Good Grief.

Good old Charlie Brown. Our loveable friend – the nice guy that finishes last. And you gotta love his catch phrase, “Good Grief!”

Well Mr. Brown, can I call you Charlie? You of all people should know that grief is not good. With all the bad luck bestowed upon you, you should change your slogan to something more like, “Awful Grief!” or “Bad Grief!” or “Grief Grieving Garbage Son of a Gun!” – though I suppose that might change the tone of the comic just a tad bit.

But seriously, why “good” grief? And why “goodness gracious” – isn’t graciousness good, but why is it used in exasperation? The English language is such a silly thing really. We put together phrases that mean one thing literally, but since it’s English we can just change it to have whatever meaning we’d like. Darn Americans. (It’s a joke – I’m not serious).

I’ve had this talk with a few people before, and I just wanted to have it in written form – so if you’ve heard me talk about this and are tired of my inane musings, then I’m sorry and you’ll just have to deal with it. Kapish?

So, all this “good” talk. What is up with that? When people give me directions anywhere sometimes they tell me, “Oh, it’s a good thirty minutes.” Really? You think thirty minutes is good? 5 minutes is good. 10 minutes is fine. 20 minutes is okay. 30 is far. 30 minutes with your rear in a 5-gear car … is not what I would call a pleasant afternoon.

If I have to travel 30 minutes away, and let’s say I need to be at this location at 12 – well that means that I need to start getting ready at 10 so I can leave by 11:30.

These thirty minute trips set me back and make me plan ahead. Darn the places that aren’t within a 15-20 minute drive from my residence. You know which places I’m talking about (Naperville)!

Again … it is a joke.

Sort of.

But language, it’s kind of a funny thing. The words we choose to describe something to sugar coat it in gobs of fruity delicious artificial flavoring, caramel taffy, and bittersweet lies. Oh goodie!

And when people say, “It’s a good walk from here.” I wish it meant: “There are pretty houses and trees and flowers along the sidewalks. So it’s a good walk.” I wish it did not mean: “It might take you a while to get there on foot, but you’ll get there …”

Can’t you just tell me I’ll have to walk through the bad part of town, cross the bridge and go uphill three blocks?

All I want is a little truth, is that so much to ask for? I don’t want some fabrication of a dreamier, creamier “truth.” I can take it – really I can. Granted I still have to take pills with a glass of water, and take cough syrup with my nose plugged – but don’t you worry, I can take a little truth just fine.

Silly English language and your clever ways of masking meanings and dolling up the dull.

L.

‘Diss’ney Princess ‘Diss’cussion.

This was a weekend for insight and enlightenment. There are times when you converse with people and the conversation seems to jump from one topic to the next in a matter of miliseconds. Sometimes it’s the awkward grapple for topics to talk about, and sometimes it just flows naturally and you hit gold. Gold I say.

This was such a weekend where I, we, struck gold.

A few other ladies and I came to discussing Disney movies. The nostalgia of our childhoods (childrenhoods? Kidding). A common theme we noticed in our favorite princess movies is the fact that none of them have mothers. In Shakespeare’s plays this is an underlying message of misogony (the hatred of women).

Let me lay out the evidence:

In Aladdin, Princess Jasmine only has her father and a tiger. Where is the mother?
In Cinderella, her mother dies and she gets an EVIL stepmother.
In The Little Mermaid, Ariel’s mother is never shown. There’s only King Triton.
How about Snow White? Another EVIL mother/queen.
Belle in Beauty and the Beast has no mother.
Even Pocahontas doesn’t have a mother. Just a father who is the chief of the tribe.

All very interesting facts, no?

Well let’s think about the villains in these Disney classics as well.

Cruella Deville: woman.
Cinderella’s Evil Stepmother: woman.
Snow White’s Evil Queen: woman.
Jafar: effeminate.
Scar: effeminate.
The Queen in Sleeping Beauty: woman.
Ursula: woman.

Coincidences? I’m not so sure. Some people discussed Scar’s effeminate features earlier this month, which helped us to reach this conclusion: Disney is misogonistic.

Scar and Jafar are two male villains, but they don’t exert manly traits. They’re both slenderized, and kind of flambouyantly depicted. They look like they wear makeup and have kind of graceful movements. It’s just something to think about.

