Good job me

Finally it is the end of the semester! Looking back, it has been a pretty good semester. I am super grateful.

Highlights include (in a proximate chronological order):

-Hard earned a driver's license which was pretty much a miracle to me

-Started this blog and actually worked on it

-Progressed slowly and steadily through Arrested Development and realized Buster and I are essentially the same person

-Got jobs lined up to nourish my sugar mama instinct

-Woke up to swarms of Asian carps attacking the boat on the Illinoi River

-Caught the technology bug and got myself a leapfrog upgrade (before: a 6-year-old Nokia 6020; after: a dumb Suri that discriminates against my accent)

-Camped with my rugged optics hunk who got me my first pair of hiking boots

-Got lucky and will have my first publication EVER

-Won a $5 Starbucks gift card for signing up at a dysfunctional legal research website

-Finally dressed up for the Halloween in a totally unrecognizable fashion

-Passed the Multistate Professional Responsibility Examination after almost missing the exam because I could not find the testing center

-Played a minor role in a skit on lawyering ethics and got two fancy free lunches for my trivial brainstorming contribution

-Skipped an Estate and Trust class and did not regret for a single bit

-Channeled my inner badass RA

-Went to Bible Study consistently to play with the host's dog-like cat

-Made unsightly super-sized Chinese dumplings that claimed its roots in American mutation

-Received a random scholarship, which was probably based on the wedding cost estimate I submitted

-Joined the headless crowd on Black Friday at the Scottsdale Fashion Square

-Toured Sedona with the family and leapt across six harmless streams with audacity and agility in the very hiking boots the optics hunk bought me

-Sponsored all the energy drink purchase for the optics hunk with my RA money to bribe him into loving me unconditionally

-Watched a host of good and bad movies, lots of Chopped, and a healthy dose of reality crap; also, newly fell in love with Ryan Gosling and Conan O'Brien (who had to come after the optics hunk and Steven Colbert, unfortunately. Damn the first-in-time hierarchy!)

-Survived five finals and perfected my cramming technique to a new level (but what was I thinking at the beginning of the semester anyway?)

-Loving the optics hunk with a burning PASSIONNN and feeling blessed all the time

Among the sweet feats and pleasant surprises, I also recently learned that my dad's business partner, Mr. Bill Jones, passed away right before Thanksgiving. He was a kind and generous soul. My dad, Blake, and I stayed on his beautiful boat(s) in August and had a spectacular time there. God bless Bill and his family!


(Bill and my daddy bear, who was being cute unintentionally)

Now it is time to read for leisure, shun frozen Kashi entrees until next year, give some thought to (finally) arranging a dental appointment, and actually start to take baby steps toward our futuristic wedding (which is in the future anyway)!

Love awkwardly

I am constantly amazed at how wonderful you are.

You teach me something new, something good, something healthy, and something to be cheerful about with each passing day.

Thank you for letting me feel comfortable in my own skin and also inspiring me to be a better person.

I will continue to dance my awkward dance and love my awkward love.

Munchkin wisdom

It was David's birthday on Tuesday. There are many remarkable things about this individual, a number of which are particularly endearing.

He is from Minnesota and loves spam. He wears a viking helmet to celebrate his Swedish heritage. He bikes like a maniac. And he and his French girlfriend Cecile are the most intensely antagonistic couple during board games.

For his birthday, Cecile made cupcakes that perfectly captured the different terrains in a map of Catan.

The rest of us who are not as culinarily gifted honored this important day with an epic game of Munchkin.

In the middle of this game, Zach--who was short on role-defining cards--unleashed his dissatisfaction:

"You are a master wizard and thief and cleric super munchkin halfling. But what am I? I don't have a race OR occupation. I have no job, and not even a race to be discriminated against so that I can get a job."

You mean affirmative action?

But still, well said, Zach. Welcome to the 99%.

Halloween already?!!

Halloween? November already?

Last weekend, the optics hunk and I took on an uncharacteristic challenge of party-hopping. We started with my firm's attorney retreat in Scottsdale. We were nervous about our 50s' outfit choice. Before we stepped out of our hotel room, we patted each other on the shoulder: at least we tried. But it turned out that we were among the handful of people who actually dressed up for the rooftop party. Also much to the delight of the optics hunk, he got compliments for being "really cute." So I paraded him around like a prize pony.

Remind me again, how did he shake off the bowl-cut, geek swirl glasses, and knee-high socks and mature into such a fine, good-looking young man?

Thank me again, and my impeccable taste.

