Admit it. There are double standards in today's world re: Men vs Women. While I'm highly appreciative of women's rights and thankful for what we enjoy today (thanks to the efforts of brave women before us), I couldn't be further away from being a bra-burning feminist. I fully believe that--except for some very rare specimens of people--both the sexes have an ever-changing interpretion of the concept of "equality" which is dependent on the situation. For example, a woman may be perfectly happy to use her femininity to get what she wants, but she'll use the Is It Because I'm a Woman? card if she doesn't get a promotion at work. Another example: a man may be happy to let his woman foot the bill on occassion (in the name of equality), but he'll have a hell of a time accepting that she is more financially successful than he is.
I too am guilty of this, although probably not as bad. It's not like I use my looks to get what I want--pfft, there isn't much to use! I admit it: I take advantage of the double standards, but in little, harmless ways. I just... turn on the charm. And smile. And most times, it works. (Strangely, it generally works only when I'm alone or with other women.) To be honest? Half the time, I wasn't even angling for anything--men are just NICER to women, plain and simple. Sometimes, when the person who has "power" is male, the chances of a woman getting special treatment is higher.
I know it sounds suspicious: that I say I take advantage but not in an unethical way. Let me explain and prove it with some examples.
At restaurants or other eateries, I'm really polite and undemanding. Truth be told, sometimes I crank up the charm with waiters or chefs. Think about it. This contrasts greatly with the usual type of customers who don't even acknowledge their presence. So I get service with a smile, and my order prepared with more care. And sometimes complimentary food/drinks/dessert (I swear on my favourite shoes: this last one is never on my agenda when I make nice).
[Ooh. I just remembered. Last week, I went to a Japanese restaurant for a lunch buffet. All the mothers/housewives there were elbowing me out of the way (I was afraid, so afraid) so I just stood aside. The guy frying the tempura--whom I'd smiled at earlier--noticed what happened and when the ladies left (leaving nothing behind), he grinned at me and asked me if he could make me some prawn tempura. I thanked him (very prettily, if I do say so myself) and he made them for me on the spot. And the funny thing is? When other customers started sniffing around again, he fished the prawns out of the pan, dumped them on a plate and gave them all to me.]
When buying stuff/shopping, male attendants smile at you more, pay attention more, and serve you quicker.
Another example: when I was holidaying in Redang Island, I made it a point to say hi or smile to the staff. After the first day, they began to recognise me (and my friend), and the result? We got to go snorkelling at the locals' secret spots off the normal course, free snooker games until the day we left, dive instructors who showed us around personally, and great conversation. My friend was duly impressed: "Boy, did your smile get us places!"
I really don't see how this is wrong, because it's perfectly symbiotic. You get taken care of, the receipient feels nice because his job is a tiny bit less shitty, and you both have fun. No one is leading anyone on, no improper flirting, no unspoken promises alluded to--I don't do that sort of thing. However, to be perfectly honest, I realise that this state of affairs exists for me largely because I'm young and I don't look like a truck hit my face. I doubt I'd get similar effects if I did this as a middle-aged woman. Unless I was a HOT middle aged woman. Or a weeping one.
Face it. I like men, and I like being a (young) woman. I plan on enjoying the perks that come with my gender and my youth, at least until the latter runs out. There is nothing wrong with that--it's not like I'm doing anything immoral or underhanded.
I may be a complete throwback who's getting in the way of achieving true equality, but there are reasons for my satisfaction with the current state of affairs. The retention of values like chivalry and gentlemanliness are wonderful, and I wouldn't want them to ever die out. In my opinion, total equality is overrated, and it would be boring as hell.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
"Asians"
Before I begin, please let me say that all the following statements are huge generalisations. I am highly aware that there is (infinitely) more to the topic than meets the eye; it's just that I don't feel up to analysing and discussing more of it today.
The term "Asians" is used by most white people to describe any people who come from the continent of Asia, or those who look like they come from Asia. When I was first exposed to this trend, I was optimistic. I thought that they did it because they were trying to be politically correct. You know, because they can't tell what kind of asian you are and wouldn't want to offend you by calling you say, Chinese, when you were actually Japanese.
But the more I heard the term being bandied around, the more I suspected that this was just because they couldn't be bothered to learn about the different people and cultures that come from this continent. And I'm not just talking about the drunk ones who commit drive-by verbal shootings ("Stupid Asians, go home / speak English/Ching Chong Chong!").
You see, even after they are informed of your nationality, they hardly ever bother to describe you to others by your nationality. They don't go, "Sarah, remember her? She's the Cambodian/Singaporean/Filipino/Sri Lankan girl."
They don't even go, "Sarah, remember her? From South-East Asia?"
They go, "Sarah, remember her? The Asian girl."
They don't do this to other white people/non-Asian people. It's almost always "You know, Colin. The Italian/Irish/Polish dude." I suppose, though, you can't really blame them. They can't really say "You know, Colin. The white guy." when they themselves are white.
At first I thought they had some system of classification, a specific one like:
Dark hair? Check. Yellow-toned skin? Check. Tilted/small eyes? Check. He's an Asian.
But when they started to call Indians and even middle-easterners Asian? I was incredulous--they look nothing like the traditional sense of the term "Asian". It seems like their mental checklist went more like:
Is he white? No. Is he black? No. Hmmm... He's Asian, then.
(I am not unaware that the Americans, who are slightly more "exposed" to different ethnicities (!), also have "latino"/"hispanic" in their vocabulary as well. I do not apologise for any sarcasm this statement may have implied.)
It was quite sad to see that in their minds, the easiest way to go about things was to dichotomise the racial division of the world. Black, white, black, white. Unknown/Other = Asian. The catch-all group.
I wonder if "Asians" will ever develop a stronger identity. I wonder if people other than "Asians" themselves (whatever that means) will come to realise that we aren't all just the same.
__________________________
Anyway. My aunt sent me an old joke this morning:
A Chinese walks into a bar in America late one night and he saw Steven Spielberg. As he was a great fan of his movies, he rushes over to him and asks for his autograph.
Instead, Spielberg gives him a slap and says “You Chinese people bombed our Pearl Harbour, get out of here.”
The astonished Chinese man replied “It was not the Chinese who bombed your Pearl Harbour, it was the Japanese”.
“Chinese, Japanese, Taiwanese, you’re all the same,” replied Spielberg.
In return, the Chinese gives Spielberg a slap and says “You sank the Titanic; my forefathers were on that ship.”
Shocked, Spielberg replies “It was the iceberg that sank the ship, not me.”
The Chinese replies, “Iceberg, Spielberg, Carlsberg, you’re all the same.”
The term "Asians" is used by most white people to describe any people who come from the continent of Asia, or those who look like they come from Asia. When I was first exposed to this trend, I was optimistic. I thought that they did it because they were trying to be politically correct. You know, because they can't tell what kind of asian you are and wouldn't want to offend you by calling you say, Chinese, when you were actually Japanese.
But the more I heard the term being bandied around, the more I suspected that this was just because they couldn't be bothered to learn about the different people and cultures that come from this continent. And I'm not just talking about the drunk ones who commit drive-by verbal shootings ("Stupid Asians, go home / speak English/Ching Chong Chong!").
You see, even after they are informed of your nationality, they hardly ever bother to describe you to others by your nationality. They don't go, "Sarah, remember her? She's the Cambodian/Singaporean/Filipino/Sri Lankan girl."
They don't even go, "Sarah, remember her? From South-East Asia?"
They go, "Sarah, remember her? The Asian girl."
They don't do this to other white people/non-Asian people. It's almost always "You know, Colin. The Italian/Irish/Polish dude." I suppose, though, you can't really blame them. They can't really say "You know, Colin. The white guy." when they themselves are white.
At first I thought they had some system of classification, a specific one like:
Dark hair? Check. Yellow-toned skin? Check. Tilted/small eyes? Check. He's an Asian.
But when they started to call Indians and even middle-easterners Asian? I was incredulous--they look nothing like the traditional sense of the term "Asian". It seems like their mental checklist went more like:
Is he white? No. Is he black? No. Hmmm... He's Asian, then.
(I am not unaware that the Americans, who are slightly more "exposed" to different ethnicities (!), also have "latino"/"hispanic" in their vocabulary as well. I do not apologise for any sarcasm this statement may have implied.)
It was quite sad to see that in their minds, the easiest way to go about things was to dichotomise the racial division of the world. Black, white, black, white. Unknown/Other = Asian. The catch-all group.
I wonder if "Asians" will ever develop a stronger identity. I wonder if people other than "Asians" themselves (whatever that means) will come to realise that we aren't all just the same.