The female villains are all independent women. They have no male counterparts, and notice how many of them are in charge, or queens without kings. Women in power are depicted as the villains in these “fun for the whole family” films. Whether we notice it or not, the types of messages Disney sends is that independent women, who are not controlled by men are to be feared. These types of women are evil. Kings without queens, or men without wives, are loving and nurturing; gentle – but women who aren’t controlled by a man are deemed insane, scary, and diabolical.

Shakespeare implemented this idea in a lot of his plays, which was, what, 100 years ago? How far have we progressed? Disney basically does the same thing. The films we watch depict some type of current social views. It could be a bit subliminal, and maybe we’re just so used to it that it goes undetected, but all the signs are there.

I found it interesting – I’m not being a feminist or anything. It’s just some food for thought.

L.

Wardrobe War Zone.

Boys I’m not sure this applies to you, but it very well may. Ladies, I hope this happens to you too, otherwise I will be terribly, utterly alone.

Are there ever days where you just feel really ugly? Like every piece of clothing you possess just hits all the wrong places and enhances all the imperfections that you’d like to cover? The new shirt that you just purchased doesn’t seem as flattering when you look at yourself in your bedroom mirror? (Darn those dim lit clothing stores with their elongating mirrors! Curse them and their manipulative devices!)

Or your hair just doesn’t lay right? Yesterday your hair looked great, but today those wily curls … er, locks … just aren’t behaving? Bedhead doesn’t even begin to describe what is going on up there. It’s more like a nuclear explosion, a bad chem lab gone awry. You know it’s a bad hair day when even a hat doesn’t help. (Usually if my hair is looking particularly nesty, I wear a hat. This may explain the reason why I wear hats pretty much all the time).

But please tell me this doesn’t only happen to me.

When days like these come along, I find myself locked behind my bedroom door battling with ugliness. I combat the unattractive curves of my body by prying clothes off of hangers, banging dresser drawers, attacking one shirt after another. I strangle the cloth between my bare hands, clinching it tightly when I peek into the reflection that is unfortunately me. I peel off its grip, slam it to the ground, step on it and kick it for good measure. Take that you! What am I paying you for – you’re not doing you’re job of hiding those flaws! I would like a refund – too bad retailers thought of “store credit.” They force you to look for some other article that you instantly fall in love with, but when you take it home you discover you made another mistake.

This whole process takes at least an hour – but by the time I realize I just spent the hour in a whirlwind of cotton blends, it’s time to go to class and I just pull on a pair of jeans, a hoodie and my North Face (the jacket that I never take off – which explains why I seem to wear the same clothes every day).

But before going, I’ll take one last look in the mirror and sigh, “This is as good as it’s gonna get.”

L.

Me2D2.

So folks, it’s October.

[Random thought: Octo - eight ... October is the 10th month. Who named it that? Way to go genius. And September - seven; it's the 9th month. Man these people were off].

But okay, onward:

I’m pretty sure we have all seen them – either on the street, on the bus, in a restaurant, perhaps even in the public bathroom. They’re everywhere, and it just baffles me. I don’t understand how there can be so many people who look very similar, if not exactly, like someone else that we know.

It’s just craziness.

I was thinking to myself in my head, “Maybe this only happens to asian people.” But it’s not true. I know a boy who basically has two other hims running around in this very city.

[Sidenote: He is not asian. He's white].

But let me talk about my double. I’ve had two. One of whom I went to swimming lessons with in the fifth grade, and to high school. Needless to say, high school is where we parted appearances. She looks like the old me, but if the old me had grown up and never changed.

Now, there’s this new girl. I won’t disclose her name, so let’s just call her Asil, because I don’t want her to think I’m a total creeper. But last year, within a span of one week, people continued to walk up to me telling me that I either looked like this girl, or they’d met someone who looked just like me (and had similar mannerisms … scary).

So a boy that I didn’t know at the time (who is now a friend – no worries) came up to me saying that he couldn’t stop staring at me all night, and asked if I had a sister because I looked like a friend of his. (Way to play it cool). I was creeped out a little bit.

