I know I haven’t been regularly updating my blog like I said I would—but I have a good reason: I finally got a job! As an attorney! OMG! I’m a working attorney!

I’m not saying this as someone who is bragging about being employed, but as someone who had spent over a year trying to get into the legal profession without any success. Yes, I’d been pounding the pavement and mass mailing my resume the entire time, but all I got out of it was an ever growing list of bad first interviews and rejection letters.

It wasn’t as if I was surprised by how hard it would be to find a job. The market was already in the toilet when I graduated from law school, and I knew I would be spending at least a few months tearing through the classifieds. I just didn’t expect it to be as difficult as it turned out to be. I mean, I wasn’t just competing against my former classmates in this War for Work. I was also up against people who had degrees from better schools, got better grades, had more work experience, etc. All I had on my resume was a brief college internship at a tiny law firm, and some random research projects I did for other attorneys. The end. No, really, that's all I have on my resume. And I’m pretty sure most of the employers only interviewed me because they wanted to see the loser who tried to get by on such crappy credentials. And let me tell you, I did not disappoint:

I eventually realized that the traditional resume/interview route wasn’t going to be enough, so I turned to networking in hopes that my bright personality and enthusiasm would make up for the things my resume lacked. Unfortunately, you can't really impress people with personality traits you don't have…but at least I did not disappoint:

Networking didn’t get me anywhere. Resumes and interviews didn’t get me anywhere. It was starting to look as if I was going to have to pack my things and move back home.

Before I could start throwing my stuff into trash bags and boxes, however, I had to go to an interview. It was for a job that had been posted on my school’s website, and I applied even though my chances were slim. But slim chances are still chances, and I ended up receiving an e-mail from the employer later that day, asking if I could go in for an interview the following afternoon. And of course I went because it wasn’t like I was busy or anything. And then the strangest thing happened. I got the job! No kidding! And when I told my new boss that I didn’t know much about the law he specialized in, he just said, “Well, the only way people learn things is by having someone teach them.” An employer who is willing to take the time to teach an employee something from scratch? OMG! They do exist!

Anyway, that’s why I’ve been a little busier than usual. I haven’t had an actual job in a quite some time, so my time management skills need a little work. But I'm getting better, I think. I mean, I managed to put this post together, right?

Thanks for putting up with me!

I bought a Happy Meal the other day. Yeah, I know I’m not exactly within the Happy Meal age range. If anything, I should be getting one of those Mighty Kids meals—does McDonald’s even sell those anymore? What’s the point of offering them in the first place anyway? No child—or adult—is going to want a Mighty Kids meal when he can get a Happy Meal. Sure, the food is the same in both, but the Happy Meal is the meal, you know?

…At least it was. Now I’m not so sure.

Like I said, I got myself a Happy Meal the other day because I felt like appeasing the child in me (think Peter Pan Syndrome, not pregnancy).

But as I was about to get down with my Happy self, I was suddenly blinded by a horrific sight!

Did I find hair in my fries? Was was there a wad of chewed gum stuck to the bottom of my burger? No, what I got was much, much worse...

Instead of the typical small bag of French fries, there was a tiny pocket of, like, six fries. Okay, maybe it was more than six…it might have been seven. But whatever! There were far fewer fries in there than there should have been. I also received a bag of apple slices—which I know I didn’t ask for. "Did McDonald’s give me the apples because they ran out of French fries? 'Cause that’s not even close to being an adequate substitution!"

I felt totally ripped off, and decided to call the McDonald’s that sold me this sad ass Happy Meal and complain. I went online to search for their phone number. One of the results I got back was a news headline: “Healthier McDonald's Happy Meal debuts in SoCal.”

Healthier? McDonald’s? No, don’t tell me…no way…no…NOOOOOOO!

But it was true: “The new Happy Meal will automatically include both a quarter cup or half serving of apple slices and a new smaller 1.1 ounce side of fries.”

