Lessons from a DIY n00b

Before

Home ownership has allowed me to finally begin one of my new year’s resolutions: completing my first DIY project. And believe me, our empty house (and wallets) leave room for a lot more DIY.

It all started when I began to drool over this mint-colored file cabinet sold on CB2.com. Our office is just exploding with papers with nowhere to put them. It was covet at first sight. I. HAD. TO. HAVE. IT. But the price kept making me cringe. I waited patiently for CB2's marketing emails, and each time I got notice of a sale, my heart would flutter in excitement, and then get quickly let down to read the fine print: excludes office furniture. And of course they specified “office.” It was as though they were out to get me.

I went back and forth on a daily basis, adding it to my cart, taking it out of my cart, adding it back, taking it out. Finally, on week three, I couldn’t take it anymore. I was about to pull the trigger on the $153 file cabinet, until I saw that shipping was an additional $30. I would be paying nearly $200 for a cabinet that only held one drawer of files. Oh hell no.

Then, a light bulb went off, “What if I made this?”

So off to craigslist I went. A nearby family sold me a metal file cabinet for $25. It had certainly seen better days; There were scratches and pen marks, and once I got it home, I realized it smelled musty too. But the drawers worked, and the rest could be solved with a little elbow grease.

I went to Lowe’s in search of spray paint in the perfect shade of mint. When I came up empty handed, I settled for Tropical Oasis – a shade of teal bright enough to catch the eye, but earthy enough to pair with other neutral colors. I’ve also been obsessed with the D-shaped drawer pulls (in a way that only my fellow-HGTV addicts will understand) and decided to try my hand bringing them into my design too.

Back home, I sprayed down must central with windex, lightly sanded it so the paint would stick, and spent about half an hour arguing with Husband about the best place to spray paint so that it didn’t look like an amateur graffiti artist lived at our house.

After deciding the garage was the best place to land, I sprayed away. The cabinet should have only taken a few coats, but being a spray-paint n00b means that I used three cans.

But after my (four hundred?) coats were applied, I realized my paint job came out all splotchy (Actually, Husband pointed it out and I got all “I am woman hear me roar – I don’t need a man telling me how to do a construction project because I’m Rosie the Riveter” on him).

After consulting various spray paint and DIY forums from others in my situation, the conclusion was that: a) I failed to sand in between coats, b) high-gloss spray paint likes to get splotchy if you’re not patient with your strokes, and c) I was not patient with my strokes. I employed the “I freaking love teal and I’m covering the entire cabinet and the garage floor RIGHT NOW” method rather than the light, airy, gentle, butterfly-kiss strokes that should have been used (and when the can says “spray 10-12 inches away,” don’t translate that to mean 2 inches). Other tips suggested either: a) to only use brush paint for furniture (note for future projects) or b) use a matte spray paint (still using your newly-acquired butterfly-stroke skill) and seal with shellac or polyurethane to achieve the glossy look.

Sigh.

So I grabbed my sanding sponge and started the process of evening out my paint job, and being (another sigh) patient. Luckily that worked and I didn’t have to start from scratch, although for all the time it took, I may as well have.

Notes from a new pro:

1.     Do not spray paint in flip flops. You will get spray paint all over your feet and ruin your pedicure, even if you aren’t aiming near your little piggies. Make sure there are paper towels near the door so you don’t track spray paint from your bare feet onto the wood floor.

2.     Wearing a mask will eliminate Tropical-Oasis-colored boogers, which might later emerge from your nose.

3.     Spray paint in a well-ventilated area and take breaks if you start hallucinating.

Unfortunately (yes the saga continues), my new drawer pulls didn’t quite fit the pre-drilled holes from the original handles. I thought I had patience to channel my inner Tim the Toolman Taylor. I even borrowed my father-in-law’s drill set to make them fit, but after my realization that I am spray-paint challenged, my patience had worn thin and I was content just using the original hardware.

After!

The result: A $40 total investment that looks even better than the $200 version online and holds twice the files. Eat your heart out, Sabrina Soto. I’m the new host of The High Low Project!

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but one (somewhat successful) DIY project does qualify me to host an entire show on interior design. Stay tuned for future projects. Next up? More spray paint – updating the previous owner’s tacky faux-patina light fixtures (apparently they were big fans of sponge-paint). After that? A nightstand makeover and a rustic headboard from scratch (if I’m not totally sick of DIY by then).  

A Decade of Packing

I remember shopping at Target 10 years ago and feeling like I scored on an extra-long twin comforter and sheet set for $13 for college.The comforter was extremely soft and striped with all kinds of bright colors. I was preparing for the first time I would ever move. I had lived in the exact same house for all 18 years of my childhood, and I remember feeling like an adult for buying something as practical as a comforter set.

But the day I moved into college, I was bawling my eyes out like a baby. It never hit me that I’d be living two hours away from my family, which was all I had ever known. I had been so focused on getting the hell out of there, that I never stopped to think how much I would miss everyone I loved, or how much I would be forced to rely on myself, or how much I would have to grow up (the extent of which is arguable in college). An hour after my mom and sister left, I quit bawling (finally!), put on some Jack Johnson and started putting that duvet on my extra long twin bed. Merely hours later, I met some friends and started having a blast.

Fast forward ten years to today. I’m listening to the Garden State Soundtrack (which got me thinking about college in the first place), and packing up my townhome that I have rented with my husband for the last three and half years - the longest I have ever lived in one residence since I moved out of my parent’s house 10 years ago. In between my parents house and now, I’ve lived in eight different homes in four different cities.

We are moving into our first house we purchased together. The home buying process has been kind of brutal, with closing being pushed back four times, due to a million and ten hang ups. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that we’re really getting the keys on Friday, especially since I booked a rental truck for Saturday. But I can’t begin to tell you what a relief it is book a rental truck for what could potentially be the last time. We bought a house with enough room to grow into, and more than enough space for the pups to roam.

It’s just amazing to the think all of the life that’s happened between the last ten years, from the first time I ever moved, to what I hope will be the last time for at least another decade. I went to college, met some awesome people, met boys (mostly dumb ones), partied hard, lost my grandpa, went to Africa, worked a part-time job I thought I hated until I turned it into a writing career, met my amazing husband, watched my mom beat cancer and go through a liver transplant (she just had her two year transplant anniversary yesterday!), got two furry pups who have stolen my heart, discovered running, discovered yoga, discovered marriage, and truly started discovering myself.

I’ve made many fantastic friends, gained a fantastic second family and met a bunch of fantastic people, and stayed best friends with my home girls whom I’ve known since 1st grade. We’ve been friends for more than 20 years now! It’s so nuts to think of how fast time has flown. And I only know it will keep speeding up.

