!@#$% non-Asians say to me Episode 3

So, last night I went to our office Christmas party--which was in our building. I did NOT like the food but when you order from Safeway, can't expect much. This sounds sad but I stopped by my apartment complex Christmas party just because I was hoping they would have better food. I had to find something to cancel out the bland dinner I had (It's never good when food comes from the same color wheel) where there weren't even any vegetables. Most of the food was gone at the second party. But I at least got some salad and spinach enchiladas. Unfortunately I ended up sitting down next to some 50-something year old dude named Tony, who was leaning a little too close into my personal space.

Tony: "Are you the one who's always working out next to me in the gym room?"
Me: "No. I work out outside."
Tony: "Oh. Too bad."

A few sentences after that...
Tony: "So, what ethnicity are you?"
Me: "Chinese."
Tony: "My last girlfriend was Korean."
Thought going thru my head: "Who cares? What does that have to do with anything?"
Tony: "She was actually half Korean and half Nebraskan. She was high maintenance."
Thought in my head: "Is Nebraskan an ethnicity?"
What I said: "Sorry?"
Tony: "I once had a Chinese girlfriend. I met her in Kualalumpur."
Thought running thru my head: "Did you have to give your credit card number?"
What I said: "Oh."

Anyone who knows me, knows that if I'm giving monosyllabic answers, I am NOT having a good time. Despite all that *scintillating* conversation, when I got up with the excuse of getting a drink, Tony said "Be sure to come back and sit here. I think you're cool." Blech.

True Sis-mance

I was griping to a girlfriend on the phone the other night. She's one of the best listeners I know and never makes me feel like I'm imposing on her. For a second, I was so overwhelmed with gratitude that I blurted out "Will you marry me?" Of course, I was joking and for those of you who don't know me, she's a regular girlfriend. I'm straight like someone who just got the pants scared off them. But I was thinking, if as little girls, we can sport those broken heart pendants that together, say Best Friends Forever, why can't there be something like that for when we are grown women? Especially if the hetero girlfriend is someone who's always there for you, gets your humor and helps you get back up when you fall. And why do guys get a special word like bromance? Why can't girls have one? Or is this just a gender thing? Girls are always thought of as being all BFF-ish _ wanting to talk about their issues and hug it out. And hey, there are worse people for me to combine incomes with. Can we have commitment ceremonies for best gal pals? Please?

A day to be 'free'

Sundays are my Saturdays. So sometimes it's hard to find stuff going on because all the festivals and special events are usually Saturdays. :\  I have easily allowed many a Sunday to go by without having anything to show for it except a butt print in my sofa. Yesterday as the clock struck one, I said "Damn it, I will not waste the afternoon by watching whatever crap TV is on." So I heaved myself off the papa san and decided to go out--but only doing stuff that was free of charge.

Stop #1: Rio Salado Audubon Center
I have never been here in all my years of living in Phoenix. For some reason, I always thought it was super-far. Turns out, it's only a couple miles from the heart of downtown. It came to my attention through my friend Taz. Walking around here, you do feel removed from the city despite being able to see the high rise buildings in the distance. The center houses photos of flora and fauna native to the Southwest, a learning area for students, a gift shop and other displays. Outside, you can navigate an interpretive trail or read up on fish and plant life around a habitat. It's definitely bike-friendly and they offer a lot of free programs.
For more info: http://riosalado.audubon.org/

Stop #2: Micro Dwelling (For more info: http://microdwelling.net/)
At the bottom of my purse, I found a flyer I got the day before at the Arizona Local First! Festival. A man in his 80s was handing them out and my friend Jim thrust one into my hand. What stuck out in my memory is that this was free.So, from the Audubon Center, I drove over to 50th Street and Camelback. About 10 "micro dwellings" or homes smaller than 600 square feet are on display through the end of December behind the Shemer Art Center. These sustainable structures are truly impressive. They are all partially constructed of material from the scrap heap. Some have furniture so you can see that they could be liveable spaces. The most popular by far was this wooden micro dwelling that also serves as the most awesome treehouse.

There's actually a section on the lower half that contains a chalkboard for kids to draw on. This was crawling with children a short time before I took this photo.

The idea for this entire show came from Patrick McCue, a Phoenix firefighter who loves to build stuff in his spare time. He had been pitching this idea since 2000 but it's only come together for the first time this year. His brother Terry, also a firefighter who builds, helped him organize and build one (a firefighter named Terry...yay!). This is theirs:

Patrick and Terry said they plan to move this into a warehouse after the show and use it as a place to meet with clients, visitors, etc.

When I first arrived, I saw that elderly gentleman who first gave me the flyer. Turns out, he's Pat and Terry's father, LOL. Gerry and his wife Marge have been longtime advocates of historic preservation in Phoenix. They are also an entertaining pair in their own right. In fact, after talking with them, I got an idea of something to add to my next travel story. :)  After speaking with them, I got to chat with Terry and Pat. Pretty soon it was time for the show to close for the day. As I got ready to go, Pat and one of the artists, Hector _ who also works part-time at Pizzeria Bianco _ invited me to join them for dinner. So, this would lead to an impromptu stop #3...

Stop #3: The Garage
The Garage bar and restaurant, which is at the corner of Bethany Home Road and 16th Street, used to be an actual automotive garage before it became a place to dine. I found out Pat actually did a lot of refabrication of everything from old signs to old tires to a plane propeller for the restaurant's decor. So, everyone in a management position there knows him. Pat got there last because he was saying hi to people. As soon as he got to our table, he didn't even say hello. He said "How would you like to go to the men's room with me?" I thought he was making a weird joke but no. Pat beckoned me and Hector. He said he had something to show us. We go into the restroom and he starts pointing out all these framed metal objects he refurbished and how he did it. The best part: A poor innocent guy walks into the restroom to see all three of us gathered by the sink gazing intently at the wall. I tried to explain but five words in, the guy just said "It's no problem. I can go anyway" and shuts the stall door behind him. If I wasn't red, I should have been.

Show and tell didn't end there. Luckily, the wait for our food was hastened by Pat having us stand in the center of the restaurant so he could point out other stuff on the walls and even one of the columns. The whole thing was pretty interesting. I'll never look at The Garage the same way! LOL. Once we started eating, I got to hear all kinds of funny stories about his firefighting--one of which involved horse urine. Anyway...it was a great conversation that also yielded some future stories I'd like to pursue. I can't help but think this wouldn't have happened if I hadn't decided to go be more exploratory. Here's the lesson kids...it never hurts to get out more.

A tree as a reminder

You know how you have that moment when as a kid where you realize for the first time, the world can suck? It's not always a sunny place where people play nice and behave and consider whether their actions have consequences.

While I've been in Sunnyvale visiting with family, I went jogging and passed this tree outside my old elementary school, Ponderosa. This tree reminds me when that moment happened to me. I remember when this tree was planted. I was in 5th grade. My classmates and I gathered out here for a ceremony on Arbor Day 1989. The tree was planted to honor the memory of a classmate, Ricki Saxon, and her mother and her 9-month-old brother. All three were killed in November 1988 by a drunk driver. I still remember the day my 5th grade teacher broke the news to the entire class and I was completely taken aback. You get used to seeing all your classmates every day. It was hard to imagine that I wouldn't see Ricki again. I didn't know her that well but we had played together during recess now and then with other girls. Even then, you could tell with her long, wavy brown tresses and her face with just the right number of freckles, she was going to be a magnet for boys. She seemed like the perfect, all-American girl. She was also the daughter of a Girl Scout leader and, if I remember correctly, she liked to dance. It's hard for me to believe that it's been 24 years and I'm now older than her mother was when she passed. I remember as a kid, thinking about how there were these kinds of monsters out there who could take one of our schoolmates away forever. The fact that it was because a man made a stupid error in judgement made it even more senseless.

