Retraction.

Two months ago, This American Life (TAL), my favorite radio show of all time, ran a radio story about Mike Daisey's monologue and played part of his monologue on the show. This is the same monologue that made me start my blog. Since TAL is a journalistic show, they did their best to fact check Daisey's story. The only person they were unable to talk to was his translator, Cathy. Daisey told TAL that her real name was not Cathy, and that he had a cell phone number for her but that the cell phone number did not work anymore. TAL took him at his word and didn't pursue it any further.

This week, This American Life issued a retraction of this story. Turns out that his translator's name IS Cathy, and a China-based reporter from Marketplace tracked her down after having questions about Daisey's story. Cathy was unable to corroborate much of his most compelling stories. Examples: Daisey opens the show saying that the Foxconn plant was surrounded by security guards with big guns. But in China, no one other than the police and military is allowed to have guns. Cathy says she has never seen a gun in real life, only in the movies and TV. If these security guards had guns, she would remember. Daisey claimed to meet many underage workers that spoke to him in English about the working conditions. Cathy does not remember meeting any underage workers. Daisey told a sad story about workers who were exposed to hexane and shook so much from neurological damage, they were unable to hold a glass. While it's true that workers in other plants in China did suffer from hexane exposure, Cathy says they never met anyone with these symptoms. The list goes on and on.

When Ira Glass confronts Daisey about the lies, Daisey does admit that he made up some things or changed the timeline for theatrical effect. And even though Glass and other producers of TAL emphasized to Daisey that what is said on TAL needs to be absolutely true, Daisey allowed them to air parts of the monologue that he admits to making up or embellishing. 

Yes, Daisey's monologue is for theater and does not have to meet journalistic standards. But once it crosses the line from theater to journalism, things get fuzzy. When I saw the show, I believed every word of Daisey's monologue. There is no "disclaimer" that his story is not completely factual, and the way it's told, well, you don't question it. He says "I saw this," "I was told this," and "I am telling you this happened." You take him at his word, and what he says really affects the way you perceive work conditions, Apple, China, everything. And it didn't just affect me, it affected thousands of people who saw the monologue, heard it on TAL, or talked with someone who heard/saw the monologue.

I'm incredibly happy to hear TAL call out Daisey. But the question remains: should we feel guilty about Chinese working conditions? Is it really as bad as Daisey describes, even if he didn't see everything he claims? Many of the scenarios he describes that he didn't witness have happened in China, and when you combine them into one monologue, it makes for a very compelling, tragic story. In rare cases, some workers have committed suicide or been injured and killed in dust explosions. That hasn't changed. But China is a developing country with millions of workers who migrate to the city for work. And migrants want to make money for the families they left behind, so they may want to work incredibly long hours for more pay. That doesn't make the conditions ok. Daisey's story has raised awareness of the working conditions and has forced Apple and others to be more transparent in their inspection reports. Does that make Daisey's fibs ok?

I still don't know how to feel about all of this. Is it ok for me to buy stuff made in China? Should I feel guilty when I open my Macbook? I do know that I shouldn't let such emotional, heart-wrenching stories cloud my ability to separate fact from fiction.

What do you think? Leave a comment below!

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."