One week down, twenty-seven more to go...

It's been a little over a week since Justin's departure to the Philippines. And it's also been little over a week since I packed my bags and moved back in with my family. (You're so jealous of me right now, aren't you?)

Thus far, I have only cried once! And that was on the day when Justin first left and I barely got any sleep and I had to clean our apartment for over five hours to get it ready for check-out and I couldn't stop thinking of all of the memories we'd shared in our first home. I was pretty frazzled.

Yet life has been pretty low-key here in Maryland. After I get up every morning, I write a couple articles for eHow and for my column on Examiner.com and then I work on my book. In between, I read my favorite Mormon blogs (what would I ever do without Feminist Mormon Housewives?!), pick up my sister from school, write numerous emails to Justin, and scrounge around for food. Oh, and I check on the status on the onion I planted a couples days ago. (More on that later...)

It's been nice moving home, especially since it keeps my mind off of Justin's deployment. Spending time with my family (especially my sister) is really great and it's SO nice to be back in DC. The restaurants. The cherry blossoms. The shopping. (Anthropologie!) The museums. I even attended an exhibition opening at the National Air and Space Museum on Tuesday as a member of the press. Pretty fun, eh?


But every now and then, I can't help but stare at my calendar and count down the days when Justin will come back. I miss him.

I'm such a sap, aren't I?

I'm just wasting time...

So I have a ton of things I need to do right now: pack, clean, finish editing my book, write an article about how to meet men after you turn 35, etc. But then I discovered a little website called Faceinhole.com and I can't stop playing around with it. So fun!

Oh, Jack, hold me tight!

If Justin was reincarnated as a penguin...

If Caroline was reincarnated as a black man...

My friend Kristen cheating on her husband. Well now!

(By the way, Lex, I tried to do one for you by saving a picture from your blog onto my computer, but Picasa is being dumb.)

We're adopting a white baby!

Ain't this little white baby as cute as a button?

We found her crawling by the dumpster the other day and decided to take her in. (Lots of rednecks around here abandon their young'uns in our garbage. Stupid hicks.) Thus far, we've discovered that she likes to eat, poop, cry, and wet her bed. Yet we put up with her antics because we hear these white babies sell pretty well on the black market.

Okay, okay, all April Fool's joking aside...

A couple weeks ago, Justin and I headed to Indianapolis to spend some time with his family before he heads out on deployment. It was especially fun to see our little niece Rowan because we haven't seen her since September. (Whoa, these babies grow really fast!)

My favorite quote of the week? Justin points at Rowan and whispers to me, "Are babies all that much work?"

My answer: "Um yes, honey. They are."

Justin: "Okay, I just want a dog then..."

Looks like we're getting dog once he gets back from the Philippines!

Anyway, Justin leaves next week and will be gone for six months. *Sigh* I will miss him terribly. And will be counting down the days until he gets back...

Googling yourself leads to major disappointment

I just googled "Caroline Tung."

The results were rather disheartening.

One of the first things I noticed was a listing for "Caroline Tung" on Facebook. I quickly clicked on the link and was perplexed to see another "Caroline Tung" looking back at me. Then I discovered that there's not one, not two, but nine other Caroline Tung's roaming around Facebook.

And to think I was the only one!

I guess it's a good thing I legally changed my name to include Justin's surname. Now I'm a little different from the rest of those Caroline's.

You know what's scary though? If you type in "Caroline Richmond" into Facebook's search engine, you come up with a picture of this woman.

Go on. Click the link. SCARY!

The Devil lives!

A few weeks ago, Justin asked me if I could go to Barnes & Noble to pick up a book for him while he was at work---and I was more than happy to oblige. B&N, you see, is one of my favorite places here and I'd take any opportunity to wander through its long aisles of books and books and more books.

As I searched for the book Justin wanted, I came across a whole shelf dedicated to the works of Ann Coulter. My lips curled into a sneer and my hands balled into fists at my sides. Ugh. The she-devil! I quickly grabbed Justin's book and immediately headed to the cashier, bolting away from Coulter's vitriol as fast as my feet could carry me.

I don't understand why Ann Coulter---or Rush Limbaugh for that matter---is famous. Every time I see her on television, the only thing I hear is an endless droning on how Democrats are stupid and weak and anti-American and who should be packed onto a boat and sent to Abu Dhabi. There's never any substance! Just ranting and raving and frothing at the mouth---and she gets paid millions of dollars to do this every year.

Perhaps it's just the historian in me, but I can't stand it when someone speaks with so much bias. When I want to learn about history or politics, I try to find sources that are as balanced as possible, like books written by esteemed university professors or well-known journalists. I don't head to "liberalsarethecoolest.com" or "republicansrock.org" to feed my mind. I want to read something that doesn't come with a predisposed platform.

To be fair, I hate liberals who do the same thing. (Hello Bill Maher!) Back during the height of the presidential election, I really wanted to read a book about contemporary politics so I did a quick search on Amazon and discovered the title, "What's the Matter with Kansas? How Conservatives Won the Heart of America." I perused over some of the reviews and thought this could be an interesting read.

Uh, no. I was wrong.

I made it about two pages before I put the book down. I was hoping for some kind of analysis as to why the Republicans had swept so many elections in the past fifteen years. You know, an in-depth study on the subject. Nope. The book was merely an answer to the tomes that Coulter and Limbaugh have written for years. The same angry rhetoric and fist-pumping---just written from the opposite point-of-view.

Honestly, I really want to deport people like Rush Limbaugh and Ann Coulter and Bill Maher. Send them to Abu Dhabi!

OMG, OMG, OMG!

(Yes, the title of this blog entry is three straight "OMGs." Apparently, I watch too much of The Hills...)

Anyway, here is a snippet of a conversation I had with Justin over the weekend:

Justin: Hey, so did you hear that Boyz II Men is coming to Fayetteville?

Me: What did you say?

Justin: Boyz II Men. They're coming to town in March.

Me: You're joking...

Justin: No, I'm totally serious.

Me: OH MY GOD! I HAVE TO SEE THEM! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I LOVE THEM? [Indecipherable squeals and giggles]

Justin: ...