When I was in 5th grade, nobody ever told me much about the man behind the wheel, except that he had sustained a broken leg. Well, today, I still didn't know much. So, I went into journalism-mode and did a public records search on the man after finding some old newspaper briefs on the collision. Back then, he was a 23-year-old mechanic who was also an alcoholic. His friends that night tried three times unsuccessfully to stop him from driving. His parents had spent thousands of dollars in the past trying to treat his alcoholism. Nobody it seems prevented him from going on the road that morning and killing three people. In the end, he was sentenced 15 years to life in prison. But, in my records search, I turned up a man with the same name and right age currently living in a house in Sunnyvale, not too far from where my parents live _ something I can't help but be perturbed by. Part of me wants to knock on his door and ask if he thinks about what he's done every day and is he living life as someone who stops and thinks about his actions first. But I know it's not for me to ask.That would be for Ricki's family.

If I happen to be out for a run when visiting home, I do like passing by the tree. I enjoy seeing how tall it's become. As much as it reminds me of the first time I felt like our school was a sad place, I like that it makes me remember Ricki.  I like to think that maybe she knows all these years later, even her classmates that didn't know her that well haven't forgotten her.

A conversation with my Uncle Kin

I had the fun task of writing about a subject near and dear to my heart for work _ my family and their cooking. Writing about myself for work was weird. Here's what happened...I made Chinese barbecue pork using my family's method _ paper clips _ and I thought it would be funny to tweet the photo to The Associated Press food editor. He got a kick out of it and I wondered if he realized I was an AP employee, not just a follower. So I tweeted to him "if you ever reference this, I want contributing credit!" So I got an email a few days later asking me to call him. There I am in between covering news conferences on a shooting when I decided I had time to call him. He suggested I write a personal essay about this paper-clip technique but through the prism of our family traditions in the kitchen. My Uncle Kin, who is back in the San Francisco Bay Area, is the top cook in the family and the brains behind that method. With this essay coming out, there may be other Chinese families out there who will say they've been doing barbecue pork the same way, but none of them have someone in their family who likes to write so... :p

But beyond asking about his recipe, I had a chance to interview Uncle Kin like I would anyone else.
(Me starting our phone interview: "Let's keep this professional, OK Mr. Woo?"  That didn't last very long). I had the chance to try to see him as not just my uncle. And I learned a lot of cool stuff for the first time just from our hour-long chat.

_New fact #1: I was a terrible 11-year-old kid compared to my uncle.
Uncle Kin told me he started cooking at age 11 because he saw how hard my grandparents were working. They were new immigrants living in San Francisco and putting in long hours. My grandma worked at a garment factory and my grandfather was helping out a relative's business, a gift shop. They both came home pretty late and my uncle thought it would be nice to help out and get dinner started. He would make dinner for the entire family at least a couple nights a week. Let's see...when I was 11, I remember asking my mom when she came home "what's for dinner" and "when are we eating?" I might as well have been pounding a fork and knife on the dinner table.

_New fact #2: My family once co-owned a restaurant.
So, apparently sometime in the 1950s, a deceased relative left my grandfather a restaurant in what is now San Francisco's South of Market neighborhood (SOMA). It had one of those cheesy names you'd expect for a Chinese restaurant _ Golden Harbor _ yet it was American. They served burgers, grilled cheese, etc. It was very popular among retirees--mostly Caucasian. This was ironic given my grandfather, according to Kin, could barely boil water.

_New fact #3: My uncle had 10 times the responsibility I ever had at age 15.
In junior high, Uncle Kin started helping out Golden Harbor. He says that's where he picked up how to cook American fare. By age 15, he was overseeing the entire dinner shift if the head cook was off. Let's see, when I was 15, I was meeting friends at Denny's or Carrows to eat semi-crappy American food or doing homework after school. I don't know if someone had offered to teach me to cook, would I have been interested. Plus, no Jamie Oliver back then to make food prep look cool. My uncle helped run that restaurant for more than seven years until my grandfather passed away.

For my cousins, here are some quotes from my interview with "Mr. Woo":

"The funny thing is after I cook a lot of food, I don’t really feel like eating.When other people invite me for dinner, I usually don’t lift a finger to help them. I just sit back and enjoy. There’s a certain satisfaction in hearing other people praise your food."

On people calling his char sieu "paper clip pork":

"That’s a good name. I should have thought of that. It sounds more interesting than char siu. It doesn’t sound as delicious but it’s a very interesting name."

On being a true foodie in Chinese culture:

"When I was working at a company, we took this Caucasian secretary out for dim sum. She said 'Can you order me some sweet and sour pork?' I said 'absolutely not, I’m Chinese.'"

When I said I find bonding time making "paper clip pork" with my mom:

"A family that bends paper clips together stays together."

_This leads me to fact #4: I come from a family with really corny humor...something I continue to run away from.

All in all, I highly recommend everyone "interview" someone in their family. Try to see them as more than just their family title relative to you i.e. aunt, uncle, mother, father. It's a sure bet you will learn something that will surprise you and you will definitely be richer for it.

Crack (Pie) is not Whack

Earlier this month, I decided to be ambitious and continue making non-cupcake desserts. I know, weird right? I just got a recipe book for Momofuku Milk Bar, which is based in New York City. It's owned by famed chef David Chang but run by Christina Tosi. In March, Christina taught a two-hour lesson at the Biltmore on the making of chocolate chip layer cake. But I opted for my first solo foray to make their signature Crack Pie. Supposedly it's so yummy and addictive that that is the name Milk went with. The recipe calls for something like 8 egg yolks. Fortunately, my co-worker gave me 24 eggs recently from his urban chicken coop. Score! It also calls for this brand of European butter called Plugra because it contains 82 percent butter fat, as opposed to 80 percent in grocery store brand butter. Not to sound "political," but it's all about that 1 percent! I have to confess, I misread the amount of butter and added twice as much. Gulp...guess you could call it the "Paula Deen" technique.

Crack Pie crust is basically an oatmeal cookie recipe _ butter, brown sugar, sugar, oats, baking powder, baking soda, kosher salt, flour. This separate crust is what makes this pie kind of labor intensive. Once your giant cookie is done, you have to crumble it and run it through a food processor. Then you knead melter butter and you have enough to line 2 pie tins.

The filling was pretty easy, thankfully. Egg yolks, sugar, light brown sugar, milk powder, corn powder, kosher salt, butter, heavy cream, vanilla extract. The hardest part was getting the corn powder. I forgot that it's basically getting freeze-dried corn and running it through a processor. I stupidly went to AJ's Fine Foods and asked if they had corn powder and the clerk was like "Never heard of it." Once I went home and re-read the recipe and went "Aaaaah," I went to Sprouts market. The clerk there led me to the freezer section where she said "Nope, don't carry it." I wanted to say "Obviously as 'freeze-dried' doesn't mean keep frozen." Anyway, I found myself driving at 9:30 at night to Whole Foods for the elusive kernels in the name of now a true mission.