__________________________
Anyway. My aunt sent me an old joke this morning:
A Chinese walks into a bar in America late one night and he saw Steven Spielberg. As he was a great fan of his movies, he rushes over to him and asks for his autograph.
Instead, Spielberg gives him a slap and says “You Chinese people bombed our Pearl Harbour, get out of here.”
The astonished Chinese man replied “It was not the Chinese who bombed your Pearl Harbour, it was the Japanese”.
“Chinese, Japanese, Taiwanese, you’re all the same,” replied Spielberg.
In return, the Chinese gives Spielberg a slap and says “You sank the Titanic; my forefathers were on that ship.”
Shocked, Spielberg replies “It was the iceberg that sank the ship, not me.”
The Chinese replies, “Iceberg, Spielberg, Carlsberg, you’re all the same.”
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Bored? Try This.
When I was working during my uni days, a really young girl got hired at my part-time job for the summer rush. My new co-worker was 15 and really quite adorable. She hung out with the other young 'uns and her "thing" in the group was to irritate the hell out of them. She did this by taking the lyrics of whatever song was playing, and kind of reading it over the song. You know. In the style of those old crooners "talking" during their songs (think Elvis in Are You Lonesome Tonight, Gregory Abbott in Shake You Down) --slightly off rhythm, totally monotonous/cheesy and 100% hilarious. And every time she pulled that, the other girls would groan, yell out vulgarities, or screech out threats of death.
I was so tickled by her antics that I semi-adopted it. One of the activities my brother and I came up with one day in a fit of boredom that summer was translating songs into Malay. There is an art to this. The key is to do a very shabby, literal translation, and then say the lyrics over the English version ala my co-worker. Try it. It's atrocious. (Note: the challenge is to do a translation in real time, while the song is playing.)
Here's my personal favourite--see if you can tell which song it is:
(Hint: Radio Hit in 2006)
Kita akan buatkan semua
Semuanya
Sendiri
Kita tidak perlu
Apa-apa
Atau siapa-siapa
Kalau saya baring di sini
Kalau saya baring di sini saja
Adakah awak baring dengan saya
Dan lupakan dunia
Saya tidak berapa tahu
Macam mana cakap
Macam mana saya rasa
Tiga kata itu
Disebut terlalu banyak
Mereka tidak cukup
Kalau saya baring di sini
Kalau saya baring di sini saja
Adakah awak baring dengan saya
Dan lupakan dunia
Lupakan apa kita diberitahu
Sebelum kita terlalu tua
Tunjuk kepada saya
Taman yang meletup dengan nyawa
Mari buang masa
Mengejar kereta
Sekeliling kepala kita
_________________________
Okay, I think I totally gave it away so I'll end it here.
I was so tickled by her antics that I semi-adopted it. One of the activities my brother and I came up with one day in a fit of boredom that summer was translating songs into Malay. There is an art to this. The key is to do a very shabby, literal translation, and then say the lyrics over the English version ala my co-worker. Try it. It's atrocious. (Note: the challenge is to do a translation in real time, while the song is playing.)
Here's my personal favourite--see if you can tell which song it is:
(Hint: Radio Hit in 2006)
Kita akan buatkan semua
Semuanya
Sendiri
Kita tidak perlu
Apa-apa
Atau siapa-siapa
Kalau saya baring di sini
Kalau saya baring di sini saja
Adakah awak baring dengan saya
Dan lupakan dunia
Saya tidak berapa tahu
Macam mana cakap
Macam mana saya rasa
Tiga kata itu
Disebut terlalu banyak
Mereka tidak cukup
Kalau saya baring di sini
Kalau saya baring di sini saja
Adakah awak baring dengan saya
Dan lupakan dunia
Lupakan apa kita diberitahu
Sebelum kita terlalu tua
Tunjuk kepada saya
Taman yang meletup dengan nyawa
Mari buang masa
Mengejar kereta
Sekeliling kepala kita
_________________________
Okay, I think I totally gave it away so I'll end it here.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Fear, My Driving Force
My family and I were having a heated discussion about how to bring out the best potential (academically and work-wise) in people. My dad kept handing ultimatums to my kid sister re: her studies and academic results, as he had done with me and my brother before her. When I casually mentioned that maybe a gentler approach would bring about desired results with much less grief, he shot back with a very strong point: To do anything well, you need some element of fear.
I thought about the reasons that drove me to give my best in all that I have done to date, and they were all rooted in fear. Sure, some things I threw my heart into doing because I was genuinely interested, because I actually wanted to. But even then, there was still at least a little fear weaved through my personal desires. You can do something reasonably well on your own merits and talents, but if you let fear push you, chances are, you will do that thing better.
Many things, I did for reasons other than fear: to please my parents, to make my family proud, to prove my worth, to have a transcript that boasted a string of Higher Distinctions (ah, beautiful symmetry!), as a thank you to much-respected teachers, to get some promised reward, to be able to fit into size 8 tops, just because I loved it, you get the picture.
But even then, there was always an undercurrent of negative reason. In my case, fear did not paralyse me. It spurred me on to do more than I would have been willing to do, had I been resting on laurels of complacency.
I fear failure, and I fear mediocrity. It grew to be this way the older I got.
In primary school, I studied hard because I feared the caning I would get if I did not end up one of the top ten students of the year. Not because I coveted the promised reward of a meal at my favourite restaurant if I became one of the top three students. Not because of personal pride.
In high school, I studied hard because I feared the wrath of my father, the reduction of my already-paltry allowance, and also the possibility of being bested by a class rival. Not because I wanted to do well enough as to merit a raise in allowance.
In uni, I studied hard because I could not bear the thought of disappointing my parents, of returning home to Malaysia an overseas graduate with mediocre results.
I worked hard at my majors because they inspired me. I was in love with the courses, and in awe of my lecturers. But I worked harder than I needed to, to be honest, because I didn't want to sit back at the end of a semester and see some grade staring back at me, when I knew full well that I have the ability to ace them.
When I was doing my Honour degree, I worked like a fiend because I was terrified of not doing well enough, thereby branding myself a mere jack-of-all-trades (master of none).
Similarly, I believe I'll give my best to my work (whatever it may be) because I cannot stand the thought of being a passionless person who does only what is required of his station and no more. I want to excel and be bloody good at what I do--maybe not the best, but one of the better ones, for sure.
There are few things worse, in my opinion, than knowing that you could've done better, or could've avoided some mistake, if only you'd just tried. Made enough of an effort, before it's too late and you're left thinking "If only I...".
I do think that it's not that way for everyone. It's probably my uptight perfectionist tendencies, my paranoias and neurosis all working together.
While my views on tapping the potential from people are slightly more relaxed--I think that you should tailor your approach depending on the recipient's personality--I cannot deny the (at least partial) truth of my dad's belief. Everyone has huge potential. But not everyone's fears drive them to do achieve it.
I thought about the reasons that drove me to give my best in all that I have done to date, and they were all rooted in fear. Sure, some things I threw my heart into doing because I was genuinely interested, because I actually wanted to. But even then, there was still at least a little fear weaved through my personal desires. You can do something reasonably well on your own merits and talents, but if you let fear push you, chances are, you will do that thing better.
Many things, I did for reasons other than fear: to please my parents, to make my family proud, to prove my worth, to have a transcript that boasted a string of Higher Distinctions (ah, beautiful symmetry!), as a thank you to much-respected teachers, to get some promised reward, to be able to fit into size 8 tops, just because I loved it, you get the picture.
But even then, there was always an undercurrent of negative reason. In my case, fear did not paralyse me. It spurred me on to do more than I would have been willing to do, had I been resting on laurels of complacency.
I fear failure, and I fear mediocrity. It grew to be this way the older I got.
In primary school, I studied hard because I feared the caning I would get if I did not end up one of the top ten students of the year. Not because I coveted the promised reward of a meal at my favourite restaurant if I became one of the top three students. Not because of personal pride.
In high school, I studied hard because I feared the wrath of my father, the reduction of my already-paltry allowance, and also the possibility of being bested by a class rival. Not because I wanted to do well enough as to merit a raise in allowance.
In uni, I studied hard because I could not bear the thought of disappointing my parents, of returning home to Malaysia an overseas graduate with mediocre results.
I worked hard at my majors because they inspired me. I was in love with the courses, and in awe of my lecturers. But I worked harder than I needed to, to be honest, because I didn't want to sit back at the end of a semester and see some grade staring back at me, when I knew full well that I have the ability to ace them.
When I was doing my Honour degree, I worked like a fiend because I was terrified of not doing well enough, thereby branding myself a mere jack-of-all-trades (master of none).
