Tagged for the first time!

This morning I got up really early (5:00AM!) to see Justin off before he heads into the field for one week of training. It's nearly seven in the morning now and I miss him already. Sniff. Thus, I thought it fitting to finally post this little Q&A about my wonderful hubby.

25 Things About My Love

1. What is his name? Justin Andrew Richmond

2. Who eats more? Justin wins this question by a mile. He can tank a full rack of ribs and dozens of barbeque chicken wings in one sitting. I must say though that I win when it comes to eating mashed potatoes. I am awesome at eating this delicious wonder of a food.

3. Who said I love you first? Justin did. He reminds me of this little fact nearly every week.

4. Who is taller? I am taller by about an inch! Bwahaha. I am an Amazonian warrior princess.

5. Who is smarter? Eh, I'd say we are equally intelligent but our interests vary vastly. He knows a lot about economics, public policy, and military tactics while I know a lot about American history, fiction, and women's history. When it comes to street smarts though, Justin wins by far. I'm kind of a space cadet when it comes to that sort of thing.

6. Who is more sensitive? I am more sensitive, but the longer I'm married I've learned that Justin can be sensitive too. He may be a tough Army guy on the outside, but he is a sweet little baby penguin on the inside.

7. Who does the laundry? I do most of it because I'm home all day working on my sometimes good, sometimes wretched first novel.

8. Who sleeps on the right side of the bed? I sleep on the right side of the bed when we are sleeping in our apartment. When we visit our parents or spend the night at a friend's house, we switch positions. Isn't that weird?

9. Who pays the bills? That would be moi.

10. Who cooks more? I cook more often because I am awesome at cooking. Haha. Well, not always, but I can make a delicious sun-dried tomato pesto pasta as well as a yummy lasagna.

11. What meals do you cook together? We prefer to cook separately. Our kitchen is kind of narrow and we get into each other's way whenever we try to cook together.

12. Who is more stubborn? I am as stubborn as a mule. I was born in 1982, the year of the dog, and the Chinese perceive dogs to be stubborn little creatures. (As well as a delicious meat.)

13. Who is the first to admit they're wrong? Justin. (See #12.) I'd like to think that I'm never wrong.

14. Who is cleaner? Hmm, I am probably cleaner by a hair. Both of us are very cluttered and unorganized people. One day we will undoubtedly lose one of our children in the huge pile of clothes in our bedroom.

15. Who has more siblings? Me! I have two, he has one.

16. Who wears the pants in the relationship? He likes pants, I like skirts, but our relationship is entirely equal.

17. What do you like to do together? Watch movies, try out new restaurants, talk about politics, buy books from the bookstore, sing the praises of Barack Obama...

18. Who eats more sweets? That would be me again. I'm always bugging Justin to come with me to buy ice cream or milkshakes or hot chocolate.

19. Guilty pleasures? The Japanese game show "Ninja Warrior." Have any of you guys seen it? It is hilarious. What's up with these weird Japanese game shows? Another guilty pleasure would be Star Trek: The Next Generation. Justin does not share this passion with me though and he worres that I will one day run off with Jean-Luc Picard.

20. How did you meet? Hrm...we never know how to answer this question when people ask us. Technically, we met during my sophomore year at BYU when Justin was taking a year off from Duke to work and write a book. He was dating one of my friends from my freshman floor and I developed a wee crush on him.

But we didn't start dating until four years later when we bumped into each other at the Outer Banks in North Carolina. (Strange, huh?) The topic of our first conversation was anal sex. (Even stranger, huh?) Yep. Go figure. Don't know why we talked about that but we did.

21. Who asked who out first? Um...Justin, I think. He suggested that we should rendezvous in the town of St. Petersburg, VA since it was a halfway point between Fayetteville and DC.

22. Who kissed who first? We kind of went in for it together.

23. Who proposed? He did. Down on one knee. Aww.

24. His best features? His beautiful green eyes and his smile. Another bonus? I know he won't go bald! His 80+ year-old grandfather still has a lot of hair on his head.

25. What is his greatest quality? His compassion for others, his drive to work hard, his patience towards me, his intelligence, his sense of humor. The way he doesn't judge people. The dogged way he loves his friends and family.

I sure did marry a winner.

I tag Jami and Jana!

The Book List

A couple of days ago, I headed to the bookstore to take a little break from writing. As I glanced around the Summer Reading tables, I picked up the 50th anniversary edition of Lolita and I knew I had to have it. I read this book two summers ago but I borrowed the novel from my local library with the intent on purchasing it if I really enjoyed it. And I really did like it. (Morbid, I know.) I just never got around to buying the damn thing.

Scribbled down somewhere in one of my old journals is a list of books I want to have in my own personal library. These are books I read in high school or college or in my post-graduate life that I just haven't gotten around to purchasing (ie Unaccustomed Earth). These are books too that I have lost (The Color Purple) or lent out to a friend and was never returned (The Princess Bride). I still wonder at times where my old dusty copy of A Handmaid's Tale has run off to--perhaps it has joined A Wrinkle in Time in the land where lost books go?

Anyway, here are a few tomes on my book list that I would like to own some day soon:

One Hundred Years of Solitude (Read this in high school. My copy of it survived through my five years in college before it disappeared without a trace. Sigh.)

The Feminine Mystique (Fantastic read. Changed my life by freeing my inner feminist.)

The Princess Bride (Such a fun story. I love the movie too but the film lacks some of the whimsy and wit of the novel.)

The Sirens of Titan (Vonnegut is kind of insane, but in a genius sort of way.)

The Green Book (This is a short little novel I read in the third grade. I LOVED IT! Must have it. Must read to my future half-white, half-Asian children.)

So what are some books you've been meaning to buy for your at-home library?

A Walk to Beautiful

Yesterday evening, Justin and I went to visit some friends up in Durham who recently had a baby. Their daughter Sam is beautiful and her mother has recovered just fine too. In fact, Courtney (the mom) plans to participate in a triathlon in August--about six months after she delivered.

I take comfort in knowing that one day I will give birth to my children in a clean hospital where there are doctors, nurses, and midwives. I know that if anything goes wrong during my labor, then I can rely on the medical personnel to give my baby the best of care. Unfortunately, millions of women across our globe do not have such a luxury.

Last week I watched the documentary "A Walk to Beautiful" that chronicles the prevalence of fistulas in Ethiopia. Obstetricians and midwives are rare in this poor African nation and even rarer in its countryside. Most women in rural areas have no access to a medical professional when they give birth---they just rely on the other women in the village to help them through the delivery. Now in many cases, both mother and baby are healthy after the birth; but in some cases, the woman languishes in labor that can last up to ten days. The child is often left stillborn while the mother frequently develops a fistula.