After all this work, you divide the filling in between the two pie crusts. The filling is pretty custardy/toffee-like.

Then you bake them for 15 minutes at 350 degrees, then another 5 minutes at 325. It took a lot longer for mine; I'm pretty sure it was from my butter error. After the pies cool, you put them in the freezer for a minimum 3 hours. Luckily, freezing is the must-do step. According to the book, freezing is the "signature technique." When you're ready to serve it, you have to let it sit in the fridge for an hour. Then you can break into what is supposed to be a dense and gooey plate of addictive pie. In some ways, this was quite a bit of work. But with a name like Crack Pie, I couldn't pass it up.

!@#$% non-Asians say to me Episode 2

So, this past Sunday, I had to go to Tucson and spend the night to cover a breaking story on a 6-year-old girl who was possibly abducted. When I was finally allowed to sign off the first day and go look for lodging, I went to the nearest decent hotel, Embassy Suites.
As luck would have it, they have a complimentary breakfast buffet. So Monday morning, I wait outside the dining room for them to open at 6 a.m. (I had a 6:30 a.m. news conference to get to) They open the doors and I'm like the second customer. I of course say hello to the staff.
There was this old man with glasses, a hotel employee. English wasn't his first language. Not sure if he was Eastern European or something else. Anyway, he's standing by the door like a greeter. So of course I say "Good morning" pretty clearly. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I notice some movement. I'm like "What's he doing?" The guy is BOWING to me. I didn't get it at first until he said "O-hi-O." Oh boy....then he says "Aren't you visiting from Japan? Or are you from China?" I almost yell through gritted teeth "PHOENIX!"
Seriously, don't people get that it's a bad idea to assume that kind of stuff? I don't know if my press badge around my neck somehow made me look more "foreign." Must be my 'slanted' eyes.

!@#$% non-Asians say to me

Growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area, I am used to seeing a lot of diversity and being one of a throng of Asians. Not until moving to Phoenix have I encountered so many misfires/faux pas from people when it comes to ethnicity. Some of it is people honestly trying to be nice but just being clods. Some is because people are just ignorant jerks. I've decided from now on, I'm going to document these occurrences and call it the title you see above.

The most recent encounter was earlier this month. I just started covering the Arizona Legislature. So, I had go get a badge to walk around freely in both chambers. I went to the House of Representatives security desk to fill out the paper work. As I was doing this, the white security guard said something to me that mind as well have been gibberish. Think the unseen teacher in Charlie Brown's class. I just looked at him completely puzzled. He said "You don't speak Korean?" WTF. Do these people not realize how rude they sound? I'd tell him to stick to English but he doesn't seem to be doing too well in that department.

Paper Clip Pork/Char Sieu

Char Sieu or bbq pork is something you can find in just about every Chinatown deli or your big box Chinese supermarket. I am not sure how they cook them. But in my family, just about everyone has been taught to cook the marinated pork in an oven, not an actual barbecue pit or oven. My uncle's method of using paper clips seems to work best. Yes, paper clips. They're not just for paper anymore. ;) To my family, there was nothing weird about that. Anything that is a vehicle to well-cooked food is fine with us. I didn't realize how foreign this sounded until I came to Phoenix and explained it to people. Then I thought, "OK, yeah, that sounds kind of weird." So, here among my Phoenix friends, it's referred to as "paper clip pork." Or in the gossip circle as "clothespin chicken." Talk about lost in translation. Anyway, it's a very easy recipe that I'm more than willing to share.

You will need:
1 jar of hoisin sauce (go to any Chinese market)
1/3 cup of sugar
2 tsps. of curing salt
A little bit of white wine i.e. Chablis
pork shoulder butt roast (somewhere between 3-4 pounds)



What you do:
Rinse off the pork butt roast and let it drain for a bit. Cut into sizeable length-wise slabs, maybe about 1/2-1 inch thick. Depends on what you prefer. Empty the hoisin sauce jar into a large bowl. Pour in the sugar and salt. Pour a little bit of white wine into the bottom of the empty jar and shake the jar around to rinse out the hoisin remnants. Pour that into the bowl. Stir the marinade until it seems like the sugar has been distributed. Put all the pieces of pork in and mix well. Cover the bowl and refrigerate for approximately 48 hours. It doesn't have to be exactly 48 but definitely more than 24.

Fast forward two days later...time for the paper clips. First, make sure one oven rack is at the top-most level. Then preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Take out one clip for each piece and bend both ends so that you get a hook on each end. Once the oven is ready, take some oven mitts and slide both racks out. Put a tray lined with tin foil on the bottom rack. This will help catch the drippings. Pierce one end of a paper clip into a piece of meat. Try to do it in a thick part to ensure the pork won't fall off. Use the other end to hang the meat from the top rack. You may have to bend the clip end to make it more rounded. The paper clips basically are a great way to make sure the meat cooks on all sides in a consistent fashion. The next step is very important. PUSH BOTH OVEN RACKS BACK IN AT THE SAME TIME. Otherwise, you will have a very messy oven flecked with marinade drippings. Cook in the oven for 45 minutes.


Once it's time, they should look nice and red.



If the ends aren't crispy and tinged with black already, you can try setting the oven on broil for 2 minutes. When the char sieu is ready, slide the oven racks out at the same time. Use a pair of tongs to take down the pork slabs. You can cut one open just to make sure it's cooked through. Let them cool down before you take the paper clips out. And then you're done!

This cut of meat is more fattening. So, each piece is not meant to be consumed by one person like a pork chop or steak. Rather, you should cut up on slab into little slices. You can serve slices with rice and vegetables. You can throw them in with a slew of vegetables to make a one-dish meal. You can dice them to add some flavor to a batch of fried rice.

If someone like myself who prefers baking can make this, then there's hope for anyone. Also, I'm happy to show anyone in person how to do it. The only thing I want in return is that you have to teach me something _ a recipe, taking pictures, learning how to tie the Windsor knot, etc Basically, teach me something new. Impart knowledge on me. There's always an appetite for that.

Cookies that are 'cut' out for action (groan I know)

I have Gregory Maguire, the author of "Wicked," to thank for my finding these outrageous cookie cutters. I went to watch him do a reading at Changing Hands Bookstore. The day before, I mentioned my plans to the family living down the street from me. The dad gave me this worn out $20 gift card for the store he had never used. At first, they wouldn't accept it because even the barcode had eroded. But once I convinced them it would be a waste of $20, they gave me a new card. After spending most of the money on something for one of the kids (I couldn't bring myself to spend it all on me), I had a bit extra left. That was when I spotted this set of 3 "Ninjabread Men." I decided it's not offensive in terms of Asian stereotyping because I am Asian. So it goes without saying that coming from me, it can't be seen as racist right?

This whole cookies-racism thing had me overanalyzing for a while. I actually wondered if some people would find it offensive if I used two sprinkles for a ninja's two eyes (the whole Asians have narrow eyes). I decided that might be over-reaching.

Anyway, I found this recipe for chocolate gingerbread men: http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/chocolate-gingerbread-men/detail.aspx

The dough was a little too crumbly once it had been chilled. I had to douse some water on it so I could really roll it out.
I will probably make it one more time before Christmas. I have all this molasses now. And Ninjabread men season comes but once a year.

