bruise count
My digital camera is gathering dust, literally. I just thought about that after I realized I can post pictures of my own life on here instead of relying on google.
Some pictures I could post:
1. My snowboard: first time taking it down yesterday, I realized it was way too fast for me to handle. Baby's out of my league, unfortunately. So we took it slow for a while, got used to the feeling, then took a few turns that sent me flying onto my face. The board's excellent though: responsive and only takes me a second to get back onto my feet. Did I mention it's also gorgeous?
2. Second-day bruises (minus one): I think I'll spare everyone having to look at the bruises on my ass, even though that's the place I fall on most of the time. There's also this weird bruise behind my leg (note: I had to look up the name of this area because I thought there was a special name for the part of your leg between your knee and your ankle, but Wikipedia just says "leg") that I have no idea how I got. I seriously found it as I was putting on my jeans, and it was all scary and black. But not as scary as gangrene, which is caused by phosopholipases (ooooo, what now?! ha!).
*Which reminds me...I finished my 3 hour Bio exam in approximately 1 hour because I gave up. Seriously. There were like 3 pages that I didn't know how to do. So instead of sitting there pretending I had the answers, I just picked my ass off the seat and went home to sleep. As for my Psych final, the professor accidentally gave us the answer to like 60 questions, no lie. If I'm lucky, he'll give us the points for them anyway.
3. My high school: see, I don't think many of my friends now can quite grasp the concept of exactly how ghetto PHS was. Really, I'm sure the picture will contain a few elements--a.)guy in a doo rag/comb in afro, b.)geese poop lining the entire sidewalk, c.)nerdy kids huddling in fear, d.) "Happy Abortion" balloons.
4. Me: shit-faced, shakin my money-maker, taking shots of e-clear while participating in a wet t-shirt contest, holding onto two girls who I think are my friends, smiling with eyes closed, all while reciting K-fed's "Popozao"...po...po...po...POPOZAO!
bedtime story no.1
Sometimes I have trouble falling asleep. Other times, I pretend to have trouble falling asleep just so Karl can tell me a bedtime story...
Once upon a time, there was a zebra. What was his name? His name was Bob, and he wasn't like other zebras. This was a special zebra. Bob had red and white stripes. How did he get the stripes? It was a genetic mutation. All the other zebras made fun of him--and wouldn't let him join in their zebra games?--yes, and didn't let him join in their zebra games.
Whenever they saw him, they would yell out: "Hooray! For Red Stripe Bob!" But they didn't really mean it. They just wanted to hurt poor Bob's feelings because he was different. More importantly, he stood out in the savannah, and no one wanted to hang out with him because they were afraid Bob would get them killed. This made Bob very sad.
But one day, when all the animals were sleeping under rocks and trees and caves, an airplane flew overhead. Was it a good or bad airplane? This airplane was carrying a load of red paint to China. The pilot accidentally opened the cargo bay, and red paint spilled all over the savannah, covering everything.
When the animals woke up the next day, the big bad lion was very happy. He no longer had to search for his food; they were right in front of him. This made all the animals very scared, especially the zebras because they were white and black, not even a little bit red. And they didn't want to get eaten.
After a while, they started to get worried about Bob. They didn't know where he was! They couldn't find him anywhere. But little did they know, Bob was sneaking up on Mr. Lion. Now Bob was the predator, and the big bad lion was the prey. Bob creeped up slowly to Mr. Lion, paused, then kicked him in the head. BAM! Mr. Lion fell fast asleep and never woke up. Did he have narcolepsy? No, he just never woke up.
Now the zebras were all very happy, and they yelled: "Hooray! For Red Stripe Bob!" But this time they meant it.
Moral of the story is: even though something you have may seem like a curse, you never know when it could come in handy.
The End.
shes so lucky, shes a star
WARNING: LONG ENTRY IN WHICH EACH PARAGRAPH FEEDS INTO THE NEXT. SKIMMING WILL DO NO GOOD. THERE'S NOTHING FUNNY. AND THERE ARE NO SHOUTOUTS. DON'T LOOK FOR YOUR NAME. IT'S NOT THERE.
