How about a non-reunion

I recently saw an ad from Reunion.com. Its slogan was: "Find Everyone from Your Past."

My gut reaction was: "Let's not."

I admit, I'm not a perfect person. And I haven't always made the best decisions, whether it comes to money, work, friends, or guys.

Okay what I'm really saying in a very roundabout way is that I've done some bad things in my life to other people, things I'm not proud of, things that I haven't really forgiven myself for. Once in a while, when my self-imposed amnesia buckles, I remember some of the individuals I haven't been the nicest to, and I feel a sense of dread in my stomach. I'm not sure if it's the guilt. Or the feeling of knowing that someone out there dislikes me, if not hates me.

Not that I flatter myself. I mean, people have dissed me, and I don't spend every waking second ruing the day I met them. But if I bumped into some of those people, some of those old feelings would certainly resurface, and I wouldn't exactly be very receptive to them.

The point of all this is that, in a month, I -- along with some friends and the Boyf -- will be visiting one of the cities I used to live in several years ago to attend an event.

My Boyf is not privy to the events of my past, specifically, the things I've done wrong. So it makes me slightly uncomfortable to know that I will be visiting this city with my Boyf, and run the risk of bumping into people who wouldn't exactly be receptive to me.

The Naysayer says I'm being paranoid. And yes, I am. But I guess it goes beyond just literally bumping into them. I guess one could say that I'm a bit haunted by my past. That I still haven't reconciled myself with my mistakes. I kind of just hope that after X years go by, the memories will be so distant that they'll all seem fuzzy, trivial, and trifling, relegated to the memories of playground fights or forgotten homework assignments.

Anyway, a reunion is the exact opposite of what I want on little my trip. I don't want to find anyone from my past. In fact, I would much prefer that I lose them. And my memories of them.

Human contact = Good

I just realized that, for over 36 hours, I haven't had any human contact with anyone outside of work or the Subway sandwich store. I was supposed to have lunch with a friend today, but she had to reschedule. I've been working late every night so I haven't been able to see friends or the boyf after work.

The reason I realized this suddenly was that I felt starkly disconnected. And irritable. And every comment or remark from work people just grated on my nerves a little more than it should.

How do the hermits do it?

While my furry pet at home is fully huggable and loveable, she still isn't a human I can connect with and banter with. (At least not yet).

So I called the boyf and made a "human-contact-call" -- versus a "booty call" -- just so I can talk to someone for twenty minutes who is not my boss or the Subway sandwich-maker-guy.

Like I said, how do the hermits do it?!

Mantras

Focus on the things that matter.

Focus on the people who matter.

Do not focus on the things that do not matter.

Do not focus on the people who do not matter.

The rude receptionist who copped an attitude at you for no good reason, the long line at Walgreen's, the boss who likes to make snide remarks at you just to put you down, and the luke-warm coffee you just purchased all fall under the category of things and people who do not matter.

Your best friend who will be there no matter what happens, your cuddly face-licking dog, your favorite novel, and your unfailing mom all fall under the category of things and people who do matter.

These are the mantas I tell myself. These are the mantras I remind myself. Otherwise I risk forgetting what's important and dwelling instead on the things that aren't.

HRC

This picture of Hillary Rodham Clinton on CNN.com kind of looks like my mom:

Obviously, the Caucasian version of my mom. It's kind of weird. I mean they have a similar facial structure, the same hairstyle and that same older-lady-laughing expression when they're laughing. They're also about the same age.

It almost makes me feel a bit more sympathetic towards her given that everyone is bashing her nowadays.

Weird!

I've got three words

And it's an alliteration: Bitter Blue Balls.

Read below post I found on craigslist.

---

"What Happened to All the Nice Guys?"

Date: 2007-11-19, 3:52AM PST


I see this question posted with some regularity in the personals section, so I thought I'd take a minute to explain things to the ladies out there that haven't figured it out.

What happened to all the nice guys?

The answer is simple: you did.