After a night filled with Elvis quivers and unorganized dancing, we stopped by our favorite restaurant in Phoenix, Chino Bandido. Back in the old days, I was a follower of Guy Fieri's carb porn show the Triple D. Owned by an interracial couple, Chino Bandido was one of the diners Guy visited during his Arizona road trip, and it featured an unusual fusion of Chinese and Mexican comfort food. We first visited the place in March 2010, after a late flight from San Francisco. To fill the Brad-Nelson-Iris-shaped holes in our heart, we braved through a rare storm in Phoenix and arrived at the place.

That meal was cheap, fulfilling, warm, and delicious. The Chinese-Mexican combo reflected exactly how the optics hunk and I ate on a daily basis: he got his burrito, I got my bowl of rice, no cheese. We parted ways in our eating habits, but we also stole bites from each other's plate in a semi-savage manner often known as sharing.

After we paid pilgrimage to our shrine, we headed to our second-round of wholesome partying, at my host mom, Carmen's place. Carmen is one of the most inspiring persons I know. She has a big heart, travels extensively, and radiates sunshine into other people's lives.

I knew Carmen through a host family program, International Friends. A few weeks after I got in Tucson, I received a call from Carmen, a judge in town who decided to take me after seeing my name--a lone law student--on the list waiting to be loved and included. I did a similar program in college and thought it was just a welcoming formality, as I had dinner with that family once or twice and then never heard from them again. Based on that experience, I did not see how International Friends would be any different, but I signed up anyway, desperately wanting to meet people. And luckily, Carmen picked me and became a powerful presence in my life. She not only showed me around to get to know Tucson better, but also taught me how to embrace and love Tucson, and its wonderful people. She restored my faith in the goodness of people.

Finally, after my dark and twisty days in the depressingly gloomy New England, let there be light, Tucson!

It was a woefully short stay at Carmen's party. Every year, Carmen's party grew bigger and bigger. She has such amazingly positive energy, and people are naturally drawn towards her. The optics hunk and I left to make room for the incoming crowd, driving to our next destination, a dinner party at his friend, Manal's house.

I adore a low-key get-together like this, where people from diverse backgrounds simply relish in good food and good conversations. That feeling of tangible connection with other individuals--in our commonality of differences--makes me feel warm from the inside.

I always complain that I hardly have any Chinese friends. I don't quite fit in the Chinese way, but I don't fit in other ways either. In the end, I think I am becoming a country of my own, raising my own army, setting up my own defense, and putting down my own safety net. Do I miss that bonds with people from my country? Oh yeah, very much so. In my dreams, I could see clear and blurry faces from my high school, wearing that same hideous-looking uniform, speaking in that same dear voice, and laughing that never-ending laugh for the same lack of reason.

But I have always been too proud, too busy, too stubborn, and too critical--too much for a Chinese girl. In my mind's eye, I can see my parents doing chest-bumps and victory dance at home right now, celebrating and exclaiming: thank God/Budda/all deities in the world, finally a taker from the brave wild West!

The last stop was the optics party. The optics hunk dressed as Gob, his favorite character from The Arrested Development. He donned a suggestively translucent and half-buttoned white shirt that truly revealed his credentials as the optics hunk. I was supposed to be his ambiguously British sidekick. He downloaded the Final Showdown to his Iphone as entrance music, practiced the awkward dance moves and forever-failing magic tricks, and even thought about rolling around a Segway.

We thought we would be a huge hit.

We were wrong. People at that particular party were ill-informed of the infamous characters from the show. We exchanged a sympathetic glance with the similarly underrecognized Tobias in snakeskin flare pants. Later we found out that at a graduate mathematics party somewhere else, 15 people coordinated their Arrested Development looks.

But still, not a bad way to end the night.

The next morning, we bid an official farewell to our short-lived glamorous Lindsay Lohan way of life. I spent a holy day doing a writing competition, and then started a week of eye-gorging exam studying. The optics hunk went back to his power point monkey mode, churning out overly meticulous slides to prepare for a conference in Austin.

Also, for those of you who had no clue who the optics hunk is, that's Blake. Not the Blake Lively Blake, though.

Something intimate

I had a rough week finishing up a paper that I had been working on for over a year. I was emotional, bitter, and sleep-deprived.

I spent every waking minute hunching over the laptop and felt like merging into the lifeless black letters on the screen.

I was overwhelmed by the piling dishes in the sink and the overflowing laundry basket. I microwaved bland frozen dinner and lived on midnight sugar highs.

My unceasing love-hate relationship with work: I resisted, but I couldn't take my eyes off it.

I loathed myself for being a mess, but I couldn't help it.

To curb my inner workaholics, I signed up for couple activities with Blake on the weekend. I wanted Blake in his shining armor to sweep me off my feet, from my unchanged, sedentary, and lifespan-decreasing position that has left a permanent me-shaped dent on the couch.

