Yellow Gal

Tuesday, August 25, 2015

Today

After having the day I've had today (which honestly wasn't that bad), I decided to compose a list of words and phrases:

Serene
Calm
Peaceful
Wise
Thoughtful
Effective
Intelligent
Insightful
Patient
Discern what is important from what is petty
Discard the petty
Harness negative feelings and energy into positive, proactive thoughts and actions
Extricate from toxic people. Immerse oneself with positive, affirming people.
Genuine feedback = Growth
Learn from weaknesses and mistakes
Change thinking and behavior for the better
Improve
Overcome adversity
Prevail
Strength
Determination
Never let the desire to be liked get in the way of goals
Diplomatic
Forward-thinking
Be communicative
Be direct
Open to other ideas and possibilities
Be respectful of others' humanity
Joy
Thankful
Grateful
Alive
Happy

Sunday, June 21, 2015

Hello goodbye

I have really long hair.

Like, really long hair. I have always identified myself as always having long hair. It sweeps almost to my mid-to-lower back. Sometimes wavy, occasionally braided, most of the time in a bun on my head with a swirly flair.

And now I have an appointment soon to just cut it off. I'll be making a donation to Locks of Love, a non-profit that donates hair to children who for medical reasons suffer from hair loss.

It just seems like such a simple way to help a kid out. A couple of my friends did the same thing. They grew their hair to extraordinary lengths (both yellow gals too), and then one day they chopped off a good two feet of hair.

It will give a kid out there (and me in a way) the opportunity to start anew. All that - with just hair. So whoever out there gets my hair: I hope it helps you - even if in a minimal way - during your difficult time. It's been with me through my ups and downs, drama, both good and bad. I hope that you will find the same resilience that it has shown me.

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

Complimentary

As I wade through my thirties, the number "40" being in the not-too-distant future, I have to say that vanity never completely wanes.

At the risk of sounding incredibly narcissistic and shallow, I confess I still want to feel beautiful. I still want to be desirable. I suppose this sentiment will change if/when I reach the age of 80. But in the meantime, here I am.

After all, can anyone honestly say they don't care if they're repulsive and repugnant? And if you, reader, are such a person, then I tip my hat to you.

So, as I've mentioned before, I've been called ugly before on numerous occasions. I won't revisit those memories, but suffice it to say that being called ugly from ages 8 through 18 is pretty shitty.

It's so arbitrary. As Khaled Hosseini said in his novel, And the Mountains Echoed, "Beauty is an enormous, unmerited gift given randomly, stupidly." A girl can be the same exact person, but after a few pubescent changes and some weight loss, she can transform from an object of scorn to one of desire.

We abhor beauty, yet we covet it. And so, while the moments grow more sporadic as I age, I still get a kick out of a compliment.

My work is pretty business casual (emphasis on the "casual"). I push the envelope a little. Slacks with simple shirts. Jeans with a cardigan. Simple flats and even sneakers. I've toyed with the idea of wearing black yoga pants and hoping to pass them off as black slacks, but I was advised against it. As you can see, I love feeling casual and comfortable.

Today was an unseasonably warm day, and I decided to wear . . . a dress. With heels.

I never wear dresses or heels. Ever. Only when the weather is so uncomfortably warm do I throw out the notion of embarrassment over my less-than-ideal legs, thighs, and arms, and decide to don a dress.

So I wore a blue dress with simple nude pumps. Kind of like this:

It's so funny. When you happen to look good on a given day, women and men will compliment you in completely different ways.

Today, women exclaimed, "That dress is so cute on you" or "I love that dress!" They would gush for a minute or two and then we'd talk about the warm weather and how it brings out the cute summery dresses.

Men, on the other hand, say absolutely nothing. They compliment you in other ways. I said hi to a male coworker in the kitchen, whom I've worked with for years, and for a solid five seconds, he didn't say anything. He just said "Hi" and eyed me up and down - not in a pervy way - but in a somewhat shocked way. Clearly I've been dressing like a hobo for the last few years.

There was another male coworker with whom I've also worked for years. This particular morning, I saw him at the end of the hallway. I smiled and waved before going into my office. He stopped mid-step, paused for a second, half-smiled back, and shyly looked away.

What? It was bizarre and funny at the same time. All because of a dress and heels.

Saturday, May 02, 2015

More fiction. A work non-event.

He folded his arms and leaned into me, a bottle of beer dangling in his right hand. "What if I told you that I was in love with you?"

