Free Range Chicken

I tuned into a recent radio broadcast of Michael Feldman's Whad'Ya Know? show on NPR. One of the guests was Michael Pollan, an author of several books studying food and botany as they relate to our modern world. You may recognize his name from the media reaction to his theory that the economic force behind corn production has negatively impacted our country's eating habits and that they, in turn, reinforce our economy's dependance on corn. While Feldman mocked Pollan (one must understand that that's his uniquely gracious way of interacting with most of his guests), I began to think about our modern appreciation and praise for all natural and non-modified meat and produce.

During his guest appearance, Mr. Pollan shared an account of his visit to a free range chicken farm. The chickens are raised for seven weeks before being slaughtered. They are kept indoors for the first five weeks because they are too susceptible to disease otherwise. After the first five weeks, the farmhands finally open the doors for them to roam the range. But by this time, they rarely find interest in leaving their comfort zone and few actually venture outdoors. Their feed is still kept indoors anyway.

These so-called free range chickens found at Whole Foods or your local grocery store sell for much more but really aren't "free range." How misleading! They're not much different from the industrially grown chickens the rest of us buy. How does that make you feel as an "informed" consumer? How can we ensure that organic, all natural, no pesticide, more "naturally raised" food sources are indeed accurately portrayed to the consumer?

(This picture was posted on the older site of North Hollow Farm in Vermont when they used to sell free range chickens.)

Me Shoes

As much as I may admire a pretty Jimmy Choo or clunky Marc Jacobs, my shoe of choice is a good old fashioned rubber-soled Adidas running sneak. No, I'm not a runner, or a jogger, or even a power walker. In fact, my daily routine doesn't involve a lick of cardiovascular exercise. But I do suffer from wide feet syndrome. I have Flintstone feet - wide feet and short toes. Yabba dabba doo. I discovered the Adidas running shoe line featuring their Traxion outsole in college and before I knew it, bought pair after pair of the same darned shoe. I think I went through four different pairs in four different color schemes over the course of three years. After soaking my most recent grey and pink pair in rain puddles and downpours last Saturday, it was time for a replacement.

I went to Modell's and made a beeline for the Women's section and lo and behold, I walked straight into a set of tables marked CLEARANCE. On the off chance that my Adidas were somewhere in the pile of boxes, I did a quick once-over and frowned at the prospect of rummaging through each beat up shoebox. As much as I appreciate a bargain, I detest the headache commonly onset by sifting through mounds of clutter. I picked up a blinding bleach white pair of Pumas with sky blue highlights and then a similar pair in a neon violet suede. "No wonder they're on sale," I told my impatient teenage brother. He wasn't paying attention. Alas, as I returned my focus to the wall of regularly priced women's sneakers, I decided to peek into just one last red Puma box. After all, you never know what you'll find in a clearance bin. I never thought my feet would be comfortable in what I call the trendy Puma "track and field" or "wrestling" shoe. But I was totally digging the idea of a velcro strap and was pleasantly surprised when my socked foot slipped easily into the black Puma sitting in that last box. Even my brother encouraged me to get them. I had a feeling he just wanted me to choose something so that we'd be one step closer to finishing the day's shopping, but when he surprisingly pointed out the breathability of the mesh material among other helpful observations, I decided to take the plunge. I wish there was a small splash of color somewhere to make them look a little less masculine, but whatever: it's an opportunity to try something new. So I've broken my Adidas tradition and am giving Puma a chance. I'm excited!

Everyone knows that I whine when I have to shove my ginormous feet into heels. I learned a long time ago that unless they're Steve Madden's, it's not worth the disappointment of being reminded that my foot is a toe too wide for the narrow straps of a pretty summer sandal. Nonetheless, I love to look at pretty shoes. My current shoe fascination can be found in the J.Crew summer 2006 catalog: espadrilles featuring pretty paisley printed ribbon bands. I couldn't find them on-line, so I've taken a picture from the current printed catalogue (oh, the wonders of technology). You likey???

Runners Love Grease

Franklin Field welcomes the Penn Relays every year during the last weekend of April. High school, college, and Olympic athletes arrive to test their speed, agility, and precision. Packs of teams sprawl throughout campus sprinting, jogging, cooling down, and stretching. The Walnut Street bridge is lined with both the standard yellow and the more impressive Greyhound style collegiate buses bumper to bumper all the way down to the Schuylkill Expressway ramp. But the competition's not the only thing that lures them to make the long journey to Philadelphia.

A brief assessment of Walnut Street between 33rd and 34th Streets will explain the gastronomic phenomena that accompany the real spirit behind the Relays. This particular strip is littered with fried food vendors selling shrimp, chicken wings, fries, mac 'n cheese, funnel cake, quarts of lemonade and iced tea, and every other artery-clogging substance a runner may crave after his or her heat. One block further east, closer to the Left Bank, hundreds of chicken wing bones dry along the concrete sidewalk after being discarded by environmentally unconcerned diners exhausted from the day's events. It's the high school athletes in their matching royal blue track suits that wait in the long lines for their greasy treats. It doesn't make sense to me: you're an athlete. Why would you let such crap enter your body? Isn't the point to minimize fat, be leaner, and increase muscle?