See, if you think back, really hard, you might vaguely remember a Platonic guy pal who always seemed to want to spend time with you. He'd tag along with you when you went shopping, stop by your place for a movie when you were lonely but didn't feel like going out, or even sit there and hold you while you sobbed and told him about how horribly the (other) guy that you were fucking treated you.

At the time, you probably joked with your girlfriends about how he was a little puppy dog, always following you around, trying to do things to get you to pay attention to him. They probably teased you because they thought he had a crush on you. Given that his behavior was, admittedly, a little pathetic, you vehemently denied having any romantic feelings for him, and buttressed your position by claiming that you were "just friends." Besides, he totally wasn't your type. I mean, he was a little too short, or too bald, or too fat, or too poor, or didn't know how to dress himself, or basically be or do any of the things that your tall, good-looking, fit, rich, stylish boyfriend at the time pulled off with such ease.

Eventually, your Platonic buddy drifted away, as your relationship with the boyfriend got more serious and spending time with this other guy was, admittedly, a little weird, if you werent dating him. More time passed, and the boyfriend eventually cheated on you, or became boring, or you realized that the things that attracted you to him weren't the kinds of things that make for a good, long-term relationship. So, now, you're single again, and after having tried the bar scene for several months having only encountered players and douche bags, you wonder, "What happened to all the nice guys?"

Well, once again, you did.

You ignored the nice guy. You used him for emotional intimacy without reciprocating, in kind, with physical intimacy. You laughed at his consideration and resented his devotion. You valued the aloof boyfriend more than the attentive "just-a-" friend. Eventually, he took the hint and moved on with his life. He probably came to realize, one day, that women aren't really attracted to guys who hold doors open; or make dinners just because; or buy you a Christmas gift that you mentioned, in passing, that you really wanted five months ago; or listen when you're upset; or hold you when you cry. He came to realize that, if he wanted a woman like you, he'd have to act more like the boyfriend that you had. He probably cleaned up his look, started making some money, and generally acted like more of an asshole than he ever wanted to be.

Fact is, now, he's probably getting laid, and in a way, your ultimate rejection of him is to thank for that. And I'm sorry that it took the complete absence of "nice guys" in your life for you to realize that you missed them and wanted them. Most women will only have a handful of nice guys stumble into their lives, if that.

So, if you're looking for a nice guy, here's what you do:

1.) Build a time machine.
2.) Go back a few years and pull your head out of your ass.
3.) Take a look at what's right in front of you and grab ahold of it.

I suppose the other possibility is that you STILL don't really want a nice guy, but you feel the social pressure to at least appear to have matured beyond your infantile taste in men. In which case, you might be in luck, because the nice guy you claim to want has, in reality, shed his nice guy mantle and is out there looking to unleash his cynicism and resentment onto someone just like you.

If you were five years younger.

So, please: either stop misrepresenting what you want, or own up to the fact that you've fucked yourself over. You're getting older, after all. It's time to excise the bullshit and deal with reality. You didn't want a nice guy then, and he certainly doesn't fucking want you, now.

Sincerely,

A Recovering Nice Guy

---

Seriously? Okay, it's definitely sad when you like someone and someone doesn't like you back. Hello -- story of my life. It's a painful lesson we begin learning at age 12 and have repeatedly reinforced until the day we get hitched or die, which ever comes sooner. But seriously, this dude needs to get over it. His rant is dripping with bitterness and resentment, and instead of empowering him, his "I told you so"-rant makes him sound even more pathetic and insecure.

And seriously, a girl can't be friends with a guy and have emotional intimacy with him unless she "reciprocat[es], in kind, with physical intimacy"? What the f kind of bullshit is that? That basically translates to "You can't be friends with me unless you put out."

And, um, I find it hard to believe that a girl who had zero romantic interest in the guy but liked to shop and watch movies with him actually "laughed at his consideration and resented his devotion." Quite frankly, a girl wouldn't care to deign that much effort into "laughing" and "resenting" a guy she has zero interest in. But hey, if that's what this dude needs to tell himself to fuel his rage and get through day, then to each his own.

