Happy Schmappy Anniversary!

This past Sunday afternoon we were driving back from a nice weekend out of town and stopped at a Panera to eat lunch. At first I thought that it was a bit underwhelming, since it was my first anniversary meal, and we were at a Panera, but then I realized, it was completely appropriate; one year ago today, we also stopped in a Panera to get some food.

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Okay so I was going to upload a photo that our photographer took, of us, in Panera, but discovered that it was still in RAW format (approximately 13MB apiece), I had put them all on my portable drive to save space, and I can't preview any of the 1000+ pictures unless I have them open in Picasa... which would require putting them back all on my hard drive.

So instead, I'll just say that after seven hours of heat, wedding photo goodness and fun, I was more than a little thirsty/hungry/tired, our photographer for some reason recommended we go to this 'quaint little sandwich shop' down the street, which turned out to be freakin Panera, I walked in, the girl behind the counter surreptitiously left the counter, and then suddenly the entire staff of Panera appeared and gawped at us for the ten minutes we were there. Lovely. I think I got a free piece of bread though... at least, I don't remember paying for it. Oh, and Matt spilled his mango smoothie all over his white dress shirt, but luckily the tie covered it up. The secrets they don't tell you about weddings...

Mostly I just wanted to commemorate our first year together by (finally) posting a few pictures, for fun, and say that the first year has just FLOWN by! Here's to many more years to come!!

A million thank yous to everyone who stood outside and for standing in this kind of ridiculous can't-see-anyone-semi-circle. Bless Zach's heart for arranging it... clearly he is not familiar with the Mormon temple "here is where the requisite wedding party stands to get the group shot" pose. I really am still sorry for the crappy heat and sun.... but I love you and appreciate every drop of sweat shed in our behalf!!!!

And what's a wedding without a funny story right? Most of you have already heard this one but it goes down in my own family lore. It took me months to slowly glean it from everyone before I finally got the full picture.

It started out at the reception, as I *finally* sat down to dinner. My mom made a passing comment on how AWESOME Jen, my flower arranger, was. To this I will always heartily agree and said "yeah, Jen's pretty amazing right?" Mom: "She's AMAZING. When I punch the cake, she fix it. She is AMAZING." Me: "uh.... what??"

So during a break I casually strolled over to my girlfriends and asked "so what's this about my mom punching my cake...?" Girlfriends (in horror): "Omg we weren't going to SAY anything to you, you weren't supposed to KNOW about it!!!" Me: "so... what happened?" Girlfriends (ever loyal and considerate) "Oh don't worry about Jen, it's your big day, we'll tell you later, never mind..."

Months later, I finally extracted the full story as told from my sister, the de facto wedding planner, and Jen, the AMAZING friend:

Melinda: "So yeah. The cake. So the cake people came that afternoon and delivered and cake and put it on a table and left, and of course everyone was busy running around and setting up and I wasn't watching Jennifer! I wasn't watching! Apparently at some point Mom decided she was going to move your wedding cake, BY HERSELF, I don't know WHAT she was thinking, and of course she goes to pick it up and her hand, like, swiped off the side of the cake and then she's just standing there screaming SOMEONE DO SOMETHING and then she looks at her fist covered in frosting and she just starts LICKING it and is like 'mmmm this is good' lick lick lick and JENNIFER I AM FREAKING OUT SHE JUST PUNCHED YOUR CAKE!!!!! AAAAAH! And she's just standing there LICKING HER FIST!!!!"

Here, Jen the AMAZING friend completes the story: "Well, I was arranging your flowers and Melinda comes RUNNING up to me and says "um, excuse me please Jen, but we have a potential disaster on our hands can you please come help right now" so I walk over to where she's running and I see your mother approaching your wedding cake with a large knife in her hand, and whatever it was she was planning to do I just said "STOP! Whatever you're doing, put down that knife!!! We'll fix it, don't worry..."

And thus Jen proceeded to artfully stick some flowers in the offending corner (I have pictures somewhere) and voila, crisis was averted. You really would have never known anything was miss, unless you wanted to wonder why save for the fact that the flowers on the bottom tier are completely covering up the one corner of decorating. Oh well, makes for a funny story.

Six months later when my own sister got married I made sure to stay very close to the cake the entire time, and at one point when my mom flung out her arm I nearly bowled her over throwing myself between her and the table. You learn your lessons. ;)

Happy anniversary Matt!!! Your family was quite normal the entire time, thank you.

Tribute to John Emerson

This is a tribute a year overdue, but nevertheless still worth tributing. I've mentioned it several times before, so here is the official full story:

Married: May 23, 2009. We were generously offered Matt's aunt's vacation condo up in Portland, Maine. On the day before our wedding, Aunt Carol's husband, Hank, gave us the keys to said condo, with a side comment of how he wished this was his only set but that he kept having to make more copies because his kids always lost his condo keys and how annoying it was. We fervently promised not to be like his kids, and to take good care of his keys. Oh the foreshadowing...

Day 2 of honeymoon: we wake up in said glorious condo, meander outside to find us some breakfast, and on the way there Matt says "hang on, lemme check to make sure I locked the car." As he is in the process of turning his body around, we hear a *chink-clank*. He doesn't think much of it until he gets to the car, reaches in his pocket, and realizes the precious condo keys are missing. Much huffing and puffing and stomping and pacing and grunting and swearing ensued (on Matt's part... I just stood there, amused) before we finally concluded that the only possible demise of the keys was the sewer grate located directly where the *chink-clank* happened. What a way to start a honeymoon. :) I know, because when I wandered into the closest open shop to tell them what happened, that's exactly what they said to me. I savor the fact that the very first time I've ever used the phrase "my husband" was to say "my husband flung our condo keys into the sewer down the street."