Goodbye evil Phoenix summer

Dear Phoenix summer,

I won't miss you. I'm beyond thrilled that the weather here in Phoenix has turned a corner! I never thought temperatures like 100 and 99-degrees would make me so gleeful. There was only one good thing you taught me Phoenix summer; my car really can be an oven.


I read on another blog how to do it: http://bakingbites.com/2007/09/car-baked-chocolate-chip-cookies-step-by-step/

If you can wait two hours or so, it truly works. I simply did housework and then went to check on the cookies after an hour to make sure they were actually expanding. What was nice is the cookies didn't caramelize so you got a nice hue. This was the equivalent of what a "rainy day" activity would be in other states. But that's because those states don't have (say it with me) "evil Phoenix summer."

Well, Phoenix summer, please hurry up and pack the rest of your things as you depart and don't return until June 2012. I want to stop hibernating. I want to run. I want to ride my bike. And as much fun as it was baking cookies this way, I'd rather you leave. No hard feelings.

Your hostage for the last four months,
Terry

Nothing like bike-riding to feel the love

Easter this year far surpassed last year. However the bar wasn't raised particularly high. Last year, I spent Easter Sunday working. My assignment: approach people at a Easter service on Phoenix's west side to ask them how they thought the Pope was handling the priest sex abuse scandals. Yeah...a happy Easter that was!

I was invited to spend Easter supper with my friend Tracy and her family. It was a real treat being around a family that really celebrates it. From the grilled lamb to the little chicks on chocolate birds' nests, it was a feast. Stuffed to the brim, I got home around 5 p.m. and decided to ride my bicycle. I had been sedentary long enough. I rode down the street past the home of the Stevensons, a family I've had the privilege to become friends with over the past year (See April 12, 2010 entry). The oldest child, Ella, 9, happened to be outside blowing bubbles. I ended up hanging out with all three kids _ playing freeze tag, blowing bubbles. Then the entire family invited me to join them for a walk around the neighborhood. They are white as can be. So, I probably looked like the Asian nanny. "One of these things doesn't belong here..."

I don't know anyone else who joins other people's families for strolls. That got me thinking how a few weeks ago, I rode around my neighborhood. Every place I stopped at, someone either gave me something or assisted me in some way. Before I even started, my next door neighbor _ who installed my dishwasher for me _ gave me souvenirs from his recent trip to Guatemala. Then I rode to this fishing supply store to say hi to the owner, whose cousin I know. He insisted on giving me a bottle of water. Then I rode by the automotive shop next door to the fire station that once helped me (see Aug. 30, 2008 entry) and said hello to the guy who runs it, Hanz. I approached him months ago in a quest for a man-about-the-street interview and he still remembered me. We made small talk and he offered to check my bike's tire pressure and pumped my tires. I then went to my friend's Japanese take-out restaurant and she gave me sushi for snack because I was clearly starving. I was really surprised at how "Mayberry" and small-town-ish the whole experience was.

I've said it before and I'll say it again. No matter what I may think about Phoenix landscape and weather, there are a lot of kind people out here. But sometimes I wonder if I get away with a lot because of my looks. And I don't mean I think I'm some sort of irresistible creature. HA! I'd be the first one to gag at that notion. What I mean is, let's face it...I don't look like a creepy person. Factor in my petite stature, my Asian looks and you have a not-intimidating person. If I were a guy, people might not be so open to me. No elderly grandma would invite me into her house. No guys might be inclined to take care of me like I was their grand-daughter or kid sister. And is it bad that I sometimes try to trade on that? If I really need someone's help, I'm not above looking the part of damsel in distress. Turns out I am very good at looking weak and vulnerable.

On the flip side, I hate to say it, but I'm wary as well of certain people when I'm out riding my bike. I don't really ring my bell and cheerfully wave as much as before. I look straight ahead if I'm about to pass a guy who looks a little scruffy or dodgy _ in my perception. Maybe that's not fair. But anyone who has read my last entry knows I seem to come across the strangest people. In fact, the other day, I saw a guy walking ahead of me. Black, young and walking around with no shirt on. Nothing but a cap, athletic knee-length shorts, sneakers and headphones. In this case, I did get ready to ring my bell so as not to startle him. As I approached, the guy suddenly stopped right there in the middle of the sidewalk. Before I knew it, he was breaking out into a whole choreographed routine _ all with his back still to me. Judging by his arm and hand movements, he thought it was "Hammer time." I frenetically rang my bell before I cycled into him. He finally turned around when I was literally a few inches behind him. Actually it was pretty funny and no pants were shed.

In the world we live in, we can't help but take shortcuts. When we look at people, we have to make snap judgments sometimes. Should I say hi to that person? Should I invite him to the party too? Should I stop and help him/her even though I'm by myself? Wish I didn't have to have my guard up at times. But hopefully, when I do let my guard down _ nine times out of 10 it will pay off.

The good, the bad and the creepy of bike-riding Phoenix

I have not written anything in more than a month because from my perspective, nothing interesting has happened to me. But other people tell me that's not true. I don't know if this topic will be interesting but here goes.

In October, I bought a bicycle. I think of it as one of my best companions now. Only in the last couple of months, I've really taken advantage of it and it's allowed me to see the city of Phoenix from a different perspective. Phoenix, unfortunately, is not the most bike-friendly place. In my middle-class neighborhood, only a few streets have actual bike lanes. There's a sense of relief when you come across one. At the same time, best not to get too attached. It could disappear at any moment! Aside from running simple errands i.e. dropping the mail, stopping at the bank, I sometimes like heading toward the nearby canal. It's one place I usually don't have to worry about cars.

I've been quite surprised by what riding on a bicycle can lead to. First the creepy:
Last month, I rode around the residential streets on a Sunday afternoon. I rounded a corner and came to a quiet intersection. Diagonally across the street from me, I saw a Caucasian man, probably in his mid to late thirties, with his pants down around his ankles. Thankfully, he had some sort of shorts or boxers on! But he was talking to a driver behind the wheel of a pickup truck that was stopped at a red light. Now, even if this guy, who looked like he could've been a vagrant, knew the driver, the falling of the pants doesn't make sense. The truck driver then sped off and the guy pulled his pants back up and rebuckled. He then started yelling at me. I couldn't make out what he was saying. But as I rode past, I could read his lips. He was yelling quite effusively, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" I pedaled as fast as I could, asking why God or the Universe didn't give humans erase buttons for the mind.

Almost exactly three weeks later, I was riding my bike on the President's Day holiday. It was about 10:30 a.m. I passed several people on the sidewalk. And like Opie in Mayberry, I politely rang my bell and nodded or smiled at people. After stopping at the running store, I continued northward and saw a man I had passed earlier on the street. He was Caucasian, white-haired, did not look homeless. He was also talking to someone parked in a truck. I rode further and when I was stopped at an intersection -- whoosh!--the same man was suddenly to my right. Despite having an iPod going, I could still hear him.
"Would you like to be my friend??"
"Excuse me?"
"I saw you riding by on your bike earlier. You were so quick! Would you like to get a cup of coffee with me?"
I resisted the urge to say something like "Listen Gramps, I'm clearly decades younger than you. Stay in your league." Instead I politely declined.
And I sped off muttering about how I can't seem to go anywhere without being disturbed by a creepy guy. I'm now considering just being rude all the time.