The first computer/video game I played wasn't pong--it was snake. You know, the Basic game with the squiggly line that eats up numbers, and the walls kill it? Then there was that gorilla game in which you controlled the trajectory of the banana-bomb. Oh! And Sega Genesis with the Sonic games! And Keen...does anyone know what I'm talking about? Or how about an even more obscure one...Treehouse? It has two monkeys in a treehouse full of different games (i.e. firetruck counting game, theater game, music game). I once had a really disturbing nightmare where the theater game played pornos, and I was one of the monkeys in the game struggling to get out.So anyway, though video games have gotten more advanced over the years, one thing has stayed the same. Whenever a game starts off badly, I will almost always hit the "start over" button and get a fresh start. Of course, when I do hang in there and try to finish the game with 4 lives instead of 5, things don't go as badly as I expect. But still, why not use the "start over" button when it's so easily accessed?
I think this is one of the reasons why I have such trouble coping with the stressors in my life. There's no "start over" option, so I'm forced to stick with the 1 flawed life I have. I missed all the bonus points, forgot the cheat codes, and wound up dueling the boss over and over with no sign of eventually beating him. I'm constantly going through and reevaluating all the wrong steps I made in my life, yet still maintaining the position that there's nothing I can do about it. After all, when your damage level is above 100% in SmashBros, no matter how hard you try to hang in there, a simple kick will send you flying off the platform. That's how I feel. 110%.
My biggest reevaluation lately has been the transformation I underwent after starting college. You know, going from well-rounded academic to a reclusive nerd-type. It's like in Pokemon: you don't always want to evolve your pokemon because although they get stronger, they lose out on critical skills. So after my Princetonian evolution, my confidence and security have been, well...Iceberg, straight ahead. It could just be that I went from being one of the biggest fish in the tank to becoming a splotch of algae in the Princeton pond. There's no point in doing something if you know there's someone who can do it 10 times better than you can. And recently, I've been getting so hyped up about doing new things; however, after thinking about it for a day or two, I just shrug and say "eh, nevermind. It's not going to change anything."
But not everything has been a bad change. My grades have never been better in my life. I've actually been doing real studying because academics are one of the last things I have to cling onto. I can't get by on looks anymore (but this is another story). Actually, I have time. Might as well tell the story now:
So exactly what does a girl do when she feels less attractive to her boyfriend? Note: not the same thing as actually being unattractive. This is a type of neuroses, but almost a meta-neuroses, because I'm completely conscious that I'm freaking out over nothing. It makes me think of this episode of "Reba" (please don't laugh, I'm fragile right now) when Cheyenne got upset at her husband for not peeking when she asked him to turn away while she was in the shower. I'd always taken a guy's perspective before: she's being silly, what's the big deal about peeking anyway if that's what she asked for in the first place?
Ohhh ho ho. Guys, this is very very important. A girl's strongest weapon is her intuition, and it almost never fails. We can just sense when something's wrong, and when you give us actual proof...well, everything just goes down from there. It's not always about verbal communication ("Oh baby, you're so sexy"), it's about those soft touches now and then, and a stolen peek just to show we're still desired.
Once again, another Pokemon evolution. While evolving to a long-term relationship does provide emotional and psychological comforts, it also zaps away the passion every time you're not looking. The "How to respark your romance" articles aren't just talking to imaginary people; they're talking about everyday couples who have just sank into a level of comfort, good ones even.
But, oh man, I got so mad this one time Karl and I were at the park. We were just sitting in his car, talking about how far our relationship has gone, and I ask him whether or not he still wanted me.
Karl: I don't want you because I already have you.
What?!?!?! Immediately, my self-defense ego retorted with the mental response of: well, if you don't want me, I'll just have to find someone else who does. But after thinking about it--teeth clenched, stomach acids boiling--I realized that it's just another biological rule. Is it possible to desire something you already have? Habituation and sensitization. We've become habituated to each other after going out for almost two years, and in return for a starvation for desire, we've found someone who will do sudokus, watch marathon television, and shop for dishes with us.
Still, I couldn't help thinking whether or not it was possible to continue the way we are, comfortable, happy, yet completely reminiscent of those beginning stages when everything was exciting. There's no "start over" button either, no way to go back and recreate all those feelings of not knowing how the other person will react. It's all just maintenance: going on a date every other week, trying a new position, inventing another baby language.