Me: One of my first CDs was a Boyz II Men album! I was in the sixth grade---and oh---don't you love their song "The End of the Road"? And "Motown Philly"? [Breaks into the chorus of "Motown Philly"; bops head to the rhythm of the fake music] Do you think they'll sing that at the concert?

Justin: ...

Me: We have to go!

Justin: ...

Me: Okay, well, I have to go. I just have to find somebody to come with me...

Any takers?

Those be fightin' words, Mr. King

In a recent interview with USA Weekend, best-selling author Stephen King laid the smackdown on some of his writing colleagues.

King on Dean Koontz? "Koontz can write like hell. And then sometimes he's just awful."

King on James Patterson? "Patterson is a terrible writer but he's very, very successful."

But King really brought out his claws when he compared J.K. Rowling to Stephenie Meyer: "The real difference is that Jo Rowling is a terrific writer and Stephenie Meyer can't write worth a darn. She's not very good."

Ouch! Those be fightin' words, Mr. King. You might want to watch your back the next time you go to grocery store because a crowd of fourteen-year-old girls may try to stab you. Repeatedly. And then burn your entrails. While you're still alive.

Fighting words aside, King's assertion brings up the million dollar question of the day---why on Earth are Stephenie Meyer's books so popular if the writing isn't very spectacular?

The answer is pretty simple.

Imagine you are an ordinary girl attending an ordinary high school. You have mousy hair and a lanky body and none of the boys notice you at school. And yet, your heart still pounds for the quarterback of the football team who has the most beautiful emerald eyes and a dazzling white smile. Every night you dream about your secret crush, pretending he harbors the same feelings for you and professes his undying love for you the next day at school.

Swoon central, right?

Exactly. The reason Twilight is so popular is because it taps into the psyche of the teenage girl: self-conscious, awkward, and utterly in love with the notion of love. So let's face it---the key to Meyer's success is that she's written a romance novel for kids. Damsel in distress? Check. Dashingly handsome man? Check. Forbidden love? Check on that too.

Perhaps you are scratching your head at this idea though. Romance novel? For kids? Aren't romances full of heaving bosoms and throbbing members? Aren't romances about rustic cowboys and dainty English ladies?

Sure, but that's only one segment of the romance genre. Just take a trip to your local bookstore and you'll find a wide selection of romance novels---you're going to be quite surprised. Romantic suspense. Paranormal romance. Historical romance. Contemporary romance. African-American romance. Erotic romance. Even romance written by Mormons! (No penises in these books, thank you very much. These bosoms are modestly covered.)

Meyer just happened to write a no-sex-before-marriage-paranormal-romance-for-young-adults sort of series. And apparently, this was a very untapped market before she came along. Meyer may not be the most gifted of writers, but she does have a knack for storytelling, which explains her dominance of the New York Times' bestsellers list for over a year now.

Thus, I must give kudos to Stephenie Meyer for getting teenagers across the country to pick up a book and read. But I also have to tip my hat to Stephen King for recognizing that there's a lot stuff out there better than Twilight. Many editors and literary agents believe that children's literature has undergone a major renaissance in recent years. (Thanks in large part to J.K. Rowling.) It would be a horrible shame if Twilight becomes representative of the young adult genre in today's market. Frankly, there are much better books out there that are more deserving of a young reader's attention.

My apologies to all of you Meyer's fans out there... You may now throw your tomatoes at me.

Quick thoughts on Obama's Inauguration

First off, ARGH!

I totally left DC when things were getting really interesting. For instance, Stephen Colbert came to my museum a few weeks after I left. Even worse, my boss has the most kick-ass view of the U.S. Capitol from his office, complete with a roomy balcony too. It would have been the perfect place to watch the Inauguration. ARGH again!

Anyway, here are a few of my thoughts as I watched Obama's swearing-in:

Back to Texas with you! (On second thought, Laura can stay. I like librarians.)

How cute are the Obama girls? I adore Malia's grape-colored coat. Do they make that in a grown-up size?

Ahhhhh! Shield your eyes, Sasha! Aretha Franklin has sprouted a bow-shaped tumor right on her head!

Pure awesomeness. Now get to work! I want a resolution to the War in Iraq War, more troops and aid in Afghanistan, a sweeping change in American healthcare, a boost in public education, a golden throne encrusted with diamonds, a new house, and my book published by a well-established publishing house.

Got all that?

Baby, the other white meat

When I was home for Thanksgiving a few weeks ago, my sister and I decided to look through some old family photo albums. Alternately, we took turns pointing at pictures where our parents and grandparents were young and lively, their faces still unlined. We also laughed at a couple of photos when when we were in our younger years and sporting odd hairdos and weird fashion choices. We got a good chuckle out of some of those pictures.

But then, my sister broke out into an uncontrollable fit of giggles.

"What are you looking at?" I asked.

She only giggled some more and slid her album towards me, pointing at the guilty photo.



Ahem...

This is a picture of me when I was a baby. Yep, that's me. Pudgy thighs. Double chin. I even look to be developing a pair of floppy breasts! A seventh-month old sumo wrestler.

When we showed the picture to Justin, his eyes grew wide and his jaws fell open. I think he was afraid my seventh-month self would jump out of the page and try to eat him.

Admittedly, this picture freaks me out but not for the reasons you may think. After seeing this photograph, I'm now a little afraid of the future spawn who will erupt from my uterus one day. You see, my father used to cajole me with stories of my babyhood and how I would do only three things: eat, sleep, eat. (Oh, and poop from time to time.) Apparently, I grew so large that nobody wanted to hold me for longer than five minutes at a time. I was passed around my relatives like an unwanted watermelon.

Now, I have to ask myself... Will I come to bear babies with voracious appetities the size of Tokyo? Will I spend my days and nights satiating the hunger of Baby Richmond? Will Justin and I be eaten out of house and home by our own 25 pound infant?!

Well, whatever.

I still think I was a pretty cute kid...in a Fat Albert sort of way.

A Birthday Present from My Vagina

I woke up bright and early this morning (which is a feat in it of its own) to savor every minute of my illustrious 26th birthday. Alas! What was the first thing that crossed my mind when I awoke from my slumber?

