I'm not sure men can ever properly understand the force of nature that is PMS. There is evidence that men also have a monthly hormonal cycle that does cause some PMS-type symptoms, but the timing is harder to nail down...well, for obvious reasons. I've known some men that could give us girls a run for our money, but most of them seem to be blissfully ignorant of the ravages of a hormonal tsunami. The smart ones have figured out that it is NEVER acceptable to write off a woman's mood as PMS, even if she knows that is precisely why she is being bitchy. Just because the feelings are coming from a hormonal source rather than a rational one, doesn't make them any less real, and dismissing a woman's feelings for any reason - ESPECIALLY when she is already in a highly irrational place - is always going to be bad news. Now, that being said, the smart women catch on pretty quickly to when they're PMSing so when they do try to defenestrate a coworker, they can do it with a disclaimer so that said coworker doesn't take it personally when they're plummeting to their death.
Suffice it to say, it sucks. Being in a bad mood is already not fun - but not being able to figure out why you're in that bad mood, or even worse, KNOWING why but also knowing there's absolutely nothing that will make it go away except time, can make it pretty difficult to get through the day. Mine is kind of like having bipolar disorder for a week - I can go from happy to phenomenally pissed off at the blink of an eye, but the "happy" is more of a manic state than anything that would normally pass for contentedness, and the pissed off is...well...the words "duck" and "cover" come to mind. I get wicked fatigue, and we're not talking "gee, I was a little short on sleep last night and wouldn't a catnap be nice?" we're talking, "I think I just accidentally chased two Benadryl with a shot of Nyquil." The logic centers of my brain shut down and it's like I can actually feel my synapses misfiring - it takes me 2-3 times as long to do even the simplest calculations at work (I usually have to write out arithmetic I would normally do just in my head or on a calculator), experiments don't work that should be no-brainers, it even feels like my motor skills suffer. I can always tell it's setting in when the combination of fatigue and snippiness are strong enough to register as abnormal - when I'm literally falling asleep at my desk and my Labmate tolerance drops to zero. Most of the time, I can laugh at her silliness because damn it, she IS cute, but there's always that one week that I just can't listen to her without boiling inside. These are the times when I take a step back, and find things to do with myself that will keep my social interaction at a minimum.
This has been one of those weeks.
I noticed a couple of days ago just how many things were PISSING ME OFF and how many were making me IMPROBABLY HAPPY. And I decided to sift through some old posts to see if there was a pattern to my rants. It's actually uncanny if you know what to look for - there are certainly other times when I write bitchy posts, and there are some times when I'm hormonal but not feeling inspired to write about what's pissing me off, so it's a subtle trend, but clearly identifiable to the only one of us who knows exactly how I was feeling as I wrote each post. So I decided this time to just blog some of my ups and downs from the past few days.
So without further ado, I present my Mood Swings:
I HATE when people walk unnecessarily close to me, usually on the stairs in the subway. It's not okay to cut someone off in traffic, and it is also not okay to cut them off on a stairwell. Fuck off, lady, this is my personal space and there is no reason you need to be so close to me. Interestingly enough, a person's concept of what constitutes a reasonable no-fly zone around their neighbor seems to be inversely related to the volume their iPod is set to. Why don't you just get your bitch ass back in the kitchen and make me some pie?
I LOVE banh mi. Also known as vietnamese subs or Saigon subs. Is it really so wrong if the one great love of my life turns out to be a sandwich? They do seem to contain fructose, so it's a slightly abusive relationship, but he told me he didn't mean it, that it won't happen again, and it only happened because he loves me so damned much. I want believe him, and dammit, I'm gonna.
I HATE stupid questions. "What's in the well plate?" "Alcohol, I'm cleaning it out." "Cleaning?" "Yes, I actually USE the wells, so I clean them out with alcohol when I'm done with it." "You put things into the wells?"
Yes. I actually use the plate for its INTENDED PURPOSE. Imagine that.
"Yes." "Is there fluorescein left in the wells?"
Um, that would be THE REASON I AM CLEANING IT.
I LOVE H&M. I walked out with a skirt, a dress, and a blazer for $55. Oh, Scandinavian design, why you so good to me?
I HATE crazy people on the subway. At least when they cross the line from humorous babbling into yelling at you for not sitting by them.
I LOVE crazy people on the streetcar. Apparently, insanity has a manicure.
I HATE loud cell phone conversations on public transit. Or anywhere in public, really, but on transit you're forced to be in close proximity to the conversation, which makes it far more annoying. I really don't need to know what you're picking up for dinner, or who's picking up the kids, your secret recipe for cold fusion, or your peculiar fondness for hamster porn.
I LOVE dairy.
I HATE when people respond to an e-mail and have clearly not actually read what they are responding to. I have told you that the problem does not exist on my end and have asked how I am supposed to fix a problem that my program doesn't think exists. Your response was, "the problem is still there and I strongly recommend you fix it on your end." THAT IS NOT A VIABLE SOLUTION.
I LOVE riding on (uncrowded) streetcars. On a nice day, the air circulation is lovely, the ride is smoother than a bus, but infinitely more scenic than the subway.
I HATE people who insist on talking shop when I just want to drink my beer in the sunshine after work.
I LOVE the guy who lifted my laptop bag to simplify my attempt to squeeze into the awkwardly-placed but last-remaining empty seat on the bus. He also made friendly chat with the rather unassumingly pretty girl sitting next to him, and when he got up to leave the bus, I realized that his son was sitting opposite him, and they were wearing matching hats. Too cute.
I LOVE/HATE the guy who got up from his seat, moved to the front of the bus to let the blind man who had just gotten on know there was an available seat, and guided him gently to the spot he had just vacated. That was a truly lovely thing you just did. But did you have to nearly take out one of the guy's kids with your laptop bag as you did it?
I HATEHATEHATE the "Tag Huntresses." I've been staring at those stupid ads on the subway for DAYS, and just when I thought it wasn't possible to dislike them any more, I manage to serve up yet another hot slice of loathing in their general direction. Bitch ain't even that hot.
That's all that comes to mind right now. Stay tuned for the next installment in, oh, about 28 days.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Dream a Little Dream of Me
I rarely remember dreams - I don't often wake up during the night, and I'm usually done dreaming by the time my alarm goes off in the morning. Dreams are supposed to be where your subconscious works out all of the things that you can't quite deal with in your waking life, so I tend to assume that I never remember them because there are things my subconscious doesn't want me to know. And frankly, I'm okay with that...I'm willing to trust its judgement.
I do go through periods, however, where I remember my dreams with some frequency. Last summer, I had a lot of anxiety dreams right before waking up, due to the combined stress of being completely broke, teaching solo for the first time, living with my parents, and needing to make arrangements to move to a foreign country. In addition to the stress I was already under, the anxiety dreams meant I woke up well before my alarm, exhausted, but unable to go back to sleep...it was a rough couple of months. Luckily, I've had precious few of those since I settled in and became self-sufficient again.
But when I do remember my dreams, I make an effort to look up the themes and symbols to try to figure out what's going on. I have a couple of dream books and, while I think their interpretations are kind of like horoscopes - you can find whatever you want to find in them, picking and choosing the things that might be relevant to your own life until you're convinced the author is REALLY ONTO SOMETHING - I find it interesting when I hit on a symbol that is uncannily appropriate and can't be logically explained. Like, how does a couch mean something in your dream if you don't consciously know what it's supposed to represent?
Which brings me to the reason for this post: over the last couple of nights, I have actually remembered a couple of dreams. Both pretty literal, but I think fairly representative of what's been on my mind lately. A couple of nights ago, I had a dream about the VGLM. I can't remember if I had been thinking about him as I feel asleep in order to deliberately dream about him - I sometimes do that because I'm dying to see what my subconscious thinks he looks like naked - but regardless of whether it was intentional or not, it was a simple, lovely dream. I don't remember most of the specifics, just that we were spending an evening together at home. Some details from my waking day had worked their way in - I had bought a couple of movies that day, and in the dream I offered them up as something to do and was pleasantly surprised at how excited he was to watch one of them. In fact, the whole dream was one pleasant surprise after another - we sat on a couch (a particular home furnishing which, incidentally, is supposed to mean you're in love with the person you're sitting with...I've run into that one before. Not quite buying it - I like the VGLM, but I'm not in LOVE with him. I think I'm too jaded to fall in unrequited love nowadays.) and he put his arm around me. He snuggled with me, and told me I was beautiful. We were just about to start the movie when I woke up, trying to convince myself it wasn't just a dream. I kept my eyes closed, trying so hard to believe that it was his shoulder my head was against and not just a pillow.
How sad is it that my happy dreams never get to the good stuff? I fantasize about SNUGGLING, for God's sake. I can't even get lucky in my dreams. At any rate, I think this one is self-explanatory - anybody who reads this thing knows that I'm kind of getting sick of being single and going on crappy dates...I want someone to share my life with. Someone to come home to at the end of the day, who will greet me with a hug and a kiss and tell me I'm amazing. Real intimacy with a member of the opposite sex.
Which is what makes this morning's dream interesting.
In the dream, it was my wedding day. Except it wasn't a typical wedding day - I had sort of gotten up that morning and found out I was getting married. And my mom and some other miscellaneous people without faces had brought me a big box of clothing from Goodwill to sift through to find something to wear. I seem to recall there being a couple of actual wedding dresses, but for some reason I was either not allowed or afraid to ask to try them on. I do know that I said or thought at some point, "I really wish I could afford to buy a real wedding dress," and wanting to cry. Through all of this, I had no concept of who the groom might be...I just kept trying on hideous suits with shoulder pads and trying to at least find something white to wear. Now, apparently, to dream of wearing a wedding dress "is to be trying to sort out one's feelings and hopes about relationships and weddings." Gee, thanks, Dream Dictionary. Is there an interpretation of "No shit, Sherlock" I should be aware of? But frankly, I know why the dream was wedding-related - I have the show I was watching right before I went to bed to thank for that one. I do have a fairly debilitating fear of somehow getting myself into a situation where I have agreed to marry someone I don't really like, but this has come up in enough dreams that I am now fully aware of this fear and trying my best to shake it (although unless I go out on a truly exciting date sometime soon I may be beyond the point of no return). So let's move on to the other prominent themes.
The changing of clothes: "The clothes we wear in a dream can often depict the facade, or persona, we create for other people. We have certain roles that we adopt in response to other's reactions....Clothes can often act as a protection against being touched. This protection may also be against having the real self violated. Clothes can conceal or reveal. In covering up nudity they conceal our perceived imperfections and, by implication, disguise our sexuality. In revealing certain parts of us our dreams may show in what ways we are vulnerable...Changing clothes. We are attempting to change our image." Sounds familiar, no? I think my subconscious mind has been reading this here blog too much. I mean, using my dreams to merely reiterate what I've been saying consciously on here...that's just laziness. What does it mean when you're subconsciously plagiarizing yourself?
On being poor: "To experience poverty in a dream highlights a sense of being deprived of the ability to satisfy our basic needs. We may feel inadequate, either emotionally or materially. Often we need to go right back to basics to discover what our real needs are." Well, duh. Again, tell me something I don't know.
So I think my subconscious is really just telling me to blog more.
I do go through periods, however, where I remember my dreams with some frequency. Last summer, I had a lot of anxiety dreams right before waking up, due to the combined stress of being completely broke, teaching solo for the first time, living with my parents, and needing to make arrangements to move to a foreign country. In addition to the stress I was already under, the anxiety dreams meant I woke up well before my alarm, exhausted, but unable to go back to sleep...it was a rough couple of months. Luckily, I've had precious few of those since I settled in and became self-sufficient again.
