Dim Sum Instructional Video

You'll need to turn your head on its side to watch this, but in my opinion, it's worth the neck cramp. You can watch me struggle to eat foreign food, and after watching, you'll know how to eat it, too!

Click the picture below to begin instruction. . . .

*NOTE: I'm really sorry, but you have to have a Facebook account to view the video. I couldn't get it to upload through Blogger, although I did try several times. If you don't have an account and still want to see it, either e-mail me or post a response here and I can send you the video directly by e-mail. Cheers!

A Literary Outrage

The offender: BBC World Service Radio Broadcast Article

This article so enrages me that the English major in me is going to come out and write a point-by-point retort.

The Question: should we relax English spelling rules?

The Short Answer: no.

Why?

Rather than answering this question myself, I am instead going to disassemble—or, perhaps, axe apart—Professor John Wells’ qualms with and “quick fixes” for the English language. I hope this retort proves convincing enough for those of you reading.

• Problem with Wells’ suggestion #1: Simply removing the final e wouldn’t help a student determine what the vowel sound is; leaving the e there would just help them determine what the vowel sound isn’t. Take the word route as an example. Is this word pronounced boot-rhymes-with-route? Or is it pronounced out-rhymes-with-route? The final e clearly makes no difference, as neither word is pronounced rot, which would be the short o vowel sound.
  

  There are simply too many vowel sounds to try and fix pronunciation via spelling or, as in this case, make spelling easier by using pronunciation as a guide. The latter, in fact, could easily become more difficult.
  

• Problem with Wells’ suggestion #2: Does he intend that double consonants should only appear after the first short vowel sound in the word? Because in the given examples “rivver” and “moddel,” the second vowel sounds are also short (although not quite the same, if you say the words aloud and really listen to yourself). Therefore, according to this rule, the words should be spelled “rivverr” and “moddell.”
  

  There are going to be an awful lot of letters trooping across our pages, if this rule is implemented. And again, if you think vowel sounds are restricted to Short and Long and can therefore be sorted out through spelling, see Problem #1 above.
  

• Concerning suggestion #3 . . . this one looks okay to me. Maybe a keener mind will find the loophole.
  
• Problem with Wells’ suggestion #4: Sure, we can add "Americanizations like thru, and then we can prolly add gonna, too, becuz you know the next generation'll be addin' all sorta IM-speak, lol.
  
• Problem with Wells’ suggestion #5: It's most certainly a problem to remove the apostrophe from its, because doing so may not confuse the writer’s meaning, but it will certainly trip up the reader.
  

  Consider this slightly more dramatic but very real-life example: on her paper, one high school student wrote higen for hygiene and beuty for beauty. Now, in the context of her writing, these words were certainly discernable. However, the amount of time necessary to determine what were, exactly, the words she had written and, thus, what was the overall meaning of her prose was considerable.
  

  The same dilemma applies to interchanging its and it’s. The reader will figure out whether the "its" is actually a possessive pronoun or a singular noun-and-verb contraction, only the process of making this determination will take considerably longer.
  

  Of course we all know that the longer it takes a reader to determine anything, the more quickly he/she loses interest and puts down the book/magazine/pamphlet. And then we’ve just defeated our own goal of facilitating language, haven’t we?
  

• Problem with Wells’ suggestion #6: See above explanation. Wells has clearly not read enough public urban middle school English papers to be perturbed by the interchanging of their, they’re, and there. Or maybe he considers himself liberal enough to see past these spelling differences. But we’ll see how liberal he feels when he starts running into bored, board, and bord, shood, IDK, OMG, and impressition. (Any guesses, for the last one? It’s a pretty easy one--I got it right away.)
  

Bottom line: leave English Spelling alone. Or, rather, drill your kids and your neighbors kids, and make them keep reading, since the years of published material aren't likely to suddenly be reprinted because spelling standards have changed. Standard English spelling has done the job thus far, as English is the first language of 375 million people and the second language of another estimated 750 million.* If spelling were that much of an issue, wouldn’t everyone have decided to speak a nice, phonetic language like Spanish—excuse me, Espanol—instead?

*(See http://the_english_dept.tripod.com/esc.html if you don’t believe me, as I am ever the academic and feel I should cite my sources.)

