Thursday, April 17, 2014

Of Lists, and Generations, and Homework, and Things

They say millennials, such as myself, seek work-life balance in addition to all the other things to which we supposedly feel entitled. I have no qualms about the work-life balance, because for the last few hours, I have been simultaneously writing papers for grad school, resisting the very strong desire to take care of the pile of dishes that have been sitting on the counter for the last few days while I periodically add to it as a result of feverishly making a dessert for a co-worker's birthday tomorrow, in addition to stressing about deadlines and projects at work, and going out of town Saturday and missing a couple days of work. Self-induced overload? Perhaps, but isn't that what we do to ourselves these days? "Stop the glorification of busy," I saw somewhere.

Could I be doing the dishes right now or finishing my homework? Yes, I certainly could, but this post is actually directly related to the papers I am writing for school. In fact, I will probably use this post in a final paper, it has dual purposes - it is helping me grow intellectually and it is providing me a break from designated homework so as to not compromise the sanity that allows me to have an intellect in the first place. See? Multitasking. Millennials are good at that, as well.

Someone recently told me, as I lamented about my current amount of stress, that I am fortunate that I do not have a husband and kids to worry about. Well, yes, that is true in this context, but ouch.* Millennials get a bad wrap, a lot of which I would agree with - we feel more entitled than we should and more spoiled than we probably deserve. But why should we be criticized for wanting work-life balance? I would like to think that no matter what generation you come from, you would not want to be a slave to your job or school. I would like to think that we would all want to make time for things that intrinsically motivate us to work for that promotion or pursue that graduate degree or go to our kid's soccer games.

The world is different, yes, each generation has its own set of challenges it was either born into or to which it had to adapt. Our grandparent's were frugal and lived more simple lives in the midst of world war, and the boomers were born into a world repairing itself as a result of those wars. Each generation has things that make it great and that also create its own set of challenges. My generation just happened to be born into a technologically booming world, making everything faster and more instantaneous. Communication is easier, medicine is better, education is more readily available, but it has also made us into the stereotype that we are today.

Wanting work-life balance should not be looked upon as a negative millennial characteristic, because I believe it is a good thing. History shows that others have done the hard work for us to be able to pursue such a dream as a perfectly balanced life. Our generation was born into a world that allows us to aspire to greater balance in life. In the end, it's all connected anyway, the things you learn at school apply to work, which apply back to school, which apply to family, which apply to extracurricular activities. Don't get me wrong, just because I advocate work-life balance doesn't mean I do not htink work is important. Quite the contrary, I very much enjoy my job and the knowledge, skills, and values I have gained as a result. Someone once told me that, "For as much of our life we spend at work, I find it hard to believe that it is of little consequence to who we are and who we will become." Wise words - we spend half our lives working, so we might as well make it count, because like I said, everything connects.

*Family/kids is a topic for another day. In the meantime, enjoy this picture of my ADORABLE new nephew.

Saturday, March 8, 2014

The Third and Fourth Eyes

Here is a list of things I have done that are not meant to be done while wearing glasses:
1) Shower. I forgot to take them off and didn't realize until the world started getting alarmingly blurry and hazy.  
2) Wash my face. Did this one tonight. Again, I just forgot, but my glasses needed to be cleaned anyway. 
3) Swim. Yep, it's true. Having to squint for too long gives me a headache (so many Asian jokes!) and swimming makes it doubly so because it's usually sunny and bright out. 
4) Worn sunglasses. No, not prescription sunglasses, I mean I wore regular sunglasses over my regular glasses while driving. Desperate times call for desperate measures. 
5) Played volleyball. In high school, my vision was still good enough to not have to wear glasses while playing (my passing skills got a little worse my senior year and I am now beginning to realize that my vision could be part of the reason), but, depth perception is hard without 20/20 vision. Glasses and sports are fine, you say? Some people do it, you say? Yes, well nerds do it and people who want to get six-packed* and have their glasses get broken and possibly have the lenses shatter in their eyeballs rendering them sightless...yes, those people do it...and apparently me. 
6) Hiked a waterfall. And then I fell off the ladder leading up the side of the water fall and landed directly under the falling water where I was mercilessly beaten down, and then I got up, only to be beaten down again, and again, and again until I swam free. When I came up, my brother-in-law (seems like most embarrassing things I do are in front of my ever patient bro-in-law) said in a simply level voice, "Weren't you wearing glasses?" They were never seen again. 
7) Roller coasters. Almost lost them while on the most recent ride of Buffalo Bill's roller coaster in Primm, Nevada (an old classic, about a 1/2 hour past Vegas on the way to Cali, worth the stop). If I am to die on an amusement ride, I may as well be able to enjoy the view.