But then there're those times when I'm smiling so hard it hurts, or when I find that perfect spot in the crook of his arms, and I realize that even if there was a "start over" button, I would never want to press it. After all, with desire comes a certain amount of illusion. The Tiffany the he desired probably wore thongs all the time and never let her eyeliner smear at the end of the day. But nowadays, he's seen me at my worst: no makeup, ass-scratching, even the occasional granny-panty during period week. Who could really desire that? If anything, he's saving me the trouble by being okay with the after-hours me that's as plain and fragile as a paper screen. I should probably stop complaining because I know he's doing the best he can to keep up with my daily neuroticisms. He works so hard to cheer me up. And though what he does is really sweet, he'll probably be too embarassed if I write about it. That's just how sweet it is. Even sweeter than when he gives me foot rubs and flowers, or when he gives me piggyback rides when I'm being lazy.
I apologize for being sappy, again. It's just that, for me, writing is a kind of self-administered therapy. I was actually pretty upset when I started writing this entry, but it somehow worked out in the end. Either that, or I'm just ridiculously in love, and I apologize for all the people who I just made barf with that one comment.
favorite body parts
Yes, I have a final in less than 12 hours. No, I can't fall asleep.
I even tried the usual strategies:
1. Counting by 8's. This is very difficult for me beyond 80. Okay, maybe 88. When I do mental math, I also count with mental fingers. Really--I visualize fingers and then count with them. Sometimes it tires me out, but today it just plain annoyed me.
2. Tensing and relaxing each individual muscle. Result: it made me want to pee.
3. Blogging. Please let this work. Oh please. Oh please.
Actually, I am getting pretty tired. Ha! Go figure. I was about to do some profound thinking about body parts, but I think I'll give sleeping another shot. If you'd like, you can share what your favorite body parts are. I'm sure we have a few ankle fetishists out there.
honey wheat
I went to the dentist on Saturday to get my toothache checked out. The dentist checked out my gums, asked me if I'd had physical trauma, then took an X-ray because he couldn't find anything wrong. X-ray comes out..."Oh. You have an abscess. That needs a root canal."
So now I'm on Penicillin, every 6 hours, meaning I have to set my alarm for 5 each morning just to take a pill. I'm achey, and I have a splitting headache from cramming, and my fingers hurt from punching into my calculator all the possible grades I could get and still maintain my GPA. It's pretty depressing, but at least my English grade came out satisfactory. I just need to work at the two science courses I stupidly took without PDFing. I swear I'm the world's biggest science idiot. I'm also a stubborn science idiot who still believes 3 days of cramming will compensate for an entire semester of dozing off.
On the bright side, during my debilitating episodes of brain pain, I can think about my beautiful purple snowboard that's just waiting for its first chance on the slopes. I'm also thinking about the trips to New York using NJTransit's students-ride-free week. I still have a chocolate muffin from Wegman's that I'll use as a caffeine substute at around 11, then two bags of honey wheat pretzels that'll hold me over at--god forbid-- 1 am.
toothache
I grossly overestimated the amount of time I had to study for finals. As a result, I've been freaking out and having manic periods of studying (w/ equally slothful periods of complete inactivity). To top it off, my snowboard is MIA and my tooth hurts like hell. I suppose it's not exactly the time issue that's keeping me from finishing my work, but the fact that I'm consistently hitting my head and going: "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!"
I watched this Russell Peters standup last night (use google video to watch), and today I couldn't stop thinking about something he noted. He said that comedians differ from average people in that they don't filter what they think about, no matter how fucked up it is. So today, just by observing people, I thought of some pretty fucked up stuff. No, really. So fucked up that I can't even blog about it, sorry. It's pretty fun for a while, but after a certain amount of time, I started feeling morally...bad? I can't even think of the word; my mind is completely filled with words like hypothalamus, polymerase, and angina.