Now for some of the good:
The first person I talked to after being hit on by Gramps was a guy who works at an automotive shop near my place. I had tried to interview Hans once while on my inaugural bike ride because I had to find people who collected Social Security. When I happened upon him after the Gramps incident, Hans amazingly still remembered my name. After we said hi, I said "my bike rides keep getting interrupted by creepy old men."
Hans: "THANKS A LOT!"
"No, not you!"

Yesterday, my friend Bacon (it's just a nickname) and I bicycled like an old couple (he has two bells as opposed to my one) down the official Sonoran Bicycle Route toward downtown. It was perfect sunny but not hot weather for riding. We had brunch at Local Breeze, a place known for a brunch menu and giving 10 percent discounts for riders (yay!). After our meal, Bacon showed me some of his favorite buildings in downtown. One of them is called the Charles Pugh house.



It was built in the 1890s. Pugh was the editor and proprietor of the Southwestern Stockman. In recent years, it was a Mediterranean restaurant. Bacon and I rode by as a man was cleaning up the landscape. He was telling us all this interesting background/dirt. The owner and her sister had had a falling out which led to the closing of the building. And for whatever reasons, she is hanging onto the building despite letting it sit there boarded up and various homeless people breaking in -- including one who was behind the house while we were there. The owner has had offers including one for $1.4 million but wanted to wait for something better. Good luck waiting! She doesn't want to sell to the city which I'm kind of glad she's not. They might tear it down as is the way for many defunct buildings in Phoenix. The owner already owns hundreds of acres of land in other parts of Arizona. According to the guy we spoke with (who has a day job and just comes by once a month for $100), despite being quite well-off, she is not one to show it. She still drives a pick-up truck. And she is 5'2" and a force to be reckoned with. Anyway, I just love talking to people because you never know what cool nuggets of information they may yield. A bicycle is definitely allowing me to do more of that.

'The Finder' starring me

On my first day reporting from Tucson after the shooting, I found a digital recorder on a bench outside University Medical Center. It looked pretty expensive. So, I walked around from reporter to reporter, asking people "is this yours?" Nobody claimed it. And there was only so long I was going to do that. I ended up using it a few times while I was in Tucson when I was in a jam and really wanted to make sure I quoted someone accurately i.e. the Giffords intern who helped her when she first got shot.

The following week, I showed it back in the office to a fellow editorial assistant, Michelle. She was very intrigued and asked if she could play it sometime to try and figure out who it belonged to. Feeling guilty that I hadn't gotten around to it myself and knowing I'd have bad karma if I kept it, I said "sure." A couple days later, Michelle even brought a USB cord to hook up the recorder to the computer to listen during her evening shift. The next morning when I checked my work e-mail and there was a message from her. She had done some amazing investigative work. After hearing a British voice on the recorder conducting interviews from two completely opposite locations--Afghanistan and Tucson--she started researching international-caliber news organizations online. She deduced that the recorder had to belong to this guy:
http://blogs.reuters.com/tim-gaynor/

For some reason, Reuters lists NO phone numbers on its news site. So, I wrote an e-mail guessing what his work e-mail address would be. And I got a reply back with his contact information in the e-mail signature. So I quickly called him and explained how I found his recorder. I apologized profusely for not trying earlier to see if I could figure out who the owner was. Fortunately, he was perfectly nice and appreciative, not miffed at all. Anyway, we ended up meeting for coffee last week.
Is that considered getting together with the enemy? Kidding. If anything, I'm giving my company a good name. A company where people are competitive but also have integrity.

Tim and I chatted for about an hour at Giant Coffee, a new hipster coffee place. It was great as it turns out we both have an affinity for a lot of the same places. He has a studio apartment in Phoenix but is mainly based out of Bisbee, which is way down in southern Arizona. He rented a house in Bisbee for three years from another reporter who by coincidence was the one to show me around my first time visiting there. I asked him where in England was he from and he said he grew up in the town of Bath. I was like "WHAT?!" The Jane Austen nut in me came out. I think he was surprised that I've actually been to Bath. I went on about how beautiful the town was and how I had tea at the Pump Room. He said he went to school in an old Georgian building where an old man would come every day to feed coal to the stove that kept the room warm. Talk about Dickensian. Then Tim really had me when he said he owns an apartment in Madrid. If there's one thing people should know about me, it's that I have a special place in my heart for Spain. I spent more than a month there taking a Spanish course for fun and I've been wanting to get back there since. Although Tim said to tell him if I'm ever in Bisbee, I said I'm more likely to tell him if I'm ever in Madrid. We had a great chat and he said I could e-mail him any time about all things journalism or even Jane Austen, hehe.

The people I have told about this all say the same thing: "You have got to stop picking up things that aren't yours." LOL. Actually one friend said I should have my own reality show, "The Finder." Between this and helping the family down the street return a lost camera, I'm feeling like I should look into being a private investigator. One of the reasons I do like being a reporter is that it feeds the part of me that likes hunting things down. Now when am I going to accidentally find someone's chest of money...preferably in unmarked bills.

How getting police records was almost a comedy of errors

Today was one of those pile-all-the-doo-doo-on-you days. At work, I sat through 2-1/2 hours of training for a new interoffice computer program. That session made me fall very behind on all my daily duties. As I struggled to keep from having to stay overtime, I was asked at 4:35 p.m. to go pick up a 235-page police report at Tempe Police Station. Now, for you non-Arizona people, you need to usually take the freeway to get to downtown Tempe from downtown Phoenix. It usually takes about 15 minutes but at 4:35, there's no telling how monstrous traffic can be. And of course, the public records office closes at 5 p.m. And in my building, you have to take the elevator down, walk across the lobby to the garage, etc. Basically, losing minutes right there. It never ceases to amaze me at how these requests come at the worse time. But I had to give it a try.

So, I speed down there as fast as I can without getting a ticket. On the way there, my cell rings and it's my friend Leah. She wanted to know if I was free after work. I explained through some griping what I was up to and how there was no way I was going to get there before 5. She happened to be in Tempe too. As I got closer, I grew more anxious. I had never been to the police station in Tempe. When I got to a major cross street, Mill Avenue, I didn't know which way to turn. Here's a rough paraphrase of our conversation as Leah was still on the phone with me:

Leah: "I'm at that intersection too. I'll turn south, you turn the other way. If I see the police station, I'll let you know to turn around."

Next best arrangement to having a GPS. Sure enough, she saw the station first. So, I U-turned stat and pulled up in front of the police station. I bounded out of the car leaving the hazard lights going. I looked at my watch. 5:05. !@#*$

I went into the lobby and there was nobody there to check me in. A plain-clothes police officer opened the second door between the lobby and records desk.
"Can I help you?"
"I missed the picking up the public records by five minutes. Is there any way I can still pick up? I'm with the media."
"Public records? Nobody's here right now. Nobody will help you. Sorry." Am disappointed at how he's kind of curmudgeonly and straight-laced.