I feel as though Lasik is in my future.

* "Six pack" is a volleyball slang term that basically means you get hit in the face with the ball either because you are too slow to put your hands up or your opponent is just that good. It's like the equivalent of a batter hitting a ball directly at the pitcher...except the pitcher doesn't catch the ball and gets hit in the face. But in volleyball, the ball is bigger and softer and not traveling as fast, so it's not quite as devastating...but it still hurts!

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Not your bro.

It has been brought to my attention that I have been largely absent from the cyberworld, specifically this blog. Well, life just hasn't seemed to have been particularly funny lately. It hasn't been bad, don't get me wrong. There just hasn't really been anything noteworthy.

Actually, there was that time our work fish died and I wrote an obituary, made a slideshow of him, had a funeral and recorded in slo mo. I'll get to that when I'm not feeling so lazy. Mostly, I just wanted to tell you about a conversation I overheard while checking myself out at Smith's. And by that, I mean that I was in the self-check out line, but the first word order was definitely better. Anyway, it went almost EXACTLY like this:
Guy 1: Yo, bro, how you been, dude?
Guy 2: Oh hey, bro! I been good, bro, how 'bout you?
Guy 1: Oh, ya know, just chillin', dude, workin', doin' what I gotta do, ya know what I mean, bro?
Guy 2: Oh ya, man, I know what ya mean, bro.
...the conversation proceeds in this manner, finally ending like so: 
Guy 1: Okay man, I'll catch ya later, man. Bro, good seein' ya, dude.
Guy 2: Yeah, for real dude, see ya, bro.

Exaggeration? Noooooooooope, there were really that many 'bros' and 'dudes' and 'mans' in one thirty second  conversation. It was overwhelming...or underwhelming. Either way, I was whelmed.

This is why I believe that there is no hope for this generation. That and twerking.

Sunday, December 15, 2013

the good, the bad, and the worst

the good. 
little sister returned from her 18-month long mission in Russia. hashtagreunitedanditfeelssogood

the bad.
when people verbally speak in hashtags like i just did. like people i work with. i hope they are reading this. i can hear you in the other office bein' all, "hashtagbye", "hashtagletsgofillupourmugs". jimmy fallon and jt have created monsters.

the worst. 
i've got red in my ledger (quick, name that movie) and there's no getting it out. that's right, my friends, i'm officially enrolled in a BYU class. pleh, pleh, pleh. i had to do it to fulfill a prerequisite for one of my USU MBA courses. shameful. i suppose i should say i've got the wrong blue in my ledger. it's all downhill from here. hashtagnooffensetomybyufriends hashtagexceptnotreally hashtagaggielife

ps - know it's really supposed to be #hashtag, but i'm going for added effect on my hashtag rant. 

Monday, October 7, 2013

Of Victories and Not-so-much-a Victory

First, a victory. Second, not so much a victory.

Victory: Creeping into my mother's room without waking her up after she had fallen asleep to retrieve my toothbrush that I had left in her bathroom. SUCCESS! The Mama has super sonic hearing like all moms do...except, her's is super sensitive because she spent many years listening for my brother sneaking out in the middle of the night or sneaking in after he probably thought he successfully snuck out. Brother, you should know that she always knew. 

Anyway. The point is, I got in, retrieved aforementioned toothbrush, and got out. Normally, it goes like this: I open the door as silently as humanly possible. I turn my head to listen if she is sleeping/lightly snoring. Do I hear it? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Either way, I determine that she is asleep because if she was awake, she would have asked me what I wanted or what I was doing. It is then that I slowly open the door just enough to slip in, but not too wide because there is a certain point where the hinges squeak. Then the tip-toeing commences...have you ever seen a 25-year-old tip-toe? Just image something out of Looney Toons and you got it. It's about ten feet from the bedroom door to the bathroom door therein. EVERY TIME, I get about five or six steps in when out of the darkness comes, "What do you want?" or, "What do you need?" or "You left it downstairs," because she usually knows exactly what I am there for and exactly where I left the misplaced item. 