I had gone into said paint shop to ask for a phone book to search for any local municipal phone number of anything. I came out empty handed, but when I returned to the scene of the crime, Matt had used Google text (bless you, Google text) to find the phone number of Portland's City Hall and was frantically describing our situation:

After only a miraculous few minutes and several friendly transfers, he was promised that someone would come by in 'fifteen minutes' to check out the situation. Being D.C. residents, we highly doubted anything would come of it and spent the next five minutes discussing how to get another set of keys. It wasn't looking good... Matt's aunt's phone number had been left in the condo. Locked. With keys that were currently in the sewer.

Shockingly, within those five minutes of discussion and DURING our comment of "well I highly doubt anyone will actually come," a truck pulled up and a friendly man hopped out: "Looks like we've got a problem here! Noooooo worries..." within seconds he had yanked off the grate top with a crowbar. He reassured us that this type of thing happened all the time... really? But apparently, really, because out of nowhere he produced a length of rope with a magnet attached and dropped it in. Really? You're going to just boink the rope up and down until you find the keys? Really? Um... okay...

Happily and friendly-ily fishing, while Matt looks on sheepishly...

More dutiful fishing, while Matt now attempts to look useful...

And... VOILA!!! KEYS!!!!!

This single photo makes this entire blog post worthwhile. I cannot express how wonderful a moment it was for us. 1) Someone from the city of Portland ACTUALLY showed up. I mean, can you imagine if this had happened in D.C.? Uh yeah, have fun finding a locksmith. 2) He ACTUALLY found the keys!! What are the chances of THAT happening? He also assured us (though I don't know if I ever quite believed him) that it wasn't an actual 'sewer', but a 'rainwater drain' so the keys weren't quite as nasty as they could have been. But whatever. Matt rinsed them off thoroughly and didn't tell Hank until, y'know, a week later. But yeah... we were really glad to have those keys back.

I told Matt to give me his best "I'm an idiot" face here.

We sent a letter to city hall a few weeks after our return from our Maine trip, thanking Mr. John Emerson profusely, over and over again, for his lifesaving community service.

The best part of the whole situation was I noticed, after we were all done, that the semi-truck that had been parked across the curb the entire time, refueling the gas station or whatever, contained a driver that possessed an expression of extreme amusement when we walked by to resume our morning quest for breakfast. Ah well. Glad we could provide some entertainment for the residents of Portland.

Thank you John Emerson, fervently and from the bottom of both of our hearts. Thank you.

Time flies when you're having fun!

In exactly one month from today I will have been married one year. ONE YEAR! It definitely goes by fast. I also have realized that in the one year since I've been married, I never posted any wedding pictures (except my banner I suppose) nor any fun wedding stories. I have lots of those, but that's for another time. Well okay here's one picture just because. I'll be posting more later I'm sure. :)

Today I wanted to pay homage to my Converse-wearing husband and why he'sven cooler now than he was a year ago, when we were listing off our "Top 10 Reasons Why I Want to Marry You" that we hastily scribbled on scrap paper from our photo shoot to our reception. Yeah... in Matt's case the procrastination is not surprising but I'm amazed even I'd put it off that long. Unfortunately for Matt, he could only scribble while he was at stoplights since he was driving. :)

Anyway, today's tribute is to Matt's Amazing Talent of Sweet Talking Anyone (But Especially Women). I've never really enjoyed calling people and making appointments/asking for information/purchasing things, etc. etc. I don't know why, it must hearken back to my Girl Scout days knocking on doors selling cookies. Since I've gotten married, the number of times I've had to make "those calls" has fallen to practically zero now that I make Matt do them all. It's because he's GOOD at it! Not only does he get what he wants, usually by the end the customer service rep is telling him that he's 'made their day'... I've personally heard it myself several times.

The specific example I highlight today is from my sister's wedding. We needed to purchase bear grass for her flowers. So I looked up a local florist and called them. My customer service talent:

"Uh hi, I was wondering if you had any bear grass... No? Okay... do you know anyone who does...? No? Okay wellthanksbye."

Hang up. "They don't have any bear grass. I HATE CALLING PEOPLE."

Matt (sweetly): "Here, let me try. What's the next number?" (dials)

"...Hi there - what was your name again? Nancy? Hi Nancy, how are you doing on this wonderful day? ...Yeah? That's so great to hear. I'm so glad to hear it. Isn't this weather wonderful? Y'know I've never really been to Utah before and I just visited the southern part and it's AMAZING. I mean, I wasn't really inclined to like Utah before but now that I've been to the southern part I'm totally converted. Have you ever been down there Nancy? ... No? Well take it from me Nancy, it's AMAZING. Next time you go let me know and I'll suggest places to go... right... haha yes....

Okay well Nancy, the reason why I'm calling today is because my wife's sister is getting married, and you know, it's a big day, and we need this thing called BEAR GRASS. Now Nancy, I'm a GUY, and you know, I don't know anything about this thing called BEAR GRASS, all I know is that I need to find it so my wife's sister can have an amazing wedding. Would you possibly have any of this BEAR GRASS in your wonderful shop?.... No? Oh that's too bad. Okay well-...what? Oh, you can find someone who does?.... Oh Nancy that would be wonderful, you are my hero.... what? ... Oh, you can call ahead and make sure they have it? ... what? Oh, you'll make sure they reserve some under my name so that they'll have it when I get there? ... Oh Nancy you are my hero. I am composing a song in your honor right now... Yes... Yes I am... Okay could I have the address of the place you're calling... Oh you want to give me directions? Okay, well I'm at the Little America... Okay..."

He gets directions, thanks Nancy profusely, sings her a song or two, and hangs up. My dad, who watched/listened to the entire interchange, exclaims "Wow! He is handy to have around! He can talk his way into AAAAAAAnything!'

Yep. Reason number #1,498,390 why Matt is awesome. :)

Update...

I'm composing my entire blog post today around an excerpt from a book I read this morning. Whilst the bulk of this post's wit will depend entirely upon Bill Bryson and his astute renderings of self-awareness, I include it as the impetus for my last post's follow-up.