A fistula is a hole that forms between a woman's birth canal and one or more of her internal organs (either the bladder or the rectum). This hole is created after numerous days of obstructed labor and it causes permanent incontinence of urine and/or feces. Many women who develop fistulas are abandoned by their husbands and shunned by their communities. One woman in the documentary was forced to build an isolated hut away from her family members because they did not want to be close to her. For six years she suffered like this.



Yet there is hope for these women. The Addis Ababa Fistula Hospital was established in 1974 to treat women with this medical ailment. In the past 33 years, the hospital has treated over 33,000 women and boasts a 90% cure rate. But the work of the hospital is never done. About 100,000 Ethiopian women remain untreated while 9,000 new cases are introduced every year. The hospital faces an uphill---but not impossible---battle.

After the documentary ended, my heart was drained and I was humbled. How easy I take for granted the access to medical care in my life. How easy I take for granted my insignificant trials that are so small compared to others. And how helpless I feel when I realize there is not much I can do for these women beyond making a donation to the Fistula Foundation.

Life is so cruelly unfair and I wonder why I have been given so much and others so little.

Signs

On our way home from Durham today, we passed by two billboards that I found highly ironic.

On the left side of the freeway was a sign proudly proclaiming: "Ask Jesus to be your Savior today!" And on the right side of the road was a sign advertising: "Topless! Topless! Topless! Next Exit."

I couldn't help but wonder---which billboard would win in a boxing match?

On one side of the ring we have..........JESUS!
On the other side of the ring we have..........BOOBIES!

It'd be the match of the century if you ask me.

(Indeed, I am a blasphemous and crude woman who will surely be struck by lightning. Forgive me please, high lord Xenu.)

Racism is not dead

I consider myself very lucky that my run-ins with racism are few and far between. Growing up in suburban Maryland, my neighborhood and community was tolerant and diverse. My friends throughout my childhood and teenage years came in an assortment of ethnicities and races and the color of our skin was never really an issue.

Yet the ugly head of racism has reared up in my life a couple of times. I've been called "flat face" and I've been nicknamed "Caroline the Brown" and I've been asked why I speak English without an accent. Most of these incidents I shrug off as simple ignorance--but one example still makes my heart ache a little.

During my third year in college, I befriended a guy from Wyoming and we spent a couple of semesters in innocent flirting and bantering. I discovered one day that my friend had considered dating me but decided against it due to my race--and this discovery stung my soul and wounded my heart. I told myself that it wasn't a big deal and I tried to lock away my hurt feelings--but I couldn't. This was the first time I felt utterly judged by the color of my skin. I felt like someone had looked at my race and figured I wasn't good enough. I wasn't white enough. Suffice to say, I didn't talk to this person for a very long time.

Racism is still alive in our country. We can tout the rise of the black middle class or point to the diversity of college students in our universities or hail the achievements of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. But this doesn't mean that racism is gone or that it has been stomped out of our society. Of course, we have come a long way since the days of Jim Crow but the road ahead of us remains long and winding. Just look at the way some people demean Hispanic immigrants as "dirty Mexicans" and "lazy."

Millions of Americans look to Barack Obama as a sign that racism doesn't matter anymore. Indeed, the candidate has rallied voters from all colors, religions, and ages to the banner of his cause. But this doesn't mean that the Obama campaign has not faced a wave of racism in conservative states and counties. A story in today's Washington Post recounts the trials and tribulations that Obama workers have encountered as they canvassed across the country.


In Indiana for instance, one of Obama's campaign offices was vandalized and spray-painted the day of the primary election. In Scranton, Obama signs were burned during a St. Patrick's Day parade. And here is the clincher: in rural Pennsylvania, one man ranted that he could never vote for a black man and dared to say: "Hang that darky from a tree."

How frustrating. How disappointing. How very, very sad.

Yet I do have hope for this country. (The audacity of hope!) As the older generations die out and as the younger ones rise up, I believe racism will lessen and ebb away ever slowly. My own marriage is a testament of this belief. Decades ago, my union with a white man would have been illegal in some states and looked down upon in most others--yet people today don't even bat an eye when my husband and I walk hand-in-hand down the street.

We have come so far--yet we still have far to go. Racism is not dead. It is alive in our country and it will cling to life as long as people hold onto the prejudices of the past. It will continue on as long as we allow it to live in the hearts of our children. And it will continue on if we allow it to live in our hearts as well.

This is a little late but...

I voted on Tuesday!

After watching over forty states hold their Democratic and Republican primaries, I finally got my chance too. And it was fabulous! On the day of the primary, Justin and I went down to our local elementary school to cast our votes for Barack Obama as well as our picks for the governor and Senate races in November. Justin even spent the rest of the afternoon canvassing for Obama in a few neighborhoods in our town. (I declined to go because knocking on people's doors freaks me out. A lot.) I was just happy to wear my "I Voted" sticker for the rest of the day because I finally got my chance to vote in this historic election.

On my way home from the grocery store later in the day, I heard on NPR that voting in North Carolina doubled this year compared to the presidential primaries in 2004. On one hand this made me really happy, but on the other hand I was sorely disappointed. 35% of North Carolinians voted on Tuesday as opposed to 17% in 2004---yet this leaves a huge bulk of the population that failed to go to the polls!

I can't help but think of Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony who worked for their entire adult lives to give women the vote. And I can't help but think of the horrible laws like the "grandfather clauses" that were implemented to prevent African-Americans from voting. For so much of our history, huge swaths of the population have been barred from casting a vote on election day. Yet now that every adult citizen has the right to do so---many of us choose to stay at home. (And I admit it. I used to be one of these people too. I never bothered to vote in 2004 because I figured my vote would be wasted anyway.)

But no more! Voting is so important. This very simple act is the lifeblood of our democracy. Thus, if you still have the chance to vote in the primaries, then be sure to do it. And if you failed to vote in your primaries, then be sure to register and vote in the general election!

If not, then Caroline the voting monster will come out and get you...

The End of the Universe

Since the name of my blog is "Adventures in Space," I've decided to actually write about--what else?--space! I've actually been in love with astronomy since I was a kid. You know how some children go through a dinosaur phase or a robot phase or an airplane phase? Well, I had a space phase and I never really grew out of it.

During my freshman year of college I took an astronomy class and in my free time I read my textbook for fun. I loved learning about the formation of galaxies, the creation of our universe, and all of the wonderful oddities of outer space. If I had more of a knack for physics, then I probably would have majored in astronomy. But alas, my brain didn't inherit the mysterious Chinese gene that inspires genius within the fields of math or physics. Indeed, I am a shame to my mother country and to my heritage! To put it mildly, I am a dunce. I am the equivalent of a male panda who is unable to reproduce--both of us entirely unuseful to China's hopes in taking over the world.



And yet I still have a layman's curiosity when it comes to astronomy. On Tuesday nights I watch a fantastic show on the History Channel called "The Universe," which delves into different topics ranging from the force of gravity to the strange moons of Saturn. The most recent episode focused on the end of the universe--and my mind is still boggled and bewildered by what I watched.