I stared back at him. "I would tell you that you are insane."

He leaned back a little. "That would be your response?"

"Yes." I paused. "We are speaking hypothetically, aren't we?"

He smirked. "Yes."

"Great," I said, "because that would have been a very uncomfortable conversation." I took a sip from my glass and looked at him over the rim.

He sighed and turned to face the rest of the room. "Too bad," he said as he unfolded his arms and took a swig of his beer.

I scoffed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just saying," he said.

" 'Just saying'?"

"It would've been good," he said, looking at me with a sideways glance.

I laughed, feeling embarrassed and flushed. "That's absurd."

"Just saying," he said, shrugging. "Hey." He put his beer down. "Let me show you something."

"What?"

He took my hand and guided me to the back of the restaurant. "Um," I said trailing behind him tentatively, "all of our coworkers are out there." He didn't respond and walked me through a couple hallways, down a flight of dimly lit stairs, and toward the end of a long, dark corridor. He pushed open a door and we were suddenly outside, in the chill night air, on an empty patio.

"The patio doesn't open until June," he said. "But they always leave this door open."

I saw the mid-size buildings loom like dark pillars. The sound of traffic, foot traffic, music from car radios, strangers cavorting and laughing in the street, they all seemed to hum together in a dissonant symphony in the evening air.

"Wow," I said, looking at the sky. Then I turned to him and saw that he was looking at me. He was still holding my hand.

"So what was it you wanted to show me?" I said, slowly pulling my hand away.

"This." Then he kissed me.

For a few shocked seconds, I didn't know what to do. Then I pushed him away. "What are you doing? You're being insane."

"I suppose I am," he said, still leaning into me. "But tell me something."

"What, what are you talking about?"

"Tell me this is all in my head. That there's nothing here."

So dramatic, I thought to myself. This was straight out of a soap opera. "There's nothing here," I heard myself say.

He eyed me for a moment and said, "Okay." He walked up to the patio door and held it open."Let's go back up."

"What?"

"We don't want to stay out too long," he said. "People might talk."

"Right," I said. I walked through the door he held for me. We walked through the corridor, the dim stairs, and hallways in stilted silence. When we rejoined our group, a coworker saw us and said smiling, "Where've you guys been?"

"Just making out," he said wryly. The group burst into laughter.

"Haha-okay-I'm-going-to-get-a-drink," I said in one breath as I walked away. As I waited at the bar, I watched him chat and mingle as if nothing happened. I saw a girl laugh at a joke and touch his arm. He was, after all, a funny guy.

A tiny part of me felt a twinge of something. Something I didn't want to feel. It was then I realized I had to go.

"Okay guys, I'm heading out," I said in the vague direction of everyone, smiling wanly. Protests here and there of "Already?" or "You're leaving? Another drink!" When I told him I was heading out, he nodded, said "See ya," and turned back to his rapt (mostly female) audience.

And then I left.

Saturday, April 11, 2015

Pure Fiction

When I was a young child, I read the "Choose Your Own Adventure" books. The premise of the books was simple: The reader could literally choose her own adventure. The reader would be presented with a plot and, at a critical moment, the choice to pursue one course of action or another. For instance, if you witnessed a robbery, you could "follow the bank robbers" and turn to page 15. If you chose instead to "call the police," you would turn to page 37.

Like no doubt countless other children, I would number and add a paper bookmark whenever I was confronted by a decision in the story line. That way, if I were unhappy with the story that ensued, I could simply go back to my bookmarked page and proceed with the other choice and story line. In one particular book, I remember littering the pages with so many numbered bookmarks that I gave up and resigned myself to the literary fate my choices had taken me. After all, there were always other books to read, other adventures to choose, other lives to live.

What if real life were like that? What if, whenever you were confronted by a crossroad, you could simply place a bookmark there in that moment in time? That way, if you chose unwisely or unhappily, you could simply un-live the life you just lived, go back in time to that bookmark, and live a wholly different life with a different ending - a little wiser and without consequence.

*

It was a Friday night and I was drunk. Very very drunk. I was at the annual company retreat and tonight was the final night. We were in a large ballroom, all three hundred of us. An open bar stood in the corner, promising good times and unspoken mischief. I was on my third or fourth whiskey on the rocks and laughing at every witty and witless joke I heard.