But when I do remember my dreams, I make an effort to look up the themes and symbols to try to figure out what's going on. I have a couple of dream books and, while I think their interpretations are kind of like horoscopes - you can find whatever you want to find in them, picking and choosing the things that might be relevant to your own life until you're convinced the author is REALLY ONTO SOMETHING - I find it interesting when I hit on a symbol that is uncannily appropriate and can't be logically explained. Like, how does a couch mean something in your dream if you don't consciously know what it's supposed to represent?
Which brings me to the reason for this post: over the last couple of nights, I have actually remembered a couple of dreams. Both pretty literal, but I think fairly representative of what's been on my mind lately. A couple of nights ago, I had a dream about the VGLM. I can't remember if I had been thinking about him as I feel asleep in order to deliberately dream about him - I sometimes do that because I'm dying to see what my subconscious thinks he looks like naked - but regardless of whether it was intentional or not, it was a simple, lovely dream. I don't remember most of the specifics, just that we were spending an evening together at home. Some details from my waking day had worked their way in - I had bought a couple of movies that day, and in the dream I offered them up as something to do and was pleasantly surprised at how excited he was to watch one of them. In fact, the whole dream was one pleasant surprise after another - we sat on a couch (a particular home furnishing which, incidentally, is supposed to mean you're in love with the person you're sitting with...I've run into that one before. Not quite buying it - I like the VGLM, but I'm not in LOVE with him. I think I'm too jaded to fall in unrequited love nowadays.) and he put his arm around me. He snuggled with me, and told me I was beautiful. We were just about to start the movie when I woke up, trying to convince myself it wasn't just a dream. I kept my eyes closed, trying so hard to believe that it was his shoulder my head was against and not just a pillow.
How sad is it that my happy dreams never get to the good stuff? I fantasize about SNUGGLING, for God's sake. I can't even get lucky in my dreams. At any rate, I think this one is self-explanatory - anybody who reads this thing knows that I'm kind of getting sick of being single and going on crappy dates...I want someone to share my life with. Someone to come home to at the end of the day, who will greet me with a hug and a kiss and tell me I'm amazing. Real intimacy with a member of the opposite sex.
Which is what makes this morning's dream interesting.
In the dream, it was my wedding day. Except it wasn't a typical wedding day - I had sort of gotten up that morning and found out I was getting married. And my mom and some other miscellaneous people without faces had brought me a big box of clothing from Goodwill to sift through to find something to wear. I seem to recall there being a couple of actual wedding dresses, but for some reason I was either not allowed or afraid to ask to try them on. I do know that I said or thought at some point, "I really wish I could afford to buy a real wedding dress," and wanting to cry. Through all of this, I had no concept of who the groom might be...I just kept trying on hideous suits with shoulder pads and trying to at least find something white to wear. Now, apparently, to dream of wearing a wedding dress "is to be trying to sort out one's feelings and hopes about relationships and weddings." Gee, thanks, Dream Dictionary. Is there an interpretation of "No shit, Sherlock" I should be aware of? But frankly, I know why the dream was wedding-related - I have the show I was watching right before I went to bed to thank for that one. I do have a fairly debilitating fear of somehow getting myself into a situation where I have agreed to marry someone I don't really like, but this has come up in enough dreams that I am now fully aware of this fear and trying my best to shake it (although unless I go out on a truly exciting date sometime soon I may be beyond the point of no return). So let's move on to the other prominent themes.
The changing of clothes: "The clothes we wear in a dream can often depict the facade, or persona, we create for other people. We have certain roles that we adopt in response to other's reactions....Clothes can often act as a protection against being touched. This protection may also be against having the real self violated. Clothes can conceal or reveal. In covering up nudity they conceal our perceived imperfections and, by implication, disguise our sexuality. In revealing certain parts of us our dreams may show in what ways we are vulnerable...Changing clothes. We are attempting to change our image." Sounds familiar, no? I think my subconscious mind has been reading this here blog too much. I mean, using my dreams to merely reiterate what I've been saying consciously on here...that's just laziness. What does it mean when you're subconsciously plagiarizing yourself?
On being poor: "To experience poverty in a dream highlights a sense of being deprived of the ability to satisfy our basic needs. We may feel inadequate, either emotionally or materially. Often we need to go right back to basics to discover what our real needs are." Well, duh. Again, tell me something I don't know.
So I think my subconscious is really just telling me to blog more.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Carrie-d Away
I've been having a Sarah Jessica Parker moment over the last couple of days. I've been feeling thin and healthy, and therefore the last couple of nights I've taken to wearing a vintage slip as a nightgown. I like it - even though nobody is there to see it, it makes me feel cute and feminine and sexy. When I was drinking wine with the Landlords a couple of weeks ago, Landlord told me how just that week he had seen me leave for (or maybe it was come home from) work and commented to Landlady that I was "starting to look like a Torontonian." Now, part of me couldn't resist feeling a little indignant...I mean, come on, did I REALLY look THAT bad before?....but I know he meant this as a compliment. And it's true, a year ago, I only wore full makeup if I was going out (and even then it was rare), and now I wear it every weekday. Back then I rarely so much as blow-dried my hair, and now I not only do that regularly but often go so far as to (gasp) STYLE it on a daily basis. I used to live in t-shirts, jeans, and flannels...now the flannels and hoodies only come out on weekends, and the only jeans I wear to work are my Good Jeans. Now, these changes started as soon as I left grad school - my first real teaching gig last summer forced me to start wearing my nicer clothes more often, and I was happy about it. But moving here, where I have many opportunities to take notes from well-dressed women on the subway, and getting back into good shape have forced me to buy a few more cute clothes and, perhaps more importantly, wear the ones I already had better (I have one pair of pants in particular that have always just been....well...fine. But today I tried them on for the first time since last summer and they made my ass look fantastic, if I do say so myself.). At any rate, I've noticed that Toronto women of my age, much like New York women, have a way of dressing and carrying themselves that's worth admiring. And on days like today, when I am feeling cute, thin, well put-together, and confident, I see people watch me when I get on the bus as opposed to remaining in their music- or book-induced oblivion. So at least today, I apparently look like a Torontonian, and I like it.
Now, the previous paragraph was written as an attempt to justify to myself that I have a right to now rant about other people's fashion choices. You didn't REALLY think this was going to be a sweet little entry about self-esteem, did you? For the record, let me state that I am absolutely NOT a fashion expert, and I have made some rather hideous transgressions in the past AND present, but there are certain things that I see on a regular basis that I simply can not let go by any longer without comment. So let me just take a moment to flip my Bitch Switch...
(click)
Okay, let's begin, shall we?
There is an epidemic sweeping across the female population, and it flares up hideously in the warmer months. I am talking about Visible Undergarment Syndrome, or VUS. Now, I feel the need to state, in the interest of full disclosure, that I have been known, on many occasions, to show a little bra strap. In fact, I will be doing it for the better part of today because, while I'm sure I have bras that wouldn't poke out from this top, they don't make my boobs look as good as this one, and I'm willing to make the sacrifice. However, this bra happens to match the top in both color and texture, so I consider it a fairly minor transgression. I have also been known to do the deliberately contrasting bra strap and top bit, but only when the top in question is a wifebeater and I am in a decidedly casual environment. I'm sure someday down the road I will be completely appalled with myself for ever wearing a grey wifebeater with purpley-blue brastraps clearly visible, but for now, I happen to find it a little slice of trashy-cute fun. So, in some cases, I believe this is a rule that is meant to be broken.
But I draw the line at the back strap.
I found it truly appalling this morning to see not one, but TWO fully exposed back straps on the subway. Not a little edge poking out of a poorly-fitting top...not a deliberate hinting at a cute bra under a little shirt - just a complete absence of any attempt whatsoever to wear an outfit-compatible bra. Perpetrator #1 was wearing what appeared to be a t-shirt converted into a halter top, with full arm- and back-strap exposure. As far as I'm concerned, a little bra peek is okay as long as it's consistent with the lines of the garment - it should be either subtle, or an accent to the main piece, not the focal point. You don't wear a lacy bra under a wifebeater, and those who wear a regular bra with a halter top should be taken out back and pelted with Prada until an appropriate level of good taste has entered the bloodstream. However, in her defense, at least the bra matched the color of the top, and she was clearly going for a Look (side note - I didn't even realize people still WORE Dr. Martens...are the 90's already retro, or is the punk/goth bit really that immune to trends?) that, while not visually appealing to most of the population, really wasn't designed to be. I can respect that.
Perpetrator #2, however, was completely unforgiveable. I first saw her from the back, so my first impression of her was a beige back strap cutting clearly across her back above the top of a black and white sundress. BEIGE IS NOT A FASHION STATEMENT. Beige lingerie is purely functional, meant to disappear under a garment, making it the single most heinous bra to display in public, particularly when we're talking huge-ass back strap action. Then she turned around. Okay, honey, I get it. You have a very impressive rack, and it takes a serious undergarment to make those puppies all perky like that. Your cleavage is looking quite fetching. But here's the thing: fantastic rack + spaghetti straps = never gonna happen. If you've got great cleavage, you should use it, but for the love of God, please leave the spaghetti straps to those of us with itty-bitty boobs that can be acceptably supported by a strapless bra while you opt for something low-cut that will hide the industrial strength riggings underneath. That's all I'm saying. One bra strap turned you from a Very Cute Girl into dangerously borderline Jerry Springer material. Oh, and that reminds me, get your roots done. Again, there's a difference between trashy-cute and just trashy, sweetheart.
Just yesterday I had come face-to-face with the flipside of VUS. I saw a girl on the subway - young, pretty, and looking quite put-together. Very monochrome - black from head to toe, but a nice top, nice little capri pants with these utterly ridiculous extremely pointy-toed black stilettos that she couldn't walk in to save her life. But all in all, a very cute outfit and she looked pretty good as long as she wasn't trying to, you know, actually locomote. Until I followed her up the stairs in the station and was confronted with the expanse of bright-pink underwear between the top of her pants and the bottom of her shirt. Not a peek of waistband - enough cloth that I actually wondered if she had layered a pink shirt under the black one. Unfortunately, the return of low-rise pants, a trend I welcomed with open arms while I tremble in fear of the return of the high-waisted pants of my youth, has brought with it an accompanying wave of VUS. Yep, I'm talking about Panty Peek. Again, this is sometimes done deliberately, but unlike the contrasting strap thing, I simply cannot get behind purposely displaying your thong for the world to see. Whether or not I'm flossing is nobody's business but my own. I don't think it's too much to ask that, if a woman buys low-rise pants, she buys slightly lower-rise panties. I take great pains to ensure that my panties are high enough to ensure complete ass-crack coverage (because one of the great lessons in life is to know one's limits, and exposed ass-crack, an even less forgivable sin than PP, should be a no-brainer in that arena), yet low enough to not be seen by the outside world. I remember a day not that long ago when women lived in fear of the dreaded VPL (Visible Panty Line - remember Underalls commercials? ahh, memories...), but now full-on panty exposure runs rampant. It's not pretty, it's not sexy, and it needs to be stopped. Keep your tighty-whities (or pinkies, as it were) to yourself, I say. If we all work together, we can make VUS a thing of the past. Scientists at the laboratories of Victoria's Secret and La Senza are working on a vaccine as we speak, but until then, please tell all of your friends to practice Safe Sexy.