There was one lone healthy truck at the end of the long line of grease food vendors. Its two workers wore clean white aprons and chatted quietly as they watched their potential customers lift fried wing after another from their red and white checkered disposable plates and wash them down with a good cold swig of none other than that neon green tasty beverage Mountain Dew. I think if McDonald's were to sell its food on wheels, they'd have more business at the Penn Relays than all the other grease food vendors' combined.

Have you ever seen the tight bodies of 20-some-year-old male runners? Some of them look like walking copies of Michelangelo's David. It's fun to watch them run up and down Walnut Street but even more entertaining when they run by the endless rows of vendors selling sugary drinks and fried foods. They don't even flinch. Now that's hard core.

Dine Out to Fight AIDS

Oops. Tonight was Dining Out for Life night in Philadelphia where participating restaurants donate 33% of every guest check to local organizations who provide HIV and AIDS services. I wasn't able to participate last year and the excellent cause had me eagerly anticipating this evening. I also hadn't seen my friend H in ages and was really looking forward to hanging out with her and her boyfriend. Dinner was scheduled for 8:30 PM at a local Cuban restaurant just up the street from my building. It couldn't be more convenient. After work, I went straight to meet a new baby-sitting family, went produce shopping, took a shower, cleaned my apartment, and laid my head down for a minute. I woke up at 10. !#&*$%@#?! So ticked at Julia right now. Fuming. I'm sorry, H. I don't know how I slept through the phone. I don't know why I conked out like that. I'm such a loser friend. It serves me right that I had to resort to a few Trader Joe's lemon poppy seed scones and some milk for dinner tonight. I just don't know what's wrong with me. So this time next year, I have an obligation to dine out in support of this magnificent cause - even if it means dining alone!

By the way, this is a national event that takes place in cities across the U.S. on the same night, so even if you don't live in Philadelphia, it's quite possible that your city will participate. If I'm still blogging my ramblings this time next year, I'll make sure to post a reminder well in advance of the big day.

Goodbye, Sanrio

I've always had a strange fascination with pretty stationery. What proper Asian girl doesn't love her Hello Kitty, Kero Kero Keroppi, Chococat, and Pucca? There's just something special about dropping $4.95 on a 3"x3" 50 page post-it pad watermarked with your favorite Sanrio character. I grew up in a practical household where longing for such items was strongly discouraged. I remember one very kind childhood friend who snail mailed me bits and pieces of her paper collections. I would slowly accumulate these treasures until I had a respectably sized stash and would use them sparingly. After I brought back tons of daintily embossed letter stationery from Korea in January of 2003, I've realized that my appreciation for Japanese animal characters has finally diminished to a level more appropriate for a 25-year-old. My focus has now shifted to the fine world of high end paper goods.

I was beside myself when, about a year ago, I received an extremely generous gift from my friend who works for Papyrus. She surprised me with two small and surprisingly heavy boxes of personalized correspondence cards. She selected a very "Julia" motif: a simple light green card and envelope set from Crane's line of paperie with my first and last name initials embossed in a dark navy blue on each notecard. You must understand: I am the type of person who could spend an entire day at a stationery store. Wedding, baby shower, or bar mitzvah invitation: you name it and I'll critique it for hours on end. It's sickening, really. But this friend knew this about me and knew that I'd never splurge on such an extravagant treat for myself. It took me a while to get up the courage to use them. My heart rate still slightly quickens every time I point my gel pen's tip onto a blank notecard. I realize that there is a finite amount and cannot bear the thought of ending one of the few luxuries in my modest lifestyle.

Spoiled by this personalized stationery, I have been eyeing letterpressed calling cards for quite some time now. I think I would prefer a square over the standard business card rectangle shape. I would (I guess "could" would be the better verb choice here) never pay the $239 for 50 calling cards by Kate Spade, but they sure are pretty, aren't they? Where would one go to learn the art of letterpress? Yes, this has been my most recent infatuation. That and learning calligraphy. Why doesn't Penn offer a calligraphy course? I contacted Penn's School of Design to see if I could take a class using my employee tuition benefit, but they only offer typography. Boo.

To the paper guru: thanks for helping me graduate from Sanrio to Crane's. My correspondence card set is still the most precious member of my dwindling paper goods collection. Although this is nearly a year past due, please accept my thanks. You could not have had better timing with the delivery of your gift and the gesture meant so very much to me. Merci a lot, dudette.

Duh Ballay

Attending shows or events was a rare treat when growing up. I accepted that: certainly, an entire week's worth of groceries was more important than a day at a local theme park. Now, as an adult, it still feels slightly extravagant whenever I get tickets to a sports event, orchestra, or other live event. On the other hand, it makes it just that much more special.

The sad truth of Julia's existence is that a common "outing" usually involves a Ritz ticket. In other words, sitting on my bottom and staring at a screen for two hours. Considering my commitment level to regular exercise (about 1% of my daily routine if I muster up the mental energy to make myself walk to work and back), I'm guessing that, of all the muscles in my quarter century old body, the ones behind my eyeballs are probably the strongest. TV watching will do that, you know. But I digress.