At this particular moment, I stood admiringly by Anna, a beautiful senior analyst who was almost a decade older than I was. "You have the perfect body," I said, eying her slender figure. "I could motorboat you." Anna laughed hysterically. Alec, a senior vice president who was standing nearby, smirked and said, "We need to see more of this side of you."

I looked at Alec and laughed.

I remember the first time I met Alec. It was at my interview, two years ago. He walked briskly into the lobby where I was seated, held out his hand, and tersely said, "I'm Alec. Nice to meet you." I immediately stood up, shook his hand, and replied, "Nice to meet you too." He stood at an unremarkable 5'9, with disheveled dirty blonde hair, a plaid shirt, and skinny jeans.

Alec worked in the company's L.A. office, while I was interviewing for a position in the New York headquarters. The position would not be reporting directly to him, yet would work closely with his role. During our interview, Alec struck me as incredibly intelligent, articulate, and unabashedly cantankerous.

I accepted the job offer immediately.

Over the next two years, we collaborated on numerous business decisions. Our interactions were always professional and perfunctory, sprinkled with a polite joke or anecdote about the weather, our kids, or other mundane topic. Once in a while, he would visit the New York office to have some face time with the other senior executives. I could tell he missed living in New York.

Tonight at the company retreat, Alec was leaning against the wall with a beer in his right hand, quietly watching Anna and I banter. Anna noticed I was running low and offered to get me another whiskey. "Sure," I said, while every cell of my liver pleaded no. She left me with Alec, and we stood there talking for minute or two about an upcoming project. Anna then slipped a new glass of whiskey into my hand and whisked off to mingle amongst the throng of other drunken coworkers.

I sipped my whiskey, and for the next hour or so, Alec and I talked. He talked about his wife and how he thought she was amazing the first time he met her. He told me about the company's history, his irreverent opinions of his department, and his frustrations with the bureaucracy.

"You're not thinking about leaving, are you?" I asked. He paused and looked at me unwaveringly. "No, you can't leave," I pleaded, grasping at his arm with both hands. "You're the only one who responds to my emails!" He laughed, unpersuaded by what I perceived at the time to be very persuasive reasoning.

And at that moment, Alec wasn't a senior executive anymore, but merely a guy I was chatting and joking around with. I was now leaning against the wall facing him, my right arm close to his, and feeling pleasantly intoxicated and disarmed. And then it just crept up on me. This strange yet warm, nostalgic feeling, something I hadn't felt in a very long time.

"It's crowded here," Alec said, eying the door. "There's another bar in this resort. Want to go?"

"Sure," I said. I playfully linked my arm in his and we left the room of rowdy coworkers. After stumbling through a couple carpeted hallways, we arrived at the bar. Closed.

"Oh no," I said.

"Hmm," Alec said and paused. "Let's go to my room."

"Okay," I said. I felt something within me gently yet earnestly pull me towards him, and I let myself be pulled. As we walked up a couple flights of stairs, my arm still linked in his, my incoherent mind began to register what was materializing in this story line. What is going on? Is this really happening?

He unlocked the hotel room door and let me inside. I stood there for a moment facing the dark room as I heard him close the door behind me. The room remained dark, save for the dim moonlight that streamed in through the windows. I slowly walked to his deck and looked outside, over the shadowy trees and mountains beneath the moonlight, feeling serene, excited, and scared.

"Come back inside," he said quietly.

I turned around and walked towards him as he sat in an armchair. He took my hands and gently pulled me closer to him. I felt him place his hands on my waist near the edge of my shirt and his fingers touch my skin. It was then I realized that I really didn't know Alec that well, other than our business relationship and cursory small talk. Somehow, through a sequence of events, I was in his hotel room, feeling intoxicated by him, the whiskey, his hands touching my waist, and wanting very much to be with him.

It is at this moment in time where I would have placed a bookmark. That thin slip of paper I could always revisit just in case I chose a story line that ended unhappily.

I moved his hands from my waist and held them in mine. He then guided us to the bed.

"This is crazy," I said to him as I sat in front of him.

"I know," he replied, pulling me toward him.

"This is crazy," I repeated. "We're both married. With kids."

"I know," he said. "But I have this irresistible impulse to be with you."

"What, why?"

"I just got this feeling that you really wanted this," he said. "And you just looked so cute."

A part of me melted, and the feeling inside seemed to grow and emanate and reverberate between us. His words seemed to blur my senses and again I felt myself being pulled toward him.

Yet a part of me knew that this, all of this, was very wrong. And so, I made my choice: I resisted. And, after much awkwardness and weirdness, I left his hotel room.