I just needed to take a moment to stop packing up the memories so I could appreciate them and realize how much love I’ve experienced in a decade. And I'm excited about all of the love I’ll experience for the rest of my decades, in our home that we don’t have to move from if we don’t want to! We won’t have to deal with landlords, or hearing our neighbors' conversations, or their dogs' barking. I’m so excited for all of the memories we’ll make in our new place. I can already see Thanksgiving dinners and Christmas trees, and all of the barbecues and love and laughter.

Now if we could just get those damn keys :)

Playing House

Selling stock for the first time was one of those moments that made me feel like a legitimate adult. Then it was getting married. But even still, most days I feel like a 15 year-old trapped in a 28 year-old’s body. Recently, I’ve encountered an even bigger milestone that confirms, “Yes, you are indeed an adult and not a hormonal teen.” (Well...hormonal may still be accurate, but that’s besides the point.)

Husband and I are starting the house buying process. What? Yup. No (wo)man-child here. Just a bona fide adult.

First of all, learning terms like Escrow, PMI, HOA, FHA and all that jazz has been fun. Not.

Second of all, trying to figure out where we’re going to live has been fun. Not.

Third of all, buying and renovating a house looks like tons of fun on HGTV. Not.

But regardless of all of the negatives you could get stuck on, I’m super stoked.

With current market conditions, we’re looking at something we can stay in for awhile, as the term “starter home” may soon be extinct the way things are going. So we're finding places with a lot more space than the two of us truly need, with the idea that we'll grow into it eventually. For now, Bowser and Chika each get their own room ;)

But sadly, our hopeful notions of staying in our current city are diminishing as the housing market becomes increasingly competitive. Nearby homes have quietly slipped out of our price range, when just a few months ago they may have well been within our grasp. Unless we settle for four walls and mold problem, I’m just not willing to throw in my retirement savings and first-born kid just to beat out another offer. We’re going to be looking at options that involve a commute of sorts, just hopefully not a very long one.

All of the simple living books I’ve been reading are really jumping around in my mind as we go through this process. While many wives on HGTV are stereotyped as going for the most expensive place their husband’s salaries can afford, I’m the one breaking a sweat trying to make sure we're staying within our budget. I'm not trying to jump off some financial cliff from which we can’t recover - ain't nobody got time for that! We’d like to retire someday, and we have grand travel plans that we're not willing to compromise.

Which leads me to rethinking our needs in terms of space. How big of a home do we really need? While at times, it feels like we’re outgrowing our current 1200 sq. ft. townhome, I know we could make less work if we just got rid of some stuff. Ideally, we’d like more garage space, and third bedroom for guests, or if a baby decides to enter our lives (at some point in the way distant, beyond-the-horizon-line future - don’t get excited, parents). 

But it’s easy to get carried away out there. My anti-simple living side is demanding that granite counter tops, a five-piece bath and a gas range are must-haves. We walked through a house on Saturday that had a butler's kitchen and I almost asked to sign right then and there. 

The biggest thing I’m trying to keep in mind is that we’re not in a rush. If we don’t find what we want, we can always renew our lease, and I hope that we are able to keep that in focus as we start getting emotionally involved in the homes we view. Because it's easy to do!

I’ll keep you all posted on this new adult adventure. This probably means I have to start looking for a new yoga studio (*tear*).

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but when did they start letting kids buy houses?

Adventures in Lip Waxing

That's my upper lip. The things we do for hair removal! 

I've written about my upper lip before. Who knew I would have even more to say about such a specific spot on my face? My wily lip is off having a life of its own, wild enough to make it on the internet several times, apparently.

Since my last lip post, I've found great success fulfilling my waxing needs at my local In Spa. I've never had any issues with their services until my most recent visit, when my lip left the salon looking even more noticeable than when I walked in.

I knew something wasn't quite right when my upper lip started going numb after the wax was applied. The wax felt like it was completely globbed onto my face. "It should be fine," I thought. (WRONG. Body parts going numb is never going to result with everything being fine.) Waxing your upper lip is never a comfortable endeavor, so I just assumed it was part of the process.

That's when the fun began.

Riiiiip went the wax, and with it, my skin. I honestly, didn't even notice at first. It felt like hell, which was somewhat normal, so I didn't think anything of it. I paid, left the salon, and the moment my skin touched the outside air, I knew something wasn't right. It felt like you could roast s'mores on my upper lip, it was burning so hot.

I plopped down into my car and immediately looked in my rear-view mirror to discover that I had chunks of skin missing from my lip. I couldn't see it too well in my car, so I left the salon and drove home. Upon further inspection, I was left with three, painful dark spots, two of them quite prominent. I was better off never having set foot in the salon and trying to bring the Frida Kahlo look back in style.

I hate having to confront somebody or a company for wronging me. Normally I put my husband up to the task, because it makes me so uncomfortable, but I knew that wouldn't quite work in this situation. It wasn't like he could show them his lip. I asked people what they thought I should do, hoping that someone would say, "Just let bygones be bygones." But that didn't happen. The consensus seemed to be that I needed to tell In Spa.

So, I decided I needed to quit making this so difficult in my head. All I truly needed to ask was a simple question, "What can you do for me?"

And by god, it worked! First of all, the manager and all of the estheticians were extremely apologetic. They bought me a tube of Aquaphor to help speed the healing process, and gave me some other basic care tips.  But that wasn't the end of it; they proceeded to give me a full refund for the botched wax job, a $20 gift card, and booked me for a free facial. How was that for customer service?

Not once did I have to plead my case. Not once did I have to yell or get mean. They just went above and beyond after seeing the atrocity on my face. In other words, my upper lip did the speaking for me.

My lip will take some time to heal, and I was instructed not to wax that area for at least six months to give my skin time to thicken. But they exceeded my expectations for handling the situation, and in my opinion, more than made up for what happened. They will certainly keep me as a customer, even if I decide to quit waxing my lip (don't worry, I'll find another way. My husband won't have a wife with a caterpillar for a lip).

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but when you ask nicely, sometimes you get what you want and more!

One Magical Freaking Trip

At this point, if I even make it on the plane, I'm going to consider it a miracle.

I don't think I've had a more frustrating travel experience than the one I haven't had yet; I leave for Orlando tomorrow, and the planning process has been a complete nightmare.

It all started when my boss agreed to send me to a Communications and Social Media conference in Disneyworld. I was stoked! I've never been to Florida, never mind Disneyworld. My inner child freaked out just a little bit. And my outer adult freaked out a lot.

After I paid the conference fee, I realized I paid more than the price the conference brochure stated. So I called a conference organizer, who offered me a free $350 workshop to make up for it. I had to alter my travel plans to accommodate this new freebie, but I accepted since it was a better deal than the price difference I initially called about. And then I didn't get any confirmation about my workshop attendance.

