The Dog Blog

It took every muscle in my body not to run out of the doggy adoption event I attended last Saturday with a Pug named Licky. Everyday, I faithfully check Petfinder.com and other Rescue websites to see what new dogs have become available. Some may call it obsessed. I call it doing my research.

I have always been a dog lover, although maybe not as crazed as I am currently. My family had a Cocker Spaniel named Amber when I was growing up. She was very mean and barked at anyone who wasn’t a member of the immediate family. She even bit the daughter of a family friend when she came to visit.

While Amber was mean to everyone else, she loved me – or so I liked to believe. I would follow her around the house with my Playskool Tea Set and force her to play Church Ladies with me. This would require me to get into my Sunday best: a large floral print dress, a big floppy white hat, gloves and velvet purse, equipped with my horrible British accent. “We ah chuch ladies!” I would exclaim, forcing Amber at my side. If she could roll her eyes, I’m sure they’d be stuck in the back of her head. About 10 minutes into my make-believe shtick, she’d trot away, deciding she needed a break from my horrible accent.

But for the most part, we had an alliance. When it was steak night, I used to chew up the food in my mouth and say, "Look! I made dog food!" and proceed to give it to Amber who was ready and willing to eat mamma-bird style. I can't say my parents were too impressed with my talent.

Since she just couldn’t handle being nice to anyone else, it was very common to put her in the garage while guests were over. She stayed in the garage so much, that it became her territory in our house. Unfortunately, there came a day when her health began to deteriorate.

The day my mom told me they were going to put her down, I shrieked and cried and yelled, “YOU DOG KILLER! YOU’RE GOING TO KILL MY DOG!” I didn’t understand what was going on really, and I gave my mom a huge guilt trip that she still has to this day. Looking back, I feel bad for being so harsh. But how else would an 8 year-old react?

My parents refused to get another dog. In order to satiate our need to have pets, a slew of gerbils, hamsters, and fish would occupy our home for years to come. We even had a pair of gerbils reproduce and had 12 gerbils in our house at one point. We named each and every one of those gerbils prior to giving them to the pet store; including a runt we named “Little Foot” because it had a deformed foot. My family made fun of the gerbil saying it was meant to be mine since I also have a messed up big toe (please see entry “Allow me to introduce you to my big toe”) but even a million gerbils would never fill the void of having a dog in my life.

It wasn’t much help for our case when our neighbor’s dog would come do its business in our yard. My dad would get angry as he cleaned up after the dog’s mess. To get revenge on the dog ruining our dream, I took the shovel from the garage and attempted flinging the crap back in their yard as a cover up. Unfortunately, it ended up hitting the white fence separating our properties, sliding down, leaving a brown streak in its wake. My sisters and I laughed hysterically. Needless to say, my parents weren’t too amused and I ended up taking the hose to it moments later.

So I vicariously lived through friends and boyfriends that had dogs. One dog in particular, I’ll name him Buster to mask his identity, had a bad habit of getting into the garbage. He humiliated me by getting into the bathroom wastebasket and retrieving a used feminine product I had just discarded and presented it to a former boyfriend’s father. Worst dog in the history of the world.

But a second runner-up is my grandma’s dog Joey the Puggle. While I love my grandma, this dog is the devil. It is very disobedient and jumps up on you incessantly. It barks non-stop, it freaks out, and gets into EVERYTHING. It even took hold of my favorite winter coat with the fur hood. It was clenched between its jaws and Joey almost ripped it to smithereens. I wanted to severely hurt this dog. Lucky for Joey, I held my cool, gently removed the coat, which was now dripping with his stink-breath saliva, and my grandma locked him in the back bedroom.

However, during another visit, I once again took revenge, unbeknownst to this unintelligent canine. My little sister, Grandma and I played a game of cards and I had an upset stomach. I was trying to keep it down, but one toot snuck out just audible enough for my sister to hear, but not for my hearing-impaired grandmother whose hearing aids had been emitting a high pitched tone all day. My little sister looked at me in disgust and I just started cracking up. My grandma looked at me and said, “What is so funny?”

“I think Joey just farted,” I said laughing.

My little sister started laughing so hard, she was nearly in tears. We both kept bursting out in laughing fits every five minutes, confusing my grandma who did not know what was going on. Joey looked up at me in confusion from underneath the table, and I just smiled in content.

Even though all of my dog stories are negative, I still vie for a canine pup so I can play Church Ladies again. They are so cute and cuddly (except for when they crap, get into the garbage and rip up your coats), and I probably will end up with a Pug or French Bulldog.

I have plans to move in with my boyfriend when my current lease ends, and I’m waiting to see what kind of place we end up with before I pick a dog. We even have names picked out already. Most people pick kid names before they have them, but my boyfriend and I pick dog names before we have them- Hambone and Bowser. Awwwwww.

Stay tuned for my continuing dog adventures over the next year. Mark my words: I will have a dog!

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but dog crap is not aerodynamic.

Aging Schmaging

Age. (Shudder). We spend our entire lives wanting be a number other than what we are. When we're young, we strive to be older, when we're older we strive to be younger (or we at least try to appear younger. This often yields disastrous results - a la Desperate Housewives of Orange County. What a train wreck).

It's not our fault really. Society and culture tell us to value our early twenties, and any other age group that falls outside of that is not considered to be as hip, beautiful, desirable or fun. Well, I am here to counteract this stereotype. I'm in my mid-twenties, and I am declaring that I'm officially not fun. I'm not afraid to embrace aging and all of the peculiarities that come with it.

What could I possibly know about aging, you say? Allow me to take you on a journey through my daily life. I am often accused of being an old soul by those older than me, or a party-pooper by my peers. The staff members at DList must think I'm an old maid since I'm the only one on the staff that doesn't enjoy night clubs and feels compelled to say, "Put some clothes on, young lady!" to every girl on the dance floor.

In all of my 25 years, I have developed quirks that have culminated to the elderly lifestyle I now lead. From this point on, we will now refer to them as Old Lady Habits.

1. Going to bed early, waking up early: I have been conditioned to this schedule against my will (working a full time job will do that). But I have now found it to be quite a convenient lifestyle. I get up at 5:30am Monday thru Friday, and no later than 8am on the weekend. I have time to workout, make a nice breakfast, and all of the stores are just opening so I can often beat crowds. I wake up in time to see the sunrise, which I had only seen in a drunken haze if I had stayed out that late in college. I feel more energetic when I'm on schedule, but if you keep me up until midnight during the week, I'll be worthless the next day.
   
2. No more clubs: I just don't go out much anymore. This is mostly due to the fact that I need to be fully alert at work. But I also feel that if I spend an entire day hungover during the weekend, I wasted a full day. I don't mind being sober, really. But if I do drink, it's usually at home, or done at happy hour. Why? Because...
3. I'm cheap: I live right above Quizno's and across the street from Papa John's, but I refuse to go to either unless I have coupons that I've clipped from the junk mail. You fools are missing out on some great deals! Buy one, get one free subs, and $7 pizzas. Also, you better believe I don't pay full price for my clothes. Thankfully Express is one of my favorite stores because they give you so many coupons. I hate to pass up a good deal, but even I have to admit, they are getting out of hand. I have to throw most of their coupons away because I just can't shop as much as they encourage me to. I once argued with the clerk at the counter so I could use five coupons together even though on the back it says "not be used in conjuction with other coupons." I won. The customer is always right! (Okay, maybe not all customers. Only me).
   
4. Checkbook/Day Planner: My boyfriend constantly makes fun of the fact that I still balance my checkbook. I do utilize online banking, but I like to know exactly how much money I have right after I spend it, and purchases don't always clear right away. Plus, I'm not always near a computer. No, I don't have a data plan on my cellphone. You call it mistrust of technology, I call it being in control. Rather than a swanky iPhone or Blackberry, I still carry around a huge Day Planner with tabs for each month and day, that weighs down my purse. Which brings me to my next habit...
5. The Big Yellow "Old Lady" Purse (I think it's cute. Shut up.):
   
6. Talk Radio: I enjoy my morning commute by listening to Kiro 97.3. I like to catch up on the news that happened between the time I went to bed the night before and the time I woke up for work. Yes, I am a news junkie. But I always have been. When your dream is to be a writer for your entire life, it's helpful to know what's going on in the world. I also like to listen to the Ron and Don show on my way home. Their banter just makes me giggle.
   