Basically, astronomers have two theories about the end of the universe: either a hot fiery hellhole or a frigid wasteland of darkness and cold. Pretty bleak, eh? The first theory goes like this... One day the universe will stop expanding and will start to shrink. It will get smaller and smaller and hotter and hotter until it collapses back into a pinpoint of mass. Scientists call this the Big Crunch. The second theory is equally distateful. This theory posits that the universe will continue to expand at an accelerated pace. One day all of the stars will lose their light and even the black holes will evaporate. The end of the universe will be black and icy cold. Everything will be dead. (Not exactly a happy ending either.)

Of course, the universe we live in now is vibrant and strong. Stars still form, planets still orbit, and life still finds it way to birth. We will all be long gone before the universe will end in the far distant future (over a 100 trillion years). But my brain has been churning about the end of the universe in the spiritual sense. Once the universe dies a cold or fiery death, does God die too? Or do He and She pack up their bags and find a new place to call home? Or perhaps God exists on a plane that is beyond our physical universe? I really have no idea.

The Bible talks about eternal life and I've taken this to mean that life will never end. That our souls have some sort of immortal quality to them. But what if eternity has an end too? If the universe must die one day, then what will happen to me or you once this end is reached? Mormons tend to believe that God is a powerful being who is constrained (or rather follows) natural laws. Would He or She be able to bend such laws to allow the universe to keep going without end? Or perhaps does God have the power to create some kind of wormhole into a brand new universe where we can all indeed live forever?

I really don't know. I guess I will just have to wait 100 trillion years to find out.

That is, if I make it that far... :o)

Funnel Cakes and Fahrenheit 451

I won an essay contest!

It's really not a huge deal, but I was pretty excited nonetheless. (Haha. Only 17 people entered the thing.) The county libraries here sponsored an essay contest about Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451, which celebrates its 50th anniversary this year. As one of two winners of this contest, I won a new copy of the book as well as a gift certificate to Barnes and Noble. And I'll also be published in the local paper! This makes me very happy since I can add another clip to my portfolio.

Anyway, Justin and I headed down to the Fayetteville Dogwood Festival on Friday night to retrieve my gift certificate (and ironically we did not see any dogwood flowers). Along the way we chatted with a Vietnam vet, gawked at the sheer size of the Budweiser Clydesdales, and ate a funnel cake. Oh, and I saw a middle-aged woman with no teeth. No dentures. No fake chompers. Just gums and a lot of pride. I was a little afraid she would berate us for being a "mixed-breed" couple.

Gotta love the South.

President McCain 2008?

For the past year, Justin and I have been glued to Meet the Press, Face the Nation, The Washington Post, The New York Times, and basically anything else politically oriented. Frankly, we can't wait until ol' Dubya vacates the White House and we've been so excited about the Democratic primaries.

Yet to be even more frank, I'm getting sick of it all. At first I was happy that the Democratic Party had such a diverse list of candidates. An African-American! A Latino! A woman! And a populist! (I still love John Edwards.) All seemed bright in the land of the donkey and I was sure that the Democrats would sweep the elections come November. But now I'm not so sure.

I'm really tired of all the badgering between Obama and Clinton. I'm tired of the negativity. Tired of word "superdelegate." And tired of realizing that we're practically giving away the presidency to John McCain. The longer this Democratic primary is prolonged, the more divided this party becomes. Hatred is brewing between the two candidate's supporters--and I admit it. I'm beginning to hate Hillary Clinton.

I'm beginning to hate Hillary! Me! A feminist! I have defended her in the past against people who dislike her for seemingly no reason, but I'm getting to the point where if she wins the nomination over Obama I don't know if I could vote for her. (Which leaves me with only two options: don't vote or go Nader. I refuse to support McCain on the issue of Iraq.)

And this is ludicrous! This is so incredibly stupid. As a staunch Democrat, I should be happy if either Obama or Clinton clinches the nomination. I should be happy to vote for either of them. I should...I should...but I don't know if I can anymore.

Please, Nancy Pelosi. Please, Howard Dean. If you can do anything, please do something. This drawn-out race is killing us. If we end up with a brokered convention in August then we can kiss the White House goodbye. And is this something the Democrats want?

I don't think so.

Marriage: One year older and wiser

I first met Justin when I was nineteen years old and a sophomore at college. At the time I was a little too giggly, a little too boy-crazy, a little too chubby from Wendy's and Taco Bell---and a little too lost when it came to my dreams and goals. But I didn't care. I was nineteen! I had my twenties to figure out this thing called "life."

I remember the day that we met. Not the exact date but I know it was sunny and it was warm. I was probably wearing my favorite Gap denim skirt with my platform flip-flops from Old Navy. (Ugh...I shudder at my wardrobe choices back then.) I thought I looked pretty cool with that combination on.

My friend Miranda was at my apartment and she had invited her new boyfriend over so we could all meet him. She told us his name was Justin and he was taking a year off from Duke to work on a book. Of course, I was intrigued. A boy from Duke! He must be smart, right? After all, he was able to get into Duke when all I got was a thin rejection letter from that university.

And I remember watching him walk through my apartment complex---a strong-looking guy with big arms and a baseball cap. He strolled through my front door with no anxiety and no shyness. He shook hands and he smiled and he made jokes right off of the bat. I asked him about Duke and we talked for a couple minutes. I was definitely intrigued by him---he was so different from the stereotypical Mormon boys I met at school. He was a little too crazy, a little too outspoken, and a whole lot more liberal than the BYU standard.

Admittedly, I was a little smitten with this Justin Richmond character. I barely saw him after our first meeting but I would try to fish information from Miranda. My silly little crush was, well, silly. He had a girlfriend. That girlfriend was my friend. He lived on the other side of the country. I would never see him again.

Or so I thought.

On Sunday, Justin and I celebrated our one year anniversary. In the morning he smiled at me and sang a little "Happy Anniversary" song as I rubbed my eyes and yawned. We marveled at how quickly a year had passed and how wonderful a year it was indeed. We had a couple of downs but mostly ups. A few lows, but predominantly highs. And through it all we've grown closer and stronger and watched as our marriage soldified. We are so happy.

At times I find myself looking at my husband and my breath catches in my throat. I'm hit with the realization that I am married and that my soul mate is sitting next to me. For a long time I didn't think I would find him---or at least so early in my life. For a long time I thought I would wander this world by myself because I didn't think someone could really truly love me. Yet here he sits besides to me and we've been together for nearly two years and he tells me he loves me more each day. And I know I don't really deserve it.

And I know that dreams do come true.

The Real Genius Behind "21"

Over the weekend Justin and I watched "21," which we both found entertaining and worth our $7.50. (Movie tickets here in Fayetteville are still relatively cheap.) The film, which is loosely based on a true story, follows an MIT undergrad named Ben who stumbles into a secret blackjack club run by one of his professors.

