that this experience will never be pleasant for me. And I hope my input breaks your innards.

Nom nom ^ nom

2011-06-15T19:46:00.000-07:00

Ok, ladies. Get ready to feel like punching me in the face.

I've asked my friend Teena, a registered dietician, for some help in my quest to gain weight. She busted out some science-y formula and decided that I need to eat close to 3000 calories in order to reach my goal.

I was pretty successful on the first day. This is what I ate:

3 eggs (210)
sour cream (120)
salsa (20)
veggies - corn and beans (340)
banana (172)
coffee (2)
3 plums (50)
chipotle chicken bowl with a bunch of stuff (891)
half a rotisserrie chicken (700)
veggies and cheese (135)
snickers ice cream (180)

TOTAL [2820 calories]

But I had to really try and seek out something food coma-inducing. Normally, I work through lunch or grab whatever's lying around or scavenge like an office hobo for leftovers from morning meetings.

I'm gonna have to do a lot more scavenging now. Maybe the "Skinny on the Inside" competition and I can work something out. Maybe I can be their garbage disposal. I can follow them around and eat all their leftovers or any foods they feel too guilty to eat.

It may seem like I come out on top in this deal, but I'm not so sure. The thought of eating like a sumo-in-training every day makes my innards hurt. Plus, knowing the amount of calories and cholesterol I just ate kind of grosses me out.

So, don't shun your salads. You don't have it so bad. I would actually welcome a nice light salad, but I can't waste my time with something like that. Rocky didn't punch heads of lettuce. No. He laid into big ol' slabs of meat that don't get pushed around.

After all, you are what you eat.

These things drive me crazy

2011-06-14T14:13:00.000-07:00

I really hate those driving billboards. Not only are they unnecessary environmental pollution. They're visual pollution.

I mean, let's be honest, a lot of ads are an eye sore. (This is coming from someone who works in that industry. I'm allowed to be judge-y.) But all these mobile billboards do is release carbon dioxide into the air and annoy consumers. Most of these things don't even have an idea.

You're telling me that this is effective when it's passing by at 25 miles per hour?

Kill yourself, billboard. Your appendages should be slashed.

I could only find one example that didn't infuriate me.

It has an idea. And it doesn't actually move. Bravo.

Hot mess, hot tranny mess

2011-06-13T10:27:00.000-07:00

I have a wedding to go to next weekend. A wedding with some old rugby friends from college. I'm not looking to impress anyone. (We've all seen each other in varied states of disarray, so we know that getting all cleaned up is a bit of a sham.) But I would like to look presentable, so I'm shopping for a new dress.

This activity is typically hard for any girl. But it's especially hard when that girl is built like a 12-year old boy. Broad shoulders, no chest, hips and butt as flat as a board. Dresses that are cut for women who actually have a figure usually fall like a potato sack on girls like this. Girls like me.

So, I enlisted some help on my quest. And I got this article back.

These articles are for transexuals and crossdressers. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) But really? You could at least distill the information and not let on that you also think I'm built like a prepubescent boy.

Ah well, I guess it can't be helped. And I do appreciate the advice on halter tops.

Sunday offering

2011-06-12T08:27:00.000-07:00

Sunday is not a day of rest. At least not for ad folks.

It's one of the first nice days of summer and there will be no frollicking. Because there's work to be done.

Well, if we have to work, I'm at least going to sit out on our balcony without a shirt* on. I don't care that it's facing a church. A conservative Orthodox church full of jamboners in their Sunday best and little old couples who don't speak English and smell like kitchen.

I don't care that the church-goers from the OTHER Orthodox church directly across the street may wander onto Chicago Avenue and catch a glimpse of my mosquito bites.

I just don't care. 'Cause I'm gonna do something I want to do today. And if I get labeled as the neighborhood creep and people whisper about me in Polish as I walk down the street, well, that works for me.

*(I wasn't topless, pervs. I had on a bathing suit top, ok?)

Word of the day

2011-06-11T21:16:00.000-07:00

You know what word I like? Turgid. It means swollen and distended or congested.

What I like about it is its almost onomatopoeiac structure and that saying the word further defines it. Because saying the word turgid is reminiscent of choking on your own spit. It's can also be like an offensive imitation of a fat person. There are so many different levels.

Plus, it's flawlessly used in this amazing movie review.

Msg from DAD

2011-06-10T08:31:00.000-07:00

My dad is a funny creature. He's a strange mix of fob ("Fresh-Off-the-Boat" for the white folks) and curmudgeon. Fob, in that, like all good Asian parents, he gives his children practical advice about anything from the mundane to the absurd. (Because you never know when dysentery will make a glorious comeback in the midst of a level 7 tsunami.)

And curmudgeon-y because he never acknowledges my existence past that. He sends me these emails with absolutely no personal greeting that are full of safety tips, as if to say, "I care about your safety. Because if you die, I will have to come retrieve your body and you live far away. So, take care. Love, DAD." Love you, too, dad. I'll do my best to avoid being struck down.

Fruit cup

2011-06-09T12:54:00.000-07:00

I like melon. Honey dew, cantaloupe, watermelon. But they make shitty fruit cup fillers. Because that's all they are. Fillers. Taking up space and making strawberries and pineapple look even more delicious.

You know that when you're picking out a fruit cup you're looking for the one with the least amount of melon in it. It's because you know that most of the melon will be kinda raw and a burden to eat. (That's what he said.)

Well, it's true. Melon has a very small window of relevance. And for some reason, fruit cup fillers are always pre-mature about it. Just give it another day. Let that shit marinate. Adjust your shipping formula or something.

I think we can all agree that we would rather have overripe melon than eat something that's hard and awful tasting.

Now I will end this post before something terrible happens.

Wuv... twue wuv.

2011-06-08T08:29:00.000-07:00

I saw this written on a bathroom stall: "I (giant heart) Christina." Immediately underneath that it said, "For now."

This makes me wonder about this person. Is this person going to be muttering under their breath at the alter, "I do. (turning away) Until... later."

Ordering a sandwich must be agonizing. There are so many condiment combinations. How do you know which one's right? Do they put on three different pairs of underwear, just to have back-up options?

Well, at least they used permanent marker. Commitment to uncertainly is still commitment. Right?

Have you heard this one?

2011-06-07T20:26:00.000-07:00

How long would you guess it took Jerry Seinfeld to write 30 minutes of seemingly spontaneous and casual stand-up material? 6 months.

Stuart Dybek shared that little tidbit with us when he came in to talk to us about his work and the writing process.

He told us every time you rewrite something, you give it another layer of imagination. And the mistakes are corrected. How can you expect to tell it right the very first time?

This makes sense to me. If you think about your favorite go-to story, the one you've told over and over again. The one you break out during cocktail parties and long road trips. The guaranteed crowd pleaser.

Think about the first time you told that story. You probably rambled on and on, paused at the wrong times, had to go back and explain things, or given away the punchline. It was probably mildly amusing at best.

Now think about the last time you told it. If you're a good storyteller, maybe you have accents for all your characters, great lines of dialogue which are probably rough approximations of what was actually said, and choreographed color commentary.

It's a brand new story.

This shouldn't be new news to any writer. But it's a nice little reminder and nudge to just get something on paper and that's when the story can begin.

Jammed box

2011-06-06T23:21:00.001-07:00

There are literally 534 emails in my inbox. It is emotionally crushing. I can't look at it without experiencing a wave of anxiety and hopelessness.

It really gets out of hand quickly. How does that happen?

It's a compounding problem. Like laundry. There comes a certain point where it's more useful for you to wait until there are no more clean clothes in the house than to do just one random load that barely makes a dent in your pile.

If you wait and wipe it all out at once, there's a larger sense of accomplishment. But those days leading up to it can be quite painful. In fact, it stinks and you're forced to do things to put a band-aid on the situation, like turn your underwear inside out (I have never done this by the way, but I know someone who has done it) and use lots of Febreeze.

Maybe the answer is sitting up a system where these events can't be mutually exclusive. If I'm doing one, then I must do the other. Sounds like a pretty good way to ensure a clean inbox.

Boo, NBC

2011-06-05T14:56:00.001-07:00

There was rugby on TV this past weekend. On major networks even. NBC, Versus, and NBC universal showed the collegiate 7s tournament.

It was pretty exciting for the rugby community. It's a sign that we're beginning to gain recognition and traction in the sports world. We're not just a "drinking club with a rugby problem." We're a serious, competitive sport that has earned a place back into the Olympic games. Both men and women.

So it was a major disappointment when NBC chose to show a REPEAT of the men's semi-final rather than show the women's final, which was happening during the same time slot.

I'm sure it was a programming decision because the mainstream audience probably isn't crazy into women's sports. But you have to realize that the women are also going to be competing for Olympic gold in 2016. In fact, they actually probably have a better shot than the men.

Would it have killed you to let them have 14 minutes of airtime out of 360 minutes? I'm sure there are some mainstream fans who would've appreciated watching women play a contact sport as aggressively as the men. And you certainly would have gained some more fans in the rugby community.

So, next time, maybe you should take a little bit of a "risk" in your programming and see what happens. I think you'll be surprised about what people will watch and appreciate. Maybe next time, you should grow a pair, NBC.

Weigh behind

2011-06-04T22:58:00.000-07:00

I've recently entered a weight gain competition. With myself.

Some of the ladies at work have organized a weight loss competition called "Skinny on the Inside." (I personally thought one of the other suggestions, "Butter Face" was much more hilarious. And would have done a better job of motivating through sarcasm and shame.)

But I actually have the opposite problem. It's hard for me to bulk up. Yeah, I know. Wah wah. You should see the looks I get when I try to commiserate with them by talking about my weight problems. They basically try to murder me with their eyeballs.

But they should realize that this is a legitimate problem for me. Weight gain is a matter of survival. When you spend your time ramming into other human beings at full speed a little cushioning is not only helpful, it's what keeps you from crumbling like a waif. A turn-sideways-and-disappear, chain-smoking waif. No one wants that out on the pitch. Not even the opposition.

Back in college, there was a girl on our team who was so thin and frail that tackling her was like tackling tissue paper. Tackling her was essentially throwing yourself into the ground, full force. You'd be braced for a tackle, but meet no resistance until you both smashed into the dirt. It was probably more painful than tackling an ogre.

So, henhouse, I would appreciate your support in this endeavor. Maybe you're not in love with the way you look in a bathing suit, but at least no one is chasing you down and trying to break you in half.

Change

2011-06-03T14:55:00.000-07:00

"Change?... Shit. I guess change is good for any of us. Whatever it take for any of y'all n#ggaz to get up out the hood. Shit, I'm wit cha, I ain't mad at cha. Got nuttin but love for ya, do your thing, boy." -Tupac

The weather's been a little strange in Chicago this spring. In fact, I wouldn't even technically call it spring. It was more like wimmer. Winter slammed up next to summer. We went straight from sipping Campbell's to breathing it. It moved so fast that now instead of appreciating that it's actually nice out, we're distracted by the promise of a perpetual blanket of hot breath.

I miss spring. I miss the light breeze and the promise of the perfect date, April 25th, where all you need is a light jacket. April 25th this year was rainy and generally cold and miserable. I miss the flowers in bloom and the smell of sunshine.

But the thing I miss most is the feeling of spring. The sense that change is in the air and anything can happen. The innocence and anticipation surrounding the season. But this year, with the weather being so forward, the whole city just skipped right to drunk and slutty. Where is the poetry in that?!

I guess I'll have to go off and imagine my own spring. But maybe I'll do it from here. It's pretty hot out.

FAIL?

2011-06-02T20:39:00.000-07:00

I guess I should set up clearer perimeters for this challenge. What do I mean by writing a post a day? What if I start a post every day? Does that count? Am I writing this entry just so I have one more post written? That seems awfully lazy, but at the same time part of the purpose of this exercise is to force myself to vomit words. To get over the fear of imperfect words.

It's not always going to be entertaining. It might never be entertaining. But I gotta pull the trigger. Feel free to turn away.

Summer Challenge

2011-06-01T20:56:00.000-07:00

It's been more than a year since I've written on this thing. More than a YEAR! What is wrong with me?

I'll tell you what. Life got a hold of me and had its way. And I'm not sure it ever gets any easier, so that's why starting today I'm giving myself a kick in the arse with the Summer Challenge - writing something, anything on this blog every day for the summer.

Well, that seems to be enough for day one. Maybe this won't be so tough...

Doodle of the day

2010-03-23T08:17:00.001-07:00

Why?

2010-01-21T16:08:00.000-08:00

Recently, someone asked me why I like to write. Well, honestly, sometimes I don't. It frustrates me. It never gets easier. And at times, I feel like I'm not good at it.

But then I think about what I love and I tell them...

"I love writing. I have what every writer has - a burning desire to write. It's what makes us writers. It's something that compels us to tell stories. To play with words. To love language. I'm not quite sure where it comes from, but it's relentless.

There's nothing better than reading something and thinking "Yes, that's exactly how I feel, too! But I didn't know it until I read this." To create that, is a million times better than just reading it.

I strive to create that feeling for someone every time I write. If I succeed, then somewhere, someone feels less alone in their head. And their heart.

If I fail, then hopefully they at least get a good laugh. One way or another."

Dubai 7s - Day 5

2009-12-07T19:13:00.000-08:00

[Written by guest blogger, Alison Worman.]

Day 5, the second day of the tournament, started with an early wake-up call and weigh in. Once again we found ourselves sprinting, skipping and stretching in the narrow hallway of our hotel to get our bodies warm and to get rid of some of the soreness and stiffness.

After yet another shuttle to the Sevens, we suited up, and walked out to the field to warm-up. As we were in the middle of our warm-up, the New Zealand men’s team began warming up on the same field! It was a little surreal, and it’s amazing how big those guys are.

Our first game of the day was against Wooden Spoon, a team from England that surpassed us in years and experience. Unfortunately, we lacked possession and the team from England won 19-0.

The loss to Wooden Spoon put us in the Plate semi-final against the Kenya Lionesses. We improved upon our first match of the day, made adjustments, gained some possession and won 26-5.

With the win against Kenya, we were in the Plate Final against Rugby Ecosse Feminin, a team made up of Scottish and Welsh players. It was a tough, well fought game, but unfortunately, Rugby Ecosse Feminin came out on top with a score of 15-5.

After that, we were able to ice bath, shower, eat, and watch some sevens. We met a bunch of Americans in the stands that were supportive and enjoying The Sevens atmosphere. Then it was off to the hotel to finish packing, close the camp and head to the airport for our 14 hour flight to the Dulles Airport.

For the majority of the players, this was their first National Team experience and it was a memorable one, especially playing in front of 30,000+ people! As a young squad, we made our fair share of mistakes, but we did exactly what we set out to do - learn and grow, as individuals and as a team. All in hopes that we become more sure-footed with every step, in our journey to grow into the team we know we can be.

Dubai 7s - Day 4

2009-12-06T18:23:00.000-08:00

[Written by guest blogger, Lauren Rosso.]

Hi- it's Lauren. First, I would like to apologize for the delay in writing this blog. Friday and Saturday were a circus of rugby and travel, and unfortunately left no time for blogging. But I'm getting ahead of myself...

Friday morning started at 6:30 a.m. with the thunderous herd of our warm-up taking place in the hallway of the 4th floor. Despite our best efforts, we were unable to keep quiet as we sprinted and skipped our way down the length of the hallway. Both the Thailand and TUKS teams seemed less than pleased, but we were ready to go!! Breakfast was delicious as usual. (I'm not sure if anyone has done the breakfast justice in their blog, but I truly believe that we could dedicate an entire day to it.) We headed to the fields shortly after, kit bags and pillows in tow. The pillow is an important detail that I'll return to later.

With our kick-off against France approaching (the first international experience for the majority of our team), we were able to ignore the carnival-like atmosphere at The Sevens and focus on our warm-up and dreaded blowout. We unfortunately fell short, losing 21-12, but were able to pinpoint key areas to improve for our next game against the Moscow Region, which took place in the stadium.

