Before and After the Bridge

A little closure for the last post, from my mother:


Before and After the Bridge

I wish I had learned how to swim, Lim thought as he hit the warm, murky water of the Singapore River. Dressed in his work suit, he floated quickly toward the bottom. He tried flapping his arms and pushing upwards, but he continued to float down to death. That’s when he remembered his time with Sophie and how he came to fly over the rail of the bridge that night.

Lim leaned over to his best friend, Michael, and pointed to the group of office girls that stood two tables away. They were laughing, sipping their beers, and glancing also discreetly around the room at guys. Each Friday the company hosted these after work get-togethers at Paulaners at the Millennium Mall.

“Who’s the one on the right, Michael? She’s really cute. “

“Cheung’s accountant on the eighth floor. Name’s Sophie. Single I hear. Shall we introduce ourselves?”

“Please,” said Lim who followed his friend over to the girls’ table. Michael was a natural at making friends. In a short time, he had everyone’s phone number and a date for Saturday night. Lim envied his way with the opposite sex. He was going places, everyone said.

Lim asked Sophia if she would like to have lunch on Sunday and to his surprise, she said sure. That was the beginning of their romance.

Lim worshipped Sophie. They always met for lunch in the employee’s lounge every work day and then on weekends, spent time together going to the movies, eating a nice restaurants, and walking through the Botanical Gardens. Sometimes they doubled dated with Michael and whatever girl he was sweet on that the time. Sophie and Michael became fast friends, laughing at each other’s jokes and comparing office stories. Sometimes, Lim was jealous, but he never showed it. He loved them both.

Then it came time for Lim to meet Sophie’s parents for dinner. Her father was a businessman who imported art from China, Korea, and Australia. He had a warehouse down at Vivo City and often Sophie helped him on her days off during open house. After a nice Chinese dinner, Lim and Sophie’s father discussed Lim’s background. Lim explained that his father had been born in Malaysia and ran a hawker stand in the basement of Tampines Mall. Though Lim had graduated from college with a business degree, he felt Sophie’s father believed he was inferior.

“Plans to enter management?” Sophie’s father asked.
“No,” Lim squeaked. The thought of ordering people around made him nauseous.
“Are you going to be a bookkeeper all your life?” Sophie’s father pressed.
“I really like it,” Lim answered.

That was the end of the conversation. Lim, however, was optimistic and proceeded to the next step. He went ring shopping and picked out a glorious ring that he hoped to surprise Sophie with on her birthday.

But he never got the chance. Shortly after Lim’s visit to Sophie’s home, Sophie began making up excuses not to see Lim. Soon he hardly saw her. Finally, he confronted her after work and Sophie admitted she was dating Michael. Michael had just been promoted to office manager. He was going places.

Now Lim floated toward the bottom of the river, his lungs near bursting from the lack of air. Suddenly another face popped through the dark water and a strong hand reached for his arm. Up he was yanked and lifted toward the light of the bridge lamp post glowing through the water. He wasn’t going to die after all.

He broke the surface, a girl’s arm pushing him toward the ladder attached to the canal wall. Other hands helped him up. He ended up sitting like a wet duck on the pavement in front of the Starbucks while someone dialed the ambulance.

“Are you okay?” his rescuer sat down beside him. “I was jogging when I saw you hit the water. Did you fall in accidentally?” Lim stared at the young girl in the soaking wet track suit.

“Something like that,” Lim said. “I am eternally grateful. “ Someone brought them coffee and they continued to talk. Lisa was a college student at Singapore Tech. She was studying to be a librarian.

By the time the ambulance arrived, they were friends. Lim’s phone was ruined but they made a date to meet next Saturday. He owed her a dinner after all. It seemed like fate, their meeting in the river. Two years later, they were married on the bridge.

The Bridge

As a way to ease back into blogging, I have another story to share from my mother. While she and my Dad were walking one night in Singapore, they found a pair of glasses laying on a bridge railing. Someone who noticed my parents taking pictures of it asked if the glasses belonged to a jumper that had leapt off the bridge earlier in the evening. Please leave comments to let me know what you think! (And if you find something interesting on the sidewalk, take a picture and send it my way! I'll pass it on to my mom and maybe she'll write a story about it.)

Here's the story:

Lim rushed to the MRT as soon as his work day was over. Pushing through the after-work crowd, he jumped off at Raffles Place and weaved his way through the underground tunnels. When he emerged at Boat Quay, the sun was setting and the light was dimming. Here, along the river walk, couples were watching the sunset and gazing into the Singapore River, people watched the Hippo boats plow by loaded with tourists, families picnicked on the benches and westerners snapped pictures of the sculptures that lined the walk.

But Lim wasn’t interested in any of that. In fact, he ignored the children who played tag around his legs. He was searching for someone and he spotted her on the bridge that led from the river walk to the Asian Civilizations Museum. She was surrounded by her friends who were fussing with her hair, bridal veil, and long wedding train. The wedding photographer was posing her with her bouquet of roses for the best shot in the colored sunset.

Lim frowned. Just a few steps away stood the groom, Lim’s former best friend. He was in his black tuxedo, looking uncomfortable and hot. Lim hoped the bow tie choked him. He imagined the traitor flying over the rail head first into the murky water below. No more wedding pictures then.

Lim mingled through the crowd, getting ever closer to the wedding party. He wanted to be near her, just one more time.  It should have been him in the tuxedo. It should have been him leaning close to her for a kiss as the photographer snapped the picture.

The party was moving now toward the museum. Lim followed behind a group of students. He was half way across the bridge when the groom turned and shouted. Lim panicked. He turned and ran in the opposite direction, back the way he came. Then he was darting around the people and running down the path in front of the Fullerton Hotel.

“Get out of my way!” he shouted, shoving a student. He ran around the hotel, hopped down the steps leading to the river. He ducked under the bridge where there was a Starbucks. He quickly went inside and stood in line. He saw the groom run by. Relief poured over him and he wiped the sweat from his forehead.

Looking both ways, he went toward the Fullerton but detoured onto another bridge that crossed the Singapore River. Tourists waved to him as they passed under bridge in boats heading for the Merlion. Lim weakly waved back.

He stood in the middle of the bridge, took off his glasses, and laid them across the rail. He wiped the tears from his eyes. He knew he had to stop this, stop thinking of her and what could have been their life together. She had made her choice. He had to accept it. More tears fell. He just couldn’t forget her.