Similarly, I believe I'll give my best to my work (whatever it may be) because I cannot stand the thought of being a passionless person who does only what is required of his station and no more. I want to excel and be bloody good at what I do--maybe not the best, but one of the better ones, for sure.
There are few things worse, in my opinion, than knowing that you could've done better, or could've avoided some mistake, if only you'd just tried. Made enough of an effort, before it's too late and you're left thinking "If only I...".
I do think that it's not that way for everyone. It's probably my uptight perfectionist tendencies, my paranoias and neurosis all working together.
While my views on tapping the potential from people are slightly more relaxed--I think that you should tailor your approach depending on the recipient's personality--I cannot deny the (at least partial) truth of my dad's belief. Everyone has huge potential. But not everyone's fears drive them to do achieve it.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
A Discussion Rated (PG)
Seriously. How clever is my title? Heehee.
Anyway.
I think we all can agree that there are songs out there that make you want to do things. Whether or not you give in is another matter.
_________________________
Sex(y) Songs
Obviously, the songs below encourage different types of ...shenanigans (Yes, I am using euphemisms now): fun, laughing romp? in-love, romantic romp? total-lust, rip-clothes-off romp? dirty dancing, make-out romp? You get the picture. Sometimes it's because of the lyrics. Sometimes it's the instruments (like saxaphones). Alot of the time it's just the melody, plain and simple. But another huge factor, I think, is the beat--there are certain rhythms that strike me as being very sexual. In no particular order, here are some of my personal favourites:
Sexual Healing - Marvin Gaye
Crash Into Me - Dave Matthews Band
Let's Get It On - Jack Black
Pour Some Sugar on Me - Def Leppard (this is more like a Lick Nekked Man song)
You Can Keep Your Hat On - Tom Jones (stripper song!)
Hurry On Now - Alice Russell
With or Without You - U2
The One You Love - Glenn Frey
Heaven Help - Lenny Kravitz
I Call It Love - Lionel Richie
Love Song - Sky
Ignition - R Kelly
I Shall Believe - Sheryl Crow
Deep Inside of You - Third Eye Blind
Punk Rock Princess - Something Corporate
Colourblind - Counting Crows
You Got It Bad - Usher
Fools Like Me - Lisa Loeb
Stay (I Missed You) - Lisa Loeb (classic)
Alot of Prince!! Eg, Do Me Baby, Adore... He sings blatant, blatant songs.
______________________
Dance around the room songs
I've Got My Mind Set on You - George Harrison
I'll Follow You Down - Gin Blossoms
Do It - Nelly Furtado
Fame - Irene Cara
Best of My Love - The Emotions
Glamorous - Fergie
Inner Smile - Texas
Love is Only a Feeling - The Darkness
The Way I Are - Timbaland (shameful!)
+ A lot of other 70s disco and 80s music
Anyway.
I think we all can agree that there are songs out there that make you want to do things. Whether or not you give in is another matter.
_________________________
Sex(y) Songs
Obviously, the songs below encourage different types of ...shenanigans (Yes, I am using euphemisms now): fun, laughing romp? in-love, romantic romp? total-lust, rip-clothes-off romp? dirty dancing, make-out romp? You get the picture. Sometimes it's because of the lyrics. Sometimes it's the instruments (like saxaphones). Alot of the time it's just the melody, plain and simple. But another huge factor, I think, is the beat--there are certain rhythms that strike me as being very sexual. In no particular order, here are some of my personal favourites:
Sexual Healing - Marvin Gaye
Crash Into Me - Dave Matthews Band
Let's Get It On - Jack Black
Pour Some Sugar on Me - Def Leppard (this is more like a Lick Nekked Man song)
You Can Keep Your Hat On - Tom Jones (stripper song!)
Hurry On Now - Alice Russell
With or Without You - U2
The One You Love - Glenn Frey
Heaven Help - Lenny Kravitz
I Call It Love - Lionel Richie
Love Song - Sky
Ignition - R Kelly
I Shall Believe - Sheryl Crow
Deep Inside of You - Third Eye Blind
Punk Rock Princess - Something Corporate
Colourblind - Counting Crows
You Got It Bad - Usher
Fools Like Me - Lisa Loeb
Stay (I Missed You) - Lisa Loeb (classic)
Alot of Prince!! Eg, Do Me Baby, Adore... He sings blatant, blatant songs.
______________________
Dance around the room songs
I've Got My Mind Set on You - George Harrison
I'll Follow You Down - Gin Blossoms
Do It - Nelly Furtado
Fame - Irene Cara
Best of My Love - The Emotions
Glamorous - Fergie
Inner Smile - Texas
Love is Only a Feeling - The Darkness
The Way I Are - Timbaland (shameful!)
+ A lot of other 70s disco and 80s music
Groin Issues
You know Dr Oz? The doctor dude who is frequently invited to the Oprah show? Well he offered up this hilarious bit of trivia (I am assuming that this only applies for men who are overweight to begin with) :
For men, for every 35 pounds of weight you lose, you will gain an inch of penis length.
Are your eyes widening? Mine sure did. Quite impressive, no?
Apparently, when men carry excess weight, fat accumulates, causing the gut to develop an overhang around the groinal region, and there's a flab build-up around the base of the shaft, which surrounds and "shortens" the penile shaft. So when they lose weight, the fat goes, thus unveiling more penis.
I cannot think of a better incentive for men to get on the Healthy Eating Bandwagon.
And to women married to overweight men everywhere: Whoo-hoo! Start cookin' low-fat! ;)
As an aside, it occurred to me. If men judge women based on their weight, deeming the heavier ones unattractive and undesirable, this penis thing gives women the same kind of power. See, I know for a fact that many (if not most) women do not take looks into account when they look for a mate--look at all those couples out there: stunning women, gross looking men. However, we could now turn the tables on men and judge them based on their looks as well. "Hmm you're a bit of a chubb, that's taken, what, maybe an inch off your penis? I'll pass thanks."
Fine... actually, I lied. Women probably don't consider penile length as a deal-maker or breaker when in love. Size doesn't matter. Unless said penis is tiny-winey. HAHA.
I'm kidding. Geez.
For men, for every 35 pounds of weight you lose, you will gain an inch of penis length.
Are your eyes widening? Mine sure did. Quite impressive, no?
Apparently, when men carry excess weight, fat accumulates, causing the gut to develop an overhang around the groinal region, and there's a flab build-up around the base of the shaft, which surrounds and "shortens" the penile shaft. So when they lose weight, the fat goes, thus unveiling more penis.
I cannot think of a better incentive for men to get on the Healthy Eating Bandwagon.
And to women married to overweight men everywhere: Whoo-hoo! Start cookin' low-fat! ;)
As an aside, it occurred to me. If men judge women based on their weight, deeming the heavier ones unattractive and undesirable, this penis thing gives women the same kind of power. See, I know for a fact that many (if not most) women do not take looks into account when they look for a mate--look at all those couples out there: stunning women, gross looking men. However, we could now turn the tables on men and judge them based on their looks as well. "Hmm you're a bit of a chubb, that's taken, what, maybe an inch off your penis? I'll pass thanks."
Fine... actually, I lied. Women probably don't consider penile length as a deal-maker or breaker when in love. Size doesn't matter. Unless said penis is tiny-winey. HAHA.
I'm kidding. Geez.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Insight from Sex and the City
In an episode of Sex and the City (second season), Carrie was complaining about how this guy never called her: "Maybe he thinks I'm ugly."
Miranda told Carrie: "Oh, get a grip. A guy doesn't call you for 3 days and you're ugly?"
"So what's your point?"
"It's amazing. We can feel totally good about ourselves. And then, it all goes out the window if the guy doesn't mirror that right back to us."
I listened to this, unsure whether to laugh or cringe. It was true. It was a thing I myself do all the time. I spent so much time and effort cultivating a healthy self-image--no, you're not fat! no you're not ugly! you're an intelligent, kind, funny person and totally not worthy of being relegated to the inferior post as some man's Consolation Prize! etc. In times of desperation, I have even written out a list of things I liked and disliked about myself--left column Likes, right column Dislikes--in the hopes of putting things into perspective. But the moment I get a crush on someone, it all gets blown to bits. "Does he like me? Maybe he likes me. Oh but look at him. He's so this, so that, why would he even look twice at me? Oh but look at his exes. They're all leggy and busty and have big eyes. I have none of that. I am so stupid for even thinking that I have a shot. Give it up already. God, look at me, I'm disgusting." Suddenly, I'm a defect of the human race, unworthy of anyone's admiration.