That is how I left an unremarkable mark in the world.

That is why I lived and breathed misery in the past.

The impulsively prudent side of me demanded: work through the weekend.

The sensibly daredevil side of me whispered: work, not on the weekend.

I departed from what seemed to me like an obvious and rational choice, although not without fear of consequences.

But I trust Blake would bring me sanity. Being with him is a much healthier lifestyle than being consumed by work on my own.

On Friday, we stood in line outside the Verizon store to get the new Iphone.

For hours. Like forever.

If you know me, you would know that patience is not one of my best qualities.

Unsurprisingly, I lost my temper. I pouted and fulminated and protested by sitting on the ground.

Nonetheless, I retired the phone I owned for 6 years. I wouldn't have accomplished more if I were just staring an empty stare into a paper that did not write itself.

On Saturday, we went camping on Mt. Graham.

Of course, I brought along the paper just for the peace of mind. I even romanticized the idea of me editting a morbid paper on a tree stump in natural light.

But I was wrong. There were too many things to lay eyes upon in the embrace of the wonderful nature: trees bursting with golden leaves, shadows dancing on the brink of the dark and the bright, and solitary stretches of land unfolding in front of my eyes.


The amazing little wonders I saw reminded me of what I live for.

Beauty. Honor. Love.

And the man who gently did it all--packing the essential camping gears, preparing the critical food supplies, and unwrapping my very first camping boots--when I was allegedly too busy to take care of myself.

I even thought about making use of the dim flashlight to read at night, just like in the old days.

Thank God that I changed my mind.

I came here to be with the people I adore and learn to appreciate. I stopped crying over the hours lost that could have been devoted to my paper. I promised Blake that I would behave myself from then on and try my hardest to enjoy and relax.


I attempted to set up the tent. After I uneventfully fumbled with the parts for a good ten minutes, Blake came to my rescue. Then we had a cozy little home standing on the soft moist ground.


I stooped over the grill, flipping meat and vegetables. Smoke and embers kissed my cheeks. We went around the camp site, serving people the food we prepared. Blake definitely thrived on the compliments praising how mind-blowing his marinade was.

Photo Credit: Michael Gordon

I looked through a telescope, gazing into the world that has inspired the boldest imagination and the exactest science. I saw beautiful binary stars with different colors and a nebulous cloud of a faraway galaxy.

Again, Blake's star tracker did not work. It never did, and I suspected it never would.

But he was relieved and satisfied, as he should be. He had done everything to make me happy, including being yelled at. And I finally came to my senses.

What a life-saver.

Edward Abbey said: What draws us to the desert is the search of something intimate in the remote.

That's certainly true with me.

Dilemma of an honest romantic

Blake is a hopeless romantic. He has sparkles in his eyes whenever the next big surprise is incubating in his mind.

He just cannot contain it.

Unfortunately for him, he is also too honest for a romantic. A month before his proposal, the curious George in me started to act up. I drilled him with the intensity of a prosecutor.

"DID YOU GET A RING IN PITTSBURGH?"

He winked. He grinned. He rolled his eyes. He avoided eye contact. He refused to answer. He held onto his ground firm.

But he looked a bit too happy not to deny it.

Clean canvas

Life before Blake was black and white and all shades of gray.

I listened to music on youtube. I patronized a movie theater once per year and fell asleep to the sound of car chasing and sky falling. I could not handle any electronics. Ever. I barely cooked and triggered a massive fire alarm in my one and only domestic goddess attempt. Driving schools refused to take me back after I hit the road and weaved in and out of traffic like a maniac. I went swimming by myself and was shoveled around in a freezing and clearly family-friendly indoor pool.

Then this boy blasted his way into my mundane existence. Also entered into the picture his up-to-no-good gadgets, ginormous movie/indi-rock/friend collections, ridiculous editing and design talents, sick passion for despicably aloof cats, and deep resentment for Papyrus, the font.

He couldn't have been happier. I was a perfectly clean canvas for him to start something grand, something unknown. His engineer instinct told him that I need work, upgrading, overhaul-lots of them. I was a crude prototype capable of all possibilities, even though many cannot be realized.

He has achieved modest success over years, although probably not as much as he hoped to transform me. I know deep down, he wished his dream wife could at least accomplish one push-up without bending all the joints in the body, and invest in one pair of good hiking shoes instead of all the mysterious high-heels that just keep winding up at the doorstep.

After a while, I had to admit that I had no real hobbies that I can connect to anyone. I play the violin for a sense of distinctiveness. I swim for body image. I read for class. Driven by inertia, I join clubs and apply for scholarships like a headless chicken. I watch TV to escape the gaping black hole of boredom. I overspend on clothes and underbudget for everything else.