Due to his uncanny ability at math, Ben wins hundreds of thousands of dollars during the team's weekend jaunts to Las Vegas. Ben keeps telling himself that he will use the money to pay for medical school--but the flasy lights of Vegas quickly get to his head.

I was intrigued by the movie so I started to do some research about the people who inspired this film. Turns out there really was a blackjack club at MIT (it's been around for a long time) and the members of this team made a lot of money by counting cards at the gambling tables.

And then I found something really interesting--the character Ben is based off of an Asian American student named Jeff Ma. Hmmm...Ben is very much a white boy in the movie with his mop of dark brown hair and pale, pale skin. Nope. He definitely isn't Chinese.

So what gives about this blatant racial mix-up? Supposedly, the studio executives decided that "most of the film's actors would be white, with perhaps an Asian female." The underlying assumption here is that the movie-making industry doesn't believe an Asian actor can carry a movie like "21." A karate flick? Sure. But a hip #1 boxseller? Probably not.

(Above: Jeff Ma)

A small part of me understands where these Hollywood types are coming from. They feel the need to "whitewash" a movie because most people in America are white. From a business point-of-view, I can kind of see things from their side.

Yet a large part of me is frustrated, sad, and disappointed. Frustrated that Asian actors (and most actors of color) are routinely cut out of the "meatiest" roles in Hollywood. Sad that I don't see more Asian-American actors that go beyond the "nerdy geek" or "Triad mafia" stereotype in films. And disappointed that a movie has to be whitewashed to be viable for success.

Overall "21" is a good film, but it's also a movie that shows how Hollywood isn't so color-blind after all.

My Grandma would be proud

I made wontons for dinner tonight! I grabbed a recipe off of the Food Network and I rummaged through my rusty memory to remember when my grandma taught me how to fold wontons and dumplings. (Note: dumplings require circle-shaped dough while wontons need square-shaped.)

With my new dining room combined with my new wonton-making skills, you'd think I'm entering the world of the domestic goddess. But never fear---my feminist roarings are never far from view!

My new dining room!

A few days ago I discovered the store Amenity Home and I absolutely fell in love with one of their fabric prints. I just adored the organic, simple, and modern feel of this piece. The only problem? At a steep price of $330, I knew that my pocketbook was too slim to accomodate my tastes.

So my brain started turning and turning--I had to have this artwork in my home!--and I came to the conclusion that I could try to paint this pattern myself. Now, I'm not an artist by any means but I can (kind of) draw and (kind of) decorate. How hard could this project be?

Well, it turns out that my artistic talent is kind of rusty. I went to Michael's and bought all of the supplies I needed (a big canvas, paint, brushes) and everything started out pretty well. The branches looked decent enough and I was pretty proud of my choices of color. But then I tried to tackle the leaves and they looked just...awful. Like puffs of cotton balls or nastiness times five.

But I think I salvaged the project well. I even painted a second piece to go along with my first one. And now, I have a brand new dining room! (Which is kind of ironic since Justin and I will most likely be moving at the end of April since our rent is going up.)

This morning I actually re-painted the piece on the left. The branches weren't as dark as I wanted them so I painted them a slate gray. (The color gray is my new obsession.) I also want to remark on the clock in the picture. I got it on sale for only $20! Justin doesn't like it though because it's so big. He calls it Big Ben. But I don't let this bother me because a.) I LOVE big clocks and b.) I LOVE Big Ben.

How do I look?

So, how do you guys like the new blog look?

I've been meaning to change my blog template for awhile now but I wasn't sure how to do it. Sadly, I have stared at many web pages touting "free blogger templates" while in a midst of utter confusion.

But tonight I sat down at my computer and I told myself that I could do this. I even gave myself a little pep talk.

"Caroline!" my brain said, "you can figure this out. You're pretty smart. I mean, you're Asian after all. You have to be good at computers, right? Look at your cousins Ling Ling and Xing Xing. They invented Yahoo from a bag of bamboo sticks and old violin cases!"

And I did it! I changed my blog! And I like it!

Here's to you, Lizzie

"The best protection any woman can have...is courage."
- Elizabeth Cady Stanton

Yesterday afternoon I asked Justin if he cared about the middle names of our future children.

He just shrugged. "Not really."

Then I asked if I could have the jurisdiction to choose the middle names for our kids.

"Well, what kind of names are you thinking about?" he asked, obviously curious.

"Elizabeth if we have a girl..." I paused. "After Elizabeth Cady Stanton."

Justin kind of chuckled. "Are you trying to pass on your radical feminist agenda onto our kids?" he joked.

This, of course, is only half true.

I recently watched Ken Burns' documentary "Not For Ourselves Alone," which chronicles the women's suffragist movement through the lives of Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony. These two women, who were friends for over fifty years, provided the fire and fuel for female suffrage in America. For five decades they worked tirelessly to give speeches, rally women, write books, and lobby Congress to give women the right to vote. Sadly, both women passed away before the 19th amendment was passed in 1920.

As I watched the documentary, I was struck at how different these two women were. On one hand there was Anthony---who never married and had no children, who was a Quaker and who traveled endlessly to further the cause of women. On the other hand was Stanton---who was married and had seven children, who was a gifted writer, who refuted Christianity and who was largely confined to her home while she raised her large brood. Yet their differences made for the perfect partnership. Stanton wrote the articles and speeches that Anthony went on to deliver across the country. Stanton was the brains of their operation while Anthony was the hands and feet.

While I admire both women profusely, I have a special place in my heart for Stanton (probably because I have a penchant for historical figures who have been largely forgotten by society). She was a woman who straddled both family life and political activism in a time when women were seen as secondary citizens. She was a woman who challenged popular notions of femininity and who fought against the injustices of her day. She was a woman who changed history because she wasn't afraid to speak her mind.

I can only hope that I can help carry the banner that Stanton herself created:

To promote equality in my community.

To fight against societal wrongs.

To speak my mind with courage.

And to pass along the message of feminism to my children.

To my future Elizabeth.

I am sad

Obama lost big tonight. His twelve-state winning streak has come to an end. I watched the primary results with a lot of disappointment. *Huge depressing sigh*

The only bright spot? Maybe the North Carolina primary will actually garner some interest! I was mad as hell when I discovered that I can't vote until May. May! I should have kept my voter registration in Maryland...

Hmmm. This could also mean that I could get involved with the Obama campaign here in Fayette-stan (that is if one exists). I don't think there are a lot of Democrats in this military town but there are probably a few liberals 'round these parts.

And I shall find them...

The Last of His Kind

In 1919, the Treaty of Versailles finally brought an end to World War I. Over two million Americans served in this War to End All Wars--and now only one of them remains. His name is Frank Woodruff Buckles and he is 107 years old. He is the last of his kind.

