If Only Stressing Out Was a Work-Out

In anticipation of Terror Trifecta Week, I've been pretty busy. I wish stress constituted a high-calorie workout, but I'm pretty sure I'm getting larger by the day.

For example, last night I stayed in the Spare Room, which by the way does not have reliable internet, hence no post yesterday. I confess that last night I had two suppers. The first one was two slices of cold pizza devoured during class. The second one was several hours later when Legally Blond made a healthy dinner of chicken breast and vegetables. In my defense, Legally Blond's healthy chicken replaced the Papa John's pizza I wanted to order. At least, that's what I told myself as I ate my second dinner.

I had Journal meeting at 8 a.m. For breakfast, I had a piece of gum. I wasn't overly hungry... maybe because I ate two suppers. Then, for lunch I HAD to go to Buca because I had a $10 off coupon that expired today. The catch was that I had to spend $20 to get the discount. My plan was to spend $20 and pay $10. I ended up spending $30 and paying $20. (You win this round, Buca. Drat your ingenious marketing and well-thought out profit scheme). Needless to say, my spaghetti and pop and bread and calamari (and salad!) weighed heavy on my gut and my pocketbook.

By early afternoon I needed a distraction. So THH and I walked to Caribou to spend our $5 giftcards that we won in class yesterday. Five dollars gets you a large Ho Ho Dark Mint Mocha. Did I need a large? No. But it was free. It was there. I drowned my stress in 20 oz. and 640 calories of chocolaty goodness.

The pendulum swung, and I didn't eat supper. At the normal time anyways. I was feeling a little guilty, but mostly busy preparing for my pretend pretrial. So I compensated by driving back North and eating some comfort food - a bowl of minute rice and cheddar cheese, with an egg nog/milk cocktail. I love carbs.

So here I sit, reflecting upon my horrible dietary choices, full of starch and food-remorse. But that's the thing... I'm not really remorseful. If I was truly upset, I would change! But I don't. WHAT DOES IT MEAN? Maybe its the egg nog talking, but I'm beginning to lose hope in my free to be me dreams. Perhaps I'm destined to be trapped by my own lack of self-control...destined to eat myself to death...and fail law school...and live all alone, with pasta as my only friend...

I think I need to go to bed.


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Which Bulb Is Broken?

Dear Future Family,

We were in a hurry today, and didn't do a very good job of packing up the Christmas decorations. We realize this will eventually cause you considerable problems, but we are OK with that today.

Sincerely,

Family of January 2010

Insurance Plans for Personal Stupidity

Today I went Christmas shopping at the T-mobile store. The first time Husband and I purchased phones for the kids, we learned we would get a great deal on new phones for renewing our contract. The kids were very surprised when they opened up their new phones on Christmas morning.

Two years later, when our contract needed to be renewed, we got new phones for Christmas, and allowed the teenager to pick out the one he wanted. We made him leave the store when we actually bought it, and then put it under the tree.

But this year, being the end of a two-year cycle, the teenager knew it was time for a new phone. We dispensed with the act and let him and daughter stay as we purchased the phones.

My negotiating lawyer skills were on overdrive. Faux Christmas shopping (when there is no surprise and everyone knows what they are getting) is not magical, and makes me a little crabby. I first asked the manager, a blond kid in his mid-twenties, if we could get some kind of special discount for being such long-term customers. He said no. But persistence pays off, and a later request for free accessories got me some minor fees waved. Good enough.

My finest moment was when we were checking out with J-man, the best customer service rep I've had in a long time. J-man charmed the bitchy lawyer right out of me, responding to my cross-examination questions on fees, prices and plans with a smile. At one point he explained the tethering policy, and how the phone warranty did not cover meltdowns resulting from unauthorized platform use. We were discussing the insurance plan for the phones, and in a moment of lawyer-smugness I asked, "What events does this policy NOT cover? Will it cover all acts of personal stupidity?"

He responded, "It covers everything but Acts of War."

I, thinking he was getting back to this tethering policy regarding unauthorized platforms, and wanting to show my mainstream media prowess, said, "Oh, you mean the computer game?"

Husband, teenager, and J-man looked at me with their mouths open. Husband broke the silence.

"No, he means if you throw your phone to protect yourself from a bullet."

J-man followed up with "If you're planning to go to the Middle-East, leave your phone at home."