Final Note: A point of further interest may be to research how Standard English Spelling has developed to the state in which it is currently taught/used. Questions to consider: has it evolved due to widespread usage by the masses, or have spelling "rules" been implemented by figures of authority and then slowly been passed between generations until old rules are phased out?

I admit, the academic in me may never die.

Why I need a Man

I met this guy on the way to Korea—more specifically, this man. We were sitting down on the Delta airplane, and he came up and asked, if no one sat there, could he please take the aisle seat beside me? His seat was way in the back of the plane, so he had no leg room, and although it would really suck to be stuck between two passengers for the next fourteen-and-a-half hours, if I didn’t mind…. I told him I didn’t mind. I mean, if someone came and claimed that seat, then I’d be stuck between two passengers anyway, so I may as well have someone who seemed pleasant enough sit beside me, as opposed to a complete stranger.

Of course, this guy was a complete stranger, up until the moment he introduced himself. All I knew of him the moment he sat down was that he appeared to be several years older than me (but not in the “like my dad” age range, which admittedly is probably part of the reason I let him sit there so readily) and looked to be from either the South or the West. I made this assumption not just because of his light-colored eyes and buzzed blond hair, but because although he had a tough, stocky build, he seemed to move comfortably within his frame; he moved as though he should be easily able to ride a horse or perform intensive physical labor very gracefully.

As it turned out, no one claimed Seat A, so the man stayed sitting in that seat, and over the next several hours, I learned that he was a ranked military officer and was taking a team of men to some sort of training camp in Korea. I learned most of this by listening to his conversations with the airline stewardess (excuse me, the "flight attendant"), because once she discovered he was in the military, she took a particular interest in attending to him every time the refreshments cart went around. She made quite a nuisance of herself, I thought, asking him all manner of questions about care packages and the like. I myself didn’t feel it was very polite to dwell on his line of work, since he probably wouldn’t be allowed to tell me much about it for one thing, and for another, he is probably bombarded with questions by every person he meets. If I were him, I surely wouldn’t want to be forced through a fourteen-and-a-half hour interrogation about my job. How tedious! And so, since he didn’t bring up my occupation (or lack there of), I didn’t bring up his.

Instead, we spent the majority of the flight passing the time in fun, meaningless ways. He played an online trivia game against other passengers on the TV/computer console embedded in the headrest in front of him, but since I had no interest in that, we worked together on beating the airline’s computerized version of Boggle (called Bookworm or something to that effect) instead. I must say that for a such a self-deprecating “military guy,” he had quite an extensive vocabulary. His were more often the multi-syllable words worth hundreds of points, while mine were the three- or four-letter ones that fulfilled the required three-letter sequences or simply kept us from dying. Then, after we ate our deliciously salty chicken, greasy spinach, mushy noodle concoction for dinner, he asked whether I would like to watch a movie together. We settled on Kung Fu Panda, at which point we plugged in our headphones, synched up our TV screens, and literally watched the movie together. It was lovely! Who would have thought I’d be eating peanuts and watching Kung Fu Panda with a kind, polite, random man on my flight to Korea?

I throw in those adjectives—“kind” and “polite”—because I have found that you can learn a lot about a person by noting the way they treat others. Obviously, they way they treat you is key, and this man was certainly those things toward me: kind, polite, chivalrous, generous, helpful--all of those things. However, I observed that he also treated the flight attendants very kindly, as well. If they were struggling with their carts, he would make an effort to assist them. If they dropped something or were having trouble managing the drinks they were pouring, he would pick up the lost item or hold one of the many containers they were attempting to manage. He also fielded their man questions with what I thought was great patience and class, considering the number of times he must have answered those very same questions from equally motherly-looking ladies (the attendants were probably in their late fifties or early sixties). He clearly had no aesthetic interest in these women, but he still treated them with respect equal to what he gave me, and I found that admirable.

Needless to say, I doubt he would have let them sleep on his shoulder so mindlessly, which is exactly what happened about midway through the flight. I must be a terribly floppy vertical sleeper, because I was dozing off at one point, and next thing I knew, I felt something cushiony sliding under my cheek. Opening my eyes, I realized that my head had slumped so far over into his seat, it was nearly on top of his shoulder. I began to apologize profusely, at which point he plumped the pillow he was arranging on his shoulder and shushed me. “I really don’t mind,” he told me. “It’s the least I can do, with your having let me sit here.” I considered his sincerity, but really, why protest? So I slept, technically, on the pillow—it wasn’t actually his shoulder.