However, that very same weekend a good friend of mine from high school told me she came back from visiting … “The South” [I won't give up this information either, seeing as it would only give away Asil's location], and she had met a girl (Asil) who looked and acted like me.

So that was last year, but ever since then I can’t stop creeping on her. I make my friend go to her facebook so I can see pictures of Other Me. Is that so weird? A perfectly normal obsession …

It got to be kind of a problem, at the mere mention of her name I would flip out and need to see her. I don’t think we look alike – and it makes me nervous if we act alike. They say we make the same facial expressions … I’m not so sure how to feel about this.

But why are there so many look-a-likes out there? Sure brings you down. I mean, in a world with 6 billion people in it (?), you’re telling me that I’m not unique?! That I’m … just like someone else? That’s just crazy talk.

I’m me, my own person. And in this tiny Me-tropolis that I live in – where I’m the center of it and everything revolves around one person – there’s absolutely no way in Me-ll that they are anything like I am. That’s absurd, unheard of, outrageous, unMElievable!

Stupid Me 2’s … the thing is, I’m probably Me 2 to her – blast. Where’s her facebook …

L.

P.S. I hope nobody thinks I’m being serious in the last paragraphs.

Charged With Battery.

Is it sad (sad as in pathetic) if you forget what your cellphone ringtone sounds like?

Let me explain myself:
[A/N: Yes, this is an exaggeration - but it's almost true. And almost is as good as always ... it is a joke, I'm not serious.]

I can go for days without a single phone call, therefore allowing me to forget the catchy Office Theme Song that I set as my ringtone those many years ago when I was a senior in high school.

Sometimes I will put my phone on vibrate or silent because I have to go to class (I don’t know why because it’s not like I get calls anyway), but then after class I’ll forget I even have a phone until, finally at some point in the evening (let’s just say around 9pm) I’ll be looking for it. This is when I begin wondering whether anyone has tried to get in contact with me. Unfortunately, but not unsurprisingly, I will see that I have zero missed calls and zero voice mails. Wow. I’m cool.

So this past weekend I was in Naperville, and being the absent minded girl that I am, I left my phone charger there. In my mind I thought, “Oh, I’ll be okay – I don’t get calls, so my battery can last.”

Something totally cool though (or maybe it’s just sad): my phone’s battery lasted from Sunday until Thursday around 6pm (way to go little pink LG Chocolate!) – that has got to be some type of Guinness World Record, right? Basically the only person who called was my mother. Thanks mom.

I’m not so sure if this happens a lot to other people, but yes, I don’t really get calls. And those few times that I do, I don’t realize it because I’m unused to hearing my ringtone.

I just need to charge my battery.

Why do I even have a cell phone?

L.

Smashing Play.

There are times when I just really miss being part of a competitive sport. Some may argue that badminton is not a sport at all, but I’m telling you it is, so for right now you’re just going to have to take that as fact.

I kind of miss the Pregame Jitters (I should probably just have a whole series on “jitters”). The Pregame Jitters consist of this pent up anxiety where all your muscles feel tense and you want to vomit. It may or may not include the shakes. Personally, my body can’t control the energy inside, thus I begin to tremble – not in fear, but in anticipation.

The good sportsmanship-like behavior means you have to smile, shake their hand and wish them luck. However, when wishing them luck, I liked to latch onto their hand for a few seconds longer than is socially acceptable, make eye contact, and give the other girl a close lipped smile while subtly applying more pressure to my grip. “Good luck.”

Sadly, badminton is a non-contact sport.

Only in sports is it deemed acceptable to yell, grunt, and basically use your brute strength. Because if you screamed and beat on things inside your own room people would think you need anger management. More so if you did that in public. But in sports it’s okay.

These pent up feelings can lay dormant for a long time, but it doesn’t just go away. And there are times when I just feel the need to throw something or smash something, except I’m not on a court so I can’t.

Smashing shuttlecocks (that’s what the birdies are called) is one of the best feelings ever. Just whacking the heck out of it relieves stress. And winning a point is the icing on the cake (though I hate frosting/icing).

I love the explosion. When you’re waiting for just the right moment to strike, to pounce – your body is tightly wound, all the energy stored up for the greatest amount of damage. Like in video games – you get ready to throw some attack and the longer you wait, the stronger it is. That’s what racquet sports are like, I can’t speak for other sports but maybe it’s the same.