When Frank Buckles leaves this Earth, we will lose our final thread to the Great War. Yet the United States has no firm plans to honor the passing of its last WWI veteran. No ceremony. No state funeral. No words of commemoration. The memory of World War I seems to have been lost in our national history--eclipsed by the romanticism surrounding WWII or the controversies of Vietnam. There is not even a WWI memorial on the Washington Mall.

Americans have largely forgotten WWI, which was fought between 1914-1918. There are various explanations for this lapse in our memory: the war was mostly a European conflict, the war was fought for nonsensical reasons, the war leaves no iconic images, etc. Indeed, it is easy to forget a war that seems like it was fought long, long ago. After all, WWI stems from an imperialistic world where czars still ruled Russia and where the Ottoman empire stood on its last legs.

But the impact of WWI cannot be erased. The world today is built upon a war that was fought nearly a hundred years ago. The Great War set off a chain of events that reverberates into our own time: The Roaring Twenties and the break from Victorian propriety. The Great Depression. World War II. The Cold War. Vietnam. Even the conflict in Iraq bears seeds from the WWI era. "Most of the problems we're grappling with in the Middle East are legacies of the great military binge of 1914–1918," says Niall Ferguson, a revisionist British historian.

For now, Frank Buckles remains surprisingly healthy and robust despite his 107 years. For now, Americans still have a human connection to an event that changed our world completely. Yet sometime soon Frank too will pass away and join his fellow comrades on the other side. And at that point the Great War will finally become something of the past and something of history books.

Something to be forgotten.

*Note: After writing this entry, I discovered that the World War I Museum in Kansas City recently announced that it will honor Frank Buckles once he dies. This is a small step forward to better incorporate WWI into our national narrative but I can't help but think that WWI history will continue to gather dust. Kind of like the War of 1812 or the Spanish-American War.

Wahoo!

I'm going to be published in Highlights Magazine! Just got my contract in the mail today.

I'm trying not to get too excited because the editors reserve the right to "kill" my article in case they don't have room in the magazine. (Oh, the woes of the publishing world...) But I couldn't help myself from running back to my apartment after I got the mail today. I am so excited!

I'm not sure when the piece (which is about spacesuits) will be published but I am definitely looking forward to it!

Sickness and the Blue Man

I am sick. It kind of sucks. I find it quite ironic that the words "sick" and "suck" only differ by one small letter. That's very fitting in my opinion.

Yesterday I spent most of the day sleeping, drifting in and out of consciousness due to a steady stream of Nyquil. Justin tells me that I was only awake for about 7 hours out of the day. Such is the life of an invalid, I suppose.

There are a few perks about being sick though. For one thing, Justin was the best nurse I could ever ask for. When I woke up from my first coma, I found the kitchen stocked with my favorite sickness treats: orange gatorade, chicken noodle soup, cough drops, and even fruit mentos! He even offered to sleep on the couch so I could stretch out on our bed.

Secondly, I watched some pretty interesting shows during the few hours I was awake. For example, Oprah Winfrey interviewed a man who had blue skin! At first I thought he must have had some strange medical condition. But it turns out that he turned his skin blue on accident by putting colloidal silver on his face and limbs. He had a bad case of dermititis (sp?) and decided to fix the ailment himself by turning to a home remedy.

I know what you're thinking, ladies, and I'm sorry to say that the Blue Man is engaged! So you'll have to find another blue-tinged bachelor elsewhere...

The Little State That Could

"Maryland, which last went Republican for president in 1988, is a state that bleeds Democratic blue."

This quote was printed in Salon today and I couldn't have been prouder of my home state. Maryland! The little blue state that bleeds blue through and through. We may be small but we pack a strong liberal punch.

So here's to Maryland! It may be small. It may resemble a strange-looking pair of underwear. But us Marylanders are here to stay!

And now...for some random facts about the Old Line State:

1.) Maryland is comparable in size to the country of Belgium. (Is Belgium really that small?)

2.) Maryland's state sport is jousting.

3.) Maryland is the wealthiest state in the country! (Boo-ya California!)

4.) In 1790, Maryland ceded land to create the District of Columbia. Virginia gave some land too but later took it back. Dirty no-good Virginians...

5.) The Star-Spangled Banner was written in Fort McHenry, Maryland during the War of 1812.

6.) America's first umbrellas were manufactured in Baltimore, circa 1828.
7.) Famous Marylanders include: Thurgood Marshall, Frederick Douglass, Supreme Court Chief Justice Roger Taney (who was really, really racist), Spiro Agnew, Edgar Allen Poe, Babe Ruth, and the ever illustrious Toni Braxton.

The Nightmare on Huckabilly Street

My friends! I have seen the future---and let me tell you---it is a frightening place. Last night I had the most awful dream and I believe it may come true...

Come November 2008, John McCain and his running mate Mike Huckabee will win the nomination and storm to the White House. Their victory was made possible because three key Democratic states (California, Florida, and New York) sank into the ocean due to global warming. Experts blame the incident on Dick Cheney who in turn flees the country with his pockets stuffed with money he made off of the War in Iraq.

McCain is sworn into office in early 2009 but his tenure as president is cut drastically short. During his second month in office, McCain undergoes a botched clandestine surgery with the Hair Club for Men and he dies on the operating room table.

"It was an utter tragedy," explains the Jamaican doctor in charge of the operation. "He only wanted some hair-plugs, mon."

A week after the funeral, Mike "The Huckster" Huckabee is ushered into the most powerful position in the entire world. During his inauguration Huckabee takes it upon himself to deliver the opening prayer for the event. He states:

"Dear Sweet Lord Baby Jesus,

Thank you for being such a cute little baby,

Thank you for voting me president,

Thank you for my dear wife who submits to me every day.

Now that being said...

Please help me to rid this nation of our vile enemies like liberals, Democrats, atheists, feminists, Northerners, Californians, and oh, don't forget Mitt Romney,

Please help me to teach my fellow Americans that dinosaurs and evolution is all a bunch of hooey,

And please help me to further divide this country just like my predecessor George W. Bush has done.

Amen!"

Shortly after the inauguration, Huckabee moves the nation's capital from Washington, DC to his hometown of Little Rock. He also decrees that the United States of America will be known henceforth as the Confederacy of Huckabilly---a place where he reigns as king. (His wife is given the title of Most Gracious Servant.)

King Huckabee subsequently balls up the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence and throws the documents into the trash. Then he sits on his Arkansas throne and announces that every American will now be enlisted in a new Crusade for Christianity. Even Jews, Muslims, Sikhs, and Mormons are enjoined to "fight the imbeciles" and to "win souls for the cute little baby Jesus."

In a few short months, the U.S. is overtaken by the Chinese. (That's right, we're overtaken by my ancestors.) The Chinese sweep through the country and force every American to work in sweatshops or rice paddies or panda-breeding facilities. They also pump us full of opium to exact revenge on our 19th century imperialistic ways.