Apparently the phone's insurance plan can't cover all my acts of personal stupidity.


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Black Friday 2011

Black Friday 2009, Teenager and I left the house in a hurry. We were late; we were supposed to pick up ChoirFriend five minutes prior, and then pick up the Teenager's new girlfriend. I was looking through my purse and running out the door when my Doc Martin's slipped on the frosty deck. I tried to catch myself and was somewhat successful - I planted my right leg, but the rest of me kept falling. I heard the snap. Husband and I barreled down country roads. To the hospital. For my broken leg.

Black Friday 2010, ChoirFriend swung into the driveway at 7:45 a.m. We were in a hurry. We weren't late, but that might be because ChoirFriend learned from last year and decided she would pick me up. I hopped into the car just after 8 a.m., and we barreled down the freeway. To the hospital. For ChoirFriend's chemo treatment.

ChoirFriend and I are not very happy with spending two consecutive Black Fridays in the hospital. We decided that Black Friday 2011, we are going to take full advantage of the day. We are going to get up early, be crazy shoppers, and make Teenager go with us to the Cheesecake Factory and a movie. Until then...

Where's the Turkey?

Somewhere in this photo is a turkey, made out of funyuns and held together with EZ cheese. Where's the turkey?

It was a fabulous Thanksgiving. The food was good, and the company and laughter was even better. I spent most of the afternoon in tears, laughing at stories or games or whatever silly thing happened at that moment. I really couldn't have asked for a better Thanksgiving.

A hint on the turkey: Famous Diva made it to decorate the top of her green bean casserole.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving Eve

Thanksgiving is Husband's Holiday. He essentially trains all year for this one day. Not in the way you think. Most husbands are marathon eaters; not at this house. Here, Husband is the Grand Master of Turkey Chefs.

He spends hours reading the latest trends and methods. Last year, he woke up at 5 a.m. to ensure the turkey went in at the right time. He made a schedule, coordinating when various items could be in the oven for what amounts of time. He hand bastes the bird, he stuffs it, he makes sure to put the bird in upside down first so that later he can rotate it to cook the breast meat last. He does a lot of pat-drying and somewhere in there he butters the entire outside for that lovely browned effect.

For the most part, I consider myself very lucky to be married to a man who is so passionate about a perfect turkey. I am a horrible cook, probably because just listening to husband explain what he does to make the turkey makes my head hurt. But there is one thing I do love, and that's control. And since Husband is the Grand Master, he gets to control everything about Thanksgiving dinner. I am relegated to setting the table.

On Saturday, he was running through the shopping list while I was doing homework. He asked me if he had missed anything. He read through his list again. Something caught my attention...

He was going to purchase rolls? FIVE DAYS before Thanksgiving? Gross. Stale rolls. No. No no no. Thanksgiving does not work like that. Husband jokingly asked me if that meant I was going to take care of the rolls. He acted as if I was incapable of getting rolls. Jerk. Yes, I announced to Husband, I am in charge of rolls.

Today, I picked up the teenager from college and we began the snowy trek back home. Last week he was a candidate in my undergrad sorority's sweetheart competition, and while he didn't win he wasn't too concerned. Maybe because the winners aren't allowed to date any of the girls in the house. Anyways, he was telling me about the turkey dinner at the sorority last Monday. I reminisced with him, remembering the awesome bread at sorority dinner...

EEEEEEEEEEEEEKKK!

The teenager looked at me, wondering what that sudden high-pitched noise was. And about that time, Husband called. To suggest that we stop and pick up some rolls. In case I hadn't done it yet. Before I could stop him, the teenager put it all together and began telling Husband that yes, I had in fact only recently remembered my one responsibility for dinner.

And that's why we purchased a dozen wheat dollar buns and a package of 36 frozen white rolls. Because Thanksgiving Eve is not the time to be scrounging for dinner rolls. Husband accused me this evening of riding on his Turkey Coattails. Oh shut up.

My Pretend Trial

It is 12:31 a.m. I am in the law library, writing my pretend motion for my pretend trial. I am pretending I'm having fun.

The Ramen of [insert word here]

Husband grew up in Cook County, Minnesota. He spent several summers working in his family's lumber mill, as well as at the local lumber yard. His current career is in the pressure-treated lumber industry. He loves wood.