Whenever anyone's ever asked me "so why are you getting surgery? what for? Sleeping? Snoring? Why, is it bad?" I always stuttered and groped around for the proper description, somewhat embarrassed and flustered for the accurate depiction of why I got surgery.

If anyone ever asks me from now on, I will now respond, word for word, with the following:

"I am not, I regret to say, a discreet and fetching sleeper. Most people when they nod off look as if they could do with a blanket; I look as if I could do with medical attention. I sleep as if injected with a powerful experimental muscle relaxant. My legs fall open in a grotesque come-hither manner; my knuckles brush the floor. Whatever is inside - tongue, uvula, moist bubbles of intestinal air - decides to leak out. From time to time, like one of those nodding-duck toys, my head tips forward to empty a quart of so of viscous drool onto my lap, then falls back again to begin loading again with a noise like a toilet cistern filling.

And I snore, hugely and helplessly, like a cartoon character, with rubbery flapping lips and prolonged steam-valve exhalations. For long periods I grow unnaturally still, in a way that inclines onlookers to exchange glances and lean forward in concern, then dramatically I stiffen and, after a tantalizing pause, begin to bounce and jostle in a series of whole-body spasms of the sort that bring to mind an electric chair when the switch is thrown. Then I shriek once or twice in a piercing and effeminate manner and wake up to find that all motion within five hundred feet has stopped and all children under eight are clutching their mothers' hems. It is a terrible burden to bear."

This, my friends, is what I dealt with pretty much since I was about, oh, twelve. I know this from vehement and vigorous agreements from close family members and friends (many of whom have shaken me awake in the middle of the night to ask if I was dead) and also from the awe-struck stares I get from fellow passengers on the Metro when I've woken up from my daily post-work-commute-nap. I know I can't be attractive; I always wake up with my mouth hanging as wide open as humanly possible, usually with drool, and my neck arched back in a manner like unto the velociraptor skeletons from Jurassic Park who fossilized in improbably and extremely uncomfortable looking positions. I can only imagine the volume of my snoring.

I knew that I most likely had sleep apnea, but it had to be scientifically proven, so I voluntarily subjected myself to the following sleep studies:

After which it was determined that I could either spend the rest of my life wearing a full-face Darth Vader mask that shoved so much air into my nose and mouth that my respiratory system involuntarily shut down, or get surgery to remove parts of the back of my throat and tongue to increase breathing. Or... snore for the rest of my life and continue to fall asleep while driving and in boring meetings.

I'll spare the photos of my mouth (trust me... it was gross) but suffice to say that while I still may sleep with my mouth wide open and vast quantities of drool, at least the snoring has stopped. Huzzah!

Being Married, Part 1...

Things that you never expect to happen in your life but now do because you are eternally joined with someone else, whose actions now directly affect you...

Having the keys to your honeymoon condo flung into the sewer on the very first day in Maine. Luckily the good folks of Portland Maintenance are friendly and showed up within fifteen minutes to fish them out. Thank you, John Emerson. We owe you a card. I also owe a future blog post the pictures I took. :)

Hearing "Thank you, Ms. Keng. Thank you, Mr. Keng" at the Safeway check-out line as we bought groceries last night; since I paid, my name came up on the bill. I giggled and pointed a finger at "Mr. Keng" all the way to the car.

Mostly, it's saying the words "my husband" in an entitled manner that still feels awkward. I confess, however, that it's way easier to say "my husband" than "my fiance", because when you say you have a fiance, the entire world squeals in your behalf and starts bombarding you with questions about your upcoming wedding. For some reason they are now socially entitled to deep personal details of your intimate life. People will break social barriers for few things: fiances, babies, and pregnant women. I feel sorry for the much-molested pregnant women out there.

The best "my husband" line came yesterday. Our garbage disposal had been making a most alarming crunching sound whenever it was turned on, and much gingerly shoving our hands around had turned up no stray utensils or other metallic objects. I finally called maintenance to have them look at it. They called me promptly to tell me they were finished, which I found unusual since a note left on my counter usually suffices. The conversation went as follows:

"Hi, this is John, I've fixed your garbage disposal."

"Oh, that's fantastic, thank you so much. What was wrong with it? We couldn't find anything in there."

"Well, it's working just fine now. I just wanted to inform you that we pulled a bullet casing out of the disposal."

"WHAT??!??!?! WHY is there a bullet casing in my sink?!??!?!"

"I don't know ma'am, I was hoping you could tell me."

The conversation continued, he being infallibly polite, I being outraged, horrified, and flabbergasted as to why there were bullets in my apartment. Had someone broken in and shot guns off and then secretly disposed of them? Had former tenants been drug dealers and tried to get rid of imposing evidence? We had already been informed by UPS that according to their records on our neighborhood, there was "no way in hell" their delivery people would leave packages on our doorstep.

The maintenance man, understandably, was quite interested in what I did in my spare time, how long I had lived there, what behaviors might lead to me, the shady tenant, dumping bullet casings in my sink. I racked my brains, because logically, anything left in my sink from a previous tenant would have been found by now; clearly whatever foreign object must have been recently--

"OHHHHHHH. OHhhhhhhhh..... oh, he is in SO MUCH TROUBLE...."

"excuse me, ma'am?"

"My HUSBAND. He friggin brought back friggin bullet casings from friggin Africa and was washing them in the kitchen sink.... he must have dropped one in there without realizing..."

"Um. Okay, well I don't know about bullet casings from Africa, but... if you know where it came from, and it's harmless, then..."

"AAAAAAAAAGGGGGH. I'm so sorry."

Not as sorry as My Husband was when he found out what had happened. Of all the things... a freaking bullet casing, Husband. Seriously. I love you...! :P

One Post to Rule Them All...

Well my friends, this may be the most widely publicized post of my blogging career, so I'd best make it a good one. I make a point not to tout intensely personal events on an open Internet forum (statistics classes and license plates don't count), but I do have to shamelessly utilize my trusty asiankeng domain once and for all for public consumption to finally tell the world... I Am Engaged To Be Married!