In fact, I'm feeling morally bad about blogging, but I've already Swiffered my room, which is what I usually do to procrastinate and clear my mind. It's my mom's birthday on Saturday, and I'm looking forward to teasing her about her age and eating the cheesecake from Gaston Ave. I'm also looking forward to registering on SCORE and getting my schedule finalized once and for all. Speaking of finalizing things, I need to let my parents know I've decided to do an eating club because I'm finally admitting to myself that I'll be too lazy to cook every day. And I'm also getting extra stressed because this year I've learned exactly what stress does to the human body, so I'm stressed about preventing stress. The word "stress" is also kinda hard to say too.
shameless moment
Yup, that's me. Fourth from the top. And I'm shamelessly posting how Asian I truly am and how I play games on orisinal.com because they're so darn cute. The name says "Tifflovekarl" because she love Karl long time. But really, there's something addicting about stacking pigs on top of each other and watching them bounce around on bubbles. Did I mention I should be working on my paper and studying for exams?I have to wake up "early" tomorrow to play violin for two couples getting married in July and October. I haven't touched my violin (whose name is Sinclair, don't ask) for a really long time, and I don't think we're on speaking terms anymore. Hey! Why don't I Asian-fy my blog for a while? You know, take a bunch of pictures with my eyes bugging out...lighten them till you can't see any discernable facial features, then put a cheezy quote under it like "Dreams will happen, follow the stars." Your mouse will miraculously turn into a pink magic wand with stars trailing after it, and the entire window will glow. After the J-pop music suddenly scares the shit out of you, a unicorn will pop out of your screen and carry you away to a world of rainbows and Lisa Frank and bubble tea. (But seriously, you know the pictures I'm talking about, right? The ones that make barf-ugly people only spit-up-in-your-mouth-a-little-ugly? The ones where it's impossible to tell if you have a nose?)I honestly want to get some classy pictures taken, like, 1930's Vogue style. And tasteful half-nudes. Black and white preferably. Sienna Miller had a few nice ones taken in preparation for a new movie. Vogue ones, not half-nudes. I'm always so awkward in pictures, either smiling too broad and showing my gums, or trying a half-smile and just wind up glaring instead. I had a phase when I would always have my body or head crooked because it was just too weird to stand up straight for a picture. And I really don't know what my "good" or "bad" sides are. Then there were the pictures back when I went through a red lipstick and pale makeup stage (disaster, pure disaster). That was also around the same time as wearing black to look cool and skinny phase. But I have to say, the worst phase I've ever gone through would have to be the velvet and velour stage...compliments of NY&Co and my attempt to dress like a 40 yr. old at 14. And yes, I am also guilty of the overly-airbrushed pictures that I posted on my xanga in high school. It kills me to admit it now, but it's just something I'll have to live with.
weather forecast
It's a shameeven if I make a facebook group called "Sam Champion makes babies cry"not enough people know who he isand why he's the scariest man in the world
tufts syndrome
Congratulations to my little sister who just got the highest grade on some nerd test and beat out the nerdiest kids around. She's such a nerd, really. I don't ever remember studying that much in my life. She's also very pretty, so I don't know how she manages to balance the two so well. And, of course, because she's the younger brat, she'll never tell. Maybe now she will because I just complimented her for everyone to see.
But honestly, it makes me kinda worried. How she's so smart, that is. I'm constantly hearing about these really genius kids getting rejected from the top universities for no good reason. Of course, I can't just advise her to sabotage her grades and go apeshit on extracurriculars like I did, but still, it just worries me. I don't want her to ever have to experience any kind of pain or rejection ever in her life, is that too much to ask? At least she's pretty. Pretty girls always get by.
So I'm back at home for the weekend, just to work off the money I spent this month so far. Only two exams to study for, so it shouldn't be that bad. Weather's been pretty unpredictable; it's supposed to go back to the 30's on Sunday. I need a tan because every time I look in the mirror I think I'm seeing Gwyneth Paltrow. Not a good sign.
I think I need to see a therapist at some point in my life. You know, like a routine checkup. Make sure everything's working the way it should be. Or maybe ill just take a bunch of psychology classes and go for a self-diagnosis ("Yes...guilty of projection. Oral fixation. Drools everytime she hears a bell").
It's so exciting to find a new bakery you like, even better than finding a 20 dollar bill in your jean pocket. For all you Jersey-ites, go to the Gaston Ave Bakery in Somerville. But before you do that, look up Origins French Thai. Both are to die for, trust me. You may have a bit of trouble finding parking for the Thai place though because it's always packed at lunchtime.
As for my shopaholic tendencies, I'm gonna try for a revision of the "something old, something new..." wedding myth:
Something Fendi, something Pucci, something Prada, something Gucci.