My last year in college, I constantly questioned myself: What if I didn't leave my comfort zone in Shanghai and come to the wild wild west? What if I didn't rush to enroll in this savagely famous school without knowing who I am first? What if I cared less about grades and derived a sense of purpose from something other than academic success? Would I have been happier in this alternative life that I never even dared to try?

When I first met Blake, a suspiciously ADD cutie who was juggling a dazzling array of skills, interests, and viewpoints, I thought to myself: I could use a little help to start a real life of my own.

During college years, I had been somewhat traumatized by the overachievers around me: hardcore partying, relentless networking, and scandalous encounters. I retreated to my shell where I felt safe and comfortable.

Then, this smitten kitten-lover showed me the many options of low-stress past-time. He himself embodies the wholesomely wild and secretly fun side of the nerd community.

Settlers for double/triple date? Check.

Spontaneous movie night? Check.

Glorious RA-resident bonding time? Check.

Once-Apple-No-Back for life? Check.

Colbert Report spree? Check.

Arrested Development marathon? Check check. BUSTER!!!

The happiest time of my life.

I have never seen someone so comfortable, confident, and adoringly unapologetic in his own skin. One of the many great things Blake has taught me is to leave some time for me myself, and us, no matter how difficult it is.

But I think I will still resist being assimilated into his world totally and completely. Just because it is funner this way.

Also because we are technically not married yet.

Shijie writing this post - Blake

Full circle

On August 28, 2009, I was at a low point in life.

New to Tucson, I had no friends I could count on. My awkward roommate literally dashed into her room every time she saw me in the kitchen.

Neither was I loving school from my two weeks of exposure. People I met were unnecessarily intense and always wore a worrying frown on their forehead that shaped like the word "loan."

To make things worse, I had no car, bike, or rickshaw to escape the suffocating reality and the scalding desert heat. I walked everywhere, fighting old blisters and adding new bruises on my feet. I dangled grocery bags along my arms like an overbearing Christmas tree.

It was at such a time that I unknowingly made one of the most important decisions in my life. I found in an old e-mail an announcement of a Mt. Lemmon trip.

I did not know the place. I did not know the group that was organizing the trip. I did not know what to expect.

But I wanted to get out of my room and meet people.

I wanted to see the possibility of being loving and being loved.

That was a hot, uninteresting Friday afternoon. Staring at the e-mail, I quickly weighed my options: to be killed by an unknown monster in the forest, or to be killed by boredom and the living and breathing freak people around me. I chose to die in honor and nobility.

In twenty minutes, I got changed, packed lightly, and ran to meet the driver.

Camping?

First time ever.

Just to illustrate how impulsive my decision was, here is a re-enactment of my mountaineering outfit on that day: a cross-back beach dress, high heeled flip-flop, and a baby doll cropped jacket.

My luggage contained three important personal items: a toothbrush, a towel, and a criminal law textbook.

Looking back, I was blissfully--or hopelessly--ignorant.

I hiked fashionably, with my heels tapping against rough stones and constantly trapped in soft pine needles.

I also realized that I should not have expected room services in a cabin. As a result of my oversight, I had to cuddle up in my thin towel that was losing threads on the edges and barely covered my upper body, and adjust my neck to rest uncomfortably against the bulky criminal law book. Needless to say, I was wide awake at night and emerged the next morning with dark eye circles and a stiff neck.

But all the embarrassment and humiliation seemed to pay off in an unexpected way. Thanks to my last minute decision to embrace the wilderness, I met a guy who had served as my driver, seeing-eye dog, hiking stick, and meal table mate throughout the trip.

What surprised me was that he was not judgmental and did not immediately jump to the conclusion that I was mentally retarded and unfit for life.

Well, that was probably because he had seen the worse of me even before we landed on the camp ground: I fell asleep in his beloved car, drooling, snoring, and swinging like a pendulum in the back seat as the car sped along the windy mountain roads.

On the night hike, he kindly allowed me to grab his right sleeve as I felt my way in the dark. Meanwhile, he crowded his left hand with a ridiculously powerful flashlight, a no-big-deal laser pointer, and a star-detecting device that looked like a radio and apparently did not work.

He tried to explain that his name was "coke in an hour" and unfortunately dropped the ex word on a number of occasions.

It was also crystal clear that he avoided saying my name at all costs, either because he couldn't pronounce it or because he didn't remember.

When he learned that I rolled in my shower towel, he opened the trunk of his unremarkable golf to reveal a full set of camping essentials.

I also saw him as a better self. I gobbled down my meal in seconds and then had plenty of time to watch him elegantly nibble carrots and chips. He talked about his college and childhood friends for hours, and I was both mesmerized and ashamed that I had no similar stories to reciprocate.

