Cookies for sale

So, my niece Natalie is actually quite cute, and well behaved for your average almost-four year old [pictured at age 2 to the right]. Her vocabulary and ability to formulate sentences is also well beyond her years. However, I've realized that hanging out with adult roommates and business people all day has not helped me relate to kids in a kid-friendly manner.

As I was sitting on the couch with my laptop working away, Natalie was eating "cookies", aka sucking on small plastic links. She allegedly doesn't understand my distaste for spit. In any case, Natalie proceeded to tell me about her cookies as she brought her bowl of spit-ridden plastic dangerously close to me. This is the exchange that ensued shortly after Natalie dropped the bowl:

N: "Can you help me get them?"

C: "No. They have your spit all over them."

N: "It's just water, you silly goose. Do you want a cookie right now?"

C: "No thank you."

N: "You get what you get. Don't throw a fit." [as she drops the spit-ridden piece of plastic on me.]

The plastic lodged itself in my pants. I am defeated. However, someone else who preceded me must have also been defeated... what three year old can already say "don't throw a fit?"

Victory is MINE!

Don't you love it how customer service reps who make $6 an hour (and, more often than not, can't speak fluent English) go on power trips, fight with you, and say repeatedly "there's nothing I can do?" when you've been wronged? I've learned very quickly to say "may I please speak to your manager?" Unfortunately, I think the big companies have caught on to my little game, and hired a whole army of individuals who make $6.25 an hour with the title "Manager."

Let me explain. I have a Washington Mutual savings account. I almost closed my account shortly after opening it (as Pattie did) when my initial deposit was held for longer than the federally-mandated maximum. However, due to their 5.00% APY interest at the time on their e-savings account, I convinced myself to be patient. On a different occasion, one of my coworkers complained to both WaMu and me about their holds on his deposits--apparently, when he went into a branch to deposit money into an account, the money was made immediately available. However, when his wife went into the same branch and deposited the same checks (signed by him) into the same account, the money was subject to a 2-3 day hold. After he talked to a number of different WaMu representatives and accused them of sexism, the money was magically unlocked.

Fast forward today: I recently got charged an "excess activity fee" of $10.00 by Washington Mutual. I called the customer service number and asked (nicely) what that was for--apparently, if I make more than 6 transfers out of my savings account, I get charged $10 for "excess activity". Having never been informed of this "$10 fee", I figured a quick conversation would remedy the problem as I'd be given a "one time courtesy credit for being a good customer." That always happens, right?

Unfortunately, the first level customer service rep was of no help, so I asked to speak to her "Manager". Manager Jason (who actually sounded like he wanted to die and hated his job the whole time while he was on the phone with me... shocking) told me that the fee was federally-mandated, and that the bank could not and would not credit my account back. After some worthless discussion with Jason, he suggested that he could have a "Senior Manager" call me back within 24 hours. He hung up on me just as I was asking him to tell me his last name.

Senior Manager Jaime called me back today, and I discussed with her my situation. Following the same script, Senior Manager Jamie also told me that while she appreciated my business, the fee was federally-mandated and could not be credited to my account. I expressed my shock and indicated that in working with many different banks in the past, I had never run into a situation where the bank refused to credit back a fee that was, for all material purposes, undisclosed. She once again faulted her inability to credit my account on the "federal mandate".

In response, I explained that I work in an industry that deals extensively with Federal Banking laws. I asked her to point me to the regulation the WaMu employees seem happy to reference and blame for their inability to give me my $10 back. As she was skimming the member agreement and trying to give me a page that the regulation/policy was on, I indicated that I was not asking for the page of the member agreement that referenced her fee, but the actual regulation upon which she was basing her communication with me (I was careful not to call it an "argument"). Additionally, I asked Senior Manager Jamie if the $10 fee that the federal agency was so intent on charging me was in fact returned to that federal agency. She said that a portion of it was. [So false.]

After a few minutes of searching, Senior Manager Jamie triumphantly said "it's based on Regulation D". I then pulled up Reg D and asked her to explain where the Federal Mandate was within that section. Senior Manager Jamie then asked if she could put me on hold to see if there was anything else they could do for me. A few minutes later after I had skimmed the regulation and someone else's angry blog in response to WaMu's $10 excess activity fee, I was informed that since I had no other charges on my account and since I was a good customer, Senior Manager Jamie's manager, (I assume that would be Senior Senior Manager, right? Or maybe this even rose to the DIRECTOR level!) allowed her to credit my fee back even though, as a policy and because of that federal regulation of course, WaMu never credits back that fee.

As a sidenote: Regulation §204.2(d)(2), which defines a savings account, indicates that "the depositor is permitted or authorized to make no more than six transfers and withdrawals, or a combination of such transfers and withdrawals, per calendar month or statement cycle (or similar period) of at least four weeks, to another account (including a transaction account) of the depositor at the same institution..." If the depositor (me in this case) violates that, the bank must either:

"(a) Prevent withdrawals or transfers of funds from this account that are in excess of the limits established by paragraph (d)(2) of this section, or

(b) Adopt procedures to monitor those transfers on an ex post basis and contact customers who exceed the established limits on more than an occasional basis."

Interesting. Ex post basis totally sounds like charging me $10 at the close of the cycle, right? And... I'm assuming that my one incident counts as a "more than occasional basis" which prompted WaMu to "contact me" by charging me, right? Excellent logic. I'm glad WaMu is so intent on following Reg D. It's a good thing that WaMu's Senior Senior Manager chose to credit the $10 back to me.

Also, for those of you that may not know me so well, you might be asking yourselves, "well, was the $10 really worth it?" For all those that know me well, let us all speak at once... "TOTALLY!"

Professional Eater? Anyone? Anyone?

I have this unconquerable obsession with good food... luckily, my friend Wendy shares in the obsession and can relate to me. A couple of nights ago, I distracted Wendy from studying for finals by listing out the best things to eat in Taiwan. She added some food items that I had forgotten, and we compared our lists for over an hour.

Wendy then realized that she should change majors and professions (who wants to be an engineer anyway?), to which I suggested that she become a food scientist or nutritionist. Not satisfied by these suggestions, Wendy instead expressed her interest in becoming a professional eater. [I thought she was making that up too.]

Apparently, the participants in the International Federation of Competitive Eating, or I.F.O.C.E. as it is better known, are lobbying to have competitive eating be recognized more widely as a sport. The photo on this post is known as the "Black Widow" of competitive eating--her records include:

1 - 11 pounds of cheesecake in 9 minutes in 2004
2 - 8 pounds and 2 ounces of Weinerschnitzel Chili Cheese Fries in 10 minutes in 2006
3 - 9 pound "Big Daddy" cheeseburger in 27 minutes in 2006
4 - 44 Maine lobsters (11.3 pounds of meat)from the shell in 12 minutes in 2005
5 - 552 oysters in 10 minutes in 2005

She's 40 and weighs 105 pounds. How is that biologically possible? And, how do I sign up for that metabolism?

After you, madame.

The guys in our ward hosted a dinner for the girls--complete with sparkling cider, a catered meal, and different individuals stationed to greet us, open our car doors, and escort us to our tables.

When Chantal and I pulled up to the church building and parked in the pre-designated area, we were startled by a guy running towards us in the dark through the parking lot at great speeds. Apparently, his job was to open our car doors for us in a very gentleman-like fashion.