Weird...I'm twenty-six now...

Ugh...I think I have a UTI...

Nooooooooo!

Hopefully, this will be the only bad thing that happens today.

The Interesting Traditions of a Chinese-American Family

On the cold Thanksgiving afternoons of Washington, DC---while the rest of the nation stays wrapped up in a warm blanket and plopped on the sofa to watch a game of football---my family heads to the National Zoo to spend a couple hours with the lions, pandas, and wolves. Visiting the zoo, you see, is one of my family's (strange) traditions.

This tradition started back when I was a surly pre-teen in middle school. During our first outing to the zoo on a cloudy Thanksgiving day, I grumbled and groaned throughout the drive into the city. Why are we going to the zoo of all places? Then I crossed my arms and stared out of the window in a huff.

Yet as we walked around the cement paths of the enclosure and as we gazed at the animals lazing behind their cages, I started to point and laugh at the funny camels and the smelly elephants. This was the zoo, after all, and zoos are mighty fun.

This past Thanksgiving, my family headed to the zoo once again and I was reminded how odd my family can be. My mother, bless her Chinese heart, continually whistled and cawed at the animals to cajole them to approach the fence. My father, bless him too, took dozens of pictures of the red pandas scampering around their new habitat. Ah, but I love them.

And I love Thanksgiving too.

(The picture above was taken at the newly opened Asian exhibition at the National Zoo. Go Asia!)

Caroline's Kickass Thanksgiving Dinner

Little did you know that I am a kickass cook! Haha!

Well...maybe not a kickass cook all the time (salmon cakes a la the NY Times were not very tasty) but I do make a splendid Thanksgiving dinner---and you can too! With a tip of my hat to the FoodNetwork, I present various recipes for a wonderfully delicious Thankgiving dinner:

Roasted Turkey (I've made this recipe for the past two years and it is fantastic. The brine for the turkey seals in a salty flavor, which leaves the turkey moist and delicious.)

Sausage, Dried Cranberry, and Apple Stuffing (The perfect sweet and savory stuffing. The tartness of the cranberries. The sweetness of the apples. And the utter divinity of sausage. Mmmm...sausage.)

Caroline's Yummy Mashed Potates (No recipe for these. I just boil potatoes with a few cloves of garlic and then mash them up with plenty of butter, salt, pepper, and cream. A secret I've learned in cooking mashed potatoes? After you drain the potatoes, throw them back into their pot and saute them for a minute or two to allow any water to evaporate.)

Creamed Spinach (I don't add the nutmeg, but maybe I will this year. Could be good.)

Good Ol' Mac and Cheese (I planned on making mac and cheese last Thanksgiving, but I got too stressed out. Maybe I'll again this year.)

Tart Cranberry Dipping Sauce (No more buying cranberry sauce in a can! This recipe is simple and easy and so good.)

Pumpkin Pie (I kid you not, the best pumpkin pie ever! The cream cheese in the filling makes this pie thick and rich and delicious. Easy directions too. As a side note, the recipe is only for one pie, but I find myself with enough filling for two. So buy two pie crusts or make an extra one.)

There you have it! I certify that all of these recipes are not too hard to tackle yet amazingly delicious too. I am not a great cook by any measure, but I do have demanding taste buds. And my taste buds love these recipes.

Invaders!

Apparently, I have an infestation of gnomes living within the walls of my apartment.

I know, I know... Gnomes only exist in fairytales and in that old Nickolodeon cartoon "David the Gnome"! But Justin assures me on regular occasion how gnomes do indeed live in our world. He even sees them on occasion.

For instance, I oftentimes leave a glass of water on our coffee table---only to find it empty of its contents after I turn my back away for a few seconds. Other times I will leave some food sitting on the kitchen counter, hoping to munch on it later in the day, only to find the entire plate eaten by the time I get hungry again.

Every time this happens, I turn to Justin and ask, "What happened to my stuff?"

He lets out a small burp and looks at me with his innocent green eyes. "The gnomes took it."

I frown and tell him, "Gnomes don't exist, honey."

"Of course, they do," he says while wiping the mysterious crumbs from his mouth. "They live in our toilet."

"Then why didn't you try to stop them from taking our food?"

"They're too fast. Plus, they're nasty and covered in poop."

How baffling! I wonder why he sees the gnomes all the time while I have yet to catch a glimpse of one. How puzzling indeed...

One for the history books...

Last night, as we watched the crowd at Grant Park cheering for President-elect Obama, I turned to Justin and said, "This is something we're going to tell our kids about."

My heart was filled with happiness for my country. For here indeed in America, anything can happen. In November 2008, the son of a Kenyan father and a white Kansan mother rose to the highest office our nation has to offer. What a beautiful representation of the American Dream.

Will Barack Obama be a great president? A mediocre one? A terrible one? Only history can tell. There have been presidents, like John Adams, who entered the presidency with an impressive resume and a shrewd intellect but who left the White House with a tarnished reputation and with the country a little worse for the wear. There have been presidents, like Franklin D. Roosevelt, who inherited a nation on the brink of destruction, yet who found a way to stitch our country back together, piece by little piece. And there have been countless presidents, like Millard Fillmore and James Garfield and Warren Harding, who entered and left the presidency without leaving a clear legacy behind---forgotten by the annals of history. Where will Obama stand in the mix? You know, I have no idea.

I can only say this: I look to the next four years with hope and cynicism, with idealism and a critical eye.

But today, I am filled only with pride.

History Factoid of the Week, Part II

Okay, this is for all of you Republicans out there...

Question: Why is the elephant the symbol of the Republican Party?

Answer: Thomas Nast strikes again! In 1874, Nast---a political cartoonist who helped propel the donkey as the symbol for the Democrats---drew a cartoon for Harper's Weekly. In this cartoon, Nast drew a stumbling elephant to represent Republican voters who were unhappy with the presidency of Ulysses S. Grant. Other cartoonists picked up on the pachyderm imagery and the elephant soon came to represent the Republican Party itself, and not only its voters.

Democrats perceive the elephant as bungling, slow, and stupid. Republicans, however, view the animal as intelligent, strong, and dignified.