All I'm saying is, the dude needs to get a grip. At least on something other than what he evidently grips every Friday and Saturday night alone in his studio apartment.

. . .

P.S. - I like nice guys. I'm dating one. As people can read in my past posts, I've been dicked over by a number of lame-ass, socially retarded assholes. So I'm glad to be in a relationship with a guy who calls me regularly, opens the door for me, buys me roses, etc.

This post is not an indictment of nice guys. It is an indictment of guys with bitter blue balls.

I am an idiot.

I found this article entitled, How Much Will Your Baby Be Like You? The first page of the article discussed how your baby could inherit you or your spouse's physical traits (like a cleft chin) or personality traits (like a hot temper). Once I read the first page, I emailed it to my co-worker who just had a baby girl a month ago and is on maternity leave now. I called it a "cute article" and told her how it reminded me of her and her hubby.

Once I emailed it, I clicked on to read the second page, where it talked about inherited health problems. My heart dropped. I remember vividly how my co-worker's husband had just overcome an extensive battle with lung cancer. He almost died from the chemotherapy.

So, basically, by sending the article to her and saying it reminded me of her and her husband, I was telling her that her baby girl was going to get cancer. I am such an IDIOT.

No mercy

There was a game that I used to play when I was a child. It was called "Mercy." The rules were simple: one individual faced her opponent, and interlaced both her left and right hands with the other individual's right and left hands, respectively. Then someone said "Start!" Immediately, the two individuals gripped, twisted, and bent the other's fingers, wrists and/or hand back until one individual was in so much pain and agony that she had no choice but to yell "Mercy!" At that moment, the victor would release his victim's hands.

I never won this game.

Maybe it was because I always played boys or older girls. Or maybe it was because I was a weakling. Okay it probably was because I was a weakling. But the case remained: I never won.

So I can't help but liken the game to life. Not in terms of winning or losing. But being able to say "Mercy!" when the moment arises. When it crystallizes in your mind that you can't win, you won't win, and the pain is so unbearable that you have no choice but to say mercy.

I think the only life lesson you can glean from the game is that there will sometimes be a moment when you know you have to walk away. Whether it be with a job, a relationship, or a Jehovah's witness. Hope springs eternal, and I think some people hope that the neighborhood bully's hands will somehow buckle via divine intervention and the 5'2 pipsqueak will win. In the history of humankind, it has happened -- examples include David v. Goliath, New York Giants v. New England Patriots.

But maybe there's a reason that such events are historical.

Another thing is that, sometimes even when you realize that Mercy moment, you don't get it--mercy. It's not as simple as a kid releasing his grip on your hands. Sometimes the situation won't let go. It's something you can't just walk away from. Or it still hurts even after you walk away. Life is interesting like that.

Anyway, I have a habit of waiting until things get really really bad before I say "Mercy." It's only until I'm buckled-over in pain that I realize it might be time to throw in the towel. And until then, I wait and hope that things will get better. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don't. Either way, life has a random habit of showing people no mercy.

Kitt-schy

I have a calendar in my office. It functions perfectly as a calendar. It tells the onlooker the date, the day of the week, the month, and the year. It is normal in every respect except one: It has cats on it. Not just cats, but a lot of cats.

I love furry animals, both cats and dogs. And the boyf got me a silly cat calendar at my request. Little did I know that this particular cat calendar is INSANE.

A normal cat calendar would probably have one large photograph for every month with a cat lying in repose on a fence or in a basket or sniffing a daffodil. Not so in my case. My cat calendar has a thousand pictures for every month. Okay, in actuality, one photograph for every date of every month. Each date has a "zany" photograph with an even "zanier" caption. There are cats wearing boas, cats inside fish bowls, cats wearing scarves, cats wearing ear muffs, cats wearing football helmets, cats wearing other cats. I wish I were kidding. But I'm not. The captions are even worse.