Unfortunately, Chantal didn't respond well to the surprise. Since her car has a manual transmission, she proceeded to pull up her parking break very quickly and jump out of the car before recognizing the friendly face coming to open our door. In her haste, Chantal also proceeded to lock the doors of her car before slamming her door shut. I, on the other hand, recognized CJ, and closed my door while still in the car so that he could do his job of opening my door for me. After I unlocked the door and CJ let me out of the car, I shut the door.

I noticed something strange, however... apparently the keys were left in the ignition and Chantal never turned off her car in her flight. Luckily, my slow reaction to the man running towards us in the dark parking lot was a good thing, since without that, Chantal would have locked her keys in her car with the car still running. I'm pretty sure she was slightly embarassed as she headed towards her car to turn it off and take the keys out of the ignition... with CJ watching us in confusion.

Forward Ho.

Have you ever clicked "reply" to a forward recounting personal information that you knew your friend wasn't supposed to share with you... and instead of replying to the person who forwarded you the email, replied to the sender who was then irate that his/her information was being forwarded on to random people?

I have definitely experienced the bad end of that stick with personal emails; for the first time in recent history, I have been the unintended victim of someone else's lack of attention to detail while clicking "forward" on an email in a work setting.

Working with insurance companies is, in general, a nightmare. The attorneys who choose to work for insurance companies (present company excluded, of course) have this insane OCD attention to detail that is unparalleled in any other profession. Every 't' must be crossed, and every 'i' dotted... and each step of every licensing and application process imagineable must be detailed and accounted for.

Generally, our company will be performing services for one of these insurance companies (we'll call them "ABC Insurance Company" or "ABC" for short). I have had the breathtakingly fascinating opportunity to create a series of attorney opinion letters that explain how we really are qualified and licensed to do what we say we can do--from every perspective imagineable. I have a pretty good working relationship with our "Relationship Manager" (Bob) who handles most of the wheeling and dealing between our company and ABC--we even engage in a bit of sarcastic banter from time to time. What I did not anticipate, however, is that my sarcastic banter would be unintentionally forwarded to the opposing party.

After I wrote a letter detailing what had been explained to ABC innumerable times, I was quite happy when Bob forwarded me a response from ABC stating the following:

"We can consider this issue closed. Thanks for working thru this process to make everyone comfortable with the licensing piece. Talk to you soon."

My happiness turned to panic-slash-frustration-slash-surprise-slash-disbelief, however, when I scrolled down to the bottom of the email and noticed my original text to Bob on the stream that was sent to ABC--

"If you EVER had ANY lingering doubts that we needed to be licensed as a TPA in order to perform the functions outlined in our contract with ABC, let this letter be your guide. I realize the letter is extremely repetitive, but ABC doesn't seem content with anything more efficient and less detailed."

Oops. I guess I won't be getting a job with ABC in the near future... it's a good thing they're only our biggest client.

Trashed

Despite vacillating back and forth over whether or not to blog this experience, I have decided that this story simply must be shared with the world notwithstanding the effect it has had on my pride.

I have always considered myself to be a relatively athletic person. I fought tooth and nail during high school to be able to play field hockey, since my mom mistakenly thought that cross country was the only appropriate sport (in time commitment and intensity) for her children. Until I became out of shape and slow, I was also pretty good at basketball. And, to this day, I still pretend to be an outdoorsey person, though my New Jersey version of outdoorsey-ness does not compare to the hard core granolas that grew up in the Mountain West. In short, I have been under the mistaken impression that I am coordinated.

Then, there was "the incident".

After purchasing a new queen sized bed set, I carefully read the instructions that were attached to the mattress--Serta suggests that I throw away the plastic that protects the mattress and box spring immediately after removing it. Always one to follow instructions, I proceeded to roll up the plastic into a big ball. I went into the garage with the equivalent of a tank top on, since I didn't want to get any dirt from the plastic on my white sweater.

Let me explain the logistics behind throwing the plastic out.

1. Our garage has three cement steps down from the level of the house to the base of the garage.

2. A plastic bannister is built on each side of the cement steps for "safety".

3. Our garbage can sits to the left of the steps and plastic bannister, and opens perpendicular to the steps. Therefore, when we want to dispose of our trash, we open the door to the garage, stand on the steps, lean over the bannister to the left, open the trash can, and throw the garbage out.

4. The garbage can is provided to us by the city--it is one of those huge black cans with a square top. The hinge mechanism on the backside of the can attaches the lid to the trash can's body.

Realizing that the big ball of plastic would take more effort to dispose of than a normal grocery store bag filled of trash, I firmly planted my feet on two different steps. I then proceeded to lift the lid to the trash can with my left hand, and throw the plastic ball in the garbage with my right. Though we had just emptied the trash can a couple days earlier, the plastic ball remained at the top of the garbage can. Thinking that something was artificially causing the plastic not to descend to the bottom of the can, I realized that I'd need to apply force to the plastic ball.

To do this, I leaned over the bannister and continued to hold the lid up with my left hand. I shifted my weight to my right hand to push down on the plastic. Unfortunately, the silky top I was wearing had no friction against the plastic bannister, and my feet were not level or steady. I lost my balance quickly when the plastic gave way faster than expected--my belly proceeded to scrape against the banister [there is still evidence of a "banister burn" all the way across my stomach]. My right hand continued to descend into the garbage can, which was followed shortly thereafter by my entire upper body. Being halfway into the garbage can, with my legs clearly detatched from the ground, my right armpit got lodged against the edge where the garbage can meets the lid [once again, there is still evidence of this "incident" in the form of some serious redness in that unfortunate area]. Lastly, my left hand of course came crashing down, which caused the lid of the garbage can to slam down, and crash onto my lower back which was, by that time, at the top of the garbage can.

Quickly, with my pride hurt, I removed myself from the garbage can, ran into the house, and lied on the ground to wait out the stinging pains. You'd be surprised how much pain this incident caused me on many different levels.

In the poetic words of my friend and confidant, "I got owned by the trash can."

The very hand-crafted labor of love

Wendy, my roommate and avid longboarding fan, has asked me to go longboarding with her many times. Historically, I have denied her without fail for two reasons:

1. Longboarding is for punks, and I ain't no punk; and
2. My only real longboarding experience was a tragedy. I was heading down the Provo Canyon trail at night a couple of years ago in pitch black darkness, by light of my headlamp. On that fateful night, I couldn't figure out how to stop. As it turns out, being able to stop is actually pretty important to the whole longboarding process. I finally gave up and coasted down the canyon by sitting [not standing] on the borrowed board. Unfortunately, that sitting position did not prevent me from accelerating to unnecessary speeds, which of course caused the board to shake, which then led to me tumbling head first into the mountain along the trail. Ow.

Needless to say, I have had solid reasons to avoid longboarding altogether. However, being a good roommate, I finally gave in one night recently and used Wendy's borrowed longboard to coast down Provo Canyon. Wendy (always the great teacher) taught me how to slow down and stop quite effectively, which has opened up a new world of possibilities to me.

Having coasted around the neighborhood and down Provo Canyon a couple more times since that night, I quickly realized that I need to buy my own longboard. Being the technical enthusiast that I am, I proceeded to choose a longboard solely based on how pretty I thought the board was. Thanks to Nick and his connections, I got quite a steal of a deal on this pretty board. Note that this board is quite special--each board is custom made by a Barfoot employee, in a process that is apparently "the very hand-crafted labor of love."