Okay, I think I've gotten the VUS rant out of my system for now. But the day I see a girl displaying the dreaded back strap/Panty Peek combo (an occurrence that I am sure is only a matter of when, not if), my head is liable to explode. Maybe when it gets cold again I'll finally vent my Skinny-Jeans-Tucked-Into-Mukluks-or-Some-Other-Ridiculous-Sort-of-Boot rage if the Fashion Gods haven't mercifully removed that trend from the style lexicon by fall.
Oh, but while we're on the subject of footwear, what the smurf is up with Crocs? When, exactly, did GARDENING CLOGS become a fashion statement??? There are no words. Literally.
Final note: While I was writing this post, feeling all smug and cute, I got a phone call and now have plans for tonight. I'm going to a baseball game.
In heels.
I'm going to be one of those girls I make fun of. Believe it or not, I don't ALWAYS want to be Carrie Bradshaw.
Now, the previous paragraph was written as an attempt to justify to myself that I have a right to now rant about other people's fashion choices. You didn't REALLY think this was going to be a sweet little entry about self-esteem, did you? For the record, let me state that I am absolutely NOT a fashion expert, and I have made some rather hideous transgressions in the past AND present, but there are certain things that I see on a regular basis that I simply can not let go by any longer without comment. So let me just take a moment to flip my Bitch Switch...
(click)
Okay, let's begin, shall we?
There is an epidemic sweeping across the female population, and it flares up hideously in the warmer months. I am talking about Visible Undergarment Syndrome, or VUS. Now, I feel the need to state, in the interest of full disclosure, that I have been known, on many occasions, to show a little bra strap. In fact, I will be doing it for the better part of today because, while I'm sure I have bras that wouldn't poke out from this top, they don't make my boobs look as good as this one, and I'm willing to make the sacrifice. However, this bra happens to match the top in both color and texture, so I consider it a fairly minor transgression. I have also been known to do the deliberately contrasting bra strap and top bit, but only when the top in question is a wifebeater and I am in a decidedly casual environment. I'm sure someday down the road I will be completely appalled with myself for ever wearing a grey wifebeater with purpley-blue brastraps clearly visible, but for now, I happen to find it a little slice of trashy-cute fun. So, in some cases, I believe this is a rule that is meant to be broken.
But I draw the line at the back strap.
I found it truly appalling this morning to see not one, but TWO fully exposed back straps on the subway. Not a little edge poking out of a poorly-fitting top...not a deliberate hinting at a cute bra under a little shirt - just a complete absence of any attempt whatsoever to wear an outfit-compatible bra. Perpetrator #1 was wearing what appeared to be a t-shirt converted into a halter top, with full arm- and back-strap exposure. As far as I'm concerned, a little bra peek is okay as long as it's consistent with the lines of the garment - it should be either subtle, or an accent to the main piece, not the focal point. You don't wear a lacy bra under a wifebeater, and those who wear a regular bra with a halter top should be taken out back and pelted with Prada until an appropriate level of good taste has entered the bloodstream. However, in her defense, at least the bra matched the color of the top, and she was clearly going for a Look (side note - I didn't even realize people still WORE Dr. Martens...are the 90's already retro, or is the punk/goth bit really that immune to trends?) that, while not visually appealing to most of the population, really wasn't designed to be. I can respect that.
Perpetrator #2, however, was completely unforgiveable. I first saw her from the back, so my first impression of her was a beige back strap cutting clearly across her back above the top of a black and white sundress. BEIGE IS NOT A FASHION STATEMENT. Beige lingerie is purely functional, meant to disappear under a garment, making it the single most heinous bra to display in public, particularly when we're talking huge-ass back strap action. Then she turned around. Okay, honey, I get it. You have a very impressive rack, and it takes a serious undergarment to make those puppies all perky like that. Your cleavage is looking quite fetching. But here's the thing: fantastic rack + spaghetti straps = never gonna happen. If you've got great cleavage, you should use it, but for the love of God, please leave the spaghetti straps to those of us with itty-bitty boobs that can be acceptably supported by a strapless bra while you opt for something low-cut that will hide the industrial strength riggings underneath. That's all I'm saying. One bra strap turned you from a Very Cute Girl into dangerously borderline Jerry Springer material. Oh, and that reminds me, get your roots done. Again, there's a difference between trashy-cute and just trashy, sweetheart.
Just yesterday I had come face-to-face with the flipside of VUS. I saw a girl on the subway - young, pretty, and looking quite put-together. Very monochrome - black from head to toe, but a nice top, nice little capri pants with these utterly ridiculous extremely pointy-toed black stilettos that she couldn't walk in to save her life. But all in all, a very cute outfit and she looked pretty good as long as she wasn't trying to, you know, actually locomote. Until I followed her up the stairs in the station and was confronted with the expanse of bright-pink underwear between the top of her pants and the bottom of her shirt. Not a peek of waistband - enough cloth that I actually wondered if she had layered a pink shirt under the black one. Unfortunately, the return of low-rise pants, a trend I welcomed with open arms while I tremble in fear of the return of the high-waisted pants of my youth, has brought with it an accompanying wave of VUS. Yep, I'm talking about Panty Peek. Again, this is sometimes done deliberately, but unlike the contrasting strap thing, I simply cannot get behind purposely displaying your thong for the world to see. Whether or not I'm flossing is nobody's business but my own. I don't think it's too much to ask that, if a woman buys low-rise pants, she buys slightly lower-rise panties. I take great pains to ensure that my panties are high enough to ensure complete ass-crack coverage (because one of the great lessons in life is to know one's limits, and exposed ass-crack, an even less forgivable sin than PP, should be a no-brainer in that arena), yet low enough to not be seen by the outside world. I remember a day not that long ago when women lived in fear of the dreaded VPL (Visible Panty Line - remember Underalls commercials? ahh, memories...), but now full-on panty exposure runs rampant. It's not pretty, it's not sexy, and it needs to be stopped. Keep your tighty-whities (or pinkies, as it were) to yourself, I say. If we all work together, we can make VUS a thing of the past. Scientists at the laboratories of Victoria's Secret and La Senza are working on a vaccine as we speak, but until then, please tell all of your friends to practice Safe Sexy.
Okay, I think I've gotten the VUS rant out of my system for now. But the day I see a girl displaying the dreaded back strap/Panty Peek combo (an occurrence that I am sure is only a matter of when, not if), my head is liable to explode. Maybe when it gets cold again I'll finally vent my Skinny-Jeans-Tucked-Into-Mukluks-or-Some-Other-Ridiculous-Sort-of-Boot rage if the Fashion Gods haven't mercifully removed that trend from the style lexicon by fall.
Oh, but while we're on the subject of footwear, what the smurf is up with Crocs? When, exactly, did GARDENING CLOGS become a fashion statement??? There are no words. Literally.
Final note: While I was writing this post, feeling all smug and cute, I got a phone call and now have plans for tonight. I'm going to a baseball game.
In heels.
I'm going to be one of those girls I make fun of. Believe it or not, I don't ALWAYS want to be Carrie Bradshaw.
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Don't Tell Me
A week ago, I came home on a Friday night to find my landlords sitting on the deck and finishing their dinner and was invited to hang out and have a glass of wine with them. I figure okay, sure, that would actually be really nice, so I head downstairs to drop off my stuff and change into flip-flops before I settle in on the deck to have a glass of wine before retiring early. There's only about one glass left in the bottle, so I think it's sweet that Mr. Landlord has offered it to me.
Mr. Landlord steps inside for a moment and reappears with a fresh bottle. A magnum, to be exact.
I should have known better than to have "a glass of wine" with a Greek man. It's true - I did only technically have two glasses, because only once did I manage to actually empty the glass before he refilled it. I'm still not sure how that magnum wound up empty when I only had two glasses....
So after a long evening of drinking wine and talking about all manner of entertaining things, Mr. Landlord made us some Greek coffee, took his leave, and I was left chatting with Mrs. Landlord. So the inevitable question came up, "Why doesn't a girl like you have a boyfriend? You should be out juggling dates on a Friday night, not at home hanging out with us!"
"Why don't you have a boyfriend?"
"Why are you alone?"
It comes in various forms, but the fact remains - I get this question a lot. In fact, it came up again just last night, and now that I'm done with grad school and I no longer get asked, "So when are you going to be done with school?" it is officially my Least Favorite Question.
To those asking it, let me answer your question with another: If I knew why I didn't have a boyfriend, don't you think I would have done something about it by now? I mean, you people seem to think I must be choosing to be single, because if I wanted a boyfriend I'd have one, end of story. While there are lots of things I like about being single, I think it's a rare person that, given the choice, would opt for being single rather than having someone special in their life. I mean, I'll take being alone over being with someone just for the sake of NOT being alone, but like everyone else, I have been programmed by God and evolution to need to pair up. It's like yin and yang - two separate, opposing, but complementary forces...each still a tiny part of the other. If you try to separate one from the other, each is left with a hole right through its core. We all need people in our lives that, though they are different from us and may have different priorities or beliefs, love us unconditionally and hold us up when we need it. And we all need that one person that can hold us up in a way that nobody else can.
When I was younger, there was a period where I was the kind of girl who always had a boyfriend. I'd date a guy for a few months, then break up, and about a month or two later I'd have a new one. And these were good guys - I've always maintained good friendships with my exes (a couple of them I happen to know read this here blog regularly), and they are all people that I still think highly of, even though they weren't right for me.
In the last year, I've had two dates. With a guy who just sent me an e-mail forward that I found not only unfunny, but more than a little bit racist.
How did I go from always having a good, quality boyfriend to bland dates with people who may or may not be racist?
Mrs. Landlord was trying to give me advice on how to land a man. Her advice pretty much boiled down to "mess with his mind and make him think he can't have you - make him think he's in danger of losing you." Basically, she told me to play games - be a bitch and they'll come after you like a puppy dog. And you know, that works...I've seen it in action. Women that have mastered the rules of that game not only always have a man in their life, but get them to give them anything they want. Remember my infuriating labmate? She was all atwitter yesterday because she was going out with her ex-boyfriend and afraid she was going to be a bad girl. And I haven't gotten the rundown of the evening yet, but I'd put money on the fact that she probably DID do something that her boyfriend won't be happy about, and she'll tell him, and it will somehow result in him showering her with lovely things that she doesn't deserve. But I can't do it. I hate the game. If I like someone, I want to be able to tell them that, not make them think I DON'T like them or that I like someone else better. Flirting with someone you are attracted to and interested in is one of the great pleasures in life - acting like they don't exist is no fun at all, at least not for me. I could play your game, but here's the thing, Mrs. L. - I don't want to be like you. Yes, you are a passionate, strong, beautiful woman with a fantastic husband, but you get into long, screaming fights with him, your mother, your daughter...every important person in your life. I have spent many an evening or long Sunday trying to pretend I'm not hearing your arguments through my ceiling. If that's what playing your game gets me, no thanks. It is, in fact, possible to live a life of passion without complete chaos.
Now, if you're a regular reader, then you know that I got exactly opposite advice on how to land a man from my good friend BNL. How's that for yin and yang?