"Payback is bitch! Payback is bitch!" cries the Chinese president as he tramps across our country in a panda-drawn carriage. "Why not you vote for Obama?" Then he cackles loudly.

So there you have it: THE FUTURE. Ain't it purdy?

An Otherwise Great Movie Ruined by Old People

On Friday afternoon I went to watch Atonement, which I have been burning to watch since the movie's release. I read the book last year and I was just hankering to see how they transformed the novel into a movie.

The first thing I noticed when I took a seat in the theater was that there were a lot of older people in the audience. Had I intruded upon a special screening for those 65 and older? If so, was my grandma here? Grandma? Grandma? Oh yeah, she doesn't speak English...

Anyway, the previews start playing and the white-haired couple sitting behind me start making comments to one another. After each preview, the wife announces her opinion of that movie:

"Oh, we should see that one."

"That one looks bad."

"What did he just say?"

That sort of thing. I rolled my eyes but I figured I'd give these old-timers the benefit of the doubt. Lots of people talk through the previews but they pipe down when the movie starts.

BOY, I was wrong. Queue up the movie and the old people keep talking. Frequently, the wife turns to her husband and asks what has just happened in the film. And here's the clincher: every time someone dies in the movie, the husband has to make a proclamation to the entire audience.

"Well, he died."

"Oh, he died too."

"See there? He just died."

ARGH! I couldn't take it anymore. But I couldn't turn around and chide these annoying people because they were old and probably hard of hearing and the old man would probably point to his amputated leg and say, "Well, see here missy! I lost this leg in the war. You know, the Civil War. I think I earned the right to say whatever I want to in these moving picture things. Now, why don't you turn your little Chinamen head around and leave me and Agnes in peace." Then he would shake his fists at me.

Or something along those lines.

So I couldn't say anything to this old couple and thus I did the only thing I could do: I moved. I left my comfy chair in a comfy part of the theater and I moved to the fourth row of the room. I sighed. Now for some peace and quiet. Now I could enjoy the movie without being jarred away from it from Mr. Confederacy and his wife.

But then I heard the voices. Noooo! They were talking again! And I could hear them as clear as day! The volume of their voices along with the acoustics of the theater had conspired against me.

"Well, he's dead," the old man announced.

I sighed again. Oh, James McAvoy and Keira Knightly! Come save me!

(By the way, the movie was great albeit a little slow in the middle. I think I may be one of a handful of people who preferred the film to the book. Not that the book isn't good. I just had a hard time reading it because I was SO MAD at Briony.)

Behold! My brain did not explode

Last Thursday I ventured timidly to my book club, hoping and praying that my mouth wouldn't burst forth with profanities towards this month's book. Because the book was really bad. Really, really bad. So bad that I knew I would scream "This book is shittier than a clogged toilet that no one has fixed in three weeks!"

But then an amazing thing happened: we didn't even talk about the book. Well, maybe we did for five minutes but then we all moved on to more interesting topics like the writer's strike and how much we really miss The Office.

I was saved.

And here is the good news: next month we voted to read Life of Pi, which I read back in college and which is a pretty decent book.

And here is the great news: I am hosting book club next month so I get to choose three or four books that the club will vote from! Now my brain is buzzing with what books I should choose. I want them to be really good books, of course, but I also want them to appeal to a wide audience. Thus I need to stay away from such literary figures as Marquez or Vonnegut because their prose may be too "out there" for my little book club.

Here is a list of what I have in mind:

1.) The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri

2.) The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien

3.) The Road by Cormac McCarthy

4.) China Road by Rob Gifford (A non-fiction book by a reporter who hitchhikes his way across the Chinese version of Route 66.)

I'm sure I'm forgetting some great books...

Behold! The Worst Book Ever Written

When I was in college, my friend Mike held a Bad Movie Club at his house every week. On Wednesday or Thursday evenings a group of BYU students and Provo-ites gathered to watch horrendously awful movies. Like "From Justin to Kelly," which really is awful.

If I was to start a Bad Book Club, then "The Wednesday Letters" by Jason F. Wright would be at the top of the list. I mean, this book isn't just bad. It's baaaaaaad. Not only is the prose cliche and the characters completely one-dimensional, the entire storyline is cheesy and melodramatic. The icing on the cake? An overt---and kind of laughable---anti-abortion message. Ugh.

Now I'm having an internal debate if I should attend my real-life book club this upcoming Thursday. Yep. Our book of the month is "The Wednesday Letters" and I think I might ruin everyone else's evening once I open my big mouth. I usually try my best to refrain from making too many comments and I usually try to give each book the benefit of the doubt. But I know I can't stop myself from yelling "THIS IS THE WORST BOOK I HAVE EVER READ!" and thus spoil everyone's dinner. (We're meeting at a restaurant.)

To prove my point, here are some passages from the story:

1.) Some background information on this passage: main character Malcolm returns to his hometown after spending two years in South America. He still is fiercely in love with his high school sweetheart Rain who is now engaged to a man named Nathan. Rain originally broke up with Malcolm because she wanted to stay a virgin until she was married and he wanted to rip her clothes off.

"Malcolm eventually learned to appreciate, even admire, [Rain's] faithful chastity. Now it crushed Malcolm to know Nathan was poised to be the beneficiary of her purity."

Ummmm...excuse me? The phrase "beneficiary of her purity" caused huge red flags to wave in my face. I mean, are we still living back in the middle ages when chastity belts were still in vogue? MISOGYNY ALERT!

2.) Some background information on this passage: Malcolm and Rain finally see each other after two years and they talk on the porch swing at Malcolm's parent's house.

"What about your dreams?" Malcolm asked.
"Give me a house full of children who call me Mommy, a man who loves me and who writes me a poem or two now and again, and maybe who can make me a swing like this one, and my dreams will find their way to true," said Rain.

Ummmm...do any real women talk like this? Sure, a lot of women want to be a mom and they want a good man to marry. But this dialogue just gagged me. Blech, blech, blech. I demand to know who edited this book!

Anyway, the only good thing about this entire ordeal is that my friend Liz lent the book to me. Whew. I'm so glad I didn't spend any of my money on this piece of stinky elephant poop. I truly believe more of my brain cells would have survived if I had spent the time smoking pot.

I want to move to Iowa

I am a nerd.

Last night I sat enraptured while watching the Des Moisnes Precinct 53 caucus for the Democratic primary. I gazed as the residents of this district organized themselves into groups for the candidate of their choice. I watched as the precinct leaders hopped from one group to another to canvas for more support. I bit my nails as the votes were counted once, twice, and once more.

It was enthralling---and it was on C-SPAN. I am now officially 85 years old.

I never really understood what a caucas was until yesterday. I always thought it was just another word for "primary" or "election." But no, no. A caucus is no ordinary go-to-the-local-elementary-school-and-cast-your-vote thing. It is an event. Residents of a precinct gather into a nearby school or library or someone's home and they split off into groups to show their alliegance to a certain candidate. Bodies are subsequently tallied up and the number sent to the precinct leader at the front of the room.