I go from "I'm smart, indpendent, kind, funny. I can hold my own. Some days I'm pretty. I have a nice smile." to "oh GOD I'm so mediocre-looking I probably fade into the wallpaper, who the hell wants character and humour when there are so many sweet girls out there with better faces, better bodies?"
I suspect that I do all this to brace myself for the worst. I make myself expect rejection so that it doesn't come out of the blue and knock me for a loop.
I debase myself and batter down my ego so that there's less of it for the man to destroy if and when the time comes. So that if he rejects me, I can accept it better, because "Well, I'm not that great anyway, so who can blame him?"
I make the man into something greater than he actually is; I focus on and exxagerate his strengths. I hold up this paragon next to myself, and my own strengths are paltry by comparison, because I didn't bother to exxagerate my own as well.
Whatever self-confidence I build does not seem to be able to withstand the cold blast of insecurity and rejection, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. But that's so stupid, isn't it?
How can I let my sense of self-worth be defined by a man, any man? What happened to me that I feel this compulsion to rain such abuse on myself the moment a man does not openly reciprocate my interest or affection? Am I fundamentally flawed? Or was I traumatised somewhere along the line and am now in need of some therapy to fix my head? Why is it never about the man, but always about me, about my shortcomings?
Maybe true, unshakeable confidence will come with age. And visits to the shrink.
Miranda told Carrie: "Oh, get a grip. A guy doesn't call you for 3 days and you're ugly?"
"So what's your point?"
"It's amazing. We can feel totally good about ourselves. And then, it all goes out the window if the guy doesn't mirror that right back to us."
I listened to this, unsure whether to laugh or cringe. It was true. It was a thing I myself do all the time. I spent so much time and effort cultivating a healthy self-image--no, you're not fat! no you're not ugly! you're an intelligent, kind, funny person and totally not worthy of being relegated to the inferior post as some man's Consolation Prize! etc. In times of desperation, I have even written out a list of things I liked and disliked about myself--left column Likes, right column Dislikes--in the hopes of putting things into perspective. But the moment I get a crush on someone, it all gets blown to bits. "Does he like me? Maybe he likes me. Oh but look at him. He's so this, so that, why would he even look twice at me? Oh but look at his exes. They're all leggy and busty and have big eyes. I have none of that. I am so stupid for even thinking that I have a shot. Give it up already. God, look at me, I'm disgusting." Suddenly, I'm a defect of the human race, unworthy of anyone's admiration.
I go from "I'm smart, indpendent, kind, funny. I can hold my own. Some days I'm pretty. I have a nice smile." to "oh GOD I'm so mediocre-looking I probably fade into the wallpaper, who the hell wants character and humour when there are so many sweet girls out there with better faces, better bodies?"
I suspect that I do all this to brace myself for the worst. I make myself expect rejection so that it doesn't come out of the blue and knock me for a loop.
I debase myself and batter down my ego so that there's less of it for the man to destroy if and when the time comes. So that if he rejects me, I can accept it better, because "Well, I'm not that great anyway, so who can blame him?"
I make the man into something greater than he actually is; I focus on and exxagerate his strengths. I hold up this paragon next to myself, and my own strengths are paltry by comparison, because I didn't bother to exxagerate my own as well.
Whatever self-confidence I build does not seem to be able to withstand the cold blast of insecurity and rejection, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. But that's so stupid, isn't it?
How can I let my sense of self-worth be defined by a man, any man? What happened to me that I feel this compulsion to rain such abuse on myself the moment a man does not openly reciprocate my interest or affection? Am I fundamentally flawed? Or was I traumatised somewhere along the line and am now in need of some therapy to fix my head? Why is it never about the man, but always about me, about my shortcomings?
Maybe true, unshakeable confidence will come with age. And visits to the shrink.
Sins of a puppy
Look at her adorable face. Awww isn't she cuuuuute. Look at the baby fat. Her bespecatacled eyes.
She is Satan incarnate. The Devil disguised in fluff.
She made me run two days ago. No, let me be specific. She made me sprint two days ago. And if there's anything worse than running, it's running fast.
I was walking her around the neighbourhood and when we walked past a house with a German Shepherd inside. It growled, Honey got spooked, and she sat down in the middle of the road. Then in a flash, she decided to make a bolt for her life: the leash slipped from my fingers and I watched, stunned, as this puppy who still fell over her own paws while walking, just flew down the stretch of road. She almost looked like a rabbit from behind.
"I'm going to have to catch her before she gets run over. DAMMIT."
So I ran. As fast as my running-hating legs would carry me. For about 350 meters--which felt like eternity to a person who's never sprinted more than the compulsory 100 meters in my school's annual Sukantara. No amount of yelling the stupid dog's name would make her heel. Behind me, I heard my father laughing his ass off. I believe he was hooting "I've never seen you move so fast!" The indignity of it all. I looked like a prize idiot: doing something unnatural to me (running), screeching "Honey!! HONEY!!" and trying to ignore the stitch forming in my side, and the man who sired me was guffawing. I hope he wet his pants.
Then a guy on a bicycle saw me, then the dog, and he blocked her path--bless him bless him bless him--and she finally slowed down enough for me to grab her leash from the ground.
My father the smart-ass commented that the dog and I matched because we both panted all the way home. I'm still not talking to Honey.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Withdrawal Begins
I was banned from buying shoes. By my dad, who decreed that I had too many shoes. By a man--pfff--what would they know about how many is too many? Please. I want to grow up to be like Imelda Marcos. The lady knew how to live. Sure, maybe thousands of pairs of (designer) shoes is a bit much. And I'm not even aiming for some finite number. Or designer ones. Just... you know. Nice ones that make me smile, and that couldn't feed a small nation for a day. Enough nice, affordable ones to fill up a small walk-in closet one day. And my dad is getting in the way of my progress. See how he likes it if someone banned him from buying yet another pack of golf balls to add his insane collection of 463. Pah! (Yes yes, hell hath no fury.)
It's been five months now. Of no trying on any shoes. Of avoiding shoestores so I don't chuck a fit in the middle of the shop, looking at something I cannot have. Of looking longingly at other women's footwear while I'm out. And I'm starting to crack at the edges.
A bad, bad sign that I'm going into withdrawal is when I start to browse online shoe stores. This is the worst thing. When I am free to roam in my natural habitat (the KL chain shoe stores) I am perfectly happy to covet normal-priced goods. When I am reduced to drooling over shoes in the really good online stores, the products are inevitably designer: they come with 3 to 4 digit price-tags in American dollars, Euros or British pounds. Even more depressing. But I need to look at them. So purtyyyy. Yesterday I spent 2 hours looking at the stuff they had on bluefly.com when I should've been doing assignments.
I'll also start to lose sleep. I lay awake at night, fantasising about the perfect shoe. The perfect shape, material, shine, heel height, heel type, colour.
______________________________
It's not even that I'm starting to dream about shoes because I need to buy them all the time. It's more because I know I can't. And the more you can't do something, the more you want to. The more you can't have something, the more you want to have it. (Come to thingk about it, maybe that's why there are so many people out there who do things they shouldn't.)
Oh but they're shoes.Unlike clothes, they do not pick and choose whom to flatter, whom to make delirious with joy. No matter how you look, there will be a shoe to flatter you. I read somewhere once that "shoes are the fat lady's outlet--if you were fat, you couldn't have pretty clothes, but you could still have all the pretty shoes you wanted". See? Shoes are all about free love and equality.
It's been five months now. Of no trying on any shoes. Of avoiding shoestores so I don't chuck a fit in the middle of the shop, looking at something I cannot have. Of looking longingly at other women's footwear while I'm out. And I'm starting to crack at the edges.
A bad, bad sign that I'm going into withdrawal is when I start to browse online shoe stores. This is the worst thing. When I am free to roam in my natural habitat (the KL chain shoe stores) I am perfectly happy to covet normal-priced goods. When I am reduced to drooling over shoes in the really good online stores, the products are inevitably designer: they come with 3 to 4 digit price-tags in American dollars, Euros or British pounds. Even more depressing. But I need to look at them. So purtyyyy. Yesterday I spent 2 hours looking at the stuff they had on bluefly.com when I should've been doing assignments.
I'll also start to lose sleep. I lay awake at night, fantasising about the perfect shoe. The perfect shape, material, shine, heel height, heel type, colour.
D'Orsey cuts, ankle-straps, slingbacks, pumps, slides, sandals, espadrilles; black, brights, metallics, prints; leather (matt? patent? crocodile? cow? snake? pig? kid? natural black leather? dyed leather?), canvas, suede, satin, chiffon, sequins, crystals, chains; pointy-toed, round-toed, peep-toed, square-toed; flats, low heels, medium heels, stilettoes, wedges, platforms, stacked heels. The list goes on. I could go on. Bliss.