7. Game Shows: No matter what I'm doing, if Wheel of Fortune or Jeopardy is on, everything stops and I give it my full attention. Shouting at the TV and cursing the idiots who think barracudas are fish have been a favorite pastime of mine since watching them with my grandma as a child.
   
8. Old Christmas Caroles: I used to think it was an old person thing to listen to Frank Sinatra, or Nat King Cole, because my grandma listened to it sometimes. But I've grown out of N'Sync's "Home for Christmas" and Hanson's "Snowed In." I love Old Blue Eyes along with the rest of the 65+ population. I start listening to Christmas music 24/7, beginning Black Friday until New Year's Eve. This year, my new favorite rendition of Jingle Bells is by Bing Crosby. It's a ragtime ditty that sparks an innate reaction to do the jitter bug and mimic his ragtime crooning. If I wasn't a minority, I would love to go back in time to this era.
   
9. Vertigo: I get pretty dizzy every so often. The kind of vertigo I have is caused by rocks in my ear canals floating around and getting stuck in places they shouldn't. Before you call me a freak, everyone has little rocks in their ears. Google ear rocks if you don't believe me. Anyway, my Physical Therapist (yes I go to physical therapy to treat it) said I am the youngest patient he's ever treated for this. "Usually my patients receiving this treatment are 70+. No one knows why, but this just usually occurs more when you get older..." well here I am - your overachiever.
   
10. I always see the Old Lady first :)
    

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but don't worry - I take a vitamin D and calcium supplements to prevent osteoporosis. They won't break that easily.

Christmas Memory #22: Projectile Vommiting in Africa

Warning: Do not read this if you get sick easily.

Christmas time always makes me nostalgic - setting up mandarin oranges for Santa (yes our family put Santa on a diet), swearing you heard reindeer hooves on the roof and waking your parents up at 2:30am to open presents, the joke gift tags claiming that Taylor Hanson put a CD Stamper under the tree for me, and the precious tantrums my sister threw when she got something she didn't ask for from Santa "What the hell is this? I didn't ask for this!" (all caught on video camera, of course). The memories are so near and dear to my heart.

But there is one Christmas I'll never forget. Three years ago, I chose to forego the tree, the lights, the wrapping paper, and family and friends for that matter. I got off a plane and stepped foot on the red soil of Ghana, with 15 classmates that I had only met a couple months prior. It was the best decision I had ever made (despite what I'm about to tell you), and it was decided in the manner in which I make all huge decisions in life- on a whim.

After seeing a flier in the bathroom about a class being offered that included studying abroad in West Africa at the end of Fall Quarter, I knew I had to do it. Even though my mom firmly told me no, American Express firmly told me yes. So I bought my plane ticket and told my mom what was happening, and that was that. Okay, so maybe it wasn't THAT rigid, but long story short, my stubbornness beat my mom's stubbornness for the first time in history, and that is a victory to be celebrated and exaggerated!

"You're going to get sicker than all your classmates," my mom jinxed me. Being that I am the most accident-prone member of my family, it was really expected of me to come back with some rare, never-before-discovered disease, despite the six shots I had received beforehand and the malaria meds I took everyday while there.

Side story: the day I got all of my vaccinations, I went to work afterward where I was cashiering. A lady came through my line, eyeing the six bandaids up my arms, turned to the gal that was bagging groceries for me, and says, "Is she dying?!" as though my shots were an indication of a deadly, contagious disease, contracted by directly speaking with me.

"Ma'am, if I was dying right now, do you really think I'd be standing here cashiering?" I said. Because that's what I'd be spending the last moments of my life doing: serving the thankless, godforsaken public, while working for The Man. A public servant's dying wish!

How dare she assume my co-worker had the 4-1-1 on my medical file. The nerve! If I had it my way, that woman would have been dead that day.

Okay back to the point. Ghana. I went there for three weeks, and there was definitely an adjustment period before I got used to the following: limited electricity, cold showers, drinking bags (not bottles) of water, accepting that I was second class because I am a woman, that it is normal and appropriate to wear long-sleeved shirts and long skirts in the equatorial heat, in addition to eating chicken, rice and plantains for every meal. Being the feminazi that I am, it wasn't the machismo culture that was the hardest to adjust to, but the way food was valued differently (at that time, I was the Fatties Fo Life President, remember?)!

Food was probably the one of the biggest things I realized we take for granted as Americans: we have the luxury to eat what we want, when we want it. It really is an amazing and unnecessary indulgence. Tonight for instance, my boyfriend and I were deciding on what to eat for dinner. He wanted Mexican food, and I really didn't want Mexican food, so we settled on Mongolian Grill. That would never happen in Ghana. Eating has only one purpose, and that is to survive. While there are restaurants in Ghana, it is not nearly the booming, money-making industry it is here, but rather a clandestine extravagance for the few who can afford it.

While we were indulging in restaurants as tourists, I somehow contracted a bug that made me sicker than I've ever been. When did it hit? Christmas Eve.

I was on a Butterfly Sanctuary tour (which is hilarious because I absolutely hate butterflies. They scare the crap out of me.) when I started feeling...off. I started feeling weaker and weaker, and all of the sudden I collapsed in the middle of the rain forest. Our small bus driver Kujo, who was about 5'1" and 110 lbs, attempted to carry my overweight, sickly ass back through the jungle and to the hotel. I was beastly in comparison. I kept trying to tell him to put me down, that I could walk, but he insisted that he was going to suffer while hauling this heifer a quarter mile out of the forest.

Once back at the hotel, I was down for the count. I spent the next three days, including Christmas, projectile vomiting, trying to control my uncontrollable bowels and essentially, trying not to die. I had horrible food poisoning. But then it got worse. I couldn't keep anything down, including liquids, so I became severely dehydrated. It took energy just to wake up, nevermind get out of bed.

I attempted eating Cliff bars, only to see them moments later. To this day, I refuse to eat a Cliff bar.

I was like this over a 12-hour bus ride back to the coast, and when we finally landed at our destination, my professor said, "You are going to the hospital. Right now."

We took a cab and went through military checkpoints on the dirt, pothole-ridden freeway towards the hospital. Once there, I was rushed into a room, even though there were many other patients who appeared to need immediate medical attention over me. I was given preference as an American tourist, which even in my fragile state, I did not like. It was not right for me to be seen while a man crawled into the hospital vomiting thick, brown goo and blood.

I was placed in a large room with four other patients: a sleeping old woman, a pregnant woman that screamed out and cried every five min., and a crying baby. I was there until 4 in the morning, where they administered a drip IV of saline to rehydrate my body. The hospital bill was $27 U.S. (see, even Ghana has found a way to make health care affordable!).

Before I was home free, we were met with one more obstacle- someone had closed the gates to our hotel. The cab dropped us off, and all I wanted to do was go to bed. Might I add, this hotel had crocodiles living in the pond surrounding it. We called and we yelled, but no one was up to let us in. So we had to jump the fence and pray that after all of that, we wouldn't be eaten by crocodiles.

Luckily, we survived, and the next day at 7am, I was 100 feet above the rain forest floor on a rickety rope bridge course, and later carrying buckets of rocks on my head to help build a foundation for a school in a village. I never felt so alive! I was so glad I got to get better for that.

This past weekend, I had a chance to reunite with my fellow classmates who traveled to Ghana with me. We share a bond that can only be formed when you know way too much about each other's bowel movements, or share a bag of water with someone.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but I will bring some Imodium when I go back to Africa!

Gym Rats

Biceps are bulging, abs are glistening, weights are hitting the floor, and the stench of sweat is imminent. Welcome to the gym. While most people are there to lose weight, destress, or get ripped, others are there to people watch (which I can't stand). I go to a gym in the gay part of town, because I know I won't be bothered or eye-molested by douchy men that look like the Cake Boss. When I go to the gym, I like to be left alone. Don't talk to me. No I don't care how much you press. No I don't want a workout buddy. I am coming here to listen to my ipod and run, and maybe lift a little bit of weights. Notice my noise cancelling headphones? I don't want to hear you.