Other little things worth mentioning are that when I slept through one of the snacks, he saved me a pack of cookies (they were Milanos, too!), and that when we arrived at the Korean airport, even after we had said goodbye on the plane, he found me staring futilely at the Departures Board looking for my connecting flight to Singapore, and he stayed with me until I found the proper gate. All of these details are nice, of course, but none of them convey exactly why this interaction convinced me that I need to find myself an Older Man. (Or, at least, someone who conducts himself with the responsibility and maturity of an older man.) I think part of it goes back to the ease with which he conducted himself. For one thing, although I had the vague impression that he may have been at least superficially interested in me, he did not waste his time trying to impress me. He did not put forth all sorts of effort to boast and to tell me things he thought I’d want to hear (which would have been easy, I imagine, his being in the military and all). I am so sick of guys who feel the need to swear and drink or worse—perform feats of academic or athletic prowess—and then tell me all about these accounts in excruciating detail, as if I should care deeply and award them some sort of gold medal make a present of myself. Also, there were also no intrusive poking and prodding questions that I always know are meant to evaluate me as a “candidate of interest.” He just asked me the basic “who are you” questions at the outset of our meeting, and that was that—we learned about each other through the limited interactions available to us on the flight, and that was enough.

More than this, though, this man had a sense of competency about him. I would not trust most—if any—guys my age to do things that I am perfectly capable of doing, much less things I cannot do. However, in this man’s company, I felt that nothing bad could happen to me or, that if something bad did happen, he would either help me to take care of it or perhaps would even fix it for me. He seemed capable of many more things than I am, which is not a feeling I generally have when encountering the opposite sex. I could imagine him repairing household fixtures, resolving computer glitches, and handling administrative dilemmas with simple, straightforward tactics that would accomplish the tasks quickly and easily. Yet, he did not remind me of my father until afterward, when I thought about all of these skills that I imagined him to have and realized that they are all skills that the men of my father's generation allegedly possess.

This, I believe, is what differentiates the term “man” from the term “guy.” My Delta flight partner was a man. I need to find myself one of those. Or perhaps pray that the lads of my generation grow up to become men very very soon.

Bedrooms

I feel like I’m living out the life of Goldilocks, trying out all of these beds in all of these new places; the only difference is, each bed is in a new residence. Right now, I’m sleeping on a combination Papa/Mama/Baby Bear bed, as the bed provided to me in my new Queens apartment (and, consequently, the only piece of furniture allotted to me upon my move) is a rock hard, medium-width, and extremely short futon. I suppose I have been spoiled, most recently having slept in a super-plush, king-sized bed at the Hilton Hotel in Madison, WI for my Epic interview. Before that, I had the luxury of sleeping in extra-long dorm beds at both Columbia (very soft) and Rochester (firm but remediable with double mattress pads). Then, of course, before that I had my dear double bed in Pittsburgh (which, I must say, is juuuuuust right). This futon, though, is nearly the equivalent of sleeping on the floor. And if I ever find a man worth having over, he’s going to have to be shorter than me, because I barely fit lengthwise on the bed! (This must be another way of God’s signaling that the time is not right. Thank you Baby Bear.)

To give you a comparative sense of what various abodes have looked like over the past six months or so, here are some shots of the bedrooms in which I have slept.

Pittsburgh

Don’t mind the goofballs constantly on my bed. One’s a former friend, the other’s my sister. (Hopefully all of you recognize me.) Isn’t my furniture lovely? My parents have such good taste.

Brighton

I’m including this, even though I lived here over a year ago, just because it was such a unique residence. It definitely qualifies as the smallest room I have ever lived in. But I’m a ghetto girl, so I successfully made it my own, falling-down plaster and all.

Rochester
This was my senior year dorm room. Again, ignore my silly dad, but if you were to stand where he is sitting and turn around, you would be facing the image of next photograph (with me in it). The storage spaces were built into the walls in that dorm room, which turned out to be quite efficient.
I am also including a shot of my sophomore/junior year dorm room, for comparison. Notice how the furnishings don’t really change over the years…?

Columbia

This was by far the largest dorm room I have ever had the pleasure of staying in. What's more, it had air-conditioning and a gorgeous city skyline view, right out the window! Unfortunately, I could not ring such praises for the rest of the campus facilities, but at least I had a cool, clean haven for the months of June and July.