______________________________
Once, I went without buying (or trying on) new shoes for about 8 months. I was broke and too guilty to use the money my parents had set aside for my study allowance. So I myself broke. I am not proud to reveal this: I cried. I ran into my housemate's bedroom and burst into tears, crying the Ugly Cry, water coming out every hole on my face, wailing about how I hate having a conscience and "dammit I wish I could be a prostitute because at least then I'd have money!" Shameful, eh? The things we say in times of desperation.
She patted me on the back, looking slightly appalled that I was crying over non-existent shoes. But she became very sympathetic because she realised she'd be a wreck too if she had to go without buying new bags(her "thing") for 8 months. Anyhow, I felt better after that.
I don't know how long I'll hold out this time around. But I'll be strong. Maybe 10 months before I cry about it. Heh.
______________________________
It's not even that I'm starting to dream about shoes because I need to buy them all the time. It's more because I know I can't. And the more you can't do something, the more you want to. The more you can't have something, the more you want to have it. (Come to thingk about it, maybe that's why there are so many people out there who do things they shouldn't.)
Oh but they're shoes.Unlike clothes, they do not pick and choose whom to flatter, whom to make delirious with joy. No matter how you look, there will be a shoe to flatter you. I read somewhere once that "shoes are the fat lady's outlet--if you were fat, you couldn't have pretty clothes, but you could still have all the pretty shoes you wanted". See? Shoes are all about free love and equality.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
The Fund
I plan on setting aside a large chunk of my wages when I start working. I have no intention of blowing off all of my salary every month. I have never been a believer of the Gratification 24/7 theory--well, I do love to indulge sometimes. But I maintain that Occasional Hedonism is not quite the same as Gratification 24/7!
And let me really put it out there: I fully intend on treating myself to more glorious heels and lingerie once I become employed. (The thought gives me little shivers of happiness.) But I am much more a fan of Suffer Now, Benefit Later. So a large part of my wages will go into my savings, which will be systematically comparmentalised and labelled. Neurotic? I think not.
Want to know what I'm saving up for?
(1) Just-in-case Cash
The proverbial Nest Egg. Because you can never be too careful. And when bad things happen to good people (yes, me!) I will be prepared.
(2) Property
Because you can call someplace your own. And do whatever you want with it or in it. I plan on getting someplace closer to civilisation. Possibly nearby a train station, some bus stops, maybe even a mall. Inside my new haven of independence, I will be walking around in my underwear, doing my laundry only once a month, cooking beef (mmmm, cow), having single-girl dinners like salads and soup, and cleaning the house only when it really needs it--all the things my mother forbids in our family home. Oooh. The clincher: I'd be able to go out whenever I want, with whomever I want, for as long as I want. Without having to plan it like a bank robbery, ask for permission a month in advance, or be submitted to the Spanish Inquisition. Sounds glorious, no? Yes. Yesyesyes.
(3) Liposuction
Yes, it's true. I will have a Lipo Fund. I make no apologies for my seemingly-skewed principles. I've tried my whole life but Genetics plays God. And Genetics has decreed that my lower half shalt always be naturally slightly larger than is aesthetically proportionate--exercise or no exercise. Now, I could lay awake every night, praying that by some divine miracle, my fat would all band together and mass migrate (and I mean mass) somewhere more appropriate/appealing (read: my boobs). Or, you know. I could just wake up and smell the poo, and go for lipo. I have it all planned: once the precodure is over, I shall look over at the container of fat cells that once inhabited my body, point at it, and say "Hah! Take that!"
Oh, it will happen.
In the event that I somehow accept my pear-shaped self for the way it is, I'll have a nice bunch of unused money. Perfect for getting me more shoes.
And let me really put it out there: I fully intend on treating myself to more glorious heels and lingerie once I become employed. (The thought gives me little shivers of happiness.) But I am much more a fan of Suffer Now, Benefit Later. So a large part of my wages will go into my savings, which will be systematically comparmentalised and labelled. Neurotic? I think not.
Want to know what I'm saving up for?
(1) Just-in-case Cash
The proverbial Nest Egg. Because you can never be too careful. And when bad things happen to good people (yes, me!) I will be prepared.
(2) Property
Because you can call someplace your own. And do whatever you want with it or in it. I plan on getting someplace closer to civilisation. Possibly nearby a train station, some bus stops, maybe even a mall. Inside my new haven of independence, I will be walking around in my underwear, doing my laundry only once a month, cooking beef (mmmm, cow), having single-girl dinners like salads and soup, and cleaning the house only when it really needs it--all the things my mother forbids in our family home. Oooh. The clincher: I'd be able to go out whenever I want, with whomever I want, for as long as I want. Without having to plan it like a bank robbery, ask for permission a month in advance, or be submitted to the Spanish Inquisition. Sounds glorious, no? Yes. Yesyesyes.
(3) Liposuction
Yes, it's true. I will have a Lipo Fund. I make no apologies for my seemingly-skewed principles. I've tried my whole life but Genetics plays God. And Genetics has decreed that my lower half shalt always be naturally slightly larger than is aesthetically proportionate--exercise or no exercise. Now, I could lay awake every night, praying that by some divine miracle, my fat would all band together and mass migrate (and I mean mass) somewhere more appropriate/appealing (read: my boobs). Or, you know. I could just wake up and smell the poo, and go for lipo. I have it all planned: once the precodure is over, I shall look over at the container of fat cells that once inhabited my body, point at it, and say "Hah! Take that!"
Oh, it will happen.
In the event that I somehow accept my pear-shaped self for the way it is, I'll have a nice bunch of unused money. Perfect for getting me more shoes.
"Equilibrium" is not equal
Are you one of those people blessed with a high metabolic rate? You know, you can eat and eat and eat and you never put on any weight? If you are, I hate you. Ok, not really: I just want to be you!
They say the key to maintaining your weight and waistline (or in my case, butt-line!) is as simple as burning off as much calories as you take in. That makes sense. That sounds straightforward enough.
Eat more, exercise more. Exercise less, eat less.
Like a barter system for your body.
Except, in my case, it's really not that fair. Well it doesn't feel that way, anyway! It feels like I need eat less than what I burn off just to be able to keep sliding comfortably into my jeans. For freaks like me to maintain physical equilibrium, the output must outweight the input.
Sometimes I'm convinced that my body extracts all the fat from everything I eat and, like a good little factory, manufactures more from that--kind of like yoghurt culture. Stir some culture into a tub of warm milk and voila! yoghurt the next morning. Stick some fat into a conducive environment and voila! an extra inch on the hips the next morning.
Le Sigh.
So what do you do? You enjoy yourself when you eat, then you try to work it off. But even if you are a normal person--one who isn't blessed with a tapeworm or some other parasite, one who isn't cursed with a body that is constantly trying to pad itself out for some imminent war--the problem persists: food carries much more calories than most of us are able to burn off.
Eat one cookie, and you have to walk briskly for an hour. Have a hamburger, and you have to run for an hour. Have a caeser salad with chicken and a side of wedges, and you have to go for an aerobics Step class. Twice.
And me, I hate running. I think my body is just not made for running. I can use the cross-training machine, I can do weights and other toning/resistance exercises, I can cycle, dance, use the Fitball, swim. I can endure the grossness of sweating, the shortness of breath, the head-swimming nausea, the burn of lactic acid pooling in my muscles. But I cannot, cannot run 400 meters without feeling like I'd rather rip my guts out and get it over with already! Luckily, I have bum knees -I actually see a physiotherapist for them - and they always get me out of running.
On the downside, running is one of the most effective ways to burn calories. But:
They say the key to maintaining your weight and waistline (or in my case, butt-line!) is as simple as burning off as much calories as you take in. That makes sense. That sounds straightforward enough.
Eat more, exercise more. Exercise less, eat less.
Like a barter system for your body.
Except, in my case, it's really not that fair. Well it doesn't feel that way, anyway! It feels like I need eat less than what I burn off just to be able to keep sliding comfortably into my jeans. For freaks like me to maintain physical equilibrium, the output must outweight the input.
Sometimes I'm convinced that my body extracts all the fat from everything I eat and, like a good little factory, manufactures more from that--kind of like yoghurt culture. Stir some culture into a tub of warm milk and voila! yoghurt the next morning. Stick some fat into a conducive environment and voila! an extra inch on the hips the next morning.
Le Sigh.