To my dismay, I received the board on Friday and haven't been able to ride it yet because of the mound of snow, rain, and ice that has been dumping all weekend in Provo. I also dare not board down my driveway, considering the fact that it is a solid sheet of ice resulting from our lack of shoveling.

On the upside, look forward to future posts reporting my injuries that are sure to follow. Oh, and while I can change my preferences for activities, I cannot change my principles as quickly. I still think longboarding is for punks, which makes me a punk, I guess. At least that's how I explain the dirty looks the neighbors give my roommates and I when we've gone cruising around the neighborhood on our cool boards.

Transportation woes... solved.

For all of those out there who are suffering from sleepless nights and trying desperately to find the perfect Christmas gift for me, look no further! (Lyndsay--credit to you for this spectacular find.)

I am sure many of you are aware of my amazing sense of direction. On more than one occasion, I have stopped somewhere along a four-way intersection to get gas, and found myself lost as I exited the gas station. As a direct result of that phenomenon, I have also flipped many an illegal u-turn in my day. That aside, I am a firm believer that if I move at a slightly slower rate of speed, chances are good that I'll be able to orient myself better and develop a better sense of direction.

Enter: The Bicycle Forest Treadmill Bike [Deluxe]

I know what you're thinking... a treadmill? PLUS a bike? Yes, my friends. This invention really is THAT good. Amazingly enough, the rugged design of this Bicycle Forest allows me to "bike" through evergreen forests and along country roads. While my commute in the snow, on an interstate highway, and up steep hills that cut around mountains might be slightly more taxing than the evergreen forests contemplated by this bike's design, I am confident that this invention will make the perfect commuting vehicle. Additionally, as the video states, the Bicycle Forest also allows me to be outside in nature, while still "protect[ing] myself from dirt and other contaminents commonly found on the earth's surface". All I can say is... wow.

Now, I know what you MUST be thinking--there is no way that this sort of perfection can be cheap, right? If you order now, you can purchase this for only 2,500 Canadian dollars! Unfortunately, our exchange rate has taken a beating lately (seriously? Canadian dollars are worth more than US dollars? Who should we be speaking to about this?). But, don't let a shabby exchange rate stop you. Just watch the video below--and let that be your guide.

The Bike Forest Video Extraordinaire

Note: if you do end up purchasing this for me, make sure that you "add some bling bling to an already sweet ride with a pair of deuce extreme spinner rims. Fo shizzle." I'm pretty sure that comes on the "Deluxe" model.

Catherine, Comedian or Bum.

I spent some time with Kent and his family over Thanksgiving. We enjoyed a combination of family bonding activities--good food & shopping. After stuffing ourselves silly daily and finding quite a few steal-of-a-deal purchases, we got to the occasionally-discussed topic of what I should do with my life.

Keep in mind that Kent is the oldest child. According to birth order studies, he is the natural leader, take-charge person, and most financially successful sibling. Most Presidents of the US were first borns (including George W. himself)... and while I don't think Kent aspires to any type of political candidacy, he definitely fits the bill of an oldest child.

On the flip side, as the youngest child, I am allegedly the dreamer type who wants to change the world, as well as the most financially irresponsible member of the family. (Apparently, positive net worth isn't necessary to change the world. Good to know.) And, amusingly enough, most famous comedians are youngest children... though I don't consider myself to be a comedian, I am told that I definitely have characteristics of being the youngest child.

Imagine my surprise when, after I expressed disatisfaction with my current social situation, the outcome of that conversation was Kent pointing out that I have no expenses. What follows, of course, is that I should just take a few months off, bum around, live somewhere for free (or cheap), and get into a new and possibly more interesting social situation. After all, I have the rest of my life to work, right? I countered with the argument that I am in my upper 20s and need to concern myself with funding my 401k and doing other adult-like things. I was negated by not only Kent, but also his wife, sister in law and brother in law.

So, now I am in the process of considering saving up some money, taking off a few months, and bumming around. I wonder if that's a bad idea. And, uncharacteristically youngest child of me, I wonder if I can handle that decision that seems to be so irresponsible. I suppose you only get to be young and free once, right?

Gobble gobble

Following up from that bad-attitude-Halloween post, I figure I should probably spread a little holiday cheer. I actually like holidays... despite my family's opposition to celebrating them. Who doesn't like the combination of fat happies, family time, presents, and paid time off work?

This past weekend, in order to fully demonstrate our above-mentioned holiday cheer, we created a small turkey army. The process was intense, and some turkeys had to be incubated in the fridge for a long period of time in order to survive. This problem was compounded by the fact that there was melted chocolate EVERYWHERE. I am sad to report that all turkeys weren't so lucky--a few of the turkeys got into a battle, which resulted in a fatality. (See picture, left)

As for the fate of the remaining 40+ members of the turkey army: half were consumed at our ward Thanksgiving party, and the other half will be consumed by Chantal's family on Thanksgiving. Barbarians.

To punish and enslave...

In theory, cops should be patrolling roads to make the world a safer place. Isn't their duty to protect and to serve or something? Shouldn't cops be targeting dangerous drivers and people who cause accidents? Even better, shouldn't they actually be helping people? Or arresting criminals? Apparently, small town cops don't seem to understand these principles.

I've been pulled over twice in my life, which has led to two tickets both graciously written out for me by Heber cops. They are the bane of my existence.

Two years ago, I was commuting to Park City to meet with my boss--during that commute, I got pulled over for the first time ever coming out of Heber in a speed trap. The entire canyon was 65, except for the 2 mile stretch coming out of Heber. Tricky. I got clocked going 69. Once I started driving with my $100+ ticket in tow, it was less than 100 feet from where I was stopped to the sign that increased the speed out of the speed trap from 55 to 65. So lame.

Fast forward to a couple days ago. A great deal of construction has recently been completed in the canyon that allows me to travel from Provo to Park City. The old two lane highway has turned into a wide, four lane highway with cement poured along the mountain to prevent rockslides and a concrete median in many places. Theoretically, this construction has made the canyon road a much safer place to drive, correct? Unfortunately, as construction was completed, the Grand Powers That Be decided to DECREASE the speed limit in the canyon to fifty. Fifty miles per hour on a not-too-frequently traveled, four lane wide highway road. Ridiculous.

Two days ago I was apparently clocked at 67 mph coming down a large hill in the canyon on my way back to Provo with no other cars in sight. The highest my speedometer read during that descent was 62 mph. Strange. Additionally, may I please make the argument that 62 mph with no other cars around me on a wide, four lane highway is totally reasonable? And, are you kidding me with the 50 mph speed limit?

In any case, I discussed the situation with a couple of my coworkers the next morning. They laughed, told me not to try to go to traffic school, and to just consider the ticket to be a tax/toll/revenue and a necessary part of using the canyon road. For the record, I object. Additionally, I think that Heber cops are total weasels, since their only task is to park in dark and wide-open areas, lobby to lower the speed limit in the canyon, and pull unsuspecting commuters over.

The Transformers bad cop car is pictured above--enlarged, the back of it says "to punish and enslave..." I couldn't have said it better myself.