I had the rare opportunity to attend the Pennsylvania Ballet's last seasonal performance of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" on Sunday afternoon and I am happy to report that it was a delightful experience. Thanks to my friend J’s appreciation for choreography, she specifically got tickets in the center balcony area; not too far, not too close, and just high enough to see everything in perfect view. Save for the stuffy grandmothers seated behind us who wouldn’t take our picture citing the “no pictures of the performance rule” (I wish someone had told us that we’d be performing – I don’t think any of us had worn tights that afternoon!), the afternoon was just swell. Puck had always been my favorite character in this play (I wonder if that loud-mouthed MTV Real World cast member was named after this character?) and the dancer from this performance did the role justice. Now I want season tickets!

I usually worry about the ballerinas when I see them up close and personal at the Cosi around the corner from the Academy of Music. It's like meeting a supermodel in person: you see the bony frame, the gaunt face, collect your eyeballs back into its sockets, and then look away and think “for goodness sake – someone give the girl a cracker or something.” But then you see the same tiny frames marvelously execute the Balanchine choreography with such grace and poise, especially in the solo performances, and you think “woah – she’s rocking that stage” and then are left speechless. I guess their lean bodies are testaments to their dedication and passion for the art of ballet. Still, I maintain that their strict diets must really suck. Except for modeling, I don’t know of any other profession where the decision to skip dessert so directly determines whether you have a job or not the following week.

"Yumm-O" My Arse

I participated in my first (and probably only) book signing today. When my friend J told me that there was a Saturday afternoon book signing scheduled at Barnes & Noble just down the street from us, I thought, "Heck, wouldn't it be fun to see Rachael Ray in person?" Getting a picture would be cool, too, I thought.

At 9 o'clock we stood in line to register for our purple numbered wristlet bands (a.k.a. paper bracelets) that would serve as passes later that afternoon when we would have to stand in line a second time for the Food Network celebrity's John Hancock. We got bracelets numbers 50 and 51. That meant that the 49 suckers standing in line before us started their Saturday mornings standing in rain before the bookstore unlocked their doors at 9. Fan #52 standing directly behind us turned out to be a young woman with a 3-year-old son obsessed with Rachael Ray - either Ms. Ray has followers of all ages or the woman made up the story because she was embarrassed to admit that she would stand out in the cold rain on a Saturday morning for her own sake. Barnes & Noble instructed all fans to return between 12 and 1 o'clock when the E-V-O-O queen will begin her signing. Since there was no separate display with Ms. Ray's books at the Barnes & Noble, we headed to Borders to select our books.

We returned a little after 12 to wait, and wait, and wait some more in the kiddy section seated on miniature wooden benches suitable for 5-year-old bottoms. We soon learned that Ms. Ray will only sign copies of her other published items if a fan had a copy of her most recent book and that photographs would not be permitted - even camera phones would need to be turned off. After over an hour and a half of waiting (but that was nothing - we met the fan with bracelet #164 and can't imagine how long she waited after we left!), we finally reached the table.

The 30-minute meal queen sat at that table with a raspberry-colored marker in hand, surrounded by a security guard, her publicist, and several bookstore employees. She barely even looked at us or talked to us. J was cool and tried to chat her up a little, but even then, Rachael barely took the bait. It was all business to her and her unexpected silence (she's so chatty on interviews and on the set, you know?) made me wonder whether she was simply bored or genuinely disinterested in her fans. Her sparkling smile appeared forced and I was put off. If you're gonna have a book signing and not allow photos and require that everyone buy a copy of your new book, don't you think you should at the very least have the courtesy to politely chat with your fans?

Rachael Ray is building this huge empire - 3 television shows, cookbooks left and right, a magazine, and apparently, a talk show will soon be added onto her plate (is that a pun?). I really wish I would have witnessed some solid interaction between her and her fans. I mean, there were even some diehard fans wearing her $16.95 plus shipping and handling t-shirts (sold on her website, which I deliberately will not hotlink onto this post because it may bring her more business) printed with her catch phrases "EVOO" and "Yumm-O." Your fans provide your bread and butter: show some gratitude, Rachael! And for those of you interested, the camera does not add ten pounds onto Rachael and she looked no different from how she appears on television.

What a tiring process it was. Thank goodness J was there to make the day fun; but meeting Rachael was definitely not the highlight of my day as I had anticipated. Now that I've stood in line and done it once, I don't have any plans on standing in line for an autograph ever again. Wait, hold on, I probably would consider it for Chang-Rae Lee, my favorite author of the moment...and maybe Colin Firth, too.

Please?

My Friday nights are so very entertaining...

I walk into their home. The 3-year-old dashes from the kitchen to the foyer sprinting down the entire length of her family's spacious four story townhome. When she arrives, I look down to see her clutching a mini plush dog, one of the many toy animals in her new veterinary hospital dollhouse. We return to the kitchen and I acquaint myself with the individual ailments distressing each of her furry barnyard friends. When she's decided that all have been nursed back to health, it's time to clean up. While tidily packing away the toy plastic syringe, medicine bottle, and stethoscope, the 3-year-old turns to her mom and matter-of-factly instructs, "Get out now." Both Mother and Julia are shocked into silence. Julia then asks, "Did you mean that mommy can get ready for her night out now?" 3-year-old replies and confirms, "No, she can get out now." Mommy says, "That's not a nice thing to say. What did you mean to say - and politely?" The poor mom was pretty hurt and I just sat there not knowing how to remedy the situation. "Mommy, can you please get out now?"