So what do you do? You enjoy yourself when you eat, then you try to work it off. But even if you are a normal person--one who isn't blessed with a tapeworm or some other parasite, one who isn't cursed with a body that is constantly trying to pad itself out for some imminent war--the problem persists: food carries much more calories than most of us are able to burn off.
Eat one cookie, and you have to walk briskly for an hour. Have a hamburger, and you have to run for an hour. Have a caeser salad with chicken and a side of wedges, and you have to go for an aerobics Step class. Twice.
And me, I hate running. I think my body is just not made for running. I can use the cross-training machine, I can do weights and other toning/resistance exercises, I can cycle, dance, use the Fitball, swim. I can endure the grossness of sweating, the shortness of breath, the head-swimming nausea, the burn of lactic acid pooling in my muscles. But I cannot, cannot run 400 meters without feeling like I'd rather rip my guts out and get it over with already! Luckily, I have bum knees -I actually see a physiotherapist for them - and they always get me out of running.
On the downside, running is one of the most effective ways to burn calories. But:
Is it really worth it?
When you're eating and thinking "God I love smoked salmon so much I could bathe in it!" , the answer is "Hell yeah, biznitch."
When your muscles are screaming, the stitch in your side is stretching out its tentacles of hate, and you feel like your heart's going into cardiac arrest, the answer is "That's it! I'm going to live off carrot sticks!"
Or, you know. For those very confident people out there, the answer is "I don't exercise anyway. If I was meant to be a Chubb then so be it. In the meantime I'mma gonna enjoy myself!" I envy you. I am nowhere near comfortable enough in my own skin to live by that philosophy.
I'll tell you about my Lipo Fund another day.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
This is me: Moron.
I don't know why, but it's always the case that you will embarass yourself when you most want NOT to. In my case, this is especially true of the men I fancy, or have just begun dating. It just occurred to me while I was falling asleep last night, that with every single guy I've ever been attracted to, I end up saying the stupidest things. If I'm not attracted to them, then they will go away thinking I'm an intelligent girl.
I just suck in that respect. It seems as if I am incapable of impressing the men I most want to impress. It seems I am incapable of not coming across as a ditz. I cringe in mortification when I think of those moments--and some of them happened years ago. Sometimes I want to bash my head against a hard surface, other times I feel my body curling into foetal position. Most times I just want to slap myself across my duh-brain face. Anyway, here are some (just a few!) of my Moments of Glory:
Foot-in-Mouth moment #1: I was on a date with an extreme leftist/liberal (don't ask, I'd rather not remember him now). I didn't realize the extent of his hatred for all things government; I thought he was just being a moderate, Refreshing - Liberal, not Scary-Grassroots-Grassroots-Grassroots-Fuck-Capitalism - Liberal. Anyway, we were having one of those lighthearted conversations, and the topic that happened to come up was what clothes we find really attractive on the opposite sex. [I like heaps of stuff: jeans and T-shirt, jeans and no shirt (heh), button-up work shirts, suits-with-no-tie...and uniform. Seriously, if we're totally divorcing looks from brains and character, men-in-uniform almost always make me want to fan myself and go "Arrrr".]
So I announced, "I like men in uniform!"
He pauses for a moment, and as if to give me a chance to redeem myself, he goes "What, like firemen, postmen?".
But I'm on a roll; this is a topic I hold dear to my heart. I don't see the danger lights flashing, don't hear the sirens wailing: "Hell no. I'm talking soldiers! The navy! Marines! The airforce!"
Him: "You get turned on by men in government organisations that are helping to ruin the world and terrorise the little people?!"
The rest of the date was excrutiatingly strained.
(However, I maintain that this wasn't really my fault--just a clash of very dissimilar personalities. Hah.)
Foot-in-Mouth moment #2: Once, in highschool, I was having a conversation with my then-crush. He was chinese-educated and--to be honest--incapable of stringing together a single English sentence. So in order to make him comfortable, I spoke to him in Cantonese. My command of the Cantonese language was decent at that time (never let it be said that I was ever deluded into thinking it was spectacular at any point in my life), but due to the nerves and hormones that accompany teenage crushes, I flubbed it. I did this totally cool thing where I superimposed the tone of an equivalent Teochew word over the Cantonese word, so I sounded like a mountain farm-girl from mainland China. Flustered, I bravely laughed it off and continued...and flubbed it again, because I translated directly from English, so I sounded retarded. I never stood a chance with him, because I was deemed the "uptown girl" who wasn't in touch with my Asian roots. Sigh.
Foot-in-Mouth moment #3: I'm sure we've all been so in like with someone that our faculties have been affected. Michael was my someone. Physically, he was right up my alley. What turned him from a mere object of lust to a full-blown case of I-want-to-have-your-babies! for me (haha) was when we were introduced and became friends--he was funny, and the most genuine, the nicest, nicest guy I'd met in ages. I won't continue to sing his praises because we've since lost touch, but suffice to say, I was so infatuated with him that every time I saw him, my heart dropped into my stomach, my mind went blank, and I couldn't look him in the eye for more than a second at a time or I'd blush furiously. I was in awe: how could someone so blatantly gorgeous be so nice on the inside as well? I found it difficult to think, let alone speak without feeling like my tongue had doubled in size. (I even stuttered sometimes, when we spoke. I used to think that only happened to nerdy teenagers in the movies.) So I guess it was a disaster waiting to happen! Anyway. Michael was a football fan. I am too, but I'm not a diehard. So when we bumped into each other, we would sometimes discuss the World Cup, while it was on in 2006. The morning after the final match (which I missed because of assignments), he ambled over to say hi. I looked up at him, my brain blipped out "No Signal", and my mouth said, "So did Brazil win?"
Holy bejezus, Cher. Brazil? BRAZIL?!
I knew Brazil wasn't in the finals. I knew the final match was between Italy and Fan-fricking-France. I had just laughed about it with my brother the night before because I happen to think Brazil is overrated. Why did I say that? WHY did I say that? I was so mortified, but I didn't know how to fix that situation, so I just sat there and waited for the axe to fall. (I still want to bash my head against the wall when I think about it. It was just so...so... I must've looked like I was pretending to like football or something equally heinous.) To his credit, he was a complete gentleman about it--he didn't call me on my exhibition of stupidity or anything, just very gently informed me that last night was France vs Italy, and Italy won.
Foot-in-Mouth moment #4: Date number 1 with Brian, Irish man who has been asking me out for a while. He tells me his homeland is in this little town a little bit away from the capital of Ireland (where the university is). I go, "Ooh! I have a friend who is studying in Glasgow!" Cher, you dumbass.
"Uh... don't you mean Dublin?"
"No no, yeah, I meant Dublin, I knew Dublin was the capital of Ireland, I swear!" Too late. He was probably thinking "Man this isn't the sharpest tool in the shed." [You see, I have two friends who reminded me of each other, one who studies in Glasgow, another in Dublin. The night before I had just been on the phone with the one studying in Glasgow, so it was still fresh in my mind. And there you go, dear reader, this is your cue to snort in disbelief.]
Foot-in-Mouth moment #5: I was out on a movie date with Brian (second date--I know, he was still interested in me even after my Glasgow gaffe!) and we just finished Borat. While walking to his car, we were discussing the funny bits. Moronic Me happily chirps, "And I love how they made a mockumentary out of an imaginary -stan country!"
He laughed and said, "No it's not, Kazakhstan is a real country!!"
Here I hesitated. See, he had on this deadpan face that he uses when he is trying to tease me. And for the life of me I couldn't tell if he was teasing me or being serious for once. So we spent another excrutiating minute with me going "No...really? Okay... But no....really?" and him laughing his ass off and insisting "Yes! I can show you on the map!... Yes I swear it's a real country!" (when he stopped laughing long enough).
This one...hoo boy. I cannot say anything in my defense: it was pure ignorance on my part. But you know what? I don't think he liked me any less. Which is nice.
Hmmm. I detect a pattern. It seems like my most painful foot-in-mouth moments had to do with geography. Obviously, geography is not my strong suit. Maybe I should steer clear of the subject until the guys know I'm actually smart as a whip (pff) in other respects. Yes?
Oh, hope springs eternal.
I just suck in that respect. It seems as if I am incapable of impressing the men I most want to impress. It seems I am incapable of not coming across as a ditz. I cringe in mortification when I think of those moments--and some of them happened years ago. Sometimes I want to bash my head against a hard surface, other times I feel my body curling into foetal position. Most times I just want to slap myself across my duh-brain face. Anyway, here are some (just a few!) of my Moments of Glory:
Foot-in-Mouth moment #1: I was on a date with an extreme leftist/liberal (don't ask, I'd rather not remember him now). I didn't realize the extent of his hatred for all things government; I thought he was just being a moderate, Refreshing - Liberal, not Scary-Grassroots-Grassroots-Grassroots-Fuck-Capitalism - Liberal. Anyway, we were having one of those lighthearted conversations, and the topic that happened to come up was what clothes we find really attractive on the opposite sex. [I like heaps of stuff: jeans and T-shirt, jeans and no shirt (heh), button-up work shirts, suits-with-no-tie...and uniform. Seriously, if we're totally divorcing looks from brains and character, men-in-uniform almost always make me want to fan myself and go "Arrrr".]
