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...