It's important to keep in mind that due to a lack of space, we were forced to keep our oversized kit bags and pillows (Griff's recommendation) with us at all times- including our entrance into the stadium. It was somehow not how I visulalized myself running onto a field in front of 30,000+ people for the first time, and though it became a running joke for the rest of the tour, it was nothing short of mortiftying in the moment. Nonetheless, we performed well against the Moscow Region, winning 12-7. Despite the initial embarrassment, it was an amazing experience.

(To Griff's credit, the pillows were useful during our 4 hour break following the Moscow game.)

We played the TUKS Ladies next, but did not perform well, losing 14-12. Faced with the reality that our Dubai experience would be over if we did not win our next game, we prepared to face Thailand. Thanks to great leadership by our Captain, Ines Rodriguez, we rebounded from the disappointing loss to beat Thailand 22-7 under the lights in the stadium. (And fortunately did not carry out pillows onto the field.)

3rd in our pool and happy to see the long day end, we headed back to the hotel to recover and prepare for Saturday.

Dubai 7s - Day 3

2009-12-03T08:32:00.000-08:00

[Written for PSU rugby blog, by guest blogger Sadie Anderson.]

Hey it’s Sadie. Today is the…well I’ve lost track of time here in Dubai. All I know is that tomorrow is the first day of the tournament. The thought of playing in a stadium full of 40,000 people is pretty daunting, am I right? There’s nothing like a whole lot of people screaming while you play to get your adrenaline flowing, or at least that’s what they say.

Anyways, during the jersey presentation our captain, Ines, said something that really struck me, “There are hundreds of players back home who would die to have this jersey.” I guess I blocked out the veracity of being one of twelve players selected to represent the United States. It feels like a lot of pressure at first but then I look around at all the players chosen to do so and I am confident in our ability to represent. Then our coach, Sue, gave us two words to remember as we approach this event, poise and confidence. Poise meaning that we are comfortable in where are as a team, and that we can have confidence in the things we can accomplish playing together. One of these has been on my mind a lot. I had been approaching this event more realistically than usual, with the mind set of poise, rather than expecting to be the “best” or make all the “right” decisions. Its weird being comfortable with where I am as a 7s player. Instead of trying to think so much about what I should do, I just need to play. This is easier said than done but I’ll try. We have four games tomorrow so I think I’ll get there. Our first game is against the French, wish us luck! Love, Sadie (The Boss Lady)

P.S. On the way to the stadium we drive by camel farms…why they farm camels is beyond me

[Lunch time.]

[A brief excursion for gifts and postcards.]

Dubai 7s - Day 2

2009-12-03T05:07:00.000-08:00

[Written for PSU rugby blog, by guest blogger - Christiane Pheil]

HI – Christiane here. Most of you don’t know me yet but in five weeks give or take; you should be able to put a face to my name. Well I’m sure you’ve heard a little about this crazy place from Jenny’s update, but I’ll put it in my own word. NUTS. We actually are staying and competing about 45 minutes outside of the city so I can’t say I’ve stood on the palm tree islands or played with snow in the indoor ski slopes. However, where we are is just as crazy, just in a different sense. Dubai is well…the desert. Green isn’t in the rainbow around here; there’s no grassy fields or thick forests…but there’s lots of sand! There was actually slight concern driving to the facilities the first day that the tournament was going to be played on sand fields. Ha. Oh – and there are CAMELS. Real, live camels! We pass them everyday on the bus trip to the tournament complex. The team has decided that they are the source of Dubai’s water. Alls you gotta do is shake them upside down and BAM, hydration.

I feel like we’re stuck in Star Wars, Return of the Jedi – isn’t there a desert scene where all of the robot enemies are these rusty construction-esk machines? Well regardless if I’m making it up or not, that’s where we are right now. There are half-buildings everywhere. It’s like people had this great idea to build a city out here and then took an eternal lunch break. So here’s something bizarre; our hotel is located next to this warehouse titled ‘Modern Ice Factory’ – does anyone have any idea what this means?? What is it, a new kind of water? Have we abandoned the hydrogen + oxygen combo we’ve worked with for so long? If anyone knows or has any ideas, please let us know because we’ve spent more time trying to figure it out than we have playing rugby.

What we’ve been up to while you’ve been sleeping…

Today we all woke up a little sore from the two rough practices yesterday and jumped straight into the pool for a recovery session. After the pool, we went to breakfast (which is bomb diggity), had team meeting and then shuttled off to the fields for the day. We worked really hard through most of the first session and ended with three 7-minute scrimmages against the Arabian Gulf women’s team. Long story short we wrecked shop. Winning every scrimmage by at least two or three tries, we only allowed the AG team to score twice over the course of the three games. Finally – we’re grooving. It’s a pretty incredible feeling. Not sure if you heard about lunch yesterday but the sardines were a little rough to stomach. Well, our caterers stepped up their game today and came through with a fantastic noodle salad, which made best friends with my taste buds. Yum. After a short lunch break, we had our second practice, focusing on our style of play and defensive tactics. We’re all pretty tired after the past two days and are looking forward to some rest. Tomorrow we get to sleep in (wait, what?), have pool recovery, walk-through and the afternoon off. It should be a great way to relax before the tournament kicks off Friday morning.

Last night our team went to this BBQ for all of the players at the main site. It was a really nice way to welcome everyone with great food, live music and such. I snuck away from the group after I cleaned my plate spotless (I’m a prop in case you were curious after all of my food commentary), and walked over to the main pitch. The stadium lights shining down on the empty field were breath taking. It was so humbling. The twelve of us have been brought here to represent our incredible country by playing the best sport in the world. How can you get much luckier than that? Impossible.

I’m signing off for now but I can’t wait to meet all of you in a little over a month. Look for more updates from other PSU girls over the next few days, it’s been a wild ride and it’s no doubt going to get crazier. LOVE - Christiane

Dubai 7s - Day 1

2009-12-02T10:12:00.000-08:00

[Written for PSU rugby blog.]

When compared to the infinity of sand, everything else seems sparse in the Dubai landscape. The vegetation is mere punctuation. The roads, casual lines drawn in a giant sandbox. The only thing that seems to rival the sand’s dominating presence is new construction. It’s absolutely everywhere you look.

The city is just teeming with growth and new beginnings. So, it seems only fitting that the USA Women’s Rugby 7s team take the first steps in a new journey right here, at the Dubai 7s tournament.

Armed with a young, eager squad and a new coaching staff, we’re ready to make history as the first USA Women’s Rugby 7s team to compete after the IOC decision to include rugby in the 2016 Olympic games.

We arrived late Monday night via a groggy 12-hour overnight flight. But after some post-flight stretching and a good night’s sleep, we were chomping at the bit. The coaches sensed this and generously gave us plenty to chew on.

We started Tuesday off with a classroom session. Then hopped on a bus to The Sevens for two full practices that tested us physically and mentally.

In the morning session, Drew Fautley and the USA men’s team were kind enough to run over the forwards a few times to help prepare our scrum. All while the backs strategized about play off of set pieces and our style of attack.

The afternoon brought us a brutal Baggetta session that pushed us. Hard. If you know anything about Peter Baggetta, you know he loves defense and seeing people hit each other. Well, we certainly gave him an eyeful in that session.

All our hard work was rewarded by a little bit of downtime, some team bonding, and a trip back to The Sevens for the Welcome BBQ.

But not before everyone’s favorite frozen treat – mandatory ice baths. Good times.

The snores of my roommates tell me that we got a lot accomplished today. But we all know we’ve got a long way to go before we’ve built the team we want to become. Thankfully, this is just the beginning.

A little push

2009-11-24T14:13:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Chit and Esther for encouraging me to write. One from a writer's perspective. One from a reader's.

Writers are strange, fickle creatures. At times, unsure that their words have a place in the world, yet unable to shake the irrevocable desire to write.

Needless to say, a little push never hurt and is often welcome. Chit's was in the form of empathy for a fellow writer. Acknowledgment of the shared struggle. A reminder that it never gets easier, but that THAT is one of the reasons we do it. And we will continue to do it because we don't know how to stop. And that's just the way it is. (Somehow, knowing what to expect, regardless of how awful it will undoubtedly be, is strangely comforting.)

Esther's push was the gift of a deadline. Well, technically, the deadline was self-imposed, but her comments were the catalyst. She had encouraged me to keep writing and I hastily promised that I'd write a post today simply because she asked, knowing that the fear of disappointment would easily overcome the fear of imperfection.

Even though the promise was probably quickly forgotten on the other end, I thought about it long after I had made it. Partly because I see great value in doing the things you say you're going to do, especially when you think no one is watching. (Trust is fragile and your actions define you. But I digress.) But also, partly because writers sometimes need a deadline. Something to jar them free from the paralyzing jello mold of insecurity.

But perhaps the most valuable thing they gave me was something every writer needs. Someone who is willing to listen.

Thanks guys. I'll do my best.

Stock plunge

2009-11-04T05:39:00.000-08:00

Annie Lui hates that I play rugby.

Every time I call home about an injury, she's quick to remind me. In short bursts of Cantonese punctuated with dramatic sighs, she says, "You were perfect when I gave birth to you. No scars. No scratches. No bones sticking out. Now look at you. You're a mess. Aii!"

She talks as if I'm a valuable action figure. A collector's item, doomed to life in a cardboard prison. Expected to stay in mint condition for fear of a drop in value.

I never quite got that. What's the point of owning a toy if you can't play with it? Aren't they called "action figures" for a reason? Keeping them idle seems like an unnecessary source of angst. A way to torture children and teach them lessons in unfairness and impracticality. All in the name of preserving a toy's "value."

By these standards, my resale value will never recover. I've been ripped from the box, thrown in dirt, and am now slightly misshapen from years of rough and tumble play.

But I wouldn't have it any other way.

Because as long as that action figure stays trapped in a soulless box, some joy remains forever locked away with it.

The sum

2009-07-21T21:50:00.001-07:00

They say you are the sum of the five people you spend the most time with. If I had to construct my amalgamated self right now, I would say that I am part Bear, Alana, Walsh, Farrah, and Nobu.

This terrifies and comforts me on many different levels. The thought of absorbing all of their neuroses and insanity is kind of scary cuz these are some weird ass folks here. One of them frequently likes to dress in fuzzy animal costumes. One is inhuman about her workout regiment. Most of them have commitment issues. (Eh, who doesn't, right?)

But at the same time, there's a reason I hang out with these guys. They are all solid human beings. So if I can take on the best parts of them, then all the neurotic tics and quirks are worth it.

There's another saying that goes "you choose your friends not based on who they are. But based on who they allow you to be." There's definitely merit to that. However, I can be myself around a cardboard box, but it's never gonna make a well-timed fart noise.

Choose wisely.

Go. Do. Now.

2009-07-09T13:33:00.000-07:00

Today, my friend Brie sent me an email. The subject was "tonight." The body of the email... "do." That's all. I was struck by how profound this was. How Taoist. "When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be." "To the mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders."

Another email appeared during my existential haze. The subject was "tonight." The body of the email... "oops! :) i was trying to say... do you practice on thursdays? when and where? are you going? carpool if it's in lemont? i got my flight for kansas! :) brie"

Go forth.

Dirty laundry

2009-07-09T05:56:00.000-07:00

Blogs are meant to be short form and free flowing. So, why can't I do this? Every time I sit down to write a post I feel like I have to write a mini-thesis and well-crafted story. I obsess. What kind of parallels can I draw from this other part of my life? How do I bring it full circle in the end? Does it have to be that complicated? What is my problem?

So, now I have a bunch of half-written blog posts that are piling up like rancid laundry. And it seems overwhelming. So, I just wanted to get something down. Just to make myself get over it. No delete key. (Unless there's a typo. It would drive me nuts.) A long time ago the bear forced me to try this exercise. Just write. And don't overthink it. It's liberating. And terrifying.

This post isn't beautiful. And that's ok. So, let me leave you with some things that are.

Yayeveryday
Postsecret

Snuggie Haikus

2009-05-11T23:46:00.001-07:00

Not too long ago, our mentor started a Snuggie Haiku website. One Snuggie-centric haiku. Per day. Every day. That's a lot of haiku-ing for one person, so he opened up the floor and asked us for a few submissions.

This is what happens when you jam 1.4 pounds of fleece into 17 syllables.

Can't defend myself.
My deadly roundhouse gets lost
in this fleece nightmare.

Nothing says don't care
for personal hygiene like
snuggies in summer.

For more haikus and pretty pictures, go here.

Root! Root! Root for the Cubbies!

2009-05-06T15:35:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, (yes, it was a school day) the bear, some e79ers, and I went to a Cubs game with the good folks at eyewonder. The weather was lovely, the drinks summery, and the Cubs lost. All was right in Wrigleyville. (Actually, the Cubs are doing pretty well this season. The dejected attitude is a force of habit, I suppose.)

We had rooftop seats that came with a delightful assortment of frosty beverages and ballpark fare, like this hot dog. [The bear art-directed the shit out of it. Look at how delicious that looks! Look!]

After the game, we wondered over to Casey Moran's. But not before we saw this musical baby.

At Casey Moran's I introduced Mike and Ryan to the term "lesbian shorts." (Aka ugly golf shorts that lesbians seem to have adopted as a summer uniform.)

[These lesbian shorts belong to a boy.]

[These do not.]

After the game and quite a few beers, I decided to get a hairscut. This was probably a bad idea. Because 1) I was... under the influence and 2) I gave little to no thought to where I was going or what kind of hairscut I wanted once I got there. I picked a direction, started walking, and stopped at the first salon I saw.

Terrible girl behavior. A real girl would probably compare that to running down the street with a pair of scissors (safety first), approaching the first person you saw and shouting, "Hey! Hey, you! Cut my hair." Definitely in line with this - Worst Girl Ever, Part 2.

Whatever. It worked out fine. All in all. This day gets two and a half high fives. Solid.

Trust the Tonnie Touch

2009-05-04T22:15:00.001-07:00

"We are the physical, emotional, spiritual... whatever other word you wanna put in there... representation of every experience we've ever had. Every person you've ever met. Every relationship you've ever had. Every rugby game you've played. Every tackle you've made. Every time you've been tackled. And so on and so on," said my chiropractor friend, Ms. Tonnie, as she checked the alignment of four mangled ruggers. (Myself included.)

While she did this, I followed closely behind as an impromptu apprentice, taking mental notes and observing her every move. My teammates were slathered on the tables, relaxing to a soundtrack of music you'd find in a wind chime store and Tonnie's running commentary. I suspect that they were more interested in unsnarling their spines than the chiropractic lesson. But not me, the ever-eager Asian student. (Nerd alert.)

The technique she showed me was called Network Spinal Analysis, which is "practiced by hand, applying low force contacts to spinal gateways. These contacts cue the nervous system to develop new strategies for living and healing." What this basically means is that once Tonnie finds an imbalance in your body, she'll then alert your brain that things are a little out of whack by gently touching your spine. Just a little wake-up call telling your brain to stop imagining a hamster in a Zorb and reel things in. Way in.

To the untrained eye (i.e. mine) it seemed as though Tonnie had the Midas touch. She barely touched people, yet healed their peg legs in a single boop. (Ex. One of my teammate's legs appeared to be about 1/4 of an inch longer than the other leg. No doubt causing a slight lean and hatred of land lubbers. But once Tonnie booped her, the leg magically evened out... like magic. Of course, this wasn't instantaneous, but it did happen fairly quickly.)

Then it was time for the apprentice to become the test subject. I laid face down on the table and tried to relax. Apparently, this was futile because she told me that my back felt like a brick wall and that I was the worst of all. Well, great. She then proceeded to psychoanalyze me and throw out a personality profile that would have put Kinsey to shame. (Based on limited information and what my body told her.) She told me about how every little piece of our lives is stored in our nervous system. Every argument and unpaid bill. Every hug and handshake. Every stress and joy. And that our pain/discomfort level is indicative of how well we are able to adapt to this flux.