When I first moved to Seattle, I was elated to find an apartment that had its own gym. Finally, an end to all of the Cake Boss madness. But I quickly became disappointed once I began using it. Someone is always on the one treadmill, and when I finally do get on it, there is always someone glaring at you from the elliptical because you got on the treadmill before they did. It's a vicious cycle.

However, the absolute worst part of the gym at my apartment are the people that use it. The people who use this gym are there because they are bored and need a victim to annoy.

There's a guy named Equation that lives here. His real name is just as quirky as the mathematical term I gave him, but I'll be nice and protect his identity. He has a huge, green tattoo on his face (okay blew it) and always tries to strike up a conversation. The first time I met him, I was on mile 5 on the treadmill, out of breath, and dripping with sweat. And when I say dripping, I mean my ears and elbows were sweating. He thinks it's an opportune time to ask me if I liked Rachel Maddow and tried striking up a political conversation. Does it look like I want to discuss politics right now? Then he proceeded to ask if I would like to go out and watch a movie with him, after we went home and showered of course. "I don't think my boyfriend would appreciate that," I responded. Time to go. He just made working out super awkward.

But the worst person that uses the gym is The Singer. I have no idea what his real name is, but he is the most irritating man I've ever encountered in my life. I love music with all my heart and soul, but he makes me want to gouge my eyes out, light myself on fire, and jump off the top of a sky scraper when he starts humming. Don't even get me started on what I want to do when he starts singing.

I was in the gym, running to my tunes, and this guy is on the bike, humming really loudly. Even his humming is tone deaf. I clear my throat and obviously turn up the volume on my ipod, hoping he'd get the hint. He doesn't. He closes his eyes and starts humming louder. I have noise cancellation headphones on, but I could still hear the notes he was inventing. Then he unleashes the beast: he starts belting his heart out, eyes closed, hand motions accentuating the words he was inventing (he didn't know the words to his song), and I thought I saw tears too but it could have been sweat. And he doesn't stop! It's only him and I in this tiny gym and I really wanted to say, "Hey! Do you mind?" But I didn't want to be rude. I wish I would have said something much worse. But instead, I ran one mile, then jumped in my car and went to my other gym in Capitol Hill. He was still screeching when the door closed behind me.

And I thought the guy that smelled like poop at my old gym in Gig Harbor was bad. I guess it was equally irritating, just making my nose bleed instead of my ears.

Thank goodness I didn't cancel that Capitol Hill gym membership.

At my gym in Capitol Hill, men are busy looking at each other, instead of me, while I happily do my workout like a fly on the wall (remember, gay part of town). It's nice, really. However, now the tables have turned. Where I was busy trying not to make eye contact with anyone at other gyms (for fear they would mistake it as a conversation starter (e.g. "Oh where in Hawaii are you from?" "Tacoma")), I actually want to watch people at this gym.

Just yesterday, I saw the most bronze gay man I have ever seen in my life. Men go tanning, I get that. But this man was Lady Gaga-Bronze (see above)- an inhuman pigment that even the orangest high school cheerleader will never achieve, even after a stage four melanoma diagnosis. Not only was he bronze, but he was ripped to perfection, had emo bangs, and was watching himself in the mirror very intensely as he did his bicep curls and chest flies. I thought I was watching an SNL skit unfolding.

He had on boyshort spandex and his butt actually looked like it had implants. I've never seen such thing as a perky butt, but it indeed exists. It was actually pointing at me! In my head, I awarded him the True Gym Rat award, which would be a gold trophy of his lifted butt. His wife beater looked like the upper half of a banana hammock, all string, criss-crossing his bronze chest. He pouted his lips out as he switched from curls to chest flies and back. I could just hear, "I'm too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy it hurts!" Congrats, Right Said Fred. You actually made a song that applied to someone in real life. I wish I had a video camera. He was hilarious. I was almost tempted to ask if he wanted to borrow my lip plumping gloss too, but then I remembered I didn't want to talk to anybody.

Who would have thought so much entertainment could come from such a simple activity as running on a treadmill? I have a knack for finding myself in strange situations, but I can't complain - I'd have nothing to write about if I didn't.

Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but running outside beats being in the gym with the rats.

Float like a butterfly, sting like a drunk!

This entry was written by request from my boyfriend's family :)

Two entries ago, I ended with "stay tuned for injuries I inflict on others at clubs." Here we go.

I was 21, my boyfriend had just graduated and left town for a full-time job, and we were doomed to the constraints of a long distance relationship. Being that I was bored couldn't see him, I decided to go see Swollen Members (a hip hop group) at a club in downtown Bellingham with some girlfriends. Once there, we proceeded to do shots so that we had the liquid courage necessary to act like we knew how to dance at a hip hop show.

Before the music started, and I was already three sheets to the wind, I noticed a rather large and hefty individual pointing and laughing at me. I didn't know what he had to laugh about- this guy was about 6'4", 400+ lbs, bearded, stupid looking, and I assumed he probably smelled like deep fried pickles- so I let it go. But he didn't. He walked right up to me and said, "Yeah, my friends think you're really unattractive." He was telling me that I was unattractive?! You know I didn't let that slide.

A verbal argument ensued that I don't quite remember that clearly, but I remember our friends pulling us away and me trying to claw back and yell at him some more. He ignited the Tacoma in me!

"Hana, chill out. He is totally not worth it. As in SERIOUSLY not worth it. Just relax and enjoy the show. He's a total douche bag." said my friend.

I listened to her, drank some more, and the show started. I began dancing and having a good time. I probably would have forgotten the incident all together...

That was until I felt someone's hand on my ass. I spun around to see the piece of lard that mistakenly tried to cut me down earlier. He had a slimy look on face, as if he had gotten away with something. It was time to put him out his misery.

I punched him right in the eye. Even though I was drunk, I remember the distinct feeling of his eyeball under my fist. It was, soft and gooey. It was like what I imagine it would be like punching a squid, minus the tentacles. I don't know that I really injured him, more than I surprised him. He held his eye and looked at me in shock- as though he didn't have it coming. I went at him again. I wanted a piece of this giant mofo!

"What! What!" I yelled at him, fists raised and poised to attack. My blood was boiling over.

"Hana. Hana! Hana!!!!" yelled my friend holding me back. "You are going to get us kicked out of here!"

"Are you kidding me?! He just grabbed my ass! He's getting kicked out of here."

I promptly went up to the bouncer, pointed at the offending mass of fat, and he was immediately escorted out of the show. Victory was mine! I love being a girl sometimes.

Later that night, I was so far gone that I called my boyfriend crying and yelling, "My night sucked! I punched someone in the faaaaace!!! Wahh!" He thought it was so funny that it got leaked to the fam. His parent's proudly dubbed me, "Muhana Ali." The name stuck, and soon caught on at work, where co-workers started calling me nothing but Muhana. I even listed it as my official nickname on my Emergency Contact Form in my personnel file. Don't worry I changed that once I started working at the corporate office.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but touch my ass, and you'll pay.

What I Am Thankful For

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, this entry is going to be different. I don't intend it to be funny, or even entertaining for that matter. This entry is to solidify that I've come a long way, and to show those who may not know, the ugly truth about this past year. I'm finally putting this in words. I'm posting this because I am a better person from this experience. I am posting this in the hope that you become better without having to go through the kind of year that I did.

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Today, I ran the Greenlake Gobble 5k. In addition to having another race to keep me off the couch, it also meant something so much more to me. This race occurred near the one year anniversary of my mother's cancer diagnosis. When I ran through the finish line, running it in my best time yet, it solidified that I have a come a long way, emotionally and physically. My emotional journey is directly correlated with the races and miles that I've logged. This past year has been a test of endurance in all aspects of my life.

Last November, I was sitting at my desk, working overtime, when I got the devastating call: the doctors had found a tumor in my mom's liver. I freaked out, and thankfully, I was the last one left in the office, so no one had to witness my meltdown. A few weeks later, tests confirmed that they were cancerous, and by the way they had found a second tumor. Two, stage 4 tumors, would now mark a pivotal point my life: BC (before cancer) and AC (after cancer). Luckily, I was at my house when I got that call, but I fell to my knees sobbing. What was this going to mean? My mom is the most important person in my life. I began fearing the worst and sunk into depression.