I liked to appreciate his chiseled profile and secretly hoped that he was not Jewish.

All in all, this person is potentially taken, startling outgoing, and has all the life skills that I don't have and all the pointless gadgets that I would love to dispose of one day, if I get a chance.

One thing for sure, he could be a good friend material. A very good friend.

Two years later, I went back to Mt. Lemmon. This time, I dressed much more appropriately and actually brought a sleeping bag. I looked around and found many familiar faces.

I came back with a mission. I wanted to make things right this time.

I attempted an hour-long hiking trip and survived. I gave myself a big pat on the shoulder. I had fulfilled my yearly quota of outdoorsiness.

I managed to drive home thanks to GPS and a forever patient and vigilant passenger. I couldn't believe that I had stayed awake for the entire time instead of plummeting the vehicle down the cliff.

People congratulated me on my engagement and prayed for my sanity in the coming months. I like people when they are genuine and caring. I used to know so many people who are not, and maybe I was one among them. That was why I did not like myself for so long.

And I probably overcompensated, too--to the point that I am going to marry this driver, seeing-eye dog, hiking stick, meal table mate, and my best friend in the years to come. This is what camping has done to me.

Happy anniversary love.

Thank you for taking me through such a life-changing journey with you.

Thank you for consistently loving me, calling me a funny girl, and making things work.

Thank you for turning all my wrongs into memories of beautiful mistakes.

Thank you for showing me how I can earn happiness by taking a little risk.

Thank you for sticking with me so that I can revisit the old camp ground, redeem myself, and bring our story to a full circle.

Viva La Vida Ebay

I came back from my flippy-floppy vacation on the Illinois River with Daddy and Blake. I had many hillbilly moments. I accomplished feathering myself with five kinds of dog hair as part of my beach outfit, fell asleep with my face buried under Wills and Trust on a speed boat, and featured Asian carps in my dreams as they vigorously banged themselves against the boat at night.

All in all, everyone harvested good memories: daddy got to eat hearty Midwestern steak, Blake got to completely block me out of his fantasy Foundation world, and I got to roll on the boundless super king-size bed in true ecstasy.

Then I came home, nervous to find out that I had two items awaiting. One was a citation ticket for not displaying my parking permit. The other was a package notice in my mailbox.

The ticket turned out to be a false alarm. But the package was just the beginning of a social experiment, a psychological warfare.

Dare you buy a wedding dress on Ebay?

For me, the apparent answer is yes, against all odds and skeptics. I am ruthless about the budget, which ironically I have no idea of how much or how little. But I love a firm handshake of camaraderie after a fierce and show-no-mercy bargain. When Blake saw me grinning sheepishly or attempting to make out an awkward puppy face, he knew that I was concocting wacky shenanigans, which always include driving wedding cost to rock bottom, the sweat-shop style.

My grand wedding scheme entails:

People, bring your own desert to the reception.

Also chair cover.

And write yourself a custom-design invitation.

And don't forget to prepare a show-worthy talent. Don't invite yourself if you haven't already got one.

. . .

Oops, I digressed, as usual. So, back to the gist of this post. I first discovered the BCBG bridal series a couple months ago in my usual habit of wee hour online-shopping. I was exploding with joy when I found out that a number of gowns were a part of the annual sale. So I sent links of potential dresses to Mommy, whose concise and insightful feedback ("ugly" "clown" "wrong" "manly") helped me eliminate all but one.

But I did have some issues with the survivor of my mom's firing squad ("survivor dress"): it had a deep-V cut in the back. Maybe I should wear a Winnie the Pooh shirt underneath to add some wholesomeness?

Regardless, the survivor dress was $124. After weeks of patience, I welcomed the Fourth of July with a further discount of 20% and holiday free shipping. I was only a click away from placing the order (and getting done with the gown-shopping), except that I was completely clueless about my size. I shuddered at the fine print:"no return for all final sales."

I dragged Blake to the only BCBG store in town. I shamelessly tried on every single cocktail and full-length gown and a number of unrelated items that I could find on the rack (pant suit and pencil skirt for wedding anyone?). Three hours later, I emerged out of the store triumphantly, empty-handed yet with a renewed understanding of my measurement inside and out. Blake, for some reason, was tilting his hat to the side and rushing out of the store in an uncharacteristically fast strut.

Meanwhile, I killed the survivor dress in my mind, partly because having a Winnie the Pooh dipping his finger in the honey jar and smiling through my back was slightly disturbing, and partly because I did not see the gown in the store to test my theory. However, I did find a replacement. In my prolonged changing/searching/self-appreciating session, I accidentally tried on a dress that was quite decent. In my dictionary, "quite decent" is defined as "actually very nice but with an unholy price tag."