The Democratic caucus in Iowa is even more complicated in that it has two rounds. Candidates must garner at least 15% of the vote to be considered viable. If they fail to meet that 15% threshhold, then the supporters of that candidate must choose someone else. That's why a person's second-choice is so important amongst Iowa democrats. And that's why Dennis Kucinich urged his supporters to turn to Barack Obama in case he didn't meet viability. (I was confused about that.)

The whole process made me a bit misty-eyed about the whole democratic process and I wished that come February, I could participate in a caucus down here in North Carolina. The whole thing seemed so inspiring---as if the entire community came alive for one night to choose the next presidential nominee. But alas. I will just have to settle for that ordinary ballot machine.

(Yay Obama and Edwards!)

Good book vs. Great book

On a recent trip to Barnes & Noble, I picked up a children's novel called Fablehaven. The book has been on the NY Times Bestseller's list for kid's fiction and I've heard positive reviews about the story. The author Brandon Mull is a fellow BYU alumnus like me (at least I think he is), which piqued my interest even further.

Fablehaven follows a sibling duo Kendra and Seth on a two and a half week trip to their grandparent's house. Slowly, they begin to realize that there is more than meets the eye on their grandparent's land. The butterflies flitting out in the yard are actually fairies. A strange witch lives in a hut out on the property. And even their pet chicken Goldilocks has a few secrets of her own.

The book was a quick and easy read and I found the story well-structured and well-paced. I'm sure children would easily fall in love with the idea of Fablehaven---which is a safe refuge for magical creatures both good and evil. Overall, I was pleased with my purchase and I found the book worthy of the seven dollars I had paid for it.

But after I finished the book I couldn't quite put it away. My brain was humming with thoughts. Although Fablehaven was a good story---I finished the whole thing in about a day---I couldn't deem it a great one. Good book yes, but great book no. And I wondered why I couldn't put it in the latter category.

I've encountered many great kids books throughout my life, some I read when I was a child and others I read as an adult. These "great" books include The Giver, Matilda, A Wrinkle in Time, From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, A Single Shard, Maniac Magee, Harry Potter. So I started to ruminate why I considered these books so great, so timeless, and so readable over and over again while others fall short of this standard.

My basic conclusion is characterization. The books I listed above have different settings, different time periods, different points of view, different narrators, yet there is one thing that they all have in common: fantastic characters. They have characters that drive the story and not the other way around. They have characters that you fall in love with and whom you can never forget. They have characters who seem so real even though they can only exist in the pages of our minds.

The reason Harry Potter has been so successful is because the character of Harry is so compelling. We cheer for him. We sympathize with him. We love him. The world of wizardry and Hogwarts is certainly a miraculous one, but at the heart of these books is a small boy with glasses and a scar on his forehead that we can't seem to shake from our thoughts.

And this is why Fablehaven is merely a good book rather than a great one. Mull is certainly a gifted writer who has a talent for storytelling. But the characters in his book seem more like a means to propel the exciting plot than the kind who take residence in our brains long after we have finished their book. By the end of the story I was more entranced with the idea of Fablehaven than the characters who had brought me there.

In the end, I would highly recommend Fablehaven to the young and the old. It's a fun story that you can't put down until you finish the last page. Yet I wonder if it will last the tests of time. Forty years from now will my grandchildren read this book? I don't know. But I'm sure a tattered copy of A Wrinkle in Time will be found under their bed.

Why I am a feminist

If you asked my mother if she considered herself a feminist, she would probably say no.

"Me? A feminist?" she would say, "I just am who I am."

Whether or not my mother calls herself a feminist, she is the one who planted the seeds of feminism in my upbringing. As a child growing up in Maryland, my mom urged me to perform well in school so one day I could become a doctor or a lawyer or an astronaut. The whole world was ripe in my fingertips. When I told my mom that I wanted to become a pediatrician, she clasped her hands and smiled---a dream come true for a Chinese mother. A daughter with a stethoscope hanging around her neck.

Besides her frequent admonitions for me to "sit like a lady," my mother never pushed gender roles onto me. My brother and I were held to the same standard in our family. We both played piano and violin. We both had to do yard work. We both washed the dishes and vacuumed the floor. We both had to excel in school. I was never told that I couldn't do anything because I was a girl. Indeed, my mother would have balked if I chose anything less than a highly successful, straight-A existence.

In college, my feminism began to show itself in subtle ways. I wrote my history papers on the "It" girls of the Roaring Twenties and the noblewomen of medieval France (women who shook their respective spheres in quiet and raucous ways). Oftentimes I racked my mind over my future career---should I become a college professor or a museum curator? What graduate school should I attend? I had yet to identify myself with feminism, but it was peeking its head into my life in a variety of ways.

In fact, it reared its beautiful head one night during my junior year at BYU. I had been dating a guy for a few weeks when we randomly began to talk about parenting. Casually, my boyfriend remarked, "Well, I want my wife to stay at home." His comment made me blink hard, but I dumbly agreed with him because I was young and naive and this was my first real boyfriend. Not the pretend type that I had back in the sixth grade.

Once I returned to my apartment I told my roommate how much his remark had bothered me. Didn't his future wife have any say in the matter? It was as if he had made the decision for her even though he had yet to meet the girl. Deep inside my heart I knew that our relationship was doomed to fail. If my newfound boyfriend wanted to make career choices for his future wife, then I was certainly the wrong girl for him.

And yet, my feminism remained dormant until I graduated two years later. Ironically, it took a heartbreaking relationship to awaken the feminist dragon inside me. At the age of 22 I stood at a strange crossroads---either change my core beliefs to salvage my relationship or remain heartbroken with my integrity intact. Looking back now, the choice seems ridiculously and frustratingly simple but at the time I thought I was in love. (I was very stupid too.)

In my grief I turned to books for solace. Preferably non-fiction. I wanted tomes that were grounded in reality---in supposed facts---rather than the made-up worlds and characters of the fiction I had always preferred. I didn't want to read about love or people falling in love or people becoming disenchanted by love. Because I had too much of that in my own life.

One day my roommate Alexis, who had just started her Masters degree, lent me her copy of Betty Friedan's The Feminine Mystique. I carried the book to me to work everyday and fingered its pages every night before heading to bed. It was entrancing. I had always known about the injustices that women have encountered throughout history, but here was a book that provided a real voice to the agonizing plight that women---even modern women---have suffered from.

I was humbled. My mother had raised me in a world where my dreams could become a reality, where I could grow up to be a heart surgeon or a helicoptor pilot or a president of a country. I was raised to be a strong and independent woman yet I was becoming a jiggly pile of goo for my relationship. Billions of women before my birth had been forced to align with the sexist cultures and societies that they lived in---so why was I so willing to give up my very being to suit the tastes of an unremarkable man?