Beneath a picture of a cat inside a hamster gym: "Don't be afraid, Jellybean. It's a hamster spa and I'm going to give you a massage."

Was that even a joke?

Beneath a photograph of a cat next to a Scrabble board: "Cheated at Scrabble with neighbor's pug."

I don't get it.

This calendar is so painfully bad and kitschy, it's funny. Except I always get the distinct feeling that when people walk into my office, they expect to find a 45-year-old woman with a peroxide-bleached-mullet, a pink and yellow sweater vest, and canvass shoes from Wal-Mart.

Then I think about the cats. Did any of these cats have any idea that they would be memorialized in a horribly tacky cat calendar? Did that one cat sitting next to the Scrabble board have an inkling that its decision to sit on a chair that happened to be next to a piece of cardboard would forever link it to a word game and an imaginary canine? I wonder where that cat is right now, and if it has any idea what its owner did to it, or if it will ever know.

At any rate, I feel like it's my duty to keep this calendar posted on my wall. A weaker person would put the calendar down and burn it. But I'll keep it posted and be forever tortured by earmuff-wearing cats.

10.6 months to go.

Drinking some haterade

I know someone who has a blog. I won't say who she is, as her blog is not anonymous. She posted her full name, first and last, her occupation, and even where she works. She also posted her picture.

I find this amusing. I know exactly what she looks like and so I find it entertaining that she selectively chooses photographs of her that wildly flatter her features, almost to the point of making her look attractive. The woman is not attractive. The best word to describe her is "hag."

OKOKOK, I realize that this observation of mine is slightly petty. I mean, who the f cares what picture you post of yourself on your blog? If you look like a troll and decide to take the time and effort to airbrush your photograph to mimic the beauty of Jessica Alba, that's your prerogative.

Fair enough. I'm just saying that I find it amusing that a number of guys -- guys who don't know what she looks like in person, mind you -- post comments on how beautiful she is. Seriously folks, she is a hag. (Can the reader tell that I don't like this woman at all?) And so it cracks me up that she posts still photos of herself where she is literally modeling in front of cityscapes or lilies. I wonder if she set up a tripod to photograph herself, if she has Photoshop, or if she had a friend doctor her photos. Whatever the special effects may be, I admit she did an amazing job of turning "hag" into "hot."

Another thing I will admit is that I'm being a hypocrite. I personally will not post any photo on myspace, facebook, or whatevs where I look fat, old and/or otherwise ugly. I will only post photos where I am smiling at the right angle and my arm fat is minimalized by the position of my arm. And what normal human being wouldn't pick photos of herself looking her most stunning?

I suppose it rubs me the wrong way how orchestrated all of her photo shoots are and how much of a discrepancy there is between the real her and the photographed her. Why should this bother me? I don't know, it has absolutely no bearing on my life.

Just remember this, folks: beauty is in the eye of the Photoshop airbrusher.

Impurrfect

It must be nice to be a house cat.

Here's a typical day. You wake up. At 1:30 pm. You yawn, stretch and walk over to the bowl of food your servant has already prepared for you. Then you drink from the bowl of water that has also been prepared for you. Then you go back to sleep.

If you need to pee or take a dump, you do it in a sandbox, and your servant cleans it all up for you.

When you want attention, you walk up to your servant, and she will pet you, cuddle you, lift you and utter nonsensical words to you, usually in a falsetto voice. All you need to do is purr.

If you poop on the rug or vomit on the sofa, it's okay. After all, you're just a cat. No worries, your servant will clean up your mess for you.

Like I said, it's a nice life.

The only trade off is, you're probably neutered or spayed. And that means you're pretty much guaranteed to die a virgin. And for this reason, I'm not too bummed over my station in life as a human.

At least that's what I try to tell myself.