Too bad.

But I have always been a woman of virtue: a patient, persevered, impulsive, and tenacious shopper. Recently, I had claimed and returned my bounty from Urban Outfitters' sale massacres (ask Blake for funny stories). And here I am again, who must be a Chinese offshoot of the Amazon wonder woman, lurking on Ebay for months and shooting competing bidders with my lethal stare.

If Ebay is a battlefield, then I have to be a sniper-in-training. I passed the security (such a pain to link my account to Paypal!), evaluated the enemy's supply (plenty of reviews to read!), calculated the risk of casualty (ugh...no return, bummer!), and waited for an ambush (WHERE ARE YOU MY PERFECTLY CHEAP DRESS?!!!).

Finally a week ago, I found the dress (called BCBG Matilde), studied the sellers, waited for the right timing, and snatched the last one in stock.

My heart was racing and my head was spinning. Man, I did not know Ebaying could be so nerve-wrecking. It happened so fast, just like a dream. I need an oxygen mask next time.

Now, I am holding the dress close to my chest, flaunting my first-and-will-never-be-the-last Ebay purchase to Blake and Daddy. I am deeply grateful that I no longer need to join those Dash to Your Dress sales and become an inevitable victim of bridal violence.

Frankly I need no fancy dress to impress anyone. Blake, in his absent-minded eyes, would always call me beautiful even if I wrap myself in bed linen and show up with an enormous cow lick.

But I still need a good deal to make the frugalista in me happy.

Then I got an anxious text message from Mommy.

"Did you nail it? Is the seller a crook?"

ENFP & ISTJ

Another leadership conference. This time for Optics and Photonics students in San Diego. Haven't I been through enough of these already? I had already dozed off at least once during the endless powerpoint slides when the speaker brought up this as the summary slide to her 3-hr presentation:


at that moment I realized that I've probably learned all I can ever learn from lectures on leadership and personalities. The line "always something new" at the bottom right of the slide is antithetical. I've gone around the loop of leadership psychology and now the film is starting over again.

If you've gone to enough team-building exercises, you'll eventually come across the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI) shown in the picture. You answer some questions, and it gives you a personality profile defined by 4 letters representing 4 characteristic categories of how you interact with the world and other people:

1. Where we get our energy
Extrovert (E) or Introvert (I)
2. How we interpret information
Intuition (N) or Sensing (S)
3. How we make decisions
Thinking (T) or Feeling (F)
4. Orientation to the outer world
Perceiving (P) or Judging (J)

Years ago when I was a resident assistant, I took the test. I'm an ENFP. Shijie just took the test during her training as a resident assistant. She is an ISTJ. We're total opposites. The perfect pair of counterparts you may ask? Well, we both weren't particularly surprised.

From Wikipedia:
"ENFPs are Champions who are good at motivating. They are initiators of change, keenly perceptive of possibilities. They energize and stimulate others through their contagious enthusiasm."
"ISTJs are Inspectors who are good at certifiying. They thrive on organization. They keep their lives and environments well-regulated. They bring painstaking attention to detail in their work and will not rest until a job is well completed."

This assessment may not be totally accurate, but we do see this all the time. I get our research group and investors motivated at work, and she interprets all sorts of regulation in her many roles in the law field. I'm usually the motivator behind going somewhere or doing something different, and she's the rational person keeping us from spending too much money on silly things (I swear I'm getting better) or spending too much time on perfecting near-meaningless designs or reports.

One of our good friends Nelson is an ENTJ. We find it funny that he carries strong characteristics of each of us, and in nearly half-&-half proportions as described in the personality profile.

Another thing this test gives is a listing of most and least likely jobs someone of your personality type would be well suited for. Among the least likely jobs for my type: Scientist. Either I strongly disagree with that, or I hope I'm the exception.

Smell the roses

Our first Valentine's was so low-key that it was almost sketchy. Totally my fault. I issued Blake a serious prior warning weeks ahead of time that I desired no grand romantic gestures on that very day. No flowers. No candle-lit dinner. No exotic chocolate. And no reservation.

Who is this PERSON?!

A. Alien.

B. Hater.

C. Dunno. Don't think I know her.

Or maybe-just maybe-because I was trying to rebel against consumerism (what?). I think the Valentine's is yet another pretext to force people to spend beyond their means. While forbidding Blake to pledge allegiance to the over-spending national anthem, I ran a research on the popular restaurants in town. Not only were they all booked out as if it were a time of Soviet food rationing, but also the prix fixe menu was a big fat crime against humanities.