Oh, to live in a battleground state!

I have a little (political) confession to make.

I've always harbored a desire to live in a battleground state like Ohio or Florida. Every election that passes by, I have watched the news with a pouted lip because my vote didn't seem to count as much as the votes in Iowa or Indiana or Colorado. My heart has burned with flames of envy as candidates continually passed by my hometown to stump in states where independents and undecideds abounded. No fair!

Of course, I can't really blame the politicians. I grew up in the beautiful state of Maryland---the seventh state to join the Union and the home of the Star-Spangled Banner---which has voted Democratic for over thirty years. We Marylanders don't just lean blue, we are drenched from head to toe in a royal blue hue. In the election of 1980, for instance, Maryland was one out of four states to vote for Jimmy Carter rather than Ronald Reagan. One out of four.

Then in the fall of 2000, I moved to the state of Utah to attend college---and not only did I move to one of the most conservative states in the nation, I moved into the most conservative county in the entire country. Talk about the color red! I was regularly denounced by perfect strangers for being a Democrat and constantly questioned how I could support a party that "killed babies." Once bitten, twice shy, I suppose. I tried to avoid political discussions as much as possible out at BYU. (Although sometimes I couldn't help but get roped in...)

Two years after college, I moved to the great state of North Carolina, home of the Duke Blue Devils and the breathtaking Outer Banks (where my romance with Justin all began). Although I grew to love my new adopted state, I couldn't help but sigh when the presidential primaries revved up in 2007. North Carolina may have a Democratic governor and a healthy number of both Democrats and Republicans in the House, but the state has steadily voted a Republican into the White House since 1980. That's before I was born.



*Another sigh* When, oh when, would I be able to taste the sweet savor of living in a battleground state? When would candidates sweep into my city to court my precious vote? When would my ballot actually make a difference?!

The answer is: RIGHT NOW!

That's right. To the bafflement of news media everywhere, North Carolina has become a toss-up state---and boy, am I excited. Both Barack Obama and John McCain have made numerous stops to North Carolina in the past six months---and both candidates ventured to my town of Fayetteville in the past couple of weeks! Even the BBC wrote an article on the new battleground status of North Carolina. This is unbelievable, I tell you, and I absolutely love it.

Come tomorrow, Justin and I will cast our votes at our local elementary school, and then we will spend the entire night biting our nails and wondering if North Carolina will turn a bright blue or remain a scarlet red.

Goodness me, this is even better than the Super Bowl, or---dare I say it---the finale of Project Runway.

History Factoid of the Week! (Presidential Edition)

Question: Why is the donkey the symbol of the Democratic Party?

Answer: When Andrew Jackson ran against John Quincy Adams in the 1828 election, his opponents deemed him a "jackass" due to Jackson's populist views. Interestingly enough, Jackson liked the nickname so much he started using the donkey in his campaign posters to represent his doggedness and stubbornness.

Later on in the 1870s, political cartoonist Thomas Nast helped propel the donkey as the national symbol of the Democratic Party.

Tomorrow is Election Day. Go vote!

So you think this election is dirty, eh?

The mudslinging has been building for months. Both the Obama and McCain campaigns have hunkered down in their trenches and have thrown dirt and mud and bits of glass by the handfuls.

"Socialist!"

"Terrorist lover!"

"Bush Jr.!"

"Elitist!"

And so on and so forth. Dirty, dirty, politics.

At times, we may be tempted to ruminate over the good ol' days when politics was more of a gentleman's game where the two candidates could set aside their differences when not soliciting voters out on the campaign trail.

Oh, wait. That's never really happened before. Politics has always been a dirty business.

Case in point: the election of 1828. John Quincy Adams vs. Andrew Jackson. (Gotta love historical dirt!)

The dirtiness of the 1828 election actually started four years earlier in the previous presidential election. In the election of 1824, John Quincy Adams won the presidency by what is now called "The Corrupt Bargain" because the House of Representatives had to step in and determine the outcome of the vote. Those in Jackson's camp cried afoul when the Speaker of the House Henry Clay gave the victory to Adams---and not to their beloved Old Hickory. Once Adams faced re-election four years later, Andrew Jackson was ready to fight.

So on one side of the ring we have John Quincy Adams. Son of the second president of the United States. Long-time member of Congress. Former ambassador to Russia. And on the other side of the ring we have Andrew Jackson. A populist. A military man known for his hot temper. The hero of the Battle of New Orleans.

Even though the two candidates differed sharply on the important issues of their day, the ensuing campaign resorted to personality attacks and vicious rumor-mongering that defined the epitome of dirty politics.

The Adams camp had plenty of material to choose from in their derision of Old Hickory. They focused mainly on Jackson's incendiary temper and how he killed a man during a duel and how he ordered the execution of militiamen accused of desertion. Perhaps the lowest blow though was when the Adams campaign unleashed a personal attack on Jackson's wife, which called into question the legitimacy of their marriage and accused her of bigamy.

The Jackson camp was quick and ready to fire back. They mocked Adams as an elitist. They alleged he had bought a billiards table for the White House and had charged the government for the purchase. (How shocking!) And yet, these were merely petty charges compared to what came next. Jackson supporters started a rumor saying how Adams purchased a prostitute for the Russian czar during his tenure as an ambassador. Of course, the attack was wholly unsubstantiated, but the Jackson campaign delighted in the rumor-mongering---even to the point of calling the president a "pimp." (Adams was so offended by the accusation that he refused to write in his diary from August 1828 until the end of the election.)

Eventually, Jackson went on to defeat Adams in the election of 1828 and secured his spot as president. But his victory was bittersweet. His wife Rachel died shortly before his inauguration and Jackson blamed his political opponents for contributing to her death.

When Jackson arrived in Washington, he refused to pay the customary courtesy call where he paid a visit to the outgoing president. Later on, Adams retaliated by refusing to attend Old Hickory's inauguration. The 1828 campaign stayed bitter and nasty to the end.

And so, if you're sick and tired of this election... If you're counting down the days until November 4th... If you're restraining yourself from punching Sarah Palin (or Joe Biden) in the face...