In general, it's pretty easy to tell when your body has had some physical trauma. Like in this photo I submitted to Your Scrumhalf Connection's bruised and battered rugby photo album.

But it's less apparent when you've had a spiritual or an emotional trauma. You carry your baggage around with you, undetected by the world. (Well, I guess that's not entirely true. Some people make it VERY evident to everyone that they have emotional issues.) But what if every emotion, demeanor, or interaction had a physical manifestation that was just as apparent as a rugby wound?

What would that be like? Would we look like the Operation guy?

Would we have to duct tape our hearts back together? Would bitter people taste that way, too? Would our skin change color like a mood ring? Would our genitals glow when we're turned on? (Uhh, awkward.) And would that type of emotional transparency help or hurt human interaction?

Probably a little bit of both. I think we could all open up a little bit more. So many of us let hurt and life wear us down. We throw up our wall, tuck our hearts away to a place where no one can wrench and wring it. But they also can't touch it. Your sleeve is a much better place for it. BUT I can also see the value of a little discretion. No one wants to be standing in the grocery line next to a creeper whose crotch looks like a Christmas tree.

I'm ok with not broadcasting my psyche to the world. The fact that I'm "a little stressed, but pretend to have my shit together" can be just between me and Tonnie.

New theme song

2009-04-26T23:45:00.001-07:00

RT @mike_damico New single from "Structure Fire"

Thanks, bear. He loves him some interwebs.

To waste some time and give you a glimpse into my morning, let's take a look at all the windows I currently have open.

NYTimes
The Facebook or MyFace as my technologically challenged friend says in a completely non-ironic way (no need for a link, you know what it looks like)
Blogger
Chiropractor friend's website, whom I am writing about
Checking AdAge to keep up with the haps in the ad biz
Awesome wolf sweatshirt
Nerd out with Star Trek
Sweet Beastie Boys performance from Letterman '04
...and finally, what's Sunday without Zombies vs. Japanese kids?

Late addition to piggyback Star Trek article

Doodle doodle

2009-04-14T22:41:00.000-07:00

Some random doodles from my sketchbook. Don't ask me to explain anything because there's a good chance I have no idea.

April Fool's 2.0

2009-04-01T11:20:00.000-07:00

Last year at work, we pulled an April's Fool Day prank on our friend Jason. Jason X-1-6-3-8, to be exact. This year April first really snuck up on us. But we couldn't just let it pass without a follow-up. 'Cause after all, you only get one shot... per year.

So, at about 1 am the night before, we decided that we'd find a new target and unleash some awkwardness onto him. (We didn't have the heart to do it to Jason again, even though he was a champ about it.) Ironically, our new target was the editor of the Jason X-1-6-3-8 video, MG. No one is safe. We're like wild animals who will turn on each other in a second for a pork chop. Which worries me because I'm sure next year someone is going to try to blow us out of the water. But that's neither here nor there. We had to concentrate on the task at hand.

It's worth it to note that during the last few weeks, our IT department has been sending out emails about various viruses and how to avoid them. So, the fear of getting violated by technology was on everyone's mind, which played right into our hands.

This is how it went down. We broke into MG's computer and sent every single person in the company an email. (Thank God for password1.) BUT we faked it to make it seem like that person had originally sent MG an email and he was replying to THEM. Follow me here?

Here's an example:

His reply was always "What are you talking about?" And the emails they "sent" him were awkward things like:

-"Did you leave your Imodium AD in my office? Well, I have it if you need it again."
-"I can't believe this is happening again."
-"Hey dude, remember that guy we met at that party a few months ago? He's got some more product for you to try."
-"Your pants were working really hard yesterday."
-"Ahhhh, dennis knows! What are we going to do?!?" (dennis is our CCO.)
-"Stop touching my hot pockets. I really mean it this time."
-"What's that statutory loophole again?"
-"What are you talking about?" (With his response: "What are YOU talking about?" One of my favorites.)
-"I've got it! We can do it with prosthetics!"

Of course, this all created a whirlwind of confusion. Much to our delight. We had to let IT in on it early so they didn't freak out and think a virus had attacked everyone with uncomfortable-ness.

Then our CCO got wind of all the electronic action, figured out it was us (apparently, we have a reputation for trouble-making) and in turn, tried to pull a fast one on US. He sent our IT guy an email saying that a security breach had been reported and that within hours they'd find the source and take action. "The guys in New York sounded pissed" was a nice finishing touch. Our IT guy then printed the email, pasted on his best concernicus face, and showed it to us. We pooped our pants for half a second, then quickly realized that the email was as fake as an L.A. mixer.

Hmm, maybe I shouldn't be reminding people that we like to cause trouble. Maybe we'll call in sick next year.

The Duel

2009-04-01T06:20:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, North Shore took a roadtrip down to Tennessee for the annual rugby extravaganza that is Nash Bash. We won both games the first day, but lost in the semis in a tough match against Philly. Not the desired result, but we were still pretty happy with the way we played. At Nash Bash, you're pretty much guaranteed a good time and good competition.

Something else that we've come to expect is a good after party. Kegs at the pitch and a Saturday night bar tour. Not too shabby. This year our team's tour theme was high school stereotypes, which yielded some pretty hilarious results.

But the real highlight was "the bet."
---

On March 28, 2009, two great warriors descended upon the grassy knolls of Tennessee to engage in a Homeric battle for the ages. Their tale would be one that reaches the ears of their great-grandchildren's children's nieces. Truly epic. After all, eternal pride, glory, and a list-serve mention were at stake.

When the sun was high the two warriors, Snausage the Loose LooseHead and Steph the Snogger, gathered to set the rules of engagement.

Whomever sucked face first on the Nash Bash bar tour, devoid of direct prompting (AKA asking someone to make out with you for the sake of winning the bet), would be celebrated and crowned as the Pimp Queen of North Shore. Other rules of combat included: a witness (or several) must give visual confirmation, there must be tongue involved, you cannot and must not accost a teammate, and the battle would begin promptly at 9 pm, but you may lay groundwork down before the official start time.

There was much rumbling amongst the citizens on whom was favored in the Snog-off. Many sided with Snausage as she is less... discerning about the sex of her target. Whereas, Jarem refuses to cross over to the dark side, which drastically decreased her candidate pool.

The battle begun promptly at 9pm and can be compared to teenage sex because after an eternity of anticipation, it was over shortly after it started. Snausage, determined not to lose, cinched victory within an hour of arriving at the first bar by making out with Marlise's pirate friend from Memphis. (Every year at Nash Bash, this girl and her teammates are dressed like pirates. Trust me, you've seen her around. It's pretty awesome.) (It should also be noted that there may have been a breach of ethics in the way this happened. It's rumored that the phrase, "Would you mind if I kissed you?" preceded the kiss. Some said this is a direct request, which breaks the rules of engagement. While some simply considered it polite to ask this before cramming your tongue into a stranger's mouth.) Not to be outdone, Jarem grabbed some tall boy to secure second place in this two-woman race.

But this is where the true battle begins. At the end of the evening, Jarem, emboldened by her sexy nerd outfit, started spittin' game like King Koopa spits fireballs and snagged a cute tall boy in her sordid web of seduction. They sucked face. Hard. As if their lives depended on it. AND she scored the digits. (Let the record show that Nova is the witness to this second make out. She made it very clear by screaming, "WITNESS!" into Jarem's face as it was attached to another human's face.)

Not one to be one-upped, Snausage went in search of another pirate girl. When she finally settled on a non-pirate girl, she brought her over to the group and the four of them had the fiercest Snog-off I've ever bore witness to. It was like the Jets and Sharks were battling in people's mouths.

Like a dance-off, the snogging went back and forth. Forth and back. Kinda sideways. And a little bit awkward. The crowd offered much praise and encouragement. And eventually some slight cringing, as this display went on for quite some time.

In the end, everyone got some hot mouth action and were deemed winners. However, because of Snausage's questionable questions and the nature of Jarem's final pick-up, it has been hotly contested by some that while Snausage may have won the battle, Jarem has won the war. The feud wages on.

---

I love my team, haha.

New team cheer

2009-03-25T05:21:00.001-07:00

The Bear and I have a new team cheer, courtesy of our "racist" creative director. It goes like this, "Go! Go! Go! Super interracial team!... Go! Go! Go! Super Interracial team!"

I've never thought of us as an interracial team. Maybe it's because I'm one of those people who "don't see color." Which is a bullshit term. It is literally impossible to not see color. Are you looking at this person or toward this person? Are they in your periph? Yes? Then oops, you saw their color.

If for your entire life you've purposely avoided looking at or near people, then maybe you can claim this. But otherwise, I think it's just a way to overcompensate for a fear of being perceived as a racist because you may or may not be slightly racist. Racist.

Hmm, this post got really serious all of a sudden... um... go diversity! Yay!

To Whom It May Concern

2009-02-21T09:48:00.001-08:00

Sometimes, I feel sorry for the word whom. It didn't do anything wrong, but it is somehow being shunned for inadvertently making people look like assholes.

Most of the time, I just can't bring myself to say it. I know exactly where it should be used and where it shouldn't. But I just feel like such a pompous prick when I say it. Especially when the context of the situation is ridiculous and insanely inane, which is most of my existence.

"Oh, I'm sorry, whom did you say you spoke to about the one piece jort suit and cattle prods??"
"Mr. Teeters is the man whom she stabbed with a spork in a diner in Bucktown."

This is what my writer friend Katy Rank Lev thinks about this: "listen, i use whom as much as possible. do not shun the whom just because you fear it! we are actually talking who/whom in my class in about three minutes. so there will be 19 more young people using it properly!"

Well, Katy Rank Lev (and this isn't going to help my argument of colloquial slang vs. proper speech), but you can suck it, ahhh hahahahahaha!

Worst girl ever, part 2

2009-02-11T10:08:00.001-08:00

Another example of my lack of vagina-tude is my haircut or rather the process of the haircut. A few weeks ago, I went here to get ten inches lopped off of my ratty mane.

It's a cute, trendy place. They offered me some wine and a trashy magazine while I waited for my turn. I also got to pet that giant puppy in the photo.

When my turn came the stylist started asking me all sorts of questions about what I wanted. Did I want it angled? How should we frame your face? Do I want to try some bangs out? How long should the layers be? Apparently, cutting ten inches off is a big deal and something that requires deliberation.

I told her, "Well, just do whatever you want. I trust you. Plus, it'll grow back." This seemed to puzzle her. I guess my lack of concern about facial framing is atypical, especially in a nice place like this.

So, she did her thing. And this is what we ended up with.

[This is me being an asshole right after the haircut. My sister demanded pictures.]

My mom is probably disappointed that I'm such a terrible girl. Good thing she has my sister, who is girlie enough for the both of us. But I also wonder if my dad is slightly disappointed that I'm not quite a son, but too crappy of a girl to be Daddy's little princess. Oh well, sorry Annie and Danny.

Either way, I hope this creature makes you proud in some way.

Worst girl ever

2009-02-09T22:15:00.001-08:00

I am terrible at being a girl.

That's probably why I was able to resist the intellectually-barren, soul-sucking, estrogen-bait that is Bride Wars. Which was, literally, THE worst movie in America at the time. Only to be dragged along and time-raped because my friends are a bunch of va-jay-jays.

I tried my best to dissuade the group by berating them and sending them reviews. But my attempts were foiled by their extreme vaginal-ness.

[My favorite line from the reviews:"Bride Wars makes Sex and the City seem like Jane Austen."]

This was possibly the most excruciating 88 minutes I have ever experienced in a movie theater. Utterly cringe-worthy. The lazy script, painful dialogue, and haphazard editing managed to take away from their only success, which was magically turning two decent actresses (Anne Hathaway and Kate Hudson) into bush league amateurs while also pissing all over the 19th amendment and Gloria Steinem's existence with their portrayal of the female psyche. Bravo.

I wasn't the only one in the theater that held this point of view. A dude in the front wasn't even trying to hide the fact that he was playing solitaire on his cell phone. I wanted to be him so bad. He looked so distant and at peace. A small child also backed me up by indiscriminately screaming out that he was displeased. Who brings a child to Bride Wars!?! That poor kid is never going to want to go to the movies ever again.

I tried to humor my friends and pay attention, but every once in a while AJ would catch me staring off to the side with the sadness of a thousand slaughtered puppies in my eyes. I'm not even trying to be dramatic. It was beyond awful. Sure, it's over now, but I will have to live with the memories for the rest of my life. But if I have to be positive, I guess I can say that I survived the experience and am stronger for it.

Besides, what happened on the way home almost made it worth it.

I practically leapt on the bus to get home. In all of my excitement to get as far away from Bride Wars as possible, I almost didn't notice the clump of mud in the aisle. I walked around it, thought about kicking it to get it out of the aisle, then moved toward the back of the bus.

After about five steps I snapped out of my banality-induced daze and realized that it wasn't mud. At all. I turned right around and moved back toward the front to get a better view.

Just as I had hoped, there it was. A fist-sized pile of shit.

Right in the middle of the aisle.

Most people, like me, just assumed it was mud and walked around it.

Until one of the bus boarders exclaimed, "Ew! What is that?! Is that poop?" Just then everyone suspicions were confirmed and people started murmuring with disgust and joy. Some people even whipped out digital cameras.

Up until that point, the bus driver was oblivious and going about his business. But you really can't ignore three or more people shouting about poop on your bus. Two maybe. Crazy shit happens on the bus. (No pun intended.) But three? That's where you draw the line.

So, poor bus driver dude had to pull over and get rid of the offending dookie. There was a some debate about the best way to do this with the studio audience shouting suggestions.

"I've got a plastic bag!"
"No, use that pile of newspapers!"
"You've gotta scoop it onto the papers!"

Newspaper scooping was the winner.

No one knows where it came from. There are theories. But I'd rather just leave it as the phantom shit.

It's fitting that the day would end in such an awesomely awful way. Summed up by a big brown punctuation mark.

25 things

2009-02-04T14:54:00.000-08:00

There's this thing going around Facebook "25 random things about yourself." I admit, it's kinda MySpace-ish, but it's still fun. So, here goes.

1. My middle name would be my first name if I was in the Motherland.

2. I am still shocked that my sister and I came from the same hoo-ha. We could not be more different.

3. I have a sweating problem.

4. I was once stuck in a small elevator for an hour and a half with 10 rugby players in Barcelona. We were hundreds of pounds over the weight restriction.

5. Rugby has given me more than I have been able to give it. But I'm working on leaving it better than I found it, as Petah would say.

6. I love my nicknames: Jenny Lui (well, it's technically not a nickname), JLui, Ninja, Spider Monkey, J.

7. I live with a bear. I love it, but it sheds. And bites.

8. My mom gave me bowl cut bangs when I was little. I am still recovering.

9. I once went 52 hours without sleeping or sitting.

10. I collect words, funny phrases, and stories in the dozens of journals I have. And I'm a big creeper about it. People will find out years later that I was copying down everything they were saying, word for word.

11. I've been in love either one and a half or two times. Most likely two.

12. S-VUUUU! B.D. Wong! Remand, your honor!

13. I'm nervous you are judging me based on what I write.

14. I am obsessed with writing, but haven't done enough lately because my mind is a million miles away.

15. I'm annoyed that there is a tag limit on this note.

16. I can't wait to try the creeper lens Mike got me for Christmas. It's a mirror angle lens that shoots sideways. Hmm, there's a creeper theme emerging.

17. I have obscenely high blood pressure.

18. My parents say my name like Jen-nah-fah because they are big FOBs.

19. Miraculously, I have never broken a bone, even though I play a lot of rugby, am clumsy, and in the past, have been known to jump off of porches.

20. However, last tonight, I did manage to hurt my shoulder reaching for the Crystal Light.

21. I like the words "bulbous jowls," "flaccid," "arugula," and "diversity!" (said with enthusiasm). It's funny for me.

22. I really like being Asian.

23. I like to draw psychotic cartoons. If I was a kid in today's school system they would have confiscated them by now and labeled me a sociopath.