In my rare moments, I started to sympathize with the male population, the unsung slaves who are supposed to pick up the bill whenever wherever, shower girls with attention and gifts, and go all out for the short-lived romance on steroid.

No thanks. I prefer to preserve the financial sanity of my man on a grad school budget. Even just for a day.

Instead, we watched the winter Olympics and ate frozen dumplings. Out of excruciating self-restraint, Blake unveiled a modest but lovely gift: a grey H&M beanie hauled from Minnesota.

I wore that beanie more than any other hat I have ever owned. The last time I was spotted with that item was in April. Tucson April.

Since this boy entered my life, every day has become a fiesta. He is indeed a mountain of light, a fountain of inspiration, illuminating and hydrating my dull, foreign, overly academic existence.

Like the time he hand picked a tube of bath bombs when he was in a solar conference in Vegas.

Like the time he ordered The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mom so that I could have a fun read while he was away in Chile.

Like the time he taught me how to play tennis and picked up the scattering uncaught balls after a lazy and very unprofessional me.

Like the time he risked his life teaching me how to drive and texted me on my first day of navigating my way in this world on a vehicle, alone.

Like the time he took me to see the documentary Babies and hanged in there as the only ♂, like a champ.

Like the time he adjusted the helmet for me before goat-carting. (*Update: no correction. You say tomato. I say tomahto.)

Like the time he found 25 versions of Carol of the Bells because I told him I loved this song.

Like the time he brought me to the woods he grew up in and walked down the path he remembered.

Like the time he cut his hair, my dad's hair, and then my hair.

Like the time he made me barbeque for dinner and then we watched lots and lots of Steven Colbert together.

And just like today, he bought home a bundle of delight and told me to smell the roses so that I will never ever have nightmares about the wedding.

Oh gosh, I love this man. Very very much so.

I promise I will refrain from clicking on living horrors called over-the-top wedding blogs from now on.

Certainty

When I was in middle school, I secretly wished to become a fashion model and live a life of glamor. But my short Asian genes and my startling good appetite doomed my dream to strut down the runway.

In college, I thought about working in the Wall Street one day, suit in suit out. I trekked all the way to the business school to pick up the freshly printed The Wall Street Journal, practiced mock interview questions with a financier wannabe, and tried to pad my resume with more As in econ courses. I would like to be a self-sufficient city girl and need no man in my life. After a total disaster interview in NYC, I was deeply humiliated and realized that I did not want this life as badly as everyone around me. For too long, I had blindly followed other people's path, mistaking their ambition for mine.

Then I came to law school, still not knowing whether this would be the right move for me. I met a bubbly guy who occasionally acted a bit overly friendly but can be easily forgiven because he happened to be dashingly cute in my biased opinion. He certainly had made the right move by casually asking me out when he was scrubbing dishes over the loud sound of splashing water. He later tried to make a point that saying "I love you" without looking at the love interest makes everything much more dramatic. This novel theory-like anything else he knew of relationships-came from an SNL skit, an endless source of heartfelt advices for dysfunctional couples.

Our first summer together was sometimes challenging. He moved out of La Aldea so that he could hang out with his manly friends, paint his room in a suspiciously brothel color, and openly play with fire, on a grill. He started to work for a professor whose headshot appeared at the Tucson International Airport. He got to order expensive solar cells or burn money all under the grand name of research. He became really good at what he was doing and was proud of it.

I, on the other hand, was browsing food blogs which always ended up crashing the office computer with only a floppy disk drive. I was worried about finding a paying legal job and starting my second year in law school. I missed a couple deadlines for career fairs. The desert heat was taking a toll on my mane and every day, I saw mass casualties on the floor.

And like every good Chinese woman, when I got frustrated, I wanted to get married, even though neither of us was ready at that time.

So the question is, how could we reach a consensus on a matter of such gravity as marriage within a year? Not that we have become more emotionally mature. I would still throw an adult tantrum and protest by not making dinner from time to time. Blake would respond by burying his head in Reddit posts like an ostrich in the sand. In fact, he is now on a very stupid game called QWOP, thanks to Reddit (for mentally debilitating details, see http://www.foddy.net/Athletics.html).

But I am glad that he is by my side, in all the good times and bad times. Before he masters the QWOP hand-arm-thigh-shin-feet-hip coordination by keyboard, he would fall heads over heels for me.

Finally, there is some certainty in life!

Prelude to Shark Week

Shark week is apparently on everyone's lips. Well, modify--everyone that we know of and see on a daily basis in grad school. Our friends are strictly confined to an exclusively nerdy crowd.