Weekend delights and fat happies

This past weekend was a delight... and filled with fat happies and Nintendo thumb/shoulder/ wrist/arm™. For all those within the sound of my "voice", check out the following recommendations:

1. Shabu. Park City, Utah. The silly website programmers created an all-flash site, which makes it impossible for me to post the very pretty logo of the restaurant. The freestyle sea bass was amazing, as was the 5 spice white chocolate shabu shabu dessert. That meal in and of itself was almost worth the drive up, even factoring in my dire hatred of driving. AND, even though I then drove home to Provo and made myself another meal at 10pm because the portions were clearly insufficient to satisfy my ravaging appetite, it was totally worth it.

2. Happy Sumo Sushi. Provo, Utah. I have been to Happy Sumo a number of times. I went on temporary strike and cursed their name when they changed their Surf & Turf roll from steak and tempura shrimp to steak and crab [talk about a weasly cost saving mechanism. Hello, you're charging me $12.95 for a tiny roll of sushi... spring for the single fried shrimp]. On Saturday, however, I took a major plunge. I decided to not try to spend a reasonable amount of money and leave the restaurant hungry, but instead to get what I actually wanted. [Heather... I credit you with the assist in making this decision]. The Ahi tuna dinner, which I just happened to discover on Saturday, is delicious... and, dare I say, pretty reasonably priced. The Sunset Roll (on Shiloh's suggestion) was also tasty... and Wendy was kind enough to let me sample her Agedashi tofu appetizer. Little bits of fried tofu swimming in a pool of tempura dipping sauce and sprinkled with green onions? Yes, please!

3. Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory. Provo, Utah. The picture above does NOT do these apples justice. Three words--Apple Pie Apple. Long ago on a cheery winter day, Chantal happened upon these RMCF apples. I thought they were a rip off, until I had one piece... immediately, my taste buds started firing and my mind started dreaming of rainbows and Care Bears. Both Wendy and Heather doubted our suggestion to get the apples for dessert. After they tasted the goodness, however, they strongly regretted purchasing only one and sharing the coveted apple. [That'll teach people to not fully trust my food suggestions].

4. Kneaders. Lindon, Utah. All you can eat freshly-baked cinnamon french toast for $4.95. Oh, also, the accompanying "syrup"? Yeah, it's caramel. How can you go wrong with that?

And, moving onto the Nintendo thumb/shoulder/wrist/arm™ phenomenon:

5. Guitar Hero III. This game for the Nintendo Wii is the awesomest game ever. There were about 10 people at our house on Saturday night watching some real life metal rocker dude conquer the game on Expert level. He's a real life hero. Oh, and if I do say so myself, I have committed myself to conquering the game, and I'm doing pretty well. All those years of violin and piano practice have given me a much-needed edge. Warning: Extended play will cause serious Nintendo shoulder/wrist/arm strain.

6. Super Mario Bros. 3. Not to be outdone by new, fancy technology, I downloaded this game onto my Nintendo Wii. Many hours have been spent in a frog, racoon, and hammer man suit. If anyone can tell me how to get back to the boards where I can kick the goomba out of the green stocking shoe, then travel around in said shoe, I will be eternally greatful. Warning: Intense play has caused really painful Nintendo thumb.

As bad as Brit

I have road rage. It's true. I used to yell at my brother for the same tendencies. Whenever a car around him did something stupid or cut him off, he would yell. I would attempt to point out that my brother's yelling affected only him and me (and other passengers in the car), while not affecting the offending party who cut us off. My pleas always fell on deaf ears.

Over the past few years, however, I have started to mimic my brother's bad habits. I'd like to say that I'm as a patient as the next guy [well, girl]... but when people (1) drive 65 in the fast lane or carpool lane, (2) don't signal, (3) cause you to drop 50 mph for unnecessary breaking during traffic hour [Oh no! Look! Some conjestion! Better jam on the breaks!] and then immediately accelerate to initial speed, (4) cut you off and then drive slowly, (5) never look in their rearview mirror etc., I'll admit--there is usually yelling.

Wendy and I recently drove to Salt Lake City together. On the way there, a number of the aforementoined incidents occurred. As a result, we were already on edge during our drive home.

During that drive, we managed to squeeze by an Expedition which was raised to a possibly illegal height with a driver who couldn't manage to keep all four wheels within the boundaries of one lane. For the record, I believe that anyone who defiles their car by raising it, putting lights underneath it or otherwise "souping it up" should actually be able to drive said car with some degree of skill. I know, I know. I ask for too much.

In any case, after passing that Expedition, we were then cut off by a Corolla, which caused Wendy to jam on her breaks and decrease her speed by 10mph while she was driving in the fast lane. Wendy and I proceeded to say "are you KIDDING me?" to each other in concert, after which Wendy zoomed around the Corolla. I managed to give the Corolla driver the look of death, after which Wendy retook her spot in front of the offending Corolla in the fast lane.

I realized when I looked at the driver and passenger in the Corolla, however, that both individuals were male with short haircuts, and were clad in white shirts, ties, and suits. While I didn't have enough time during the "death glare" to glance down at the guys' pockets and confirm their identity, all evidence (including the sheepish grin of the driver) points to the fact that we had just whizzed by and applied the death glare to two missionaries.

I'm pretty sure I'm going to hell as a result. Unfortunately, I still don't think I've learned my lesson. I'm assuming Wendy hasn't either--after I told her that missionaries were driving the Corolla, she responded, "well, they have to learn too!" I own the road, don't I?

Strike... Strike... Strike... Strike...

I'm sure you've probably heard that the Writer's Guild is going on strike. Maybe the poor writers who have destroyed House will stay on strike... FOREVER! One can only hope, right? Regardless, one of my buddies who works at a network television station received this well-thought out email. Since this email was probably composed by an attorney, I have provided a translated version of each paragraph for your convenience.

"Please be advised that The Writers Guild of America will be conducting a large strike rally with between 2-4,000 participants outside the Studio on Friday, November 9 from 10:00AM until 12:30 PM. Rallies such as this are considered normal when a union is on strike. We anticipate the WGA will continue hosting rallies such as this at other studio locations in the weeks to come."

Translation: When dealing with riotous masses, realize that said riots are normal, and of course, expect more riots.

"If there are large gatherings of people around Lot or Plaza entrance gates, please remain calm and courteous as you enter the facility. We fully expect entrances to remain open, however, carpooling is highly encouraged due to potential traffic concerns."

Translation: Remain calm and courteous among yelling mobs, and try really hard to get to work even though mobs are filling the streets. Oh, additionally, travel in numbers for "convenience" (not protection, of course).

"If you are blocked from entering the Studio Lot, or if you feel threatened, do not attempt to enter and call Security for assistance."

Translation: If you are caught up in a swell of mobs or protestors, remain in said mob. Use your handy-dandy cell phone to call 555-rent-a-cop to "protect" you from screaming mob after being threatened.

"Please remember that only authorized spokespersons may provide public statements about Company matters, or may initiate contact with members of the media about network matters. If you are contacted by any member of the press, you must immediately refer that individual to [name edited] in Corporate Communications."

Translation: Above all, DO NOT TALK TO ANYONE.

Here is a quote from a great book that relates very well to the above email... "and I saw them gathered together in multitudes; and I saw wars and rumors of wars among them; and in wars and rumors of wars I saw many generations pass away." Eep. Glad I don't live in Southern California.