24. I'm not a great driver. I have terrible vision and a bad sense of direction. I hate that I perpetuate that stereotype. Sorry to all my Asian brethren.

25. I believe in people. Like a big asshole.

Man of the Hour

2009-01-15T20:34:00.001-08:00

I have a friend named Ross. He is a BAMF. Badass mofo. Probably one of the coolest guys I've ever met.

A slick-haired, chain-wearin' Jersey boy with a permanent five o'clock shadow and the attention span of a tulip. Sounds like a douche extraordinaire, right? Wrong. Not only is he one of the coolest dudes you've ever met, he's also a nice guy, hilarious, and super talented. At anything. Especially really random things. He's had dozens of different jobs in a dozen different fields. And he's always done well in them.

At one point after we had graduated from grad school, we asked him what he was up to. And he told us that he was coaching soccer for the Special Olympics (random). This was right after his impromptu solo trip to Africa. Which was right after the graduation he had to convince the board to let him be a part of after he was involved in an Interweb dog murder scandal.

(Sidenote: First of all, Ross wasn't even in this class. And to make things worse, the person that WAS in the class and who got blamed was Ross's mentee, whom he was supposed to be nurturing and helping and all that jazz. He used Jason's computer and inadvertently put him in the hot seat. Ross later made a public apology to his mentee, the school, Peta, and the police. Some of his finer work. I just had to buy him a beer for this one.)

Ok, I know what this sounds like. It sounds like I just have a crush on this dude. I understand. It'd be easy to come to this conclusion from all the gushing. But I have to say that this is a pretty normal reaction to meeting this kid. Perfectly straight guys have been known to develop man-crushes on him, so it's not just me.

So, anyways, the Bear and I hadn't talked to him in a while. But one day we just found him on this website. (The agency he works for did this and they used employees to populate the site at first. Look for this guy.)

We asked him what he'd been up to and he told us the big news in his life. He's engaged! We were both completely dumbfounded. This was totally out of the blue and as far as we knew he didn't even have a girlfriend. Which turns out was correct.

Back in the day, before we had ever met Ross, he had dated this girl, Elana. They dated for a significant period of time, but then broke up before he went to school. After the breakup, he went about his business and dated other people while he was losing years off his life due to the stress of grad school. But he would mention her every now and then. And she even came to Richmond to watch him graduate. So, obviously, they were still pretty tight.

Well, this past New Year's he went down to Texas to visit her. They had been talking on and off, keeping in touch, but weren't dating at the time. Two hours before midnight, Ross gets down on one knee. She's freaked out and thinks he's insane. Which technically, he probably is. 45 minutes later, they're engaged. When he tries to make it official, he puts the ring on the wrong hand. Classic.

In true Ross fashion, he had done things a little differently. He had managed to skip "girlfriend" and went straight to "fiance." And when things went slightly awry, he somehow made it work. That is Ross in a nutshell. Of course, most of the time the derailment is somehow connect to something he did. But he always manages to right the ship in the end.

Congrats, Ross! Looks like I owe you another beer.

The Beautiful People...The Beautiful People

2009-01-09T00:21:00.001-08:00

Apple's new iPhoto has a new feature called Faces, which...wait for it...recognizes faces. It's pretty impressive. Say you have a creeper friend named Nate. Well, iPhoto would go through your photo library and, based on face detection, pick out all of the pictures where it thinks Nate is creeping around in the background. It'll even tag them for you.

Now, we're not sure what it would do with a boatload of Asians. One or two might be ok. But I'd like to see it take a stroll down my memory lane and find its way around the lazy Susan. That would be truly impressive.

I wonder what would happen if it encountered the perfect face. (Based on the Golden Ratio, there are exact proportions for beauty. The mask below is based on that idea. The proportions of the length of the nose, position of the eyes, and length of the chin all adhere to some aspect of the Golden Ratio.) Would iPhoto recognize this face as human? Would it seize up? Would it try to do itself, enamored by the face's mathematical perfection? Guess we'll have to play around in the new iPhoto to find out. Also, we may need to create this freak human, if "they" already haven't.

Sidenote: we're hoping they'll develop butt recognition software for iPhoto '10.

Christmas in January

2009-01-06T11:05:00.001-08:00

Last night, Mike and I stopped in a CVS on the way home. They were trying to purge all of their Christmas items to make way for the next big thing. MLK Day candies or Valentine's Day junk or whatever. And that meant that everything was 75% off.

This is the part where Mike loses his mind and thinks it's a good idea to buy a bunch of crap we don't need. White chocolate snowman, hollow milk chocolate bear, hot cocoa mix with marshmallows, anti-viral tissues...well, ok, the tissues were necessary. Everything else we probably could have done without. But, it was nice to have a little Christmas relapse. We even went to Hollywood video and rented Elf to go along with the hot chocolate.

Also, coincidentally, the Christmas present that Mike got me arrived in the mail today. So, it really was a happy, little delinquent Christmas.

This present is pretty awesome. He got me a creeper lens for my camera!

A mirror angle scope to be exact. This'll be great for stalking. 'Cause usually when a camera is pointed toward a person, they can sense it. Which turns most people into, either hams or shier people. Which, generally, isn't as fun as something real.

Now, I'll be able to trick people into ignoring me and my obnoxiously erect lens. (It has to be zoomed in the entire way for proper framing. This isn't just a childish comment, ok?)

This is what happens when it's not zoomed in. You catch some of the periph. On the edge is the hallway closet, which I am facing. Then out of the side, I'm creeping on Mike who is in the kitchen.

This is what it looks like zoomed in. (I think there's something wrong with it. There's so much fur. There's too much fur. Maybe it only works outside.)

Anyways, A plus plus plus gift. (P.S. I finally watched A Christmas Story this year! Now, maybe people will stop harassing me and ridiculing my childhood. Unlikely. Well, at least there will be less ammo next year.) Merry Christmas in January, everyone!

Danger den

2009-01-05T20:31:00.001-08:00

I'm living with a mangy, diseased bear. Mangy because he had a shaving accident. He lopped off a chunk of his chin fur and had to shave the whole thing. It's weird seeing him clean-shaven. Imagine Burt Reynolds without his man-stache. Unpossible, right? It's just a part of his face. Well, that's what fur is to a bear. A trademark of sorts.

See? Without it, it's just like "Who the hell is this guy? And was he going for gay cowboy?" Burt Reynolds would never do that. You lose the 'stache, you lose your shit. Total identity crisis.

Anyways, lucky for me, the mangy bear is also diseased (he brewed himself a nice little sinus infection). Which means I will be diseased within a week. Because I have the immune system of an infant. It also doesn't help that I am a sitting duck in this germ-infected lair, practically inviting the disease to incubate in my organs.

I'm doing everything I can to avoid this. But I know it's inevitable. He asked me if I was going on vacation because I've removed my toothbrush from the little cup on our bathroom sink. I don't need our toothbrushes to be touching. It's practically making out. I mean, let's not stand in the line of fire here.

In reality, I should probably rub our toothbrushes together, catch the cold, and get it over with. Between the amount of time we spend together and my terrible, terrible immune system, there is no way I am not getting sick. But I guess at the very least, I can make the cold catch me.

It speaks.

2008-12-28T22:00:00.001-08:00

I have discovered the most wonderful thing. A feature on my enV2 vx9100 Verizon phone...TALKING TEXTS. I was texting my sister, who was in the next room, when I accidentally hit a key that I normally wouldn't hit. A halting female robot voice with terrible inflection jumped out of my little maroon phone.

Wait? What was that? Did you...did you just read my text message to me?

Well, surely, it wouldn't recite ALL of my messages to me. If I try to type in the f-word it'll just tell me I'm a bad person, like the M&Ms website does when you try to get the word "crotch" printed on a personalized M&M.

So, I went through my inbox to find a vulgar text for testing. I was quite confident that I would find one. This is what I found.

"Chug for 5 little bitches" I pressed the button and it said...

"Chug for 5 little bitches"

What! Really? It's too much. How did I not know this existed?? Why wasn't there a memo or something? Why didn't someone call me?!

It was already pretty late, but once I discovered this feature all possibilities of productivity were kaput. So, instead of working, I went through my old texts and forced my computer phone to say these things. (It only works with texts you receive. So, you can't type something in and make it say just any ridiculous thing. There are rules.)

"Pimp juice."
"Yea! Fuck yea! Go Canada! Yea!" (silly Canadians)
"Damn you, Asian."
"Just saw an Asian girl in pink spandex and ballet shoes skateboarding carrying a bowl of grapes."
"Have you ever heard the phrase 'that's tits' referring to something great?"
"At this moment I am watching a 13-piece pirate band."
"I don't know. Maybe I do want a finger in the butt."
"There's a man on the bus reading the book '400 soups.' He's about halfway through."
"Amy w. speaking of Paul Pozusky: I want to masturbate to his jaw."
"Poop. Yes. Poop."
"Diana and I ate potato salad at a rest stop hiding by a construction fence."
"I think I just saw someone walking down the street who had pooped their pants."
"Shelf boobs."

Oh, best game ever. I was so excited that I had to share the news. So, I im-ed my friend, Noby, and told her about this magical feature. Which made her promptly text me this, "Shit damn fuck penis." Sooo mature.

Because I am a giant child who giggles at childish things, this will bring me hours of joy. I'm even happier to say that I was able to spread the joy by telling my friend, Dave K., who has the same phone in black, about this magic technology. He thanked me by texting me these:

"Slow your roll like titty balls on jello slick back ain't lookin' so get the cough syrup cookin', fire and ice one shot makes man of mice."
"I will and good night sweet treat which fondles trolls aeriola golden nipple slips."

Ankle Mobility!

2008-12-20T09:13:00.000-08:00

From time to time, I like to do some freelance writing on the side. 'Cause it's nice to take a little break from advertising. I always learn something new. And it keeps things interesting.

Right now, I'm writing an article about ankle mobility for Experience Life, a health and fitness mag. And it has made me so paranoid about ankle mobility.

Did you know that most people have immobile ankles, due to poor choice in footwear and/or lifestyle (aka being chained to a desk while our muscles and tendons shrivel up, rendering them...well, shrivel-y and inefficient)? I know! Me neither! AND I found out that immobile ankles can cause everything from shin splits to knee pain. And that the bad juju can travel as high as your shoulder and mess that up, too...I mean, your shoulder! That's really far away from your ankle.

So, now, I've been harassing my friends about their ankle mobility and their footwear. "I'm concerned about your ankle mobility," I'd tell them.

When my friend, Joey, told me she had bought MBT shoes, I was horrified and displeased.

These shoes have rounded bottoms that are supposed to distribute your body weight evenly when you walk. Interesting idea. But several doctors have told me that those shoes are terrible for your ankles. It's just not natural. If God had intended this, don't you think he would have given us little mini rocking horse feet? I think he would have.

Bootie

2008-12-19T19:32:00.001-08:00

It's snowy. It's been snowy. And I've been traipsing around the city in poorly insulated, spongy velcro nurse shoes. Leaping over puddles, tip-toeing on snow banks, taking the scenic route around the mini lakes that pool at the street corners.

I finally got sick of permanent swamp sock. So, yesterday I got some shiny new moon boots, the ones that remind you of elementary school and being buried alive in terrible Snow Day tunneling accidents. They're silver and make me look a little special. But they also make me feel as if I can defy Winter. The crotchety old bastard.

Old man Winter, like a reptile, steals warmth from wherever he can find it. Out of our bodies. Out of our hearts. He robs us blind without compassionate. And tries to turn himself into Spring. But it doesn't work like that. I'm onto you, old man.

Even if the rest of me is freezing, I'll take comfort in knowing that I have blocked one path to my heart.

I'm no longer an Arctic Jesus wanna-be, trying to hover over flaky water. Now I just plow on through. Through snow, through slush, even through the mini lakes. I actually go out of my way to stomp down every six-pronged crony I see.

Not this year, old man.

Fun Video Monday

2008-12-15T11:44:00.000-08:00

The whole "inanimate objects as chimes playing a Christmas song" thing is kinda played out. But you have to admit, this is pretty awesome.

Hey, at least, they improved on it. Unlike this.

However, WalMart did manage to put out a charming holiday spot with this. BUT, it's not really a WalMart spot. It's more of a Coke spot and WalMart is just a slash weasel.

---

I find these monk robes terrifying and ridiculous. Cut a hole in an old blanket for God's sake. Shall I also brew you some Kool-aid and fit you for Nikes?

---

The Lame Duck Duck is the video of the week. I'm sure if given the chance, people would be lined up around the block with their size tens. Be on the lookout for an Interweb game version of this.

"Americaaaa...fuck yeah!"

2008-12-14T12:46:00.000-08:00

Second City just opened its 96th revue - "America: All Better!" And it is hilarious. A bunch of people from work went to see it on opening night because it's starring one of our very own. (Well, actually, she's formerly one of us, but I'd still like to associate myself with her because she's pretty brilliant.)

As you may have guessed, the show does have a lot of topical political humor. But they balance it out with subject matter that never gets old, like relationships and prepubescent Russian gymnastics.

Highlights include Rahm Emanuel's reoccurring role as the "Hebrew hit man," a song about interracial love, Mayor Daley clumsily trying to sell Chicago to the Olympics committee, female pro-wrestlers trash-talking, and a skit that I can't talk about because it'll ruin the surprise.

Our former co-worker friend is the "feisty redhead," as she's referred to in reviews. She kinda reminds me of Sarah Silverman. Just looking at her, she looks completely innocent. But then she talks and she's dirtier than a drunken VD-laden sailor with an incontinence issue.

She once told someone that she got out of advertising because she was afraid of presenting. Funny how things work out.

Welcome back, right arm

2008-12-13T12:21:00.001-08:00

Well, I've officially gradumatated from physical therapy! My arm's not completely back to normal. (I'll always have a coat rack for a shoulder.) But it's well enough that physical therapy isn't going to help a whole lot anymore. So, I'm on my own.

That means working on awkward muscles. Like my rotator cuff. If you strengthen those, they'll stabilize your shoulder and prevent another injury. Apparently, most people's rotator cuffs are weak because it's a strange muscle to work.

At the gym, I use the weight machine with the cables to do my rotator cuff work. You know, that big thing with the adjustable plates and removable handles? This thing...

Anyway, during my workout I look like I'm doing a terrible rendition of The Robot because I have to rotate my arm in every conceivable angle. My particular interpretation is a rusty robot because my arm is all weak and I struggle with the tiny five-pound plate. It looks ridiculous. If I could put a little 2.5 plate on there, I would.

Thankfully, this injury happened at the very end of the season, so there was no risk of coming back too soon. 'Cause I probably would have. Because rugby players (or athletes in general) are stubborn and kinda stupid when it comes to protecting themselves from injury in these situations.

Yeah, I am a little nervous to use my shoulder as a battering ram again. But I think I'll forget all about it after the first hit. I wonder who it will hurt more...me...or the person I'm hitting. I can't imagine that getting a pointy clavicle in the gut is a pleasant thing.

2008-12-10T22:38:00.000-08:00

Sometimes in high school, my friends would come over. Sometimes it was during the summer. And because of that sometimes they were thirsty. So, they'd ask Annie Lui if they could have a glass of water. And she would always give them a coffee cup full of lukewarm water from her water boiler.

This is probably one of the worst beverages you can give someone in the summer when they're sweaty and thirsty. But cool beverages make Annie Lui cold because she is a small 100-lb Asian woman. She's just trying to keep us warm and safe. All year 'round.

Gross...real gross

2008-12-09T19:44:00.000-08:00

The other day my dad sent me an email with this in the subject line:

"Fwd: Best positions in bed"

I just about threw my computer across the room. So horrifying.

Logically, I knew the email wouldn't contain the dirty things suggested in the subject line. But just the idea of my dad forwarding me a kinky email was enough to flare up my gag reflex.

I don't think I've ever talked about sex with him. Ever. Not even the desperately avoidant birds and the bees version. We've each just assumed that the other person has no concept of intercourse.