It took all my energy to suppress the sudden and maddening urge to BUST OUT LAUGHING.

I Remember You

I have impeccable memory. Many of my acquaintances are floored when I recall the minutest of details from years and years ago. Things like their preferred brand of sneakers, their favorite food, that one time their crazy grandmother gave out quarters as stocking stuffers, our crazy waiter from the last birthday dinner we celebrated together, the name of their rich cousin in Hong Kong, or the items in my individualized birthday goody bag from a friend's sweet sixteen that took place over a decade ago. Often, a person, event, or image will trigger the memory. Then it's as though the floodgates open and out pours all the details with crystal clear clarity. Like this morning...

As I emerged from the automatic doors of my building, I squinted, closed, opened, and then shielded my eyes from the sun's rays. When my pupils returned to their normal size, someone across the street turned to his left to look at me. Young guy, dark suit, slightly balding, kind face, crisp blue eyes, crooked smile, head hunched over just the taddest bit, coffee in right hand, no briefcase, nice shoes (Italian?), walking and -looking at me?!-. As he quickly returned his eyes to look straight ahead and went on his way, my brain retrieved a flood of useless information. French 110. Freshman year of college. Only French course held in an Engineering building that term. He had a name that made me chuckle. Started with a "J." Je m'appelle...Jamie. Yes, that's it. I laughed that first day of class not because his parents gave their son a name that I usually associate with a girl, but because this was the second male Jamie I had met in my first week of college. Je n'ai pas de soeur, mais j'ai un petit frere. His frere had a funny name, too. Toby. Like Dorothy's. Only he wasn't a dog. I learned a lot about this classmate during that semester’s tedious French verbal exercises. He went to school up the street from me at the other independent school on City Ave. Mes parents habitent a Gladwyne. Privileged. Stellar prep school student, soon-to-be frat brother. Legacy kid? J'aime jouer la lacrosse. Not surprising - what respectable Main Line boy didn't? He was quiet in class and probably very bright, but was really immature. He was that six feet tall teenager with the maturity of an eight-year-old.

Now here we were more than seven years later (wow, that's a long time) crossing paths during our morning commutes. Me in my new Nutella 100% cotton t-shirt and sneakers heading to Penn and he in his dapper suit heading to his office in [probably] some high rise building in the financial district. Who looks like the immature one now? So this is how our paths have crossed. Maybe in ten years I'll see him with his trophy wife and blonde babies parlaying in fronsay: or maybe not, because he was only there to fulfill the language requirement.

You probably don’t remember who I am, Jamie, but I remember you.

Out of the Office

I'm out of the office for less than two full days on a holiday weekend comparable to Christmas and I return to an Outlook inbox showing nearly a hundred e-mails. And they're not just standard e-mails: bright red exclamation marks flag every other message or the word "confidential" gravely fills the subject line. It makes me fume how no one else in my office, except perhaps my boss, who makes more than double my salary, would ever return to work after such a brief absence to address such an exceptionally high number of e-mails.

This whole Korean work ethic thing I have going on...it's really more of a disservice than anything else. I feel like I screw myself over time and time again. Sheesh!

Mickey Terror

On Friday night, I saw a fat mouse run across the floor of my apartment. The unwelcomed creepy rodent strutted its way from the heating unit to under the couch. I had been hearing squeaks and strange noises for many months now, but no one would believe me because these noises would magically surface only when I was alone and at night. There also have not been any signs of a mouse – no droppings or chewed and shredded paper. When the traps didn’t catch anything but dust balls, my brother pegged me as paranoid and laughed at me.

The trash is thrown down the chute down the hall every night so there’s really nothing for the mice to eat or go through. But mice can go anywhere and everywhere, my friends, and if you live in a city apartment complex sharing walls with strangers with unknown housekeeping habits, it doesn’t really matter whether you’re clean or tidy. Mickey and Minnie’s relatives have followed me from University City to Rittenhouse for as long as I can remember. Why won’t they leave me alone?! They can jump six feet and survive off of a drop of water every day (can you tell I’ve done extensive research?). The spineless pests can get through even the tiniest cracks in the walls. It’s a fact: Mickey and Minnie’s descendants are incredibly resilient.

No one knows the paralysis that takes over my body when I see a mouse in my home. If I even catch the slightest glimpse of a rodent, I lose it. Losing it involves shrieking/yelping, hyperventilating, getting my body at least two feet above floor level, staying very still for a full thirty seconds, and after resuming my breathing, I usually call a friend to calm me the frick down. This past Friday night, it was nearly one in the morning when I sighted the nasty intruder and I was all by my lonesome (contrary to my usually wild and scandalous Friday night activities…) so when I picked up my phone to call someone for some guidance, I nearly cried because I realized it was too late for such a call. It took me about twenty minutes before I could bring myself to walk across the living room to turn on a lamp. After such incidents, I must stay away from the infected area for at least a day: but in this case, the only way to get to the lamp required crossing the path the mouse took to the couch. When I finally got to the lamp, the bulb went out when I turned the switch. That was absolutely swell timing. Since I couldn’t bear to walk down the hallway to the bathroom without the light, I just went to bed without properly washing up. See how childishly I behave after Mickey visits?