There, I said it.

That being said, with the multiple requests for The Story (aka How He Did It), I am finally publishing The Longest Post Ever (even surpassing Guster of yore) with all the nitty gritty details.

Many of you upon receiving the news shook your heads (as I had expected) and asked, "Jen's dating someone?!" For those, I assure you that I have not been keeping secrets or, as Fiance (Matt) says, "I'm your secret shame", and know that the diaspora of DC dating has trained me well to keep any romantic news to myself. It is a fascinating anthropological study to examine how, at the whiff of a 'dating' attachment, the general LDS single (and non-single) population of DC turns you into their personal tabloid, with entitlements to hourly updates on your trek towards eternal bliss and a subscription to your nuptual newsfeed. False rumors run amok and you spend more time disputing hearsay than actually dating. ("No, I'm not engaged." "No, I'm not pregnant." "No, he didn't propose to my cousin.") So, for those of you not in the know, please don't feel that I've purposely left you out. Not even those in my own professional office of four years knew I was seeing anyone.

By way of brief introduction, Matt is pretty much the coolest male in my age/dating bracket I've ever met. Graduate student of peace and conflict resolution (hello! No domestic arguments!), traveler to approximately 25 countries, speaker of Spanish AND Mandarin, non-picky eater of all foods (one of my requirements), lover of all people, shameless karaoke singer, and avid Latin dancer. Chops wood when he's stressed and ran his own radio show in college. Hot. :)

We've had a pretty normal, average relationship: met at church, spoke a few times, saw each other a few times at parties, blah blah. Started dating, started to like each other, enjoyed where it was going, some months down the line decided that marriage was an option, then decided that marriage was an optimal choice. So while the proposal was a complete shock, the idea of marriage was not, thankfully.

And finally, How He Did It:

We had gone up to Rochester on the weekend of October 3-5 with the specific intent for him to ask my father's permission for marriage. As it is a custom not familiar to Chinese people, I'd had to call my parents ahead of time and warn them/explain to them what Matt intended to do. My mother didn't quite understand why she couldn't be there (which we did tell her she could), but she promised to stay out of the way. Matt had prepared a little speech in Mandarin from his Chinese teacher in college and practiced it over and over. With brave heart he obtained permission from my father and approval from my mother, and that was that. I had always been convinced that he would propose sometime in November; he had told me on several occasions that he didn't have a ring, he had to take out a loan, he hadn't found the perfect one... lies! All lies!! But I suppose acceptable in this one circumstance.

I suppose we did things a little backwards; we spent the weekend reserving a time in the temple to be married, we met with a photographer, we scoured Rochester for reception sites. Sunday afternoon as we headed home we decided to stop at beautiful Letchworth Park, a NY State park 35 miles south of Rochester. As we traipsed about taking pictures, Matt insisted we get one of ourselves. I said "sure, well why don't we just ask one of these fifteen people milling about to take one?" "no no, let's set up our tripod." "Okay, perfect, we can use this remote control shutter I bought!" "no no, let's set the self timer." "...okay, well, we've got 2 seconds, 5 seconds... 2 seconds should be enough time, right?" "no no, 5 seconds is good, let's do 5 seconds."

At this point I think I remember being a little confused at his insistence of doing things apart from how we'd normally go about it, but I also figured that since he doesn't usually insist on these types of things (that's normally my job) that it wouldn't hurt to indulge him. He stood in the shot for me to set it up, I set the timer, dashed over to the wall, grinned at the camera... and then this photo was taken:


Yes my friends, as I was still posing for the camera (as evidenced by my big cheesy grin) he dropped to one knee and blurted out "Will you marry me?!" and then the camera went off. He claims he said something else but he doesn't remember, neither do I believe him since he had about 2.1 seconds to pull it off. These were the thoughts going through my head:

"What's he doing? Is that a ring? What? Is this an engagement ring?? But he said he didn't have one! Did he borrow one? Is he being serious? I CAN'T BELIEVE HE'S DOING THIS IN FRONT OF ALL THESE PEOPLE...."

It took him several times proposing (he got pretty good at it) before I could compose myself enough to say yes, much to the delight of the watching audience, who clapped and oohed and aahed and took pictures and basically mortified me... but oh well, I'm engaged, deal. :)

And that is The Story. The end.

More pictures of the weekend can be seen here. Pictures of The Precious can be seen here. Questions, comments, praise on Matt's ingenious proposal can be left on comments sections below.

Thank you for all of the congratulations and support I (we) have received and we really are excited to have you share in this very happy time with us!

I owe you one raunchy strip tease...

I'm sure we all have them... those random encounters with members of the opposite (or same) sex that leave you flattered, highly amused, baffled, or just completely grossed/creeped out. Whether we're single or 'taken', married or not, somehow, at least for females, the guys seem to hit first and ask questions later.

Two such incidents in a three-day period have spurred this entry. My "approached by a random male" rate averages two a year, so this statistically significant occurrence inspired today's post.

The first incident was Tuesday night; while driving home from visiting a friend, I noticed I was being tailed by a police car. The only thing more nerve-wracking than being pulled over by a police car is being tailed by a police car, so I switched lanes over and slowed down, hoping he/she would pass. The car remained obstinately behind me in my blind spot, to the point where I was driving 25 mph in a 35 zone and I was starting to get irritated/nervous. My brake lights both worked, to my knowledge, and my registration didn't expire for another two weeks... what was up?

At the stoplight the car pulled up on my left and I looked over, checking for any signs from the cop of any driving infractions. By the time I identified his head in the darkness of it being 11:45 pm, I realized that he was grinning and waving madly. He then rolled down his passenger side window. Ummmm.... well it didn't appear that I was breaking any laws, but at the same time I really didn't want to make small talk with a policeman. On the other hand, was it a civic offense NOT to speak to a law enforcement officer when they were clearly demanding your attention? For fear of being charged for some law I didn't know existed, I rolled down my window as well. He then leaned over and shouted "I like your license plate!!" Umm... immensely relieved that I hadn't broken any laws, I said thanks, to which he replied, "is it for your husband??"