Earphoria

There is something to be said about the feeling you get when you're crossing a busy street downtown, surrounded by bundled-up strangers and looming skyscrapers, and hearing through your iPod the voice of Frank Sinatra wax poetic about the very city you're meandering through. The song is the perfect backdrop, the ultimate soundtrack, to the city. Your naturally quick pace slackens as your eyes drift upwards towards the glass and stone buildings that stretch and arch towards the sky, a sky that looks like it could be scraped, a sky that signifies endless possibilities; and you almost begin to believe that the city, This City, really does have all the hope and promise the song foretells.

Boredom

Once, a girl, Y, was having dinner three individuals. The three were quantum physicists, while Y was the sole lawyer.

The three quantum physicists went on and on about subatomic particles and vectors. During the two-hour long discussion, Y had perfected the art of the Closed-Mouth Yawn. After years of enduring boring lectures in college and law school, listening to her bosses wax eloquent on why her brief sucked and staying conscious during very bad dates, Y was an expert Closed-Mouth Yawner. Little did she know that all those years of practice were preparation for this exact type of situation.

Y couldn't escape. They were seated at a table with unfinished meals before them. Still though, halfway through the meal, Y was half-tempted to excuse her self and grab a cab outside the restaurant. But she didn't. Instead, she remained silent, took sips of her lemon water, and close-mouthed-yawned. A lot.

Finally one of the quantum physicists turned to Y. "Does this stuff completely bore you? Do you have absolutely no interest in our topics at ALL?"

Y was stunned. Exposed. Were quantum physicists not only mind-bogglingly smart, but also psychic?! Instead of answering with a resounding and honest "YES," Y replied, "Oh, it's just that most of this is over my head, ha ha."

The other three awkwardly laughed, and then resumed their conversation on vectors.

Apparently, Y was also not only an expert in the art of the Closed-Mouth Yawn, but also the art of Evading Answers and Tactful yet Self-Deprecating Bull Shitting.

Conflict resolution 101

A and B are dating. A and B are usually chatty and chipper when together.

One day, A was silent and morose. B tried to be chatty and chipper. A was unresponsive and distant. Finally, B asked A, "Is something wrong?"

Silence. Finally, A responded, "Yes. Sort of."

B replied, "What is it?"

A said, "It kind of bothered me when you did X."

B said, "Oh, doh. I didn't realize that. Sorry, I won't do it again."

A replied, "It's okay. Thanks for listening."

A and B then resumed being chatty and chipper again. Then a couple weeks later, A again became silent and morose. B tried again to be chatty and chipper. A was again unresponsive and distant. Finally, B asked A, "Is something wrong?"

After pausing for a moment, A responded, "Well, yeah."

B waited. "And what's wrong?"

A replied, "Well, it bothered me when you did Y."

B replied, "Oh, I guess went too far when I made that joke. I apologize and I won't do it again."

A said, "It's okay."

A and B again resumed the chatty/chipper routine. Then one day, A was again being silent, morose, unresponsive and distant. B was now annoyed that every time A was silent, morose, unresponsive and distant, B had to be the one who asked the question, "Is something wrong?" and drag it out of B. Neither A nor B proclaim to be mind-readers. Therefore, in order for either person to know what is bothering the other person, the person has to say it, rather than convey it through silent, morose, unresponsive and distant conduct.

B was now confronted with a few choices:

1) Repeat the above-mentioned cycle.

2) Not do anything and let A's passive aggression play itself out until A has no choice but to, on A's own initiative, confront B and therefore break the cycle.

3) Repeat the cycle and then afterwards say, "I'd appreciate it if you were more upfront about things when you're upset with me. It's difficult for me to understand what's going unless you talk about it."

Both #s 1 and 3 are enabling/perpetuating the cycle. Yet #2 is slightly passive aggressive.

At any rate, A and B are having dinner tonight. The truth will hopefully reveal itself then.