Which is why he HATES IKEA. How many times have I heard him rant about the cheap quality of the IKEA furniture? I don't know why he gets so upset; you get what you pay for! Apparently I am married to a Wood Snob, and to him Ikea is to furniture like ramen is to noodles: you can't get any lower. (I got the ramen line from a wine connoisseur who was trying to tell me Boone's Farm is the ramen of wines. My response? "But it's the Kick-Ass of Kool-Aid!" ... I digress).

An interesting announcement hidden in the third paragraph: Husband and I have added onto our home. We call it the "spare bedroom," and the big catch is that it is located about 70 miles south of our more rural home. In an effort to be more efficient with my time, accommodate an externship that starts at 8:30 a.m., and manage the winter weather, next semester I will be spending a few nights each week "in town."

So, with Trifecta Terror Week (Monday Paper due, Tuesday Trial, Wednesday Presentation) fast approaching (two weeks), Husband and I ventured to IKEA last Friday to purchase a new bed for the spare bedroom. But I had to work late, so we didn't get to IKEA until 8:30 p.m. It closes at 9 p.m.

Husband, in a predictably wonderful mood, says he wants to puke in Ikea, and then when people come to see if he is alright he is going to say No! Look at all this crappy furniture!

I ignore him, and after a quick bite to eat (I know, but shopping on an empty stomach seemed dangerous), we began our sprint through the store.

I had done my internet research. We quickly found the cheapest bedframe. I vaguely remember taking the mattress test online, and I was matched up with some Swedish H- named mattress, but I couldn't remember what it was. I just knew I needed a firm mattress for my bad back. I figured we would find someone to help us in the mattress area of furniture pick-up land, so we left the showroom and headed to the warehouse.

But nobody helped us. Ten minutes to close and people are running around like the building was on fire. The first clerk I stopped yelled, "I HAVE THREE OTHER PEOPLE WHAT DO YOU NEED!" I said equally calmly, "I JUST NEED HELP!" He rushed on by and directed some wandering clerk in my direction. This dude was in no hurry, spoke limited English, and had the customer service skills of a stapler. He was definitely the ramen of clerks. When I asked him what the most firm mattress IKEA carried was, he defensively yelled (yes there is a lot of yelling at IKEA) "I DON'T KNOW THAT! YOU HAVE TO ASK UPSTAIRS!" And stalked off, muttering "I'm sorry" over and over in a not-very-sorry-tone.

At this point I am on a rampage, declaring my hate for IKEA and it's horrible customer service. Husband is strangely calm. He just looks at me and says,

"Honey, we're at a place where you have to pick up your furniture from a warehouse and then put it together yourself. How good did you think their customer service was going to be? It's not really in their business plan."

Eventually, clerk number one came back. Husband and I were still wandering lost in the mattress section of the warehouse. The clerk used his walkie-talkie to poll the store to see what the "most firm" mattress was. I kept saying, "I think it starts with an H-" but to no avail: we purchased the Flokenes mattress on the recommendation of the clerk who said it was the "most firm mattress they had."

As we were waiting for them to find my mattress in the heart of the warehouse, I looked through a magazine and realize it's firmness is "firm" while other mattresses are "most firm." I freaked out. We have purchased a sub-firm mattress! But it's too late. It's after 9 p.m., we are exhausted, and there is no turning back (I suspect Husband would have driven off and left me there).

To wrap up the story, we get to the Spare Room. I, like Legally Blond, now rent from LandLord. Husband begins putting together the frame, and Legally Blond and LandLord jump right in to help. I stayed out of the way. When it was done, we all collapsed onto my bed. Except the bed is as hard as a rock. It was like laying on a slab of granite. Apparently "most firm" mattresses are simply large-cut diamonds.

Oh well. I drink Boone's Farm, I sleep on IKEA and I like ramen noodles. This is the life I have chosen.


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Osler's Razor

How exciting! My first link-swap!

After getting Prof. Osler's permission to reprint our email correspondence, he asked if he could link to my blog. What an honor! Here is his take on the story. "How I Got Into Criminal Procedure" is now my most popular post.

When they make the movie (think Julie and Julia), this will be a monumental moment.


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You Win This One, Car

A timely and sobering comment to my last post reminded me that, regardless of how dumb it is that my car has a voice to tell me what to do, not wearing my seatbelt is not the answer.