Take heart, my friends. Be grateful you didn't live in 1828.

Sometimes it pays to be Asian...

Of course, sometimes it doesn't pay to be Asian either. When I was in the seventh grade, for instance, my classmates would often confuse me with the other Asian girls in the school. They would confuse me with Tiffany Lin or Christina Fang or Jih-Fan I-Forgot-Her-Last-Name because, well, we all had dark hair and almond-shaped eyes. Ugh. Silly white people...

But sometimes it does pay to be Asian.

Yesterday morning, Justin and I headed to the Obama rally in Fayetteville and, boy, were we excited! We arrived at the Crown Coliseum a full hour before the doors opened and waited patiently in the long winding line. Unfortunately, once the doors opened, utter chaos broke out over the crowd and everybody pushed and shoved their way to the front. Our precious place in line had been lost. *Sigh* Justin and I resigned ourselves to sitting in the nosebleed section where we would have to use binoculars to see Obama.


Yet not all hope was lost! As we wormed our way through the Coliseum, a young Obama volunteer asked us if we would like to sit in a section of special seats within camera shot of the speakers. Um...hell yes! We greedily took the green wristbands she offered us and found two cushy seats close to the podium.

It was apparent to both Justin and me why the Obama volunteer offered us this special access. In a stadium full of African-Americans (around 80% of the audience was black compared to 50% in the special section), my Asian face stuck out like an atheist in Provo, Utah. Since I was the only East Asian at the Coliseum (literally), I became the beneficiary of some sort of political rally affirmative action.

A part of me felt bad about sitting in such nice seats due to the color of my skin. (To be fair, Justin's whiteness helped us out too.) I do understand why Obama's campaign wanted to create a multicultural backdrop to his speech---I've seen McCain's camp do it too---but what's so wrong with having an all-black camera shot? Or all-white? Or all-Asian?

But a part of me didn't feel bad at all. Why? Because I my feet were tired and my nerves were frazzled for waiting in line for two and a half hours. I just wanted to sit down---and preferably close to Barack Obama.

Don't mean to toot my own horn but...

Toot, toot!

Look at this bread I made! Aren't you proud of me? Well, you should be proud because I am otherwise known as Caroline, ye-woman-who-destroys-everything-involving-yeast-and-baked-in-the-oven.

Aside from cake mixes and Duncan Hines oatmeal cookies (which don't even involve any yeast), my record on making bread and other delicious yeasty things has been abysmal. My two forays into homemade pizza dough have turned out horrendous-tasting and burnt. Yuck.

But lo and behold, the baking fairy has blessed me with her powers! Of course, I am no Julia Child or Betty Crocker, but this cinnamon raisin bread came out pretty well. Not horrendous-tasting. Not burnt. But definitely sweet and soft and a little gooey in the middle. Yum!

And I have two more loaves sitting in the refrigerator too...

Why do I love Joe Biden?

Because "malarkey" is his favorite word. He just loves it.

On Sarah Palin's negative attacks on Obama: "It's just malarkey, flat malarkey."

On soothing Virginian voters on the right to bear arms: "I guarantee you Barack Obama ain't taking my shotguns, so don't buy that malarkey."

On one of Bush's speeches in Israel: "This is bullshit, this is malarkey."

Malarkey! Tee-hee. The word makes me giggle. An image of a nineteenth-century southern gentleman comes to my mind who uses malarkey in the same sentence as carpetbagging and gerrymandering. Or a rotund politician, circa 1920, dressed in an ill-fitted black suit and decrying his involvement in the Teapot Dome scandal.

Tee-hee-hee.

The Plight of the American-Born Chinese

A new Panda Express is under construction less than a mile from my apartment. This is the first Panda Express in Fayetteville.

Notice how I don't use any exclamation points at the end of those sentences.

My husband, lover of all things orange chicken, is more excited than a chubby kid at a chocolate factory. I, on the other hand, turn my nose at such things. Panda Express is not Chinese food!

Allow me to explain.

If you haven't noticed, I am Chinese. You know, I'm Asian. (Or Oriental if you're old school like that.) I have black hair and hairless arms and dark-brown eyes of the slanty persuasion. I grew up in a household where "going out to eat" translated into "going to Mom and Dad's favorite Chinese restaurant where the menu is only written in Mandarin characters." On Saturday nights out on the town, my brother and I would gorge ourselves on homemade dumplings, steamed vegetable buns, baby bok choy sauteed with garlic, and thick noodles steamed in a delicious beef broth. Makes your mouth water, doesn't it? That's the kind of Chinese food I grew up with.

The few times I have eaten at Panda Express or P.F. Chang's, the spirits of my grandfathers berate my soul with guilt. "Ai ya!" they say. "I did not flee the Communists to have my granddaughter eat this white man's excuse for food!" And then they make me burn incense in their names and beg Confucius for forgiveness.

But the ghosts of my grandfathers need not haunt me very often. See, I don't even like Panda Express or P.F. Chang's. My taste buds are too accustomed to authentic Chinese fare that I have a hard time eating at such places. (Thanks Grandma.) And so, the new Panda Express may find a new customer in my husband, but I will politely decline.

Now, eating at Sbarro's or Taco Bell on the other hand...

What's your beef with Muhammed, America?

A couple of weeks ago, one of Justin's friends stopped by our apartment to say hello and to catch-up with my husband. For a few minutes they talked about the Army and about general military stuff (deployments, training, etc.), but then their conversation drifted into the realm of politics. Justin's friend was a bit put off to hear how my husband plans to vote for Barack Obama in November.

"Aren't you concerned about his Muslim background?" he asked.

My mouth almost dropped open. Seriously? Seriously?

First of all, Obama is not a Muslim and has never practiced Islam.

Second of all, why should it matter even if Obama was a Muslim? The prejudice exhibited by some Americans simply astounds me. It seems as if some of my countrymen believe:

Muslim = Terrorist
Muslim = Evil



Nearly one-fifth of human beings on this Earth are members of the Islamic faith. Are these people all terrorists? Are these people all evil and distrustful? Sure, a small portion of Islamic extremists hate America and would like nothing more than to see us bombed out and depleted, but these terrorists are in a tiny minority compared to the general populace of peaceful Muslims.