Then the groom was back. “There you are. I warned you to stop stalking us. Now it’s time you learned to leave us alone. I can’t believe you showed up here.”

Then the groom was on him. Up into the air Lim went, flying over the rail head first. He had one thought before he hit the greenish water below. I wish I had learned to swim.

Cinderelly Cinderelly

You've probably noticed random things on the sidewalk: a coin, someone's underwear (how the heck does that happen?), receipts, etc. While preparing this blog, I found the blog Sad Stuff on the Street that documents the ridiculous things that end up alone on the sidewalk. An online magazine titled Found scans in random notes that the authors find on the ground or in the office. Almost like Post Secret but without the writers' permission...

Exhibit A: The lone shoe. 

Well, in Singapore, these sightings are rare because of the strict littering laws. The streets are normally immaculate and free of clutter. During my parents' walk down to the shopping mall, the noticed a shoe and an earring. The next day, the shoe and the earring were still there. And the following day too. No one had picked up the shoe or earring for the sake of keeping the street clean, so my parents took a picture of it. And in typical fashion, my mother decided to write a story about the owner of the shoe. Two stories, in fact - a love story and a wicked story, which are below.

The Love Story... 

Exhibit B: The single earring.

        Julie frowned in frustration as the traffic forced the taxi to stop again. She was already ten minutes late to her after work drink date with her boyfriend, Sam. She looked out the window as a gray rain dripped down the pane. Because of the downpour, traffic was backed up at least a mile. People on the sidewalk were buried in raincoats and umbrellas. Julie’s fingers tapped on her briefcase in despair. She was never going to get there. Finally she fished her cell phone out of her purse.

        “Look, Sam. I’m almost there,” she told him. “I’m wet, my hair is soaked, and I’m in wet sandals. I was totally surprised by this weather. The sun was shining when I got up! Now tell me again why I dragged myself out of the office and into this traffic? Okay, you say, it’ll all be worth it. Special? Well, it better be, buster. I’ll never get a taxi back in this rain.”

        She closed the phone, listening to the angry horns of the cars stuck in traffic. Looking through the window, she spotted a familiar sign-Café Orlin.
        "I’ll just get out here, how much?” Julie handed him the cash and slid out the door into the monsoon. Briefcase over her head, she weaved through the stopped cars until she finally came to the other side. But her sandal was a casualty as it slipped off as she tried to step over the curb. Julie pulled it up out the stream of water and shook it. She limped into the café carrying her dripping shoe.
        “At last,” she sighed as she sighted Sam who looked warm and dry at the table for two in the corner. His umbrella hung over his chair, the water forming a puddle at his feet. She plopped down in the seat, shoving the briefcase under the table. She put on her wet shoe.
        "What a day!” she complained. “I almost told you to forget it, Sam. I was so overwhelmed with all that office chaos and the new inventory system we have to implement. I didn’t expect to be free until late tonight. But my boss said we all needed a break. He told me to get out of here-it’s Friday night after all. I sure hope that’s for me.”
         Sam smiled and pushed the tall strawberry daiquiri toward her. She clung to the frosty glass taking a large sip on the straw. “Yum.”
        “Drink up my dear and relax. You made it. It’s the start of the weekend and this is your favorite restaurant. I am the love of your life or so you’ve told me so everything is good!”
        “Yes, it is,” Julie agreed and reached up to push her wet hair out of her face. “Oh no,” she said, “First I almost lost my sandal in this Noah’s deluge and now I discover my silver earring is gone. It must have fallen out on the sidewalk.”
        “Or in the taxi or under your desk at work. Don’t worry, I’ll get you a new pair.”
        “But Sam, they were a gift from my sister-“
        “Jul, you’re killing my mood here. Finish your drink. Then we’ll order dinner. I’ve got some news to discuss.”
        Julie took another sip of the daiquiri. She leaned back in her chair. “Good news, I hope.”
        “Depends on how you look at it. Dave came to see me to tell me I got that promotion I was up for. I am now the senior manager.”
        “That’s great, Sam. You certainly earned it. I’m so proud of you!”
        “I start in two weeks. The trouble is the job has moved to Boston.” Julie’s face registered shock. She frowned.
        “You’re moving?”
        “Got to go where the money is,” Sam said, matter-of-factly.
        “But what about us? I thought we were going to move in together!”
        “In the short term, I can take the train home every weekend to see you. In the long term-“ Sam reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small blue velvet box. He slid it over to her. Julie’s eyes grew large. Trembling, she grasped the box and opened it.
        “Oh my God!” she shouted. Heads turned. She glazed down at the diamond ring.
        Sam was suddenly on one knee at her side. ‘Julie, will you marry me?” he asked.
        “Of course I will!” People clapped as Sam slipped the ring on her finger.

        Sam opened the cab door but Julie suddenly stopped and reached down to retrieve her silver earring on the payment. “Got it!” she shouted holding her fist up truimphfully.
        “I can’t park here, lady. Get in or I’m going,” the driver yelled. Sam motioned her to get in. Happy, Julie stooped and slid across the seat. Her leg, however, did quite follow at the same speed and her sandal fell off again, this time out the door.
        “Hey, my shoe!” she protested but it was too late. Sam was in beside her and the door was shut. The taxi rolled away.

        Two months later the engaged couple entered the Café Orlin once again. The staff, recognizing the couple, came over to catch up on the wedding plans and wish them well.
        “By the way,” Julie asked them, “Did anyone find a black sandal after I left. I lost one getting into the cab that night.”
        “Yes, we did,” a waitress exclaimed as he dashed away to the kitchen. He returned with Julie’s shoe. “We have been looking for Cinderella ever since you left.”
        “Allow me.” Sam reached down, slipped off her current shoe, and replaced it with the black sandal. “You’re my Cinderella,” he declared.
        “And you’re my handsome prince.” They kissed. The staff cheered.