Instead, I will buckle up but will inform my car it is because I choose to, not because it told me to.

Beep.

BEEP BEEP BEEP!

That is the sound I awoke to this morning. Often, I hit the snooze and hear it again nine minute later. Sometimes I get up after hitting snooze but forget to turn off the alarm, and while in the bathroom I suddenly hear the BEEP BEEP BEEP! vibrating through the house. Even though husband is already at work and daughter is already up, I am stressed by the repetitive loud noise. I find myself running through the house to stop the beeping.

Or the oven. When I set the oven time, and the pizza is done, the alarm makes me rush to the kitchen. BEEP BEEP BEEP! I respond.

But not the car beep. You know, the beeping the car makes when you aren't wearing your seatbelt. I grew up in the '80's, when wearing your seatbelt was only recommended. Yes seatbelts save lives, blah blah blah. But you know what? I didn't set that alarm. My alarm clock or the oven timer - hey, I set those timers. I requested them. But I did NOT request that my car beep at me when I'm not wearing my seatbelt. And I resent being told what to do by my car.

I didn't realize how bad it gotten until today. I drove husband to the shop to pick up Charlotte, the little blue-green golf. I didn't buckle up, because the shop is a mile away. BEEP BEEP BEEP.

Husband, thinking the car is mad at him as the passenger, buckles up.

BEEP BEEP BEEP.

BEEP BEEP BEEP.

BEEP BEEP BEEP.

Husband looks at me and says, "You are so stubborn."

BEEP BEEP BEEP.

I just smile. I'm not an idiot; when I drive to the cities on the freeway I buckle up. But not because the CAR tells me to. Because I Choose to. So, when I drive in town, I assert my independence a bit. I don't buckle up all the time. I have to let the car know who's boss.

You can beep all you want car. I don't give a BEEP.


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Mercy and Grace

It occurred to me tonight what a big difference three credits can make. Last year, I took 12.5 credits in the Fall and 14.5 credits in the Spring (however, 6.0 credits was clinic so I essentially only had three classes to worry about). Last year went great! I had my best year grade-wise, I had comparatively less stress at home, etc.

This Fall, I'm enrolled in four classes and 15.0 credits. Almost as bad as being a first year law student! While I'm handling my stress better than 1L me, I'm definitely starting to feel a bit frayed.

Today I was struck by Hebrews 4:16

Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.

I am definitely in a "time of need," and I've definitely been on the receiving end of mercy and grace. Growing up, I learned mercy is not getting what you do deserve, and grace is getting what you don't deserve. For example, a law school friend wrote an email full of mercy after I had to apologize for dropping the ball on some commitments. Husband is always showing me such grace throughout the week, responding to my crabby rants with support and encouragement. Daughter's caretakers are constantly overlooking my short-term memory loss. Superfriends are exceedingly tolerant of only talking to me when I'm in my car commuting.

It makes me realize how influential my own small acts of mercy and grace can be in someone's life. I could not do what I do without God's mercy and grace, and that mercy and grace can only be imparted through the people He puts in my life.


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My Torrid Past

I am currently in the process of applying for a law clerk placement in the public sector for my Public Interest Externship. (An externship means you do an internship for school credit.) The organization I applied to sent me home with a 50-page book to fill out and return in one week's time. It is a bad sign when the application booklet is bound.

Today, when I returned the book, I went through some items with the officer in charge of background checks. I was amazed by the sheer amount of information requested. For example, I had to admit I had once shoplifted. (Don't judge. I was in high school. I was at a store with friends, and I stuck a small toy in the hood of a friend's sweatshirt. She walked out, not knowing it was there. Shoplifting.)

I also had to admit to using illegal drugs. (Don't judge. I was in high school. I was at a school conference. A guy I liked (and knew for about three days) gave me some of his ADHD medicine so I would be able to stay awake during the conference, since I had spent most of the night talking to him on the phone.) Most kids mess around with marijuana. Not me; I was a prescription junkie.

I know, I was pretty wild and crazy. On one hand, the background book freaks you out and makes you think you have to reveal every last little thing. But then, when you do explain your criminal record of shoplifting and drug abuse, the officer laughs and gives the general impression that you are wasting her time with piddly stories of juvenile delinquency. At any rate, Legally Blond and Law Lady enjoyed my torrid high school past. Cross your fingers that my life of crime won't close too many doors.