Oh my

god. Today is January 8, 2008. I happened to walk into Walgreen's today to grab a soda when I saw an entire aisle -- an ENTIRE AISLE -- brimming with chocolates and candies and murals decorated in shades of hot pink, red, and white. Stores are already selling stuff for Valentine's Day! I still have candy canes from Christmas!

This is just as bad as seeing Christmas decorations as early as August. The holiday merchandise industry is crazy.

The binder clips

Once upon a time, there were three binder clips. By happenstance, they clipped three consecutive sets of documents in one case. And by happenstance, the sets of documents were unclipped at the same time, and the binder clips were placed facing each other. The binder clips were unsure who or what placed them there, only that a Great User dealt them their sets of documents. Yet for the first time, they were confronting each other face to face.

The first binder clip was small and silver. The second binder clip was medium and silver. And the third binder clip was medium and black.

Immediately, the black binder clip felt outnumbered by the silver clips. It envied the silvery finish of the other two clips yet took solace in knowing it bore the more traditional color of binder clips. The small binder clip also felt threatened as it was outnumbered by the two medium clips flanking it. They were much taller and wider than it was. Who knows what they could do to it?

Yet the medium silver binder clip felt at ease amongst its brethren. Could the medium silver binder clip bridge the gap between the black medium binder clip and the small silver binder clip? After all, it thought to itself, we are all Binder Clips.

They stared at each other in silence. "Gentlemen," the medium silver binder clip said. "I sense an unease."

The other two remained silent.

"Let me remind you that we are all one and the same," the medium silver binder clip continued. "Do we not have bodies of plastic and tongs of steel?"

The other two nodded grudgingly.

"Yes, the color of plastic may be different--" The medium black binder clip nodded.

"--And our sizes may vary--" The small silver binder clip nodded.

"--But we are the same." The medium black binder clip and small silver binder clip looked up at the medium silver binder clip.

"But we're not, really," the small silver binder clip said tentatively. "I am small, you both are medium."

"You both are silver, and I am black!" the medium black binder clip exclaimed.

"We are fundamentally different!" they both said.

"We are the same," the medium silver binder clip insisted. "We serve the same purpose. We have the same goal," its voice quivered with a metallic vibrato. "We clip documents!"

The other two binder clips looked at each other as the singularity of their purpose dawned on them.

"Yes," the small silver binder clip piped, "we do clip documents."

"I suppose so," the medium black one stated.

"Small binder clips are for small sets of documents. Medium binder clips are for medium sets of documents. And there are even large ones that clip large sets of documents," the medium silver binder clip continued. "You see? We all have our purpose. And the color of the binder clip has no bearing on the binder clip's ability. Some people like a little variety. Just look at us. Our Great User has used us both, not just silver, not just black, not just small, not just medium, but all colors and sizes."

The other two nodded with slow realization.

"We are the one and the same! We are . . . Binder Clips!" the medium silver binder clip snapped with a resounding finality.

As they all nodded in unison and reaffirmed their bond, they heard a noise. A door opened, all of a sudden the Great User entered the Realm. They became immediately silent, each hoping She hadn't heard their rumblings.

It was decided then. Theirs would be an unspoken pact among all binder clips, a realized purpose for all Binder Clip-kind. A secret from all Great Users.

Except this one.

Babymaniacs

It's recently come to my attention that people are sometimes a little too into their babies. And when I mean "a little too into," I mean OBSESSED. I'm not talking about the typical doting parent who loves his child to death and would kick the ass of anyone who'd hurt his child. I'm talking about parents who will cover 90% of her wall with her child's art work, prop up ten to twenty thousand framed photographs of her child at various stages of infancy, use a mousepad with a picture of her baby on it, use the baby's head as a background, screensaver and mouse icon on her computer, and affix as a signature to every email a picture of the baby.

It's a bit much.

I also find it amusing how everyone thinks that their baby is the smartest baby in the whole wide world. (So much for the teachers who thought Albert Einstein was retarded when he was in grade school.) Parents forcefeed the states and capitals to their infant so that the infant, whose umbilical cord is still healing from being cut a few hours ago, can recite them at baby parties. I want to just tell these parents to chill out. Just chill out. Chances are, if the parents are smart, so will the kids.