Luckily, I live in Utah, where the following comic accurately represents my daily routine:

Tagged

I've been tagged. I'm not really sure that I understand the purpose behind this whole "tagging" business. I also realize that responding to said tag cuts against my whole "don't disclose any personal information over the world wide web that isn't merely limited to sarcastic or painful stories" mantra. Nonetheless, I will do my best, Queen Lyndsay.

What is the best thing you cooked last week?
Chicken pesto pasta with artichoke hearts [thanks Shiloh].

If money, time and babysitting were no object, where would you go and who would you go with?
Well, given that I have no children who require babysitting, a reasonably relaxed job, and the delusion that I have a bit of money in my bank account, I'll consider this a realistic question. Answer: Taiwan [with an undetermined travel buddy] or Europe, more specifically, Italy [subject to Chantal and Karen agreement].

When was the last time you cried?
A more difficult question would be--when was the last time I got through a day without crying? Man. I can't remember. So many things make me cry... happiness, sadness, pain, excitement... but to answer the question, I'll say right now. Writing posts really brings out the emotion in me.

What are 5 things you were doing this month 10 years ago?
1. Swearing at ETS for miscalculating my SAT score
2. Shoveling wet, foot-deep snow off my driveway
3. Playing a field hockey tournament game in hail with kitty litter on the ground to "dry out the field"
4. Auditioning for a state orchestra and probably crying after the completion of the audition [see previous question]
5. Attending early morning seminary as the sole student in frigid morning weather

What are 5 things on your to do list today?
1. Attend the BYU basketball game
2. Eat Dippin' Dots and/or cotton candy
3. Play guitar hero and defeat the undefeatable "hard" songs
4. Answer entirely too many legal questions about statutes and contracts
5. Catch up on what I missed on Monday's episode of "The Hills"

What are your 5 favorite snacks?
1. Twix
2. Cheetos or any other processed cheesy snack
3. Yellow fruit snacks (taken from the little pouches of generic branded fruit snacks only)
4. Chips + salsa
5. Edamame

What are 5 bad habits you have?
1. Online shopping
2. Not blinking whilst playing Guitar Hero or other video games
3. Regularly misspelling shoes [shews], music [musak], with [wif], and birthday [birfday]
4. "Dancing" while listening to teeny bopper music
5. Grinding my teeth while I sleep [This habit isn't actually confirmed. But, my jaw has been kind of sore over the past few days, and this may be the culprit.]

What are your 5 favorite foods?
1. Prime rib
2. Costa Azul steak salad
3. Sushi
4. Creme brulee
5. Ice cream
[editorial: I should probably be obese]

Where are 5 places you have been?
I'm assuming we're talking locations here...
1. Taiwan
2. Hong Kong
3. Mexico
4. Canada
5. The EC

What are 5 of your favorite memories?
1. Collapsing from exhaustion after assisting a teammate score in double overtime of a tourney game... then getting piled on by teammates
2. Enjoying the look on my brother's face when he was forced to eat a second mini-sized full squid [complete with eyeballs, ink, innards, etc.] because none of the relatives saw him eat one the first time
3. Watching Chen Qiu Man get baptized on the last day of my mission in Taiwan, a week after her mom and brother
4. Leaving my hot chocolate by my bedside the first night home from my mission, knowing that I would find it the next morning without any dead, floating bugs
5. Zipping through the jungle on the "canopy tour, on crack", relaxing on the beach and/or poolside, sipping pina coladas, and getting a wicked tan in Mexico after taking the Utah bar

[Lyndsay, I hope you don't mind--I adjusted some of the questions. Didn't you learn anything about parallelism from Stoddard?] Now, to share in this joy... let me tag the following: Shiloh, Nicole, Jeff, Paige, and Pattie. To the rest of my friends--start blogging!

I'm totally a fraud.

For all of those [including myself] who were momentarily fooled by my pretty red work bag, let me now make it crystal clear for the record that I, in fact, am an embarassment of a "professional".

I was sitting in my office on Friday when the VP of People called my boss into the CFO's office. I could hear the CEO of the company join on the speakerphone, where I knew he was joining the COO, VP of People, CFO, his assistant, and my boss via phone. I figured there was a serious employment decision going on, and I hoped I wasn't in the process of being fired. Moments later, the assistant came and got me and indicated that the group needed my expertise on a recent deal that we had been trying to get out of. I grabbed my computer and headed into the room.

The CEO then said, "Catherine, we need you to chime in on this--we need your expertise here. Apparently, this [client's name] deal won't die. We've spoken with the executives over there, and they say it allegedly has something to do with your recent swearing in and admission to the bar." I was confused momentarily, but my confusion turned to pure embarassment and horror when our entire executive team started singing "for she's a jolly good fellow..." I felt my face turn BRIGHT red, my hands came to my cheeks, and all I could do was look down and laugh while saying "Wow. I am SO embarassed."

The COO gestured to a present sitting on the desk. After my seranade was over, I took the gift and tried to escape from the room, but the VP told me that I needed to open the present in front of everyone. I opened it--and it was a beautiful Mont Blanc pen with leather case that all of the people in the room had pitched in as a congratulations-for-being-sworn-in present [I'll be honest... I don't quite understand the appeal of a $200+ ball point pen... but the thought behind it was so nice. And hey, now I have a hoity toity pen. Rock on.] The assistant then pointed me to the card, and I said--thanks guys, that is so nice of you! I proceeded to grab my computer and leave the room quickly. As I left, I heard people laughing and saying "she's so funny", as to guise their true "what the crap is she running away from" feelings of confusion. In my defense, until I saw everyone filtering out of the room, shortly after I left, I was still under the impression that they were HAVING the business meeting. Apparently, my little artificially-cut-short-surprise WAS the "meeting". Oops.

The VP then came into my office to congratulate me, and laughingly suggested that next time anything like this happened, they should just line up outside of my office and individually come in, shake my hand, and congratulate me. Have I mentioned how embarassed I am? Oh, if only I could go back in time...

I have no problem arguing a point, presenting a theory, or defending a position. Public applause and compliments, however, apparently merit sincere fear and cause an uncontrollable flight response.

Attorneys. We pretty much rule the world.

I have been sworn in... I am officially an attorney.

Wendy came with me to the "swearing in ceremony" to function as my Asian mom--which means that she kept repeating: "I so ploud of you. You be best lawyer! You be numma one! No numma two! Jus numma one!" How nice.

The ceremony, for those interested, was delightfully entertaining. Since I was blessed to sit admist all of the dark suit jackets, Wendy and I didn't get to sit next to each other. And, it's a good thing we didn't, because that may have caused an immediate character/fitness sanction. Apparently, both of us were individually laughing quite a bit through the whole thing... if we had been sitting next to each other, there is a good chance our laughing would have amplified.

During one part of the ceremony, each new admittee stood up individually when our name was read; after everyone's name was read, we all stood in the middle of the banquet hall at the Salt Palace while the rest of the room applauded us. And, as if that wasn't enough, we were then directed to "follow tradition" by turning outward, and applauding all those who helped us achieve this monumental accomplishment. Seriously? I'm sorry, did we all just conquer the universe or something?
Luckily, I did at least come out of the grand occasion with a good soundbyte. Background: my family has two doctors, a dentist, and an attorney. People always ask me why I didn't choose to go into the medical profession, and I respond by saying that I can't handle blood [see "Don't Try This At Home" post]. However, what everyone fails to realize is that I, in fact, chose the much more noble and accomplished profession. So, to all those doctors out there... please pay attention to the following, as stated by Chief Justice Durham:

"While YOUR predecessors were still treating people with cobwebs and leeches, MY predecessors were writing the Declaration of Independence."