Aaaaaawgh. My emotions ran from nervous/irritated/concerned/relieved/happy/disgusted in a matter of about three seconds. Seriously? You just pulled the "husband" line? You, a keeper of the peace, an enforcer of justice?? As my roommate exclaimed as we were driving away, "you should be ashamed of yourself!!" This one ranks as highly amusing though. Mostly because there were two of us in the car.

The second encounter was merely creepy; the guy approached me while waiting for the Metro yesterday after work and used such lines as "you look just like a girl I used to go with when I was stationed in Bangkok. You Thai? Definitely Southern Asia." Yeah no. Not Southern Asia. He was probably about 50 years old and was commenting on how I looked like I could be in high school. Creeeeeeeeepy. But he also pulled the "your husband must be a lucky man". I mean really. Can you be more subtle about it? Does that line ever actually work? Are you truly looking for companionship based on approaching a creature you've never seen before and making the assumption that I am a normal, socially adept female with no serious mental, physical, or emotional issues? I guess my definition of "relationship" falls into a much different range than some males out there.

So folks, I know you have them. What's your funniest/creepiest/best story of a random encounter of the weird kind?

2008: Year of the firsts!!

Happy new year to all! As much as I've attempted to embrace odd numbers, and especially prime ones, I still have to say that whatever weird freakish part of my brain it is, feels comfort and ease in the nicely divisible 2008. Not to mention it's my year for 28, a perfect number (thanks, Warren) which is 2008 without the two big fat null placeholders inbetween, as well as the ten year anniversary of my high school graduation, the year I will graduate with my master's degree, the year my sister is getting married, etc etc etc. Really, I postulate that 2008 will be the best year all around.

Having said that, I would like to make 2008 the year in which I do all the "DC" things I've always wanted, but have never gotten around to. Suppose that 2008 was your last year in the "DC" area, and that next year you were to move to, say, the west coast, in the which case all the east coast "DC"-esque activities would no longer be as accessible. Suppose that you only had this limited time to take advantage of the relative proximity of everything the east coast has to offer. What would you do? What haven't you done yet that you've 'always wanted to'? Now is the time!!

I realize my blog has gotten quite list-y lately (better than listless though, right?) but I really do want to make this a good one, as 12 months seems to fly by faster and faster with every passing year. With limited years of "no responsibility and relatively stable income", I want to take every advantage I can. All, of course, are invited to any and every excursion I take.

• Spend a day in the National Arboretum
• Visit the Baltimore Aquarium
• Attend a performance in Ford's Theatre
• Bike the national sites at night
• Eat a cupcake from the infamous Magnolia Bakery in NYC
• See the Rockefeller Christmas tree
• Visit North/South Carolina and experience Southern hospitality (it's there, right?)
• Finally attend the Cherry Blossom Parade
• Visit Arlington Cemetery on a national holiday (or at all. Yes, gasp if you must, but I still haven't taken an official tour)
• Find the Darth Vader gargoyle on the National Cathedral
• Go to Boston. I know, I passed up an invitation already. Can we make it NOT in January when it's cold and freezing?
• Eat a real Philly cheesesteak

Okay friends. I need your input and suggestions so that, supposing I were to leave the area within the next year, I don't have any regrets of "I should have..." I never got a chance to see the Redwoods when I left California and I owe them a big debt.

You know you're a DC (area) native when...

• you find yourself shoving little old ladies out of the way to get on the metro first
• you look for every excuse NOT to be on the Mall on July 4th.
  
• you start frantically buying bottled water and kerosene like everyone else when they announce the possibility of a snowstorm
• you see two drops of rain in the morning and think "oh great, there goes my commute"
• you studiously ignore all attempts of strangers to be friendly and snarl at them in return
• you find yourself arranging your errands and trips to fall outside of the 2-7 pm "rush hour"
• you calculate 40 minutes of driving time for a five mile excursion into the city
• you avoid driving behind taxis at all costs, because here they drive like turtles
• you think nothing of buying your groceries at twelve different stores (or maybe that's just how life is, and my growing up with one-stop shopping at Wegmans is the anomaly)
• all the Asians you see are not Chinese
• you get annoyed when places of interest in other cities require monetary admission
• you experience extreme physical withdrawal when you travel without your iPod earphones plugged firmly into your head
• you live in one state, commute to work in another, and yet claim residency in a third ("Where are you from? DC" "Where do you live? Virginia." "Where do you work? Maryland.")
  
• your refrigerator breaks for a month and you don't even scratch the surface of available ethnic dining establishments in your area
• you don't bat an eye at "single family housing starting at $2.2 million" and think it's a reasonable price for a house
• you're shocked when customer service is cordial to you, or speaks English natively
• you've gotten a parking ticket for every banal possible reason out there
• you watch a sitcom that supposedly depicts a humorous attempt at "government red tape" but you don't find it remotely amusing since that is your every day routine
• you finally understand the term "red tape"

Okay folks. Those are just my own. I KNOW you've got oodles and oodles to share. Fess up!

And what you wish for could come true...

Continuing along the vein of super summer concerts, two nights ago I paid my regular bi-annual (or however many times they decide to visit the area) homage to my favorite band of all time. I think Guster has gotten about three or four postings on my blog now... definitely statistically significant at whatever alpha level you decide to set.

The concert at Wolftrap began like any other... luckily the weather was about twenty degrees cooler than a year ago, with clear skies and virtually (for DC) no humidity and really quite perfect for an outdoor venue. Pete Yorn was fantastic, though for a wanna-be fan I am embarrassed to admit I only recognized one or two of his songs... but I bought a t-shirt, so that counts, right?