There wasn’t anything for me to complain about because according to the article, the French fry failure, the apple slices—none of it was the result someone’s ineptitude. No, they were there because they were supposed to be. This was Happy Meal...but I was anything but happy.

Although I couldn’t legitimately complain about McDonald’s messing up my order, that doesn't mean I don’t have any complaints about it at all. This new Happy Meal—a.k.a., the Misery Meal—is a travesty of everything a child loves about Happy Meals. I mean, when I was a kid, the whole point of going to McDonald’s was to avoid eating healthy food. Perhaps it’s because my parents didn’t have the time or the budget back then, but most of our meals were eaten at home. And when we did go out to eat, it was usually at a Chinese restaurant. Going to McDonald’s and getting a Happy Meal was pretty much reserved for special occasions. So when we were there, I would try to stuff as many French fries and bites of hamburger into my stomach as I could because for all I knew, I never have another chance to get a Happy Meal again.

No matter how much I loved McDonald's, or begged and pleaded my parents to take me, the times I got to eat there as a child were few and far between. And I think that might be a big reason why my sister and I didn’t have childhood obesity problems. Everything we ate--whether it was Hainan chicken or a Happy Meal--it all had to come from my parents before it ended up in my stomach. We didn't have a choice, and we knew it. Everyone knows this: kids don’t control their own diets; their parents do. So why are fast food restaurants like McDonald’s getting crapped on? Because the food they serve—the food kids are able to eat only because their parents paid for it—is fatty? Hello! It’s fast food! That stuff has always been fatty—that’s why is so freaking good! If you are worried about your child getting bit by obesity, then don’t give them fast food! Is that really so difficult? Last I checked, kids weren’t exactly forcing their parents to get them Happy Meals:

Did I say "kids"? I meant "cats and kids."

But is my sounding off limited to Happy Meals? No. This stuff applies to the entire fast food industry—an industry that has been trying to transition onto a path of healthier living. And I honestly don’t understand why it has to do that. Hamburgers, French fries, and all that other good stuff has always been synonymous with weight gain. Where do you think the term “fast food” came from anyway?

People who are health-conscious shouldn’t be getting pissy with McDonald’s or any other fast food restaurant. Sure, they make the food that makes you gain weight, but you’re the one who chooses to eat it. Obviously then, if you don’t want to gain weight, don’t eat fast food.

But that’s not what’s happening here. Some people are pointing their fingers at everything but themselves, and making places like McDonald’s throw apple slices into its Happy Meals. And why? So they can start a healthy-living regiment without giving up fast food?

It doesn't work that way!

Who wouldn't want the power to make wrinkly, creased up paper all flat and crisp?!

I've seen those commercials that show people using the medicine and then admiring their wart-free hands, but how do we get from flash freezing a piece of lumpy finger meat to perfectly manicured hands?

Don't lie: you were curious about how this stuff worked too!

I dread college football season. It ruins fall and winter for me.

During the 4 years I was at USC, I had no idea how big the football program was. Seriously. I didn't go to any games, I never watched it on television--the closest experience I had to attending an actual game was when I had, like, 7 football players in one of my classes.

I know, I know--it sounds impossible for me to have been that ignorant. Most of my friends, classmates, and professors were big fans, and the entire student body pretty much knew every detail of every game because the campus newspaper was always dedicating huge chunks of the sports section to the Trojan football team--but I thought that was a given. We were USC students, so of course we were going to be supportive of all things USC. Every school has such school spirit. I mean, go to any campus anywhere and you'll find at least one student whose clothes all have his school's name stitched somewhere on it, and who also has one of the sports team's game schedules taped to his dorm wall.

So when people at USC went nuts over the football season, I just assumed it was typical school-related fandom limited to the boundaries of our campus...and people who went outside the area probably turned into Lakers fans.

Anyway, one day my sister gave me a USC sweater she purchased on impulse but never wore. I didn't buy a sweater for myself when I was a student because they were kind of expensive, and was more than happy to finally get one free of charge. And this was right around winter time, so I was able to wear it right away. And I did. I wore that sweater every single day. It was so warm and comfortable--and it made getting ready to go out a lot easier. Forget changing out of my at-home lazy-ass clothes. I just threw that sweater on and left!