I had a moment a couple of weeks ago that confused me even further. I met the girlfriend of someone I briefly had a crush on (a crush that was squashed and pretty quickly gotten over once I found out about said girlfriend, even though this was the first time I had actually met her). (WARNING: the rest of the next couple of paragraphs probably makes me look like a not-very-good person. However, we all have moments and habits that make us less than perfect, and admitting you have a problem is, after all, the first step to recovery.) Now, I don't know if guys do this, but it's a fairly universal female instinct to, when faced with a picture or real-life meeting with an ex of a boyfriend, a new girlfriend of an ex, or any female a guy you are or have ever been interested in might be attracted to (past or present), do the incredibly petty "am I cuter than her?" mental size-up. In this case, the answer in my head was a resounding and emphatic yes. She's a perfectly lovely woman, and a good match for the guy in question from what I could gather in our very brief contact, but I did get some smug self-satisfaction out of knowing that I am, in fact, cuter. I know - it's petty, immature, and superficial, and dammit, I just can't help it. It's a reflex - I ALWAYS do it, and I always feel pretty bad about feeling good about it. But I was thinking about it on my way home that night, and I naturally went through my mental catalogue of previous size-ups and came to the sudden realization that about 90% of the time, I have genuinely felt like I came out on top in the comparison.
(I feel the need to point out here that the comparison is strictly physical - I make no claims of being a better person, merely more attractive. Also, none of this applies to the aforementioned exes who read this, because thankfully, I have never to my knowledge seen any of the women you dated before or after me. I'm sure they are lovely and WAY hotter than I.)
I mentioned this to a friend on IM, and her respose was, "So basically what you're saying is that you're out of the league of every guy you've ever dated." Well, that's one possibility - the other is that I just have a wildly over-inflated ego. It's probably a combination of the two...I do tend to like the guys who are fantastic people, but don't have the confidence to go after the super-hot chicks they could probably get if they just tried. But there's also certainly no shortage of people out there who don't like me nearly as much as I like myself. It all just serves to drive home the point that I haven't the slightest clue what My League is anyway. I feel like I should try to re-evaluate it, but I have no idea how one goes about figuring something like that out. But if I think My League is a guy who thinks I am Out of His, then clearly a love connection will never be made.
So everybody seems to have a different theory on why I don't have a boyfriend, including me. Unfortunately, none of us seem to agree. So I officially throw in the towel. I'm clearly not doing a good job when it comes to making things happen or figuring anything out, so I think I'm done trying. I never used to have to try to make things happen - they used to just happen to me. So maybe my new strategy should be a complete lack thereof. I think that, at least for now, I am officially on strike...I am going on record as a conscientious objector...to put it simply: I give up.
Feel free to place your bets in the comments as to how long this strike will last - I doubt I'll be able to go very long before I once again fire up the decadent romantic self-analysis engine.
Unfortunately, this will NOT help the fact that I very much need to get laid. At this point, it's been so long that I'm not sure I still know how to do it, although the way the VGLM was dressed yesterday was making me desperately want to remember. Any straight man that can actually pull off a pink dress shirt is a force to be reckoned with. Damn.
Mr. Landlord steps inside for a moment and reappears with a fresh bottle. A magnum, to be exact.
I should have known better than to have "a glass of wine" with a Greek man. It's true - I did only technically have two glasses, because only once did I manage to actually empty the glass before he refilled it. I'm still not sure how that magnum wound up empty when I only had two glasses....
So after a long evening of drinking wine and talking about all manner of entertaining things, Mr. Landlord made us some Greek coffee, took his leave, and I was left chatting with Mrs. Landlord. So the inevitable question came up, "Why doesn't a girl like you have a boyfriend? You should be out juggling dates on a Friday night, not at home hanging out with us!"
"Why don't you have a boyfriend?"
"Why are you alone?"
It comes in various forms, but the fact remains - I get this question a lot. In fact, it came up again just last night, and now that I'm done with grad school and I no longer get asked, "So when are you going to be done with school?" it is officially my Least Favorite Question.
To those asking it, let me answer your question with another: If I knew why I didn't have a boyfriend, don't you think I would have done something about it by now? I mean, you people seem to think I must be choosing to be single, because if I wanted a boyfriend I'd have one, end of story. While there are lots of things I like about being single, I think it's a rare person that, given the choice, would opt for being single rather than having someone special in their life. I mean, I'll take being alone over being with someone just for the sake of NOT being alone, but like everyone else, I have been programmed by God and evolution to need to pair up. It's like yin and yang - two separate, opposing, but complementary forces...each still a tiny part of the other. If you try to separate one from the other, each is left with a hole right through its core. We all need people in our lives that, though they are different from us and may have different priorities or beliefs, love us unconditionally and hold us up when we need it. And we all need that one person that can hold us up in a way that nobody else can.
When I was younger, there was a period where I was the kind of girl who always had a boyfriend. I'd date a guy for a few months, then break up, and about a month or two later I'd have a new one. And these were good guys - I've always maintained good friendships with my exes (a couple of them I happen to know read this here blog regularly), and they are all people that I still think highly of, even though they weren't right for me.
In the last year, I've had two dates. With a guy who just sent me an e-mail forward that I found not only unfunny, but more than a little bit racist.
How did I go from always having a good, quality boyfriend to bland dates with people who may or may not be racist?
Mrs. Landlord was trying to give me advice on how to land a man. Her advice pretty much boiled down to "mess with his mind and make him think he can't have you - make him think he's in danger of losing you." Basically, she told me to play games - be a bitch and they'll come after you like a puppy dog. And you know, that works...I've seen it in action. Women that have mastered the rules of that game not only always have a man in their life, but get them to give them anything they want. Remember my infuriating labmate? She was all atwitter yesterday because she was going out with her ex-boyfriend and afraid she was going to be a bad girl. And I haven't gotten the rundown of the evening yet, but I'd put money on the fact that she probably DID do something that her boyfriend won't be happy about, and she'll tell him, and it will somehow result in him showering her with lovely things that she doesn't deserve. But I can't do it. I hate the game. If I like someone, I want to be able to tell them that, not make them think I DON'T like them or that I like someone else better. Flirting with someone you are attracted to and interested in is one of the great pleasures in life - acting like they don't exist is no fun at all, at least not for me. I could play your game, but here's the thing, Mrs. L. - I don't want to be like you. Yes, you are a passionate, strong, beautiful woman with a fantastic husband, but you get into long, screaming fights with him, your mother, your daughter...every important person in your life. I have spent many an evening or long Sunday trying to pretend I'm not hearing your arguments through my ceiling. If that's what playing your game gets me, no thanks. It is, in fact, possible to live a life of passion without complete chaos.
Now, if you're a regular reader, then you know that I got exactly opposite advice on how to land a man from my good friend BNL. How's that for yin and yang?
I had a moment a couple of weeks ago that confused me even further. I met the girlfriend of someone I briefly had a crush on (a crush that was squashed and pretty quickly gotten over once I found out about said girlfriend, even though this was the first time I had actually met her). (WARNING: the rest of the next couple of paragraphs probably makes me look like a not-very-good person. However, we all have moments and habits that make us less than perfect, and admitting you have a problem is, after all, the first step to recovery.) Now, I don't know if guys do this, but it's a fairly universal female instinct to, when faced with a picture or real-life meeting with an ex of a boyfriend, a new girlfriend of an ex, or any female a guy you are or have ever been interested in might be attracted to (past or present), do the incredibly petty "am I cuter than her?" mental size-up. In this case, the answer in my head was a resounding and emphatic yes. She's a perfectly lovely woman, and a good match for the guy in question from what I could gather in our very brief contact, but I did get some smug self-satisfaction out of knowing that I am, in fact, cuter. I know - it's petty, immature, and superficial, and dammit, I just can't help it. It's a reflex - I ALWAYS do it, and I always feel pretty bad about feeling good about it. But I was thinking about it on my way home that night, and I naturally went through my mental catalogue of previous size-ups and came to the sudden realization that about 90% of the time, I have genuinely felt like I came out on top in the comparison.
(I feel the need to point out here that the comparison is strictly physical - I make no claims of being a better person, merely more attractive. Also, none of this applies to the aforementioned exes who read this, because thankfully, I have never to my knowledge seen any of the women you dated before or after me. I'm sure they are lovely and WAY hotter than I.)
I mentioned this to a friend on IM, and her respose was, "So basically what you're saying is that you're out of the league of every guy you've ever dated." Well, that's one possibility - the other is that I just have a wildly over-inflated ego. It's probably a combination of the two...I do tend to like the guys who are fantastic people, but don't have the confidence to go after the super-hot chicks they could probably get if they just tried. But there's also certainly no shortage of people out there who don't like me nearly as much as I like myself. It all just serves to drive home the point that I haven't the slightest clue what My League is anyway. I feel like I should try to re-evaluate it, but I have no idea how one goes about figuring something like that out. But if I think My League is a guy who thinks I am Out of His, then clearly a love connection will never be made.
So everybody seems to have a different theory on why I don't have a boyfriend, including me. Unfortunately, none of us seem to agree. So I officially throw in the towel. I'm clearly not doing a good job when it comes to making things happen or figuring anything out, so I think I'm done trying. I never used to have to try to make things happen - they used to just happen to me. So maybe my new strategy should be a complete lack thereof. I think that, at least for now, I am officially on strike...I am going on record as a conscientious objector...to put it simply: I give up.
Feel free to place your bets in the comments as to how long this strike will last - I doubt I'll be able to go very long before I once again fire up the decadent romantic self-analysis engine.
Unfortunately, this will NOT help the fact that I very much need to get laid. At this point, it's been so long that I'm not sure I still know how to do it, although the way the VGLM was dressed yesterday was making me desperately want to remember. Any straight man that can actually pull off a pink dress shirt is a force to be reckoned with. Damn.
Enjoy the humor of the situation.
Chapter 1:
So, without going into all the details, I had a good night tonight. Went to an AMAZING concert, shared it with a friend who wouldn't have been there if I hadn't told him about it. Have been in my usual self-indulgent philosophical frame of mind as a result.
Got off the subway at my office to get my stuff.
Am much more observant when I am in this state of mind, so as I walk to the office, I notice the way the buildings look at night....the way the sidewalks arc off from the normal path...an abandoned baseball cap that says, "change the world."
So I pick it up.
Turn it around.
The back says "IBM."
Does anyone else see the humor in the situation?
What if I tell you that I had to let the cap out to make it fit? I'm sure there's something deeply insightful in there about small minds, but I'll just let you figure out how to articulate it.
And in the meantime...I'm considering it a gift from God because the thunderstorms have made it suddenly cold and resulted in my having a bad hair day (as though it wasn't already bad enough).
Hey...you have your Gospel, and I've got mine. That's the beauty of interpretation.
Chapter 2:
I realized on the bus that I, in my "change the world" cap...with my shoes in a brown paper bag (and yes, I was wearing another pair - I'm not yet weird enough to go barefoot on public transit)...my laptop bag tucked under my seat in the customary crowded commute manner even though there were approximately 5 people on the entire bus and thus no need for space management...I had become the sort of person I normally blog about. I was officially the oddest person on the bus. But a close second was the guy across from me, a drowsy fellow who was clearly packing a well-worn copy of the Bible. But he was even more tired than I, and struggled to find a comfortable posture in which to doze on the way home.
What I wouldn't have given to have had my camera on me at that moment. Picture it: a man dozing, Bible in lap, with a movie marquee in the window behind him reading, "Knocked Up." Again, not sure I can articulate the true deliciousness that is that slice of irony.
But seriously...how many people do you know, who are returning home dead tired with a splitting headache...yet, faced with the choice between going inside and going to my warm and rather comfortable bed and curling up on the cold ground in the park across the street, choose the latter?
I couldn't help it. Venus was lookin' mighty fine. And, I think, Mars.
I am seriously odd. And I have GOT to stop reading astronomy books.
So, without going into all the details, I had a good night tonight. Went to an AMAZING concert, shared it with a friend who wouldn't have been there if I hadn't told him about it. Have been in my usual self-indulgent philosophical frame of mind as a result.