Guster came out, my friend Shauna and I were thrilled (it being her first Guster concert, she having had biked twenty miles - twenty miles - to make the show in time) and the crowds sitting stoically and motionless on the lawn just weren't cutting it for us. We wove our way through to the back and then proceeded to mimic, in exponential outlandishness, the actions of the very fans I had been deriding not seven days earlier at the John Mayer concert. We danced like maniacs, we bawled every word ("bawled" in a 'loud and unrestrained' way, not in a 'weeping' way...), we earned the looks of contempt, scorn, amusement, and annoyance of everyone around us. We even earned some guy's third row center ticket, as he was leaving and thought that we would appreciate a closer view... though Shauna's staunch loyalty to not deserting a friend kept us where we were.

As we continued in our unfettered joy and delight, we were suddenly approached by a big, burly, middle-aged man who had apparently been watching us for some time. He introduced himself as Guster's stage manager and that he had been sent out to recruit some 'excited fans' from the back of the peanut gallery for an intimate 'meet and greet' after party, and he thought that, judging from our gusto, we fit the bill. Ha! Whilst tempting, honestly, does that EVER happen? No way am I going anywhere with you, big burly man. We were about to go our way when he introduced himself as Roger, and something in my distant, recessed obsessive fan memory clunked into place, and I said "wait... are you the truck driver who had a fish fry with your son and Brian (the Thundergod) on... some Jewish holiday... back in like, 2005?" (Yes. I know.) His eyes widened and he said "boy, you really are a fan... I think you've earned your place." He offered to bring us backstage so we could watch from there; I was all for it but the sound and view were admittedly better from where we were, so we told him we'd stay put and he said he'd come get us at the end of the show. To add magic to jubilation, as this conversation was ensuing, I dimly heard Ryan onstage talking about performing an 'old school monster ballad that we haven't sung in a long time', and proceeding to... yes. Either Way. Ironic, isn't it, that I had publicly declared not hearing it performed since 2000...

Still not believing it was wholly true, I ran and fetched my one male friend to join us in the back, because I figured a) if we really were going to meet Guster, he would owe me forEVER and b) if we weren't and Big Burly Man wanted to attack us, at least we had a male to protect us. Really it was a win-win situation (and Josh, I'm sorry that I didn't exactly inform you about option b...). The show ended, the crowds exited en masse, and I started to doubt... really? Seriously? Was I truly about to meet my most favorite musical group of all time?

Really.

Roger came up the stairs ("I had to work y'know, it takes me time to get up here, this is why I wanted you to come backstage") and herded us backstage... weaving our way inbetween the tour buses and giant equipment vans, I suddenly found myself face-to-face with Ryan Miller and Joe Pisapia, who ignored us with dignity (as I attempted to maintain my own composure) but were verbally attacked by some woman who snarled "Roger! Get them some identification! This is a FEDERAL building!" to which I *almost* retorted "and I'm a federal employee...!", then to "the room where they hang out before the show" (I know he said some official title, but I was too dazed to catch it) and finally to a secondary, larger room, where about twenty nervous people were awkwardly standing about, muttering with restrained excitement.

Gah! How do we approach music stars? What do we do??? Josh wisely remarked "well, probably what will happen is, someone will come in the room and tell us "Okay, Guster is coming in in a few minutes, this is what you should do..." and then we'll all be prepared..." As he was stating this eloquent opinion, Brian the Thundergod shuffled in, stopped, and peered around the room. "...or not..."

One by one each band member trickled in (Joe being the last, "I'm sorry, I was on the phone! I was buying a car on eBay...") and seeing as they were tired and not exactly predisposed to making the rounds like politicians, it was up to the gumption of us, rabid fans, to approach and speak to them. This resulted in many awkward conversations and giggly, high-pitched laughs, but hey, I haven't been madly in love since 1999 to lose my nerve now, right?

Ryan was the first one we had the guts to approach. He insisted on taking all the photos.
After waiting literally ten minutes to speak to Brian (whose attention was monopolized by some teeny chick who bombarded him with questions about his drums, to which he finally replied "I don't understand why people care what brand drums I use. I bought mine at a yard sale.") he finally turned to us with a self-deprecating "Hi I'm Brian..." on a semi-dare, I immediately approached him and said "I'm taking your picture... now..." Yes, I often have this effect on guys I crush on...
Joe is nice. Joe takes nice pictures.
Adam stretched his arm waaaay out to get us all in the frame; I told him he wouldn't need to as it's a dual lens... He was impressed by the camera: "My arm looks like a gorilla!! How does this thing work?" I told him it had two lenses...
...that could catch closeups quite nicely. "Wow! I look totally evil!... Actually, I look like an eagle, don't you think?" He was fascinated.
"Look, I'm such a @#$%-ing rebel..." said Ryan as I snapped this picture.

After an exhausting, thrilling night, we shoved Shauna's bike into the back of my car and I took her home. Fanaticism sometimes does pay off... :)

Do you have a brush with fame that fulfilled all of your wildest dreams? Share! Share!

*full slideshow here for your viewing enjoyment...

** many of you have remarked on the Thundergod's frightening appearance. Be assured that there is good reason why I've been such a fan all these years.

Is it the wontons? The egg rolls? The rice?

There are so many benefits to living on the East coast. The autumn colors, the diversity, the scholastic opportunities, Wegmans... the list goes on and on. One thing I love is the close proximity of so many great cities all within a day's reach.

A trip to NYC had been on my roster for months and months. I've only been thrice in my entire existence (NY state driver's license not withstanding!), so a few weeks ago I suddenly decided that this was it; I was GOING to New York no matter what else came up, so help me God. A whirlwind day trip ensued, starting with arising at 2 am to catch the 2:30 Chinatown bus... and that was the most organized part of it.

I have been promising to post these pictures for those involved. In honor of the cold spell that gripped our city of Washington for two whole weeks, I want you to FEEL cold when you look at these; it was approximately 21 degrees the entire day, with a wind chill factor of like -12. Fun as the day was, two words can sum up our entire experience: Frickin' FREEZING.