After a week of hounding the guy that made the offer, he finally sent me an email proving he had indeed offered this.

After all of that, I then received another email promoting an even cheaper rate for this conference. So my co-worker (who is also coming with me) and I called to say, "What the heck is the real price of this conference? You need to give us your best deal, refund the extra, while honoring your workshop freebie." So they finally honored our request, but it took speaking with a few people to make it happen.

Now, this is where it just starts getting ridiculous. When I called to book my hotel, I got one of the most computer-illiterate "cast members" to assist me. After being on the phone with her for one whole hour, she lost my information several times after entering it into the system, and she kept mixing up which hotel I was trying to stay at due to all of the "magical" enhancements their computer system was going through. By the end of the conversation, I was told that I was staying at the hotel in which the conference was being held.

But over the weekend, I was mailed a confirmation stating that I was booked at a completely different resort. It was in a location that would have forced me to get a rental car, since it was so far from everything. After being on the phone for another half day, and speaking with two different "cast members," Disneyworld made it right and got me booked at the correct hotel.

And I wish my story ended there. But it doesn't.

Southwest Airlines apparently needs God to beam down a stone tablet blessed in holy water in order to change your last name on your frequent flier account. I called to change it, but they actually need me to fax my certified marriage certificate, along with a bunch of other identifying information. I asked if I could email it, since fax machines are so 1989. The woman I spoke with exclaimed that email was completely out of the question. She was almost appalled that I would suggest such an efficient communication method.

You know what Alaska Airlines did for me when I needed to change my name on my mileage plan? They just changed it over the freaking phone.

In the process of writing down step number 20 from the Southwest rep, she decided she was going to hyphenate my last name on my account. But not only that, in her hyphenating process, she transposed my married and maiden name. So this morning, when I went to check in for my flight, the website wouldn't let me. I could not figure out why the site wasn't accepting anything other than my legal, married name, which I used to book my flight.

When I called Southwest for help, the new, less derpy, call center employee, was able to change my name back to Hana Medina so that I could finish checking in. So here's my question: If Southwest can change the name on my ticket with a simple phone call (and without verifying any identifying information), why couldn't they just change my damn frequent flier account? I don't get it.

When I return, I'm going to have to fax Southwest all of my documents, and a plea that they give me credit for all of the flights I'm taking this week. After that, Southwest will be joining United Airlines on my "Airlines to Avoid" list.

Tomorrow, I leave my house at 4 a.m. to go to one of the "happiest" places on earth. If anything else goes wrong, I'm just going to contact Murphy himself and say, "Why have you cursed me?!" But that means I'll probably have to dial a 1-800 number and speak to four different agents before I actually get Murphy.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but in the words of a Disneyworld call center agent, I hope I have a "magical trip!"

Bring on 2013!

Happy New Year! I'm officially 28 going on 89; I didn't even make it to midnight last night. I had one glass of wine and passed out on the couch watching "Wedding Crashers" on rerun. I woke up at midnight to husband giving me kisses saying, "Happy New Year!"

Granted, I wasn't really setting myself up for success - I had retreated to sweats and my bathrobe prior to turning on the fire place and curling up with a blanket on the couch. That doesn't exactly scream "party all night."

Since our Christmas was so busy (as in, visit-six-different-homes-in-three-days busy) Husband and I opted not to do anything. Our Christmas was fun, but I have grown to appreciate not doing anything in my advancing age.

But my intent was not to talk about being an old lady as much as it was to discuss resolutions! It's that time of year where we start making promises to become better versions of ourselves. I'm not sure that I'm better than I was in years prior, but I've certainly accomplished a challenging task or three, and I've gotta say, that nothing gives you more of a sense of purpose knowing you can do something you set your mind to. 

Whether you are a resolution nerd like me, or think they're a bunch of baloney, I think the trick is finding resolutions that are realistic, but right on the edge of pushing yourself. I also have found that declaring resolutions publicly make me more inclined to accomplish them. 

This season, I had some trouble picking them out, which is why my list is a tad bit long. But I've settled on the following (in no particular order):

1. Do a DIY furniture project - with all the HGTV and Pinterest I consume, I think it's time I bring some of that into real life (and perhaps repair a few of Chika's "design elements" she ingrained in our furniture). 
2. Find time once a week to be creative for ME. This can take the form of playing guitar or updating my blog, or writing in a journal. Whatever I do, it cannot be creation for work purposes. I need to re-connect with expressing myself, and not my company's objectives, on a regular basis. 
3. Stay dedicated to living a healthy life style. I accomplished quite a bit in 2012 and I can't hop off the boat now. 
1. (Yes, I have a subpoint as a resolution). Get into a new arm balance and/or headstand in yoga. I was aiming for side crow and then I figured out how to do it a few weeks ago so now I've got to find another one. Normally I practice headstands against a wall, but I was getting cocky and tried in front of our TV and almost knocked it over. Keep your fingers crossed this isn't the objective that sends me back to the ER. 
4. Live mindfully. This is certainly harder to measure, but just always checking myself that my words, actions are all done with intent and kindness (Husband is probably rolling his eyes at this one).

So that's it for 2013. I think this year will be fantastic. I'm excited to live day-by-day instead of focusing on wedding planning, which consumed much of 2012. We're going to be traveling to Spain towards the end of summer and it's a trip I've wanted to take for years! I can't wait. It's time to start living life.  

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but resolutions might if I keep letting my ego let me do headstands in front of unstable objects. Or if a Pinterest project goes awry. Pray for me. 

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

Ya ain't neva had a friend like me! Yrrgghhrrrrrghhryyyy!

It's a typical Thursday night in December: I have Hanson's "Snowed In" album on blast, and I'm singing along, louder than Taylor, while forcing my dog to dance with me. Husband has escaped to the kitchen, to pour yet another glass of wine (Was that a shudder?). It's Christmas time!

Last holiday season, I overloaded my calendar by saying yes to every invite that came my way. The dates were smothered in gatherings, obligations and so much "holiday cheer" that I was ready to choke someone out with a holiday doily.

Now that I'm older and wiser (and married), I'm being a bit more mindful of my sanity (because we all know that affects husband's sanity, and we can't have two Grinches during the holidays). I still want to get all merry and shit with everyone, but I also want to prioritize "us" time, since this is our first Christmas as husband and wife.

So I decided to host one holiday party with our friends this season, and that's it. I’m making folks come to us, rather than running around and trying to make everyone else's Christmas parties (sorry friends - your turn to run amok). And we're not just having any holiday party; we're having an Ugly Sweater/Wine and Cheese party! (And get a load of these earrings I found to match my sweater - practically stolen off the lobes of your Nanna!)

The only time of year to hang felt balls from your head. That's the next rule after: Don't wear white past Labor Day.