I like to believe that my parents have only had sexual contact twice. Once for each child. And by sexual contact, I don't mean P in the V. I mean, maybe they accidentally used the same soap and that's how my mom got pregnant. You will never convince me otherwise.

Thankfully, his email did not contain detailed multi-angled diagrams of the kama sutra. It had pictures like this.

Which also made me throw up a little. But for a completely different reason.

Eyepatch prune hernia

2008-12-08T20:03:00.001-08:00

I saw this on Jodie Van Ogtrop's (an old teammate) facebook status.

---

Rules:
* Grab the book closest to you. Now.
* Go to page 56.
* Find the 5th sentence.
* Write that sentence as your status.
* Copy these instructions as a comment to your status.
* Don't go looking for your favorite book, or the coolest one you have -- just grab the closest one.

---

What an awesome idea. Here is what the nearest book told me.

"We chide the citizen because he makes love a commodity."

It probably doesn't make complete sense out of context, but you can still find some meaning in it. Actually, because it's out of context it might even make more sense to you. There's so little to tell you what to think, you've got to insert more of yourself into it. And whatever you come up with is...the right answer. Score.

I love randomness. There's so much possibility in it.

Apple crotch

2008-12-07T18:02:00.001-08:00

I've finally replaced my train wreck of a computer with this.

It's a beaut. And I did blow a pretty penny on it, so I feel a little guilty. However, my old Powerbook is 4 years old and the keyboard is smashed in, so I don't feel that bad.

I also don't feel bad because the new Macbook is part of the greenest family of notebooks Apple have ever made. It's ENERGY STAR certified, highly recyclable, and they've removed a lot of harmful toxins. Like mercury and...arsenic?! Wait a minute. You mean the old one was full of poison and sadness? Oh my God, I had it near my genitals!

That's ok. I forgive you, Apple. I mean, after all you did get rid of the toxins. But maybe you should be more selective on what you brag about. It's like saying, "Oh, well, sure. I did have herpes. I didn't tell you because I knew it was gonna go away. But I'm all better now. So, how 'bout that sandwich?"

2008-12-05T07:12:00.000-08:00

Mike and I just wasted half an hour on Photoshop disasters. And I want to share the joy.

How these various projects got out the door is beyond me. These are professional people! Someone paid them to make these hot messes.

I go for the deformed body parts. I stay for the comments.

"Nakin video"

2008-12-03T09:27:00.000-08:00

I recently shared our video about a video with my parents. This is what they said about it.

-----

Hi, Jennifer,

Thanks for sending us the nakin video. Is this video for Harris Bank
or just for your company's website. How did Harris Bank rate your
video production? Is it your first time in your company video
production? You looked funny and natural and dork too. Very
interesting and looked like a very good team project. Keep the
production coming and you might win the Emmy award.....Ha!Ha!

Take care!

Love,
Mom & Dad

-----

So cute and fobby! I'm not sure if other cultures use the term FOB (aka Fresh Off the Boat), but the sentiment definitely translates. My friend Sausage was telling me that she could see her parents doing some of the things she saw on mymomisafob.com. (Her parents are straight off the boat from Poland.)

The universality of fobbiness reminded me of my friend Mansi's project Dsplaced. It's an exploration of human belonging. How we all feel displaced at one time or another. How home isn't always where you live. And the ways we try to find where we're supposed to be.

I think the catalyst for this project was the attacks in India, where she's from. I can't imagine how helpless she must have felt knowing that her friends and family were living that terror while she was thousands of miles away. Thankfully, the Interwebs has made the world seem smaller. And hopefully, it's made her feel a little bit closer to home.

Check it out. Share a displaced story if you want. I'm sure you've got one.

Grab bag of humans

2008-12-02T20:12:00.000-08:00

Sunday was my teammate Z's birthday, so we took her out for lunch. She picked a Puerto Rican joint. We don't know a damn thing about Puerto Rican food. So, she was our cultural guide. This was my first time having it, so I was excited. Devin, who is less enthusiastic about culinary exploration, was half excited, half xenophobic towards the food (I don't know why. She's Japanese. Asian cultures do weird things with food. She should be desensitized by now.) Though she did make an admirable effort to hide her disgust at the pig's feet in Z's soup.

Our lunch menu:
relleno de papa - filled potato
arcapuria - deep fried plantain with meat
pastelle - soft consistency, filled with pork
lechon jibarito - pork sandwich using flattened plantain instead of bread

(Jibaritos)

Everything was really good. Little greasy, but good. I was especially impressed by the versatility of plantains. They were in everything. In many different forms. I bet they could even find a way to use plantains to fix an AC unit if it came down to it. They're magic fruit!

Our lunch bunch was kinda random. No one would have put this group together on their own. But that's one of things I love about our team. The cornucopia of personalities. Everyone is so different. And just a little off in their own way. But I think that's what connects us.

Rugby seems to attract outcasts. The sport itself is unique, not easy defined, and unconventionally beautiful - much like the people who are drawn to it.

Take Z. She's an interesting character. She is unapologetically Z. And beats to her own drum. (They're probably bongos.) She does and says what she feels, even if it happens to be inappropriate or awkward for the situation. Now, I think she could definitely improve her filtering skills, but I do love that she doesn't give a shit about what anyone thinks.

[Sidenote: I have a friend from Penn State who has this laugh. It's this slightly mechanical-sounding machine gun like laugh. We call her Drummer Rat. Because it's what you'd imagine coming out of one of those giant animatronic creatures that are part of Chuckie Cheese's birthday band.]

One of the running jokes on our team is making that drummer rat noise whenever someone does something odd or goofy.

I say, bang on.

"Mom...Dad..."

2008-12-01T21:16:00.000-08:00

"...I have something to tell you. I'm coming out. I'm...asexual." "Ok, well, good job so far." "...thanks...I guess."

I'm a little cynical towards relationships right now. So, I thought now would be a good time to become a fresh water sponge. Or a starfish. Or a hydra. And become asexual. Wanting nothing to do with anyone, at any time in the near future. I imagine this won't last long. Because I am not a unicellular organism. And I will crack because of that. But it seems like a good idea at the moment.

Don't mistake this passing wave of cynicism for regret. I have never regretted a relationship. Romantic or otherwise. Because all those connections make us who we are. Every one of them is woven into our personal tapestries. Whether they're frayed or forged in steel.

Sure, I've been burnt. Everyone has. It happens when human beings are involved. But I would never give back any of those experiences. I wouldn't even give back the hurt. I feel like it's made me more complete. I try to learn something from every experience. I take what I can from it and am always glad that it happened. No matter what.

I take pride in my complete recklessness in relationships. When I like someone I offer them my heart on a silver platter. I practically hand them a mallet and say do what you want with it. And just hope they're not into Bop-a-Mole. Some people say that an admirable strategy. Others say I'm stupid and naive. At the very least, I hope they're both right.

NaBloPoMo: FAIL!

2008-11-30T19:49:00.001-08:00

Well, it's the last day of the month. I have an entry for every day in November, but it was done in a rather untimely manner. Conclusion: I have failed in this experiment. Or have I?

Ok, technically, yes. I did fail. But I still took something away from it. This exercise didn't shatter my fear of imperfect words. But it did nudge me in the right direction.

Every day, I would start a post, but then my anal-retentive nature kept me from just going with what I was thinking. I had to let things marinate. Funny thing is, I usually ended up right where I started. But for some reason, there was something keeping me from just saying it.

Once I started falling behind I was forced to write a bunch of posts in an even shorter period of time. I had to just go with it. I had to stop censoring myself so much. I had to stop thinking everything I wrote was wrong. I had to just write. And I did. And it went alright. They're not perfect posts. They don't always end neatly. But they're there. I blurted them out and my world didn't end.

So, I'd like to update the project status from "NaBloPoMp: FAIL!" to..."NaBloPoMo: FAIL?" Yeah! Upgrade!

Why

2008-11-29T00:32:00.001-08:00

This is an ad that was on the back of one of my Psychology Today magazines.

What is organic about this moment? I'm not sure this moment could get any more inauthentic. Children do not behave like that. If this were real life, that boy would've never let her in his treehouse 'cause she's got cooties. Also, he would be breaking something that she is fond of. And he certainly wouldn't be looking at her like that. No one looks at anyone like that. Except for people in after-school specials and terrible advertising.

What is with that girl's hat? Is she a fifty-year-old woman that's about to go hoe up some okra? And where is that dog looking? It's not at the kid with the shit-eating grin on his face. It's probably a stuffed dog carcass.

Long distance couch

2008-11-28T21:16:00.001-08:00

I don't know how Mike and I haven't killed each other yet. (Not that we haven't tried. I try almost every night to murder him in his sleep. I guess I'm just really bad at it.) We work together. We live together. We are around each other constantly. Yet we still like hanging out. How is this possible?

Over this break, we found a way to hang out even though we were in different time zones. On Tuesday night while I was in my tofu prison waiting for Amy to get home, I got bored and was talking to people on the Interwebs. Mike also happened to be online, so naturally we took that opportunity to verbally abuse each other.

At one point in the conversation he mentioned something he was watching on tv, so I turned to the same channel. And it was like we were sitting on the couch watching tv together. We did this for 4 or 5 hours, haha. We watched show after show of trashy tv, jumping between E!, MTV, and VH1. Making jokes and just wasting time. Shit don't make no sense.

Turkey day

2008-11-27T09:07:00.001-08:00

The Lui family had a loverly Turkey Day. In the morning, we prepped the bird to the soundtrack of the Thanksgiving Day Parade. Then we chopped some things up. Then I got kicked out of the kitchen because there wasn't enough room. Then I surfed on the Interwebs and watched my dad watch golf.

Then they let me back in the kitchen to take this picture.

Then my mom pretended she knew how to work a computer.

(So hip! So tech-savvy!)

Then Annie and Danny took this adorable picture.

-----

Amy showed off her mad culinary skillz. I was duly impressed. The meal was delightful. The stuffing was different, but good (chicken sausage, apples, breading, cranberries, onions). The mashed item was adventurous (mashed cauliflower, not bad at all). And the bird was perfectly cooked. Good job, Amy! Thanks for putting together a great meal and for being a good hostess!

Messin' with Annie

2008-11-26T18:17:00.001-08:00

My mom is pretty gullible. It's not really a challenge to mess with her, but my sister and I like to do it anyways.

We told her that I wasn't coming to Ohio for Thanksgiving and had made other plans in Chicago. (This isn't too far-fetched since I didn't go home last year. Mostly because I didn't have any money to fly to Pittsburgh, then find a way up to Ridgway, which is two hours away. A pitfall to living in the boondocks.)

She kept telling my sister that she was going to call me and talk me into coming to Ohio. But my sister was able to convince her that I had plans that I couldn't get out of and not to bother with calling me. (Most of the communication was between Amy and my mom, so preventing this conversation kept the circle of lies from expanding. Thus, reducing our chances of getting caught in the web. Which honestly, was not a real concern. Also, my dad was not even in the running for plan-messer-upper because he just believes whatever my mom tells him.)

So, on Tuesday, I just chilled in Cleveland in my tofu prison. Then on Wednesday afternoon I helped Amy get stuff ready for Thanksgiving (i.e. buying the correct cookware and some libations). Annie and Danny, the rents, weren't due in Ohio 'til about 5 pm that evening. Well, we were running a little behind all day and they ended up getting there while we were out running errands. So, we told them to hold tight and rushed home.

On the way home, we were trying to figure out the most entertaining way to surprise them with my presence. My dad has had bypass surgery, so any sort of jumping out and yelling was probably unwise. Plus, he's no fun to trick. He'd just grunt at us and turn on some golf.

So, Amy decided that when they walked in, (we'd buzz them in from inside her apartment), "Amy" would be sitting on the couch silently watching tv and mom would have to approach her to talk to her. Then discover that, surprise, it's the other one.

Amy: Yeah, so she'll have to come up to you. She'll probably start talking to you and not even notice at first.
Me: What? That'll never work. My hair is like a foot longer than yours. Plus, I look nothing like you.
Amy: Yes, it will!
Me: And why would you be sitting on the couch watching tv? She knows you were just at the grocery store.
Amy: So, what? She won't think about that. She's so predictable. She's gonna walk up to you and probably yell at you for not being home.
Me: ...yeah, you're probably right.

So, Amy hid behind the couch to listen to all the action. I buried myself, including half my face, in blankets and put on My Super Sweet Sixteen. From behind you could only see the top of my head, so the hair length was no longer an issue. I propped my head up on my hand.

Amy (from behind the couch): No! Put your arm down! It looks too muscular! (Sure, that's how we're gonna get caught. Nothing else is weird about this scenario.)

Amazingly, everything went as planned. My dad walked in and bee-lined for the bathroom. Then mom came in. Approached the couch. And as predicted said...

Mom: Amy! Why you not home!? We wait for you. (all while looking me right in the face) Oh!...Jennifah? Hahaha. I wonder why you look so tired.

Tofu prison

2008-11-25T21:08:00.001-08:00

Hello, I'm in Ohio.

I'm here visiting my sister. She moved to Cleveland a few months ago for her first pharmacy job. So, this year we're spending Thanksgiving at her place.

I got in at around 12:30 today. She came and got me at the airport, then dropped me off at her apartment. Unfortunately, she has to work over at the Cleveland Clinic 'til 11 PM tonight. Even more unfortunately, I can't leave the apartment because she has to use her building key to get out of the garage.

I don't mind just hanging out here. But the problem is, there's no real food in this place. And I have to survive 12 hours. (I have a high metabolism, ok?)

We got some Mediterranean food for lunch. So, I rationed that out. It lasted 'til about 6 pm. Then I had to forage, which was difficult because everything was either "off-limits" or deemed inedible. The "off-limit" items were to be used for Thanksgiving dinner, which is valid. And the seemingly stocked fridge and freezer turned out to be a mirage.

Amy's pretty into eating super healthy. She's not a vegan. But she likes vegan items. She SAYS she likes the taste of food. Yet she buys food that's missing the delicious parts, like sugar and fats. At about 10 pm, I was getting desperate. I almost broke down and had some broccoli pancakes and organic chicken broth. Then I remembered she had cinnamon bagels in the freezer. I guess I'll save that concoction for another day.

The Creeper

2008-11-24T22:36:00.001-08:00

I took this picture at the Obama rally.

Our friend Nate became obsessed with it. (He's amused by the simple things.) He changed all of his profile pictures to this picture of Mike. And then asked me to change mine. I complied. Then we decided to recruit and start a movement. We even got my sister to join in.

Mike has aptly named this look "The Creeper." That day we spread his creepiness all over Facebook. It got a little out of control.

We may all need to get a life.

Warning: mature content

2008-11-24T09:00:00.003-08:00

This morning I sent Sarah this link. It's wildly inappropriate for work. Of course, I failed to warn her. And she yelled at me for that. But I knew she was telecommuting from home, so I didn't feel bad at all.

Sometimes, I forget that not everyone works in a bizarro universe where your boss sometimes acts more immature than you do. Where 3 pm is Halo/fooseball time, depending on everyone's mood. Where it's ok to have a wall display full of crazy/creepy/inappropriate things that you found on the Interwebs. Where there's usually someone in the hallway screaming about potato salad or codpieces.

If I lived in the homogenous, stifled world of corporate America I think my soul would shrivel up and blow away like a flower petal that's been violently shaken from the stem. Or the discarded underbelly of an asp. Or an AWOL contact at the most inopportune time of a sporting event.

On the bad days when I'm frustrated and tired, I just look at the cat anus tattoo on our wall and things don't seem quite so bad.

Best Sunday ever!

2008-11-24T09:00:00.001-08:00

Because I had an upsetting Saturday, Mike decided that Sunday should be...best Sunday ever! At about 9 pm on Saturday, we had settled on a plan of delicious lunch, Jersey Boys, and circus. Pretty awesome plan, right? So, at around midnight, we called Alana (Jersey Boy fan) and sprung the plan on her. She was confused about our timing, but excited by the plan. Though she did opt out of the circus.