The day started out arriving at NYC at 7:30 am, bright eyed, bushy tailed, ready and rarin' to go...
We soon discovered the folly of walking some ridiculous number of blocks in the early frigid weather. We stopped at Ground Zero and took Broadway down to its southernmost tip. By the time we reached Battery Park we were ready to enjoy some heat.
Seeing the Statue of Liberty, I had to pause to take a picture, but that didn't keep me from nearly getting blown away...
We decided we had exactly ten minutes to run off the ferry, touch the Statue, take a picture and get back on. It was way too cold to do anything else. Behold, the first of EQP's self-portraits:
How's the weather, jr?
When we got back to shore we found a statue with the Statue of Liberty poem inscripted at its base. "Give me... your huddled masses..." and we decided to recreate our own.
Lunch at the Some Glamorous Cafe (?) was followed by a delightful Broadway romp through 1950's campy glamour of musicals of old, The Drowsy Chaperone. I highly recommend it simply for the brief diversion in the middle, a song that starts out with the line "What is it about the Asians that fascinate Caucasians? Is it the wontons, the egg rolls, the rice?" My answer? Yes.
EQP's self-portraits improved steadily throughout the day, culimating in my favorite at Times Square. "What an amazing camera to get such a wide angle shot!" you may exclaim. Indeed it is an amazing camera, and shameless advertising abounds if you check out the billboard directly above EQP's head; it's the Kodak EasyShare v570 and it's pretty hot.

My attempts failed miserably at Rockerfeller Center. Should have left it up to the experts.
Dinner in Little Italy was followed by a harrowing half hour sprint through the streets of Chinatown trying to find access to our bus back home. Exhausted and sweaty (for the first time all day) we finally made it home past midnight.
What's the craziest trip you've ever taken? If you can beat my freshman male friends' squashing seven guys into a Geo Prism (two being over 6'5") overnight to drive from Provo to Wyoming simply to have breakfast and come back, I'll think up some awesome prize for you.

A truth universally acknowleged...

Over the course of my 26 years of mortal existence, I have attempted to master many things. There are, of course, an infinite number of things I haven't mastered, but those are for another day.

From personal experience, I shall venture to proclaim a truth universally acknowleged that Asians don't bake. Now, before you jump to any screaming conclusions, I mean this in a Betty Crocker, thick rich chocolate, gooey sumptuous desserts sort of baking. If you've ever been to Asia, you'll quickly discover that such delectable provenders don't really exist. They would much rather boil their red beans down to a paste and eat it mashed inside sticky buns.

This past weekend I attempted to redeem said failure pertaining to anything measurable in an X by X quantity. (I'd also been bumming my roommates' baked goods for months, and thought I might as well learn to fish instead of just eating it...)

I have, in my possession, a scrumptuous recipe for blond chocolate chip brownies that I have attempted to bake thrice. The first time, due to distractions, my friend baked them up in my stead and they turned out perfectly (he being male the ignominy even more shameful.) The second and third, needless to say: tragic. Being that it has been over a year since the last defeat, I thought I could salvage some means of culinary refinement.

I was under a time limit to get them baking, so I quickly turned on the oven and put some cold butter in the microwave to "soften." The flour, baking powder, and salt were "stirred and set aside"... meanwhile the butter had heated too long and was melting into a puddle. Strike one. I dumped the fatty liquid into the KitchenAid to "whip with sugars until light and fluffy"... and realized I had no vanilla. My Darling Culinary Roommate had taken her real Mexican vanilla with her when she entered connubial bliss three months earlier. The logical step would have been to a) run to the store and get some, b) find an acceptable substitute, c) get over it and move on. Time crunch prevented leaving the apartment, I combed every single kitchen shelf, and I had no idea what the properties of vanilla were to find a subsitute. I therefore called a roommate in a panic, asking such questions as "can I subsitute molasses? (NO!) (in my defense, they are both packed in large dark brown bottles... they LOOK similar!) Maple syrup? (brown and sweet, right?)" She finally convinced me to simply leave it out.

I then tried to put in brown sugar, but seeing how long it had been since my last adventure, mine had calcified into something akin to the Rock of Gibraltar... I resigned myself to stealing said roommate's brown sugar... but upon measuring it out, saw that there were only about two tablespoons left in her bag. Leaving miniscule amounts of food for other people being one of my Pet Peeves, I decided to dump the rest in, and thought I could offset it with a teeny more salt. As I flung upon the cabinet door to grab the salt, a can of something-or-another fell from the top shelf, landing squarely in my bowl of "prestirred" dry ingredients.

*FWWOOOOMPH*

Flour all over the kitchen.

By this time, I couldn't help but giggle at my self-created predicament, flour all over my church clothes, the walls, the refrigerator, the floor... after sweeping it up (marginally) I stared at my somewhat-empty bowl of flour... I have found a quote that accurately describes my mindset:

"The only real stumbling block is fear of failure. In cooking you've got to have a what-the-hell attitude." --Julia Child

That being said, I meted out approximations of the missing dry ingredients now plastered to the walls, stirred everything else in, and, right before spreading into the pan, decided what the heck, how about some lemon juice?? and poured that in too.

Bad idea.

The brownies baked for 25-30 minutes. Golden brown on top... liquified and gooey on the bottom. Back into the oven for ten, fifteen, twenty minutes more... by now brown and crispy on top... still oozy on the bottom. Tastewise: edible. Brownie-wise: strike #3. I'm out, game over. I'll just stick to wontons (but not wonton soup...)

So I'm sure some of you have had some crazy cooking stories out there... what's the worst thing that ever happened to you in the kitchen?

A Capitol Gathering!

Here it is friends, the post you've all been anxiously awaiting! I'm sure you've all been gnawing your fingernails in anticipation; let me not keep you quivering any longer.