The result? I’m actually enjoying the holiday season rather than counting down until the New Year. I’ve even tuned the radio in my car (and Husband’s) to the 24-hour Christmas music station. Yup -- I’m that obnoxious.

But I can’t say Husband isn’t enjoying the holidays -- he actually participated in decorating our Charlie Brown tree for the first time this year since he finally had some of his own ornaments to display. His mom was very quick to send Chewbacca home with us so that it never touched the limbs of her holiday foliage again. Chewy's displayed on our tree right next to the childhood ornament my own mother loathed for years -- Genie from Aladdin.

Now, Chewbacca and Genie are best friends and are total Christmas staples in our household. They can experience the holidays in a home that not only accepts their holiday status, but also celebrates it. And the best part is that we'll never have to vote on whether or not they have the right to unite with the tree.

This holiday season is full of acceptance; acceptance of previously shunned ornaments, acceptance of limits, and accepting that saying yes to everything is the fastest way to become a career alcoholic.

Fun fact: In writing this article, my browser history would have revealed Google searches for doily, nanna, chewbacca, and "how to spell wookie sounds." Only that combination could ever be found on this blog.  Merry Christmas! 

What I Did During My Three-Month Blog Break

Why hello, Sticks and Stoners! First off, my apologies for taking a three-month hiatus from this blog without warning. Life got a little too hectic the closer I got to my wedding and it hasn’t really slowed down since. But today, I’m taking a breather. It’s the first and probably last time I’ll ever have Black Friday off  from work, and I’m happy to report that I’m not out shopping, but working to catch up with you (whoever you might be)!  

This year has been absolutely hectic and absolutely wonderful. I can’t possibly fill you in on every little detail of my absence, so in true Sticks and Stones style, I’m going to give you a drink from the fire hose:

I married a unicorn ;)

My wedding was absolutely the best day ever! In addition marrying my most favorite person in the whole wide world, nothing went wrong. Not a single thing. We were so blessed to have so much help from our friends and family, and so many people came out of the woodwork to offer their services for free (why hello  there, day-of coordinators, beer brewer and videographers)! Did I mention that we were having unreasonably warm weather in Seattle and I got a 70-degree, sunny day for my October wedding? And my favorite part is that everyone had an absolute blast. I had a lot of people tell me it was one of the most fun weddings they had ever attended, which really made me feel like all of that planning paid off. AND I didn’t turn into a bridezilla, which means I accomplished my ultimate New Year’s resolution (I can only thank yoga for that, really)!

Husband (he’s got a new blog name!) and I flew to Cabo San Lucas for our honeymoon! Minus the unexpected delay in getting there (thanks a lot, Alaska airlines – I’m not even going here because I’m still irked) and the mini-hurricane we experienced there (we went there because I thought Cabo didn’t get hurricanes), we had a blast! My favorite activity we did was ziplining, but we also had fun riding ATVs and camels.  And of course, tanning, swimming, eating, drinking and being honeymooners.

Bandita!

When I went back to work from my honeymoon, I returned to all kinds of craziness. In addition to being unexpectedly short-staffed, I got asked to fly out and write a last-minute story on how Hurricane Sandy affected our employees and our company. I’m going to write a separate entry about my Hurricane Sandy experience because it’s too much to fit in this catch-all post. But all I can say, is that it was very humbling to speak with the victims, and it really put a lot into perspective. Seeing others hurting after this storm was pretty emotional for me, nevermind the people who are still living through it. But I’m thankful for all of the humbling experiences, because I have come out of each one with a clearer view on what is important and not important in life. They have all taught me to focus on the people (and puppies) that I love, and nothing more. At the end of the day, it’s all about taking care of ourselves and each other.

Speaking of story writing, I feel that my hiatus from this blog has caused my day-job writing to suffer. Granted, I’ve had a million things going on the past few months, but it felt like all of my creative energy wasn’t being let out and so I could only create word vomit at work. So one of my resolutions for the upcoming year will be to focus on my writing, more specifically, writing for me, and that will certainly give you more blog candy to gobble!

I promise, I'll never fly out again - Woohoo!!!!

So in a nutshell, that’s what I’ve been up to. Of course there’s more detail to it than that, so stay tuned for some more regular posts! I’ve got a few up my sleeve. Including another rant about hating Black Friday…

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but taking blog hiatuses quells my inner-creativity. 

The Five People You Meet in Yoga - And Wish You Hadn't

He must be The Show-off

Ah yoga: The pinnacle of relaxation, fitness and meditation. I’ve become a yoga monster lately and the studio I go to is pretty keen on sticking to true yoga traditions; every pose is called out in the Sanskrit term rather than the translation, we Om at the end of class, she teaches us about yoga philosophies as we practice asanas, and she explains the stories we tell with our poses.

I love it. I feel completely relaxed, I’ve shed pounds (welcome back, high school weight!), but I can tell I’m doing something that means much more than getting healthy. Shit if monks do it, I must be on some path to enlightenment right?

I call it my hippy yoga and it’s helping me ward off bridezilla as we enter the final weeks of wedding planning. I promised I wouldn’t turn into her, but I’m finding I have to battle her often so I don’t lose my shit. Bridezilla is a mad god like Lilith in True Blood, for any fellow truebies out there.

However calming yoga may be, in my practice I’ve encountered personalities of all types, many of which are completely obnoxious to practice with, taking out the whole relaxation aspect. Before you yogis out there start bitching, I know that yoga is supposed to be all about non-judgment; non-judgment of others and non-judgment of yourself. But this is Sticks and Stones and not a yoga blog, so you’re going to let me have my bitch sesh and deal. I accept that this blog post in and of itself is not very yogic.

With that said, I discovered the worst yoga personality of them all in last night’s yoga class. It was so bad, that it actually inspired me to carve time out of my insane schedule to update my blog and tell you all about it. So, I’ve compiled my shit list of yoga personality profiles in order of least to worst offenders. Last night’s personality takes the cake, so he’s the last on the list. Enjoy.

The “Don’t Look at Me I’m New” Person

Every class has one. And I’ve been that person. The beginner, new-to-the-studio gal is in a ball in the corner, dying of heat exhaustion, ready to pass out, questioning why the hell she came and why the fuck didn’t she drink more water beforehand. Not every beginner has this experience, but it’s not uncommon either. It gets better. Trust me. Don’t let this one experience ruin it. Prepare better next time.

The Show-off

This classmate shows up at least 20 minutes before class starts, and will start flowing the second the mat’s unrolled. Hand stands are flying, limbs and spines are being contorted, all to prove that he can do it. The teacher will never go into these complicated poses with the group, so he needs some kind of audience. Once class begins, he stands right next to the teacher. It’s the yoga version of teacher’s pet. I can’t say I’m not jealous of these abilities, but the arrogance just kills.