For future reference, if you ever want to see a show and have a) poor scheduling skills, b) have a distaste for organization, and/or c) like to be spontaneous, you should do what we did and buy your tickets the day of the show. We went through a company called Gold Coast Tickets and were able to get seats in the fourth row for the Sunday matinee at half price. Fourth row! (Credit to Mike for talking the price down. One of his specialty skills is talking people into things. Another one is crying on command, which I think is psychotic/sociopathic.)

[Funny aside. In the lobby of the theater, Mike goes on a rant about how appalled he is at the lack of aim in the bathrooms. Especially in a classy joint like the theater. "It's like they were going...and then someone came up and shot them." Insert dramatic reenactment with violent flailing.

The show was really good. I think I'd put it right ahead of Wicked on my list of favorite shows. This ranking is based on my enjoyment of Jersey Boys, as well as my slight disappointment in Wicked. I made the mistake of reading the book, by Gregory Maguire, before seeing the show. If I haven't of done that, I could've maintained some objectivism and judged the show on its own merits. But instead, I was left wanting for the darkness and dense commentary of Maguire's novel. In the show's defense, I guess it's hard to profoundly capture the immorality and corruption when everyone has to dance and sing about it in Munchkin outfits.

Anyhoo, Jersey Boys. Right. I thoroughly enjoyed it. The set design was really minimalist, but they used it well. There was a really cool effect that placed the audience backstage, directly behind the group as they performed. As you looked out, your vision was speckled by flashbulbs and stage lights. Cory Grant, who played Frankie Valli, really did "sing like an angel." But my favorite character was Tommy, who was unapologetically flawed and thuggishly charming. Very good show.

(Tommy, played by Jeremy Kushnier, is on the far right. The guy playing Frankie Valli in this picture, second from left, was not the actor who played him in our show. It was this guy...)
(Cory Grant)

---

The circus was fun. I mean, it's the circus. There's all sorts of crazy shit happening. It's kinda hard to be grouchy and not have a good time. Well, maybe if you're allergic to babies. There were so many! Everywhere! We were tripping on them left and right. They had no sense of traffic patterns. I even got attacked by one in the bathroom. I was standing in line and there was a woman holding a baby behind me. The baby was a dude. He was about 4 or 5. I was minding my own business while waiting to do it. And I feel this tapping on my shoulder. That baby was punching me like he was a welterweight in a meat locker! The mom didn't seem to think this was inappropriate. I couldn't rely on her for protection. So, I just took a step forward and tiny Tyson was stuck shadow boxing. Damn baby.

The circus had everything you'd imagine. And more! Like singing, which I didn't expect. That's how they moved from event to event. I guess that's how they're trying to compete with Cirque de Soleil. As for the acts, there were tigers, elephants, Asians doing crazy shit like balancing on each other and swinging on giant sticks, a motorcycle on a tightrope, horse stunt riders, trapeze artists, clowns, even goats riding horses. The goats were one of my favorite parts, but that's so unnatural.

My other favorite part was the motorcycle orb. If you've never seen it, it's a big steel orb and motorcyclists ride around it looping upside down and miraculously avoiding collisions with each other. They started with 3 riders. Then 4. Then 5. Then they jumped straight to 7! Mike and I joked about how far they'd go. "And now, 37 Rebel Riders!" They'd just keep jamming them in there. At about 16 riders, I'd imagine that no one is riding anymore. That they're basically Rebel Rev-ers, all idling in a pile.

The most impressive act was a guy that walked upside down. It doesn't sound impressive, but it was genuinely nerve-racking to watch him. He was suspended by loops of rope around his ankles. There were two rows of them and he used them to make his way from one end of the platform to the other end. Kinda like monkey bars for your feet.

The least impressive act in my opinion was the mini horse lady. Not in a freak show way. Like this.

Mini horses are innately awesome. But I felt like mini horse lady didn't fully utilize their awesomeness. The entire act happened in a puffy inner tube-like ring. She had about 8 mini horses running along the inside of the ring...and that's about it. They just ran in a circle, like they were trying to summon a tornado out of the dirt. At one point, they all turned around in a circle. Then she brought out a few more mini horses and they ran in the opposite direction. To control the mini tornado, I guess. Yeah, I imagine it's pretty hard to control the demon creature that is the mini horse, but I could probably make them run in a circle.

All the other acts were pretty impressive. As predicted, we had a good time. And the day still wasn't over. After the circus, we went home and watched Tropic Thunder. But I feel asleep halfway through it. Too much excitement for one day.

Best Sunday Ever was a success. I feel much better. Thanks Bear. (Maybe you should submit your tricycle act for their next show! I'd definitely pay to see that.)

--------------

Also, thanks to Noby and Joey for putting up with my stink face for 7 hours on Saturday. :)

What's worse?

2008-11-22T00:44:00.001-08:00

The other day, a bunch of us were having one of our typical "inappropriate for work" conversations. (Though I'm not sure it can be classified as inappropriate for our particular workplace because almost everyone talks like this. Or at least finds these types of conversation to be completely normal.) I forget how we got there, but we started talking about words that girls hate.

For example, most girls seem to be revolted by the word "moist." It's pretty consistent across the board. "Panty" also seems to be high on the loathe list. Then somehow "meat" got thrown into the mix. But I wouldn't say that's in the typical top three. Naturally, we had a debate on what would be the most bothersome combination of these words. (Remember that we are at work and discussing this very loudly outside of a meeting room.)

It was between "moist meat panty" and "moist panty meat." Now, "moist meat panty" suggests panties made of meat. Where as "moist panty meat" suggests that your panties are filled with a foreign meat-like substance, which I think you would agree is worse. This is what the group settled on, but we are open to suggestions.

Desktop snapshot

2008-11-22T00:43:00.001-08:00

My desktop is usually a mess. It drives Mike crazy because he is anal-retentive about file names and digital organization. It's funny because in real life, it's the exact opposite. I keep track of all of our meetings, pay the bills, send business notes, and in general, I try to keep our lives from becoming a Benny Hill comedy of errors (doesn't always work, but I try). While he is running around trying to find various important articles of clothing. In a lot of ways, we are the exact same person. Except, he is so...furry. In other ways, we are diametric opposites. But for some reason, those areas seem to balance each other out.

Here is what my desktop looks like right now. It's usually worse. I did a little house-cleaning.

Here's a closer look at what those files are.

What is that? Whatever it is, it's awesome-looking.

I love nonsense.

My grandma with her new hat. She lives in the Kong.

Hahahaha.

Logo Mike made for himself to match this...

Which is a real t-shirt. One of our creative directors sent me a link to it and demanded that I buy it before the election. I complied. Not to be outdone, Mike sent his logo to a print shop and had it put on a sweatshirt. So, on election day we rocked our matching Bear!Ninja! gear, haha.

I see you

2008-11-19T08:50:00.000-08:00

I was reading this article in the New York Times about the formation of Obama's cabinet and how he was setting the stage for his administration. The first thing that caught my attention was his decision to reject donations from lobbyists and corporations. And to instead, rely on the same large pool of small donors that had supported him throughout the election. I thought it was admirable of him to instate restrictions under his own volition, regardless of any campaign finance reform.

Some people were worried that Obama wouldn't be able to follow through on his promise of change. That he was just a silver-tongued senator with no real experience at inciting action. I think this is a prime example of the kind of president he's going to be. He's getting things done, his own way. And I think he has his inexperience to thank for that. He doesn't know any better. He doesn't have a default to fall back on. And that means he doesn't fall into old, dangerous patterns.

The article went on to say that Obama would like to expand on the practice of selecting cabinet member from the opposing party. What? That's crazy. We'll see if it happens, but I think that sends a pretty clear message about his intention to be more bipartisan. What if he found a place for McCain in his cabinet?

The overarching theme was transparency. A vow to have an efficient, organized transition. One that was more open and transparent than others before. And then to run a transparent administration. One that creates trust and encourages participation. Baaaa?!? A government that people trust? That idea makes me uncomfortable and a little itchy. But how amazing would it be if Obama could actually achieve this? And if politicians can do it? If an entire administration can do it? Why can't we? Why can't we all be a little more transparent and actually say what we're thinking? And cut all the bullshit in our daily lives? It'd definitely make a statement that people won't be able to ignore.

Tropical Asian in Chi-town

2008-11-18T10:56:00.001-08:00

In an effort to lower the utility bill, the bear and I are keeping the heat off in the lair. It hasn't been too bad so far. We have some space heaters and I bundle up like a clothy onion. Most of the time, it's chilly, yet comfortable. But there are definitely times that I wished we didn't have expensive electric heat and a bunch of drafty windows.

The mornings are the worst. I have to admit that sometimes I don't take a shower in the morning because I can't stand the idea of the cold air coming anywhere near wet skin. (Relax. On those days, I've taken a shower the night before. So, I'm not a complete dirt ball.)

Sometimes, when I get out of bed, I can actually feel the warmth being drained from my body. And with it, my motivation. Once my core temperature is low, it's all over. I curl up into a ball, like a Popple, and go into lock-down mode in an effort to regenerate heat.

The low point was when I started hovering over the toilet, as if I was in a restroom at a truck stop, to avoid sitting on the chilly ceramic.

My mom is from the sweltering metropolis of Hong Kong and my dad is from Southern China. We weren't built for this weather. I'm a tropical Asian.

Mike doesn't have the same problem. He IS a bear. He's got all that fur. The only thing that gets cold on him is his feet. So, he's been wearing his sneakers in the house because he doesn't have slippers. And if worse comes to worse, he can always go into hibernation.

It's not even December yet. I think I'm in trouble.

Wormhole womb

2008-11-17T13:18:00.001-08:00

My sister and I come from different universes. We're polar opposites in almost every conceivable way. I probably have more in common with the Bear, my big furry bear-like work partner, than my own flesh and blood. Mike and I talk about it sometimes. And we continue to be baffled by the fact that Amy and I came from the same hoo-ha. Well, technically we were both c-section babies, but you get the idea.

Amy is two years younger. Four inches taller, yet twenty pounds lighter. About twice as quiet and half as athletic.

She choose the career path of a good Asian daughter and become a pharmacist. I choose a career that confuses my parents. I make things up for a living. I just leave it at that.

She's spindly and pretty. She could probably be a model for a high-end retail catalog. I have the build of a twelve-year-old boy. No curves and muscular.

She has terrible running form. And limb control that's comparable to Gumby. Or a wet, naked sapling during a monsoon. She would probably die out on the rugby field. Someone would hit her and she'd disintegrate. I manage to hold my own, despite my 128-pound frame. And I'd like to think that I have some degree of athleticism.

She was in a sorority.

She looks at alcohol and gets itchy and dizzy. The dreaded Asian flush. My entire family and extended family has this genetic disorder. The inability to break down the enzymes in alcohol. But I am a freak of nature. I've got the iron liver of an Irishman and have never, will never get the Asian flush. It's wonderful.

She doesn't like talking to strangers. And is extremely shy, even around people she knows. Get a couple drinks in me and I will grab a stranger's ass. Eh, scratch that. I'd probably do it sober, too.

She is a high maintenance girlfriend. Sorry, Amy. But you do things that guys warn other guys about. Never ask him what he thinks about your outfit. Don't expect him to read your mind. They're boys, be direct. They can't figure it out on their own. Especially when you're being all cryptic. And sometimes, they don't want to cuddle because they get hot at night. I understand these things and don't require a lot of attention, but never seem to have a functional relationship. Where as, she is always dating someone. Go figure.

She buys purses that cost more than my rent. I carry my cash and cards in the butt pocket of my jeans.

She laughs like a shy, little Asian girl. I sometimes make jokes like a burly white guy.

Amy, if you weren't my sister I probably wouldn't be friends with you in real life. I'm not sure what we'd talk about. Or what we would do when we hung out. But you ARE my sister. And I love you. Even though you are probably an alien that time warped into Mom's uterus.

Pine fresh jokes

2008-11-16T01:05:00.001-08:00

I was listening to someone address a group of people last week. But he acted like his audience was a terrible burden. Like we were an annoying nephew that was continually asking him to explain girl parts.

"Well, why don't I have one?"
"Uh, why, do you want one? Don't answer that. I don't know. 'Cause they're supposed to be different."
"Why?"
"Because that's the way it is."
"Why?"
"It's anatomy."
"Why?"
"Um, let's go pretend you're bleeding and freak your mom out again."

And he was a salesman! This was how he was trying to convince us to like him. I wouldn't have thought a complete lack of enthusiasm was a viable sales technique, but I guess I'm wrong. It didn't quite work on this crowd. They looked like they were in line at the DMV.

But he did tell a joke at the end that went over like gangbusters. (Whatever that means.) Big laughs from the crowd. But I wasn't convinced. I could tell that he was just going through the motions. That he had used that joke before. It had lost that new joke smell. Yeah, once you drive it off the lot, the value plummets. But it's still possible to make it passable. Throw some fuzzy dice on the mirror or something.

Everyone recycles some jokes. But at least try to act like you believe it's still funny before you force it on an audience.

Another insight into the relationship of Bear!Ninja!

2008-11-16T01:03:00.001-08:00

The other night Mike was watching tv in the living room and I was in my room. He was watching some sort of reality show. And some character he hated was on. (I just asked him if he remembers what he was watching and he doesn't know. And now we've wasted ten minutes thinking about it, so I'm just gonna make some stuff up.) Anyway, someone got eliminated from the show, which gave him a reason to shout, "Lata biiiitch!" Normally, that's not funny because he likes to shout things. All the time.

What's odd is that upon hearing him shout obscenities I came out of my room to see what he wanted. Assuming that he was talking to me, haha. He thinks it's funny to call me bitch because he says it's the exact opposite of what anyone would call me. I think it's just because it lets him get away with calling me names. Asshole.

There's paprika in my nose

2008-11-14T11:24:00.000-08:00

It's 6:23 am. I'm staring out my bedroom window. Watching the sunrise over the lake. Eating spices straight from a bottle. Fiesta-flavored spices to be exact. I've probably eaten a full teaspoon of it. My mouth's starting to get raw and my throat's a little tickle-y from the heat.

Yeah, I know that's kinda weird. But I'm writing about Mexico and looking for some inspiration. And that inspiration happens to be quite delicious. I imagine it'd be even better on food. Perhaps a meat product of some sort. But there's no time to de-bone a chicken, I'm trying to get in the zone.

Most of the time, it's athletes who refer to the zone - a magical melding of mind and body where everything seems effortless. The pinnacle of performance. You're vaguely aware that you're moving, but it's as if you're watching it all happen. It's this heightened sense of awareness. Some people claim to just blank out, their trance book-ended by buzzers. I find that it happens when you play loose. With urgency, but not panic. When you're focused on performance and put just enough pressure on yourself. But it's tough to let go of all that other stuff. All the expectations. The fear of failure. The fear of disappointment.

You certainly can't be in the zone with your panties all in a bunch and worrying about the end result. The ability to stop the transfer of negative thoughts - from the right brain to the left - is critical to staying focused during competition. To do that, you gotta lose yourself in the moment and the rest will take care of itself. You get out of your own way. And realize that you are always in control of yourself. More doing, less thinking.

I've gotten pretty good at finding that place on the rugby pitch. I think it's because I pretend not to care. And I try not to focus on the expectations I have for myself. In fact, I try not to have any at all. I just play. My goal is always to enjoy the game. I play because I love it. Not to impress a national team scout. Not to move onto the next round of playoffs. Not even to win. Yes, those are all things that I want. But when I step on the pitch I don't think about those things. I don't look at the sidelines. I play just as hard whether we're winning or we're losing.

Getting into your own head is not what you need when your adrenaline is pumping and your brain ain't right. That's not to say I don't play with emotion or that I don't think on the pitch. It's a completely different part of you. When you get into your own head, that's when people start to panic. That's when teammates start yelling at each other. That's when you start dropping balls that hit you in the hands. That's when you become scared, uncreative, and tense. I think I understand the athlete's zone pretty well.