We decided to go with the 'slowly melt' option, as it would theoretically be the easiest, most efficient, and least messy (sorry Kayc, sticking pieces of white chocolate to my body didn't seem so appealing...and I was going on severe sleep shortage from the Guster concert of yore). Also, seeing as none of us present had strong political views, there were no diatribes or recitations or any ceremonial fluff; the Capitol was simply plopped in the cake pan and placed on top of the pan of boiling water:

Behold, The Capitol, prepared for its untimely demise: (you need to understand how enormous this thing really is when you think that is a full-sized cake pan in which it is sitting)


The chips you see in the upper corner are remnants of more white chocolate My Roommate had used to melt and cover fortune cookies for wedding treats. (I told you the preparations were endless...)

The steam from the boiling water opened up a gaping maw in the facade of the building. Awesome.

I'm sure there's something poetic or diplomatic I could say about a toppling Capitol. But words elude me. For once.

Mmmm, forget the edifice this once was, let's eat!!

Dude. That was a lot of white chocolate. We baptized four pounds of strawberries, an entire bag of Double Stuf Oreos (you missed out, Cabeza), half a two pound bag of pretzels, and one banana. NO, we didn't eat it all, it's all still sitting in huge piles on our dining room table, if you want to come and get some.

Just the girls next door...

In eager anticipation of the biggest, baddest, bestest barbecue birthday trifecta this side of the Mississippi last Saturday, I and many mutual friends fired up the barbecue, yanked out the Dance Dance Revolution (for fascinating fun, try this), hoisted the badminton net, lit the candles on the snake cakes (yes, I said snake cake!), cranked up the music, and yes... unleashed the slip n' slide.

While every single guest in attendance (numbering somewhere over 70, I'd say) expressed gusto and zest for said sliding fun, when it came time to actually slip and/or slide, the vast majority were loath to do so. Disappointed, yet undaunted, we True Cool Ones finally took on the challenge. The time was approximately 8:30 pm, the weather nearing the 70s, the sun well behind the horizon. Not the most ideal sliding conditions, but we took one for the team.

What does a fully clothed slipnslider look like midaction, you ask? Conveniently, we present to you Exhibits A, B, C, and D. You'll notice that I didn't get very far down the slide... one slider likened it unto dropping a bowling ball directly onto the lane instead of a smooth, continuous rolling motion. I nearly knocked myself out, quite literally.

Soaked, wet and cold, Exhibit D was forced to run home and change into dry clothes...upon entering her house, her roommate, observing her dripping state and award winning wet t-shirt, arched an eyebrow and remarked "well if you're not gonna go big, go porn."

Best birthday bash ever.

The Running Scene!!

There have been many experiences in my life now that have served to confirm that there are no coincidences, merely a watchful God who sometimes laughs at us.

Case in point: JeanGenie.

JeanGenie and I go way back to the seventh grade where we sat together every day during lunch. While there have been periods of years where we don't see each other, we are still great friends. He has recently been living in Europe, attempting study on some PhD program I have still yet to comprehend. When I planned my (first) most recent trip to England, I contacted him to see if we could meet up. Unfortunately, he had no idea of his whereabouts, he was coming back to the States the same time I would be there, etc etc etc. The subject was dropped and no further contact was attempted.

Fast forward to: March 30, 2006.

I had just flown into London's Heathrow Airport, taken the 7:40 am bus to Oxford, and spent the day touring the beautiful historic sites. In the afternoon, my tour guide (and good friend) stop to take an ice cream break in the One and Only Ice Cream Shop In Oxford. As I am contentedly licking my mint cone, who should walk by the plate glass window but JeanGenie.

Ensue the following scene:

"JeanGenie! JEANGENIE!!!" (no response, as he is outside and I am inside and normally people don't walk by storefronts staring into the windows)

I now have to race to the entrance of the cafe (on the opposite end of where I'm sitting, natch) and run BACK past the plate glass window, now accruing the stares of everyone inside...

"JeanGenie!" (screaming continues) Now I am running down the narrow alley, scattering startled Brits right and left. Oh yeah, and it's raining really hard. Luckily JeanGenie is the only one without an umbrella (oh, and myself...)

I realize he has earphones on and therefore couldn't hear me anyway, so I have to actually grab him by the shoulder before he realizes my existence.

"ahhh, Asian Keng!" Much surprise, glee, joy, hurrah hurrah hurrah. Turns out he was leaving Oxford within the day to head back to the States. He had exactly 28 minutes before he had to leave town.

TourGuide, as we are leaving ice cream shop and going our separate ways: "Wow. That was weird."

Yup. And God is laughing.

A Trip Down Memory Lane...

As the highlights of my working day are usually accented only by cockroaches that everyone defers to as they walk around them in the hallways (seriously, they get more respect than I do), I thought I'd take a moment to relive my Most Embarassing Mission Moment.

Location: XiaoGang, Kaohsiung Taiwan mission
Date: August of 2002
Occasion: Traveling to district training meeting

Sister Keng at this point was still a bit shaky on the bike and has never been graceful. As we pulled into the parking lot and towards the bike hut on the side of the chapel, we noticed that all six of the other elders (missionaries) had already gotten there and were in the process of dismounting, parking, removing helmets, etc. Because there was limited space left over, I attempted to swerve my bike into the remaining spot on the very very end of the hut, whilst swinging my leg over my bike to simultaneously dismount.

Of course I fall, but also somehow my skirt got COMPLETELY entangled with my handlebars (please, picture if you will), so not only am I now on the ground, but I'm underneath my bike, unable to move, flashing six 19 year old boys, and to finish it off, my back tire had caught the handle to the outside spigot on the side of the church building going down, and now dirty Taiwan water was trickling down and soaking the entire scene of destruction.

Elder Greenie could only stare in shock ("SISTER KENG! SISTER KENG!!"), and Elder District Leader merely said (after unsuccessfully stifling his laughter), "I'm going inside now. I'll see you in a few minutes..."

The end.