Mice and rats gingerly prance across my path nearly every night in the Square (yes, there’s an infestation – it was so bad last year that the city put out colorful pill-sized poison pellets that temporarily killed the rats’ squirrel friends, too) and that doesn’t bother me too much. Why does such a small and usually harmless visit from a creature weighing a mere few ounces cramp my style so much?

New Bangs

Some people pay $135 for a stylist to trim their split ends. Some shell out $250 for a cut and highlights. Some hand over $400 for a designer to chop off their locks. Others use the balance of their sister’s Pierre & Carlo gift certificate for a discounted haircut.

I walked into my one o’clock appointment with every intention to get rid of my 6-month-old split ends and perhaps some “bangs” long enough to tuck behind my right ear. I specifically told Anthony that I did not want the pronounced Asian bowl cut bangs. This is what he gave me: (By the way, I’m semi-smiling because that’s what I do when I’m uncomfortable. I know it’s weird, but I can’t control it!)

[Cue screams of terror]


Here’s the profile view:


It was with much disappointment that I shuffled home from the salon. The entire way, I averted my eyes from everyone on the streets. Once I finally stepped into my apartment, I asked my brother if the bangs were really as bad as I thought. His response: “You look really Asian.” I couldn't help but laugh.

My only consolation: hair grows.

Ode to Trader Joe’s

You would not have believed the buzz around town when Trader Joe’s finally opened up at 22nd & Market several years ago. $4 for a half gallon of Tropicana at the corner grocery just wasn’t cutting it anymore so when the famous “everyday is a sale” TJ’s announced it was opening in our city, I nearly peed in my pants – I was just that excited.

I avoided the place for the first two weekends since its grand opening, and still, my first experience at the new location was one where I could barely take a step with all the people crammed around me. But once Philadelphia got that TJ’s was here to stay and the store became less crowded, on any given Saturday afternoon, I, the frumpy Asian chick, leisurely visited the store and eyed the frozen dessert section like there was no tomorrow. It was like finding gold. Tiramisu – check. Sharon’s sorbet – check. Key lime cheesecake – check. Mango mochi, mini tofutti sandwiches, chocolate ganache – check, check, and check.

While I’m still indifferent to their whole Hawaaiian theme and was initially really put off by their “Trader Ming’s” line of Asian cuisine, I got over it when I saw their Korean Bulgogi BBQ marinade. It’s a good thing they were culture sensitive enough to know that it should not have been labeled under the “Trader Ming” line because Julia would have been a PR nightmare. --People, there's more to Asia than China!-- (There was that one time when I nearly lost it at TJ's. The cashier wearing the yamaka politely asked, "Did you find that item you were looking for?" to which I tilted my head and quizzically looked at him. Realizing his mistake, my neck slowly straightend itself and my gaze turned into a stone cold stare. In my silence, he finally detected his mistake. I don't think I've ever seen anyone turn so red so quickly before.)



Seriously, though, Trader Joe’s rocks my world. Some Trader Joe’s branded grocery items that my brother and I highly recommend (notice the overwhelmingly high number of junk food items):

Mango Salsa
Palak Paneer
Lowfat Vanilla Yogurt
Lemon Poppy Seed Scones
Vegetable Minestrone Soup
Apple Cereal Bars
Nitrate Free Bacon
Maple Syrup
Cornbread Mix
Praline Pecan Granola
Chicken Chimichangas
Pizza Marguerita
White Cheddar Popcorn
Belgium Milk Chocolate Bars
Fudge Brownies
Cage Free Eggs
Spices
Honey
Dried Fruits
Trail Mix

And these are only some of the items that come to mind. This list doesn’t even include the awesome other brands they carry: Orangina, Pacific Foods, Imagine, Carr’s…the list is endless.

Items I’d stay away from: French toast, double crème brie, clam chowder, and their corn tortilla chowder. There are always a few that don’t belong, right?

I wuv Trader Joe’s. Muah.

Nanny Triad

A craiglist ad posted on NYC's job site reads:

Nanny
Reply to: job-150334040@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-04-11, 4:48PM EDT

Busy family with four children is looking for a 3 different nanny positions:
1)Monday-Thursday 12pm-8:30pm. This nanny will create activities for children, play, take them outdoors, pick up from school, etc...
2) A night-time nanny Mon-Thursday from 6:00pm to morning. This nanny will help prepare light meals for kids, get them bathed, and make sure that bed time goes smoothly for everyone.
3) a weekend Friday-Sunday nanny who will be with us in our city home and Hamptons home, depending on the weekend.
We appreciate good help and are thoughtful, generous employers. Experienced with children a must!! Will do background and reference checks after phone screening.
Job location is Manhattan
Compensation: $45-55K

So my question to this family is: You drop four children into your world and then shell out $165K every year to hire 3 people to raise them full time? Now there's a sure-fire way to raise four mentally healthy children. With four children, I can understand a part-time mother's helper, or even one full-time nanny, but three? I hope they realize that once their children reach adulthood, the combined total of their children's therapy bills will far exceed the total budget allotment for their nannies' salaries.

I am very curious to know what the parents do. In this situation, there are only two logical explanations. One parent is an alcholic socialite and the other must be a coke-sniffing overachieving business person. I don't want to be sexist, but it would be more common for the mother to be the socialite and the father to be the i-banker in this scenario. Either way, I feel bad for the children. I hope the parents at the very least select warm and loving care providers for their children. Clearly they don't think they're good enough to be parents themselves. Why else would they pay an entire team (yes, a team, because we all know that two makes a couple, and three or more makes a team) to do the job for them?