Got off the subway at my office to get my stuff.
Am much more observant when I am in this state of mind, so as I walk to the office, I notice the way the buildings look at night....the way the sidewalks arc off from the normal path...an abandoned baseball cap that says, "change the world."
So I pick it up.
Turn it around.
The back says "IBM."
Does anyone else see the humor in the situation?
What if I tell you that I had to let the cap out to make it fit? I'm sure there's something deeply insightful in there about small minds, but I'll just let you figure out how to articulate it.
And in the meantime...I'm considering it a gift from God because the thunderstorms have made it suddenly cold and resulted in my having a bad hair day (as though it wasn't already bad enough).
Hey...you have your Gospel, and I've got mine. That's the beauty of interpretation.
Chapter 2:
(This is officially the first blog entry I have WRITTEN on the train, as opposed to merely COMPOSED on the train. Anyone familiar with the obsolescence of my laptop should appreciate that that imposes a severe time constraint, due to poor battery life. I even went the wrong way on the line because I was so engrossed in getting this started, so you should all be feeling really important right now - I almost didn't get home on your behalf. Seriously - I could be way the hell over on the northwest side of the GTA with NO IDEA how to get home had I not noticed the "the next station is Wellesley...Wellesley station" announcement in time.)
A job?
A man?
SOMETHING.
Because I really like My City. And the idea that I've already spent almost half of my time here is feeling WAY too close and finite. If I can't stay here, I really need a reason to be somewhere else. And that ain't happening either.
I realized on the bus that I, in my "change the world" cap...with my shoes in a brown paper bag (and yes, I was wearing another pair - I'm not yet weird enough to go barefoot on public transit)...my laptop bag tucked under my seat in the customary crowded commute manner even though there were approximately 5 people on the entire bus and thus no need for space management...I had become the sort of person I normally blog about. I was officially the oddest person on the bus. But a close second was the guy across from me, a drowsy fellow who was clearly packing a well-worn copy of the Bible. But he was even more tired than I, and struggled to find a comfortable posture in which to doze on the way home.
What I wouldn't have given to have had my camera on me at that moment. Picture it: a man dozing, Bible in lap, with a movie marquee in the window behind him reading, "Knocked Up." Again, not sure I can articulate the true deliciousness that is that slice of irony.
But seriously...how many people do you know, who are returning home dead tired with a splitting headache...yet, faced with the choice between going inside and going to my warm and rather comfortable bed and curling up on the cold ground in the park across the street, choose the latter?
I couldn't help it. Venus was lookin' mighty fine. And, I think, Mars.
I am seriously odd. And I have GOT to stop reading astronomy books.
Friday, June 08, 2007
I put my rants on one leg at a time, just like anybody else.
I have just about had it with my department.
Last month, they farted around so long with getting my new contract ready that I am currently working without a valid work permit (although the nice lady at Immigration assures me that I am not an illegal alien, as long as I sent in my renewal application before the old one expired, I have a grace period). I am also sans a valid health card because I can not renew it until I have a valid work permit in hand, so I will be getting my ass chewed out by the Ministry of Health whenever I actually go in to get a new one. Let's just hope I don't have a heart attack or break any bones until Immigration gets around to sending me my permit. Then, on payday, I was underpaid by over $800 because the woman who does the payroll ignored the new contract AND the reminder that my boss sends her every month about who is supposed to get paid what and simply paid me the amount that my boss USED to pay me when my salary was supplemented by my teaching income. When the error was brought to her attention, she requested a cheque from the university to correct the difference, and said that she would forward notification in a day or two when the cheque would be ready for me to pick up.
That was a week ago.
Yesterday, I sent her and my boss an e-mail asking what the status was, since I cannot pay my bills this month without that money, and it takes at least 10 days for me to transfer money back home in order to pay those bills, so I pretty much need to start that process right after payday and we're now a week and a half past that day. Boss is understandably concerned (he's already feeling bad enough about the salary he's paying me, even when the department ISN'T stiffing me by $800). Woman in the business office writes back this morning to say that the cheque has been ready since the 31st, and she forwarded the notification to both me and the Boss, she doesn't know what happened.
Let's see: you forwarded this to TWO people, yet NEITHER of us received it. Huh. AMAZING.
Just suck it up and admit you forgot to send it. I realize that this little glitch isn't even a blip on the radar screen amid the millions of dollars that you deal with every day, but it's a big fucking deal to someone like me.
On a related note, those of you reading this who care about me, please say a little prayer, do a ritual tribal dance, do whatever it is you do to make good things happen to people you care about. I'm waiting to hear about a fellowship that would literally double my salary. The odds are REALLY slim of my getting it (as in, 3 of them are slotted to be distributed among something like 6 of the faculties at the U of T, as if merely competing with everyone else in Arts and Sciences wasn't enough), but Boss and I are hoping that since they announced it fairly late not many people found out about it in time to apply. I'm not getting my hopes up, but it's hard not to think of all of the good changes I could make in my life if I were actually making the kind of income a postdoc is supposed to be making.
Last month, they farted around so long with getting my new contract ready that I am currently working without a valid work permit (although the nice lady at Immigration assures me that I am not an illegal alien, as long as I sent in my renewal application before the old one expired, I have a grace period). I am also sans a valid health card because I can not renew it until I have a valid work permit in hand, so I will be getting my ass chewed out by the Ministry of Health whenever I actually go in to get a new one. Let's just hope I don't have a heart attack or break any bones until Immigration gets around to sending me my permit. Then, on payday, I was underpaid by over $800 because the woman who does the payroll ignored the new contract AND the reminder that my boss sends her every month about who is supposed to get paid what and simply paid me the amount that my boss USED to pay me when my salary was supplemented by my teaching income. When the error was brought to her attention, she requested a cheque from the university to correct the difference, and said that she would forward notification in a day or two when the cheque would be ready for me to pick up.
That was a week ago.
Yesterday, I sent her and my boss an e-mail asking what the status was, since I cannot pay my bills this month without that money, and it takes at least 10 days for me to transfer money back home in order to pay those bills, so I pretty much need to start that process right after payday and we're now a week and a half past that day. Boss is understandably concerned (he's already feeling bad enough about the salary he's paying me, even when the department ISN'T stiffing me by $800). Woman in the business office writes back this morning to say that the cheque has been ready since the 31st, and she forwarded the notification to both me and the Boss, she doesn't know what happened.
Let's see: you forwarded this to TWO people, yet NEITHER of us received it. Huh. AMAZING.
Just suck it up and admit you forgot to send it. I realize that this little glitch isn't even a blip on the radar screen amid the millions of dollars that you deal with every day, but it's a big fucking deal to someone like me.
On a related note, those of you reading this who care about me, please say a little prayer, do a ritual tribal dance, do whatever it is you do to make good things happen to people you care about. I'm waiting to hear about a fellowship that would literally double my salary. The odds are REALLY slim of my getting it (as in, 3 of them are slotted to be distributed among something like 6 of the faculties at the U of T, as if merely competing with everyone else in Arts and Sciences wasn't enough), but Boss and I are hoping that since they announced it fairly late not many people found out about it in time to apply. I'm not getting my hopes up, but it's hard not to think of all of the good changes I could make in my life if I were actually making the kind of income a postdoc is supposed to be making.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Work It?
Okay, so it's about that time of the month where, if you don't hear from me soon, you should all be yelling at me about doing my fitness assessment, expecting a progress report, etc. etc.
Well, here's the deal. I have not, as promised, been doing my run three times a week. I've been doing it once or twice a week, and not at all for the last week and a half or so.
Stop yelling at me and hear me out.
See, I've been having this pain in my foot. It started about the time I started this whole thing, so at first I figured it was just a matter of my suddenly using certain odd little muscles a lot more than they were used to. At the beginning, my calves were hurting a hell of a lot more than my foot, so it didn't even really register at first. It's not a sharp, debilitating pain, just kind of...annoying. At any rate, unlike my calves, it never got better, and it starts nagging at me any time I run or tap dance. Seeing as how I have also gotten into a bad habit of letting my milk go bad in my refrigerator, I now suspect it may be a stress fracture. I'm not sure whether it's the running or the tap dancing that are to blame, but I am trying to take it easy, drink lots of milk, and see if the doctor can't heal thyself. I probably shouldn't even be going to tap class (it had been feeling much better but was hurting by the end of the hour last night, and let's face it - it doesn't get more high-impact than deliberately striking a wooden floor repeatedly with metal-soled shoes) but dammit, those cost money, I only have two more left, and I'll be damned if I'm going to quit before I learn the rest of that Fred Astaire combination.
So yeah, I'm kind of frustrated and disappointed with myself, because before I started taking it easy I had been making progress. And since I can't afford a gym membership, I don't even have access to an elliptical trainer, swimming pool, or other low/no-impact ways to at least keep my cardio endurance up to speed.
Yarr.
So I'm doing the best I can. Bear with me - I'll keep you posted.
Well, here's the deal. I have not, as promised, been doing my run three times a week. I've been doing it once or twice a week, and not at all for the last week and a half or so.
Stop yelling at me and hear me out.
See, I've been having this pain in my foot. It started about the time I started this whole thing, so at first I figured it was just a matter of my suddenly using certain odd little muscles a lot more than they were used to. At the beginning, my calves were hurting a hell of a lot more than my foot, so it didn't even really register at first. It's not a sharp, debilitating pain, just kind of...annoying. At any rate, unlike my calves, it never got better, and it starts nagging at me any time I run or tap dance. Seeing as how I have also gotten into a bad habit of letting my milk go bad in my refrigerator, I now suspect it may be a stress fracture. I'm not sure whether it's the running or the tap dancing that are to blame, but I am trying to take it easy, drink lots of milk, and see if the doctor can't heal thyself. I probably shouldn't even be going to tap class (it had been feeling much better but was hurting by the end of the hour last night, and let's face it - it doesn't get more high-impact than deliberately striking a wooden floor repeatedly with metal-soled shoes) but dammit, those cost money, I only have two more left, and I'll be damned if I'm going to quit before I learn the rest of that Fred Astaire combination.
So yeah, I'm kind of frustrated and disappointed with myself, because before I started taking it easy I had been making progress. And since I can't afford a gym membership, I don't even have access to an elliptical trainer, swimming pool, or other low/no-impact ways to at least keep my cardio endurance up to speed.
Yarr.
So I'm doing the best I can. Bear with me - I'll keep you posted.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
High Anxiety
So I was supposed to go to a cookout this afternoon. It was a hard invitation to turn down - it's my landlord's birthday, and I'm renting from really great people, and it was happening literally right outside my door. I got up this morning, cleaned my bathroom since my landlord had asked if I would mind if her guests used it, went out to replenish my toilet paper supply because I figured the one roll wouldn't last when the entire Greek population of the GTA rolled in. Shortly before things were supposed to get going, I hopped in the shower. Got dressed...dried my hair...did my makeup...
...and haven't left my apartment since.
I spend most days struggling with a touch of social anxiety disorder, and today it's winning.
Any time I'm going to meet new people, I pretty much have to force myself to do it. If it's just one or two new people, I'm okay. Even better, if that one new person is joining a group of which I am already an established member, piece of cake. But the thought of walking into a party full of strangers, where the only people I know are the hosts (who clearly cannot spend the whole afternoon introducing me to people and involving me in the conversation) gives me the screaming heebie-jeebies. I abhor small-talk, and am thus a lousy mingler.