Personally, I don't care if my president is a Christian, Jew, Muslim, Hindu, Sikh, pagan, or an atheist. I don't care if he or she worships the Great Oak Tree of Liberty. That is his business. Not mine. All I ask of a president is to keep his religion to himself and to perform to the best of his abilities.

So please, America, stop haranguing Obama over his supposed "Muslim background." It just makes us look like a bunch of close-minded bigots.

What were you doing on September 11th?

In the early morning of September 11th, 2001, I was sleeping in my roommate Brittney's bed and dreaming about something safe and wonderful. Brittney had caught mono at the beginning of the semester and had consequently moved home to recuperate, but she left most of her things behind, including all of the blankets and pillows on her comfortable bed. I'd often fall asleep on her welcoming bedding during my late-night talks with our other roommate Cassandra.

Around 6:30 in the morning (perhaps a little earlier or later), our fourth roommate Jana burst into the bedroom to announce a plane had flown into one of the World Trade Centers. I remember rolling over in the bed at Jana's proclamation, wondering if she was just joking. I figured there was no way she could be telling the truth and I promptly went back to sleep.

A few minutes later Jana entered our room again and this time I took her more seriously. I fumbled for my glasses and wrapped a blanket around my body and joined her in the living room to watch the news.

I was shocked and dumbfounded at what I saw.

The television showed an enormous plane flying straight into the World Trade Center, causing red flames and black smoke to burgeon from the ailing building. I watched in horror as, one by one, the two towers burned and crashed into the ground, leaving only a cloud of brown haze and ash in their wake.

The rest of the day passed by in a blur. I attended a devotional up on campus to commemorate the victims. I called my family to make sure they were okay even though they lived a half hour outside of Washington. I thought about my friend Dan and about his dad who worked in the World Trade Center. I stayed up late to watch the same footage playing over and over again on the 24-hour news channels, hoping to hear of any new developments and hoping to hear somebody would be brought to justice for such an awful crime.

Finally, I understood what Americans must have felt when the Japanese attacked and bombed Pearl Harbor. Finally, I understood what Americans must have felt when their charismatic young leader John F. Kennedy was murdered. Now, I belonged to a new generation of Americans brought together by tragedy and unified in mutual mourning.

What about you? Where were you on September 11th? What were you doing? How did you feel?

Mixed Emotions over Palin-mania

When I first learned of John McCain's choice for his running mate, I was surprisingly pleased with his pick. He chose a woman! That made me happy. Even if Obama loses the election in November, at least the U.S. will break one glass ceiling come the fall.

I perused a couple of articles of Palin on the internet and I was surprsingly pleased too at what I read. A mother of five. A working parent. A woman who was brave enough to stand against the corruption in her own party. Even if I disagreed with Palin's positions on nearly everything from abortion to gay marriage to drilling in ANWR, I had to admit I admired this woman. In a way, she is the epitome of what I strive to become---strong, articulate, and a woman who somehow strikes a balance between work and family.

But now a week has passed since the Palin announcement and I find myself scratching my head over McCain's choice for his VP slot and I find myself scratching my scalp even harder over the heated culture wars this decision has elicited. *Sigh* I really wish the Olympics had never ended. I had a much better time watching swimming, basketball, and even equestrian dressage rather than this 2008 political circus.

First of all, I was turned off by Palin's address during the Republican National Convention. I understand politics is a dirty business and I understand criticizing your opponent is part of the game, but Palin's remarks on Obama went from firebrand criticisms of his policies to downright petty attacks on his community service. If Palin wanted to go after Obama, then she should have focused on his lack of executive experience or his sweeping speeches or his "liberal agenda." Instead, Pallin decided to mock Obama's work as a community organizer where he helped blue-collar Chicagoans find better job training and adequate housing. Huh? It just seems silly to me to attack Obama for this portion of his life when there's so much other stuff (ie Tony Rezko) she could have used for fodder. No gold star for you, Sarah.

Secondly, I am upset by the double standard the press and our society at large has placed upon Palin's working-mom status. If I had five children---one pregnant at 17 and a baby with special needs---I would probably go loopy, but Sarah Palin has found a way to balance her career and her family. Even better, her husband has quit his job to become a stay-at-home father so kudos to them. So why, why, why does the press keep questioning Palin if she's capable for the VP slot with so many kids in tow? Why doesn't anybody talk about Obama's two young daughters and how he plans to juggle his family and work life if he becomes elected? Or Joe Biden taking on a busy Senate seat as a single father? Or John McCain's parenting techniques in which his family lived in Arizona while he worked for most of the week in Washington? I spy a double standard here.

And lastly, I'm a little scared of Sarah Palin and the crazed uber-conservative Christian right wing of the Republican Party. Actually, I'm really scared of them. Now, I consider myself a Democrat---and a pretty liberal one at that---but I also agree with a few economic platforms traditionally tied to the GOP. But Palin's brand of evangelical politics just makes me shake my head and say, "Are you serious?" No abortions under any circumstances, abstinence-only education, creationism taught in schools, and God wants us stay in Iraq? I just don't get it---and I just don't understand why this crazy population of the U.S. has so much power in our country.

Oh and one more point---Sarah Palin is no friend of mine if she wanted to censor certain books in her hometown library! As a book lover extradinaire, I believe the act of banning books is akin to shooting me in the heart. Plus, censorship never works. It just makes these books more appealing to kids.

The Strangest Weirdest Oddest Dream I Have Ever Dreamt

About a week ago I woke up in the middle of the night with my brain spinning with the aftermath of the most bizzare dream I have ever dreamt. I shook Justin awake and told him everything that had happened---and he gave me a weird stare and said, "You're kidding me, right?"

Seriously folks, this dream was out of this world.

So in this nightmare, I look into the mirror one morning and notice a wart growing on the right side of my forehead. Round, bulging, and witch-like. Pretty ugly, I know. I poked and prodded at the wart for a few minutes, frowning at the ghastly sight and hoping it would go away in a couple of days.

But no, the wart did not disappear in a few days. Instead, it decided to move in and stay awhile on my forehead---because this was the wart from hell.