Croquet?!

With Fling festivities over and cherry blossoms in bloom, the University is quickly approaching the end of its spring term. Students prepare for their final exams and papers by hitting the books inside the frigid Van Pelt Library or even outside the library by the Button, along the little bit of greenery available on this urban campus. When they tire of reading their textbooks, bulkpacks, and novels, they toss a frisbee or whip out their gem-studded cell phones and casually text a friend for that night's partying plans.

More recently, much to my surprise, the new pastime flavor of the month is...CROQUET. Will Penn undergraduates ever cease to entertain Julia? I've walked past three such games in the past couple days and fully expect to see another one in full swing by the time I walk home. If you're anything like me, you're thinking, "What?! Where are we? England?!" Come on, folks. Whatever happened to your lacrosse sticks? Did you leave those fond memories of prep school behind so quickly? What about a good ole' football? Or heck, a wiffle bat and ball could be equally as entertaining! May I interest you in a hacky sack?

What's even more amusing is that the participants of this newfound divertissement are neither females nor dorky nerds (ok, well, nerd is a relative term, but you know what I mean) - they're Penn frat kids. Yes, that's right - male undergraduates! Let's see how long this fad sticks. Yes, this IS a fad. Just like layered tanktops, hobo bags, and oversized sunglasses, this is a phase that Penn graduates will one day reflect upon and shudder with embarrassment.

Someone, anyone - I dare you to deliver a tray of tea and crumpets to the 4 o'clock game on College Green.

Hooray for Taxes

Uncle Sam, you're killing me here. What's that you say? I won't get social security when I retire...at 85? WHAT?!

I waited until nearly the last minute to do my taxes this year. For years now, I've faithfully filed the paperwork well before the mid-April deadline, usually before the end of February. Not this year! I really didn't want to face the fact that I owe state tax and receive chump change from the federal government. I dread the process of tallying up my expenses to see if I should itemize or not. I was a couple hundred short from the standard deduction mark this year. It should make me happy that I can take the standard deduction over itemizing, right? Nah. I've decided that I am feeling terribly grumpy at the moment. Having spent hours rifling through receipts and inverting numbers on my spreadsheet, I am not happy that I have a sucky job that pays sucky wages and that I baby-sit evenings to find that I come out in the red every month anyway.

I can't wait for better days...

World Health Day

WHO has deemed April 7th as World Health Day. This year, the day has been dedicated to drawing attention to the healthcare workforce shortage. There simply aren't enough trained professionals to meet the global need for healthcare and parts of the world have entered crisis mode (many African countries in particular).

Penn's Global Health Programs office, or GHP (acronyms become second nature if you work at a centralized office at a large research university, let me tell you!), participated in World Health Day awareness events and presented a viewing of a poignant film called Yesterday. At 12 noon, I arrived at one of Penn Med's gazillion auditoriums, was checked off the guest list, picked out a catered boxed lunch marked "chicken salad," and took a seat next to the coordinator of the Masters of Public Health Program. Who could say "no" to a film showing in the middle of the day? Especially if it's for work?! I won't say what the film is about; just know that it had me crying and blowing my nose in the middle of my Friday work day while sitting in a dimly lit auditorium surrounded by 38 tight assed Penn administrators (I was the 40th, and yes, only 40 of the 200 invited showed up).

It's hard to imagine the scary reality of living where healthcare is not accessible - not because I may not have insurance coverage or an American trained doctor or clean syringes, but because proper healthcare providers are not even available in many places around the globe. Moreover, nations losing to battles posed by disease are often plagued by even grimmer obstacles than matters of adequate healthcare. One of WHO's webpages cites some really disturbing points about the situation in the Central African Republic. I'll only mention one here: "Less than one-third of the population has access to clean water." How lucky I am to live in America.

If you ever have to wait two months for a new patient gyno appointment and curse your HMO like I have, get a reality check and watch Yesterday. It'll make you feel utterly grateful. By the way, this film received an Oscar nominee for Best Foreign Language Film, so it does have some merit aside from Julia's word.

P.S. Shout out to the Koreans - WHO's director-general is Korean!

Neglected Ears

It was exactly one year ago today that I sat trembling in a director style chair on the second floor of Liberty Place squeezing the polyester filling out of a small teddy bear while a young pregnant woman calmly marked my ears with a purple surgery marker. She wasn't a teenage sales associate; she was the store manager from the King of Prussia store who happened to be filling in for the day. She had been piercing ears for 2 years by the time she helped me, a 24-year-old wimpy ball of nerves. I had no shame - I would have cried like a baby if I weren't so paralyzed with fear.

I had my ears pierced when I was in 6th grade, but only because my sister had endlessly pestered my mother about it. Apparently, if she got her ears done, I had to as well. When the moment finally arrived, not only did I have to go before she (the things big sisters do...), but my ears never healed properly. They repeatedly suffered infection after infection and never quite recovered. The holes partially closed up but left noticeable marks on my earlobes.