So, why do I have trouble finding the writer's zone? I suppose that simply posing that question is a prime example of me getting in my own way.

It's strange. I have such a different approach when it comes to writing. But what I really need is the exact same school of thought. I should stop caring what people think. Loosen up. Get out of my own way.

Maybe I need something spicier.

2008-11-13T07:14:00.001-08:00

I've been a bad blogger.

Please accept this goat yelling like a man as an apology.

Good partner

2008-11-12T17:47:00.001-08:00

Mike and I were up late working, so we put a movie on as background noise and hung out in the living room. The night's feature was the Academy Award-nominated "Leaving Las Vegas" starring Nicholas Cage as a suicidal alcoholic with a vampire complexion and the indiscriminately good-looking Elizabeth Shue. (She's one of those actresses that you can't quite picture in other films, but you know for a fact that you've seen her. For the record, she's been in "Karate Kid," "Hollow Man," "Back to the Future 2 and 3", and "Cocktail" Just to name a few. Bonus points for recognizing Mariska Hargitay of S-VU fame as Prostitute #2.)

At one point during the movie, Mike had gotten up to go to the bathroom. Unfortunately for him, it was during a scene where Elizabeth Shue shows some boobie. Being a considerate roommate and partner, I screamed, "Hey, you're missing boobie!" Half-joking (which would make the other half serious) he pretended to be distraught and upset by that. "Ahh, well, pause it!!" And I did. Disaster averted. We have a very strange relationship. But I can't even begin to get into that right now.

Gross germ pocket

2008-11-11T08:35:00.001-08:00

Well, it finally happened. I dropped my pen in the toilet. As a writer, I always have a crumpled up piece of paper and a pen in my butt pocket. Sometimes, when I pull my pants down, my pen flies out of my pocket onto the bathroom floor. I usually curse, wipe it down with some toilet paper, and put it back in my pocket.

Now that I'm thinking about it, that's kind of gross. Maybe I should carry around some hand-sanitizer for situations like this. Well, then I'd probably drop that on the floor as well. Anyway, the pen finally found it's mark and committed suicide via drowning in pee. RIP pen, sorry I didn't try to save you. I'll try to make sure this doesn't happen to any of your brethren.

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Addendum to "It wasn't me, it was the one-armed man." Here's a link to the video about a video.

My mom is a fob

2008-11-10T09:49:00.001-08:00

Mike has this website he goes to called The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks. It's pretty funny...the first three times you go there. Then you're kinda over it. But it's still fun to look at every once in a while. Mike laughs just as hard regardless of how many times he's seen it. He practically has a conniption. I mean, yeah, it's funny, but it's the same damn joke! Over and over again! Stop laughing so hard!

Well, I recently found my version of a website others will lose interest in with exponential potency while I will continue to urinate myself upon site entry. It's called mymomisafob.com. I can't stop looking at it! I even submitted something my own fobby mommy said. For all the gwai-lo (aka white people), fob means "fresh off the boat." Yeah, I know that sounds terrible, but we're allowed to say that to each other. Also, I abdicate all responsibility if you try to use that term and get stoned to death by small Asian people.

My submission:

(Mom says good night to a newly-wed couple in our vacation tour group)

Mom: Ok, have a nice sex!...Oh, I mean sleep! Sleep!!

Some fobby moms.

CJFFL Part Duex

2008-11-09T14:26:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, Mike and I went to watch our friend, Jason Weinerberger, play in the Jewish Flag Football League. They even have their own website. Complete with schedule, team rankings, and player stats. It's pretty hardcore and truly a sight to see.

After seeing that first game, we vowed to come back and kosher tailgate. And this week we made it happen. At 8:30 am on Sunday morning, eight dedicated tailgaters trekked up to Mather Park. The main event, Jacoby v. Kandelman, wasn't happening until 11 am, but we wanted to make sure we had plenty of time to grill our Best Koshers. (Sidenote: Best Kosher is no lie. They're probably one of the best hot dogs I've ever had. That's including gentile dogs!)

Mike and I bought a small grill on Saturday to keep things as kosher as possible. We did our research, asked Jason really ignorant questions, and Alana even put Facon in her potato salad because meat and dairy can't go together. Everyone did the best they could, but I'm sure we messed something up along the way. I think they were amused by our efforts, but at the end of the day there certainly wasn't a line at our grill for kosher dogs. I don't blame them. If I was kosher I wouldn't trust anything we had touched. I mean, I barely trust us.

In true tailgate fashion, we had MG bring his washers set. We also threw the football around a bit. We even had the gimps run some routes (i.e. Emily and me). Except everything had to go to the left because neither of us had a fully-functioning right arm. (Gotta love rugby.)

Sarah brought a half of a bottle of Jim Beam as her kosher side dish, which we put that to good use by making some Irish coffees. To warm us up, as well as to give our bellies a multicultural experience. To bookend our exotic beverage journey we had some Manischewitz at the end of the tailgate. Mike ended up drinking almost an entire bottle of that cough syrup (aka "giving ourselves diabetes," as Mike likes to call it). And much like cough syrup, it turned him a snoring mess an hour later while we were hanging out at MG's place.
(Here we are being idiots.)
When the main event rolled around most of us were so cold that we had to watch from the car, which luckily was parked practically in the end zone. It was an intense game, but Kandelman pulled out the win convincingly.

I can't wait til playoffs start.

Proud of PA

2008-11-08T15:00:00.001-08:00

There's an old joke about Pennsylvania. They say it's Philly, Pittsburgh, and Kentucky in-between. Well, I'm glad to see that Ridgway and Elk County are doing their part to dispel that myth. I'm so proud of my hometown!

For a little background, here are a few tidbits about Ridgway.

Ridgway is in the middle of nowhere. It's a town of 5,000 people surrounded by a force field of trees. These trees keep out inflation, diverse world views, and any fashion trends from the last 3 to 5 years.

Main Street has four stop lights. Most of the downtown businesses consist of pizza places, bars, and churches. The nearest useful airport is two hours away.

Ridgway is also the chain saw carving capital of the country. Maybe even the world. Every year, flannel-wearing artists wake our sleepy little town up by using chain saws and other noisy apparatus to make beautiful wooden art. It's actually pretty amazing.

Some confused Ridgwaydians fly the Confederate flag in their trucks. Right behind their gun racks. To the left of their poor geography skills. The South lost. Give it up already.

When I was growing up, there were two Chinese kids in my entire high school. The other one was my sister.

As you can see it's not exactly the mecca of diversity or liberal thought. Now, I'm not saying it would've been bad or wrong if Elk County had been a red county in this election. I'm just really surprised that it wasn't. If you knew Ridgway the way I know it, you would've bet an essential body part that they'd come in red. I'm just glad to see that they've broken their red streak.

Perhaps the force field is cracking. And Pennsyl-tucky is finally seeing the forest for the trees.

Racism, now delivering!

2008-11-07T11:55:00.001-08:00

This morning Mike and I were waiting for the bus. We were at our usual spot, a glass bus shelter on the corner. He was sitting on the bench. I was standing to the right of him.

Out of the corner of my left eye I see this crazy-looking dude on a bike coming up the street. The guy looks like he is currently dealing with one or two...or five mental problems and some hygiene issues. He's got stringy hair under a crumpled backwards baseball cap, baggy tapered jeans, and a jacket he probably stole out of a workman's truck. He looks like the kind of person who is bat-shit crazy and has made himself a certificate out of gum wrappers and restaurant fliers to declare it to the world.

He stops his Huffy directly behind the bus shelter. And then face plants into the glass, uncomfortably near Mike's head. Like what you would do if you were a child in the back seat mocking strangers on the highway.

Mike hears THUNK! (Mike's part of the story) "And you know how sometimes you just feel this presence over your shoulder? Well, it was like that. So, I'm thinking it's one of our friends playing a joke and trying to scare me, so I put on this face (his best "nice try, asshole" face) and turn around. I see this guy's one eye jammed up against the glass and I straighten up real quick." (Back over to me.)

I'm watching all of this go down and wondering which one of this guy's mental problems is flaring up.

As I watch, he dismounts off his bike, takes his cap off, smoothes out his ratty hair, puts the cap back on, straightens up his jacket, gets back on the bike, looks right at me with a shit-eating grin on his face, and goes, "...ching chong! ching chong!" Then rides away into the sunrise.

Mike and I just stare at each other.

Me: ...really?
Mike: Uh, that was kinda awesome.

So, we start talking about it and laughing. But the thing is, there are so many other people in the bus shelter. And everyone refused to acknowledge that that had just happened! We were looking around the crowd for confirmation, but everyone just averted our eyes or pretended to check the time.

Crowd: "Uhh, mustn't acknowledge. This disrupts...world view. Obama...president-elect. White guilt should be gone...Can't...handle.....gahhhhhgaggaga."

Mike is convinced that he was trying to communicate via some racist Chinese dialect. I think I agree. The "ching chong" didn't sound malicious at all. It was said the same way you might say, "Alllright then. See ya later!" It was the happiest racist comment I have ever heard.

We've also determined that the next time I see him the correct response would be:

Crazy racist dude: Ching chong! Ching chong! (ding ding ding! -bike bell I like to imagine he rang as he rode away)
Me: Chong! Ching ching ching!...Chong.

Incredibly priced!!! Exclamation!

2008-11-06T07:30:00.001-08:00

Mike and I saw this ad for a cruise line...or maybe it was a car dealership. Either way, that's not important to the story. The point is that in the commercial they continually brag about how their cruises or cars or whatever they're selling are "incredibly priced."

Mike: Shouldn't there be another word in there? Like "incredibly low-priced"? Or "incredibly well-priced?"
Jenny: Maybe it's the way it's priced.

We imagine complete chaos. As usual. First, fire. And lots of it. Doesn't matter where. Just indiscriminately out and about. Somewhere in the rafters a dodo bird and a Catholic astrologer pick lottery balls out of a giant's nostril. Unicorns play Plink-o. A leprechaun's sneeze results in a nuclear winter which only exists in the seventh dimension. This yields a numbering system that only works on the fourth Tuesday of every month. Midget sword swallowers ride elephants in drag who crap on giant bingo cards with the various pricing options. A lone Indian sheds a tear while eating a sandwich...

"It wasn't me, it was the one-armed man"

2008-11-05T14:56:00.001-08:00

I got my right arm back, after having it in a sling for a week. And I was just getting used to being a one-armed wonder. As an eternal optimist, I looked on the bright side of being a gimp.

Such as newly acquired brain power. By using my non-dominant hand I was generating new brain cells and increasing my mental acuity. So, even when I was clumsily stabbing myself in the mouth with my toothbrush, I was somehow getting smarter. The prolonged gimpiness could have made me a genius. If there were two of me, we would be geniuses. Not genii, which is what I wish the plural of genius was. Apparently, genii refers to more than one genie. It would actually be really awesome if using your non-dominant hand turned you into a tragically imprisoned Arabian wish granter.

Another perk was free coat zip-ups. In the mornings, the bear would use his claws, which were only slightly more useful than one arm, to help me out. But at one point, I had to go to a client meeting and he stayed behind to take care of other things, so my creative director kindly took to the task. Now, you have to imagine how hilarious it is to have your six-foot tall creative director kneeling down to zip up your jacket at the end of a client meeting. It made me pretty happy. He was quite amused by it too. In fact, he bragged about being really good at zipping up coats due to having multiple babies in the middle of our client meeting.

And finally, unintentional lumpiness. Last week, we made a video about the making of another video we had shot. Ironically, the making of video was much more elaborate and took three times longer to shoot than the original video. Well, one of my parts in the "making of" version consists of running from location to location to show how many different locations we shot in. So, in this "making of" video, which we will show to potential clients, I am running around looking like a hunchback. One arm of my jacket lies limply at my side and when I take off running, it's like a little mini flag flapping around behind me. People who see the video say, "hmm...there's something off about that part you're in." We never acknowledge it, but I think it's a nice little accent to our library of weirdness.

I've since rejoined the ranks of bi-extremity-ed people. But I'm glad these things happened. Thanks, very large unnamed rugby player.

Will the real Barack please stand up?

2008-11-04T12:33:00.001-08:00

Chris Rock has this bit about dating. It goes like this..."Relationships: easy to get, hard to maintain. Why they so hard to maintain? Because it's hard to keep up the lie...When you meet somebody for the first time, you're not meeting them. You're meeting their representative." I think the same idea applies to the presidential race. We, the American people, have essentially been on a simultaneous two-year date with both Barack Obama's and John McCain's "representative." And today, we had to chose. Whose sweet nothings have enamored us more? Who should we settle down and tie the knot with? Whose "representative" spits better game?

In most cases, with politics, it's not choosing who you believe the most, but who you think is lying the least. Except this time, it just felt different. This time we chose a candidate who was not your typical candidate, in almost every conceivable way. We chose an agent of change. A messiah for hope. The embodiment of the American story.

But the biggest difference? We believe him. And we believe in him.

In the months leading up to the election, the silver-tongued senator traveled all through the nation collecting believers, like a political pied piper. But we followed him not because of politics. It wasn't his economic plan that galvanized the apathetic. It wasn't a proposal for tax cuts that won him more votes than anyone else in U.S. history. We followed him because of his clarity and conviction. Because he was saying the exact right things at the exact right time with a passion and belief that could not be mistaken for mere campaign rhetoric. His genuine belief in his own words caused us to follow suite. He found a way to give us light in the darkness of disaster. He inspired us to believe in the power of the people once again. He was able to capture the minds and hearts of a wounded, cynical nation that had turned on its leaders. No small feat.

And he did it with one of the smoothest seductions that I have ever witnessed. All while maintaining as much dignity as a political campaign will allow. Not only for themselves, but for their opponents. Marketers could learn a thing or two from his courtship of the nation. It was patient, disciplined, and reassuring. That probably doesn't sound very glamorous on its own, but when compared to the nation's current suitor, it sounds sexy as hell.

With every financial disaster, every overseas gaffe, every piece of bad news, Obama's message sounded more and more attractive. Change. The more we heard it, the more we liked it. And we heard it a lot. But that was one of the reasons the campaign was so brilliant. They picked one resounding, powerful message and stuck with it. They never wavered, they never re-strategized even when under pressured from their opponents, they never panicked. They reacted, but never allowed their campaign to come reactive. Slow and steady won the race.

I was lucky enough to be in Grant Park to bear witness to the engagement - the moment America got down on one knee and asked Barack Obama to become our 44th president. As well as his acceptance of our proposal. Both were absolutely amazing.

But before the acceptance speech, we heard from our bachelor number two, Mr. John McCain. He was as gracious as ever, even as he watched his love run into another man's arms. It was obvious that he was heart-broken, but it just wasn't meant to be. Personally, I think his representative failed him. He wasn't true to himself. He changed just to woo us and it reeked of desperation. Which, for most people, is a major turn-off. But I don't feel too bad. I know he'll be fine. And that he'll find the right match eventually. Some people think he'll become the next Al Gore. I hope he becomes John McCain again. The real John McCain.

Then came the big speech. As McCain passed the mic to Obama, the crowd sparked with anticipation, despite having been standing for hours on end. Obama spoke in his cool, calculated way, allowing the power of his words to shout for him. He walked us down history's path as seen through the lens of hope. He told us the story of Anne-Nixon Cooper and all that she had seen in her 106 years. He framed the long, difficult journey we had ahead of us. But not without promising us that we would get to where we were going. Not without the assurance that change was on the way. Not without making us believe, once more, that yes...we can.

As he gained momentum, instead of becoming more fevered, the crowd seemed to absorb his calm demeanor. Nodding in agreement, hanging on his every word. A small display of his ability to lead and influence. In a sea of a million people, it still felt as though he spoke to each and every one of us. He made us believe that we all count as individuals. But we are nothing if we stand alone. We will rise and fall as one nation, as one people. Together, we will reclaim the American dream.

I have never been more proud of America than I was tonight.