Is the Month Almost Over or Just Begun?

It's about that time, when the seeds of procrastination sprout and are growing into big problems at an astounding rate. I need to write a 3,000 word paper, put on a full trial, and prepare two separate class presentations in the next three weeks. Not to mention host JO Volleyball tryouts next Sunday, host a Thanksgiving meal for 14 (although husband is on turkey duty), and start the Christmas party circuit!

Life has been so busy that I find I don't have time to go to the bathroom! I became concerned this past weekend when there was blood in my urine, and I thought I burst my bladder. But no, turns out my monthly pregnancy test came back negative and I simply forgot what day the results were coming in. Time flies when you're crazy. Sigh.


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Living Vicariously Through Children

This Friday Hol-dog and I went on our annual trip to the state high school volleyball tournament. We arrived in time for the semifinals in the single-A division - it was so much fun to watch the high level of play! The play of the day for me was when Mayer Lutheran had three hitters swinging in such rapid succession that it took everyone's breath away - it wasn't until after the kill that my brain caught up with my eyes and it registered which girl actually hit the ball.

Hol-Dog and I met a fun fan in the stands. Turns out she used to run the Gopher Ball Girl program! She was telling us about how the program works, how Gopher volleyball players are matched with young girls, and how much fun the young girls have. Ever the planner, I asked her how old the kids had to be. She laughed and asked me how old my girl was. Amidst much laughter I confessed, "Oh, she isn't born yet."

I'm crossing my fingers that, when I do have children, I'll be blessed with a child with husband's height (6'4") and my aggressive personality. Hol-dog and I suspect I will have a child with my height (5'6") and his laid-back personality. Our new fan friend asked, Well what if you don't have girls?

Oh, I'll have a girl. Eventually. I might have a football team first, but I WILL have a girl... and I will love her no matter what activities she participates in (there is therapy for that, right?).

On a related note, the teenager is competing in my undergrad sorority's sweetheart week! Yes, I am resisting the urge to spend my week on campus campaigning for him. Yes, I am giddy with excitement. Yes, the first thing we talked about when I got home was his campaign strategy. Coronation is Friday night...

Mob Wife

What do you call someone who disdains the thing you do, yet has no qualms about enjoying the full benefits of your dirty deed?

According to Modern Family, a Mob Wife. As Mitchell says,

Oh Please! Where was all this conscience when I got us into the first class lounge at the airport and you chewed Angela Lansbury's ear off. You know what you are? You're like a mob wife. You look down at me and my ways, but you're happy to wear the mink coat that fell of the back of the truck.

(You can watch the Earthquake Episode online, Season 2 Episode 3, 14:00 for the Mob Wife line).

Who's a Mob Wife? You know who you are. For the rest of you, the clue is in this post. Next semester, my mob wife will be wearing mink on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 1:30 p.m.


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How I Got Into Criminal Practice

-----Original Message-----
From: [freetobeme350]
Sent: Tuesday, November 09, 2010 8:36 AM
To: [BestProfEver]
Subject: PLEASE take the waitlist!

Dear [BestProfEver],

This is my sad, desperate attempt to get into your crim practice class.

Please take your waitlist. If you take those 5-10 extra students, which includes me, you will never regret it.

If you don't, and you ask a question during lecture in mid-February, and there is dead silence... no active class participator... no passion or energy... no one searching for honesty and truth in the world of criminal law... you just might.

OK that was perhaps a little over-dramatic :-) Seriously, do you anticipate taking your waitlist/expanding the size of your class?

Thanks,

[freetobeme350]

***

From: [BestProfEver]
Sent: Tuesday, November 09, 2010 8:54 AM
To: [freetobeme350]
Subject: RE: PLEASE take the waitlist!

Wow! That was a sad image...

Let me find out what the rules are on this...

***

From: [Registrar]
Sent: Wednesday, November 10, 2010 3:42 PM
To: [freetobeme350] [LawLady] [Other 3L Classmates]
Subject: openings in Criminal Practice

Good news friends! I have openings in this class. Please adjust your schedule accordingly (no time conflict and not exceeding 16 credits) let me know when you are ready for me to register you for the course. Do not try to register yourself.
Thanks,

Law Registrar

My Plans and God's (Unknown) Purpose

I got cocky.