The Wicked Story
         Jim stood at the doorway of Café Orlin on the corner of 6th Street in the pouring rain.  He decided to go because first, he had to get out of the rain and wind. November storms in New York City were brutal. Second, he was hoping to run into his sister Suzy who often came here for her favorite pasta.  Jim stood inside the door, shaking the rain out of his hair and coat. The hostess started in his direction but he pointed to the back. Sure enough, his sister was sitting at the table in corner with her laptop and compact open.  The remains of a meal sat stacked up on the table. She was just finishing her makeup when Jim plopped down in the empty seat across of her. He startled her.
        “Jim, what are you doing here?” She snapped her compact shut and closed her laptop. “I’m working.”
        “I know. That’s why I’m here. We never finished our discussion about this work of yours. You keep walking out. I’m here to talk some sense into you.”
        “Jim, give it a rest.” She slipped her laptop into her bag. “We’ve been over this a hundred times. I’m laid off. No one is hiring, and the rent is due. Gayle is doing me a favor by letting me learn the escort business. I told you, it isn’t permanent. Just till I get back on my feet.”
       “I know what you said and I don’t trust this Gayle person. Once you start down the road of prostitution-“
       “Oh come on, Jim. I’m an escort, not a prostitute. I don’t stand on the corner. I have a web site. It’s all perfectly legal. There’s no pimp. I’m an independent person in all this. Now run along, Jim. I’m meeting someone in five minutes.”
       Jim took her hand. “For God’s sake, sis. I’ve got a bad feeling about all this. Come on home with me and I’ll support you until the right job comes along. You don’t have to do this.”
       A car honked outside and Suzy got up. “Crap,” she said ignoring Jim. “I lost my earring. Oh well. Look, I’ll call you later. That’s my client. Go home, Jim”
       Suzy disappeared out the door before Jim could speak again. She spied the Blue Honda at the curb and dashed toward the open door. As she stooped down, she glanced at the driver.
       “You? What are doing here?” she uttered before the driver yanked her violently into the car. She started to scream and fight, but her cries were covered by the rain and howling wind. A right hook to the jaw ended her struggle against the attacker and he reached across her limp body to shut the door. Her foot still hung over the edge of lip of the door and as he pulled it into the car, her black sandal slipped off and disappeared under the car.
       “Oh well,” her date said and drove off into the storm.  A few minutes later Jim appeared. He raced through the rain to the subway entrance and never saw the shoe. He was going home to wait for her phone call.

       The next morning, Sid Goldstein, was outside the Café Orlin sweeping the sidewalk. Branches, leaves, twigs, and mud littered the walk. Sid was the day shift dishwasher but he always swept before they opened for breakfast. Ben, the morning waiter walked by, and waved.
       “Hell of a storm last night, wasn’t it?” Ben remarked. “Good thing you were off. You missed all that commotion. Traffic was backed up for miles.”
       Sid nodded. He didn’t speak much. A professional dishwasher of sorts, Sid had moved to New York City from Atlantic City. Before that, he had enjoyed Phoenix and Albuquerque. Large crowds were easy to hide in. Dish washing was just a way to pay for the gas for the Honda. Driving out to Long Island every weekend was expensive. But that was where his real job was.
       Then he saw the shoe standing right on the curb where she must have dropped it last night. What a prize. He glanced around to make sure he was alone and then hugged it to his chest. Later he found her silver loop earring by the door. He couldn’t wait to go home to place these trophies beside his others, next to the clips of hair, rings, and scarves.  He would treasure them always.
       Detective Smith was supervising the removal of four bodies found in the bush right off Gilgo Beach on Long Island. He watched as the ETs carried the last body, covered with a blanket, toward the ambulance parked some distance away.
       “Serial killer, huh?” Office Smith stood beside him, filling out information on a report.
       “Probably. Similarities to the Albuquerque and Atlantic City killings. Assaulted, strangled, and then dumped in a remote location. He continues until finally someone stumbles across the bodies or gets away. Then he moves on.”
       One of ETs suddenly went down on one knee in the soft sand. The body slide half way off the gurney and a black sandal fell at the detective’s feet. He gingerly picked it up using his pen and placed it back on the gurney as the ETs struggled to secure the body. He noticed that the victim’s other foot was missing the corresponding shoe. Perplexed, he looked at the ETs.
       “There was only one shoe, honest,” one answered. “One earring too.”
       The detective nodded. “Somewhere out there is a black sandal that belongs to this poor woman, and some bastard knows exactly where it is and he’s no Prince Charming. We already have Cinderella.”

Happy birthday Dad!

This post is dedicated to my Dad, who turns 53 today. My family has a great tradition of making scrapbooks for people on major birthdays, including stories from extended family and LOTS of pictures. For one of my Dad's major birthdays (50th I think), I made a page that listed a lot of memories I had with my Dad. I thought I would share a few with you.

The day my sister was born: This is the very first memory I have of being alive.


I was almost three years old when my sister, Beth, was born. My Dad doesn't usually cook, but since my Mom gave birth, Dad had to step up to make breakfast for me. Scrambled eggs are one of the few things my Dad knows how to make. At the time, I did NOT like scrambled eggs. I remember watching my Dad make the scrambled eggs and either saying or thinking, "Dad, I do not like scrambled eggs. I don't understand why you're making them for me because I will not eat them." Being only three years old, I doubt I succinctly expressed my issues with the meal to my father, and either threw a fit or ate them (because I was such a good daughter, of course). I slipped back into unconsciousness after this event so I don't remember how the meal ended.


The day I broke my sister's arm: This is both Dad's and my least favorite memory, but I will share it with you anyway.

First, I must preface this story with another story from earlier the same day. During the summer after kindergarten, the Slip n' Slide made its debut at our house, and let's just say it was my FAVORITE THING EVER. I used it so much, I wore holes into it. I was always trying to find new ways to go down it because the usual (safe-ish) way got old after a while. To spice things up, I decided to go down, palms up. You can imagine where this is going. As fate would have it, my middle finger got caught in one of the holes, bending my finger backwards and fracturing a bone in my hand. It started to turn purple and swell up, but my parents figured I had just bruised it (I guess?).

Now, to the rest of the story. At our old house in rural Virginia, we had a large front yard that was the perfect size for playing baseball (at least for a six-year old). My sister and I loved to play in the evenings, and even though I had a fractured, swollen hand, I decided to play anyway. No pain, no gain, right? I was pitching, my Dad was in the outfield, and Beth was up to bat. Tossed her a ball and she smacked it towards Dad. She's running the bases, and Dad throws it to me. I chase her to home, and as she slides in, I try to tag her out with my foot. Snap! went her arm like a twig. She starts crying like crazy, I start crying like crazy, and my Dad is freaking out. Off to the hospital! X-rays confirm her arm is broken, and while we're there, the doctor checks out my hand. X-rays confirm it's fractured. My parents are asked to leave the room, and the doctor asks a social worker to come in and ask my sister and I what the heck happened to us. We're both still balling. I feel so guilty, and we tell her exactly what happened - me explaining how I broke my hand on the Slip n' Slide (you can't make that up) and then how I am a jerk of a sister and broke Beth's arm. They bought the story, and Dad took us home. Beth was the center of attention with her cute, little cast and her story about how her sister broke her arm.