The next morning in my dream, I was aghast to find my wart had morphed into a three-inch penis sticking straight out of my head. That's right---a three-inch erect penis had sprouted in the middle of the night. ON. MY. HEAD.

And the strangest part of all? I didn't even freak out or scream in terror. I merely furrowed my brows and rearranged my bangs, hoping that my hair would adequately cover the growing monstrosity spewing from my face.

A few minutes later, I woke up.

And a week later, I'm still ruminating over the meaning of this strange, weird, odd, bizzare nightmare that my subconscious mind found a way to concoct. Thus far, I have deduced three implications from this dream:

1.) I secretly harbor a desire to become a man.
2.) I secretly harbor a desire for a penis.
3.) I secretly harbor a desire to transform into a unicorn.

I'm in desperate need of a Freudian psychoanalysis...

Cultural Factoid of the Week!

Question: What do Chinese spectators cheer at sporting events?

Answer: If you listen closely at an Olympic event in Beijing, you may hear the Chinese crowd cheering, "Jia you! Jia you! Jia you!"

Translated literally, this phrase means "add oil." Translated roughly, this phrase means, "Go, go go!" or "Come on!" or "Faster, faster!" or anything else people say to cheer on their home team.

As I watch the Beijing Olympics, I'm often reminded of the athletic events at my Chinese school where my parents would sign me up for track events and tug-of-war. Even though I had no athletic abilities, my parents would cheer me all the way with the familiar "Jia you! Jia you! Jia you!" that Chinese people love to shout.

Of course, I never won any of my events---I was a slow and weak Asian kid with asthma. (Even slower and weaker and more asthmatic than my classmates!)

Ah, the memories...and oh, how I hated Chinese school.

*"Jia you" is pronounced "Jia yo." In the Chinese pinyin system, "ou" sounds like "oh." Strange, I know.

You are most definitely a redneck if...

...you watch this movie.

Welcome to Nerdville

I am officially a nerd.

I know, I know, you scoff at such a statement...

Wasn't I a full-blown nerd a few years ago? After all, I watched all seven seasons of "Star Trek: The Next Generation" by the age of fourteen. Furthermore, my mad skillz at Boggle would frighten even the most enlightened of wordsmiths. And you don't need to mention how I know all of the words to the theme song of "Gilligan's Island." (I was a huge fan of the show as a kid, okay?)

But now I have done something that cements my nerdness in solid stone.

Are you ready for it?

Okay...[deep breath]...I read a graphic novel earlier this week. I read the whole thing. In two days. And I really, really liked it.

This all started two weeks ago when our Entertainment Weekly arrived in the mail with the cast of "The Watchmen" on the cover. I stared at the magazine with a look of confusion. Hmmm...what was this Watchmen thing about anyway? I had never heard of the movie before but the people at EW seemed to think it was a very big deal.

I perused over the article inside and discovered how "The Watchmen" is based on a graphic novel by the same title, which was published back in the mid-1980s. This story was the only comic book to win the coveted Hugo award, which recognizes great science fiction. And here was the clincher for me---"The Watchmen" is hailed by mainstream critics as the best graphic novel ever written. And they really mean ever written.

"Wow," I thought to myself. "Maybe comic books aren't just for teenage boys with pimples on their faces. Maybe this graphic novel is the real deal."

And so, I went to my local library, checked out a copy of "The Watchmen," and read the damn thing until my eyes could no longer keep themselves propped open. I was pretty much hooked. The story was a bit confusing in some parts and a little far-fetched in others, but overall it was an intriguing read. An interesting take on the whole super hero genre.

After I had finished the novel, I watched "The Watchmen" movie preview three times on the internet and I grew angry when I discovered the movie's release date isn't until March. March! That's eight months from now! How can I wait that long? (Ahem, NERD ALERT!)

So there you have it. I'm a nerd. If you need to talk to me, you can find me parked outside of the movie theater down the street, counting down the days for "The Watchmen" to make it onto the big screen.

And no, I won't be dressed up as a Klingon. I'm not that much of a geek.

Seriously Funny

Justin and I just came home from watching "Pineapple Express." Goodness me, this movie is hilarious! Seriously. It beats out "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" as the funniest film I've seen all year.

As I watched the movie, I actually thought I should memorize some of the jokes so I could write them on my blog to prove just how funny this film was. Alas, my memory isn't as sharp as it used to be and I would never be able to do justice to Seth Rogen's or James Franco's hilarious deliveries.

I'm still chuckling to myself.

History Factoid of the Week!

Question: Why is the president's wife called the First Lady?

Answer: James Buchanan assumed the American presidency in 1857 and became the first (and only) bachelor president. Since Buchanan did not have a wife, he turned to his charming niece Harriet Lane to take over the social functions at the White House.

During her uncle's presidential tenure, Ms. Lane became Washington's most popular hostess and she used her special position to promote certain social causes. Consequently, people began to refer to her as the "First Lady" since she was the president's niece---not his wife---and thus had no formal title.

Somehow the title stuck.

Walking After the Rain

Last Tuesday afternoon, I slipped on my shoes, grabbed my keys, and stepped out of my apartment to go check on the mail. A thunderstorm had passed through my neighborhood a few minutes before and so the ground was wet and dark and spongy with the newfound rain.

As I ambled towards the mailbox, I noticed the clean fresh smells the storm had left behind---earthy, pleasant, and sweet. My entire apartment complex seemed to have transformed too. The grass was more crisp. The air more brisk. Even the parked cars more shiny and new.

I grew amazed at this thing we call water---amazed at the innate power within this clear, flavorless, odorless liquid that swaths the Earth in a cradle of life.

And my mind traveled back in time to a history class I took in college concerning the religious symbolism of temple complexes around the world. I remembered my professor standing in front of the classroom and pointing to slides projected on the wall of Christian churches and Islamic mosques and pagan worship-sites. Despite the obvious differences in religious ideology, all of the temples we studied had one thing in common---the imagery of water.