And then once you’ve exploded, all that stress, that tension in your limbs – it vanishes, it dissipates after you win. But I think if you lose it lingers a little bit.

I’ve tried running, it’s just not the same. If I were to race someone I’d probably need to shove them and knock them down in order to get the same release.

This is why I try not to play games with other people – it’s a side of me that should never be unleashed. I’m not ferocious, but I get a little intense … or just tense.

L.

P.S. I am not physically abusive at all, but in sports it just feels really good. Maybe I should do hockey, or rugby …

The “2″ Girls.

There are few reasons as to why I would use the elevator.

I absolutely hate pushing the button and waiting a decade for the elevator to come down to the first floor, only to wait another 4 minutes  (1 minute for each floor), standing idly in a closed contraption until I reach my desired destination.

In only these instances would I submit to this awkward mode of transportation: a) I have a bicycle with me b) I have another person who does not live in this building with me (notice that the person does not live in this building) c) I have my laundry with me.

[Note the common theme of my being accompanied by something or someone].

I was doing my laundry tonight because, well, it was piling up in my basket in the corner of the room. Laundry is one good, legitimate reason as to why I would take the elevator. So, as I wait for the elevator with my basket full of freshly laundered clothes, it finally opens its doors for me to enter. However, two other people enter before it crosses its arms to bar the way. I push 4. She pushes 2.

She pushed 2. 2. As in the second floor, 2.

I’m sorry, but I had to give these “2″-girls the once over. Both were small, thin, healthy, girls. They even looked kind of fragile. There’s no stigmatism for taking an elevator … but really? To get to the second floor? Is that really necessary? It’s only one flight of stairs!

I’m wondering, if we had those moving platforms on the first floor, like the ones at the airport, if they would take those to get to the mailboxes which are right around the corner. I bet they would. I bet those skinny little chicken legs would do anything to prevent themselves from having to move of their own accord.

But that’s probably why they take the stupid elevator. Because they know they don’t need any extra steps. Any extra attempts at curbing their weight gain would probably send them reeling into the negatives until they look like one of Tim Burton’s characters – preferably Jack from “The Nightmare Before Christmas.”

I’ll resign to giving their backs the stink eye as they leave the elevator, and wheezing, having to hike up four flights of stairs. At the end of the day, they’re the ones in the elevator and I’m the one on the elliptical.

Curse these girls and they’re low sodium, reduced fat, genes. (I’m not bitter, really I’m not).

L.

P.S. Please don’t take this too seriously, I won’t judge you if I see you in an elevator going up to the next floor. Feel free to use this luxury all you want. I’ll just race up the stairwell, casually lean against the wall next to the elevator doors trying to hide my panting, pretending to have been waiting for you for a minute – all nonchalantly of course.

Communication Part Dos

I remember some time in the summer I wrote an entry about communication and I thought I would break it down into several groups and how communication works within each of these groups. Overall, communicating with each other will be the same concept because in the end all you’re doing is talking with the other party. So I’m going to narrow it down just a tad bit further and create a scenario of some sort that way I can focus on something more specific rather than go all over the place. Right? Right.

So let’s say a friend has a problem with you or you hear from another friend tell you that someone else has an issue with you. But both of you guys do not know the thoughts or feelings of each other, which usually ends up being the beginning of a series of terrible, “omg he/she said this”, late night conversations, gossip, “massive feelings of dislike” moments.

The general public ends up doing this: They talk, but no walk.

You have a problem with your friend and you hear from several different sources or you may just have an extremely strong hint something is wrong but you ignore it or at least you try to and end up becoming a grouch and start shooting the stink eye towards this particular person and vice versa.

Your stomach swirls around with anger, frustration, and irritation and your breathing either becomes really slow to calm yourself down oooooor extremely fast from the adrenaline pumping through your veins and enhancing your mind to think about only how hard you would clock the guy/girl right through the lower jaw.

Yes some people do feel this, BUT we absolutely cannot let these feelings become the sole decisive factor of how we are going to handle this situation because usually one or the other or both will end up feeling like the dirtiest scumbag in…probably the whole world.