Law school registration occurs online, and begins at 8 a.m. on a given day. As a 1L registering for the Fall of my 2L year, I remember driving to school early. I was in the computer lab by 7:30 a.m. I would check, and recheck, the class ID numbers. I practiced typing them quickly, yet accurately, on the keyboard. I did some deep breathing.

At 7:58 a.m., I would begin hitting the "refresh" button on the web-entry page of registration, so that at exactly 8 a.m. I would be entered into the system. At that time, I would systematically enter in my most prized class and hit the register button, then move to my second most prized class, and so on. Generally speaking, it went well for me. I don't remember having any major upsets.

This year, I've been planning for days whether to take Negotiations or Advanced Trial Advocacy. I knew I wanted to take Criminal Practice. I added Domestic Violence to my list to round out my credits. I was confident.

I got my computer set up at home, and around 7:55 began reading some email. I was downloading a .pdf file when I noticed that the news had come on... I looked on TV and the clock said 8:02. That can't be right...

BUT IT WAS. OH MY WORD I AM LATE.

And then, to my horror, the .pdf file FROZE MY COMPUTER. I sat in agony, frozen with fear, as my computer slowly worked through the .pdf file. In a panic, I didn't register for classes one by one, I entered all four in and pushed register.

I got into Domestic Violence.

That's it! That's all I got! The class I didn't even really want!

Shell-shocked, I stared at my computer. All my planning, and worrying, about what classes to take became worthless. In the blink of an eye, my plans were sunk.

Proverbs 19:21 "Many are the plans in a person's heart, but it is the Lord's purpose that prevails."

What's the purpose here God? Are you telling me that it's dumb to plan because You're going to rearrange my plans anyways? Did someone else really need those classes? Or do I really need a different set of classes, I just don't know it yet?


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I'M LISTENING GOD!

God has been calling me. I have been ignoring him for the better part of three months or so. And I realized the other day that the last time I ignored God's call... He broke my leg.

I admit, I'm not sure my theory is Biblically-sound. But in my mind, God was telling me to slow down, to stop chasing things I didn't have and to start chasing a closer relationship with Him. But I was far too busy for that!

The day after Thanksgiving 2009, I was rushing out of the house. I slipped on the frost (yes, the FROST) on my deck, and somehow managed to break my fibula as I tried to catch myself from my fall. For the next two months I was a prisoner in my own living room. I broke my driving leg, so I was house-bound; and even if I could get out, I was on some pretty heavy pain-killers so it wasn't really that fun anyways (instead of getting high, I got nauseous). Despite a good share of misery, I finally had time to reflect on what was really important, and to appreciate those who sacrificially loved me during the busy Holiday season.

I find myself back in the fray... with Thanksgiving right around the corner. I'm running around a lot, with little time to devote to my spiritual health. My lack of discipline in diet and exercise extends to spiritual practices of prayer and Bible reading. Recently, I was confronted with challenges as a mother and a wife, and I had to rely on Superfriends for spiritual support because I had run my own spiritual well bone-dry.

So, I'm listening God! I hear you loud and clear. You want me to refill the spiritual well. I'm at a loss at exactly what this means, but at the very least I know I need to set aside some time EVERY DAY to read the Bible and pray. Treasure in Heaven.


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Poll

If you were picking your class schedule for your last semester of law school, would you choose your classes to make a really nice schedule (i.e. fewer early mornings, fewer night classes) or choose classes that would really engage you and help you in your career (at the expense of adding another late night and early morning)?

That is the question. Please, please weigh in!!!

Is This The Breaking Point?

As we've seen with other quests, it usually helps for me to come to a breaking point where things have gotten so out of hand that I am suddenly highly motivated to make a change.

Remember the initial purpose of this blog? Exercise and Eat Smart. A simple recipe for a healthy life. Instead, I have fallen into a gluttonous pattern of eating obscene amounts of food, to the point that even WITH my spanks people are wondering when my baby is due. And in case you're one who's wondering, I'M NOT PREGNANT.

To add insult to injury, when I complained to Husband, his idea of consolation was to say, "Well, if I was fatter I would be able to find pants that fit me." Apparently Old Navy didn't carry the 36" waist he needed. And then he proceeded to eat, I kid you not, approximately half of an 8 oz. brick of sharp cheddar cheese. He ate it like a freakin' candy bar.