Later that evening, in my own room, I replayed the events of the evening in my head, feeling confused, anxious, and exhilarated. I got three hours of sleep that night. The next morning, I was a nervous wreck. How would I act around Alec? Would we just pretend nothing ever happened?

The answer was yes.

The retreat was three months ago, and we have resumed our regularly scheduled charade. Conversations are painfully professional. Emails are terse. I am rightfully, agonizingly kept at arms' length. And I think back to that paper bookmark that hovered tremulously over his bed in his hotel room that night, and wonder, "what if."

What if I had given in? What if I had chosen the other path, the one filled with broken vows, guilt, and the inevitable destruction of both of our lives? What if I allowed myself just one night of pure selfishness? How exquisite and vile.

That night lingers in my mind, painfully, hauntingly, like a hangover I won't cure.

Yet, what of my husband and my children? They are indelibly etched into my heart, and I could never, would never, unweave their stories from my life.

And so I am a contradiction. A dichotomy. Like a book that has already been written, with two story lines that cannot possibly coexist yet are bound by a brittle spine. If I had chosen the other path, where would my story have taken me? I wonder if, at this precise moment in that alternate story line, I would have been experiencing the same magnitude but a wholly different kind of angst. I wonder if I would be revisiting that bookmarked event behind closed eyelids in the ephemeral moment between consciousness and sleep. I wonder if that other version of me would also be asking a different version of "what if."

But all the questions and metaphors mean very little when the reality is that this story has already been written. This life has already been lived. And the other story line is simply an idea, a pure fiction that was never chosen, never read, and thus never existed.

Monday, December 08, 2014

A closed door

I’m in my mid-thirties now. Married, with a kid, and about to buy a overpriced house in the burbs. Aside from the occasional pangs of stress at work, I live a mostly calm, drama-free life. A much different place than I was ten years ago in my mid-twenties, when things seemed so uncertain.

I’ve been with my husband for over 7 years now – clearly the longest relationship ever. And it’s comfortable and nice, sprinkled of course with the occasional bickering, mostly over whose turn it is to change the poopy diaper. So I’m way past the age of being cynical about love and relationships. It’s too much effort and, frankly, no longer relevant.

Thanks to advent of the Disney movie, “Frozen,” and my daughter’s obsession with the song, “Let it go,” I watched the film with her. It was cute.

Oddly enough, the song that resonated with me the most was the song, “Love is Open Door.” Yes, it’s a saccharine, chirpy little Disney duet that to most adults might sound like nails on a chalkboard. But for some peculiar reason, the song played over in my mind and stirred something within me.

At first, I couldn’t identify what the feeling was. And then I realized it felt like a longing, almost like nostalgia.

Corny as it sounds, I think the hopefulness and naiveté of the female character, Anna, reminds me of me…from ten to twenty years ago. (And how apt that [spoilers] her seemingly perfect suitor turns out to be a villain.)

So if I peel back the jaded layers of my life and past lame dating experiences, I can still reach that pre-teen who had ridiculous notions of how love worked. How the Perfect Soulmate would just materialize and rescue me. He would be perfectly handsome, charming, and intelligent, and know how to dance (like Prince Hans! Okay I'll stop).

I suppose a part of me mourns the end of the childlike romanticism. I will never have the same level of hopeful excitement that I did all those times I (unilaterally) hit it off with a guy I just met. The most exciting romantic moments were the first few dates with a guy you really really liked. The awkward anticipation of the first kiss, the waiting for the next date, the first time you hold hands in public. The feeling of almost swooning.

Of course, I’m perfectly happy with the hubs and have absolutely zero desire to be single. My husband and I have a very honest, sincere love. There are no secrets, there is no longing, because we both already have what we want. It’s not really about being single vs. being married.

I suppose I have nostalgia for the dreamy hopefulness. The kind of silly romance you see in your kid’s Disney movie that was once so real and palpable in your adolescent self.

(By the way, this post completely obviates the whole point of “Frozen,” which is all about women coming into their own and not needing any Man to prevail. And I just realized I became one of those moms who blogged about “Frozen.” Ugh, how unoriginal.)

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Yellow beauty

Yellow Mom is visiting me this weekend.

"Wow, you look so big!" she remarked when she saw my expectant belly.

"Yes," I replied.

"Grandma says that because you are beautiful, your daughter will be beautiful."