Actually, I don't even really like Pucci or Prada. Not a big fan of geometric designs or easily bootlegged nylon. I'm actually in the process of commiting myself to one piece of Tiffany's jewelry. Something classic that I can wear for years and match with most outfits. But really, commitment to material things scares me shitless. I think I'd rather get a tattoo than commit to a nice pair of Manolos. Sigh, little Manolo. At least he has a home now.
the REAL nip tuck
Yeah, I kinda titled the last entry and then forgot to address the main point.
All sadists: present arms.
I was thinking that little whip-bearing demon inside of me that doesn't just come out two days before my period. I'm talking about why it's sometimes feels so good to inflict pain upon others, not on a physical level, but through manipulation and hurtful remarks. (Don't get me wrong. I'm not always evil, just when the stars are aligned just right.)
But most of all, I was thinking about masochism. Put away the chains and harnesses--I'm talking about things that we do on a daily basis for no other reason than to make us hurt a little more. I used to be addicted to shows like "The Swan" or "Extreme Makeover" just to see how people can become gorgeous after a visit to the surgeon. Now, watching "Nip/Tuck" brings back all these old emotions.
You know, there's a study that shows how women actually do feel uglier after seeing attractive women. Here's the scary thing: they found that the husbands of these women also found their wives uglier after viewing pictures of beautiful models. It's logical and probably doesn't come as a surprise to any of us, but think about it: how many gorgeous people are you surrounded by? If that doesn't make you a bit self-conscious, I don't know what will. (For all you perfect 10s out there, now would be a good time to stay silent.)
I don't think it's a bad thing to be self-conscious at times; it just depends on how you react to it. Some people tip the scales at an unhealthy number, and yet they still convince themselves they're gorgeous and that everyone should just suck it up. Others wonder why they never get the job they want, even though their closest friends have been telling them they need to toss the holey suit and start chewing more Trident.
I was talking to a friend the other day who made a really good point (one that I never really wanted to admit to myself). She said that eventually, our significant other will be attracted to someone else. The temptation will be there, and there's nothing we can do about it.
Well...damn. Sure, I've read about that in just about every Cosmo ever written. But for some reason, must be my particular mood for the day...it really got to me this time.
I realized one thing: being in a relationship doesn't make you immune to attraction; on the contrary, it acts as an accelerator because you're suddenly surrounded by forbidden fruit. Some people get so freaked out by the idea of their loved ones cheating on them that they purposely have an affair so they don't have to be the victims (source: freshman ethics article). Others, like me, strive for impossible standards of beauty that costs a.) a lot of money on clothes, makeup, hair, b.) time, and c.) mental well-being.
And all over something we can't help. Now, brace yourselves because it just gets even worse. Ever hear of the saying "For every beautiful woman is a guy who's tired of having sex with her"? So we make ourselves all pretty in order to compete, then realize that no matter how much work we do on ourselves, that we're still at square one. Wonderful. Just wonderful.
Now, before we all just toss on potato sacks and throw out our makeup brushes, we also have to recognize another thing: beautiful people have personalities too. Beautiful people can also be smart. So it would be kinda dumb to fool ourselves into thinking "Oh, I don't have to dress up. He'll like me for my personality anyway." It's just as easy to fall in love with a rich man than a poor man, but it's a lot easier to fall in love with a hot chick than an ugly one.
So back to the sadism. As you can see, girls just don't have a choice but to be mean to each other. If a guy's going to be tempted no matter how funny you are or how good you look, then the only thing left to do is to unsheath those claws, pull out the whips and chains, and let the match begin.
nip tuck
Most of the time, I'm not really bothered by the fact that guys and girls get treated differently.
Like at hibachi houses, the chef usually gives the excess food to the men, even though the ladies' portions cost the same amount. Fine by me.
Or after the food's eaten and the waiter/waitress directly hands the guy the check. Also fine. Most of the time, it IS the guy that pays. Don't deny it, ladies.
But today, it really got me. Karl and I decided to eat at Applebees tonight, which was good, because I'd really been craving a juicy fat barbeque hamburger. After we asked for the check, Karl went off to the bathroom and left me munching on my fries alone.