The Loud Om-er

Now we’re getting to the good stuff. And this one is weird. I’ve only encountered it twice, so I imagine it’s a rare breed of yogi. This person will breathe very loudly during the duration of class. And when I mean loud, I mean he's competing with Beats by Dre. Every inhale seems to suck up all oxygen from the room and every exhale makes the entire room smell of their carbon dioxide excretion. They make fun sounds as they get in and out of poses. At the end of class, when we’re closing our practice, this person, forgetting that yoga is supposed to be about relaxing, yells Om at the top of their lungs, rather than letting it gently vibrate out of their mouths. Forgetting they’re in a yoga studio and not a Slip Knot concert, their Om is not only louder than the teacher’s, it’s off-key, screeching and lasts longer than anyone else’s. It’s a perfect way to end yoga on a sour note.

The Schweaty Guy

Let’s face it- everyone sweats buckets in hot yoga. But you contain it to your own mat and area. That’s why yogitoes were invented. I’d rather be next to the loud Om-er than the Schweaty Guy. This person (which every class has) manages to flick their sweat in every direction their limbs point. With sweat, comes stench. The entire room starts filling with the sharp odor of one brand of B.O. They leave a puddle in their wake after class has ended. I’m not exaggerating this at all. The worst is when there are back-to-back classes, and you accidentally roll your mat out in a puddle from the previous class’s Schweaty Guy (speaking from experience). God forbid if you end up next to this one in a crowded class, and manage to accidentally touch a foot or hand. Shower with acid immediately.

The Farting/Humming Guy

Practicing next to this guy makes yoga impossible to enjoy. It will start off with the loud breathing, but when the music starts, he also thinks he’s a yoga singer and starts trying to emulate the sounds and spastic note range in the song and fails. Hard. That alone eliminates all chances for relaxation. You’re supposed to focus on what you’re doing and nothing else. But if you have some Yoga Idol wannabe next to you, it’s hard to let your mind go when you’re eardrums are being actively assaulted.

But please take note: If you dine at a taco truck, or consume a Costco hot dog before doing yoga, do not come to class. This guy farted at least seven times in class last night, one of which was when his ass was near my face and I was ready to turn the yoga class into Tae Kwon Do. I was so mad! If you can’t control your bowels, you need to do a yoga DVD at home, near your bathroom so you can handle emergencies as they arise.

One of my favorite poses is shavasana, or corpse pose, because it elicits the most relaxation and signals the end of class. By principle, you are to be silent during shavasana, breathe quietly and shallowly and did I mention be quiet? The Farting/Humming Guy starts humming and trying out for Yoga Idol again, during one of the most meditative and relaxing poses, and I just laid there holding my breath so I didn’t inhale his ass scent. I also couldn’t relax my face muscles since I was frowning so hard.

"It was the worst shavasana ever." - Witness

I had just begun to sort of relax when the teacher said, “Wiggle your toes and fingers and come back to earth.” What a waste. He also happened to be a loud Om-er. Go figure. He was the trifecta of bad yoga personalities and I promise to move if he tries to practice next to me again.

So now that I’ve convinced you never to do yoga, just know that as long as you don’t get stuck next to any of these, yoga really is a wonderful practice. I love it. I’ve just burned the faces of the above offenders into my memory so I know never to roll my mat out next to them again.

And now, I will forsake my typical sign off with a simple, Namaste.

Consumerism and the Wedding Registry

So cool. This was soo much better than sky diving.

Of the many struggles one encounters in wedding land, one of the toughest for me has been our wedding registry. By now you may have gathered that I have some issues with consumerism (if you haven’t been a reader all that long, see this post, and that post, and this one too).

Among the many pressures a couple faces during the planning process, it turns out, there's a whole other set of expectations for wedding registries too. Monogrammed china, five million thread count organic cotton hand towels imported from Borneo, silver china that will gather dust in the attic for like...ever, and all the expensive kitchen appliances that you'll use once and then retire as counter top decorations. No thanks. Like many wedding options Fiance and I are choosing, we’re not going a traditional route with our registry either.

Fiance and I have lived together for nearly three years, so we have what we need for the most part. I've also been a pretty mindful shopper after I got myself into a bit of a financial pickle from which I just crawled out.

For these reasons, we are not doing a traditional housewares registry. Sure, it’d be nice to upgrade all our towels, but I can’t shake the angel on my shoulder who keeps screaming about how wasteful it is. What happens to our perfectly good old towels? I don’t have space for everything, and I’ll be damned if I throw perfectly good items in a dumpster. Okay – maybe, another pair of sheets would be handy for our king bed and perhaps we could put a new pair of kitchen tongs to use. Aside from that, I am drawing a blank. The aforementioned items would make a pitiful registry, and they’re simple enough for us to buy on our own.

This article on apartment therapy (which is quickly becoming a fave blog of mine) expresses my struggle with the want/need aspect of a wedding registry to a T.

What our generation wants are experiences. I want to see the world. This NPR article explains so much about my values and what I want for my life, and I don’t think I’m out of line for expecting my registry to reflect that.

So, Fiance and I are opting for a honeymoon registry. Experiences are the best gifts and you always have a fond memory to look back on. For those that prefer to purchase a non-experience gift, we have a gift card registry. That way, we can save the gift card for when we actually need something, or for when we buy a house. No wasteful spending here!

But more than that, we’re not getting married to get gifts. I’m getting married because my fiance is the love of my life and I want to hang out with him until one of us dies (to put it frankly). If you’re invited, it’s because we want you to celebrate with us (and feed you and make you drink beer so somebody’s out there dancing with us).

However tacky or non-traditional you deem it, just know that every wedding is unique to the couple getting married. At the end of the day, what matters is that they are kicking off their marriage as happy as they can be. And history has proven that you don't need a Keurig to do it.

Sticks and stones may break your bones, but I’d rather go swim with some mother effing dolphins than stay at home watching my Kitchen Aid attachment make ground beef.

What's Up



One of three photos I took on my whole Vegas trip. We were too busy sinning.

I’m back, kids! I must apologize for my hiatus. This year has proven to be difficult in maintaining my blog, but rest assured, I’m not abandoning you. We’ve had something going on every weekend since I don’t know when, and we’re pretty much crazy busy until after our honeymoon. So bear with me – I promise after October I’ll have some juicy posts for you to enjoy.

Here’s an update on life:

VEGAS: We just got back from celebrating Fiance’s dirty 30 in Vegas! We had an awesome time and met seven other friends in Sin City to celebrate (two of which were also turning 30) so you can imagine that we had so much fun, that we would like to not return to Vegas ever again (okay maybe just for a few years). Oh – and I won Best Future Wife of the Year award by surprising Fiance with a Ferrari driving experience. I told him we were driving Go Karts so he wouldn’t get wasted beforehand ;) Seeing how happy he was after getting out of that Ferrari made me not feel so bad that I lost nearly $200 playing slots.