He went back inside. I wanted to kick something. I did not want to have to drive back here tomorrow right when they opened. Meanwhile Leah had texted me: "Watching your car so it doesn't get towed." Not willing to give up yet, I decided my best bet was to try and look my most vulnerable without turning on the waterworks. So, despite wearing a short skirt and heels, I dropped to my knees there in the lobby. I put the printout of our public records request on the floor. I pretended to stare in deep thought at it and at my cell and did my best to look utterly distraught. I mean I was distraught, just not "utterly." After a few minutes of staring at the ground, I got up, dusted off my knees and was ready to throw in the towel. I called the office and told a colleague to tell the news editor I wasn't able to get the records in time. As I hung up, I noticed the same police officer was waving vigorously. When I was sure it was me he was waving at, I walked back through the second set of glass doors.

Officer: "I don't normally work at this desk. But I guess if all the other media already picked this up, it must be pretty important. You better have it too."

I couldn't believe it...My pity party-of-one actually worked? He took my press credential and started gathering the 200-some pages. He said since it was after 5, he didn't have any change or credit card machine to use. I would have to pay cash. The total was $57.50. Despite having gone to the ATM yesterday and having $13 in ones in my wallet, I was still shy of exact change. I rang up Leah.

"Leah, do you happen to have any cash?"
"Yeah, I have some. I have some twenties."
"Do you have anything smaller? I need $4!"
"I have some ones. I'll bring it out to you. But I don't want to try to open the doors since it's after 5."

Two minutes later, I turn and I see Leah for the first time since we spoke on the phone. She's standing there sliding singles in a crevice in between the glass doors. Chuckling, I run over and grasp them all. I run back to the window and start shoving $17 in ones under the window to the officer.
"Um...guess I won't be going to the clubs tonight."
He actually smiled and I decide he's not so curmudgeonly after all. I tell him I want his name so I can send him a thank-you card or perhaps baked goods.

After all this, I get my reports. Since he couldn't print me a receipt, he wrote a very detailed post-it. I'll still have to go back for a receipt but at least I can go when it's convenient. He tells me all he wants in return is for me to send an e-mail to his boss (whose address he's written down) and tell him how he helped me. Still surprised at what I transpired, I shake his hand and run back out to Leah to thank her. We decide to meet up for dinner tonight because we can't stop chuckling about the whole thing.

I don't think Leah ever played a role in any of my work-related tasks. So, that was new for me. Now, I don't know if it was "wrong" for me to get so...um...theatrical. I've never tried to use feminine wiles to get what I wanted. However, I am not above a little emoting or looking vulnerable. I'm so happy that as one editor put it, "for the second time in two weeks, the news gods smiled on me."

Time to reflect

One of my New Year's resolutions was to get back into the blogging thing. I had planned last week to write about what I hoped 2011 would bring. I had spent New Year's and a few days after in Los Angeles. I had a wonderful time simply catching up with old college friends, going back to cool L.A. neighborhoods and eating vegan donuts at BabyCakes NYC in downtown. Boy, that all was a little over a week ago. Now it feels like another lifetime.

I returned to work on Wednesday, Jan. 5. It would be my first week working on a Saturday schedule. Everybody kept telling me Saturdays would be suuuuper sloooow and I would have a chance to play catch-up. And it was slow. Then around lunchtime, our office started getting a couple phone calls about some kind of shooting in Tucson. Well, by luck of my being the only reporter-type around, I was suddenly dispatched to drive down to Tucson. I have NEVER been the one who got sent to a breaking news story outside of Phoenix. I felt anything but prepared, journalism-wise and travel-wise. But I left...speeding eastward on the 10 as fast as I could without a speeding ticket. No toiletries. No change of clothes. No food. No clue where to go first. Just myself, my wallet, and an office laptop that I still wasn't sure would work.

Anyone reading this knows about the terrible shooting that happened Saturday, Jan. 8. Even standing in the parking lot the next day in front of the Safeway where the gunman opened fire, I couldn't quite believe it had really happened. On Saturday, I mostly spent the day and night stationed in front of University Medical Center, in case anything changed with Congresswoman Gabby Giffords' condition. I had to park myself on a hard cement ground until 2 a.m. with literally only a short-sleeve shirt, jeans and a new polyester-wool coat (which I'm now thinking about retiring) _ the same clothes I wore until Tuesday afternoon.

I've never covered anything like a mass shooting, and certainly not one that has been the top headline for so many days. It's been sad to chat with people in Tucson who have, understandably, taken this incident so hard. But it's also been humble and uplifting to meet people like Daniel Hernandez, the intern who helped Giffords in those first crucial moments after she was shot. He is just as poised and articulate in person as he is on TV. He definitely has the makings of a charismatic politician/public servant. His phone is probably ringing off the hook now. When I was done interviewing him, I couldn't help but gush and tell him that I thought he was an amazing young man.

A reporter in our Denver bureau mentioned to me today that she covered Columbine on the day it happened and for a few days after that. She said you really do need time to stop and reflect in your own way. The three-and-a-half days of Tucson were like living in some kind of weird vacuum. Running on little sleep, each day stretched into feeling like two at times. If I wasn't driving from the shooting scene to the gunman's home and back to the hospital, I was trying to get people to interview on the phone or in person. I have to say, I just don't know if there's a way to ever get better at approaching people who have barely had time to grieve the loss of a loved one. And you feel like a major asshole no matter what.

Being in "reporter mode," I didn't have a chance to read any stories or see any photos related to the shooting until Sunday morning in my hotel room. That is when it really hit me the lives that were lost and the families affected. I started to tear up at times. Especially at the loss of the 9-year-old girl. She was the same age as the daughter of a family down the street I've become quite close to. For a moment, I wish I could have teleported my 9-year-old so I could give her a hug.

Times like this, you wish you could give something, do something to bring these people their loved ones back. Unfortunately, no punishment, no amount of debate is going to do that.

I'm writing about this because I don't want to sound like a reporter. I want to sound like someone who tries to balance being a reporter with being someone who has respect and compassion. If someone wants to lump me in with the "lamestream media," I can't stop them. But I know that I'm someone who aspires to be a reporter who is always trying to empathize with the people she encounters. And I carry that empathy with me at all times. Everywhere.

Now I have new friends

Before reading this entry, you should read the one below it to get the full context. If you already have, then carry on...

So, this past weekend I went home for my friend's bachelorette festivities in the city. But it would seem like returning the camera and the memory card to its owners was the big occasion. Even my mother said to me a couple of days before I flew out of Phoenix, "DON'T FORGET THE CAMERA!" There's no way I would have forgotten. 1) I was looking forward so much to returning it. 2) I would have needed to be talked down from a ledge if I had left it behind.

So on Saturday, I met the couple who own the camera at a Starbucks in Daly City. They were worried it was out of the way but it totally wasn't. I had to take the nearby freeway to get to San Francisco anyway. Of course, we recognized each other right away. We sat down with our drinks and talked for 10 minutes before I presented them with the camera. We made small talk at first--them asking me how long I was in town, how long I've lived in Phoenix, etc. At one point I said, "Does this feel like we're on a first date?"

We then swapped stories. I told them how Ella retrieved the camera and how I came into the picture (no pun intended). They told me how they accidentally lost the camera when they bumped into each other. At first the loss put a damper on their trip but they eventually were able to focus on still having a good time.

We actually ended up talking for two hours. I found out that the female half of the couple, she and I share similar interests. They are both foodies and love to travel. But she is like me and is open to hosteling it. She has a friend in Scottsdale/Tempe area that she wants to visit early next year. So, if they do that, they will definitely let me know so we can get together. And I can get them together with Ella and family! That would be surreal.