And Beth has never let me forget it.


One more story that I did not include in the original post: When I was in 7th grade, I was having a hard time making friends, you know, the usual teen angst. My Dad decided to go to work a bit later than usual and give me a ride to school. I was more than happy to ride with him instead of take the bus (I HATED riding the bus, but that's a story for another time). He knew something was up and that I seemed kinda down. So instead of give me a pep talk, he decided to start singing "I Feel Pretty" from West Side Story. It was just about the most hilarious thing my Dad has ever done, and I had the song stuck in my head for the rest of the day. Every time I hear that song, I remember that time in the car with my Dad.  

Some other memories include:
• We would play on the playground at DuPont
• You took me to Father-Daughter days at DuPont
• I ate way too much ice cream at a DuPont carnival
• We fed the ducks at the Gypsy Hill Park
• We sat out cookies for Santa (i.e., Dad) every year.
• The snow piled high outside and we made snow cream
• I ran into the only tree in our yard while riding a sled
• We traveled to Virginia Tech for football games
• “That’s all I need…and this lamp.”
• We went to Staunton Braves baseball games
• “It made me so mad!”
• We watched the A’s play in an amazing game at the Oakland Coliseum

Happy birthday, Dad!

Ten Years

I was writing a post about the construction of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge and all the Chinese steel that is going into it, but another matter is more pressing and more interesting to write about.

"The future is built on brains, not prom court, as most people can tell you after attending their high school reunion." - Anna Quindlen

Today, I set up a Facebook group to start the planning of my ten year high school reunion. That's what I get for running for class president - the opportunity to plan reunions until the day I die. When I decided to run (and campaign like my life depended on it), I had no idea that I would have this responsibility after graduation. To be honest, as soon as graduation was over, I was hoping to be done with Buffalo Gap. High school wasn't a bad experience, but many things occurred that I could have done without: a boyfriend who dumped me in front of "everyone" at school, a teacher who called me the "worst class president" she's ever dealt with because I missed one meeting, and Girls State where I realized I would never EVER join a sorority.

But a lot of great things happened too. I attended the Shenandoah Valley Governor's School, played on the inaugural varsity soccer team (we lost almost every game 9-0, but I was in the best shape of my life!), learned "Lytton Latin," and made lifelong friends. I have already reconnected with old classmates that I haven't heard from in years. Some say, though, that Facebook has killed the need for high school reunions at all. Part of me agrees, but part of the fun of reunions is to actually see classmates, meet their husbands or wives, figure out who changed the most, who lost all the weight, who was a nerd and became a dreamboat, who turned out to be gay.

Any guesses on the over/under of classmates with babies?

Movin' on up!

Mike and I just moved into our new place, and boy, did we have a lot of stuff to move! Since we both love to cook and have lived on our own before, we had a lot of duplicates: electric mixers, cups and plates, wine glasses, TVs. So I've been on Craigslist a lot lately trying to get rid of a few things. Speaking of which, does anyone need a fake Christmas tree? That's right, we have two Christmas trees...

But what was even funnier was all the things we needed to buy. Shelves for picture frames, a stronger stand for our 29-gallon fish tank, a kitchen trash can, a small table for our record player. So many things left the apartment to go to Goodwill or a new home, but so many things came in, too. This move has allowed me to take stock in the things I own and what the actual value is. Do I really need to keep all these books I've read or have no plans to ever read? four different types of volumizer for fine hair? No. Thirty bottles of wine? Yes, those are very important (I'm not kidding). My mother's paintings? Heck yeah, those are going up on my wall! 

Duck Confit via Cooking for Geeks

What matters most is that Mike and I make more room for our friends and family in our new life, not all the stuff. Dear God that sounds sappy, but it's true. That means sharing those bottles of wine spontaneously or learning how to make a new dish together, like duck confit (Mike is playing with the duck head as I write this), or offering our futon to a friend on the move (you know who you are). 

And now I am going to read "How to be a Domestic Goddess."

M.I.A. but with Good Reason

I apologize for my blogging absence. I have been traveling like it's my job, and as I write this, I am sitting in the Oakland airport waiting for a flight to Chicago. At the beginning of the month, I traveled to Seattle for a conference. Seattle is an amazing city, and I think we all agreed that its restaurants have the best happy hours ever!

From Peru!

From Peru!

On May 12, Mike and I left for a ten-day trip in Peru, which included hiking the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu and eating guinea pig. The trip was amazing! I wouldn't call it a vacation because there was nothing relaxing about it. I think adventure is a more appropriate term. The trek itself was the most physically-demanding thing I've ever done, but every sore muscle was worth it. We saw Incan ruins everywhere, camped under a starry sky for three nights, saw gorgeous orchids all along the trail, and had the best camp food imaginable. We woke up early on the last day to see the sunrise at Machu Picchu. As the sun began to light up the mountains behind Machu Picchu, the clouds swirled around and finally reveled the ancient city. Absolutely incredible. I took almost 500 pictures, but I've narrowed it down to 120 for you to view.

One is always prepared for potential culture shock when visiting a new place, especially one with a large population in poverty. But what about the culture shock of returning to America?

Well, our plane is getting ready to take off now. Off to another adventure!

Earth Day

I didn't realize it was Earth Day until I was reading a Facebook post encouraging everyone to take public transportation, drink tap water, and pick up trash around their neighborhood. When I was at Virginia Tech, we used to have a large celebration on the Drillfield with the cycling club tuning up bikes for free and groups selling Earth Day t-shirts made of organic cotton. In Berkeley, I didn't see any celebrations, but I would be incredibly surprised if nothing was going on. Maybe I need to get out of lab more often...

I didn't know much about the history of Earth Day until I read the Wikipedia article detailing its inception. Earth Day was founded by Senator Gaylord Nelson, who was also an environmental activist and is always held on April 22nd. Senator Nelson came up with the idea after the major oil spill off the coast of Santa Barbara in 1969, which ranks 3rd after Deepwater Horizon and Exxon Valdez spills. Washington was not responding effectively to the situation, and the disaster significantly affected wildlife. So Senator Nelson decided to set up a "teach-in" modeled after those that focused on the war in Vietnam. This first Earth Day on April 22, 1970, marked the beginning of the environmental movement. And now you know how Earth Day began.