The hard part is this: you need to confront the person and bring up the situation. Not through emails, snail mail, phone conversations and definitely not through another person.

Why? Lost in translation. No not the movie with Bill Murray running around with Scarlett Johanssen in Japan. But the idea of how words can be misinterpreted if you yourself is not present with the other person to talk out the issue.

Honestly, lost in translation would create and even modify the problem into something beastly and when the problem transforms into a beastly monster then start praying for an easy button to fix up everything because the results are grisly.

Confrontation is hard, but it is key. When I talk about confrontation, I don’t mean it in a way where you have up storm up to the person with a bunch your buddies and create havoc. I thinking more in the lines of a peaceful, civilized conversation.

A peaceful, civilized conversation tends to clear your head and analyze the situation without the Mike Tyson-like anger. You almost forget why you’re anger and eventually come to a realization of how childish and immature the entire situation was.

Confrontation tends to have a negative connotation, but seriously if you confront the person the right way, which is peacefully, then for the most part everyone will be a happy camper.

And try to keep an open mind. Listen to what you guys have to say to each other. Understand what’s going on. Don’t be too quick to speak, but become eager to listen. Going into solving an issue without an open mind or a listening mentality things won’t be completely solved.

If you’re going to talk to someone about something, why would you confront them with flashes of livid rage and create or extend more problems? That doesn’t make any sense. Plus, you look like an idiot and other people will think you need anger management.

So people. Talk it out. Confront the person without the rage. Honestly, no point in starting more crap. You’ll end up in a state of serenity. But most importantly, you and your friend will end up with a better and stronger friendship. I mean what can beat that out right?

P.S. I think this is still vague.

…

…

I wish I could write better.

Date, Time & Place, Check.

The thrill of the date. As a single person this never happened to me – I’m not sure this ever really happens (but what do I know, it could just be because I never attracted).

Well, the movies (and we all know how true they are) make it seem like real people randomly walk up to strangers saying, “Hey baby let me take you out some time. You. Me. Dinner. 8 o’clock.” Please correct me if I’m wrong, because I would love to hear a real live version of this.

However, luckily, I don’t have to fret about it.

Now let me tell you, once you are in a relationship, you don’t have to worry about who will go to this restaurant with you, or which friend you’re going to see this movie with – it’s kind of one of those unspoken agreements; “You see a movie that I want to see, and I’ll go see one that you want to.” Even Steven.

But just because you’re in a relationship does not mean you are guaranteed “Date Nights”. For the most part, I think we (M and I) end up just hanging out and doing whatever. I think it’s normal, but then again I could be wrong. Normal is all relative anyway. “Hang Outs” are always implied, “Date Nights” not so much so.

So when the occasional “date” presents itself in the form of a question which usually goes something along the lines of, “Do you want to go to dinner with me?” It’s kind of exciting. You may think I’m lame, but it is.

I tend to associate, “Do you want to have dinner?” with, “A bunch of people are hanging out, and they want to eat dinner tomorrow, are you in?” – I always assume other people will be involved.

So, dinner for two is a definite thrill as compared to dinner with someone else … plus fifteen others.

But this always brings out some kind of predicament: What to wear?

A closet full of clothes I wear every day suddenly becomes bleak. This generally leads to an hour of ripping clothes off their hangers, shimmying into them, and discarding them on the floor. The Friday-night-date-jitters. (There are jitters for everything, just fyi). Sadly, that hour is wasted since I basically wear the first outfit I put on anyway.

Let’s say the time was 4pm when I started, and the dinner reservations aren’t until 8pm. That leaves me with 3 hours to sit tight. You pobably think I’m a huge loser now, but this is what I go through. It’s the Friday-night-date-jitters I’m telling you. They make you do silly things.

But I like it: the whole process of getting ready; the sitting around and waiting until the appointed time; the walking to the train, the waiting for the train; the actual arrival to the place of the date; the indecisiveness of what you’re going to get for dinner; the non-awkward dinner-date talk; the walk back.

When you’re accustomed to being around so many boisterous people, the quieter laughter of two always makes a night more monumental. It’s funny that being dressed up, at a specific time, in a pre-set place with your “significant other” constitutes as a date. And the only thing that ends it is, “Check, please?”

L.