On April 6th, 2005, I finally sucked it up and went through with a second piercing session. I figured if the holes were still partially there, I should at least have the option of wearing earrings. A teenage girl strolled into the store during my painful wait in the director's chair. She giggled in response to my anxiety and kindly assured me that it wouldn't hurt too bad or for too long. Intrigued by my childish fear, she parked her butt right by the piercing counter to watch the scene unfold. And still, my anxiety negated any embarrassment I may have felt. Surprisingly, it wasn't so bad! It felt remarkably similar to the prick when the nurse draws your blood. At some point between the time I entered and left Claire's boutique, there was an orange lollipop offered as a reward. I was like a freaking 4-year-old leaving the pediatrician's office. When it was all over, I was happy as a clam sucking on my lollipop and carried out a neon pink Claire's Boutique bag with, "Be nice to me. I got my ears pierced today!" written on it in 70-point bold style yellow letters. It was no wonder why, for the rest of that day, when I bumped into people, they all excitedly inquired, "Did you get your ears pierced today?!" I thought they were just really observant, but, no: it was the bright pink bag on my arm that spilled the beans.

I am [quite pathetically] still wearing the studs from that day: dull cubic zirconia studs set in cheap white gold. They look like they're from the Dollar Store. Despite my years of ranting about how the diamond market is a blood soaked industry, if I had the opportunity to sport a pair of conflict free studs, I would. Unfortunately, it's difficult to meet the criteria of the four C's on a Penn salary. But I can always dream. Look how sparkly! Ooh...aah...

To and From School

There are these three young elementary school kids who I see in the mornings a lot. I am guessing that they're siblings. They walk huddled close together like a mini entourage flocked with bookbags half their size, lunchboxes in hand, and sometimes a bright green or pink poster marked heavily with glitter and construction paper cutouts. Paying absolutely no mind to the adults around them, they cross the park and walk straight up Walnut Street without any dilly dallying. Their mother would be proud.

Staring out the window of the 21 westbound bus this morning, I saw this same trio of school children happily chatting and slowly walking (only because they were eating breakfast bars simultaneously and at their age such coordination requires some additional time) up Walnut Street when a childhood memory worthy of sharing flooded into my mind.

I was walking the short four blocks home alone after school one day when I was still in elementary school: that day, my mother suddenly pulled up on the curb in her grey Nova. I was wearing a sky blue military style jacket and had just stopped in my tracks to rest and sit on top of a large stone alongside a neighbor's lawn when I heard my mother calling me from the car. I remember her asking why I had stopped and not really knowing how to explain that I was just resting. My mother was a moody mother and often exhibited zero capacity for kid excuses and yelled a lot instead. I remember quietly telling her I was just tired and hoping to God that she wouldn't flip out. I couldn't have been older than 7 or so. Luckily, she was in fine spirits. I wondered why my mother was even home at that hour. It turned out that earlier that afternoon, one of the neighbors called the cops on my little sister who had been seen without any adult supervision. She didn't burn the house down or draw any unnecessary attention to herself - she was just alone. So my poor sister had some cops show up at the door and she kept coming up with creative excuses to stall while my mother rushed back to the house. One of them was insisting that she couldn't leave the house without socks and then rummaging around upstairs for the matching sock to the one in her hand - but it wasn't enough. She eventually had to get into the police car. Luckily, I think my mom's Nova and the police car crossed paths somewhere enroute to the station so my sister was safely retrieved.

My mom was sure it was the old white lady across the street who had nothing better to do and couldn't possibly understand that we were old enough to be home alone for a couple hours after school until our parents returned from work. (You bet your butt in 2006, DHHS would have been all over that situation in a really bad way.) Circa late eighties, it was still commonly accepted to leave young kids unattended for a couple hours at a time. Being part of an immigrant Korean family, it was even more common. But Marcia across the street didn't know that and true to her yappy Jewish mother know-it-all nature, I wouldn't be surprised if she gave my young mother an earful. From that day forward, we weren't allowed to go outside when we were home alone. Maybe that's why neither one of us know how to ride bikes. I remember my mother sheepishly laughing over the incident and being in a good mood for the rest of the day. I wonder if it was because she felt a little guilty for making my sister go through that...

Swashbuckling Wedding

Much to my approval, the Style Network’s “Whose Wedding Is It Anyway” is finally covering Philadelphia’s alter-bound couples and their crazy party ideas. I'm watching one special couple’s nuptial planning for a ceremony to take place aboard one of Penn’s Landing’s ships. I’ve very deliberately chosen to use the word "special" to describe this couple because they have chosen a unique theme: pirates. Eye patches, sunken gold treasure, swashbuckling swords: you name it, they have it.

I have a bone to pick here. A bride [and groom, of course, but let’s get real – grooms don’t typically involve themselves in the wedding aside from showing up] has every right to marry whenever, wherever, and in whatever fashion she wishes. This said, wouldn’t a woman want to separate her wedding day from say, her baht mitzvah or a 10-year-old’s dreamy birthday party? My guess is that the decision for this theme has triggered hours of whispering amongst her lucky bridesmaids, dozens of confused looks when her guests entered the reception area, and -I am positively sure- at least several thousand snobby reactions like mine from other Style Network viewers. I’m actively playing the role of the bitchy and critical outsider here: when a chuppah and a wedding planner are involved, wouldn’t you expect the guests to bring home something slightly more grown-up than plastic swords and plastic Mardi Gras beads? (That’s not totally fair – sticking with their pirates theme, I think each guest brought home a bottle of gin with a colorful personalized label.)