So I announced, "I like men in uniform!"
He pauses for a moment, and as if to give me a chance to redeem myself, he goes "What, like firemen, postmen?".
But I'm on a roll; this is a topic I hold dear to my heart. I don't see the danger lights flashing, don't hear the sirens wailing: "Hell no. I'm talking soldiers! The navy! Marines! The airforce!"
Him: "You get turned on by men in government organisations that are helping to ruin the world and terrorise the little people?!"
The rest of the date was excrutiatingly strained.
(However, I maintain that this wasn't really my fault--just a clash of very dissimilar personalities. Hah.)
Foot-in-Mouth moment #2: Once, in highschool, I was having a conversation with my then-crush. He was chinese-educated and--to be honest--incapable of stringing together a single English sentence. So in order to make him comfortable, I spoke to him in Cantonese. My command of the Cantonese language was decent at that time (never let it be said that I was ever deluded into thinking it was spectacular at any point in my life), but due to the nerves and hormones that accompany teenage crushes, I flubbed it. I did this totally cool thing where I superimposed the tone of an equivalent Teochew word over the Cantonese word, so I sounded like a mountain farm-girl from mainland China. Flustered, I bravely laughed it off and continued...and flubbed it again, because I translated directly from English, so I sounded retarded. I never stood a chance with him, because I was deemed the "uptown girl" who wasn't in touch with my Asian roots. Sigh.
Foot-in-Mouth moment #3: I'm sure we've all been so in like with someone that our faculties have been affected. Michael was my someone. Physically, he was right up my alley. What turned him from a mere object of lust to a full-blown case of I-want-to-have-your-babies! for me (haha) was when we were introduced and became friends--he was funny, and the most genuine, the nicest, nicest guy I'd met in ages. I won't continue to sing his praises because we've since lost touch, but suffice to say, I was so infatuated with him that every time I saw him, my heart dropped into my stomach, my mind went blank, and I couldn't look him in the eye for more than a second at a time or I'd blush furiously. I was in awe: how could someone so blatantly gorgeous be so nice on the inside as well? I found it difficult to think, let alone speak without feeling like my tongue had doubled in size. (I even stuttered sometimes, when we spoke. I used to think that only happened to nerdy teenagers in the movies.) So I guess it was a disaster waiting to happen! Anyway. Michael was a football fan. I am too, but I'm not a diehard. So when we bumped into each other, we would sometimes discuss the World Cup, while it was on in 2006. The morning after the final match (which I missed because of assignments), he ambled over to say hi. I looked up at him, my brain blipped out "No Signal", and my mouth said, "So did Brazil win?"
Holy bejezus, Cher. Brazil? BRAZIL?!
I knew Brazil wasn't in the finals. I knew the final match was between Italy and Fan-fricking-France. I had just laughed about it with my brother the night before because I happen to think Brazil is overrated. Why did I say that? WHY did I say that? I was so mortified, but I didn't know how to fix that situation, so I just sat there and waited for the axe to fall. (I still want to bash my head against the wall when I think about it. It was just so...so... I must've looked like I was pretending to like football or something equally heinous.) To his credit, he was a complete gentleman about it--he didn't call me on my exhibition of stupidity or anything, just very gently informed me that last night was France vs Italy, and Italy won.
Foot-in-Mouth moment #4: Date number 1 with Brian, Irish man who has been asking me out for a while. He tells me his homeland is in this little town a little bit away from the capital of Ireland (where the university is). I go, "Ooh! I have a friend who is studying in Glasgow!" Cher, you dumbass.
"Uh... don't you mean Dublin?"
"No no, yeah, I meant Dublin, I knew Dublin was the capital of Ireland, I swear!" Too late. He was probably thinking "Man this isn't the sharpest tool in the shed." [You see, I have two friends who reminded me of each other, one who studies in Glasgow, another in Dublin. The night before I had just been on the phone with the one studying in Glasgow, so it was still fresh in my mind. And there you go, dear reader, this is your cue to snort in disbelief.]
Foot-in-Mouth moment #5: I was out on a movie date with Brian (second date--I know, he was still interested in me even after my Glasgow gaffe!) and we just finished Borat. While walking to his car, we were discussing the funny bits. Moronic Me happily chirps, "And I love how they made a mockumentary out of an imaginary -stan country!"
He laughed and said, "No it's not, Kazakhstan is a real country!!"
Here I hesitated. See, he had on this deadpan face that he uses when he is trying to tease me. And for the life of me I couldn't tell if he was teasing me or being serious for once. So we spent another excrutiating minute with me going "No...really? Okay... But no....really?" and him laughing his ass off and insisting "Yes! I can show you on the map!... Yes I swear it's a real country!" (when he stopped laughing long enough).
This one...hoo boy. I cannot say anything in my defense: it was pure ignorance on my part. But you know what? I don't think he liked me any less. Which is nice.
Hmmm. I detect a pattern. It seems like my most painful foot-in-mouth moments had to do with geography. Obviously, geography is not my strong suit. Maybe I should steer clear of the subject until the guys know I'm actually smart as a whip (pff) in other respects. Yes?
Oh, hope springs eternal.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Whinge whinge whinge. Whinge whinge whinge.
So I've just come home from a buffet dinner at Hotel Nikko with a bunch of friends from class. It's 11:30 pm and I'm wondering: should I be content with the fact that I had a really good time with people I like, eating great food, while having wonderfully frivolous conversations? I suppose so. But two things have been putting a damper on my evening. And much as I try, I can't seem to get a grip and let them go. They're DEFINITELY not earth-shattering tragedies. In fact they are almost shamefully shallow. But they bug me all the same.
One: I was trying on dresses to decide what to wear for the event, and I discovered to my utter horror that the slimmer cut, non-stretchy ones were a touch tight around the hips and thighs. It appears that since I stopped uni and came back home (where going to the gym almost daily is inconvenient, and where my family does not appreciate my liking for lighter, one-dish meals ["Where's the rest of the food?!"]), the weight has been creeping back in. Nefariously, cloaked in Denial: Oh I must be bloated, it's that time of the month! Oh it's because these jeans just came out of the wash, they haven't stretched back out yet. Damn I HATE my washing machine, it shrunk all my clothes!
Despite my efforts (working out without a gym instructor who drives me and the rest of the class to the brink of puke-dom, eating via Portion Control), my thighs and hips seem to have sensed that The Boss (me) is not going to have as much control over them as She used to. So they rejoice, they cackle and rub their fat cellulite-y little hands together in glee, and they come back in all their disproportionate glory, they grow and grow and grow insidiously, like tumours that just won't quit. Give me back my remission period, goddammit.
Two: My classmates, who are all married women, found out over the course of dinner that I am single. Basically they did not believe me, accusing me instead of having some significant other hidden away (uh, like, for WHAT?). Then when they realised that no, I am dead serious, I am in fact enjoying my single status right now, well. They reacted with confusion ("Oh but you are so pretty, and you have such a wonderful personality! Why??"), confusion which seemed to me to be ringed with sympathy. Oh Lord. Sympathy. From women 10, 20 years older than me. Me, with my whole entire life waiting to be lived, with my bright future, with all those possibilities and different paths to take. Me, with no boring set-in-stone life yet. ME, with my pre-birth, pre-pregnancy body--no drooping breasts! no drastically loosened birth canal (if you get my drift)! no scars from Caeserians! (no offense, mothers out there)
I suppose I could take their gasps of shock as total compliments (Huzzah, I am so amazing I should have men panting all over me!) or I could just feel a touch offended and get sort of depressed. Hah. And me being me, I am leaning towards the latter. There must be something wrong if middle-aged women are clucking down at me like that! Oh my GOD am I going to end up alone with no one of my very own to love? (But that smacks of paranoid!) Should I have just not been so choosy about that last guy I dated? (But he was a crazy jerkhole!) Did I miss the final call for a partner because I was too busy playing the field and having fun? (But doesn't every young person have the right to date around and see what's in the market?) Thoughts that give me heart palpitations of the non-"Ooh Muscles In Sight" kind. Thoughts that make me want to hide underneath my blanket and wait for spinsterhood and the inevitable prune-ing up of my lady parts.