1. Waiter comes over, places the check in front of Karl's empty space, and sees me reach over his arm to grab it.
2. Waiter comes back. I reach into wallet hand him the money. Waiter leaves.
3. Waiter returns with money. Gives change directly to Karl.
Come ONNNNNNNNN. Is it so hard to remember that the girl paid for the food? Is it really that surprising and out of the ordinary? There should be a middle-of-the-table rule from now on. I mean, sure, I love it when my boyfriend offers to wine and dine me. But when I want to treat him, don't I deserve a little bit more recognition and respect from these people?
Still, I'll give the guy the benefit of a doubt. Maybe he had a long day and can't remember who paid. Maybe he thought it was the gentlemanly thing to do. Still, it makes me wonder where the line between romance and equality is really drawn nowadays. Are we abdicating our position as equals in society by allowing ourselves to be treated to a nice meal once in a while? And honestly, exactly why is it considered romantic for a guy to pay in situations when we're perfectly capable of paying ourselves? Perhaps women nowadays still haven't evolved beyond needing that little boost from a white knight or kindly benefactor.
Strangely enough, one of the things that makes me miss Princeton the most are the guys that open doors for you as if it was one of the most natural things in the world. What gentlemanly behavior. What chivalry. But then I ask myself: I'm not handicapped, why do I need them to open the doors anyway?
It's hard to be a woman in 2006. If we submit ourselves to traditional romance, our feminist side starts bra-burning bonfires and screams how we're digging our own graves. If we stubbornly fight for equality, our romantic side yearns even more for Prince Charming, and we wind up watching chick flicks for no reason.
It's even harder to be a man in 2006. You never know what kind of chick that new girl you're dating is. If you open a door for her, she could a.) smile from ear to ear, or b.) give you an ear-aching lecture on women's rights. If you pay for her meal, she could a.) give a sheepish half-smile, b.) offer to pay half, c.) attempt to rip you in half.
dirty laundry
Just as I study hard as to not waste Pepsi caffeine, so I try to be sentimental as to not waste a perfectly good glass of wine. I hate correct grammar--I mean, honestly, it's really awkward. So as I'm sitting here digging my thumbnail into the space between my teeth, I'm wondering why I went through the old books I lent him, looking for a love note or a scribble. I've lent out so many books, and I've written more than a few letters. I don't know if anyone's kept any (well, I think I know where a few might be lying around), but are they like mine--facedown, hidden under a napkin or a book, just waiting to be thrown out by a significant other doing "spring cleaning"? But really, is cleaning out your lover's dirty laundry neurotic? And is keeping it a sign of sentimentality we wish to deny? I've thrown out so much stuff, and I've cleared out so much of his; still, I know I'll come across an old trinket stuffed in a drawer corner. And I'll pick it up, smile a little, try to remember how young and foolish I had once been. Then this sudden jerk forces the memories away, and I freeze up like a Weight Watcher's member caught with a donut. At that moment, I really don't know what to do. Do I throw it away and feel guilty for having shared a happy moment with someone else? Or do I stay and hope he doesn't mistaken that I still have leftover feelings?In Eternal Sunshine, the program required that the patients throw out all belongings that had anything to do with their significant others. I don't dispute the logic in their method; after all, certain objects do invoke certain emotions that go beyond our own cognitive appraisal levels. Still, the question remains: how much can we keep? And which objects are "keep-able"? Do I need to physically lay out items A, B, and C on the table and let him choose which ones are acceptable?I think there's always going to be a little green elf with a broom that just wants to clean out more and more of his things until nothing can prove someone was there before me. We don't always say what we feel, even if we convince ourselves we're a.)different from other couples, b.)grown-up, c.)talently communicative, there's always something more the other person can do that we keep to ourselves. So I tried again, flipping through the books I lent him, but still no note. I can remember the cards he wrote me, but I can't remember where I put them. How strange. I can remember the exact location of the other sparse trinkets, but I can't remember where a single card is. This is how I know this time it's for real. There's no sense in keeping something safe if you believe you will have the same thing, again and again, till your closets burst with love notes and cards and other memorabilia. His notes are easily lost because there are too many to keep track of, and even if I lost one, it can always be replaced. I held onto those other items because I know I've reached the end in every one of those paths, and I also have no desire to go back and renew what was already lost. But his notes, beautiful as they are, will never be more than strings of ink on paper. I would rather he say them to me in a whisper, as he always manages to do and remember. And nothing, absolutely nothing, can ever compare.