I started having anxiety attacks, having to excuse myself from my desk at work so I could hide in the bathroom until they passed. I couldn't control it. I began having horrible problems in my relationship, having to leave Cucina Cucina in the middle of dinner because I couldn't hold it together. I couldn't sleep through the night. I lost interest in things I used to enjoy, including hanging out with my friends. I felt like the world as I knew it was ending with this diagnosis. I did not know how to live my life day to day. The ugly C-word had found out where my family and I lived.

It was time for an intervention. I began seeing a therapist, who suggested, among other things, that I begin engaging in physical activity to release my anger, frustration and stress. I took her advice and ran with it. Literally. I had run a 5k the year before, and after an injury, had completely fallen off the fitness wagon. Any weight I had lost had been gained back. Hello, 160 lbs (I'm 5'4"). Not so nice to see you.

I laced up again, unsure of how successful I would be at first. But this new development gave me a much bigger reason to run. It gave me a reason to take out my fear and anxiety on something else. It gave me a reason to pound the living hell out of the pavement beneath my feet. It gave me a reason to stop taking this news out on myself, start living my life, and support my family.

Seeing her in and out of the hospital over the year has been no easy feat. While we've gotten much better at it as a family, you never want to see your parent or wife hooked up to IVs and heart monitors, drugged up and trying to smile because they want to be strong for you. It's the most heartbreaking thing I've ever gone through. Run run run run. Mile 5. Keep running.

The more miles I began to log, the more I realized how mental running is. If you tell yourself you're tired and you can't do it, you won't. But if you are your own cheerleader, and tell yourself to hang on, and to keep working toward your goal, you will be rewarded. I doubled my mileage from 3 to 6 on my first try. It made me feel strong. It made me feel like I could do anything I wanted to. It made me feel like we could beat cancer.

I started racing, which created a new level of excitement for my new hobby. Today marked my sixth race this year, the longest of them being two 10K's I did over the summer. I am hooked. The adrenaline rush before the gun sounds, the random person in the crowd you dub as your arch enemy and vow to beat, the last burst of energy you didn't think you had as you rush through the finish line (and past your enemy). I live for it. I always think of my mom when I start to feel tired. It keeps me going. If she can go through several invasive treatments and surgeries, in addition to several daily medications, I can pound out these last few miles. Hello 135lbs. Haven't seen you since High School.

Recently, my running buddy, just found out she has the gene that makes her susceptible to getting cancer. The news was awful. Especially since we are still pretty young. But I am happy they caught it now. I'm elated they can even detect a gene like that. She is in the best position she can possibly be in with the knowledge that she has. I hope that it amounts to nothing more than motivation to continue taking care of herself. It is possible that it will never amount to anything. Run run run together.

My mom continues to fight cancer. We are praying that she qualifies to get on the transplant list. Until then, we will wait and create new and fun memories with each other.

Yes, this year has sucked more than any other year of life, but I can't say nothing good came from it. As crazy as it sounds, I've learned more about life in a year because of cancer. I am thankful for each and every lesson I have learned, and am still learning:

• I have learned strength and endurance, even when I want to quit on mile three, and I still have three more to go.
• I have learned to take care of my health (mental and physical), because it is a gift that you only get for so long.
• I have learned what it means to be a good friend, and have realized that there have been times when I have failed at this, myself.
• I have learned patience, even when you've been in the hospital waiting room for eight hours and the procedure still hasn't happened.
• I have learned that it's okay to have a bad day, or a down day, because that's all it is- a day. There's always tomorrow. And you just gotta let it out.
• I have learned where the liver is in the body, in addition to a million medical terms :)
  
• I have learned that a doctor's advice is only as good as the next appointment.
• I have learned what it means to be hopeful, even when the doctor's tell you it's your last chance.
• I have learned that miracles do happen, even under adverse odds.
  
• I have learned that if you treat people with kindness, it will be returned to you tenfold.
• I have learned the power of compassion, when people come out of the woodwork to help.
• I have learned the power of words, and how just the right few can make a huge difference.
• I have learned the power of attitude, how your mindset can make or break your outlook on life.
• I have learned what it means to appreciate every waking moment of time you spend with your family and friends.
• I have learned what it means to be thankful.

To everyone who has been there for me and my family during this past year, thank you, a million times over.

Sticks and Stones my break my bones, but being thankful will last a lifetime.

Now it's time to start training for that half marathon :)

An Homage to The Beaver

Strobe lights were flashing, speakers were bumping, clothing was skimpy, and a scent filled the air that could only come from a cheap smoke machine. Yes, last night, I was inside a club for the first time since my college days. Not only did I feel that my leggings and zebra print tank top were the equivalent to going out in a Snuggie, it also made a 25 year-old woman feel closer to 65.

Re-entering the bar scene has made me realize how easy I had it in college. "Going out" in Bellingham meant putting on your best Boundary Bay sweatshirt, your least-muddy pair of Old Navy flip flops, and going down to The Beaver. You meet up with drinking buddies, sharing free popcorn all night, while yelling at Don the bartender to hurry up with your $2 pitchers of Pabst. You'd leave the place at 2:30 A.M. smelling of deep-fried macaroni and booze, but you left good and hammered, with fuzzy memories of chugging $4 Long Islands. Even at the "dance club" in Bellingham, I was able to get away wearing a hoodie and jeans.

Going out clubbing in Seattle is a whole different story. I thought I was dressed well enough to fit in, but I stick out like a sore thumb amongst members of the Ho Train. Women wear boyshort underwear and bralette's underneath mesh bodysuits. You might fit in if you decide to dress more conservatively in a tight silk dress that pushes your boobs up to your nostrils, topped with a sparkling tiara, of course. What was I thinking going out in cotton?

Drinks are free if you pretend to be interested in the creep who's eye-f***ing you from across the room, otherwise get ready to spend $40 for your slight buzz. Don't worry-I went with my boyfriend so I didn't have to deal with this, but I saw it happening all around me. God forbid if my relationship takes a turn for the worst. So much for trying to be a progressive, independent woman in 2009. Shit.

If the eye-f***ing were visible from an aerial view, it would look like a laser beam alarm system at a museum; several rays of alarm-triggering looks, shooting in every which direction. I kept walking through these gazes, intercepting laser beams of lust, accidentally becoming the laser's new target. But then I'd dodge the beam by ducking behind a 21 year-old that may as well have been wearing tassels. "Forget that girl in the Snuggie!" Attention diverted.

I will admit, the only good thing that happened was the music. Since June 25, 2009, Michael Jackson homages are statistically proven to occur once every five seconds in clubs around the US. If only they would play the Free Willy Theme Song. I might be able to dress up in tassels for that.

If last night taught me anything, it was that I am not comfortable trying to fit in with the young whippersnappers of the millennium. I don't care about the latest fashion trend, or the hippest place that sells purple drinks at the cost of your first born child. I'd rather go hiking for the day, and come back to the Beav and throw back a pitcher of Pabst.

Now it's Friday night, and you know what I'm going to do? Go watch a movie on my laptop and go to bed early. I need to catch up from the sleep I missed out on last night. Don't worry. I'll sleep in late (7:30 am) and go on my morning run. I'm content in my "elderly" ways.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but clubs will never hurt me*.

*stay tuned for injuries I inflict on others inside clubs :o)

Barracudas, Ham, and Jews- Oh My!

Disclaimer: I graduated on the President's List from Western Washington University, and graduated in the top 15th percentile from High School. I have no excuse for the following entry.
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I have done and said some pretty stupid things throughout my life. It stems from the fact that there is no filter between my brain and my mouth. If I think it, out it comes. As you can imagine how much trouble a problem like this would cause, it has especially created quite some embarrassment when I've realized that I've believed something that is not correct. I'm a pretty confident person, to the point where I've been accused of being a stubborn, know-it-all (not in my finest hour, of course). So you can only imagine the joy it brings to those who revel in my downfall. Or stupidity. Whatever you want to call it.