"Oh, that's sweet," I said.

She then looked at my face. "Why do you have so many zits?"

There it was, the familiar Yellow Mom gem.

I've heard the old wives' tale that, during pregnancy, a daughter steals her mother's beauty. And if that's the case, this Baby Yellow Gal is doing a hell of a job. I've been breaking out like an adolescent throughout my entire pregnancy. So much for that "pregnancy glow" that every other pregnant woman seems to rave about.

"I started breaking out since I got pregnant," I said. "You didn't break out when you were pregnant?"

"No," she said, her face still crinkled in horror.

"Oh, okay," I said. Really, how else do you respond to that? So much for that facial earlier this week.

My zits notwithstanding, Baby Yellow Gal seems to be thriving within. A month to go!

Monday, June 04, 2012

If estranged friends could really talk openly

"I've noticed that we haven't been as close as we used to be."

"Yep."

"Why is that?"

"I don't think we have as much in common anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"You like to be negative and complain about your life all the time. And I no longer want to be negative nor do I want to hear you complain about your life all the time. Does that make sense?"

"I think so."

"I just think we're different people. You need to find a friend who likes to indulge your depressive rants, who doesn't mind that you can talk about yourself nonstop for hours at a time without once asking her how she is doing, and who enjoys conversations where any time she mentions herself you feel the need to veer the conversation back to your purportedly awful life. I'm just not that friend, I'm sorry to say."

"Oh I see."

"Awesome. So no hard feelings?"

"No."

"Okay, take care."

"You too."

And at least one of them lived happily ever after.

Friday, May 25, 2012

Begotten of the begotten

It's unreal that she is less than 9 weeks away. Little Yellow Gal.

I've been waiting to meet this person for several months. It feels like a blind date, in a strange way. I'm faced with similar questions: What will she look like? Will we get along? What kind of personality will she have? Will she love me? What if she thinks I'm a loser? (Okay, that is probably inevitable.)

The whole motherhood concept is inarticulable. As I anticipate the immense expense and commitment of having a daughter, I can't help but reflect upon how I was as a daughter. And, well, along with that, all the grief I caused my parents.

Not that I was an awful demon child. I didn't sneak out with boys at 2 am or smoke pot in my room. But I was an angsty teen. I complained a lot. I felt perpetually deprived of all the things I felt I deserved as an American adolescent. I didn't have as many or nice of clothes, receive as many Christmas gifts, or get to drive a new car like other kids did.

Oh, the injustice. And how I protested against this injustice -- through hours and days of whining, crying, door-slamming, and sulking.

It didn't matter that my parents first came to this country with barely the money to afford an apartment and food. I wanted the same shit everyone else had, and resented my parents -- yes, even hated them at times -- because I couldn't have those things, which I believed were the key to adolescent happiness.

You don't realize what you had . . . until you have to provide it for your own kid. The hubs and I are off to a better start than my parents were. Yet still, I can't imagine enduring all the demands of a teenage girl.

Do I dare admit that reflecting upon my imminent parenthood makes me a little bit more grateful for what they did for me? (Mmm, maybe later.)

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Why is it

that when I see a memorial, webpage, or commercial about a suffering or dying pet, I start tearing up uncontrollably? I need to get a grip.

Yellow baby-to-be

As I predicted in my previous entry, I am having a girl. As soon as the sonographer typed onto the ultrasound screen, "IT'S A BABY GIRL!!!" I nodded knowingly, while my husband laughed excitedly.

A girl. A little yellow girl.

I wonder what she'll look like, and whom she will take after. I hope her temperament is more like her father's - patient, good-natured, forgiving, easy-going, and generous.

I hope that she's a happy child, that her heart isn't broken too many times, and that she learns to look ahead and not dwell on hurts of the past.

Does every mother want her daughter to be a better, happier woman than the mother could be? Is that an unfair burden for a girl to bear? I suppose it depends on how the mother manifests that hope; whether she is overbearing and controlling, or encouraging and respectful.

Which leads me to my second hope - that I'll be a good mom.

How does a person prepare to take on the most difficult job in the world with zero experience or training?

Not really sure. But ready or not, here she comes (soon!).

Saturday, January 14, 2012

The Year of the Dragon draws near

I realize it's been several months since my last post. The reason being, only a few weeks after my previous post, I learned (or suspected) I was pregnant.

Yes, pregnant!

I wasn't 100.00% sure because pregnancy tests can have false positive results. But when I saw the doctor in December, it was confirmed. I am indeed with child.