When I typed in "Earth Day" and "China" into Google, I came across a blog on the San Francisco Chronicle website discussing this very subject. China is facing a major environmental crisis as its waters and air become more and more polluted each day. Its lax regulations allow multinational (and Chinese) companies to escape the laws that protect the environment from toxic dumping. While China is trying to address environmental concerns with its announcement of a 40-year plan, its growing economy and population will make serious action difficult. They cannot continue with "business as usual," to burn the short supply of coal for electricity or refuse to beef up environmental and safety regulations. Otherwise, they can look forward to more disasters like the toxic spills in the Songhua River and thicker air pollution.

And while our environmental standards are higher than China's at the moment, we are certainly not saints when it comes to protecting our environment. We need to accept that our giant cars and inefficient coal plants are affecting the climate. Earth Day reminds us to take a look at our footprint - and do something about it.

Cheap American Labor - Wait, what?

The other title I wanted to give this post was "Swedish Bastards," but I have several friends in Sweden and love them dearly. Also, I couldn't resist posting this image with it, so I apologize if I offended you.

For those of you like me who love Ikea, the following article is a good read: Ikea's U.S. factory churns out unhappy workers. My favorite quote: "It's ironic that Ikea looks on the U.S. and Danville the way that most people in the U.S. look at Mexico," Street said.

And everything I would say about it can be found here: Ikea's Third World outsourcing adventure - in the U.S. Thanks to Katie for the link!

This story is certainly going to put a damper on my next trip to Ikea when my boyfriend buy furniture for our new apartment! It's hard not to sound excited though...

In the Papers

A couple weeks ago, my mother sent me a few articles from The Straits Times in Singapore. No, it was not about the murder of a cat. The articles were about good things going on in China. She's always been a contrarian, bless her heart. And now she's trying to change my mind about China and all the terrible things that are happening. Right? Aren't people unhappy?

The titles of the articles were:

China farmers' online sales bearing fruit: Website sales boost their incomes, helping close the gap between rich and poor

Wanted - Super Maids: Demand in Chinese cities for competent domestic help surges

Young migrants opt to stay put in China cities: Overburdened cities find it tough to integrate those who decide not to return to villages after work stint

In the first story, the Chinese farmers find a way to sell their vegetables and fruit to the cities through the agricultural trading website. For one woman, 55-year old Wang Yulan, her yearly income doubled to over $5,000 and she doesn't have to leave her home to sell her goods. Addressing the growing gap between the rich and poor is high on the list of Chinese officials. They understand that having this gap can lead to discontent, unrest, and ultimately revolt (maybe U.S. officials should take a cue from China...). There are still many issues including access to health care and developers grabbing land, but this story is an example of improvements for poor, rural farmers.

"Wanted - Super Maids" was a really fun article to read, and I apologize for not being able to find it online for you. At the top of the page, my mother wrote, "Not all is gloom and doom in China!" The story is about contest on Chinese national television that could be called "China's Next Top Maid." Teams of maids compete for the title of Top Maid and also for special contracts. For example, one of the maids in a contest won a contract for 5,000 yuan a month, making her the highest paid housekeeper in the Hunan province. The demand for maids is so high that Chinese are hiring Filipinos illegally (sound familiar?) because these maids can speak English and are known to keep house well. One agency even auctioned the services of 10 "super maids" at the Special Talent Auction. The pay for maids is also pulling university graduates away from potential jobs they would obtain with their degree.

At the top of the last article, my mom wrote "A reason to buy Chinese Products!" This article follows 21-year-old Li Biying, who works at an underwear factory. She started working at the factory when she was 14, making the lining of bra cups. For every 12 pieces she makes, she earns 20 cents. If you know how much a Victoria's Secret bra costs, you probably have steam coming out your ears. But Li loves her work. She has assimilated into the urban culture and wears high-heeled boots with faux fur to work. Not everything is perfect for Li. She works 14-hour days, only has one day off a month, and her dorm only gets 20 minutes of hot water a day. It's probably better than her life in rural China.

So what should I take from all of this? As I wrote this, I realized that many parallels exist between China and America. Immigration issues, the gap between the rich and poor, urbanization, the list goes on and on. How we address our growing urban population, the need for health care for everyone, our energy use, and our role on the world stage may give China insight into how to solve its own problems.

Or maybe we'll learn something from them. Thanks for keeping me optimistic, Mom.

So sad.

The tragedy that struck Japan last Friday is unimaginable. Sure, they're used to earthquakes but not a 9.0 that causes a 30-foot tsunami. Watching the videos of the water destroying the lives of so many broke my heart, and knowing that this is only the beginning for the country is unfathomable. 

Japan has a special place in my heart. My dad worked for Dupont, which had a textiles manufacturing facility in Shiga, Japan. When I was very young, one of the Japanese engineers came to Virginia to work at the facility in Waynesboro. Shin brought his wife, Atsuko, and daughter, Emi, who was a few years older than me. My mom and Atsuko became fast friends. From what I remember, Atsuko had a son while she was in America so he was a little older than my sister. We had many play dates at their apartment complex because they had a pool! One time, we had the family over at Easter to hunt for Easter eggs. Emi quickly learned that the best way to get the eggs was to follow me around because I had a terrible habit of tipping my basket. All my eggs would fall out behind me (I didn't notice until the hunt was over) and she ended up with all the eggs! I think there are pictures of me crying with an empty basket and Emi is just smiling.

Atsuko was a classical pianist and taught piano while she was in Waynesboro. When they moved back to Japan, they left their piano with us and I learned to play on it. We still have it, and I play it every time I go home on breaks. When I was in 8th grade, they invited me to visit them in Kyoto, Japan, for two weeks. It was the first time I had ever left the United States and was a ridiculously long plane ride. But I had the best time. I ate sushi and almost threw up. I went to Buddhist temples, ate tofu for breakfast, and did a lot of shopping. 

Throughout the years, we have stayed in touch, and my parents attended Emi's wedding a few years ago. They send us Christmas presents each year, even though most Japanese don't celebrate Christmas - Atsuko fell in love with the holiday while she was in Virginia. Emi and her husband live in Tokyo while Atsuko and Shin live near Osaka. 