So pretty much every social engagement with anyone I'm not 100% comfortable with requires a great deal of psyching myself up and liberal use of the mantra, "Oh, just suck it up." And 9 times out of 10, once I get to the gathering and settle into my rhythm, I'm glad I'm there and I have a good time. You would think that over time it would get easier to get to that point, and yet it never seems to.
This may come as a surprise to those of you who see me as so confident and self-assured, but this is exactly why I'm always saying I'm not all I'm cracked up to be.
Thanks so much for the invite - I hope you had a very happy birthday. But I'm sorry, I'm just...not feeling up to it today.
...and haven't left my apartment since.
I spend most days struggling with a touch of social anxiety disorder, and today it's winning.
Any time I'm going to meet new people, I pretty much have to force myself to do it. If it's just one or two new people, I'm okay. Even better, if that one new person is joining a group of which I am already an established member, piece of cake. But the thought of walking into a party full of strangers, where the only people I know are the hosts (who clearly cannot spend the whole afternoon introducing me to people and involving me in the conversation) gives me the screaming heebie-jeebies. I abhor small-talk, and am thus a lousy mingler.
So pretty much every social engagement with anyone I'm not 100% comfortable with requires a great deal of psyching myself up and liberal use of the mantra, "Oh, just suck it up." And 9 times out of 10, once I get to the gathering and settle into my rhythm, I'm glad I'm there and I have a good time. You would think that over time it would get easier to get to that point, and yet it never seems to.
This may come as a surprise to those of you who see me as so confident and self-assured, but this is exactly why I'm always saying I'm not all I'm cracked up to be.
Thanks so much for the invite - I hope you had a very happy birthday. But I'm sorry, I'm just...not feeling up to it today.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
So That Sucked.
The powers that be are seriously messing with me today.
It's a Saturday night, and I don't have plans, but that's okay, because my landlord is having a cookout tomorrow and has asked if I wouldn't mind doing my laundry tonight instead of tomorrow morning. Plus, it's the first Saturday night in forever that Em, my virtual roommate, is home, sans boyfriend or show to run, and thus available to watch Sex and the City DVD's with me while we both do laundry. This is exciting. I made pizza...opened up some cheap wine...settled in for the night.
So I go into the laundry room to change loads, and there is a vast pond...nay, LAGOON...of blue liquid standing between myself and, well, anything else I could possibly want to get to in the laundry room. In the middle of the lagoon is the jug...nay, TANKER...of Wisk that I purchased about two weeks ago, with the expectation that it would last me a good 6 months. The yellow cap is nowhere to be found, only a small shard of yellow plastic mid-lagoon remains as evidence that it ever actually existed and was not, in fact, merely the product of a deranged imagination.
FUCK.
Now, I feel the need to mention here that this is, in fact, the SECOND time I have found my tanker on the floor this evening, oozing its April-fresh goodness on the concrete floor. The first time, it appeared as though someone had, for whatever reason, taken it down from its perch on top of the dryer, and set it down on the floor, without knowing that the cap was not tightly closed. I wasn't happy about that spill either, but it wasn't too big (about a large load or maybe two's worth), and I managed to clean it up fairly quickly and restore the tanker to its rightful place. Apparently, it was not human intervention that was to blame - it was the appliance that had decided it no longer wanted to carry the white man's burden and chucked off its foamy shackles. Twice.
I don't know if you've ever tried to mop up a viscous cleaning product. It pretty much sucks. No matter how much you mop, it's still foamy. There's a REASON your washing machine uses a lot of water to rinse this stuff out of your clothes...unfortunately, the floor does not have a spin cycle. Now, I was at least smart enough to remember that I have a little squeegee-type thing, and there is a drain in the floor, so I set to work sweeping the lagoon down the drain in order to make the mopping portion of the evening go a little more smoothly.
Of course, a hidden peril lies in sweeping things down a drain that doesn't get used very often. Namely, things that are settled in for the night...perhaps trying to have a quiet Saturday night watching Insects and the City while IMing other bugs in St. Louis who are also home with nothing to do...tend to be just a wee bit pissed off. I can't say I blame them - if someone came along and started pouring Wisk all over my apartment while I was just trying to chill out and mind my own business, I'd be pretty torked off too. Suffice it to say, I rousted the biggest fucking house centipede I've ever had the misfortune to come face to face with out of his happy home.
I should say here that I am not, as a rule, a big weenie Girl when it comes to bugs. I'll swat a silverfish, earwig, or spider without really giving it any thought. But I really, REALLY hate centipedes, and living in a basement, I have to contend with them with some frequency. I know they eat pretty much everything else, and thus I should just leave them be and let them police the grounds, but even when I find one that's already dead they freak me the fuck out. Anything with that many legs simply should not happen. And the bigger they are and the faster they move, the more they give me the willies.
So picture it, if you will: The Hulkipede has skittered to the relative safety under the furnace, waiting to make his move. I am now squatting over the lagoon, armed with a squeegee in one hand and a shoe in the other, constantly shooting furtive glances in all directions but not at all convinced that, in the event of a standoff, I will emerge victorious. I am barefoot, my cow pajamas rolled up around my calves to avoid being tracked through detergent, but at the same time in grave danger of falling off of my ass and giving me plumber butt from hell. The couple of glasses of wine I've had at this point are doing nothing for my coordination, balance, or nerves.
Something tells me this is a position Angelina Jolie has never been in.
I manage to get as much squeegeed as is possible, so it's now time to turn to the mop. The only one I can find is a tiny little one in the corner that looks like it's seen better and more absorbent days, but what the hell. I try to mop up the random splatters and trails left behind by the squeegee with as dry a mop as possible to avoid spreading it all around.
Bare feet + painted concrete floor + Wisk + water = HILARITY ENSUING
I come to the realization that I could, in fact, do this all night and never stop seeing suds on the floor, so I get it down to a minimal layer and throw in the mop, as it were. The bright side is, the laundry room now smells extra fresh, and the floor and the mop are now considerably cleaner than they've probably ever been. My back and legs are incredibly tired, but mostly I'm just pissed that I was robbed of quality time with Em, and many weeks' supply of a laundry detergent that was a really good deal and I happen to really like the smell of.
And they still haven't caught The Hulkipede. His reign of terror lives on.
It's a Saturday night, and I don't have plans, but that's okay, because my landlord is having a cookout tomorrow and has asked if I wouldn't mind doing my laundry tonight instead of tomorrow morning. Plus, it's the first Saturday night in forever that Em, my virtual roommate, is home, sans boyfriend or show to run, and thus available to watch Sex and the City DVD's with me while we both do laundry. This is exciting. I made pizza...opened up some cheap wine...settled in for the night.
So I go into the laundry room to change loads, and there is a vast pond...nay, LAGOON...of blue liquid standing between myself and, well, anything else I could possibly want to get to in the laundry room. In the middle of the lagoon is the jug...nay, TANKER...of Wisk that I purchased about two weeks ago, with the expectation that it would last me a good 6 months. The yellow cap is nowhere to be found, only a small shard of yellow plastic mid-lagoon remains as evidence that it ever actually existed and was not, in fact, merely the product of a deranged imagination.
FUCK.
Now, I feel the need to mention here that this is, in fact, the SECOND time I have found my tanker on the floor this evening, oozing its April-fresh goodness on the concrete floor. The first time, it appeared as though someone had, for whatever reason, taken it down from its perch on top of the dryer, and set it down on the floor, without knowing that the cap was not tightly closed. I wasn't happy about that spill either, but it wasn't too big (about a large load or maybe two's worth), and I managed to clean it up fairly quickly and restore the tanker to its rightful place. Apparently, it was not human intervention that was to blame - it was the appliance that had decided it no longer wanted to carry the white man's burden and chucked off its foamy shackles. Twice.
I don't know if you've ever tried to mop up a viscous cleaning product. It pretty much sucks. No matter how much you mop, it's still foamy. There's a REASON your washing machine uses a lot of water to rinse this stuff out of your clothes...unfortunately, the floor does not have a spin cycle. Now, I was at least smart enough to remember that I have a little squeegee-type thing, and there is a drain in the floor, so I set to work sweeping the lagoon down the drain in order to make the mopping portion of the evening go a little more smoothly.
Of course, a hidden peril lies in sweeping things down a drain that doesn't get used very often. Namely, things that are settled in for the night...perhaps trying to have a quiet Saturday night watching Insects and the City while IMing other bugs in St. Louis who are also home with nothing to do...tend to be just a wee bit pissed off. I can't say I blame them - if someone came along and started pouring Wisk all over my apartment while I was just trying to chill out and mind my own business, I'd be pretty torked off too. Suffice it to say, I rousted the biggest fucking house centipede I've ever had the misfortune to come face to face with out of his happy home.
I should say here that I am not, as a rule, a big weenie Girl when it comes to bugs. I'll swat a silverfish, earwig, or spider without really giving it any thought. But I really, REALLY hate centipedes, and living in a basement, I have to contend with them with some frequency. I know they eat pretty much everything else, and thus I should just leave them be and let them police the grounds, but even when I find one that's already dead they freak me the fuck out. Anything with that many legs simply should not happen. And the bigger they are and the faster they move, the more they give me the willies.
So picture it, if you will: The Hulkipede has skittered to the relative safety under the furnace, waiting to make his move. I am now squatting over the lagoon, armed with a squeegee in one hand and a shoe in the other, constantly shooting furtive glances in all directions but not at all convinced that, in the event of a standoff, I will emerge victorious. I am barefoot, my cow pajamas rolled up around my calves to avoid being tracked through detergent, but at the same time in grave danger of falling off of my ass and giving me plumber butt from hell. The couple of glasses of wine I've had at this point are doing nothing for my coordination, balance, or nerves.
Something tells me this is a position Angelina Jolie has never been in.
I manage to get as much squeegeed as is possible, so it's now time to turn to the mop. The only one I can find is a tiny little one in the corner that looks like it's seen better and more absorbent days, but what the hell. I try to mop up the random splatters and trails left behind by the squeegee with as dry a mop as possible to avoid spreading it all around.
Bare feet + painted concrete floor + Wisk + water = HILARITY ENSUING
I come to the realization that I could, in fact, do this all night and never stop seeing suds on the floor, so I get it down to a minimal layer and throw in the mop, as it were. The bright side is, the laundry room now smells extra fresh, and the floor and the mop are now considerably cleaner than they've probably ever been. My back and legs are incredibly tired, but mostly I'm just pissed that I was robbed of quality time with Em, and many weeks' supply of a laundry detergent that was a really good deal and I happen to really like the smell of.
And they still haven't caught The Hulkipede. His reign of terror lives on.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Self-Fulfilling Prophecy (updated)
My horoscope for today:
Even with the highest of spiritual intentions, you still may not be able to keep your mind off sex today. You may find yourself thinking about things that are usually outside of your comfort zone. Don't think that you will actually realize all your fantasies, but remember there's no harm in enjoying them within the privacy of your own mind.
Well, I wasn't when I woke up this morning, but I SURE AS HELL AM NOW!
Update: My fortune cookie from lunch says, "Unveil your ideas. Be ready to act on them." Okay, I'm not going to go on another rant about how THAT'S NOT A FORTUNE, but when you combine it with the above...somebody is trying to get me arrested.
Even if I DON'T add the "in my pants."
Even with the highest of spiritual intentions, you still may not be able to keep your mind off sex today. You may find yourself thinking about things that are usually outside of your comfort zone. Don't think that you will actually realize all your fantasies, but remember there's no harm in enjoying them within the privacy of your own mind.
Well, I wasn't when I woke up this morning, but I SURE AS HELL AM NOW!