Fortunately, half of the pictures on the memory card had already been uploaded. But there were still lots of photos from Yosemite and elsewhere that would have been lost. Though it's great they have those back, I think they were drawn to meet me because they were so astounded people would go out of their way to track down the owners of a camera that looked absolutely totaled. I'm still marveling myself about how all this transpired. It took my being in Phoenix to meet these two really nice people from the Bay Area. So, let's just say, there was a lot of mutual marveling going on.

A friend said to me yesterday, "Terry, you always meet people in the most interesting ways." I guess that's true from time to time. This whole thing has reminded me the Universe, Fate, etc. is a very funny thing.

A Thousand Words? Puhlease, pictures are priceless.

Last Saturday evening, I decided to go for a walk because my food consumption that day had consisted of a piece of toast, two carne asada tacos with a little serving of beans and rice, lots of chips with four different kinds of salsa (at La Condesa in case you're a foodie and are wondering) and a cupcake and a glass of ice tea.

I ended up walking by my friend Jo Ann's house (some of you know her as that elderly lady who once gave me a can of olives). Her son Brian came outside and spotted me. I was graciously invited into the backyard to say hi to the three kids. This was the first time I had seen the entire family since they went on a road trip to Disneyland and Yosemite. The oldest child, 8-year-old Ella, proceeded to tell me a story of how when they were swimming in a waterfall, they spotted a camera under water stuck in some rock. Extremely curious, the family held onto Ella while she used her toes to try and grab the camera. Her toes did their little dance and somehow got the camera out.

They let the camera and the memory card dry out for several days. The camera was still totally un-useable but the memory card could be a different story. Since they had a laptop for the kids to watch DVDs, they popped in the memory card to see what was on there. Fortunately with the kids watching, nothing salacious or weird. From the looks of it, the camera belonged to a 20-something couple, Filipino American who had used the camera for two vacations--in New York and Yosemite. Dozens of photos. They looked like people I would get along with. I mean people who take pictures of food have to be pretty cool.

It was at this point that Ella said "You like to take pictures of cupcakes." Surprised, I said "Oh, you remember?"
Ella: "I know YOUR style."
LOL.

Brian said they looked through the photos for some identifying information and what do you know...the couple had actually taken pictures of their boarding passes! Insisting he didn't know anything about social media or how to track people down via the Internet, he asked if I would be interested in taking part in the pursuit of our couple. The reporter in me could not pass that up; my Spidey-sense was already tingling. So when I left their house that night, I not only left with my iPod and keys, but a photo of these boarding passes.

The next day I started running both their names through search engines, White Pages, Facebook, etc. It was difficult because the passes mashed their first and middle names together. The guy had a very uncommon first name and it was hard to tell where the first name ended and the middle one began. And the girl easily could go by a couple of different nicknames or shortened versions of her name. Finally, I typed the guy's first name down correctly and got a hit on possible name in Facebook. Their boarding passes showed they had departed from San Francisco and this FB profile belonged to someone from the City. I sent a friend request which was granted a couple hours later. But I still couldn't see his profile and gain access to send a message. Afraid of looking psychotic but determined to contact him, I sent the request a second time. A few hours later, confirmed. This time I could see his profile.

So very late Sunday night, I clicked on "send so-and-so a message" wrote a lengthy note explaining how in a nutshell, I live in Phoenix, I know this family who found your camera, we can mail it to you, yada yada yada.

Monday morning, I checked my e-mail. There was a reply from him! Mr. Lost Photos was completely stunned that A) Someone retrieved his camera and B) Someone else went to the trouble of trying to find him. He said when they lost the camera in the river in Yosemite, they pretty much considered it and their photos lost forever. He went on to say that it was great to know there are good people in the world and that we really made his day.

This had me in really great spirits all day--which is rare for a Monday! Part of the reason I was so diligent about finding them was because as a journalist, I love trying to track people down. It's like a scavenger hunt. But of course, more than that, how often do you get to deliver really uplifting news to someone? If someone could get something of mine back to me just by making a small effort, I would hope he/she would do it.

As Fate would have it, I am going to be in my old stomping grounds of San Francisco in mid-September for a bachelorette party. So...the couple and I have tentatively made plans to meet that weekend and I will personally deliver their memory card and camera back to them. Mr. Lost Photos said they would prefer that over postal deliver so they can personally thank me (aaawwww). I'm thinking of also bringing them a picture of Ella's toes as a keepsake.

Wouldn't it be funny if we became friends for a very long time to come? We'd have a great "how we met" story. I think we all know what the lesson is here. Sometimes it truly is better to give than receive. And when it comes to taking vacation pics, snap a photo of your boarding pass!

What I've been up to

Dear Bay Area friends and family,

Facebook is handy but there is only so much one can write on one's "wall." And I like writing long passages sometimes. Plus, when I write a blog post, I feel like Doogie Howser at the end of every episode. I can hear that synthesizer music in my head right now, LOL.

I miss all of you and think about you and the Bay Area often. For the most part, I feel comfortable in Phoenix but every so often, there will be days where I still feel like I'm in a prison and need to bust out.

Work is OK. I'm going through a spell right now where I'm not writing very much. It sucks but I suppose it's either that or have no job. I'm hoping to eventually work earlier hours but right now they need me to stay later because I'm the only editorial assistant for the whole AP West Regional Desk right now. The person who was hired as a second assistant has been on medical leave right now, unfortunately. And his health, of course, is first and foremost the priority. I continue to send positive thoughts his way and hope he returns to work. It also hurts to see other people working on stories or get sent on out-of-town training. But I keep telling myself that there has to be a reason for all this. My hard work and patience will eventually come back to me ten-fold.

I hurt my ankle in December. It's still a booger. I can't run very much, which, if you know me, is like Superman now trying to live without powers. It really sucks not being able to even consider entering any kind of race right now. I'm too paranoid about injuring my ankle again. I will probably have to see the podiatrist again, argh. I've had mostly weird, not-so-good experiences with doctors in Phoenix. Hopefully this won't turn out like that where something else was wrong originally. Because in February, it seemed like my ankle was on its way to healing itself. We shall see.

April 7, as I mentioned on my FB page, marked four years(!) for my living in Phoenix. I've been reflecting on the whole experience so far. Despite all the misery and my "down with Phoenix" rants my first year living here, I wouldn't go back and change anything. Living out here has actually reshaped me as a person in some ways. You know, sometimes I shake my head in amusement when I recall how painfully shy I was as a kid. Mom will be the first to recount how I would never look anyone directly in the face. I can't figure out why my first instinct as a toddler was to be in protective mode around anyone who wasn't one of my parents. Not sure how I developed into someone who wanted to be a journalist, which requires interviewing people and asking sometimes probing questions. A journalist is someone who should be able to socialize with just about anyone, look past what you see and try to see someone for who they really are--even if you only have a short time with them.

Living out here has really pushed me to reach out to people and I'm glad for that. In the last two years, I've made friends with families, Hispanic people, gay people and very hetero people (read: firefighters). None of this certainly would have happened if I hadn't felt free to go up to people. And even if we don't seem to have anything in common, I can somehow relate to them. For example:

I met this Mexican American artist two months ago who does a lot of paintings and murals. He has introduced me to the fun of Lucha Libre (Mexican wrestling). It's done kind of underground and it is bloody violent. I'm not trying to sound British. There literally is a lot of blood. If anyone ever comes to visit, you can bet I'm taking you there. It is off the beaten path. No pun intended. Anyway, I asked him to sit down with me for coffee so I could learn more about it and we talked for three hours. (He's married in case any of your minds' are going there). Now, I'm hoping to pitch a story on it.