We have heard from Shin since the earthquake, and he let us know that everyone is ok. He wrote my dad, "It is my first time that I experienced such large earthquake on the 20th floor of tall building in Osaka but it is really scary." Emi is expecting her second child in a few weeks. 

I wish it did not take this kind of tragedy to make me realize how important this Japanese family was in shaping who I am today.

“When something does not insist on being noticed, when we aren't grabbed by the collar or struck on the skull by a presence or an event, we take for granted the very things that most deserve our gratitude.” - Cynthia Ozick

Cover Story of Wired Magazine

While I was in line at Berkeley Bowl, I was browsing the many magazines at the checkout counter as we waited. I usually pick out the latest Vanity Fair, and I have learned about many topics from this magazine, including Ralph Lauren's ridiculous car collection or Justin Bieber's jam-packed life.

This time, the cover of Wired magazine caught my eye. It said, "1 Million Workers. 90 Million iPhones. 17 Suicides. Who’s to Blame?" The piece opens by mentioning the noticeable nets around Foxconn, the company who manufactures Apple products and was the focus of Mike Daisey's "The Agony and the Ecstasy of Steve Jobs." As I read the article, I was expecting the author, who toured the Foxconn facility, to say that he was saddened by the conditions in the plant, that he couldn't believe that people worked in these conditions, etc.

Not the case. Instead, he writes:

It’s likely that your job will require you to sit or stand in place for most of your shift. Maybe you grab components from a bin and slot them into circuit boards as they move down a conveyer. Or you might tend a machine, feeding it tape that holds tiny microprocessors like candy on paper spools. Or you may sit next to a refrigerator-sized machine, checking its handiwork under a magnifying glass. Or you could sit at a bench with other technicians placing completed cell-phone circuit boards into lead-lined boxes resembling small kilns, testing each piece for electromagnetic interference.

If you have to go to the bathroom, you raise your hand until your spot on the line can be covered. You get an hour for lunch and two 10-minute breaks; roles are switched up every few days for cross-training. It seems incredibly boring—like factory work anywhere in the developed world.

I was somewhat taken aback. What do you mean the conditions are the same as they are in the developed world? What happened to the terrible, repetitive motion? The 15 hour days? The crammed living conditions? Well, the author asserts that during his tour of the facility, he saw workers laughing together on the "campus" and visited living quarters that resembled a college dorm.

While he writes all this, he also says that our eyes should be on Foxconn because of the overtime they often require of their workers. And comforting ourselves with the notion that our consumerism is making both our lives and the lives of the workers better only causes guilt.

When that small appeasement is challenged even slightly, when that thin, taut cord that connects our consumption to the nameless millions who make our lifestyle possible snaps even for a moment, the gulf we find ourselves peering into—a yawning, endless future of emptiness on a squandered planet—becomes too much to bear.

When 17 people take their lives, I ask myself, did I in my desire hurt them? Even just a little?

And of course the answer, inevitable and immeasurable as the fluttering silence of our sun, is yes.

Just a little.

For me, it is too much to bear, and I will continue my quest for a more thoughtful consumer lifestyle.

The cat came back...

You may have been wondering what happened to the cat in my mother's story. Well, within a day, my mom had a response. Due to the violent nature of this story, reader discretion is advised.

And now I present the prequel to "The Coffin in the Backyard," titled "The Tragic Tail of the Cat."

The white, obese cat sat like a statue on the lid of the next door neighbor's trash can, sniffing the air. Aromas of fish, rotting lunch meat, and other wonderful goodies floated up into the cat's nostrils. Willow often visited the neighbors for a morning snack in the trash. He wasn't supposed to be out on his own, but Betty had forgotten to slam the back screen door shut all the way. Instead, poor Betty stood at the front door watching her husband, Jack, pile up his suitcases.

"Don't look for me, Betty. You won't find me. I'm leaving you and this miserable life behind. You'll be hearing from my lawyer, and I'll want the house."

Betty said nothing, not a word as her husband carried his heavy suitcases outside to the car. Betty went inside to find the cat for comfort. At the same time, the garage door of the neighbor began to go up. The cat, looking for more adventures, darted quickly inside running over the foot of the woman, Debbie, next door.

"Stupid cat," she muttered. "Get out of my garage or I'll make gloves out of you." She kicked at the cat, but it jumped on top of the car, out of her reach for the moment. Jack appeared at her side and hugged her.

"Ready to go? Where are your suitcases?" he asked.

"In the kitchen. Help me carry them, honey. Did you get the money?"

"We'll stop by the bank on the way to the airport. How about you? "

She shook her head. "Ron doesn't have a clue. Drained all the accounts. He won't know what hit him."

Debbie walked up the steps and opened the garage door leading into to the kitchen. "Hello," Ron said as Debbie stepped through the threshold. "Going somewhere?" In a quick motion, Ron buried a long knife in Debbie's chest. She crumbled like paper to the floor, a red stain spreading over her silk blouse. Jack almost tripped over her, his shoes splattered with blood.

"What the hell?" he managed to utter, backing out the door. He missed a step down and fell hard onto the hard cement floor, scraping the car bumper on his way down. The cat landed on his chest, hissed, and dug its claws into his jacket. Jack grabbed frantically at the cat to shake it off of him, but it held tight. Cat hair in his face, Jack couldn't see. He turned over, cat hanging from his chest, and tried to get to his feet. As he leaned on the car, he felt Ron's knife cut through his spinal cord with such force that the cat was impaled on his chest. Neither had a thought after that. They both fell in a heap at Ron's feet.

Outside Betty was combing the backyard, yelling, "Willow, Willow, come home now. I have your favorite kibbles!" She was thinking it was odd that Jack's car was still in the driveway. Why was the trunk open? She'd look into that as soon as she found the cat.

Ron shook his head sadly. Betty was going to miss that cat. He walked around the car and lowered the garage door. The street was empty and all was quiet in the neighborhood. Then he turned to the old freezer he had recently cleaned out and plugged back in. It was a good thing he didn't let Debbie sell it. Now it was going to be a godsend. He reached for the garbage bags on the shelf. After he wrapped and stored the bodies, he would have some cleaning to do.

Later he found the Home Depot card his wife had given him for Christmas and ordered some wood planks to be delivered. He knew it would be the first place anyone would look, but he would bury them in the backyard. Then he would redeposit the money he had found in Debbie's pocketbook. Overall, his day off had been very productive. 

Too bad about the cat.

Story Time!