It wasn't completely unexpected. The hubby and I were trying, but didn't expect to succeed during the first month of trying. Needless to say, it was a lifestyle change to forgo all booze, caffeine, and sushi even before we began trying.

So! I'm due in July, in the year of the Dragon. It should be an auspicious year. I have a feeling the baby will be a girl. The eldest child -- possibly a dragon girl -- will indeed be a feisty, fiery force to be reckoned with. Hopefully she will have only half the sass her mom has.

And so a Yellow Gal may beget another Yellow Gal.

Friday, October 21, 2011

Sick day

One of the wonderful consequences of cohabiting with the one you love is that you double the probability of getting sick.

When my hubs got sick several days ago, I felt perfectly fine, despite his coughing, sniffling and wheezing all day. But after a few days of nonstop exposure, I too started coughing, sniffling and wheezing. Bleh.

I imagine that once a couple has children, the probability of catching a cold triples or quadruples (depending on the number of kids).

If there is ever a test for my immune system, the future is it.

Saturday, October 01, 2011

Being happy

Ever since I was a child, I have wondered what makes people happy.

One of my friends apparently has everything. She is intelligent and attractive, has a high-paying job with minimal hours, does intellectually stimulating work, and has a boyfriend who adores her.

Yet she always finds something to be unhappy about. And she complains.

A lot.

She complains about the boss who likes her so much, he annoys her. (Never mind she always has glowing performance reviews.) She complains about her mortgage payments and interest rate. (Never mind that her salary enables her to pay her mortgage payments tenfold per month.) She complains about her weight. (Never mind that she's skinny as a stick.)

Her negativity extends beyond herself to her immediate surroundings and acquaintances. Suppose I planned a soiree and 99.9% of it went swimmingly. Afterwards, she will bluntly point out the 0.1% that went awry and discuss how it went awry.

This behavior irks me because:

(1) Negativity is contagious. If I am surrounded by negativity, I begin to breed negativity.

(2) She has so much more going for her. To complain about her weight in front of ladies heavier than she is, or complain about finances in front of ladies who make less than she does or who don't even have a job is uncouth, to say the least.

And then it occurred to me: She might be incapable of being happy. Something fundamental in her chemical wiring renders it impossible to be happy. No life circumstance -- no matter how wonderful or serendipitous -- could ever make her happy.

Then I think about my other girlfriend. She grew up without a father, and so her mother struggled financially throughout her childhood. She was sexually abused by an uncle when she was in high school. And not too long ago, her mother passed away from a long battle with ovarian cancer. She does not make that much money and works long hours, yet somehow, she is a happier person. Yes, she suffered when awful events occurred, but she never lost her natural tendency to be positive and forward thinking.

This friend is somehow hard-wired to be a happier person, regardless of life circumstance.

I remember a study that I once heard that struck me. (Bear in mind, it could be from a movie or novel and, therefore, entirely fictional.) It was a study of two groups of people over a six-month period. One group tended to be positive and happy. The other group tended to be negative and unhappy. The study then focused on positive life experiences, such as winning the lottery or getting married, and negative life experiences, such as becoming quadriplegic, or losing a spouse or friend.

It turned out that when the positive/happy group suffered negative life events, they were temporarily depressed, but eventually reverted back to their positive/happy state. And when the negative/unhappy group enjoyed positive life events, they were temporarily uplifted before reverting back to their negative/unhappy state.

Are some people born with a physiology that enables them to be happier than others?

Is happiness simply a matter of neurological fate?

As for me, I think I've become happier as I've gotten older. Maybe because I found a life partner. Maybe because I learned not to sweat the small stuff as much. Maybe because I have a little more perspective on life. It takes time to realize that the things that do inevitably go wrong in life end up working out, albeit not perfectly. And after experiencing the passing of a friend or relative, you learn to focus on the important things in life instead of trivial matters.

I have distanced myself from the above-mentioned negative friend, and grown closer to the happy friend. And I think that helped too. Surrounding oneself with positive people rather than negative folks uplifts the mood.

These are the things I tell myself when I get annoyed by an obnoxious driver during rush hour or a snide remark at work. They are what they are -- inconsequential life circumstances that have no bearing on my happiness.