Meow! Barracuda!

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and I was hanging out with my younger sister (the one that cusses out children on the street). We were watching "Wheel of Fortune." While my sister was sitting calmly, watching each contestant introduce themselves, I was sitting in awe at the stupidity of this southern woman who was now on the screen.

"We were on vacation, swimmin' down thur wit' dem barracudas...." she drawled on.

"Oh my god." I said rolling my eyes. "They let just anybody on this show."

My sister laughed, thinking I was referring to the "white trash" aura this women was exuding.

"She is such an idiot. A barracuda is a cat!" I exclaimed, proud of my genius superiority.

My sister stopped laughing and looked at me. "Uh...what?"

"You can't go swimming with a barracuda. It's a cat that lives in the jungle. What an idiot!" I laughed arrogantly.

"Um...," my sister wasn't quite sure how to respond. "I thought it was a mean fish, kind of like a piranha?"

"No way! It's a jungle cat."

We began ensuing in a debate that eventually required the mediation of my father, who wasn't quite sure if we were serious when we approached him.

"Hana. A barracuda is not a cat. It's a fish! Didn't you just graduate from college?"

That was my first inkling that perhaps I was wrong. Was I really assigning the term barracuda to the wrong animal for 23 years of my life? I kicked him off the computer so I could google it, and sure enough, a freaky looking fish popped up in place of the black, panther-like cat I was expecting.

"Oh, wow...so you're telling me, this whole time, that song 'Barracuda' was about a fish?"

I'll take my ham sandwich raw, please.

Being the carnivores that we are, my boyfriend and I were discussing different meats one day (Okay. Two weeks ago). Now, I've already explained what a disaster I am in the kitchen. But I'll admit, I have no excuse for what I'm about to reveal.

"You can't eat raw meat, like you can eat raw fish," said my boyfriend. "You can't eat raw chicken, or pork. You can eat partially cooked beef,"

"Well, you can eat raw ham," I responded.

"What?" he asked half-smiling, half-confused by my straight face.

"Well, yeah. You can eat raw ham, like on a sandwich." I didn't even blink.

"Hana, ham and pork are the same thing. You can't eat any of it raw. All lunch meat is cooked." he was cracking up.

"It is?" I began thinking back to the hundreds of sandwiches I've consumed in my life, suddenly coming to the realization that none of them had been bloody hunks of meat...

"Yes! Did you think you just chopped off a piece of a dead pig and threw it on your sandwich?"

"Um...yes." I started laughing now, unsure of why I ever believed raw meat was on our sandwiches.

Anyone want a sandwich for lunch? My treat :)

Jesuits and Jews

Finally, we are on to the final mix-up that inspired me to write this entry in the first place. Yesterday, my boyfriend, roommate and I were discussing colleges. I went to a state school, so private schools and their affiliations are somewhat foreign to me.

"Well Gonzaga is Jesuit," said my roommate.

"Wait...I thought Gonzaga was Catholic?" I said.

My boyfriend and roommate paused and looked at me. I knew some earth-shattering epiphany was about to come on. I am all too used to that look by now.

"Hana, Jesuit is Catholic," said my roommate, with the all-too-familiar half-smile. The half-smile exudes entertainment and pity all at once. It's quite a horrible smile to receive, actually.

"What did you think it meant?" asked my boyfriend, gearing up for the next entertaining response.

"I thought Jesuits were Jews," I said laughing. How was I supposed to know? I'm neither Jewish nor Catholic.

"Seattle University is Jesuit too. Did you think that was a Jewish University?" asked my roommate.

"I just didn't even think about it," I said laughing.

"Man, I swear to god, you dye your hair," said my boyfriend cracking up.

Allow me to be proof that a college degree doesn't mean much in the way of smarts. I can argue sociological theory with you ad nauseum, but I can't tell my animals, meats or religions apart.

Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but it pays to check your facts before opening your mouth.

Nerd Alert!

Recently, I was going through my hope chest where I keep a lot of sentimental items from the past, and found some of the most hilarious things that were, at one point, important to me.

For some, I couldn’t remember why it was there in the first place (okay why did I keep an old pony-tail that was cut off my head at age 12? That was kind of disgusting), while others triggered memories that had been buried for decades (oh yeah- my nickname WAS Big Shoes at Camp Seymour circa 1996. Thanks big, mutant toe). But it made me realize how grateful I am for the friends and family that I have been surrounded with my entire life; the items I found were reason enough to wish you were not associated with me. I was (and still am) a huge nerd, to the millionth degree.

So, to give you an idea of the trinkets and junk that I sifted through, I will go through item by item and show you what a sentimental person I am (or admit to an awful hoarding habit).

Campaign Skit Script:

My best friend in middle school ran for class president. We weren’t exactly the coolest kids in the class, so we thought we’d appeal to the rest of the lame, puberty stricken, voice changing teens out there by creating a skit to attract their vote. This was performed in front of the entire 8^th grade.

I was dressed as a fortune teller, but appeared more like a greasy faced boy with braces, dressed in drag, while my best friend sat questioning my psychic abilities. I think I managed to humiliate myself more than I promoted my best friend.

Memorable lines were, “Oh yeah, well if you’re really a fortune teller, what was the last movie I saw?” I responded by torting, “Blue and Deep Impact,” and the finale that was supposed to make her win: “So don’t vote for the popular people. Vote for me, Emily, your average joe!” I laughed so hard reading this. No wonder we weren’t cool. At least I wasn't the only one sitting in the corner at lunch.

Teeth Mold:

My teeth used to be jacked up. No they weren't growing mold. Allow me to explain: I was a chubby, buck-toothed child with vampire teeth, who always had her nose in book and dreamt of being published. Oh well. At least my teeth got fixed.

Before my parents couldn’t bear to look at me anymore, they broke down and paid for braces. Being the festive gal that I am, you could always tell what time of year it was by looking in my mouth- black and orange bands for Halloween, red and green for Christmas, pink and red for Valentines- who needed calendars when you could stare at my big colorful teeth?

Before I became a metal mouth, the orthodontist took a mold of my teeth so I could look back and see his handy work once the three year process was finished. Nice job doc, but my self-esteem still required a therapist. You're welcome for paying off your Audi TT convertible. Bastard.

Attempted sketch book:

I thought I would try my hand in other artistic categories. My sister and mom were always pretty decent artists, so I thought I’d try to draw. I should have stuck to writing and playing music. I drew in a sketch book that when I look in now, I would have thought it belonged to a blind, paraplegic girl who draws with her mouth. When I saw the sketch titled Self-Portrait I yelled,“I DREW MYSELF AS MEG FROM FAMILY GUY!” All I needed was the hat, and I was on my way to being the hated daughter of a quirky cartoon family. My teen sister even got a good guffaw out of that one. Thank you everyone for loving me anyway.

Hanson concert ticket:

Because I wasn’t awkward enough, I was absolutely obsessed with Hanson. Every square inch of my bedroom was plastered with one of the blond, feminine-looking boys that I actually dreamed of marrying.

This also fueled rumors of me being a lesbian in 8^th grade, after placing a trick love note on the desk of a much-hated classmate. She discovered who it was, and there went my reputation. Hanson was just supporting evidence.

I still went to that concert with my sister, and decided that my obsession was best kept in the family. And okay- the first song I learned to play on guitar was Mmmbop. And yes, I did play this song on the guitar for a skit for Spanish class in college (what's with me and skits?). Crap, this is turning into a tell-all exposé. This is going to need to stop here.

So now that you have a great idea of the nerd that I started out as, you can feel better about yourselves. While my music taste has drastically improved, the nerdery has only gotten worse. Midnight showing of New Moon, anyone?

Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but don’t be ashamed to be yourself :)

Ding Dong Donate

"Hold me, like the river Jordan, and I will come say to thee, you are my friiieeeeeeennd," I was bopping along to the Free Willy Theme Song, hoping that the louder I belted it, the closer I was to transforming into a superstar, if not Michael or Janet themselves. It was the summer of '93, and all I could do was sing about this damn whale.

Lucky for me, my best friends, who were my neighbors, were equally obsessed with the tune. We all vied to be adopted by the Jackson's. We didn't care if Joe beat us--we just wanted to be famous.