team sienna
...though she's constantly telling the press how strong she how, how much she's getting over it, and how she's really not like Jennifer Aniston. But on the subject of nannies, my parents told me about a new trend they read about in the paper. Apparently, because people are finally recognizing China as a future super-duper-power, rich parents are now seeking Chinese-speaking nannies to look after their kids. Average salary: $100,000/year.Hey! I can live with that. Perhaps now would be a good time to get back in the cycle of masochism a.k.a 300-level Chinese. I already work closely with kids and can speak Chinese fluently. I (now) know how to do laundry, and I'm usually pretty organized and enjoy cleanliness.Oh, but can you imagine the drama?? Nanny Diaries already alerted me to all the bullshit that nannies have to go through for their blue-blood, coke-sniffing, female employers. When dragged to family/social function plainly underdressed, I doubt people will even believe I speak a word of English ("Hey, dishes! Diiiii-shhhhhhes. Comprende? DISHES").So how much am I willing to prostitute myself for money? No matter how many Ivy league degrees I obtain or how successfully I am able to raise the child, on a social level, I'd still be just another minority working for the even more successful white woman. Is being a nanny the only occupation in which this happens? Of course not. But it's very apparent. I can see it now: I'm sitting on a park bench with my hair up Jane Eyre style. The little brats are yelling for me to wipe off their noses. The blonde lady in the white Donna Karen suit twitters to her friends about how good I am and how hard I work and how much English I seem to have picked up recently.So it doesn't matter how I convince myself the money would be good, how I wouldn't encounter these racial offenses, or how I'm exagerrating the plight of the Chinese American...I know that it's neither fiction nor myth, and to think so would be awfully naive. But *groan* I need that money.
whatever lola wants...
After dreading going back to school for reading period, I started wondering: is there such a thing as a "sexy major"? Are we attracted more to someone because of their field of study? I always wonder what people think after they find out that I'm majoring in English. Mostly, I get the "Gasp! But you're Asian! What do your parents say? Do they know?" But say I told them I was majoring in some type of science or engineering. Result: immediate grouping of poor little Asian girl pushed into non-humanities path by imposing parents. Alternate result: mistakenly think I'm as smart as the other engineering/pre-med/science girls.No, please don't think I'm smart. That's so unattractive.Now that I think about it, exactly how important is it for a girl to be smart now anyway? My mom's always telling me about her friends' opinions of their sons' girlfriends. They mumble a bit about the girl's personality, but it seems that the only priority they have is how attractive she is. Personality and intelligence come WAYY later. Usual response: "Eh, she's a nice girl. But have you seen her face???"The way I see it, no matter how empowered women are, or how much we try to advance ourselves, it's not going to do as much good as advertised because our society hasn't quite evolved past its need for "geisha-types":1. Intelligence, yes, but just to the point where the woman can hold a decent conversation. Decent conversation, of course, meaning that she can make her man feel good about himself while gently teasing at all times. A woman that's more intelligent than her man will make him feel threatened and less manly.2. Willing to have sex. Anywhere. Anytime. Will be completely professional and suit his every need. 3. Be more talented than smart. Know how to create some form of art that can mystify him. "Art" preferably meaning culinary arts. You know the old saying: "Way to a man's heart..."So hear hear all future trophy wives and husbands. You're not going with the flow or letting people take advantage of you. You've just found a loophole and plan on exploiting the crap out of it. So who's playing who? And who's the smarter one after all?
poor financing
Once again, I've broken my record for spontaneous decisions.
Behold, the girl who bought a Burton Feelgood after snowboarding only twice. It's amazing how I can always find a new definition of "broke" week after week. I saw it in Dick's yesterday for $500, then found it on ebay for half the price. Now I have to buy bindings and boots. Nice boots. A girl's gotta have nice shoes.
Here's my reasoning: I can spend all the money I want now because I don't plan on going to grad school directly after college. So even if I save the little pocket money I have, by the time I'm working, I'm just going to blow it on excess Chanel.