That USC sweater changed my life! Now I could be comfortably frumpy both indoors and out! I could run errands and go shopping without changing out of my raggedy sweats and giant sleep shirts. All I had to do was put on a sweater and be transformed from a dumpy mess into a relaxed-looking USC-er.

Everything was going so well! And then my sister gave me 2 more USC sweaters! OMG! My life was awesome!

*Sniff* *Sniff* What's that stanky smell? Oh! It's reality taking a sh*t on my face.

I will never forget that day. I was buying cat food and wearing my USC sweater because it was cold:

Out of nowhere the cashier suddenly started talking to me about USC football! Me--the last person you'd want to discuss football with. I have "football retard" written all over me--which I guess isn't noticeable when I have a giant "USC" written across my chest.

And it didn't stop with the cashier. I was getting football questions from random strangers all the damn time. One day it was the seafood guy at Ralph's. Another day it was a man I walked past when I went to get my eyebrows done. It even came up when I was in the middle of taking the bar exam! I was taking the elevator to my testing room when an old guy stepped in and started talking to me:

I was like, "Are you serious?! I'm stressed out as it is, and now you want me to talk football with you?!"

But I was lucky that day. I'd heard bits and pieces of some USC football drama on the radio, and had a vague idea on how to respond. I didn't know any specifics. I just knew it was bad news for USC, so I assumed that the reaction this old guy was expecting from me would be one of disappointment.

And I was just about to spew some crap about being sad that Pete Carroll left and was replaced by another coach when the old guy said:

Geez...

The topic sometimes came up even when I wasn't wearing a USC sweater.

I always tried to give an answer that sounded like I knew what I was talking about, but it was tough. One day I didn't feel like faking it and just responded honestly: "I don't follow USC football." That, however, turned out to be a major mistake because the guy I was answering totally went off on me: "How can you not know anything about Trojan football! You went there, didn't you?! How can you pay that kind of money and not know anything?! You've got to be kidding me!" It was extremely traumatic, but it also made me realize that I had to make a choice: either give up my USC sweaters and be free from answering football questions, or follow the football games and be comfortably frumpy anywhere and everywhere. It was an easy decision for me: football for frump.

I haven't had to read any sports pages yet because the weather here is still in the 80's, so I don't need to worry about staying warm. But the temperatures have been decreasing, and my sweaters are starting to ask if they can come out and play. And as much as I love cold weather, I really hope summer sticks around a little longer because I don't want to follow football. It's just so boring! You think I can get away with, "I don't want to talk about it...it's too sad"?

Older siblings are usually charged with teaching their younger sisters or brothers the ways of the world--and I should know: I, myself, am an older sister, and had taken on that great responsibility at a very early age.

Being almost 4 years older, I had accumulated a vast library of knowledge by the time my younger sister was born: Oreo cookies are best eaten when they're soggy; "Sesame Street" is the best show ever; getting a time-out will ruin your life--things everyone must know in order to achieve success.

I also taught my sister important survival skills:

And kept her updated on the latest news:

By teaching my sister all that I knew, I was essentially giving her a head start on the competition. So when she entered preschool, she was already at college-level smartness while everyone else was still learning how to read. And when she was awarded all her academic scholarships and landed an amazing job, I knew without a doubt that her successes didn't come because she worked really hard for many, many years. No, it was all thanks to me.

I’ve never been good at keeping schedules. My life has pretty much revolved around “Why do something today when you can do it tomorrow?”—which isn’t the way the phrase goes, and definitely isn’t the best rule to live by. That, however, was exactly the way I did everything, including blogging. And I never bothered to ask myself whether my lackadaisical attitude had any consequences.

I finally figured out that being so unreliable is a horrible way to live. But I didn’t realize this until someone close to me passed away. He was only 7 months old; he probably didn’t even understand what death was. And yet, even though he was so young, he was able to maximize every single day of his life. There was no such thing as “do it tomorrow.” It was all about “today.”