Update: My fortune cookie from lunch says, "Unveil your ideas. Be ready to act on them." Okay, I'm not going to go on another rant about how THAT'S NOT A FORTUNE, but when you combine it with the above...somebody is trying to get me arrested.
Even if I DON'T add the "in my pants."
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
On a scale of 1 to 10...Round 2
So the other section was less interesting, but there were some highlights:
Talk too fast: 5
Enthusiasm = good: 6
SO HOT!: 1
You like me. RIGHT NOW, YOU LIKE ME!: 11, if we're including aforementioned enthusiasm = good folk
Yeah, well, I didn't like you either: 2
Phone numbers to call to discuss ranting evaluation: 1
Rhyming couplets consisting of one compliment for me and one insult for my colleague: 1
Incessant test whining: there is no incessant test whining. Okay, there's actually quite a lot of that, but if a student whines in an evaluation and no one cares to read it, does it make the tests easier?
Marriage proposals involving extended chemistry puns: 1
Yep, that last one takes the Tina Fey award for most entertaining evaluation. In its entirety:
"M., WILL YOU MARRY ME?
YOU'RE SO ELECTRONEGATIVE. I am not...
deltaE > 2
We can form a STRONG ionic bond!"
Oh, Cyrano de Einstein...if only that read deltaEN, we might have had a chance...
Talk too fast: 5
Enthusiasm = good: 6
SO HOT!: 1
You like me. RIGHT NOW, YOU LIKE ME!: 11, if we're including aforementioned enthusiasm = good folk
Yeah, well, I didn't like you either: 2
Phone numbers to call to discuss ranting evaluation: 1
Rhyming couplets consisting of one compliment for me and one insult for my colleague: 1
Incessant test whining: there is no incessant test whining. Okay, there's actually quite a lot of that, but if a student whines in an evaluation and no one cares to read it, does it make the tests easier?
Marriage proposals involving extended chemistry puns: 1
Yep, that last one takes the Tina Fey award for most entertaining evaluation. In its entirety:
"M., WILL YOU MARRY ME?
YOU'RE SO ELECTRONEGATIVE. I am not...
deltaE > 2
We can form a STRONG ionic bond!"
Oh, Cyrano de Einstein...if only that read deltaEN, we might have had a chance...
Missed Commutercation
First of all, if you were dying to comment on my "Irresistible Bitch" entry below, the comments have now been enabled. Not sure how they got disabled in the first place, but it's been fixed. I would hate for you lovely people to think I didn't want your feedback. ;)
That being said, on to today's entry:
This morning I was enjoying my morning commute - weather warm enough to not wear a jacket, rereading the book from which this blog takes its name, wearing a new shirt and no socks (I am, deep down, a barefoot redneck, and I hate that my lab is kept too cold to wear sandals in the summer - any time my tootsies can get a little fresh air is a Red Letter Day, even if it is just my heels peeking out from my mules). On the last leg of my trip, I change to the yellow train to travel the last couple of stops to work as I always do, and I notice a rather attractive man on the car. He's about my age, dressed casually but quite well, just scruffy enough that I feel confident that he's not gay...just a generally very appealing fellow. Approximately the same type as the VGLM, actually. Feeling good and confident in my new-shirted/sockless high, I stand near him, hoping to make a little harmless, flirtatious eye contact before we get to Queen's Park.
Unfortunately, he had his earbuds in and never once lifted his eyes from his paper.
Damn.
I remain convinced that the iPod is the single worst thing that's ever happened to random flirtation on public transit.
And it's times like these that I really wish I were the kind of girl with the balls to slip a random hot guy my number as I walk off the train. That would have been badass.
That being said, on to today's entry:
This morning I was enjoying my morning commute - weather warm enough to not wear a jacket, rereading the book from which this blog takes its name, wearing a new shirt and no socks (I am, deep down, a barefoot redneck, and I hate that my lab is kept too cold to wear sandals in the summer - any time my tootsies can get a little fresh air is a Red Letter Day, even if it is just my heels peeking out from my mules). On the last leg of my trip, I change to the yellow train to travel the last couple of stops to work as I always do, and I notice a rather attractive man on the car. He's about my age, dressed casually but quite well, just scruffy enough that I feel confident that he's not gay...just a generally very appealing fellow. Approximately the same type as the VGLM, actually. Feeling good and confident in my new-shirted/sockless high, I stand near him, hoping to make a little harmless, flirtatious eye contact before we get to Queen's Park.
Unfortunately, he had his earbuds in and never once lifted his eyes from his paper.
Damn.
I remain convinced that the iPod is the single worst thing that's ever happened to random flirtation on public transit.
And it's times like these that I really wish I were the kind of girl with the balls to slip a random hot guy my number as I walk off the train. That would have been badass.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
On a scale of 1 to 10...
Okay, actually, it was a scale of 1 to 7, but I got one set of my student evaluations back today. While I'm not really comfortable with the fact that they rated myself and one of the other instructors (the one who took over after me) on the same sheet, thereby ensuring that I have now read all of her evals and she mine, I have to admit that it is more informative that way. Someone rating you "adequate" on a particular question may actually be raving about you (if they rated your colleague "very poor"), flaming you (if they rated said colleague "outstanding"), or genuinely never noticed whether it was you delivering that lecture or merely a surprisingly articulate hedgehog. And yeah, I'm taking a little bit of petty comfort in the fact that a healthy number of them rated me a notch higher, sometimes more, on most of the questions (although there were definitely some that went the other way, but I seem to have won the popularity contest). Even if that notch is just a matter of "poor" instead of "very poor," a little perspective helps soften the blow.
However, It's the blank area on the back where they are allowed to write anonymous comments that is always the most informative. The current standings, keeping in mind that I have only received the forms from the morning section, are as follows:
Some variation of "M. is hot/soo hot/I love you M.! Hot!": 3 1/2 (see below)
People who appreciate my enthusiasm/sense of humor: 6
People who are not amused, or at least not at 9AM: 4
I talk too fast: 5 (am expecting this number to be lower in the afternoon section, as I tend to talk faster when people are not amused, and nobody warns you about the adverse effects of immediate post-morning coffee exposure when registering for morning classes)
People who think I am a cat lover (???): 1
Uses of the word "incompetent": 1
Stick figure drawings depicting me using what appears to be a 3-foot twig penis (or possibly lightsaber - it's longer than my leg, yet juts straight out from my stick crotch) to cut my colleague in half: 1
Number of whiny little bastards that complained about the tests/grading/labs being too hard: oh, lost count and don't really care
"Raise the roof, nigga!!!": 1
And my favorite:
"M. was fun and quirky. She was a good lecturer who reminded a few of us of Tina Fey."
I enjoy that comment for a few reasons, aside from the obvious:
a) I do love me some Tina Fey - I happen to think this qualifies as the extra 1/2 in the "hot" tally - and kind of wish we could be best friends. I mean seriously, how awesome would my wedding be if my bridesmaids were #1, Em, and TinamotherfuckingFey? Wahoowa!!! FYP RULES!!!
2) The use of the phrase "a few of us." That implies that an actual conversation has been had to this effect, and a consensus has been reached.
iii) The word "fun." I believe I've said this in a previous post, but my ambition as a teacher is not to make chemists of these kids. Some of them love chemistry, some of them are only taking it because their parents still believe they're going to get into med school someday. I'm not idealistic enough to think that, in a class of 750, I'm going to help every last one of them see the light and discover a hidden passion for quantum mechanics and colligative properties. But I can feel pretty good about myself if I can manage to make the process a little more fun.
So I'll update this after I've seen the other section (I've seen the numerical report and indeed, it does appear that they liked me better than the morning section...I just haven't seen the actual comments yet) but to sum up at halftime: they think I'm hot but at least as of my latest Facebook search they are not yet stalking me, the amuseds outnumber the not amuseds, me = Tina Fey, and I apparently wield a mean penis/lightsaber. I think I'm going to go ahead and call that a successful semester.
Raise the roof, indeed.
However, It's the blank area on the back where they are allowed to write anonymous comments that is always the most informative. The current standings, keeping in mind that I have only received the forms from the morning section, are as follows:
Some variation of "M. is hot/soo hot/I love you M.! Hot!": 3 1/2 (see below)
People who appreciate my enthusiasm/sense of humor: 6
People who are not amused, or at least not at 9AM: 4
I talk too fast: 5 (am expecting this number to be lower in the afternoon section, as I tend to talk faster when people are not amused, and nobody warns you about the adverse effects of immediate post-morning coffee exposure when registering for morning classes)
People who think I am a cat lover (???): 1
Uses of the word "incompetent": 1
Stick figure drawings depicting me using what appears to be a 3-foot twig penis (or possibly lightsaber - it's longer than my leg, yet juts straight out from my stick crotch) to cut my colleague in half: 1
Number of whiny little bastards that complained about the tests/grading/labs being too hard: oh, lost count and don't really care
"Raise the roof, nigga!!!": 1
And my favorite:
"M. was fun and quirky. She was a good lecturer who reminded a few of us of Tina Fey."
I enjoy that comment for a few reasons, aside from the obvious:
a) I do love me some Tina Fey - I happen to think this qualifies as the extra 1/2 in the "hot" tally - and kind of wish we could be best friends. I mean seriously, how awesome would my wedding be if my bridesmaids were #1, Em, and TinamotherfuckingFey? Wahoowa!!! FYP RULES!!!
2) The use of the phrase "a few of us." That implies that an actual conversation has been had to this effect, and a consensus has been reached.
iii) The word "fun." I believe I've said this in a previous post, but my ambition as a teacher is not to make chemists of these kids. Some of them love chemistry, some of them are only taking it because their parents still believe they're going to get into med school someday. I'm not idealistic enough to think that, in a class of 750, I'm going to help every last one of them see the light and discover a hidden passion for quantum mechanics and colligative properties. But I can feel pretty good about myself if I can manage to make the process a little more fun.
So I'll update this after I've seen the other section (I've seen the numerical report and indeed, it does appear that they liked me better than the morning section...I just haven't seen the actual comments yet) but to sum up at halftime: they think I'm hot but at least as of my latest Facebook search they are not yet stalking me, the amuseds outnumber the not amuseds, me = Tina Fey, and I apparently wield a mean penis/lightsaber. I think I'm going to go ahead and call that a successful semester.
Raise the roof, indeed.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Irresistible Bitch?
The other night, I was having dinner with a couple of friends. One of them asked, "What's the worst pickup line anyone has ever used on you?" And I couldn't really think of one - I have friends that have heard some AWFUL ones, but I couldn't think of a truly bad pickup line that's ever been used on me.
Today the reason occurred to me: I never get hit on.
Now, I realize the primary reason for this is that I don't typically go out to the places where guys hit on chicks. When I go out to bars, it's usually with my guy friends, and guys don't hit on you when you're hanging out with other guys. Fair enough. And on the rare occasion that I've been out at a club, I get randomly groped without fail (one of the perils of knowing how to effectively shake one's ass is that every guy in the club associates that ability with a girl that wants to Get Down. Dude...I do, as a matter of fact, enjoy Getting Down, but just because I know how to shake The Booty doesn't mean that grabbing it is an acceptable means of introduction.), but actual pickups are hard to come by. The only line I ever seem to get is, "Can I buy you a drink?" and those are even few and far between - I've gotten quite accustomed to picking up my own tab.