And the truth shall set you free.

Halloween Shmalloween

This is an actual conversation that took place in the candy aisle at Walmart, while my roommates and I "discussed" whether or not to buy Halloween candy.

Catherine: I don't want to buy Halloween candy. It's a waste of money.

Chantal: WHAT? How can you not buy candy? It's HALLOWEEN! We live in a real neighborhood! We're going to have a lot of trick-or-treaters.

Catherine: We can just turn out our lights and pretend not to be home.

Wendy: I agree. Plus, Halloween--going around and begging for candy--encourages gluttony. I cannot support gluttony. Especially with kids.

Catherine: Agreed.

Chantal: FINE. I'll buy all of the candy by myself. You can't have any. And, neither of you can come to the door and see the kids' cute costumes.

Catherine and Wendy: Okay. We don't care about the gluttonous kiddie costumes anyway.

I love holidays. I'm so festive.

Considering the purchase of a depreciation machine

It's official, friends. I recently made my final student loan payment... and I am now debt-free!

The first order of business, of course, is to determine what type of car to purchase or lease. The Honda Civic my dad has let me use since undergrad has served me beautifully... great gas mileage... super reliable car... smooth drive... etc. Economically, I realize that holding on to the Civic until it dies would be the prudent decision. However, my siblings and I all have this deep-rooted problem... we know absolutely nothing about mechanics... or car technology... but we still lust after cars. [Our "insightful" car classifications could be described as the following: pretty ones, fast ones, nice ones, sporty ones, etc.] Plus, I'd like to return the Civic to my dad so that he can use it as a compact car for commuting etc. instead of his true love, the Dodge Grand Caravan.

Since I recently decided that leasing might be a viable option for me, the increased pool of possible cars I am considering are the following:

BMW 328xi:
Advantages: xDrive all wheel drive, 230 horsepower, engine start/stop button, and hello... it's a bmw.
Disadvantages: flashiness (which will maximize the occurences of keying and dooring against my car), low gas mileage on a v6.

AKA: The car which, if purchased, will prevent any guy from ever asking me out.

Lexus IS250:
Advantages: all wheel drive, paddle shifters, rain-sensing intermittent windshield wipers, pretty good gas mileage with a v6.
Disadvantages: really crappy lease offerings [around $600/month? seriously?], designed to copy the BMW 3-series--who wants an imitation car?

AKA: The Japanese-riding BMW-styling imitation.

Audi A4:
Advantages: smooth drive, pretty body style.
Disadvantages: ugly dash, huge grill, depreciation machine, delay in acceleration.

AKA: Poor man's, slightly above-average performance European sedan.

Acura TSX:
Advantages: reasonable cost, sleek body style, 4 cylinder engine with lots of get up and go, beautiful dash.
Disadvantages: turning radius, lack of awd [though, rumor has it that the redesigned 2009 version will have awd].

AKA: Beautiful and economical, yet still zippy car.

Right now, the TSX is the frontrunner. Suggestions? Votes? Advice?

Don't try this at home.

A tragedy occurred this past weekend.

In an effort to be prepared for any natural disaster that might occur, my roommates and I set out to assemble 72 hour kits and bulk up our food storage. Included on the list of items that we needed for these kits were waterproof matches--to our dismay, Walmart didn't even have regular matches in stock. Wendy (aka pyromaniac), however, had a few matchboxes at home that we thought we could waterproof ourselves.

Apparently, you can coat the match tip with a thin layer of melted candle wax and thereby waterproof the match. We found a suitable candle for this project, but realized that the sides of the candle hadn't burned down properly--the wick and melted wax pool would be too low to dip an unlit match into the wax without burning ourselves. Wendy's solution was to cut the sides of the candle down so the wick and wax pool would be more easily accessible. [See picture of candle, above. Note that the candle has been cut down since 'the incident'.]

To accomplish this feat, she got out her trusty knife at about midnight. However, to everyone's dismay, Wendy cut the candle with a bit too much force and ended up gashing the knife through the knuckle between her palm and index finger on her left hand. She then jumped up and stated "I cut myself. I'm bleeding." and walked quickly into the bathroom to grab a towel to apply pressure to her hand. Her quick, calm response didn't tip me off to how serious her cut actually was.

From the bathroom, Wendy asked me to clean up the blood that had dripped on our carpet. I took one look at the blood, got unnecessarily queasy, and asked Chantal to clean up the blood while I proceeded to "help" by lying on the ground in fetal position. The rest of the events of the night are a bit of a blur. I only remember the following:

1. Wendy walking around the house with her hand wrapped in a yellow towel, raised high above her head while calling her friends (one being an ER doc, another a radiologist) to ask them what to do.

2. Chantal saying that Wendy seriously needed stitches, and Wendy saying that ERs are a pain and she'd rather not go.

3. Chantal talking to Wendy's doctor friends to figure out how to fix the problem sans stitches [note: the doctors apparently told Chantal* that she needed to "oppose the tissues, then put a few layers of super glue over the wound." Chantal doesn't remember hearing this bit of information].

4. Chantal pouring super glue [well, actually it was "Elmer's fix all glue", which is substantially more viscous than normal quick-drying super glue] into Wendy's wound, while I sat with my head anchored against Wendy's head and my hands holding Wendy's arm in place, with Wendy gripping the door frame to the bathroom with her "good hand". I also definitely remember screaming.

5. Wendy saying that she thought she was going to pass out from the pain.

6. Blood. A lot of blood.

The wound was then covered and bandaged by 2am. When Wendy went and visited her doctor friends the next day, however, we realized that our medical efforts weren't quite... ahem... effective. Apparently, the super glue was supposed to seal the wound and not be poured directly into the gaping wound.

In short, the dried superglue lodged into Wendy's wound had to be removed--with scissors, a tweezer, and a bunch of lost blood. Wendy was grateful to be given the option of a shot to numb her hand, which she gladly took. The ER doc said that this shot would, and I quote, "hurt like the Dickens." Wendy indicated that the shot did not hurt to even a fraction of the degree of pain she experienced when super glue was poured into the gaping hole on her knuckle. Be informed that Wendy's wound was then stitched up by the actual doctors... but not within the usual 12 hour window during which stitches must be performed to be most effective. Despite delayed medical attention, we all hope for the best.

Oh--did I mention that Wendy also pulled her groin longboarding a couple days earlier and is still recovering from a large wound on her elbow from a biking accident? If anyone is looking for a reallllyyy beat up girl, you know where to find her.

*Despite her medically-inferior methods, Chantal should be thanked for actually having the gumption to face this wound head on. Wendy has dubbed Chantal the "hero of the night." I am apparently dubbed "wuss pants".

SAF, 27. Provo, Utah.

I'd consider myself to be a pretty loyal person. That loyalty was put to the ultimate test this past weekend. Let me explain.