A few days after New Year's, I went for a walk and I saw down a side street, someone had this very large metal sculpture of an Earth on their lawn. So, I made a turn to go get a closer look. And this old woman was sitting on the driveway of the house. (I know this is starting to sound like a folk tale). No she did not ask me about Sir Gawain or offer me magic beans. I asked her about the sculpture and turns out it belonged to her son, who does work with metals when he's not at his day job. Well, Jo Ann then invited me into her home (she lives in the pool house behind the main house) to look at stuff her son made. We ended up talking for two hours. And she stuffed a can of olives in my pocket before I left (all I did was ask here where she bought that brand).

Well, I've visited Jo Ann twice since then. The last time was actually the day before Easter. She's been so nice to me, that I wanted to do something nice for her. And of course, all I could think of was cupcakes.


So I brought over a dozen--too many for her, her son and his wife and their three children. So, Ella, 8 years old and the oldest of the three, and I walked over to the fire station to see if we could pawn off some. I'd forgotten how much fun it is to spend time with a kid that age. She is a cute girl with cute 8-year-old observations. Well, we knocked on the door of the station and nobody was home. We were about to turn around and go home when the firetruck arrived just back from a call.

Man, next time I go to a fire station, I should borrow someone's kid. They bent over backwards to entertain Ella. I had no idea the Phoenix Fire Department had all this stuff--crayons, coloring booklets, bracelets(?). Is it wrong that I wanted the fire-hydrant-shaped eraser? I told her "In life, when someone offers you free stuff, take it!" Then one of them offered to let Ella ride around the block in the firetruck. Of course, I went with her. I don't know what that says that riding in a truck now feels like old hat to me, hehe. I wasn't sure if she was having a good time but when we almost got back to her house, her father was on his way out to pick up dinner. She ran up to him, saying "I got to ride in a firetruck and I have evidence!" So adorable.

The family invited me to stay for dinner and they are all really nice people. Being a single gal has its ups, but sometimes nothing beats hanging out with a whole family. After dinner, Ella wanted to show me pictures from their past vacations to Disneyland, hehe. My favorite part was when her little 5-year-old brother, Cobie, climbed onto my lap and said "When I grow up, I'm going to live in Disneyland and anybody can come visit me." When I left, their dad said I was welcome over any time and Jo Ann said I don't have to feel alone. Aaawww.

The day after Easter, I made more cupcakes because I didn't want to throw out perfectly good extra frosting. So, I brought cupcakes to this other family I know, a Chinese family that runs a Japanese restaurant (long back story), Blue Fin Sushi, down the street from my office. They are descended from the Ongs of Phoenix, which is an offshoot of the Phoenix Tangs. Different name but same character, which is also the Chinese character for my name. Every few months someone asks me if I'm related to the Tangs, who used to have lots of businesses in Phoenix and go back three generations here in Phoenix. They all came from the Guang Dong province and Hoyping, which is where my Mom's family is from. But not my Dad's, so I don't think I'm directly related. I learned about the Hoyping connection when last month, Betsy (the matriarch of the family) invited me to go to the Ong Family Association Spring Banquet. For my non-Chinese buds, large Chinese families often have associations and spring meetings in a banquet setting. So for one night, I got to go to a Chinese banquet without having to be related. Though I've never been to a Chinese banquet where the raffle prizes were things like a digital scale, a hand-truck and a fire extinguisher (WTF?).

I digress. So the day after Easter, I brought cupcakes to them and wouldn't ya know, about a minute after I get there, six firefighters walk in to grab lunch. So, like a bad reflex, I offered them some.


Only one guy took one. As for the rest...wusses.

Where was I going with this post?? Oh yes, friends. My wonderful friend Daniel always makes me ask the question "What did I do to deserve..." Over the weekend he gave me a very cool just-because-gift. If you scroll down and look at the photo of my dark purple (well, eggplant mousse) accent wall, you'll see a "before" shot of nothing on the sloping wall next to the steps. Now look below and you'll see: He gave me my own railing!



Daniel and I met through his fiancee (yay Leah!) who I met through Craigslist. Another example of what happens when you reach out.

So guys, I think I've caught you all up on a lot of things. I miss you all and hope to visit in May. My heart of course belongs to the Bay Area. I could see myself living there some day in the next few years perhpas. And when I do, I won't just be falling back into a familiar cocoon. I'll be reaching out to people just the same like I do here. I get reminded all the time here...EVERYBODY has a story.

With love,
Terry

A mural transformation

So, after a few months of back and forth coordinating, my lovely friend Angela, who lives in Tucson, was able to nail down a weekend to come and paint a mural in my new home. For the first time since the New Year, I feel like 2010 isn't such a bad year--maybe even pretty good. She, her husband, and 3-year-old son made the two-hour drive from Tucson to Phoenix on Friday evening. Alas, they had to get back Saturday night. So, basically Angela traveled four hours round trip and painted a huge mural all in 24 hours!

Angela and I met because as a photo/graphics assistant at the Arizona Daily Star in Tucson, a subscriber to AP's content, she often took calls from me asking for stuff from the Star. Then we figured that IM was easier to correspond. Then we started IMing about non-work stuff like shopping, running and girly matters. I've often wished that we lived closer to each other; we've only spent time together a total of three times but I feel like it should be more. This project came out of my remarking over instant-messenger that I always thought it would be cool to have a mural in my home. And she offered. All I'd had to do was pay for the art supplies. I was like "DEAL!" I have to say, this mural is one of the nicest things anyone's ever done for me. Friday night, she used a projector I borrowed to outline a larger version of her illustration. Then on Saturday, she was sequestered from like 11 a.m.-5:30 p.m.. It was like having my own reality show, "Project Mural," hehe. And she was loads more fun to watch than Bob Ross (afro guy who's always painting rural landscapes from start to finish on public TV). While she was painting, she would occasionally stop and asked for my input; so, I could change my mind about the color of the saucer or an article of clothing. It was also cool to see her go back and revise things, like turn the corners up a little of a mouth to alter a facial expression.

Since the mural is on a wall behind the dining table, I knew I wanted some kind of food scene. So, I decided two modern-day looking gals enjoying food and conversation at an outdoor cafe. Angela, ever so thoughtful, actually asked me for a picture of a cupcake I've made so she could incorporate it into the mural. As you'll see, I think she did a great job depicting the cupcake. It sort of pops in the picture and she even used a little of the raspberry mousse shade I used for my living room wall.

This morning, I found myself actually wanting to sit down at the table to eat breakfast instead of standing in the kitchen like I usually do. I really feel like short of having the sun in my living room, this mural really brightens up the kitchen/dining area/living room. And in case you're wondering, the girls in the mural are not supposed to be Angela and me. They are "Everywomen," who judging by the picture, aren't afraid to enjoy some good ol' fashioned carbs, hehe. I really feel like my stamp is on my home now. If I ever sell, can someone lend me money to take the whole wall with me??




With the dining table put back...