WEDDING PLANNING: Well, it’s mostly done. Now I’m starting to look at all the shitty details I don’t really want to contend with, like logistics. Okay I’m done thinking about this now. Next!

HOT YOGA: I’ve been getting my zen on. I’m in love! This has been keeping me balanced and sane, and in shape. I’ve been trying to slim down before my dress fitting next month. I’ve lost 15 lbs since the holidays and I’m nearly at the weight I was when I was running half marathons – granted I’m not as muscular or toned as I was, but I’m trying to get there one asana at a time ;)

5K: I signed up for a 5k! Don’t get so excited – I’m not running it. But I am walking it with my pups and fiance!

SHOWS: I’ve seen some pretty sweet shows since May – Radiohead (my absolute fave band!), Black Keys, and I’ll be seeing Fiona Apple next week! Speaking of Ms. Apple, what the hell is up with her new stuff? I absolutely love everything else she’s put out, but I don’t think I’m tortured enough to appreciate the wailing and screaming that assaults my ear drums on her new album. It has gotten rave reviews and I’m just listening to it with a confused look on my face. Maybe if I listen to it while slitting my wrists with a pink bic razor I would finally understand it. There are a handful of tracks I can get into, but I sure hope next week’s show delivers. I ruined the last Fiona Apple show I went to by getting so drunk that I almost got kicked out of the Chateau St. Michelle winery. Moving on… I’ve also seen Anjelah Johnson and Aziz Ansari live. I swear I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. It’s been an amazing year for entertainment so far!

BABY SHOWERS: This Sunday will mark my third shower this year and I know a few others who are preggers. Eerbody’s makin’ babies. I’ve been playing that celebrity baby name game so much that I will ban whoever throws my baby shower (if I decide to have kids – don’t excited, Mom) from playing it. (BTW, did you know Mike Myers named his kid Spike? And some actress I’ve never heard of named her baby Audio Science? And I thought I was screwed having to correct people on pronouncing my name.)

READING: I’ve been reading some amazing books lately. Right now, I’m enthralled with Animal, Vegetable, Miracle (or really anything by Barbara Kingsolver). She’s quickly becoming one of my favorite writers. This book has been getting me in touch with my inner hippy, and making me realize how disconnected we are from the source of our food. So I’ve been inspired to purchase organic, local, in-season foods, and eat healthier as well. I went to our local co-op with a new eye and appreciation for produce. My mom likes to tell people I once brought home a zucchini for her when she asked me to pick up a cucumber, and that I put cabbage on my sandwich instead of lettuce by accident. I’m learning, and this book is helping. And this is why Fiance does most of the cooking in our house. You can check out Barbara’s message by visiting the book’s website, although I highly encourage you to just read the book. The stories she tells are simply beautiful.

SAD NEWS: Poor Chika is getting spayed tomorrow :( I’m dreading it for her. Bowser was so miserable after he got neutered and was crying all night. I stayed up with him like a good mama and just cuddled with him. I hope Chika isn’t hurting that bad tomorrow. It makes me upset just thinking about it.

That's all for now. I have more blog posts pending...if I ever get around to editing them...

Home Repairs

Killer chinchilla is hiding in your shower drain.

Since we have illegal four-legged friends residing in our home (Really? Pet rent? We refuse to notify them based on principle), I try my darndest to fix things in our rental rather than call the maintenance guy. If the repair guy really needs to come, it involves having to find dog sitters, hide every dog-related item in the house, including the huge photos on our wall, or calling the vet to find out if our dogs have the right vaccines for a last-minute doggy day camp trip. It’s a hassle. It’s just easier not to bother the maintenance guy if I can do it myself.

So, our shower drain has been clogged for a good two weeks, and I couldn’t take it any longer. I’d been putting it off, and putting it off and finally I got a wild hair last night and declared, “I’m handling this problem once and for all!”

I triumphantly found a Phillips screw driver, some gloves and charged upstairs to tackle the drain. I felt all Rosie the Riveter and shit about doing what I consider plumbing. “We can do it!” I shouted in my head. I was only missing the red bandana.

Then I got to the drain.

I took out the screws, removed the drain cover and peered in. I saw something that resembled hair and attempted to pull it out. It just broke off. This wasn’t looking good.

“FIANCE!!!!” I had to scream fourteen times before he realized I was trying to get his attention. My Japanese heritage was tingling, so I asked for chopsticks to help with the plumbing issue. His dude brain heard BBQ skewers, which only broke off when I attempted to pull – it was foreshadowing of the mammoth substance I was dealing with. Once he realized that I seriously needed the girth of the chopstick, he obliged and brought me the tool that I’m sure most plumbers keep in their belts.

And then I dug a bit more. The chopstick started getting it out, and once I had it to a point where I could grab it with my gloved hands, I pulled. And then I gagged.

A Guinness World Record-sized wad of hair, covered in a year’s worth of soap scum emerged from the drain. It was about the size of a chinchilla (nearly a foot long, not including tail). And. It. Smelled. Like. Ass.

I immediately started gagging, and my eyes began watering. Even Fiance got grossed out.

I said, “We’ve been showering with water backed up from THAT! It touched us!”

It seriously took about an hour for the smell to leave our bathroom, and that was after I took the garbage out containing the beast. It smelled like raw sewage. I couldn’t believe something that behemoth was in our drain. Next time, the maintenance guy is totally getting called.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but some home repairs are best left to the pros.

Happy Birthday! I'm unfriending you.

You didn't get cake, because they forgot it was your birthday, because you didn't allow your facebook friends to see what day you were born. Really, it's your fault.



I bought into the facebook hype early on and I've witnessed the site’s transformation every step of the way. Before there were timelines, news feeds, photo albums, and options to upload the video of your first child being born, there were just a few personal questions to answer, and the option to upload one profile pic (you read that right: one).

There were no status updates, no cover photos, no photo albums of the last five epic vacays you took, no way to tell the world that you had the best effing burrito of your life, and no way to announce that you’re getting married so nah-nah-nah-nah-boo-boo-stick-your-head-in-doo-doo. Just a freaking photo, the name of your school, and the option to tell a closed network of college students that your favorite band was Hanson.

You still had to call your friends or have face-to-face interactions with people you wanted to keep in your life.

Even in its most simplistic format, I thought facebook was pretty darn cool. I loved browsing the profiles of my classmates, finding fellow recovering Hanson addicts, and connecting with high school friends who were attending different universities.

While I still login everyday to see what people eat, smell and think every five minutes, I have definitely changed my user habits as facebook has expanded. Most specifically in who I decide to “friend.”