At a Buddhist temple in Japan, for instance, visitors collect water from a nearby waterfall and take a drink in hopes of gaining wisdom and long life. Followers of Hinduism solemnly revere and even worship the sacred River Ganges. Pools of water and fountains regularly decorate the exterior grounds of Mormon temples. And water itself is a major element in Christian baptism, whether sprinkled on the forehead of an infant or encased around a believer of full immersion.

Water signifies both life and death, cleanliness and dirtiness in religions around the world. Water is seen as a universal symbol to gain access to deity.

Oftentimes when we humans discuss religion, we talk about the differences and gulfs that separate us. How unfortunate! If we only open our eyes a little more widely, then we shall see just how much we have in common.

How to Choose an American President

In 1852, a few years before the launch of the Civil War, a man named Franklin Pierce captured the American presidency. Pierce had practiced law in his home state of New Hampshire, gained the rank of brigadier general in the Mexican-American War, and even served in the U.S. Senate. It was no wonder why he became the Democratic nominee for the presidency: handsome, experienced, liked by all. Who else could make such a stunning candidate?

Yet the Pierce presidency was pocked with controversy. In 1854, Pierce brought about the passage of the Kansas-Nebraska Act (Bleeding Kansas, anyone?) that outraged abolitionists and that later spurred the creation of the Republican Party. When Pierce came up for re-election a few years later, the Democrats---his own allies---decided to nominate someone else onto the ticket. Suffice to say, he left office in a cloud of shame and has now become one of the lowest-ranking presidents in U.S. history.

So how do we, as Americans, choose a good president? In this historic election year, the media likes to focus on a candidate's experience or likeability or skeletons-in-the-closet---but history has shown that such traits offer little insight on how a person performs in the Oval Office. Franklin Pierce is a good example of this: in 1852, he won in an utter landslide of electoral votes but he turned out to be a lackluster president. Pierce entered his presidency liked by many but he left the White House reviled by all.

First, let's talk about experience. John Adams, the second president of the United States, started his four years in office with more experience than our current Senate combined. In his political career, he helped spearhead the movement for the American revolution and helped draft the Declaration of Independence. Yet when Adams took over the presidency, he oversaw the passing of the Alien and Sedition Acts, which punished those who openly criticized the government. Ultimately, the Adams presidency was overshadowed by his predecessor George Washington and his successor Thomas Jefferson. Considering all of his experience, John Adams's most important contributions were accomplished outside of the White House.

Second, let's talk about likeability. In 2000, George W. Bush wooed voters with his darn good, aw-shucks personality. Here was a man who seemed down-to-earth and charming. Here was a man who you wanted to have a beer with! But eight long years of Bush shithood has proven that likeability can only carry someone so far. When Dubya vacates the presidency in January of next year, he will leave behind a messy and unnecessary war in Iraq whose price-tag continues to sky-rocket. And let's not even talk about America's reputation abroad. (Hmmm, an Al Gore presidency doesn't seem so bad now after all...)

Third, let's talk about so-called skeletons-in-the-closet a la Whitewater and the current Tony Rezko scandal. In the late 1800s, Chester A. Arthur rose to prominence through the corrupt New York political machine and was patronized by the political boss Roscoe Conkling. In a strange twist of events though, when Arthur assumed the presidency in 1881, he began a series of civil service reforms that attacked the political machines that he had benefited from. And so, Arthur proved that a few skeletons-in-his-closet didn't send his presidency in a hopeless nose-dive. Chester proved that he may have done some crooked things in his life, but this didn't mean that he was a crook.

So how do we choose an American president? To recap this litle history lesson, a candidate's experience and likeability and lack of controversy may not add up to a great and wonderful president. Obama's message of hope and change may deflate to nothing after he is elected. Conversely, McCain's military and political experience may do nothing but hurt him in this fast-paced, changing world.

So how the hell do we choose a good president? Honestly, I have no idea---and history offers little advice.

Guess we're all on our own...

*Still...I remain an Obama girl at heart. If I gotta take a gamble, then I'd rather bet on him over Leisure World McCain who may nominate Mitt Romney as his VP. Yuck.

**Check out those chops on Chester Arthur! Talk about sexy.

Go Kristy!

So my funny, smart, and wonderful little sister is going to the Democratic National Convention in August! I am very proud of her and very jealous of her too. Not only does she get to attend a once-in-a-lifetime event---she gets to attend said event in a very historic election year.

She's going to Denver! She's going to rub elbows with cool people! She's going to meet Barack Obama! (Well, probably not that last part but who knows?)

Did I mention I'm jealous?

Fun with the In-Laws

"Oh, that guy blew his wad too early."

--- My mother-in-law

Justin's mom uttered these short eight words as we watched the Track and Field Olympic Trials where a long-distance runner ran out of steam towards the end of his race.

My poor husband turned to me in a look of horrified panic after his petite ballet-teaching mother spoke these words. The memory of his expression is seared into my mind...

Hahaha.

War, Death, and Hope

This morning Justin and I were awakened by the ringing of his cell phone. It was one of his friends from work, calling my husband to let him know that one of their old supervisors had died in Afghanistan over the weekend.

I had never met this supervisor---I have no idea what he looks like---but I thought about Sergeant Simmons during random moments of the day. While I was in the shower, my mind drifted to his family---his teenage son in particular---and how they would never see him again. I thought about Sergeant Simmons as I made lunch for myself, contemplating the chances of losing my husband in some foreign country on some foreign battlefield.

At rare times, Justin and I have talked about death. Well, his death to be exact. We both know the chances of him dying while on deployment are slim. We both know that he is a smart soldier who knows his equipment and who thinks before he acts. We both know that he will most likely return home from his stints abroad in good health.

And yet...

I'm not a naive Army wife who believes that my husband is somehow bulletproof. I don't believe that if I pray enough during the day that somehow my prayers will create a protective sheath around my husband's body when he is in the middle of a crossfire. I know that the chances of his death are slim...and yet...I know they still exist.

In late August, Justin will finish his training in the Psychological Operations course and then he will be deployable at any time thereafter. I knew that this day would come---that one day his training would finish and that he would have to leave me behind---but it still seems so soon.

For Sergeant Simmons, life came to a close so soon. I will think of him and his family tonight.