Blake and I have made significant headway in this blog project. HE DESIGNED THE TITLE BANNER!!! He spent many sleepless hours (right before going to bed), shed a sea of invisible sweat, and took his Photoshop skills to a brand new level.

So a big round of applause to Shijie! It has been tested and proven that she possesses exquisitely fine taste in finding a computer-savvy husband. I simply cannot congratulate her enough. Good job.

Good job.

Switch back to first-person narrative. Blake and I went to Borders to snatch some end-of-summer reads. Because I am an awful person, I sincerely wished the discount could have been more generous. Come on, everything must go!

Also, with my newly acquired knowledge of itunes, I am starting to make an alternative wedding music playlist, tentatively featuring Weezer's "Island in the Sun" and Coldplay's "Every Teardrop is A Waterfall." I have one mild fear that Blake would dominate the ceremony with his eclectic music choice. I absolutely object to playing "Fistful of Sand" or "An Honest Mistake" on that occasion.

Summer is finally coming to an end. How do we know that in Tucson? 115 degrees of steamy hotness.

My end-of-summer resolution entails doing more leisure reading, cleaning my room, feeding Blake well, and spending quality time with friends.

I would like to think that Blake's end-of-summer resolution is to (1) love Shijie; (2) work out and sculpt those baby six-packs; (3) rest well and take mind off work when not at work; and (4) love Shijie. I know he would love to loop his resolution.

As shark week has taught us, looping and recycling old documentaries makes history, generates wide-spread interest, and elevates an unremarkable sea creature to iconic status.

Tale of two cities, in one day

I went to Phoenix today, for an interview. I just had a cliff bar and was feeling peaceful. While I was waiting for the Arizona shuttle, two rednecks got into a fight and tried to stare each other down. One almost pulled out a gun from his car. I was seriously frightened and hiding under the table. Oh well, Arizona. Please don't shoot me before I get a job.

The interview went well. The judge reminded me of so many people, all in that small frame. She read my writing samples very closely and left numerous hand-written notes all over the margin. We talked about the GPS technology, crime prevention, police stalking, privacy interest, etc. I was glad that I spent the whole semester wrestling with those issues, so at least I was somewhat prepared. She also appeared quite impatient with candidates just scratching the surface. She would go straight into the heart of every activity listed on my resume, "What did you learn from it?"

The one question that threw me off guard from her was: How do you see glass ceilings for female attorneys? I must have bitten my tongue when I heard her. There were so many instances where I felt I have been limited in an extremely uncomfortable way, like the time when the criminal law professor congratulated me for being the "only" unlikely one to write onto the law review, like the time interviewers condescendingly asked me "Don't you feel that Tucson is too small for someone like you?", like the time I received an empty promise for a recommendation letter.

Sometimes I don't know whether the barriers are there necessarily because I am a female, I am a Chinese Chinese, I have no connections in Arizona, I am too good to be true, none of the above, or all of the above. I need to eliminate too many "interfering" characteristics of mine and control too many variables to figure out: What went wrong? Am I too peculiar? Or is this your problem?

Luckily, the judge extended me the offer right after our interview. On my way back to Tucson, I looked out the window and saw the long stretch of barren, empty, flat land of Arizona. I started to picture me driving through this desert to see my babe.

And maybe, I would be greeted by a kitty cat by then.

It all began with a kiss

We decided to start this blog so that we can have a little couple project to work on amidst our busy days and lazy days. Also, I personally hope this blog can warm me up to the idea of planning a wedding in Tucson and be an outlet when I am stressed and overworked.

We came across a couple names for this blog. Blake first suggested that we should pay tribute to our red cars. In fact, an entire set of our engagement pictures are devoted to the cars. Not to mention, our relationship (or acquaintanceship) started as he drove me around in his R32, blasting some indie music and raving the engine, while I was sleeping with mouth agape in the passenger seat, apparently unimpressed.

Then, in a moment of divine inspiration, I had an idea. My train of thought went like this: we got hitched -> we're hitched hikers -> in a crusade along the unknown train of my wedding gown, or metaphorically, the milky way. So here we are now. Two Aspiring hitched-hikers' guide to the galaxy.

I love the idea. So does Blake. In fact, he loves it so much that he started this blog venture right away. An hour later, we had our first post, a gadget bar, some cool font, and a clementine color scheme (*update 07/31: back to black) .

Indeed, Blake and I are "hitched" hikers. As we often put it, we "stumbled upon" each other. We couldn't be any more different, yet we have come half way around this world to fall in love.

Last week, I got my driver's license, after one harmless fight, two failed attempts, and Blake's numerous coaching and early rises. Now I have my "multi-pass" to keep wandering and drifting, and luckily I have Blake to keep me out of trouble.

Travel safely in the unhinged universe.