Chantal, my roommate, is a teacher at an elementary school in our neighborhood [see school picture, left]. She regularly meets with her students' parents--more often than you would expect, the parent's voice drops to a conspiratorial tone and the question is asked--Ms. Cardon, are you dating anyone right now? During one of these experiences, Chantal was invited to a Halloween party--an "informal gathering of friends", which included a number of the parent's nieces and nephews and their friends. I am told that Chantal couldn't politely say no to this offer. And, as the loyal roommate that I am, I grudgingly agreed to go.

Only after we had traveled to within 10 minutes of the location in Sandy were Wendy (our other loyal roommate) and I informed that this party would not be at someone's home, but instead at a stake center. At this point, our protests to turn around were useless and Wendy and I relegated ourselves to attending this party and staying for as long as we could handle it.

We arrived. We entered.

Apparenty, everyone had just finished eating dinner and the games were about to begin. Let me set the stage for you: in the gym around the half court lines were eight large church tables set up in a circle with four folding chairs on each side of the table. All the guys were sitting on the inside of the tables while all the girls were on the outside. The tables were covered in white butcher paper, and topped with crayons and homemade castles made of construction paper. The stage was also fully decorated with a large version of a castle.

Then the "game" began.

Apparently, this "informal gathering" with games REALLY meant an exceptional experience in speed dating that was not awkward at all. Yes, you read correctly. Speed dating. The next 80 minutes were pure bliss. Besides the fact that many of the participants were cousins (which suggests that this dating game idea was wildly inappropriate)... I had some truly awesome experiences. Let me share one in particular.

This guy, we'll call him Jack, was sitting across from me and nervously asking me a string of questions. He then proceeded to take notes after I gave my answers with the pen and notepad that had conveniently been provided for each participant. I finally managed to steer the conversation away from myself and I found out that Jack was 18, and a freshman at BYU. He hails from a small town with a total population of 2,000 in the Tri-Cities area of Washington. His major concern in moving to Provo and starting at BYU was driving in such a big city. Who would have thought that I could find the perfect man for me in such a fun situation?!

We escaped after dutifully speed dating each guy in the place right before the next "get to know you game" started. On the way home, we stopped for smoothies and mozarella sticks, which Chantal treated us to as a 'thank you' for accompanying her to this wonderful, informal gathering of friends. I seriously considered making her buy me one of everything on the menu as punishment, but loyally refrained.

Despite any remaining sense of loyalty or friendship I have, please note that I will never, ever again be willingly dragged to a similar event as the one I blissfully enjoyed this past Friday night if I can help it. Ever.

What's in a name?

My nephew pictured here is pretty cute, right? Would he still be as cute if he were named Anchor, Hades, or Ufynya [actual names from "mytopbabyboynames.com"]? Only you can decide. Proceed with caution.

Every expectant parent is faced with a similar struggle and, at one point or another, begins to ask the question--what should I name my child? In a rush to make each child feel unique, parents are jumping on the "making up baby name" bandwagon. What happened to the days when I had three Kimberly-s and two Stephanie-s in each grade level of my elementary school? I miss those days.

I recently looked up popular baby names through the Social Security administration's online database. The top ten female names for 2006 were: Emily, Emma, Madison, Isabella, Ava, Abigail, Olivia, Hannah, Sophia, and Samantha. Those seem pretty normal, right? Then I dove a little deeper.

After doing a search by state, I found that Utah's 2006 list of the top names for female births includes: Brynlee, Nevaeh, and Brielle. Not to be constrained by Utah state as a whole, my good friend from "the EC" [Emery County] forwarded me a list of teenagers put forth by the local newspaper that listed members of a dance troop with an accompanying photo. That list includes names such as: Jazlyn, Taija, Kaymyn, Makiha, Tralysa, Chandrelle, Jadree, Jarica, Nizhoni, and Auminee.

Before you choose to name your child "Nizhoni" or "Kaymyn" in an effort to make him/her stand out, let me present the following experience for your consideration.

I was on a conference call with a number of businesspeople at a large national bank during one glorious work day a few weeks ago. One of those saavy businessmen proudly carries the name "Alpine." Two of my executive-level coworkers put the conference call on mute after introductions were made, and proceeded to discuss how silly the name "Alpine" was for the next five minutes. There was also muted laughter each time the name "Alpine" was mentioned on the call.

My point is this: be careful when naming your child. Clearly, a mockable name might subject your offspring to a childhood of playground misery and torture. However, as I learned by participating in that conference call--a "unique" name might actually set your child up for a lifetime of mockery. Like I said... proceed with caution.

Breaking the paradigm

I'm officially a mountain woman. All of my doubting friends should be proud... I spent two full nights in a tent, and five days running around rocks and national parks with my trusty camelbak and trekking poles. All this mountaineering gave me quite a bit of time to reflect. I have three realizations that I'd like to share with the world.

1. I'm a cynical person with an affinity for using citrus products as weapons.

I've never been one for shopping in boutiques. They seem to be filled with old, ugly, and overpriced stuff. However, Chantal found a treasure in a boutique outside of Zion's [see picture above]. As I was sitting outside the store, I heard Chantal call for me to come inside and look at a shirt that was "perfect for me." I went in, took one look at the shirt, and laughed for the next thirty seconds. Chantal's mom then piped in and agreed that the shirt was perfect for me. [In case you can't read it, the text is--if life hands you lemons... squirt them in people's eyes!] The shopkeeper told me she was trying not to judge me based on the fact that two people had confirmed that this totally rude shirt fit my personality so well. Should I be offended?

2. I do not, in fact, enjoy living in small spaces.

I was recently informed that Asians, in general, are accustomed to living in small spaces. The individual backed up his point by saying, "I mean, look at Taiwan... Japan... China... unless the person lives out in the boonies, they're usually in really cramped living quarters." Apparently, because I am Asian, I am accustomed to living in small spaces. Please consider the picture to the left above to be proof that I, Catherine Chou, do not in fact prefer small, cramped spaces to large ones. And, although I do not plan to live on top of that rock, the places where I enjoy playing can be analogized to a place I'd like to live. I like big spaces.

3. I like to scamper.

Fear? What fear? Fear THIS! [I promise, I'm really not adversarial.] The picture above and to the right is on the way up Angel's Landing at Zion's National Park. In case you can't fully tell from the picture, there is a sheer drop off on both sides of that skinny trail. Slip and you fall to your death = good motivation to pay close attention. The chain is allegedly there to help stabilize you, but with multiple people using and moving it, the chain tends to have too much slack to provide a sense of security, and too little slack to avoid things like me punching a rock when the chain smacks against the rock. Ow.

Later in the trip, we went to Goblin Valley--after a five mile "Sunday walk" through the slot canyons. Needless to say, our legs were trashed... but not trashed enough to prevent us from taking a cool jumping picture off the goblins. I'd like to use this picture as proof that I'm a significantly better jumper than Chantal, but I must also admit that she started on a lower rock than I did. However, be informed that after this picture was taken, Chantal rather un-gracefully went tumbling off to the side while I landed solidly on my feet.

This final picture to the right, while not the most flattering picture ever, is of us in Little Wild Horse Canyon near Goblin Valley. Scampering and shimmying up walls is pretty much the awesomest thing ever.

The mark of a true professional

I have avoided accepting the fact that I am a working professional until now. I think I've put up a pretty good fight--post graduation, I've attempted to escape my current working situation by considering changing jobs, moving, or going back to school to get a masters degree in something non-law-related that doesn't make me want to poke my eyes out from boredom.