My mother, Donna, is a member of a writers club, and part of this club includes writing short stories given a prompt. For example, one prompted started with "My mother never..." and my mom ended up writing a great story about a woman who ends up on death row.

So one night, I was walking by a neighbor's yard, and in the back I noticed a man building a large, wooden box. It looked just like a coffin, and for some reason, the prompt came into my head, "I knew the coffin he was building was for me." Yesterday, I told my mom about my prompt idea and she definitely ran with it.

Now I would like to present her short story:

After Jack left me, I had a lot of time to think. I got used to sitting in the dark in my purple lawn chair with a glass of red wine, contemplating the woes of the world and my own personal hell. Jack, my husband for fifteen years, had decided to start a new life with "the other woman" two weeks ago, packed his clothes, and drove away to some meeting point. "The Other Woman" must have been rich because he hadn't deleted our joint bank account, drained the savings, or cashed in our 401K. I wasn't left to struggle with gambling bills, mounting debts, or a foreclosure like Mrs. Yancy down the street. No, Jack had been kind. I missed him, but things could have been worse.

Friday night, all dressed up and no where to go, I was relaxing in a wine stupor in my favorite lawn chair when I was brought back to consciousness by a pounding noise. As I lifted my head up, I realized my neighbor was building something in his yard behind my six foot wood fence. I got up and moved to the fence. Light was coming through the seams and leaned over the hedge where I could see Ron, my neighbor, pounding on some pine boards. He was over by his shed, a portable light hooked up with an extension cord. A pile of pine planks were by his side as well as his hound dog Fred. The front of the shed was flung open and I could see his table saw had been pulled out. Wood shavings littered the yard. Ron was busy nailing a large box together, pulling nails he stored in his mouth to pound into the lumber.

Odd, I thought. It looked like a coffin. Ron, I knew, was a postman. He left before I did, dressed in his blue uniform and hat. This box. Was he shipping something big? I hadn't realize that Ron had been so handy at carpentry. Bang. Bang. The pounding continued as the box took the shape of a long rectangle. Then, as if he realized someone was watching, he glanced up. I felt his eyes meet mine and I pulled back. Quickly I retreated to my screen door. As I locked it behind me, I still thought the box looked like a coffin. Maybe it was the wine talking. Why would he be doing that?

The next night as I took out my new bottle of Pinot Noir and settled in my usual lawn chair on the patio, I watched the sun set. As the darkness came, I noticed that my neighbor had on his back porch lights. The pounding was done. Curious about his project, I crept up to the fence again and peered between the panels. The box was gone, but I saw a blue tarp beside the shed covering a lump. Yes, the box was finished.

Suddenly my eye caught movement in the yard. I strained across the hedge to catch a glimpse of Ron digging a hole in his yard. He was now up to his waist, shovel working at a fevered pace. Again Fred stood like a silent soldier at the edge of the hole watching as the dirt flew over him and landed in a neat pile beside him.

I went back to my lawn chair and opened the wine. Sipping the first glass, I realized Ron was going to bury something in his back yard. Something large. Maybe in that coffin of his. After the second glass, I remembered his wife Debbie. I wondered what she thought about his project in the back yard. I had often seen her out washing her car in her red bikini, walking Fred in her skimpy pjs, and waving goodbye to me from her kitchen window when I left for work. I hadn't seen her lately but I couldn't imagine that Ron and Debbie had problems. She seemed so perfect, so cute, so happy. She was always volunteering to fed my cat when I was gone on a business trip. Jack hated my cat. I'm pretty sure he killed it when he left because it was also missing.

After I finished the bottle, I gave up any lucid thought and went back into the house. I left Ron to his hole.

Sunday night came. Fortified by two glasses of Australian merlot, I again slipped up to the fence. Ron was throwing grass seed from a Lowe's bag over the fresh dirt that now covered the hole. The tarp was gone, the wood put away, and the yard freshly mowed. Fred was rolling a ball around on the ground, hoping his master would soon come play with him. After all, the work was all done.

I gasped and Ron looked up.

"Betty, you there?" he asked, rolling the now empty bag up in his arms.

"Yeah," I answered meekly.

"You saw?"

"I saw," I acknowledged.

"Jack's in there too," he said calmly. "They're both in there. Thought you should know. You can call the police if you want. I would understand."

"Jack and Debbie?" I asked.

"Yes,"

"Thanks Ron."

"You're welcome."

I went back to my lawn chair in the dark and my open bottle. It was going to be a good year after all.

Let me know what you think! You can check out her blog too.

A Little Bit Closer...

Today a friend sent me a link to an interview with one of the Apple founders, Steve Wozniak. He went to see Mike Daisey's "The Agony and the Ecstasy of Steve Jobs" at the Berkeley Repertory Theatre, and he said "I will never be the same after seeing that show."

It was great to hear that someone in within the Apple corporation was also significantly affected by Daisey's performance. We can only hope that the others like the COO and acting CEO Tim Cook will not dismiss the suffering of Chinese workers for the company's gain. As Wozniak aptly put it, "The emotions and understanding and moral feelings that Mike brings out are very strong and could be a threat to Apple's future, even though they are only simmering now."

Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak (with the beard)

Galoshes

The weather in Berkeley was beautiful (near the 70s!) until last Wednesday when it started to rain cats and dogs. Whenever it rains in Berkeley, there's a very good chance that it is snowing in Tahoe, the home of fantastic mountains for skiing and snowboarding. My friends, who have passes to the ski resorts, were ready for the snow, and oh my goodness did it snow. One friend told me that he and his seven friends shoveled the drive way to their cabin for almost two hours and got about 3 feet of snow in one night. Many of the slopes received 5 to 7 feet of snow. A little much for me, but I'm not an avid skier.

Instead of heading for the mountains, my boyfriend and I headed for San Francisco for our belated Valentine's Day celebrations. It was still raining, so I decided against a dress and traded it for skinny jeans and galoshes. We headed to the BART station and were merrily on our way when we got to the MacArthur station. Our train attendant said over the intercom, "There are NO trains going to San Francisco at this time. If you are heading to San Francisco, get off this train now. Go downstairs and the BART employees will tell you how to get to the city."