We decided to form our own club, SKK, which were the initials of our last names. We ripped the idea off of SWV, but their acronym was way cooler than ours: Sisters With Voices. I love you, 1993.

That summer, my parents decided to landscape the yard of our suburban home, transforming it from greenbelt jungle to grassy knoll (note the foreshadowing). While the jungle had been a blast (we had trails going to secret hideouts), the transformation turned into an adventure all its own.

The landscapers were using a CAT bulldozer to move the land, which was usually parked on a trailer at the bottom of our yard when it was not in use. While the CAT was hard at work, we claimed this trailer for SKK's Club House. Club meetings were actually code for concert: we spent the meetings with our boom box blaring MJ or Janet, while we tried to sing over them in hopes of being discovered by a random passerby who happened to be a talent scout.

Needless to say, this was an idiotic hope, being as there were no such things as random passersby in our neighborhood. You got stared down if you weren't recognized. At least, you were supposed to be, according to the Neighborhood Watch signs posted at the entrance of our street. Apparently those weren't enough to deter the burglar that broke into my parents house and stole pennies, a necklace and my mom's underwear. Yikes.

The trailer show went on. "In our darkest hour, in my deepest despair, will you still care? Will you still be there?" We didn't even know what we were singing. This was also followed by "If I was your girl, oh the things I'd do to you!" I wanted to be just like Janet.

We performed like this for several hours a day, in hopes that if we weren't being discovered, someone would at least come watch the concert. They didn't. We thought more people liked the Jackson's. Turned out we were right. They just didn't like us singing the Jackson's.

Because no one was falling for our trailer-stage gimmick, we thought we needed something more to attract an audience. All amazing concerts had an elaborate stage set-up right? We just needed to decorate our stage.

"We need a lot of construction paper and glitter," said my neighbor.

"Of course! Let's go ask our parents if we can go to the store," I replied.

But we got denied. Our parents refused to fork over the cash that was to be the catalyst for our rise to stardom. I was crushed. At that moment, I vowed that once I was famous, I would write a song about how they took no part in my success and were in fact the reason I was addicted to heroin. Okay I probably didn't get what heroin was quite yet. They'd be the reason I was smoking unfiltered cigarettes.

But then it hit me like a bolt of lightening. "Wait a minute- what if we went around the neighborhood and got money from our neighbors for decorations?"

"Yeah! But what are we going to tell them it's for?" asked my friend.

"Let's just say we're asking for donations for the poor. We are poor right? It's not lying."

I was a genius.

We trekked up the street and rang the first doorbell we saw, "Hiiii," we said in unison, smiling innocently.

"Hi...?" said my neighbor, wondering why the annoying, Jackson-wannabes were at his doorstep.

"We're collecting money for the poor. Would you like to donate today?"

"Um...how much are you collecting?" Are you kidding me? No questions asked!

"Whatever you're willing to give. Like a dollar, or even change. They'll take whatever they can get."

He came back with dime, and we were onto the next house. This was easier than we thought. No house turned us down. We went up and down my street and by the time we were done, we had a mixture of change and a one dollar bill that added up to $6.

"Yes! This should be enough to buy construction paper and glitter!"

We bee bopped back to my parents house and threw open the door and proclaimed, "We have money now! Can you take us to the store?"

My parents were appalled. "Where did you get that?"

My little sister chimed in, "They went around begging the neeeeiiighbors!" and flashed her mischievous grin that is to this day, her trademark.

"What?! You better go return that money right now! You tell those neighbors, what you did. Return every. last. penny!" This was the prelude to being grounded for a very long time.

Grrr!! How could a six year-old bring down an entertainment empire just like that? We trudged back up the street with chips on our naive shoulders. Note to self: mention little sister in the heroin song. Wait a minute. The heroin song! That was it!

"Stop everyone! We could just blame our mother's! It's their fault right?"

We were all in agreement.

Ding dong! went the doorbell.

"Hi! It's us again. Sorry, but our mother's wouldn't let us donate today. But thank you for your contribution!"

Our neighbors were really confused why we kept bothering them that afternoon, but we didn't care. We still looked good. Our parents didn't. Crisis averted.

Sticks and stones may break your bones, but blaming your parents solves everything. And makes for a good song later.

Attention! It's time for me to get on my soap box.

Anyone who's been following the current political storm has heard the Referendum 71 debate. I for one, am disgusted that we are even voting on it in the first place. Allowing citizens to vote on basic human rights is only proof of how little we've traveled since the Civil Rights Movement. It was only a few short decades ago that even my parents would not have been able to legally marry due to their differing races. I do not see how that is any different than the issue we are currently voting on. It is an attempt to legislate bigotry.

This weekend, I went to my very suburban, very conservative hometown. I'm realizing more and more why I left it for Seattle, and this weekend was further proof. My sister and I were driving through a busy intersection, when I noticed people holding signs that read, "REJECT REF. 71: PRESERVE MARRIAGE."

Of all the arguments I've heard opposing the referendum, this one by far disgusts me the most. To blame gay people for ruining marriage is like going to war with Iraq instead of Afghanistan for bombing the twin towers. If people are so concerned about preserving marriage, maybe we should start banning divorce? But that wouldn't happen because we'd be taking away the rights of straight people.

"I am so yelling at them when we drive by again," I said to my sister. Those signs ignited my anger.

"Do it." she said flatly.

However, when we rolled by the second time, I realized these weren't just people holding the signs. They were CHILDREN! And a few idiotic teens.

"Do they even know what they're holding up?!" I exclaimed in disgust to my sister who was driving.

The children started waving at us and smiling, trying to wipe the angry and confused looks from our faces.

"Probably not," she responded. "It's whatever their mommy's and daddy's told them to believe."

My sister is right. And who can really blame these kids? I believed everything my parents told me. "I don't know if I can yell at them. They're too young to understand what they're holding up," I said in defeat.

"Well if you can't yell at them, I can." My sister started rolling down the window. I didn't stop her, because I wanted to know what she was going to say. But rather than the parental lecture I was expecting (she does teach little kids ballet), she screamed:

"HEY!" The kids looked at her, hopeful that they may have found a convert to their hateful message. "F--- YOU!!!"

I totally wasn't prepared for that. I was so shocked that she cussed out those children that I just started laughing because I didn't know what else to do. Needless to say, we were the ones wiping expressions from their faces.

My sister stepped on the gas and sped away.

"I can't believe you just yelled that!" I said still laughing.

"I can. If they have the nerve to stand on a corner and hold up a political sign, they better be certain of what it is their holding up. They better be able to back it up and be prepared to argue with people who don't agree with them!"

"You make a good point," I said. "I was going to tell them to ban divorce if they were so concerned about saving marriages."

"Yeah, but that's such a mouthful. I kept it short and sweet and got the point across."

I laughed nervously.

"I'm...kind of afraid of you now."

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but my little sister will beat up your little sister. Oh- and APPROVE REFERENDUM 71!

The devil made me do it.

One of my earliest memories is when I was four years old, watching my mom's baptism. For many, this would be quite a sentimental thing to remember. Unfortunately it was one of the more terrifying experiences in my life. Before you get all Billy Graham on me, allow me to explain.

At age four, I had a very basic idea of how the world functioned. Contrary to popular belief, I was not a child prodigy.

Part of it was shaped by my upbringing in the church. I thought everyone died on a cross like Jesus. After watching soaps with my mom and seeing a dead person (probably the result of some sinful, commandment-breaching love tryst), I asked my mom, "Who nailed him?"

The other part was shaped by stupidity. I thought all people who refused to talk were doing so because they had a talent. So when my mom encountered a very rude and unresponsive teller at the bank, I asked, "Is she a mime?"

And when I first realized my family members were black, I thought all black people were my family. "Uncle Phil?" I pointed to a man at the grocery store. My mom had to correct me embarrisingly, "No, sweetie, that's our neighbor." I was 17.

Okay, 17 months :)

So when my mom told me she was getting baptized, the only thing I took away from it was that my aunts, uncles and grandmas were coming to church with us, and that Mom was finally going to be able to eat a piece of cracker and cranberry juice during the sermons after this day.