The tip-toeing desists, shoulders slump and I either hurry to retrieve the misplaced item from her room, or do an about face and find the misplaced item exactly where she said it would be. But this time...THIS TIME! I did it! This particular night had come after a long, stressful day for her...I cracked the door, perked up my ears, heard what was definitely a person sleeping, entered, retrieved, and exited! But I got ten bucks that says after she reads this, she'll tell me that she did actually hear me, but was too tired to ask what the crap I was doing sneaking into her room at 1 am. Showing up in your parent's room in the middle of the night at 25-years-old is much less adorable than at three or four-years-old.

Not so much a victory: Sometimes when I am home for the weekend, I'll take a shower in my mom's room because I'm too lazy to go downstairs. So, I had just gotten out of the shower, grabbed the towel off the counter, and about the same time, I heard a loud crash:
Audible sigh, hands out, head thrown back, staring at the ceiling.
Then, as I was scootching back to clean it up, I swung the towel around and...plop! "Ahhhh!" But naturally, instead of immediately pulling it out, I took a photo...NATURALLY, like one does in this type of situation.

I struggle...pretty significantly. And remember, I had just stepped out of the this all happened while I was not my most glorious moment, let's just say that.

That all happened on Saturday...and in the wee hours of Monday morning...I received the following:

HAAAA! I could not have asked for a better ending.

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Oh nice and....

It is impossible for me to feel sad or mad when I turn on my phone and get greeted by the round, chubby, squinty face of #ohniceandchubbybaby. The end.

Monday, September 2, 2013

Grumpy Old Lady Downstairs

Have just finished moving for the 15th time since I moved away from home seven years ago (21 moves in my entire life). I used to be a pro mover...until I stayed in one place for almost three years and accumulated A LOT of stuff. Not so much pro mover now, since I have to tote the entire spectrum of furniture and other grown-uppy things.

Am sad hapa. Lived alone for the last three months, and it. was. glorious. Apparently, at 25, I consider myself an adult who is too old for roommates. My mother just tells me I'm spoiled. She's right, you know, most singletons my age still have roommates. I've just never been a chummy, be-besties-with-all-roommates-always, kind of gal.

So, I moved from my lovely one bedroom apartment across the hall to a two-bedroom so I can get a roommate to split rent and bills. Now, I live below a family who walk and close doors SO loudly. I have no idea how anyone can walk with so much gumption.This isn't even to mention the 80 children they have. You guys -- I am the grumpy old lady who lives downstairs. The kids were outside throwing a ball against the wall of my apartment, and would occasionally hit the windows. After about a half hour, I went to the window, pulled up the blinds with equal gumption as the walking patterns of their parents, and tried to open the window.

Embarrassingly, I couldn't get the window open, and the children just watched me with wide eyes as I struggled. Finally, I gave up, and all I could do was stand there with a serious look on my face and shake my head with a threatening slowness. They continued to stare, so I said loudly, "Don't throw the ball against the wall! You keep hitting the window!"

They stared.

"Did you hear me?"

Silent nods.

I pulled the blinds closed and went back to unpacking. Minutes later - thump....thump...this time on a different wall...the main entrance. I squinted my eyes and trudged over to the front door and looked out through the peep hole. There they were.

Thump...thump...giggle giggle.

In an attempt to not earn a (worse) reputation for myself on the second day in my new abode, I opened the door at what I hoped was a normal speed.

They stared.

"Kids, can you  not throw the ball against the wall, please. It's very loud in here," I said in my sweetest voice.

More stares. Silent nods.

"Thanks!" I squeaked in a high pitched voice very unlike myself. They went away and I continued unpacking.

My parents have always told me I am more mature than my years, but I bet they didn't realize I'm actually an 80-year-old trapped in a twenty-something year old body.