“Friending” someone on facebook used to be as invasive as saying hello to a passing stranger. There was very limited information you shared with your “friends” and of course your true friends knew only what you ate for breakfast, what you’re thinking of naming your firstborn, and what time you put in your headgear last night. I used to friend anyone I met - random partygoers, guys I thought were cute, co-workers I worked with for five seconds. It didn’t matter - They didn’t have access to my life story with the click of a mouse.

But as facebook has grown, it has cheapened what information we determine intimate, and what friendships we consider valuable. Our connections have become increasingly artificial. Now any “friend” can discover the most intimate details that were once reserved for those in our closest circles. It’s to the point where we tell our true friends stories, only for them to interrupt and say, “I already read that on facebook.”

I’m still “friends” with people I wouldn’t normally give two shits about if facebook weren’t an option. So I began asking myself, why? If it doesn’t make a difference to me if your status says you “got caught picking your nose in the office” or that you “just had a baby,” we probably shouldn’t be “friends.”

I had “friended” so many acquaintances that I didn’t remember how I was connected to all of them. That’s when I knew it was time to purge my friends list. I went on an unfriending binge a few months ago (which felt so good - it was like hot yoga; the toxins were being released!), but a few stragglers remain.

And you know how I’m reminded to unfriend those stragglers? Their birthday pops up on my newsfeed. I think, “Oh wow. I didn’t unfriend them months ago?” Happy Birthday! I’m an asshole and I’m unfriending you! Honey badger don’t care.

My new criteria is, if I feel uncomfortable wishing you a happy birthday because we’re not that close, you don’t need to know that my dog lost a tooth yesterday, or that I got sick from the burger at a chinese restaurant, or that I hung out with my family over the weekend.  

And why are we hooked on such nonessential statements about life anyway? We are not only intrigued by sharing the inconsequential events of our day, but reading about others’ as well. The little things are what ultimately comprise our lives and some are certainly more interesting than others. We enjoy the voyeuristic aspect that facebook provides. Facebook has somehow tapped into our inner creep and made it all okay.

People willingly share all kinds of information about their lives, from birth to death. I have friends that have passed whose facebook pages are now tribute pages. Imagine that! We’re still connected on facebook in the afterlife.

I feel too far invested in facebook to pull the plug, and I do rely on it to stay in touch with even my closest of true friends, but I certainly understand other’s hesitations for not wanting to join the biggest social media network in the world.

Some have predicted that facebook is just a passing fad, while others tout its ingenuity and claim it's the wave of the future. I’m more apt to side with the latter, but I can’t do so without my criticisms.

Facebook is a great way to stay in touch with people you care about, and a great way to stay in touch with those you don’t. Ultimately, Facebook harbors artificial relationships and makes us feel more important than we really are. And who doesn’t love flattery?

People can like your statements, your political beliefs or the fact that you just farted. And with each like, it makes us feel more important, more popular. Facebook promotes a false sense of worth and importance. Just because 42 people liked that you thought the guy sitting by you on the bus smelled like ass, doesn’t mean that 42 people want to actually hang out with you and hear your thoughts in person. Seventy people liked that I was engaged and I can guarantee you that not even half of them will get wedding invites (and it’s not because we’re on a budget).

Truly befriending someone used to be saying, “I enjoy your company. Let’s hang out and have conversations in person and do fun stuff together.” In the online world, “friending” means, “I want to know what you ate for dinner.That’s all.” Facebook has turned us all into miniature (or in some cases, big time) stalkers.

Being my “friend” on facebook means that you get to see that I ate the best effing burrito of my life, in addition to all of these awesome benefits of a real life friendship. If you’re my “friend,” I want to hang out with you. And I don’t mean in Google+. I mean, hang out, like...for real. I would not be put off if you asked to go get coffee or do things that friends do. Facebook should be an added bonus to being my real friend - not the basis for our entire relationship.

So in that sense, if I unfriend you, see it as a favor (or birthday gift). I’m not wasting your time or invading your privacy, and I am preventing you from doing the same to me. Life is too short to harbor useless relationships. And facebook sucks up enough of our time as it is to realize we’re spending it stalking people we don’t care about anyway.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but facebook “friends” should really just be friends.

"This is My Skin Color."

I want these.

Behold – a super post! Sorry for my absence. Life got hectic. I’ll spare you my excuses. The bottom line is that I’ve written a post to satisfy your Sticks and Stones cravings:

I had some of the most jarring conversations about my ethnicity that I felt compelled to share. Recently, after meeting a person for the very first time, the first thing he said to me was, “You have such a nice tan! I wish I could get that dark.” (Note: I haven’t gotten a tan yet this season, being as I live in Washington. Twilight was filmed here for a reason.)

I replied, “Well, it’s natural. This is my skin color.”

He said, “Oh really?”

I said, “Yes, I’m black, Japanese and white.” End of conversation right? Wrong.

He says, “It’s totally the Japanese that makes you tan.”

I said, “Uh…or the black.”

He said, “Oh yeah, I guess that too.”

Unfortunately, that was the umpteenth time I’ve had that conversation. Most people stop right there and make some stupid comment about me not appearing black, or not “acting like it,” or “wow I never realized.”

What is it that makes people not believe me? And what do all of those comments mean? Why is it so mind-blowing that I’m black? If I appeared to be “more black” would they ask these questions?

And the conversation went on.

“I thought you were Native American,” he opened his mouth again.

“Well, I’m not.” I said.

Even though there are rumors on both sides of my family that we are part Native American, this would have just thrown him for a freaking loop. I don’t tell people this for the same reason I don’t tell people about my Hawaiian heritage.

“You look Native American. Do you get that a lot?” he asked. Oh how rude. How effing rude.

“Yes, I have, but I’m telling you, I’m not.”

“Do you know what kind of black you are?” Uh…what?

“What do you mean by ‘what kind of black?’ I’m African-American…” I’m obviously showing that I’m annoyed at this point.

“So, you don’t know who in you’re family was black?” he asked.

“That’s not what you asked,” I said. “My grandpa was black. My mom is half. I’m a quarter.” Why the hell am I explaining myself to this person? I’m not grilling him on his skin color or demanding a family lineage. Why does this seem like an appropriate conversation to him?

But then he said something that really pissed me off:

“Oh. Well, you don’t have curly hair.” he stated, as though it were proof I was lying about being black. WTF?! Sound the alarms!

I said firmly, “It’s called being mixed.” Seriously. What the fuck.

This concept of being mixed was so foreign to this person. It was blowing his mind in the worst possible way. So he had to assign a completely different ethnicity to comprehend my skin tone. I was trying to be patient answering his questions, but this person just caught me off-guard and I was frankly not in the mood to be all Mother Teresa about it. I just wanted to kick his ass.