Luckily, what matters is not my reaction. It was, after all, the couple’s day and they were, in fact, extremely pleased with the special attention to detail their planner provided and had a fabulously fun time celebrating their union. I don’t think either the bride or the groom could take their eyes off of one another: not during the ketubah signing; not during the breaking of the glass; and especially not during the hora. Now that's special. For a couple to be blinded by a love for one another so great that they could not see the atrocity of a pirate themed wedding, I extend to them a heartfelt “Mazel Tov!”

Dimwit on the Elevator

Sometimes I wish residential elevators would blast cheesy B101 music just to cover up the crap that I overhear -"I have to meet my parents in Spain again"- or the even more laughable conversations that take place between myself and a strange neighbor. Let me explain...

Tomorrow is my colleague's birthday so I, being the only team player in my office, swung by DiBruno's this evening to pick out a tasty-looking chocolate cake from their pretty pastry display. When the lady handed me the box, I nearly dropped it underestimating the weight of the buttercream. I'm lugging this bad boy the short two blocks to my apartment and finally arrive in front of my building's four elevator doors. Arms sore and hair wet from no umbrella, I see this thin, blonde haired, and blue eyed 23-year-old male with the face of a 12-year-old kid come out of nowhere. He chipperly announces that elevator #4 has arrived. I mumbled something about not hearing it ding. We step on, the buttons don't light up, and um...yeah, it's broken. "My bad. I'll get the button for you," he says. "No big deal," I reply. A functioning elevator finally arrives and we step on. Seeing that my hands are tied down by this massive cake box, he kindly presses my floor's button for me and proceeds to yabber about nothing in particular when he remarks, "The elevators have been breaking a lot lately." I agree with, "Yeah, that was the second one out of order since Friday." After a few [much preferred] moments of silence, I hear, "Maybe a bunch of fat people moved in lately...you know, they broke it down." Um, did he really just say that? What the frick, man?! He actually thought he made a funny. When he saw me glaring at him, he quickly understood that I did not share his amusement. As he stepped off at his floor, he was hesitant to say anything more. So now I know: a moron lives on the 22nd floor.

I am so embarrassed by my neighbors sometimes. I'd hold my 15 pound chocolate cake and ride the elevator up and down for an hour while listening to an entire Rod Stewart album over this crap any day.

Cookin'

Due to life circumstances, I have no choice but to produce edible dishes at least several times a week. (Just for the record, if I were rolling in the dough, I'd like to think that I'd avoid this daily time-consuming task by going out to dinner or ordering in every meal.) I'm easy: my only criteria for food is NO CILANTRO. In fact, I've been thinking of framing these words and hanging it in my kitchen; the only reason I haven't is that it would give cilantro the satisfaction of being part of my kitchen. Aside from this offensively pungent herb, I am open to making everything under the sun that doesn't involve expert culinary techniques.

Using Trader Joe's buttermilk pancake mix, I whipped up 3.5" mini chocolate chip pancakes. They turned out so surprisingly well that I didn't want to eat them.

I taught the bro how to make a simple Korean marinade this past Wednesday night. He made it really well, too. It was very close to the one used for bulgogi or kalbi. Anyway, he was away visiting his older bro at college this past weekend and I had a hankering for the tofu dish he made...so I made it myself! You just boil tofu, slice it up, drizzle the marinade, and serve - easier than preparing Betty Crocker's cake mix.

April Brings...

1. Showers!!! I understand that getting wet is no fun whatsoever, but I'm a member of the minority party and thoroughly enjoy it. When there's a gentle rain pitter pattering away, both I and the outside instantaneously feel cool, calm, and serene. But even when it's raining cats and dogs, I kind of like the feeling of rain drops pelting down against my bare skin; the energy's invigorating. I love the way that rain sends people indoors, toning down the hustle and bustle of a city block. It has a cleansing affect and always mellows me out, a nearly impossible task. What's there to mellow out? I'm very good at internalizing my emotions and as a result, I'm usually a mess inside. But on the outside, I appear to be fine and dandy. When it rains, though, I see the world around me slow down a little and something about that forces me to take a deep breath and relax. Weird, what water does to me. This may have something to do with the fact that I can't swim. I can float on my back, but it's been so long since I've been in a pool that I'm not even sure if I would have the courage to lie down in water several feet deep! I have serious issues with fear of water, so maybe I enjoy exposure to wet rain? Someone do a psychological analysis on that one and get back to me. I'm sure it's brimming with the potential to reveal more hidden emotional baggage.

2. DST!!! I was never a fan of this while in school. It seemed like there was always one project or exam or assignment that could use that extra hour of studying to score just a few points higher. But those days are over. The long dark nights of the winter are also finally over and it's time the sun shines. Clocks will move forward by one hour at 2 a.m. tomorrow morning while we're in dreamland. That means one more full hour of daylight. Did you know that President Bush signed an Energy Act this past summer that will change the days we change our clock settings beginning in 2007? Yup, 2006 will be the last year of our current schedule. Next year, Daylight Saving Time will begin in March and end in November. When's the last time that happened?