But maybe these parents are right -- if Einstein had watched Baby Mozart as an infant and was forced to memorize the periodic table when he was 2, he would have uncovered the mathematical proof of time travel, God and existence as we know it.

Damn, Einstein's parents f-ed that one up.

Now IKNOWIKNOWIKNOW, I won't understand this insanity until I have a baby, and I don't have a baby so I don't understand, so who am I to complain, wah wah wah. I readily admit that when I have a beb of my own, I'm gonna brag about how kick ass smart he is and how he's going to be such a superhero when he grows up. I get it.

I just hope someone calls my shit out when I start fashioning postage stamps and refrigerator magnets with my baby's head on them. God help us all if I do that.

Worlds apart

Single life and coupled life are both very interesting.

As a single girl, you have single friends and talk about sex and bad sex, guys and bad guys, date and bad dates. For the past few years, this has been the bulk of my existence.

Now that I'm in a relationship, I see this whole other world, the world of couples. It's a world where all of a sudden your couple-friends invite you over for dinner, and you begin attending parties with other couples. You go to shops that only couples seem to go to, shops that sell dog calendars and coasters and feng shui stools and minimalist keychain holders. And then you're invited to couples-outings. For example, a married couple invited us to go on a vacation with them. It's a whole new world.

And only now do I realize that there are two different worlds, because my former single life seems like a distinct segmant of my life. I recently noticed a growing distance between me and my single friends. Maybe we just have less in common now, given that we talked about boys 99.9% of the time. Or maybe it feels like the boyf takes up 99.9% of my time, if not my thoughts.

I also noticed that a few of my single friends have gone out without inviting me. When I was single, they'd shoot an email during the week asking if I wanted to see the new bar or club opening up and check out the 'market' there. We'd go and meet various socially retarded men and go on dates with them despite the red flags and complain about it the week thereafter. Rinse cycle and repeat.

Now I'm not invited so much. Granted, it could be because I'm not as fun as I used to be. But a part of me suspects that it's because I'm no longer on the market and wouldn't delight in the adventures of meeting suspiciously attractive sociopaths.

I do know that, the boyf notwithstanding, it's important to maintain one's girlfriendships. Because without the girls, where would we be? I think everyone goes through at least a couple emotionally traumatizing events in her/his life, and in the end, we each get through it with at least a little help and support from our friends.

I've seen too many times where a woman, once she snags a guy, will "disappear" on her gal pals. A year or two later, she breaks up with the guy and, only then, she realizes she has no friends. It's dangerous to bank one's entire social life on one guy. Even if she's happily married.

So my mandate to myself is this: I maintain and nurture my girlfriendships.

No matter which world I'm in.

Monday night

It's Christmas eve, and I'm here at home, obviously with free time to blog, read and play with the cats. My mother is altering her dress for her Christmas concert tomorrow at church. Needless to say, my brother and I will be in attendance.

Earlier today, I was looking through drawers and closets for a blank notepad, when I found some old photo albums. One was a leathery bound volume, and it creaked and hissed as I carefully opened its hard thick cover.

I saw my mom in her white wedding gown, with sky blue eyeshadow and thick mascara -- that was the style then I suppose. I saw pictures of my parents and my brother and me when we were toddlers. My eyes were so small then. Pictures of me and my brother hugging or climbing a tree. Pictures of us smiling in front of a birthday cake. There were pictures of my mom in her fobby mullet, my dad with his bushy black hair. There was a picture of us sitting on top of the orange Oldsmobile. Us wading in the pool at Disney World. Us with our grandparents who, I hate to say it, look the same age as my mom now and my late father.