While much of the ceremony is fuzzy, I remember having anxiety because my mom was not sitting next to me in the pews like she normally did. I couldn't sit still and was being fussy. After being scolded by many family members for my antsy behavior, I finally saw her. She was on stage with the priest in a white robe. I didn't understand why she wasn't wearing the pink dress she arrived in. Maybe it was a commandment that I missed in Sunday school. Thou shalt not wear pink.

The priest said some words, placed one hand on my mom's back, and another on her forehead and suddenly he began drowning her! What the hell was this?! Alarmed, I began crying and wondering why no one was running up to the stage to save her. I attempted to leap from my grandma's lap, but she had a strong grip for an old lady. My family members were crying tears of joy, which I mistook for sorrow, as they sat idle watching my mother get murdered by the same dude who taught me the words to Jesus Loves Me. Traitor!

What was this? Some sick, sadistic ritual all for cranberry juice and crackers?! Even I didn't want cranberry juice and crackers that bad!

I was yelling out, acting out, freaking out during her baptism. I was crying so hard I was gasping for air every time I inhaled. I was close to fainting when finally, she emerged from the water. She was breathing. She's alive!

I don't remember the explanation of the ritual that I'm sure I received. All I remember is running up to her promptly after the ceremony, and giving her the biggest hug my four year-old frame could muster. Oh yeah, and I also was not allowed to go within 10 feet of the priest that I was convinced attempted first degree murder on my mother.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but little boys aren't the only ones priests are after.

Dear Teacher, You're Racist.

When I was in fourth grade, I had the coolest babysitter in the world. Her name was Rebecca and she was going to school for cosmetology. I looked up to her- she was the older sister I never had. She introduced me to TuPac, Biggie, Warren G- the O.G.s! I was in the hood (where I wanted to be), walking around my house with my Walkman blasting "This DJ."

We were always stylin' with Rebecca around. Since my younger sisters and I all had long hair, she loved practicing what she learned in class on our brown manes. By the time her class was on the Ethnic Hair chapter, I knew this was my time to shine (please note that I do not have ethnic hair).

I walked into Ms. Lee's fourth grade class one morning as the only kid in school with cornrows. Eight, fat rows of braids plaited my big head. Classmates commented on my unusual 'do but I thought I was on the cutting edge of fashion. As I look back, I think this was my way of celebrating my Black heritage. But being mixed, I look more Japanese than I do Black. So cornrows on my head looked just as natural as they did on David Beckham's.

This was also the day I decided it was time to start dressing in my dad's over-sized Nike shirts, coupled with baggy pants. A huge improvement from the B.U.M. Equipment sweatsuits that my mom bought me on layaway. I thought I looked fly like Da Brat.

The next weekend, Rebecca had learned how to do extensions and had extra hair in the trunk of her rickety 1981 Datsun 310. Following her out to the car, I squealed in delight as she showed me the fake plastic hair that would hang from my head in four short hours. I remember the distinct smell of the cheap plastic hair burning as she used her Bic lighter to close the ends of the braids.

On Monday, I was the only kid in school debuting a head full of long dookie braids. I was trying to channel Janet Jackson a la Poetic Justice. I wouldn't know until years later that I had failed. Horribly.

I had class with my best friend and we always got sent out in the hall for chatting too much. During the weeks of the ethnic hairstyles, the chattering increased even more. I had to tell her I was going to be in Poetic Justice 2 as Janet's double. Hello!

After I was sent out to the hall for the umpteenth time, I decided that I had had enough. It was my right to chat about my fly hair. It was time to take action. It was time to right the wrongs done to my fellow brothers and sisters. It was time to write!

"Dear Ms. Lee,
I am always out in the hallway and I don't think that's fair. My friends get put in the hallway too. We shouldn't be out in the hall anymore. I think you're racist.
Sincerely,
HLS"

I sealed the envelope with a loogie and promptly delivered it to her desk the next morning.

I cannot imagine what she must have been thinking when she read what I wrote. It wouldn't be the last time that my writing would put me in the hot seat (for those of you that know my full name, google it- everything that pops up is true).

Lucky for me, I probably hurt Ms. Lee's feelings more than igniting them, as I got a letter back from her a few days later:

"Dear HLS,
You are one of the brightest students in my class. It is not you that is upsetting me, but your actions. When you talk to your friends while I am teaching, it is distracting for me and the other students. This also interferes with what you learn as well. I am not trying to single you out because of your ethnicity. Please know that you are a delight to have in my classroom. I just encourage to make good choices about your behavior.

Sincerely,
Ms. Lee"

It would take a lot patience for me to write a letter as calmly as Ms. Lee did. My letter must have worked, as I was sent to the hall less frequently. But then again, I also had to take the dookie braids out a week after I got them. I guess we'll never know if she was really racist or not.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but being the only kid in school with ethnic hair will get you sent out to the hall.

And you thought YOU had a rough day at work

You may have noticed by now, that I have a gift for getting myself into the most unlikely situations. I was fated to be a good story teller, but at my own expense. What I’m about to tell you sounds like it should have come from a TV show rather than my everyday life. Even I didn’t know what happened until after it was over.

As I previously mentioned, working with the public is like dying a slow a painful death for 40 hours a week. During this particular week, it was like being bludgeoned with a butter knife for 40 hours. Those of us who work in retail or the food industry have a plethora of stories in our vault that attest to the inhumane, childish and downright crazy antics of the American people.

I encountered one such person on this cold February day. I was pushing carts at work, minding my own business, when it suddenly occurred to me that someone was screaming in the background. I had been tuning it out because I was used to such unpleasant noises coming from the kind of people I served at this particular store. However, the screaming became louder and louder until suddenly I turned around, and realized this woman was screaming at me.

This wasn't your average middle-aged woman. She loomed over my 5’4” frame- she was at least 6'5" if not 7' tall, and had long, brown, scraggly hair, which was covered by a ratty black beanie. She was dressed in Goodwill's finest, and her clothes were begging for an encounter with a washing machine and a cup of Tide.

"DO YOU LIKE MY PERFUME?!!" she screamed at me repeatedly. Judging by the looks of her, perfume was definitely not the last thing she came into contact with. Her last encounter with anything probably involved white powder and one of her long dirty fingernails.

"DO YOU LIKE MY PERFUME?!" her eyes were wide and maniacal and she was coming closer to me.

I made the mistake of turning my back to her and hoping she'd just ignore me. This was not unlike the childhood belief that if you closed your eyes, scary monsters would go away. Why I thought I would get lucky and have her ignore me was just ignorant. I should’ve known better. Luck and I have never rendezvoused, as this entire blog so candidly explains.

Suddenly she decided that she needed to come into contact with me. She reached her arms around my head while I had my back towards her and she began touching my face!! Her hands were enclosed in smelly, black, knit gloves and –yuck! They were on me!

"DO YOU LIKE MY PERFUME? YOU SHOULD, BECAUSE I HAVE DEAD CAT ON MY HANDS!!!"

Holy crap. What was going on?! Panic mode!

"Get the F--- away from me! DO NOT TOUCH ME!" I screamed at her, batting her hands away. She looked enraged that I refused her eau de dead carcass.

I made for the doorway of the building and to my dismay she followed me. I ran inside the store and spun around to get ready for her next move. She put her hands on top of the doorframe and started calling me every name in the book. Customers stopped what they were doing and employees froze in disbelief.

When she was done with her rant, I yelled, “GET THE F--- OUT OF THE STORE!!!” Everyone was still frozen, so I yelled, “HELLO?! CAN SOMEONE CALL THE F----N’ POLICE?!” I was definitely not getting employee of the month.

She taunted back, “You can’t get me because I’m in the GARAGE NOW!!” She started pulling on the doorframe as if she were bringing the entire 120,000 square foot structure down. Unfortunately, crack did not turn her into Samson and give her biblical strength. The building went nowhere.

To prevent me from creating more of a scene, a manager came and led me away. I was visibly shaken and not sure what had just happened. Adrenaline was still pumping through my system and the rest of my shift was a blur. All I remember is that they allowed me to not push carts, and gave me the privilege of packing groceries instead. Why they didn’t just send me home is a testament to the way they value their employees.