Friday, September 02, 2011

Forget me not

What would life be like if we had no memory? What if we had no memory of people or events? Instead, our entire existence would be the sum of our immediate sensory perception. I wonder if we would we be happier or sadder. Every scar and bruise would be a mystery, and every person would be a stranger. (Heaven for an extrovert, hell for an introvert.)

We would have no memories of pain. But we would also have no memories of joy.

It's strange. The more distant a memory is in my mind, the softer it becomes. Kind of like a photograph that was once crisp and clear, and later fades, curls and blurs with time. It almost seems like part of a dream, or part of a novel you once read years ago.

Other memories are visited more often, with the most salient and pleasurable elements specially preserved, if not magnified. That BBQ at the park with the old college friends. The grill smelled smokier, the boxed wine tasted sweeter, and the cool grass prickled your toes just a bit more in your memory than it might have in reality.

It's your memory, though. You can do what you want with it.

Right?

I think about the people who are no longer in my life. They loiter in the back of my mind and reappear at particular moments in time, like when I'm waiting in line or when I see an oddity that reminds me of them. They reenact scenes or conversations I had with them and then, when their performance ends, they bow and exit stage left.

Then I wonder. Am I a memory in someone else's mind? The raven-haired girl who wanders into someone's dream, recites a bitter or sweet line, and leaves the room? Does my appearance onstage conjure joy, sadness, rage, or pity? Or am I not even in the cast?

I wonder if it is better to be remembered or forgotten. When I reflect upon my life, I think I'd rather be forgotten by those in the past, and remembered by those in the present.

Things learned the hard way #582,376

Never rely on anyone to be accountable.

(This statement is the kinder cousin to the corollary, "Trust no one.")

Earlier this week, I had spoken with my manager about an Issue. "I'm on top of it," he assured me. "Don't worry about it, I'll let the Senior Boss know I'm on it."

This morning, however, I received a terse email:

Yellow Gal,

It has come to my attention that [the Issue] was not resolved. I took care of it. In the future, please ensure that [the Issue] is resolved and update me on its status.

Thanks.
Senior Boss

Immediately after receiving the email, I called Senior Boss.

It rang twice before he picked up. "Hello, this is [Senior Boss]."

"Hi Senior Boss, this is Yellow Gal, how are you?"

"Fine."

I waited for him to ask how I was doing. After three seconds, I realized that wasn't going to happen, so I said, "I received your email. Manager told me he took care of the Issue, and would talk to you. I assumed he resolved it."

"Well he didn't," Senior Boss said. I could hear the irritation grating in his voice. "I understand what you're saying. But in the future, talk to me directly instead of just speaking with Manager."

"Understood" was what I should have said. "Okay!" was what I chirped.

There were a few seconds of subsiding silence. Then he proceeded to talk about other work matters.

So yeah. Even if it's your manager or someone you typically rely on, follow up. A tiny thought flitted through my mind that maybe I should have looped back to Senior Boss - but I didn't.

Listen to the tiny thought.

Monday, August 29, 2011

Resolution (sort of)

I received the following message from "The Blogger Team" after reporting all 151 of my plagiarized blog entries:

Hello,

Thanks for reaching out to us.

We have received your DMCA complaint. Upon recent review of the blog(s) mentioned in your complaint, it appears that the post(s) in question no longer exist(s). If this matter is still a concern, please reply to this email with detailed information to enable us to locate the allegedly infringing content.

Regards,

The Google Team

So that's that.

I guess she deleted the blog herself rather than waiting for Blogger to investigate and shut it down.

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Violation

Plagiarizing someone's blog is not only a legal and moral violation. It's a personal violation.

I have blogged about so many things - my childhood, my father who passed away, conversations with my mother, men I have dated before I met my husband, racism I have experienced, feelings of self-doubt, neurosis, and insecurity. These moments are intimate to my life. They are mine.

To see someone take those memories and feelings, and replace a word or two with some other inane noun or verb is such an insult to the original memory or feeling. It is a violation of the most intimate kind.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

It's still on.

I looked through Thinking's blog, and learned she plagiarized multiple other bloggers.

I contacted and emailed each and every one of them, and posted the precise link to Thinking's blog that copies their blog entries. Hopefully, Blogger will take down the blog.

I attempted to comment on Thinking's blog, but she moderates her comments, so obviously she will disapprove any comment pointing out her plagiarism. She also conveniently deleted my previous posts on her blog about her plagiarized blog entries.

It looks like Crystal Jigsaw and I were the most heavily plagiarized. We'll see what happens next.

151 Plagiarized Entries (at least)