There was one picture of me, I think it was 1982 or something. I was in a tree, with a denim skirt and white stockings, and my mouth was agape, frozen, in a presumably deafening bawl. I REMEMBER that day. Of course my mom, thinking it was hilarious that I was shrieking my head off hysterically, decided to memorialize the moment by taking a clean photograph of me.

I remember that day. I climbed that tree, and after growing bored with the view, wanted to get down. When I looked down to the sole branch that would be my escape, I saw at the bottom of that branch just inches below my foot a humongous colony of ants. Black ants, crawling in thousands of directions, waiting to eat my foot and then the rest of me. I was trapped in the tree, and probably going to die there since there was no other way to get down. Confronted with an imminent, horrible death, I began crying. And noticing no one was helping me, the crying evolved into an all-out bawling tantrum.

This was literally a cry for help.

It was at that moment my mother stood in front of me (gleefully I imagine) and took a photo of me.

That picture is in a photo album in my house. Clearly, I'm not still annoyed that my mother took a picture of me at a particularly vulnerable moment. Clearly. I closed the leather bound photo volume not too soon after seeing that picture, and placed it back in the cabinet.

Memories. Like the corners of my mind.

R & R

I am reading "The Kite Runner," by Khaled Hosseini. I decided on a whim to buy it in the airport since my flight was delayed by over an hour. I didn't read it on the plane at all (was catching up on sleep), and only started reading it in the airport after I arrived.

It's a good book.

It's amazing how universal certain things are -- the immigrant experience, diaspora, a country having a dominant culture and subordinate (and therefore oppressed) culture. I confess I am pretty ignorant when it comes to any culture, even my own, so I found the story told from an Afghani point of view was fascinating. I had never heard of a Hazara until I started reading this novel.

I also noticed some uncanny similarities between the protagonist's father and my own Yellow father. Are all dads from the Asian continent all the same?!

Anyhow, like I said, it's a good book. And the title, very apt.

Fairy tales

I am home for the holidays. One of my habits when I come home is to look through my old bookcase and peruse through books I've already read and yearbooks and random book reports I happened to save.

This afternoon, I found one of my first "short stories." I wrote it when I was seven or eight years old. It's not exactly an exemplary work of fiction, but I thought it'd be interesting to share. If I had a scanner and the requisite patience, I'd have scanned and posted my illustrations here. Suffice it to say I wasn't bad with the Crayola markers and watercolors.

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A Pretty Secret, by Yellow Gal

A long, long time ago a poor, poor family had a baby. It was a girl.

Every night something strange would happen. A big star would come. It was a fairy.

The fairy would make kind wishes to the baby girl. The mother named the baby Lisa.

Sixteen years later, Lisa was beautiful. The fairy still came. The fairy told her not to tell anyone she had a fairy visitor.

One day she told everybody that she had a secret. Everybody wanted to know about the secret.

A few years later, somebody asked Lisa about her secret. She disobeyed the fairy. She told the person who asked her.

Then the fairy came and said, "You foolish girl, you." So she put a spell on her that she would never move again. "Someone will have to make you cry," said the fairy.

Lots of years passed and Lisa's parents died.

Lisa was still a girl. Three handsome men came. One thought the girl was so beautiful that he would make her cry. He tried, and tried, and tried, but he could not make her cry.

So the second man tried, and he tried, and he tried, but he could not make her cry.

So the third man tried, and he tried, and he tried.

At last he made her cry.

She was unfrozen. And they lived happily ever after.

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Don't ask. I don't know. The explanation I can think of for the randomness of the story is that I read a lot of fairy tales back then, and there was always some beautiful girl disobeying some fairy and being cursed and it always took three tries for some dude to save her.

Like I said, not exactly an exemplary work of fiction.

The third grader within can't help but wonder though. I've been in two long-term relationships thus far. Could this guy be the one who saves me? Is the third time always the charm?

Then the adult in me wonders why we make up these stories and sayings. I guess people would rather hear something fanciful and happy, rather than knowing nothing and feeling like it's all a crapshoot.

I guess we'll all figure that one out in the end.