In January, we will take the leap. We will say to Barack Obama, "Yes, we can...and yes, I do."

And when the honeymoon is over, then we'll see. We'll see if he leaves the seat up. If he lets himself go. If he keeps his promises. We'll find out, once and for all, if the real Barack Obama is just as dreamy as his representative is.

I believe he is.

Please don't break my heart, Barack.

NaBloPoMo

2008-11-03T15:46:00.001-08:00

Katy Rank Lev, I will join you on your quest to post at least once a day for a month in honor of National Blog Posting Month.

Did you know that it's also National Novel Writing Month? It may be overly ambitious to try both. Heads might explode. Keyboards might combust. Genitalia might melt...what? But I might try it anyways.

Besides, a good brain vomit is always in order. You just gotta stick your fingers in there and force yourself to do it. Type, that is. Or write, if you prefer a more tactile method. You can even do sign language dictation if you want. The point is, just get it out.

It's strange that writers, of all people, are the ones who have the most trouble writing. It's a tragic flaw, really. We fear imperfection. The blank page. Starting. Finishing. Enduring. We think to ourselves, "what if the words run out?" "What if they're not good enough?" We compare our chicken scratch, our discombobulated first drafts to polished masterpieces. (That's not daunting or anything.)

But what choice do we have? What else is there to compare? The finished product is all we have to go on. It's rare to see a Pulitzer's first draft. But if we did, we'd probably see the same things as we see in our own first drafts. The jumble, the rawness, the uncertainty. Granted, probably on a much lesser scale. But it's there. And most of us are too stubborn to admit it.

As writers, we spend most of our time shedding light on human emotion. The things that people hide from the rest of the world, which funny enough, are also the things we have in common. Yet, we have trouble seeing the tragic flaw in ourselves. And how universal it really is.

But then again, if we came to terms with it. If we faced it and disposed of our biggest shortcoming for good...then we could no longer expose it.

Dear Mrs. Magrini

2008-11-02T21:04:00.000-08:00

Last weekend in St. Louis, I got to see a lot of people who I hadn't seen in the longest time. Mostly old teammates from my Penn State days. After school, everyone floated off to their own little corner of the country and found a new team to play for (but we all know that we'll always be Penn Staters at heart). So, when all the best teams in the country come together in one venue, the whole thing is like a mini reunion. The only major difference being that in most reunion scenarios, you aren't forced to tackle your friends.

I even got a little bonus and got to see the parents of one of my old teammates, Kim. The Magrinis have always been super supportive of our team, traveling far and wide to cheer us on, looking after all of us as if we were their own. They are some of the sweetest, nicest people I have ever met.

Which is why I was completely horrified when Mrs. Magrini complimented me on my blog. Woah, you read this?!?!? Noooo! I don't want her peering into my brain! The dirty depths of my dementia. She's a mom! Her reading this blog destroys the thinly veiled illusion that I am a normal person that she would want her daughter to hang out with.

So, I'd like to formally apologize to Mrs. Magrini and all the mothers out there who stumble upon this rancid cess pool of rantings. I'm sorry that I drop the f-bomb occasionally. I'm sorry that I sometimes appear racist. I'm sorry for that thing about venereal diseases. I'm sorry if you're offended. But I'm not going to censor myself. I'm not gonna stop doing what I do. I'm gonna be myself. Because like I tell my own mom, hey, that's the way you raised me.

I'm corrupting your daughter. Or is it the other way around, haha.

Sloots!

2008-11-01T17:55:00.001-07:00

Last night, my friend and I sat in the outdoor area of Panera and watched the Halloween freak parade. It was pretty entertaining. The best costume I saw was probably the Verizon guy being followed by "the network."

Other highlights include sprinting ballerina, "cereal killer," and birth control tablet thing.

On a normal day, this particular area tends to attract a lot of strange characters. So, we started playing a fun game called "Who's dressed up and who's crazy?" After a while we gave up because surprisingly, this game was nearly impossible.

So, we played "Where's the biggest sloot?" I can see why guys love Halloween. It's a chance for girls to dress kinda slutty and be completely unapologetic about it. It's so easy for girls to find a costume. All you have to do is fill in the blank. For Halloween, I want to be a slutty __________. It's so versatile! I saw slutty mummy, slutty crazy cat lady, slutty pirate, and even slutty pineapple. Suggestions for next year - slutty rubik's cube, slutty Ed MacMahan, slutty hobo, and slutty bacteria.

Tonight, for our Halloween party, my costume covers up almost every inch of skin on my body, haha. As usual, I intend to do the opposite of what most girls would do.

--------
Addendum: AWOL broken organ grinder monkey from Saturday night

I just shaved a bear

2008-10-29T23:52:00.001-07:00

Mike and I are getting closer and closer to achieving the perfect sexless marriage.

This week was especially codependent. Since I only have one arm, he's had to help me out with certain things, like zipping up my coat like a parent sending his child off to the bus stop. Or getting things off the shelf and opening bottles, which are things I have him do anyway. I felt a little bad asking him for his help all week. But luckily, I could wipe my part of my debt away because he needed a favor in return. Although, his request could not have been more ill-timed.

He asked me to help him shave his head. Uhh, ok, let's review the information at hand. You've been doing small simple tasks for me all week because I can't operate my right arm. Which to your best knowledge IS my dominant hand. You've never seen me use only my left hand for any significant activities. And you STILL want me to use a razor near your ears. Now, that's trust.

Mangy bear!

On the DL

2008-10-27T21:40:00.001-07:00

I've been a bad blogger lately. You may or may not have noticed. (Most likely, you haven't.) But the keyboard has been a little quiet. It's because I'm currently on the DL. And no, I do not mean that I am suddenly an African American man discreetly sleeping with other men while maintaining romantic relationships with women. I mean, that I am on the "disabled list." Now, I'm not sure if there's a DL for bloggers, but if there is, I'm on it.

Last Saturday, I had an unfortunate rugby incident in St. Louis during playoffs for Nationals. We, Chicago North Shore, were playing for our first ever trip to the Eilte 8. We didn't make it and now I'm getting heartburn, so I'm going to stop talking about it. But the point is, this is when it happened.

It was during the first game. I was running with the ball and had somehow managed to run away from a few of the smaller, quicker people on the opposing team. You'd think this was a good thing. And I would've agreed with you at the time. However, running away from them put me on a path of certain doom.

I moved toward the middle of the field where a very large human being was perched. Waiting, watching, plotting. I had run out of space. I was fast enough to avoid being tackled, but not fast enough to avoid being caught. This giant person pulled me down by the collar onto my right shoulder and then basically did a cannonball onto me. (It also probably could've passed for a jackknife.)

Terrible things happened in my shoulder. There was popping, cracking, some snapping, and I think I heard a little bit of sizzling. I was down for the count. The blinding pain made me want to throw up for about twenty minutes. After that, it was just annoying. Turns out it's a separated shoulder. Officially the worst rugby injury I've ever had. I consider myself very lucky that that's the case. Other players have endured far worse. But that doesn't mean this doesn't suck ass.

Watching on the sidelines for the rest of the weekend was more painful than what put me there. I was having trouble sleeping, which is rare for me, because I was stuck in one position. (The position you'd be stuck in if you were buried alive in a coffin.)
Add that to the fact that I had reverted to having the independence of a toddler, not being able to dress myself or cut my own food.

On the other hand, I don't require a whole lot of sleep. I had really wonderful people helping me out all weekend. And I get to practice my ambidexterity.

Represent

2008-10-23T21:45:00.003-07:00

If you read this blog, there's a good chance that you know me. If you know me, there's a good chance that you love rugby. If you love rugby, there's a good chance that you'll be interested in hearing about the U.S. Women's Sevens team and their adventures and antics leading up to the World Cup in 2009.

2008-10-21T18:53:00.000-07:00

Have you ever been really tired, but just don't feel like going to bed? Is that the epitome of laziness?

Or maybe it's just misguided motivation? A restlessness that you can't quite put your finger on. Sleep won't satisfy it, it thinks sleep is a waste of time. But it's searching for something. Most of the time it doesn't even know what. So, it passes the time with frivolous attempts at productivity.

Hoping to find a feeling. One that every night owl craves. The solace of stillness. In trying to conquer the world before it wakes up.

Subscription to pain

2008-10-20T23:12:00.001-07:00

Terry Tate, office linebacker, is back. Much to our delight. He's probably one of the best ad characters ever.

This campaign ran about four years ago. I highly recommend that you go to the Interwebs and look it up. Here are a few examples to whet your whistle.

Super Bowl spot 2003
Draft Day
Vacation

Cracker Jack?...more like Cracker Joke!

2008-10-17T14:10:00.001-07:00

A while back, Alana and I went to the Gourmet Pantry for lunch. The Gourmet Pantry is a lovely hole-in-the-wall deli with great sammiches.

I got a roast beef sammich, a fizzy beverage, and a little something for my sweet tooth, which had been nagging me all morning - an old school favorite, Cracker Jacks. Needless to say, I was really happy about this decision. I used to love Cracker Jacks. I think we can all agree that the best part was not the caramel-coated deliciousness, but the prizes. Secret decoder rings, small plastic creatures, baseball cards, stickers, and other things that would hold a kid's attention for a good five minutes (an infant's eternity). Imagine my disappointment when I found this.

Alexander Fucking Hamilton. Not that I don't have an appreciation for this founding father, but honestly, what kid would welcome a history lesson when they were expecting a multi-colored noisemaker or a small purple moose?

To add insult to injury, there was alarmingly low peanut to popcorn ratio in this particular bag of Cracker Jacks. That was the last straw. I decided to take matters into my own hands and called the number on the back of the bag to see what the hell was going on at Frito-Lay. (Clearly, it was a slow day at work.)

A good-natured woman named Lois answered the phone.

"Hi, thanks for calling Frito-Lay. My name's Lois. What can I help you with today?"
"Hi Lois. Lois, I'm concerned about your Cracker Jack product."
"Ok, what seems to be the problem?"
"Well, I bought a bag of Cracker Jacks at lunch today. I've gone through half the bag and I've noticed a disproportionate nut to popcorn ratio. I'm concerned about the low nut content."
"Can you tell me about how many peanuts are in the bag?"
"I haven't run into one yet."
"Would you mind looking in the bag and telling me about how many you think there are?"
"Yeah, sure...um, hmm, I can't even see one. Wait! There's one! Ok, and there's two...I see two."
"Ok..I know that sometimes the machines run out of peanuts and some batches have less than the normal amount. So, I'm sure that's it. But I am sorry that that happened. (Boring part where she asks for bag ID info and store where I bought the alleged bag.) Is that all I can help you with today?"
"Can I also say that I was pretty disappointed with the prize? It was this picture folding thing about Alexander Hamilton. Do they really think that's fun for kids? I remember the prizes being so much better when I was a kid."
"I've actually heard that before. The reason for that is the prizes they used to make had...legal problems. (What? Like unpaid child support or an outstanding warrant?) A lot of them were deemed potential choking hazards, so they switched to mostly paper prizes."
"Huh...that's kinda lame."
"I guess, a little. Well, is there anything else I can help with?"
"No, I think that's about it."
"Well, I'll make sure to send you some coupons in the mail. Thanks for calling us and giving us your feedback."
"No, thank YOU, Lois."
"Haha. Ok, then. Have a great day."

As someone who works in the business of branding, I'm surprised that Frito-Lay hasn't done more to keep this brand healthy. Cracker Jacks are sustained mostly on nostalgia. So, when people buy Cracker Jacks and realize it doesn't live up to what they remember, what's going to keep them coming back? Sometimes people would rather keep that perfect image in their head than let it fry in the harsh light of reality.

------

But then there's Lois. She, as expected, came through with her promise.

Frito-Lay could learn a thing or two from Lois.

Panda Mexpress

2008-10-15T13:53:00.000-07:00

Today, Mike and I had lunch at Panda Express.

As we were choosing our delightfully bastardized Chinese food we started discussing how amazing it is that Panda Express has consistently been able to fill their ranks with authentic Chinese people. Or at least, people who will pass for authentic Chinese people. Do they think that this supports the illusion that Panda Express is actually Chinese food? Because I think we all know...it's not.

And how do they manage to do this? Do they have a strict hiring policy? Do they turn away Icelandic folks and Canadians? (Well, Canadians...I mean, who doesn't turn them away in almost any scenario?) And if they have a hiring policy, is this legal?

If they don't have a hiring policy, is the high Asian to non-Asian ratio because the pool of candidates is self-selecting? I suppose if I were an Asian person (Oh, look! I am!) looking for a job in passable ethnic cuisine the first place I would look is somewhere like Panda Express. I certainly wouldn't wander into a Chipotle, expecting to get scooped right up.

Now, Chipotle is another one. They also have a high occurrence of their workers' ethnicity matching that of their food. Wouldn't it be great if there was a big cross-pollination experiment, where the two chains trade employees for the day? It would blow people's minds.

"What bullito you like? Brack bean?" (Before you call me a racist, I would like to call on the rule of self-defamation: you may insult and belittle a race...as long as it's your own.)

Meanwhile, at Panda Express...there are thirty illegal workers hiding in the walk-in cooler and the Orange Chicken is now made with guac. Before you call me a racist, I'd like to call on...eh, you know what? Now, I'm just being an asshole.

Bravo Republicans

2008-10-15T10:59:00.000-07:00

Congratulations Republicans, you've solved the immigration problem. By getting rid of it. But not by building a 50-foot electro-charged fence equipped with cannons and pointy briar bushes. You've solved it by creating an economic situation even third world countries wouldn't want to touch. For the first time in a decade, there are economies in Latin America that are doing better than the US. Which has deterred even the desperate from knocking on our door. It's kinda like a bum handing you their last smoke and a styrofoam cup full of nickels and saying, "Wow. Here, you look like you need this more." Kinda.

In fact, you're so good at this, you've not only slowed or stopped the influx of immigrants, you've created a potential mass exodus by threatening to put Sarah Palin in or around the Oval Office. Brilliant.

It ain't easy bein' yellow

2008-10-14T15:46:00.000-07:00

Being Chinese is so embarrassing sometimes. Lately, I have been ashamed to be even lightly associated with our poorly regulated neighbor in the East.

China, just because you like the idea of "democratic dictatorship" does not mean you can dictate the democracy. Or your weird commie version of democracy. You can't take every single shortcut. Or do whatever you want. You big bully. You know what? I'm glad you get caught.

For a while, I thought the Olympics would be a gigantic disaster for Beijing. I was actually hoping. But people just seemed to get over and almost expect the terrible living conditions of China's people. An example is the marathon route. The entire route was peppered with the rural poor and Chinese ghettos. And instead of using some of the $423 million they spent to build that bird's nest stadium to clean up the ghettos, they built gigantic billboards to cover them up! Miles of billboard meant to hide their own people from the cameras! They just swept all those people under the rug and no one called bullshit on them.

And then there's the White Rabbit scandal, the most disappointing food faux pas of late. They discovered that White Rabbit candy may contain melamine, an industrial contaminant. I remember White Rabbit candy from my days as a small, bowl-cut Asian child. It's a staple in any Asian families' pantry. My favorite part was that the chewy Tootsie Roll-like candy was wrapped in rice paper, which was edible. So, you could pretend you were being lazy and/or irresponsible and eating the candy, wrapper and all.

This latest junket into shame country is more than I can take. Apparently, in Southern China it's been discovered that some companies had been making hair ties out of used or rejected condoms. What? Really? Is this your sick idea of population control? Hiv hair? Are you really that hard up for resources that you can't spare a few cents to produce a rubber band? Is it because you blew all of your allowance buying the US? Seriously, get it together, China.

I guess I'll just walk around with my eyes open really wide until all of this blows over.

2008-10-14T08:46:00.000-07:00

Mike and I are becoming more and more like a married couple every day. I can recognize his cough from anywhere within a two mile radius. And it grates on every fiber of my being. Just kidding, love you, hunny. And by hunny, I mean...sexual partner. And by sexual partner, I mean, partner who I have never slept with.