So why deprive myself? Still, let's just hope this isn't a modern-day reencatment of "The Ant and the Grasshopper."
brown bag
So I found out today that Dooney and Bourke makes lunchbagsMe: Hey, do you want one? I'll get it for you since it's kinda cute.Jen: No, I'll be throwing out the trash, and when I get back, it'll be gone.Me: Hmm...then I'll have to get it for you so once it's gone, you can stand up on the lunch table and scream, "All right. Which one of yo' ghetto asses stole my lunch bag. Ma lunch bag. C'mon y'all."Jen: Haha. Ghetto asses.Sigh, good old Pway. Another big culture shock about being in Princeton is how people trustingly leave their stuff around. As I walk around in Frist, I see ipods and laptops on tables all alone. People leave their backpacks outside the dining hall. And once, as I was entering CJL (note: cannot bring bookbags inside), I clutched so hard to my bookbag that the lunchlady gave me a knowing "mmmmhmmm." She knows the deal.Though I wouldn't exactly consider this a type of "street smart," I can't help but laugh every time I hear a popped-collar rich kid whining about his stuff getting stolen. I honestly can't imagine what high school would've been like without weekly fights in the hallway, bomb threats, lockdowns, and freaky people stroking your hair. So, forget "Beauty and the Geek" as a social experiment. What I'd like to see is how a preppy kid from Exetor would survive in the Camden public school system.
yeahhhh boyeee!!
I'm officially on my way to becoming a hardcore snowboarder. To be honest, I expected today's trial to be like my first, but suddenly I found myself coasting effortlessly down the mountain (heelside, of course). No bruises, no cuts, but still the same obsession. I'm planning on setting aside a decent amount of money for next year's season pass, board, bindings, boots, but most importantly...real snow pants. No more dorky suspenders for me, whoo hoo. I mean, it beats buying another handbag, yes?So Flavor Flav has a "Bachelor"-type show on VH1 now. I swear Chewbacca was in "Narnia." Seriously, the trilling growl and everything. Chewbacca versus Oompa Loompa from "Willy Wonka"...made my day. Okay, so maybe he wasn't really the Oompa Loompa. It was still entertaining.
stock market
In high school, it was so easy to examine relationships under a microscope. Type Overachiever male goes out with Type Flighty female. Type Insecure female makes out with Type Loves-His-Mama before homeroom at the lockers. Type Closet-Freak female sits with other Type Closet-Freak females at lunch and discuss the Type Tool guys they're into.But going above the Mean Girl-esque stereotypes, there's one thing we can't avoid being associated with: stock.Let me explain: I don't like admitting it, but in high school, I did have female role models (no, I will not name names). I'd observe their maneurisms from afar, check their hairstyles, and admired their social grace. I'd act super nice to them but churn with mild jealousy after passing. But here's where the trouble comes in.No matter how hard I tried to rationalize it, I would almost always be mildly attracted to their boyfriends. No, they weren't particularly handsome. No, their grades kinda sucked. And no, most of them didn't seem to have any redeeming qualities. But just as a merger with a larger corporation boosts stocks to constellational heights...these guys were boosted simply because of who they went out with.So just how strange is that? I'm sure there are plenty of exceptions (and it may not even be the same case for guys) but from a general outlook, I've come up with a few basic rules:1. Pair Girl A (respected) with Boy B (not-so-repulsive). Stocks will rise for Boy B. Girl A stocks remain constant.2. Pair Girl A (respected) with Boy C (repulsive). Girl A stocks drop for female stockholders (lose respect), but simultaneously rise for male stockholders (chance to steal her from loser Boy C). Boy C stocks rise a little out of general confusion.3. Pair Girl A (respected) with Boy A (desired). Both stocks bust through the ceiling.Note, in scenario 3, we reach the typical celebrity/fairy-tale couple. We want to see drama. We want to see them last forever and get married OR we want to see a horrible, horrible breakup. In both cases, they're very visible in the public eye, so their stock rises. Comprende?Still, I can't help but wonder: where do I fit in these scenarios? Am I boosting up Karl's stock? Is he boosting up mine? Do I have anything to worry about?Perhaps this is all too general. But seriously, think about how your opinions have changed about people once they dive into a relationship. We associate people's characteristics with those they hang out with or find most attractive. If you want to know how you are, or how people look at you, perhaps you don't need to look further than the people you spend the most time with.Oh, and my real New Year's resolution is to stop being so darned cute. Give other people a chance.