This was at 6:30 pm on a Friday night - i.e., the train was not empty. Tons of people rushed downstairs to the exit to find out what to do. One guy told us that buses were coming to pick us all up and take us to Embarcadero. Another woman said to get on the Emeryville Go-Round and get off at 41st to take the F bus across the bay. And another guy had no idea what was going on. Thank god this wasn't a real emergency because those people were clueless. The Go-Round buses were stopping at the station, but it happened to be about the time the buses stopped running. So many people were trying to get on a bus but most of the bus drivers kept yelling at people to get off and that they were out of service. So much for communication between BART and the Go-Round service. Finally one driver was willing to take as many people as he could to 41st, so we crammed onto the bus.

When we arrive at 41st, an F was waiting for us! But it was packed with the people who beat us there. And how often does the F run? Every half hour. That's right. And it was cold and raining. So we waited, and about 5 minutes before the F arrived, a woman at the stop heard from her friend that the BART was running again. Yeah, I was not happy and I couldn't feel my toes.

The F finally came, and we rode it over the Bay Bridge to the Embarcadero. The restaurant, Cafe Claude, was great! It was quite a romantic spot - dim lighting and live jazz in the background. And I made a great decision wearing my galoshes.

Hunter Wellies

Zetta Tall Rain Boots from Target

Did I make a good purchasing decision though? Well, when I looked into it, I found out that my galoshes were made in China. BUT they were only $25 (they were free for me because my parents bought them for me for Christmas). If I had lots of money, I would have bought a pair of Hunters, which are $125, because I thought they were made in the US or UK. Turns out though, after a little online research, that Hunter felt economic pressure in the last 5 years and had to move its production to China.

So my boots may not have the Hunter logo on them but they were a fifth of the price. If only I knew the manufacturing conditions of the galoshes factory... probably smells very strongly of rubber.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Valentine's Day is one of my favorite days of the year. A day to celebrate love is never a bad thing.


Last night, as with most nights, I had a really bizarre dream. My dreams are often extremely vivid, and I can actually feel the things that are happening. For example, a month ago I dreamed I had a pet bird that sat on my finger, and I could feel the bird's claws wrapped around my finger.

But I digress.

So last night, I dreamed that I was in lab, and suddenly an alarm rang indicating that we were under attack by large machines that smashed any buildings in their way. I knew my boyfriend was in another building, but I couldn't get to him because the machines were coming and would destroy our building at any minute. I got in the elevator (never a good idea in an emergency, but this was a dream), and a girl in the elevator told me I needed to go to the bottom floor and walk out the door very calmly. I didn't want to draw attention to myself so I did as she told me. And as I walked out the door, I saw a machine bust up the building that my boyfriend was in. I was devastated, but I knew there was nothing I could do. I went to "safe" building and waited for other survivors to arrive. While waiting, I saw some people from my lab that worked in the same building as my boyfriend walk down the hallway. And then I saw him. He was alive!

When I woke up this morning, I told my boyfriend about my dream and how real it felt. I was so thankful that it was just a dream, and he just laughed. But to me, it was a great start to Valentine's Day.

A few of my favorite things...

Today as I was getting ready for the Super Bowl, I realized I have a few things that I really like: bacon, football, and artichoke dip. So the most logical thing to do was combine them into an awesome dip for the Super Bowl. That's right, artichoke dip with bits of bacon blended in and the Packers vs. the Steelers. I had no trouble choosing a team to root for: the Packers, of course! While I didn't have any real reason to cheer for them, I decided that since the Packers beat the Bears, then the Packers better go all the way. 

To make my artichoke dip, I need freshly grated Parmesan cheese. For Christmas, my mom gave me a Microplane grater, which works really, really well. As I was using it today, I realized I didn't know where it came from. I just figured that it came from China, but I wanted to be sure. The internet informed me that it's made in the USA - huzzah! Now I can grate away with no qualms about using my Microplane. 

I wonder where footballs are made...

Chinese Democracy

Yesterday, a few friends and I watched "Please Vote for Me," a documentary that follows a third-grade class in China during the vote for a new class monitor. It's the first democratic election the kids have ever witnessed, and yet they use the same political tactics we see here. For example, one kid promises his classmates that if they vote for him, they will be part of his special committee. Another kid takes the entire class on a field trip through town on the monorail, thanks to his father's connections. It was just hysterical. It's available for instant play on Netflix, and I highly recommend it. If you want to hear a short interview with the director, check out the This American Life episode, "Kid Politics." 

Also, happy Chinese New Year!

Well, that explains the holes...

One of my friends sent me a link to a story about Forever 21. It touched on a couple things: 1) Forever 21 steals designs from other designers and 2) they barely pay their workers minimum wage. In one example picture, the dress on the left is Foley + Corinna and probably retails well over $200 while the one on the right from Forever 21 is probably $20. According to the original and much longer article in Bloomberg Businessweek, the author visited the store at the Fifth Avenue location, and noticed something.

"I notice a pair of faux-leather lace-up ankle boots that look a lot like the Jeffrey Campbell ones I'm wearing: The style is the same, so are the combination of hooks and holes for the laces and the distinctively shaped heel. Forever 21 sells the boots for $35.80, less than one-quarter the price I paid. I mention them, and Linda says brightly: 'You should buy another pair here.' "


The working conditions are another thing all together. The author writes, "... on the top floor, with no company name on the door, about 30 people are sewing gray cotton vests for Forever 21 in a small, hot room. Many of them have stuffed scraps of fabric into their noses to block the particles of material floating in the air. They're just finishing up a one-week, 10,000-piece order for which the seamstresses earn about 12 cents apiece, according to Guadalupe Hernandez, a longtime garment worker in Los Angeles. If they sew 66 vests an hour, they'll earn minimum wage." This is in America. A-mer-i-ca. 


So what can I do about it? I do love shopping at Forever 21 when I need a cheap going-out top. But almost everything I've purchased there has fallen apart fairly quickly. Maybe if it was made in 2 minutes instead of 1, it would last longer? The sweater I'm currently wearing is from Forever 21 (coincidence, huh?) and just taking a quick look at it, I can tell the sewing was, um, hurried. Sometimes, you just have to pay more.


Or go to consignment shops! Luckily in Berkeley, we have lots of choices like Buffalo Exchange, Crossroads Trading, and Sola Lucy. These stores are pretty nice, and I know that many of these stores are very picky about what they sell. I tried to sell some of my clothes at Buffalo Exchange, and I was told they were "looking for more trendy clothing" and that my clothes were "too conservative." Not the C-word! 


So as Heidi Klum would say, "Thrift stores, you're in. Forever 21, you're out. Auf wiedersehen."