Yet when I sit myself down and think about it properly... I don't really care that I'm getting patronised by housewives. They have what they think is The Whole Point of Life. So you can't really blame them for patting the back of my hand and feeling sorry for me. I just happen to have a slightly different set of values to theirs. And if I do say so myself, it's not a bad one. I'm not going to launch into a whole tirade of the wonders of singledom, plentiful though they are (so says the cast of Sex and the City). However, I have to say this: I like where I am in life right now, and I'm content.
Maybe my negative reactions tonight are just because of my frame of mind this evening--my body and soul are weak from a supremely gratifying pig-out session. Tomorrow I'll probably wake up and laugh it off. I might find it funny instead of mildly panic-inducing. For God's sake I'm only 23!! (So she yells at herself). So goodnight, y'all.
One: I was trying on dresses to decide what to wear for the event, and I discovered to my utter horror that the slimmer cut, non-stretchy ones were a touch tight around the hips and thighs. It appears that since I stopped uni and came back home (where going to the gym almost daily is inconvenient, and where my family does not appreciate my liking for lighter, one-dish meals ["Where's the rest of the food?!"]), the weight has been creeping back in. Nefariously, cloaked in Denial: Oh I must be bloated, it's that time of the month! Oh it's because these jeans just came out of the wash, they haven't stretched back out yet. Damn I HATE my washing machine, it shrunk all my clothes!
Despite my efforts (working out without a gym instructor who drives me and the rest of the class to the brink of puke-dom, eating via Portion Control), my thighs and hips seem to have sensed that The Boss (me) is not going to have as much control over them as She used to. So they rejoice, they cackle and rub their fat cellulite-y little hands together in glee, and they come back in all their disproportionate glory, they grow and grow and grow insidiously, like tumours that just won't quit. Give me back my remission period, goddammit.
Two: My classmates, who are all married women, found out over the course of dinner that I am single. Basically they did not believe me, accusing me instead of having some significant other hidden away (uh, like, for WHAT?). Then when they realised that no, I am dead serious, I am in fact enjoying my single status right now, well. They reacted with confusion ("Oh but you are so pretty, and you have such a wonderful personality! Why??"), confusion which seemed to me to be ringed with sympathy. Oh Lord. Sympathy. From women 10, 20 years older than me. Me, with my whole entire life waiting to be lived, with my bright future, with all those possibilities and different paths to take. Me, with no boring set-in-stone life yet. ME, with my pre-birth, pre-pregnancy body--no drooping breasts! no drastically loosened birth canal (if you get my drift)! no scars from Caeserians! (no offense, mothers out there)
I suppose I could take their gasps of shock as total compliments (Huzzah, I am so amazing I should have men panting all over me!) or I could just feel a touch offended and get sort of depressed. Hah. And me being me, I am leaning towards the latter. There must be something wrong if middle-aged women are clucking down at me like that! Oh my GOD am I going to end up alone with no one of my very own to love? (But that smacks of paranoid!) Should I have just not been so choosy about that last guy I dated? (But he was a crazy jerkhole!) Did I miss the final call for a partner because I was too busy playing the field and having fun? (But doesn't every young person have the right to date around and see what's in the market?) Thoughts that give me heart palpitations of the non-"Ooh Muscles In Sight" kind. Thoughts that make me want to hide underneath my blanket and wait for spinsterhood and the inevitable prune-ing up of my lady parts.
Yet when I sit myself down and think about it properly... I don't really care that I'm getting patronised by housewives. They have what they think is The Whole Point of Life. So you can't really blame them for patting the back of my hand and feeling sorry for me. I just happen to have a slightly different set of values to theirs. And if I do say so myself, it's not a bad one. I'm not going to launch into a whole tirade of the wonders of singledom, plentiful though they are (so says the cast of Sex and the City). However, I have to say this: I like where I am in life right now, and I'm content.
Maybe my negative reactions tonight are just because of my frame of mind this evening--my body and soul are weak from a supremely gratifying pig-out session. Tomorrow I'll probably wake up and laugh it off. I might find it funny instead of mildly panic-inducing. For God's sake I'm only 23!! (So she yells at herself). So goodnight, y'all.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Hold my hand, turn me into a slut.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry. As long as you're here, you can't hold my hand in public. People can't see us kissing either. No, not even a peck on the cheek.
No, we're not going to get arrested. I know the other couples are doing it. But the other couples aren't mixed-race couples. Scratch that. The other couples aren't white-boy, asian-girl couples.
What? Explanation??
Well...it's not the same here. We're fine overseas. Specifically, we're fine over in Anglo-Whiteland. Any Whiteland. There are prejudices there too, but they aren't so bad. It's different here, sayang. Here, we're not going out because we're in love. Want to know what people see when we're together? Let me break it down for you.
No, we're not going to get arrested. I know the other couples are doing it. But the other couples aren't mixed-race couples. Scratch that. The other couples aren't white-boy, asian-girl couples.
What? Explanation??
Well...it's not the same here. We're fine overseas. Specifically, we're fine over in Anglo-Whiteland. Any Whiteland. There are prejudices there too, but they aren't so bad. It's different here, sayang. Here, we're not going out because we're in love. Want to know what people see when we're together? Let me break it down for you.
You're with me because you can't find a white girl who'll have you. You're with me because you have an asian fetish. You don't see me as an individual person. You see black hair and pinched little eyes (so exotic!) and yellow skin that you think is a tan. You just like the thought of a female like that on your arm, in your bed, in your kitchen. You like how that female will not talk back like white girls. Totally at your mercy.
I'm with you because I can't get any decent chinese boy to want me--I'm sub-par: my skin isn't fair enough, my ass not small enough, my body not thin enough, my eyes not big enough, my cheekbones not high enough. Because the only guy who'll have me is a white boy with an asian fetish--he can't tell me apart from other chinese girls so he doesn't realise I'm not the best-looking one out there. He couldn't care less if I look like a truck hit my face. So long as I have that yellow skin, that black hair, those slanting eyes.
I'm with you because I'm uppity, a snob who thinks she's too good for asian men. Too modern, too westernised, too hip, too intelligent to settle for my own kind. Only a white boy achieves my exacting standards. Doesn't matter if he's hideous or a loser who can't hold down a job or an idiot who only sees me as an Oriental accessory.
I'm with you because you are impressive, everyone takes a second look when we're together. Like a designer handbag--it's imported, not everyone can have one, it's oh-so-exclusive. Look, I got me a white boy and he's going to take me places, buy me things, get me citizenship!
You're with me because I'm easy. I put out because I'm in awe of your whiteness, your inherent privilege. I'm a slut with no Asian Morals, no sense of propriety. I want to severe my roots, because I'm ashamed, because I want to be White, not Yellow goddammit. Conquer me.
Baby, that's so harsh. We both know none of that is even remotely true.
It's harsh but it's how things work around here. So I'm sorry, but please don't hold my hand or kiss me out there. It hurts to be pigeonholed. I don't like the judgemental looks thrown my way. They belittle what we have. Boil us down to horrible stereotypes. Take away the feelings we have for each other. Turn us into something cheap, meaningless, a farce. They make you ignorant, stupid, a modern-day coloniser. They make me a slutty banana (yellow on the outside, white on the inside).
Sometimes I want to not know what everyone is thinking. It's as if ... if these people think these things... maybe it's true. Maybe I'm not really in love with you. Maybe I'm just a Sarong Party Girl prostituting myself to get a greencard, and a little bit of Whiteboy in my life, in me (literally and figuratively).
That's why I can't handle the judgement. I might've been able to if they weren't from my friends, my family, my family friends; if they weren't from my peers; if they weren't from most of the people who share my homeland and my culture and my values. Don't snort. Everyone has prejudices, you know. And they might not show it, but I know they have thought those thoughts at least fleetingly. Because I would have too if it weren't me in this situation. I would have if I saw some white-asian couple canoodling in the open. I would stop myself from thinking those thoughts as soon as I realised I was thinking them...but I can tell you now that they would cross my mind at least during the unguarded moments. So please don't get angry at my friends. They don't mean to think those things. As for my parents. You know they love you. And they know me inside out, which is why I know they don't believe a snitch of all that crap. They know what we have is real. But they worry. They get hurt and protective when people judge their daughter like that. So they react with anger and tell me to stop it with the PDA--anything to reduce the sneers slung my way by the community.
But how do you go from holding hands to all that?
I don't know, sayang. You just do.
But I don't understand.
I don't either.
Okay. Okay... I won't hold your hand. And I promise I won't kiss you.
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