Lately, though, I've started to embrace this special stage in life, which started one day when I bought some girly BR shirts. I suppose turning away from my propensity of dressing like a metrosexual male shouldn't be considered a bad thing. I've also recently replaced my masculine Franco Sarto loafers with some girly flats for work... but the true leap towards becoming an adult came yesterday.

We hit up the Coach outlet in Park City in an effort to find a present for Qing Ping to take back to my mom who lives in Taiwan. And... there... I found a pretty bag that I've decided to start using as my work purse/lunch sack. I suppose I can't really be frustrated that my coworkers consider me to still be a student since I've carried my North Face backpack to work every day since starting my job last September. Embarassing. So, to all those who think I still look like I'm 16 and to all my coworkers who think I'm still an undergrad, let me bring your attention to my new red bag that I now carry with my graduation present of a briefcase. I'm moving up friends, moving up.

Welcome to America

My first mission companion (Qing Ping) from Taiwan is in America visiting for a few days. My task: introduce her to American stuff and convince her to return to Taiwan and report that Americans don’t sit around watching tv and movies all day, while eating only hamburgers, french fries, and ice cream.

First on the list: American steak! Taiwan has this franchise called “Noble’s Steakhouse”, which we’d eat at after saving up money during the mission. Their cheapest steak is less than $4, which also includes the price of an unlimited salad bar, ice cream, and fruit juice/soda. Needless to say, those Taiwanese steakhouses serve, ahem, premium cuts of meat.

Nonetheless, we decided to take Qing Ping to eat REAL American cow—we called Outback and were informed that the wait was 35 minutes for a party of 5. Imagine our surprise about 30 minutes later when we got there and the wait was in fact an hour. [We confirmed with a couple that looked starved that they had already been waiting for 70 minutes. Interesting]. We then called Ruby River and they told us that the wait was only ten [10] minutes. Not believing the hostess initially, I annoyed her by asking her to confirm twice that the wait was in fact ten minutes. We got in the car and drove directly to Ruby River, which took about ten minutes—the hostess at Ruby River then cheerily informed us that the wait time was 50 minutes. [I smell a conspiracy]. Future plan: call and ask what the wait time is while I’m walking into the restaurant, then scream “LIAR” when the hostess grossly underestimates the wait time to get me in the door.

In any case, after I discussed my prior phone call with the hostess and indicated that we had just driven to Ruby River from Outback Steakhouse, we were seated within 25 minutes. We then proceeded to order and consume massive amounts of beef. Unfortunately, the pictures attached fail to include a photo op that we missed—Wendy was sitting in front of Qing Ping and watched as Qing Ping took her first bite of steak. Despite the fact that Chinese people are usually stoic and expressionless, my roommates analogize her expression to one that a baby gives after getting their first taste of ice cream—confused bliss. Like I said. America serves real steak. Heather, Wendy’s BFF from childhood and our honorary roommate for the night, piped in and explained by saying: “This is why we live in a place with so much land where cows can roam freely. So we can eat them.”

Since then, we’ve taken Qing Ping to eat Costa Vida Mexican salads, play miniature golf, play random video games, and eat dippin’ dots. The fun has only begun.

Also worthy of report—Chantal destroyed us in miniature golf. I then played Qing Ping in air hockey. I briefly considered putting aside my overly-competitive spirit and letting her win when she, in desperation, grabbed a neighboring table’s air hockey puck and was fruitlessly trying to guard her goal with both hands and both pucks. Result: I beat her 7 to 3. I still have some growing to do.

I is the Chinese people

Newsflash: I didn't actually get killed by the party of seven Chinese people who came to get me to notarize their documents. My lack of patience almost killed me, however, as I was contacted via work phone three separate times between the hours of 9:30 and 10:00am to try to navigate the lost people to my office. [Anyone who knows me well understands the fact that I have no sense of direction at all--it's a good thing that Chantal recently taught me that the mountains are to the East. Oops.]

During one of these phone calls, I realized that two people trying to navigate their way to my office were speaking Cantonese to each other, instead of Mandarin which is the language I purport to speak. That immediately brought me back to my deep issues stemming from people around me thinking that all Asian people are the same. Luckily, in this case, the individuals whose papers I notarized did in fact speak Mandarin in addition to Cantonese.

Instead of boring you with personal stories that give rise my own Asian American crisis issues, let me illustrate by paraphrasing from a Season One Grey's Anatomy episode.

[For your reference, the Grey's Anatomy stars shown in the picture to the left are, from left to right, Christina, Merideth, and Izzy].

Scene: Izzy is working in the clinic at Seattle Grace Hospital. She comes across an Asian lady (A) with a large cut on one of her arms and keeps trying to suture the cut while the Asian lady seems perplexed, won't let her suture her arm, and speaks quickly in Cantonese.

I to A: Hold on, I'm going to find someone who speaks your language. [Izzy then goes to ask Christina for help.]

I to C: Can you talk to this lady? I don't understand what she's saying.

C: What? I can't communicate with her.

I: Why not? Don't you speak her languge?

C: No. I grew up in Beverly Hills.

I: But...

C: And, I'm Korean. She's Chinese.

I now realize that this isn't merely a Utah phenomenon. However, having been born and raised in New Jersey, I realize that this phenomenon might be a lifetime battle for me... and that I'll continue to come across people who will ask "Where are you REALLY from" when I tell them I'm from New Jersey, and people who shout "NEEE HOW" really loudly when they cross my path. For the record, I is the Chinese people. But I is also the American.

TMI

I am your friendly neighborhood notary.

The only reason why I achieved this lofty status was to notarize work-related documents for my coworkers. At my company's request (and expense), I crammed for exactly 2 hours one day and took an online test, which qualified me to order a stamp that identified me as Notary Catherine. Little did I know that this hasty decision would ultimately lead to my downfall.

At about 4pm today, [by which time my brain was completely dead at work], I received a call--the caller id identified the caller as "Bank of America." Thinking that I'd be entangled in some strange work-related contract negotiation, I grudgingly picked up the phone. The lady identified herself as Barbara from Bank of America, and asked for me by name.

Barbara proceded to ask me if I spoke Chinese, then explained that she had two Chinese-speaking clients who needed something notarized. Barbara also indicated that she had secured my contact information from some Utah agency, and verified such contact information including my home address, cell phone number, and work number. [Creepy.]

She then went on to tell me that the two Chinese-speaking individuals wanted to make an appointment with me to notarize their documents. At the time, my mind missed the obvious question--why would two Chinese individuals, who allegedly have bank accounts with Bank of America and therefore some sort of ID, need a Chinese-speaking individual to verify that they are, indeed, who they claim to be? In any case, I provided my current work address and set an appointment for those individuals to come to my place of work on Friday for me to notarize their documents.

After I returned home, I recounted the situation in my mind and found it rather odd. I decided to do some research--I searched online for the Bank of America and looked for the phone number of the Highland office, Barbara's alleged place of business. Apparently, Bank of America has no offices within 100 miles of Highland. [Red flag].

My plan is to call the Lieutenant Governor of Utah tomorrow and ask him if my name and information could, in fact, be disclosed if someone were seeking a Chinese-speaking notary. I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do after that.

I may not be with you after Friday. I have decided that I definitely need to get over this aiming to please thing. In a last effort to please, however, I have promised to give my new 46" Samsung tv to Wendy if I die.