Actually, now that I think of it, Husband is to blame for my weight woes. He recently quit smoking. (Yes! How exciting!) The downside is that now, instead of lighting up a cigarette, he eats a bag of popcorn; a package of Keebler cookies; or a Dilly Bar. He's always had an excellent metabolism and can handle eating all this extra crap. But guess who didn't kick a bad habit, has a horrible metabolism, yet thinks she can eat all this crap too?

But what do I do? I've made so many idle threats to change and get healthy that the teenager just laughs when I say I'm going to diet FOR REAL. Sigh! I need to watch this clip more.


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One more Asian story

THH reminded me of another good Asian story.

In my former life, I was a high school school teacher. In both my former life and my present life, I like to eat Chinese food. (When I was in elementary, I was told I liked rice because I was Asian). Husband and I were regular customers at the local China restaurant, and I regularly tried to befriend the owner's five year old son. The owner and his wife spoke very little English, but I found that if I was patient and creative and used a lot of hand motions, I could communicate basic concepts to the wife other than "seafood delight."

At some point, her son was sick and she asked me for help. I don't remember exactly what happened, other than I brought a thermometer and some cough drops. She took me upstairs to their apartment, which was very cold because the landlord refused to fix the thermostat despite their requests. (The day I called the landlord was a day foreshadowing my attorney occupation). We took the temp, felt his lymph nodes, and concluded he just had a sore throat or something that didn't concern her too much. I think she was lonely, because then she showed me pictures, showed me her home, and tried to talk to me. She shared that her husband was gambling a little too much, and that she missed her family and friends.

She had some concerns about her son at school. She needed some forms submitted for him, and she asked if I would help. So I did. At a district workshop later that month, I saw the elementary principal and told him that if he needed any other forms from the Xio family, that I knew them and could assist.

A few weeks later, I got a phone call during class. I was in the middle of teaching some great cooking skill when the phone rang. I picked up the phone, with 25 pairs of eyes watching and 25 pairs of ear listening.

"Hello?"

"Hello, this is the principal. I'm here with the school nurse, and the [Xio boy] has strep throat..."

OK. So they want me to bring him home because they can't get a hold of her? They want me to get him some medicine?

"So anyways, I was wondering if you could help us tell her."

"..."

I was confused. And then I realized what was going on. Of course. I'm Asian. Obviously I speak Chinese.

"Um, well... All I do is speak really slowly."

Now it was his turn to be silent.

"Uh, er, you... don't speak Chinese?"

"No."

"Oh, uh, nevermindgoodbyeclick!"

I was laughing. I turned to my audience of eighth graders, and after I told them the story they all laughed too. Not that those cute kids are any better. On the first day of class I used to tell them that I was Asian, and as a result I know karate, because all Asians know karate. Most of them nodded in awe. HI-YA!

Being an Asian Republican

In light of state and national politics taking a turn for the red, I wish to share a few campaign stories from my undergrad years. When I was in college, I worked on several local House of Representative campaigns as a field staffer, and on a gubernatorial campaign as well. Being an Asian Republican does present challenges, however, and here are three stories that instantly come to mind:

1) During a hotly contest endorsement campaign, I was told by a delegate to "go back home to the country I came from!"

2) Conversely, while attending a congressional district convention, a really nice elderly man shook my hand and welcomed my kind to the Republican Party.

(Seriously, these are my choices? Being shipped back to Korea or being the country's official Republican delegate?)

3) As a field staff, I worked with a candidate who had some interesting beliefs about Democrats and renters. Specifically, this candidate believed that the Democrats were going to apartment buildings, rounding up illegal Asian immigrants and other non-registered voters, and bringing them to the polls where they would commit voter fraud and of course, vote Democrat. After hearing this story a few times I finally looked at her and said,

"That is ridiculous. They are not doing that."

She looked at me incredulously. Then a look of understanding passed over her face. She softly patted my hand and said:

"Oh no [freetobeme350], not Koreans. ASIANS."

At this point my jaw dropped to the floor. How do you respond to this? Not only does she think the source of my comment was some racial defensiveness instead of a fair analysis of her crazy conspiracy theory, BUT SHE DOESN'T REALIZE KOREANS ARE ASIANS!