I'm not sure why this is. And don't try to use the "men are intimidated by a smart and attractive woman" argument. That might hold for people that know me, but strangers don't know I'm smart, and while I understand why men might be intimidated by a woman who is 5'10" and drop-dead gorgeous, I'm 5'3" and still look like I'm 16. I should be about as approachable as it gets - I'm Cute, but not Hot... maybe pretty, but not Beautiful.
I just don't get it.
Later in the conversation with this same friend, I was telling him something about another friend of mine, and he made some comment about how said friend is probably scared of me. I joked, "Why, do I scare you?" and his response was, "You scare the crap out of me!" That answer was entirely too quick and earnest to have been anything other than a gut response.
I caught him on IM later and asked him why. Scaring men - particularly smart, attractive, sweet ones such as this particular friend - is not something I want to do. He thought carefully about his response, and said, "It's just that you have very strong opinions. You need to be with a very confident guy who will have equally strong opinions and who can hold an intelligent debate. A less confident guy would just get run over. You wouldn't mean to do it, but it would happen nonetheless."
Now, this guy is one of my crushes - has been, pretty much since I moved here. He is incredibly smart, easy to be around, and very intriguing. He may or may not be reading this, which is why it has taken me a few days to write this entry - I wasn't sure whether or not I wanted to talk about this on the off-chance that he might read it. But the fact remains, I now have proof that I scare men.
More importantly, I scare the kind of men that I would really like to date.
I've been told by people (among others, my parents, who make no secret of the fact that they are dying for me to settle down and procreate already) that I am too picky. And sometimes I wonder if they're right. But at the same time, over the last year, the grand total of men with whom I have gone out on anything that even remotely resembles a date comes to approximately:
...two.
It's not like I'm beating them off with a stick - they never even get within striking distance.
So I'm thinking I need to make a change of some sort. Obviously, I'm putting something out there that scares them off, and I don't want to do that. After all, you can't reject them if they're too scared and/or turned off to approach you in the first place. I need to find a new balance, because the one I'm currently holding is getting me nowhere; something is clearly out of whack, I just can't figure out what. The incredible guys without much confidence are scared of me...the incredible guys who ARE confident scare the crap out of ME. The guys who fall somewhere in the middle just... aren't that interesting. (shrug)
Last night, I was having this conversation with an old friend. He just said to me, "Beth -- just be yourself....you have a natural balance...don't try to create one."
Easy for you to say. You've known me since I was an insecure, 15-year-old weenie, and as an adult, you're one of the major reasons I don't trust men or my own judgement (this particular friend is a whole 'nother entry all his own). You think I'm balanced because, as far as you're concerned, I haven't changed since 10th grade.
I guess in a lot of ways I haven't. It's just that I've gotten very good at hiding that. Maybe that's the problem.
Today the reason occurred to me: I never get hit on.
Now, I realize the primary reason for this is that I don't typically go out to the places where guys hit on chicks. When I go out to bars, it's usually with my guy friends, and guys don't hit on you when you're hanging out with other guys. Fair enough. And on the rare occasion that I've been out at a club, I get randomly groped without fail (one of the perils of knowing how to effectively shake one's ass is that every guy in the club associates that ability with a girl that wants to Get Down. Dude...I do, as a matter of fact, enjoy Getting Down, but just because I know how to shake The Booty doesn't mean that grabbing it is an acceptable means of introduction.), but actual pickups are hard to come by. The only line I ever seem to get is, "Can I buy you a drink?" and those are even few and far between - I've gotten quite accustomed to picking up my own tab.
I'm not sure why this is. And don't try to use the "men are intimidated by a smart and attractive woman" argument. That might hold for people that know me, but strangers don't know I'm smart, and while I understand why men might be intimidated by a woman who is 5'10" and drop-dead gorgeous, I'm 5'3" and still look like I'm 16. I should be about as approachable as it gets - I'm Cute, but not Hot... maybe pretty, but not Beautiful.
I just don't get it.
Later in the conversation with this same friend, I was telling him something about another friend of mine, and he made some comment about how said friend is probably scared of me. I joked, "Why, do I scare you?" and his response was, "You scare the crap out of me!" That answer was entirely too quick and earnest to have been anything other than a gut response.
I caught him on IM later and asked him why. Scaring men - particularly smart, attractive, sweet ones such as this particular friend - is not something I want to do. He thought carefully about his response, and said, "It's just that you have very strong opinions. You need to be with a very confident guy who will have equally strong opinions and who can hold an intelligent debate. A less confident guy would just get run over. You wouldn't mean to do it, but it would happen nonetheless."
Now, this guy is one of my crushes - has been, pretty much since I moved here. He is incredibly smart, easy to be around, and very intriguing. He may or may not be reading this, which is why it has taken me a few days to write this entry - I wasn't sure whether or not I wanted to talk about this on the off-chance that he might read it. But the fact remains, I now have proof that I scare men.
More importantly, I scare the kind of men that I would really like to date.
I've been told by people (among others, my parents, who make no secret of the fact that they are dying for me to settle down and procreate already) that I am too picky. And sometimes I wonder if they're right. But at the same time, over the last year, the grand total of men with whom I have gone out on anything that even remotely resembles a date comes to approximately:
...two.
It's not like I'm beating them off with a stick - they never even get within striking distance.
So I'm thinking I need to make a change of some sort. Obviously, I'm putting something out there that scares them off, and I don't want to do that. After all, you can't reject them if they're too scared and/or turned off to approach you in the first place. I need to find a new balance, because the one I'm currently holding is getting me nowhere; something is clearly out of whack, I just can't figure out what. The incredible guys without much confidence are scared of me...the incredible guys who ARE confident scare the crap out of ME. The guys who fall somewhere in the middle just... aren't that interesting. (shrug)
Last night, I was having this conversation with an old friend. He just said to me, "Beth -- just be yourself....you have a natural balance...don't try to create one."
Easy for you to say. You've known me since I was an insecure, 15-year-old weenie, and as an adult, you're one of the major reasons I don't trust men or my own judgement (this particular friend is a whole 'nother entry all his own). You think I'm balanced because, as far as you're concerned, I haven't changed since 10th grade.
I guess in a lot of ways I haven't. It's just that I've gotten very good at hiding that. Maybe that's the problem.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Alert
Because I'm sure you're all dying to know, and I haven't posted anything about him in a while, the VGLM is looking particularly attractive today. We now resume your not so regularly scheduled blogging, already in progress.
The Truth Hurts
Tonight I was slapped in the face by a series of harsh truths. I'm not going to go into detail here - suffice it to say that they came from a variety of sources, regarding a variety of different topics: who I am...how I am perceived...who my friends are. Over the last month or so, I've been feeling like I need some sort of change - not like a new job, a new apartment, or a new hobby, but a change from within. I'm feeling a little off-kilter...in need of an emotional tune-up of sorts. I'm still not sure what that change needs to be exactly, but maybe tonight will set the gears in motion.
Bear with me, folks.
Bear with me, folks.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Huh huh...That's what he said...
...Much as I would LOVE it if my blogger profile read "69 posts" forever, I have a couple more pics to share with you guys. More exist, but these are the least incriminating.
If you tilt your head and squint, you can kind of see the interesting parts of my dress in this shot. There are a total of 8 straps criss-crossing my back there, and I LOVE the hem, even though it looks better from the front. My shoes are also fabulous, but you REALLY can't tell in the picture. Suffice it to say, the mileage I covered that night in those 3 1/2-inch heels SHOULD have left me completely immobile the next day. Steve Madden is a god.
Please ignore the poor posture. It was cold and I was rather intoxicated. Snuggling up to your date enough to keep warm without making him uncomfortable is a highly underrated skill. Not one I'm entirely convinced I possess, but he was equally intoxicated, so it's all good.
By the way, to those of you who are currently judging him for not giving me his coat: he offered. I declined.
I did, however, steal it from him an hour or two later.
And I feel the need to include this one as well, just because I think it's adorable:
That's BNL's girlfriend. We love her - she's a doll.
Okay, I believe I am officially done being all annoying and girly. I promise to post something more bitchy and/or butchy soon. But maybe not right away...I've been watching WAY too much Sex and the City lately, and the weather has been rather warm, so I find myself wanting to wear skirts and heels and be all ladylike and shit.
What?
If you tilt your head and squint, you can kind of see the interesting parts of my dress in this shot. There are a total of 8 straps criss-crossing my back there, and I LOVE the hem, even though it looks better from the front. My shoes are also fabulous, but you REALLY can't tell in the picture. Suffice it to say, the mileage I covered that night in those 3 1/2-inch heels SHOULD have left me completely immobile the next day. Steve Madden is a god.Please ignore the poor posture. It was cold and I was rather intoxicated. Snuggling up to your date enough to keep warm without making him uncomfortable is a highly underrated skill. Not one I'm entirely convinced I possess, but he was equally intoxicated, so it's all good.
By the way, to those of you who are currently judging him for not giving me his coat: he offered. I declined.
I did, however, steal it from him an hour or two later.
And I feel the need to include this one as well, just because I think it's adorable:
That's BNL's girlfriend. We love her - she's a doll.Okay, I believe I am officially done being all annoying and girly. I promise to post something more bitchy and/or butchy soon. But maybe not right away...I've been watching WAY too much Sex and the City lately, and the weather has been rather warm, so I find myself wanting to wear skirts and heels and be all ladylike and shit.
What?
Monday, May 14, 2007
In case you were wondering...
...It DID fit her like a sausage casing.
Since some of you spent the better part of last week asking, nay, DEMANDING to see pictures from this formal, here's what I looked like:
Unfortunately, the pretty parts of my dress are the back and bottom, and I don't know if anyone actually managed to take a full-length shot of me. At any rate, I have been assured that more pictures will be headed my way a little later in the week, so those fit for public consumption may make it up here temporarily. That's my date on the right - one of my non-Chemistry labmates, and now quite proficient in The Box. If he can make it work (he even got so advanced as to open the box, take out a smaller one, and proceed without ever missing a beat - don't try that one at home), anyone can. Despite the disappointing assortment of music, a truly good time was had by all. I managed to drink red wine all night (while dancing) without spilling any on my flesh-toned dress - If that doesn't spell success, I don't know what does.
Oh, and by the way, if you didn't recognize the title of my previous post, it's a song by N.E.R.D. Track it down and give it a listen - I am seriously contemplating making it my new theme song. Not to the exclusion of Sexy M.F. necessarily, but it has definitely earned a prime spot on my soundtrack. And that's the Original Life Soundtrack, not the lame-ass Music From and Inspired by the Life Album.
Since some of you spent the better part of last week asking, nay, DEMANDING to see pictures from this formal, here's what I looked like:
Unfortunately, the pretty parts of my dress are the back and bottom, and I don't know if anyone actually managed to take a full-length shot of me. At any rate, I have been assured that more pictures will be headed my way a little later in the week, so those fit for public consumption may make it up here temporarily. That's my date on the right - one of my non-Chemistry labmates, and now quite proficient in The Box. If he can make it work (he even got so advanced as to open the box, take out a smaller one, and proceed without ever missing a beat - don't try that one at home), anyone can. Despite the disappointing assortment of music, a truly good time was had by all. I managed to drink red wine all night (while dancing) without spilling any on my flesh-toned dress - If that doesn't spell success, I don't know what does.Oh, and by the way, if you didn't recognize the title of my previous post, it's a song by N.E.R.D. Track it down and give it a listen - I am seriously contemplating making it my new theme song. Not to the exclusion of Sexy M.F. necessarily, but it has definitely earned a prime spot on my soundtrack. And that's the Original Life Soundtrack, not the lame-ass Music From and Inspired by the Life Album.
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