He did so much with what little time he had, and for me to go on living by my old mantra after he died would be a terrible insult. So from here on out, I’m going to do my best to live like him: no more “why do something today when you can do it tomorrow;” no more close calls with deadlines; no more indifference to the reality that my unreliability affects others.

It might sound a little off that someone’s passing would inspire me to blog more, but blogging—no, Xanga—is a huge part of my life. It’s where I can be myself and write all the things I can’t say. And all of you awesome members of the Xanga community—you made me the blogger I am today; you gave my writing new life. To think that all my crazy ideas could connect me to people who not only took the time to read my posts, but also found them entertaining, was something I never thought was possible.

My decision to switch course and move in a better, more productive direction means ultimately changing myself and the way I do things—and I believe it is for the best. So expect many more posts and many more pictures to start showing up from this point forward because I now understand that I don’t just write for me—I write for Xanga. And I’m so, so sorry it took me this long to figure it out.

Thanks for always being there,

Sylvia

I took piano lessons for 10 years--pretty standard for an Asian, huh? Ask any of us whether we've ever taken music lessons, and you're going to hear a "yes" for either piano or some string instrument (most likely the cello).

My sister and I had weekly lessons at our piano teacher's house. Our mother would drop us off after school, and would return to pick us up after we were finished. Neither of us liked practicing, and we were often scolded for our poor performances. On days when we were particularly disappointing, our teacher would drag out our lessons from 45 minutes to an hour and a half. I was so bad I once had to sit there for almost 3 hours. My sister and I tried to find ways to cut our lessons short--like, if she was first to get her session over with, she would immediately call my mom and tell her to come pick us up. And then my mom would end up arriving 30 minutes into my lesson, and we would get to go home early.  It worked a few times, but after awhile my mom figured out what we were doing and stopped unknowingly helping us cut class. But we still kept the routine going just in case.

During one of our lessons, I had some sort of brain fart and did something really dumb. I've tried to find an explanation for this seemingly sudden onset of retardation, but ever after so many years, I still come up empty.

Here's what happened: My sister was having her lesson, and I (after immediately calling my mom) was waiting to be picked up. To pass the time, I start flipping through a few of the "National Geographic" magazines my teacher had on her coffee table.

While looking for pictures of animals, a folded-up insert fell out of the magazine.

It turned out to be a diagram of Africa's native animals.

That is such a sh*tty picture, I know. I tried to make it less sh*tty by using basic shapes to draw the animals, but I could only draw an elephant (yes, that's supposed to be an elephant) and giraffe. Including any more animals would turn an already turdy picture into a massive mess of Paint waste.

I really wanted that diagram. It just looked so cool--with all the little animal pictures placed on the map according to their native regions. Why, if I had something like that, I'd tape it to my bedroom wall and look at it all the time!

And then, I had a brilliant idea!

Using the magazine as a cover, I took that folded-up diagram, slipped it under my shirt (I know I drew myself wearing a dress, but imagine it's a T-shirt), and held it under my armpit so that it wouldn't fall out when I moved. Mwahaha! That diagram was now mine! Mine! And now I'll always know where most African crocodiles live, and which territories belong to lions and zebras!

I was so excited that I couldn't contain my joy when my mom arrived.

And this is when I had that brain fart. For some reason, I thought I could show my mom the fruits of my labor--that she would see this diagram I freaking stole and wouldn't be mad at all. In fact, I actually thought she'd find that little map of Africa and its animals so interesting she'd let the larceny slide.

But I was very, very mistaken.

And it wasn't until seconds after I took the diagram out from under my shirt that I realized I had just told my mom I was a thief--a really stupid thief who shows off the stuff she steals to her own mother.

My stupidity was so embarrassing that I couldn't bring myself to look at the map ever again. I think it's still sitting in my piano bench, buried beneath piles of sheet music--a constant reminder of a random act of retardation that still haunts me.