It was then when I finally embraced the word feminism. I embraced the works of Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony who pushed for women's suffrage. I embraced women like Betty Friedan who tirelessly worked for female advancement in the workplace. I embraced the all the women who opened the doors of education and opportunity for my generation.

I am a feminist today because I believe in equality. I believe in choice too---a woman's choice to dictate life on her own terms rather than on the rules and expectations of sexism and gender roles. I believe that the banner of feminism must be spread around the world to countries still wrapped in misogyny. To places where women cannot vote and cannot pursue an education. To places where women are still treated as property and chattel rather than as human beings.

On the surface, I may not look like our society's characterization of a feminist. I love to wear nice clothes and I have a penchant for high heels. I shave my legs and armpits. Oh, I'm married too. And did I mention I'm Mormon? But feminism isn't about raving lesbians who want to kill the entire male species. Feminism is about equality and it's about choice. Do some feminists take this ideology to the extreme? Of course. But their views shouldn't eclipse what lies at the heart of feminism---the empowering of women so they can stand as equals by their male counterparts.

The land of the free and uninsured?

During my freshman year of high school I was given two choices by my orthodontist: remove two of my teeth or wear head gear for two years. Logically, I chose the first option. After all, I didn't want to be known as "Metal Mouth" or "Scary Jaw" or "Whoa! That girl is ugly" for half of my high school career.

A few weeks after the surgery, I was looking through our mail when I noticed the bill from my surgeon's office. (One of my parents had left it out accidentally.) I glanced at the paper for a moment before my eyes widened: my surgery cost a whopping $800! And that was after our insurance company had paid its portion of the check. At first I was completely bewildered by the cost but then I quickly forgot about it because I was a kid and my parents would take care of everything. The world of HMO's and health insurance was something that grown-ups had to deal with.

But then adulthood set in really fast. About a year ago I faced a crisis when my full-time job at the Smithsonian became a part-time one. In the blink of an eye I was booted from my health insurance because the museum didn't provide benefits for part-time employees. So I became a little frantic. Sure, I was a healthy 23 year-old woman who didn't smoke or drink, but there could always be a chance that I would be in a serious car accident or contract some terrible disease. In the end, I was one of the lucky ones. I was able to pay for my medical insurance because I was living rent-free at my parent's house. And so, every month I sent a $175 check to Kaiser Permanente. A high price to pay? Of course. But what was my alternative?

Not all Americans are as lucky as I was. 50 million people in our country are uninsured. That's one out of six Americans---most of whom are too poor to afford it. Even more frightening, those of us who have insurance aren't completely saved from costly hospital bills and treatments.

In Michael Moore's film "Sicko," he follows the lives of numerous Americans who have suffered at the hands of their insurance companies: the 60 year-old grandmother who was forced to sell her home to pay her medical bills, the young mother whose daughter died in a hospital that refused to accept her insurance, and the wife who lost her husband to kidney cancer because their HMO denied him the surgery he needed. The film is heartbreaking to watch, yet extremely telling of the health crisis we face today in the United States.

Perhaps some hope looms in our future though. All three main contenders for the Democratic presidential nomination have laid out universal health plans to make sure every American has access to medical insurance. In a recent ad, John Edwards even claimed that he would halt health insurance to Congressmen if they failed to set a health care bill in motion by a certain date. Whether or not his plan comes to fruition is a gamble, but at least some candidates are taking this issue seriously.

Why do I believe in government-sponsored health care? Because I already am a part of this system and---surprise, surprise---it works. As a military spouse, I enjoy free health benefits through the Army. One of the few perks about the military is that I don't have to worry about high medical bills or even higher deductibles. Of course, the Army health care system is far from perfect: I have braved long lines at the pharmacy and waited weeks for an appointment. But to be honest, it isn't much different than what I faced with my private health insurance. And for the record, no Army doctor has misdiagnosed me with genital warts as my gynecologist did at Kaiser Permanente. (Go back to medical school, you bitch!)

Yet in three years when Justin finishes his contract with the Army, we will once again be on the hunt for adequate health insurance. For a few months we may even be uninsured as we search for new jobs in a new city, the joining the ranks of the fifty million Americans who don't have any health care. So here's to John Edwards, Barack Obama, and Hillary Clinton for president. While the creation of universal health care may only be a dream, at least these three are willing to give it a chance.

Recurring Dreams

I have two recurring dreams. One I've had since childhood. The other I've had since college. I just had the latter dream last night and when I woke up this morning it puzzled me to no end why I keep dreaming about these two things.

The first recurring dream is about a house. It is an enormous house with secret passageways and secret rooms. The people in my dream always change from dream to dream but the house remains the same---mysterious and elusive.

The second recurring dream has to do with high school. In my dream, I never had enough credits to graduate from high school but for some reason I was able to attend college and finish with a degree. But after college I decide I must go back to high school to get my diploma---and so my dream always revolves around me enrolling at my old high school and attending classes with students 10 years my junior. To make myself feel better, I go around telling everyone how I have already finished college but I still need to complete my senior year of high school.

Weird.

Midnight Blogging

Actually it's more like 1:30AM.

I can't fall asleep. When Justin and I went to bed tonight I wanted to keep talking and talking while he just wanted to sleep. Which he did. And left me to my restless thoughts. So I got up and here I am.

There have been a plethora of topics I have wanted to blog about but haven't gotten around to doing. These topics include:

1.) A rave review of Tampax's new tampons. Honestly, they are awesome. The best I've come across in my 10+ years of periods.

2.) Another rave review of the movie Miss Potter, starring Renee Zelwegger (sp?) and Ewan McGregor. The movie follows the life of Beatrix Potter who wrote the beloved Peter Rabbit series. It's a great film and it shows breathtaking shots of the Lake District in England, which is my favorite place in the entire world.

3.) And yet another review---but this time of a book I recently read called Girls Gone Mild by Wendy Shalit. I wouldn't give the book a rave review (Shalit's prose is far too bombastic and she relied too much on anecdotal evidence), but it was definitely thought-provoking. I especially liked her idea of the emergence of fourth-wave feminism. And I agree with her that women are encouraged to become sexual beings at younger and younger ages. A recent article in Newsweek about sexy Halloween costumes for little girls supported this notion...

4.) A post about why I won't vote for Hillary Clinton in the Democratic primaries. As much as I would like to see a woman as president, I don't want our country to be led by two families for 20+ years. And I do like Hillary as a candidate. I think she is polished, knowledgeable, and articulate. She holds her own very well in all of the debates I've watched. But I just happen to like John Edwards more.

5.) And lastly, a post about how no trick-or-treaters came to our apartment on Halloween. Justin was disappointed because this was our first Halloween as a married couple. But I was completely greedy and more than delighted that no one came. All of the delicious Snickers and Reese's Cups would be mine! All mine!

Maybe one day I will get around to blogging about these topics...