The store manager finally came out of the office where he was probably watching clips on YouTube. Instead of calling the police, he watched the drug addict go from store to store harassing people until she faded away into the horizon. I was later told that I was at the wrong place at the wrong time and that no documentation was needed for the event.

I wonder what they would have done if a man had come up and started touching my face and harassing me. I was pissed and lost a lot of respect for the company that day. Who knew what that crack head would have done had she encountered me deeper in the parking lot, and not near the store’s entrance?

When my shift finally ended, I went home to my roommate who asked, “So how was your day?”

“You won’t believe what happened…”

I will never forget that day at work. Now I have a desk job. And damnit, I've earned it!

Sticks and Stones will break your bones, but turning your back on screaming crack heads will give you a great story to tell for the rest of your life.

Where's an easy bake oven when you need one?

I've always wanted to be really good at cooking. It's something I've been actively failing at for 25 years, but that has not deterred me from giving up (unfortunately for my dinner guests). I've done it all: started a fire in the microwave, forgotten a crucial ingredient, had too much confidence and "made up" a concoction that made even myself sick, burned a plethora of dishes, and have even managed to screw up boxed cupcakes. Did I also mention that I can barely pour myself a glass of milk? I can guarantee you that I'm the world's worst chef, and yet I still love to host dinner parties. My friends have now assumed that these are pot lucks, and that they are bringing the main course, leaving me to supply the wine or ice cream.

My infatuation with making up my own concoctions began around the age of six. My mom would allow me to help her from time to time, and my favorite thing to do was crack eggs. I think I enjoyed the challenge of it- there was such a delicate balance between getting it right or making a mess, and my favorite was the latter- I loved putting my hands in a good egg that "accidentally" dropped from sky to floor. I can't say that my mom was in agreement.

I would imagine I was the best chef in the world. Behind my mother's back of course, I stood at the entrance of our kitchen, tall and proud and ready to make the biggest mess- I mean dish, that I possibly could. I grabbed the blender, every spice I could find, raw eggs (my recipes always included raw eggs), oil, sugar, flour, bacon-you name it- it was in my concoction. I thought that I would just magically create the best recipe ever known to mankind. I would force my sister to taste test whatever concoction managed to stay off the floor. This was always served in our Disney cups that we got off the back of a Kellogg's cereal offer. Aladdin could make any concoction look convincing to try. I must have known it was going to taste awful, otherwise I would have tried the concoctions for myself. The trials always ended with my sister either spitting it out, or barfing it up.

My family can testify that I was one of the crueler older sisters known to history.

Fun fact: I didn't like eggs until I was 19 years old.

In high school, my mother was busy cooking in the kitchen and realized that she forgot to buy cucumbers, an essential ingredient in the dish she was cooking. I came back with a zucchini because I didn't know the difference. They were both green, long and...curved right? This was also around the same time I put cabbage on my sandwich because I thought it was lettuce. I wish I were making up this entry.

In college, I wanted to become the grill master and take over the burgers for our summer kegger. Somehow, I managed to cook everyone's burger without incident except for mine. The bloody patty made my bun soggy, but I somehow didn't notice until it was too late. I was starving so it wasn't until my burger was half gone that I realized I wasn't feeling so well. This resulted in me running to the porcelain throne before I even had a chance to get my first beer down. My sister didn't have to seek revenge. I was my own worst enemy. Oh Karma.

I've been trying to become a better cook. Practice makes perfect right? (Or so they say- so far this theory has failed me). My mom has entrusted me with the green bean casserole for Thanksgiving and nothing more. I offered to make the turkey and she didn't even let me finished before she yelled, "ABSOLUTELY NOT. I WANT TO EAT THIS THANKSGIVING!"

Oh well. In the meantime, Halloween is just around the corner. It's the perfect opportunity to pretend I'm something I'm not- a 1950's housewife. I'm supposed to bake a plate of cookies to add to my costume's effect. I'm just calling the hospital now so an ambulance is on call. Sorry in advance for any obituaries you may see in the November 1st edition of Seattle Times.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but being stubborn in the kitchen can be good business for your local hospital.

Self-Writeousness

As a child, I was always in trouble for not paying attention in class. It wasn't because I was busy writing to my crush: "Do you like me? Circle Yes or No" or because I was picking my nose and daydreaming about the latest episode of Salute Your Shorts - I was too busy reading a book under my desk. Yup. I was that kid. And okay, I was doing all of the above when I wasn't reading.

When my nose wasn't buried between pages, I was trying to jump start my own writing career. It has been a lifelong dream of mine to be a published writer. I remember setting out to write my first story. I had all of the intentions of publishing it and becoming the first 8 year-old in history to have a number one book on the New York Times Bestsellers List. Yes, I knew the importance of this career-making list at age 8. That's how bad this was.

My first attempted story was titled, "Jackie's Life," the chronicles of a minority kid, growing up in a gang-riddled ghetto with step-brothers and step-sisters. I have no idea why I thought I was knowledgeable in such matters. I grew up one of the few minority students in an all-white, affluent city, with two younger biological sisters and my parents were still together. I think I wrote "Jackie's Life" the day after I watched Spike Lee's "Crooklyn." That made me an expert.

Now that I really do live in a neighborhood riddled with gang violence, it is not as romantic as I made it out to be in my story. I actually had a scene where Jackie gets a gun pointed in her face and then she suddenly forgets about it and goes inside to make cookies for her friends. No comment.

Proud of the first three chapters of my hit novel, which dealt with runaways and drug-use, I decided I was ready to give it shot- I wrote a handwritten letter to Scholastic Books, the company that published my all-time favorite series: the Baby-sitters Club. I asked them if they would be interested in publishing my first novel. If they were interested in publishing stories about babysitters, they had to be interested in publishing stories about drug-using family members, right?

I really wished I would have made a copy of my letter, as I can't recall exactly what it said. But I distinctly remember that I did not send my novel with my request. I only had one handwritten copy- no way was I parting with that cash cow. What if they didn't send it back? I'd be screwed! They would just have to be dazzled by my riveting summary. I kept my fingers crossed as I ended my letter with "P.S. Can you give me some tips on how to publish my first book?" I used my best cursive and signed my name with a star over the I in my last name.

And then I waited.

Three long, arduous months passed and my hopes were flying higher than Gary Busey (fun story). I had actually convinced myself that the publishing contract was coming back to me in the mailbox. I had collected an array of colorful pens, and I was deciding which color to sign the contract with, when my dad came up to my room with The Letter.

I snatched it out of his hands and slammed the door in his face. This was going to be my moment, and only mine! Why was this envelope so thin? Didn't contracts come in thick packages? Hmm...maybe this is just the first letter they send to let me know the contract is coming.

Then there it was:

"Dear Ms. Shipman,

We regret to inform you that we will not be able to publish your novel-"

A scream pierced through the air which was suddenly filled with tiny shreds of paper. I didn't even realize what had happened until it was over. I had a rage blackout. The Letter was no longer. I didn't even read the rest of it.

"What is going on?" my mom rushed in concerned.

I was crying now because I would never be able to share Jackie's Life with the world. She would forever stay in the closet.

My mom held me and said, "I didn't even know you wrote to Scholastic. Why didn't you share the letter with me? I wish I could have seen it."

I couldn't believe she wanted to see The Letter. Why would she want to revel in my rejection? I couldn't take it. My 8 year-old world was crashing down around me. What would I ever do?

I kept writing. And kept sticking my nose in a book.

Sadly, I didn't attempt to get Jackie's Life published again. I went through a journalism stint in high school but then my self-righteousness prevented me from majoring in it in college. "The laws of journalism are stifling my creative soul. I just can't be free," Fucking 19 year-old. I traded my dream in to work for The Man. Gotta love capitalism.

I am happy to say, that my dreams of being a writer are finally starting to come to fruition 16 years after I received The Letter from Scholastic. Thanks to the help of this blog and a good friend, I was offered the opportunity to contribute to a publication here in Seattle! Stay tuned for more adventures online and in print :)

Sticks and Stones may break your bones, but don't let rejection keep you from saying what you gotta say.