I gave her a long look. Speaking very slowly, I said:

"You know that Koreans are Asians, right?"

She nodded, but her eyes had the same glazed look of pity.

"Korea is a country in Asia..."

More nodding.

"Asia is a continent..."

At this point I must have given up, walked to the bathroom, and tried to drown myself in the toilet because this was the person I was working 12-hour-days to elect. Whether good or bad, that candidate did win her election that year. I'm still not sure what I think about that.


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"I wish to compliment you"

THH refuses to compliment people because his random act of kindness is often met with cold retaliation.

As a first year law student he "complimented" a fellow female student on her purple sweatpants. She came into class a little frazzled, not looking her usual immaculate self. She sat down and THH said, "Nice sweatpants."

She looked at him, raised her eyebrows, and said "Thanks?" and turned around. I gave THH the look of death and asked him why he was being such a jerkface. Confused, he looked at me and said he was serious, he REALLY DID LIKE the purple sweatpants. I rolled my eyes.

Later that month, he "complimented" another female classmate on her shoes. They were red, and definitely a fashion statement. "I like your shoes." She looked at him, raised her eyebrows, and said "OK [THH]." I gave THH the look of death and asked him why he was being such a jerkface. Again, he said he was serious, he REALLY DID LIKE her shoes.

But after that, he decided complimenting people was too much work. Why go through the effort of complimenting people when the response is so unfavorable. Like Pavlov's dog, THH has been trained to curl up into an antisocial fetal position whenever someone suggests he should be more complimentary.

I tried to explain to THH the girl-world of compliments; that we are inherently suspicious of compliments and unless said in an appropriate tone of voice using appropriate language, we will reject it to beat you to the punch. In high school, Sparky told me hundreds of times. "You're pretty. Pretty ugly." Men can't be jerkfaces for the first 18 years of their life and then wonder why things are so hard the remaining 82. THH (and all mankind) made this bed, now lie in it.

Casanova, overhearing THH's rant that he was swearing off compliments, suggested THH employ a new method. To avoid the risk of offending anyone with specific compliments, perhaps THH should just say loudly, "I wish to compliment you." And that's it. Just end it there. Don't follow it up with anything. Just put it out there to communicate your desire, and allow it to percolate with the object of your compliment.

It made me laugh. I imagine the recipient of such a compliment would be slightly confused, waiting for the follow-up sentence of what exactly is compliment-worthy. But shouldn't it be enough that someone wishes to compliment us, even if they don't know how?

Something to ponder.

DRAMA QUEEN!

I'm passionate. I'm hot-tempered. And today I realize, I am a Drama Queen.

My Drama Queen coronation process began about a year ago. THH told me I was a Drama Queen in the first degree. I was offended. Nobody wants to be known as someone who exaggerates, overreacts and is generally an emotional roller-coaster. I'd like to say I calmly refuted his argument with well-thought out responses of my own. I'm more inclined to think that, in a show of how un-Drama-Queen I was, I yelled and then stomped out of the room. Or pouted while pretending to work on my laptop.

Ever since then, I have begun to notice that, in the heat of the moment, I truly believe my life is about to irreparably change forever. When I put the Drama Crown on, I am capable of believing that any and every important relationship I have ever had is about to end (not all at the same time.. well, not usually); or that minor mistakes are going to Ruin my grades, my jobs prospects, my happiness for the next 40 years; or that any potential change is an inevitable change for the worse and we are all going to live in misery forever (or sometimes just me. Life is more depressing when everyone else is happy and I'm the only one writhing in the pit of despair).

It works the other way too. When I was dating, every relationship was my ultimate true love that people wrote movies and books about. Every holiday is the best holiday ever. Every reconciliation deserved its own Hallmark movie.

The long and short of being a bonafide Drama Queen is that EVERYTHING is a big deal! On the plus side, I am great in a team huddle. The crown sparkles as I tell my players that this next play is the play that will define the rest of their season, the rest of their athletic career, and possibly the rest of their Life. On the not so great side, I act a bit, er, irrationally when under the influence of the crown. See here for a prime example.

Maybe now that I own that I am a Drama Queen, I will be better about managing it. By managing it, I mean avoid making life-altering decisions while under its influence. At the same time, I realize my self-induced drama adds to my irrational crazy charm. (Seriously, who wants to read a sane person's blog? Boring!)


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