Harlem

My cousin’s apartment was only a temporary residence, but I did stay there for about a week, so I am including a picture. The leveled futon on the right is where I slept, and it was significantly longer than the futon on which I am sleeping now.

Queens

And this is my newest bedroom! Again, same basic decorations (yellow bedspread, blue carpet, multicolored lamp), but this time with much more makeshift furniture. The carpet makes the room so much homier than it would be otherwise, really. Without it, the main attraction would be all the cardboard boxes I have stacked on my wire shelving—not so attractive. I do love my windows, though! Next purchases (upon the attainment of monetary substances) will be brighter-colored curtains (because brown is quite honestly the ugliest curtain color I have ever seen) and a basil plant for my windowsill (and for cooking—obviously). I can’t wait!

Grocery Stores

If you don’t have the money to travel the world, you can see, hear, and taste a variety of cultures by simply exploring New York City. The cultural divide between neighborhoods is palpable, not only by the skin tones and hair colors possessed by their inhabitants, not only by the dialects and languages they speak, but even simply by what they sell in their grocery stores.

Take Harlem: Having lived here temporarily for about a week-and-a-half, I have done enough grocery shopping to discover that the foods that they stock in surplus here are, indeed, significantly different from those I would find in a suburban Pittsburgh Giant Eagle or Shop’n Save store. As I perused the condiments aisle in one grocery store for peanut butter, I discovered that Harlem residents must like their food quite spicy—there were not one, not two, but three shelves of every brand of hot sauce imaginable. Likewise, in the canned goods aisle, I discovered several versions of a food I have only ever heard by name: collard greens. (Needless to say, I did not buy a can; the name alone does not sound very appetizing—“greens” is such a general term, as if someone wasn’t able to determine exactly what kind of vegetable this is, and “collard” sounds a little like beginning of the word “cauliflower” combined with the end of “turd.” If I am going to try this new, strange-sounding food, I’d rather be introduced by a native eater. If it’s a real vegetable, it’s probably better fresh, and I would have no idea how to find—much less prepare—it properly.)

Then, there is my new place of residence: Woodside. Having only perused a few stores during my apartment-scouting days, I cannot comment extensively on what food is sold in Woodside. However, I did note a variety of tremendously large bags of rice showcased at the front of several stores, along with an extensive variety of dried beans sold not only at the grocery stores, but at the discount marts, as well. Judging by the appearance of the population, Woodside seems to be a predominantly Indian community, but even if I were to walk around the area blind, the smells alone would tip me off. Harlem smells like cigarette smoke, rotting trash, incense sticks, and grease (think fried chicken). Woodside smells like hot pavement, car exhaust, construction dust, and spice (kebabs, curry, and other roadside vendor Halal cuisine).

My last area of comparison is the Upper West Side. I found grocery shopping quite frustrating during my time at Columbia, but not for cultural reasons. There was no predominant ethnic population that grocery seemed to cater to in the Upper West Side. Instead, the stores catered to a certain socio-economic population: the boutique shoppers. Grocery stores tended to sell fruit by the piece instead of the pound (e.g. 3 oranges for $5), and the produce was buffed to shine before being carefully arranged on display. Beans, if they were to be found, were always canned and Goya-brand—the “designer” brand of canned beans, for all of you non-bean eaters. I, of course, was frustrated by all this shopping glitz and glamour. I don’t need designer beans and sparkling oranges; I need simple, affordable, basic food. For that, it seemed, I needed to peruse other areas of the city and lug my findings all the way back to Columbia. At least, however, my thriftiness served as motivation to explore.

And now that I have explored a little more, I am ecstatic to find that there is an Asian community exactly one subway stop away from my new Queens residence. It’s certainly not Chinatown, and the population still seems to appear mixed, at least from my observations as I strolled down the street. So how do I know it is Asian community? The grocery store! My friend Tao and I ate lunch in the area, and then he took me to a nearby grocery store. The very front of the store was teeming with live and recently-butchered fish as well as fruits that I recognized from my recent trip to Singapore (longan and dragon fruit in particular)! We found soba in the noodles aisle and any number of ten-pound bags of rice in the back of the store. Plus, there was an entire aisle of chili sauce! I am so relieved that when my two bottles from Singapore run out, I will be able to find replacements. However, picking a brand will undoubtedly prove tricky….