I don’t understand why there needs to be some epic explanation for the color of my skin, and why the truth just doesn’t suffice for some. I find it interesting to discuss heritage, ethnicity and nationality, but that was totally the wrong way to go about it. That approach gets me defensive and makes me summon Muhana Ali rather than motivate me to share stories about being mixed. This brings us to our first lesson:

Lesson #1

If you must ask someone about their racial background, please use the phrase, “What ethnicity are you?” or “What is your ethnic background?”

Don’t ask, “What are you?” It sounds like you’re asking about a different species or creature. My response to that question is, “Homosapien. What are you?” And whatever you do, please don’t make remarks about skin tone. At all.

I had similar conversations in Puerto Rico a few months ago, when I traveled there for business. The businessman I was touring with (whom I had never met before) awkwardly blurted out at breakfast, “You’re dark-skinned. Is that natural or do you fake and bake?”

Why do people assume I just tan a lot? I don’t look anything like this:

Holy shit.

To be respectful (even though the question was asked pretty disrespectfully), I had to tour the island with this person for the rest of the week so I tried to respond as politely as possible. “If you’re curious about my ethnicity, I’m Japanese, black and white.”

“Oh.”

And that was the end of it. I tried to frame my response in the way he should have asked it. But I never feel compelled to ask somebody about their skin color. Ever. This just baffles me.

If the conversation seems appropriate, or if I feel comfortable enough with that person, maybe I’ll broach the subject about ethnicity eventually, but, as Lesson #2 reveals…

Lesson #2

I’ve found that everyone has different comfort levels in discussing their race and ethnicity. Tread this water very carefully, if you feel the need to do it at all. I’m sure there are others who would have happily entertained some these questions. I just don’t happen to be one of them. It’s incredibly rude to blurt out something about someone’s skin color to someone you don’t know. Even as a white person, wouldn’t you find it rude if the first thing someone said to you was, “My, you’re pasty!”

Lesson #3

I also want to make this clear, that people of all racial backgrounds have said things that have upset me (not just white people). People of all walks of life have asked all the wrong questions, and made ignorant comments or assumptions. It leads me to believe that as a country, we suck at discussing race.

I’ve had black people question “how black I am” or I’ve had just the opposite response, where I’m suddenly being treated more warmly after someone finds out I’m also black.

On the same business trip, I also had Puerto Ricans assume I was Puerto Rican. One person was speaking very rapidly in Spanish to me, and when it was clear that I had no clue what they had just asked, they said, “Oh what – you don’t speak Spanish?” with a total ‘tude.

I responded in Spanish, in the way that only a “person who learned it college and hasn’t spoken since” could, but there was no conversation about whether or not I was Puerto Rican or Latina – just an assumption that I was a “gringo.”

Lesson #4


I don’t want people to read this post and come away with the conclusion that being mixed is “hard on the kids.” I hate that argument so much it makes me turn into the Incredible Hulk. While you may have to have conversations with ignoramuses every now and then, being mixed is awesome.

I didn’t have an offbeat life because of my racial background or some crazy identity crisis. I’m American. I grew up eating McDonalds, watching Gem, wearing slap bracelets and imitating Steve Urkel like many kids of the 80s. I also have a deep love for sushi, seaweed, miso soup, greens, grits and cheeseburgers. But you don’t have to be a certain ethnicity to love Japanese food, soul food, or American food. These aren’t indicators of ethnicity – just good taste in food.

We all hold biases and preferences – it’s just a matter of knowing how to appropriately identify them and deal with them. I can only speak for myself and my own experience, but being mixed has broken down barriers in a way that has made me appreciate others differences and individual life experiences. It’s my favorite part about writing for a living; I love speaking with people who live lives that are completely different from mine, and finding out what challenges other people face. Being mixed has made me embrace diversity in a way that I hope everyone will someday.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but even the smallest comments can be the most divisive.

Siri = Infuriating

A symbol of love and loathing - not unlike the Confederate Flag.

I wrote more than a year ago that I was coveting an iPhone. Well kids, I'm excited to announce that I've crawled out of the dark ages and have achieved that year-long dream. I know, I know. I'm not unique. I've merely joined the club of Apple Fanboys and I'm not looking back! I also realize that somebody else probably wrote this post months ago when the iPhone 4s came out, or even years ago when smartphones came out, but this is relevant to my life today, so I just shut up and read. 

Anywho, I was still using that barely-operable Samsung Gravity I griped about last year. It was so out-of-date, that when we ported my phone numbers over, it didn't quite work and I got carpel tunnel having to manually correct each person in my contacts. Since I was still learning, I also accidentally called about seven people in the process. Sorry to those prank call victims out there, namely, my boss and other people I wouldn't ever call at midnight. There's a smartphone n00b is on the loose! 

Being the type-A personality that I am, the first thing I did was set up my calendar. For years, I've carried a physical calendar with me, and even manually balanced my checkbook. By the weight of my purse, you would have thought I was carrying around a chisel and stone tablet. Life suddenly seems more lighter, brighter and easier with iPhone. It would all would be perfect, if it weren't for Siri. 

Siri isn't as awesome as that Rock God commercial made it seem. In fact, I kind of down right hate her. 

We have such tense conversations. If she could just pronounce my name, it would solve at least 18 percent of the problem. It's only two syllables, really. But nope. She has to anglicize my Japanese name, and remind me of it when she's already talking me in circles. Take for example, a recent attempt at calling my mother. (Note: my mom was in my phone as Mom Cell. Oh. And her real name is not Roberta). 

Me: Siri, call Mom Cell. 

Siri: What is your mother's name?

Me: Mom Cell

Siri: What is your mother's name?

Me: Roberta

Siri: I cannot find a contact for Roberta. What is your mother's name?

Me: Mom Cell. 

Siri: I do not have that contact. What is your mother's name?

Me: Fuck you, Siri! 

Siri: Now, now, Hannah. 

Infuriating, really. So Siri has forced me to name all of my contacts by their real name. Who has their mom listed by anything other than "mom"? That seems blasphemous. 

My friend from Australia said they never use Siri because she can't understand their accent. Or they just turn on their best American accents and hope for the best. My friend Curtis also said that Siri calls him Cletus. Oh well. We can't all win. When they're high-tech enough, I'm going to make sure my next phone pronounces my name correctly, and speaks to me in Ebonics. That's going to be awesome. "What up, Han-dizzle?"

At my dogs' expense, I now understand why people get lost in the iPhone vortex. I also understand why my fiance has suddenly quit talking to me now that he has a new smartphone too. Normally, that would have irked me, but we just gchat next to each other instead. You can't use smileys and LOLs face-to-face. When else would I have an opportunity to use the secret poo emoticon?

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but at least Siri will help me find the nearest hospitable. Or think I'm asking for the latest hit from the Baha Men. Whatever.