Impropaganda

The American Ex-Pat’s Guide to Swedish Baked Goods and Deli Foods

2012-01-29T04:15:00.002-05:00

Bröd: Bread. Swedes do not know how to bake bread. Most bread that you can buy in Sweden, whether in the grocery store or in a bakery, is only a tad tastier than cardboard. Sorry if you’ve had delicious bread in other European countries and assumed that Swedish bread would also be good. I recommend you bake your own at home.

Fralla (pl. frallor): A kind of small sandwich made with non-delicious, grainy, and usually stale bread, filled with a leaf or two of non-fresh lettuce, a slice of unexciting cheese, and sometimes with a piece of ham of dubious quality. There are usually no condiments or even butter on the fralla. Such sandwiches are often available in delis pre-wrapped in plastic, and usually available for around 15 kronor. The fralla is considered convenient to eat when one isn’t that hungry, doesn’t have much money to spend, and furthermore doesn’t have any sense of taste.

Kanelbulla (pl. kanelbullor): Although “kanelbulla” literally translates to “cinnamon bun,” the kanelbulla is nothing like the cinnamon bun as most Americans know it, and will most likely be an utter disappointment. Yes, it’s a bun, and yes, it has cinnamon in it, but the similarities end there. Kanelbullor are usually laced with cardamom and sold in most bakeries and grocery stores. Whether you buy it at a bakery or the grocery store, it will be surprisingly stale and non-fluffy. There is no frosting. Instead, it is sprinkled with huge rocks of sugar, which do nothing to improve the taste. Kanelbullor are often available at some bakeries in obscenely large sizes, suggesting that some people think that it’s nice to have even more of a bad thing.

Macka (pl. mackor): A subset of sandwiches, either open-faced or closed, with slices of bread. (For example, sandwiches made of baguette breads are not mackor.)

Paj: “Paj” is pronounced exactly as its English translation: pie. Swedes use “paj” to describe, for example, quiche and meat pies as well. Dessert pies are almost always served with an excess of one of the Holy Sauces of Swedish Cuisine: vanijlsås (vanilla sauce), which doesn’t have much of a taste and will leave you wondering why Swedes rave about it. Just nod politely and try to find your pie underneath the pool of vanijlsås as you eat it.

Semla (pl. semlor): Possibly the only Swedish baked good that is worth eating, it is also unfortunately only available at certain times of the year, between some time shortly after Christmas and Easter. It is a cardamom-spiced semolina bun with the insides scooped out and filled with whipped cream and almond paste.

Smörgås: A “smörgås” is usually translated as sandwich. Beware that most sandwiches served in delis are open-faced and need to be eaten on a plate with utensils, and as such are not convenient to eat on-the-go. Eating on-the-go is considered “un-Swedish” anyway. A popular kind of smörgås is a “räksmörgås,” an open-faced sandwich with some boiled egg, dill, cucumber slices, mayonnaise, and an obscene amount of small shrimp.

Smörgåstårta (pl. smörgåstårtor): “Smörgåstårta” literally translates to “sandwich-cake” and is an orgy of bread slices, a creme fraiche-based mixture (used as the “frosting”), cheese slices (which encase the sides of the cake), and usually a pile of shrimp, dill, and lemon slices on top. It is often served at special occasion brunches, despite being remarkably unremarkable in taste.

My Rubik's cube philosophy

2012-01-12T00:23:00.003-05:00

I once attended a party that broke into board games. In one part of the room, a group of people was playing a game of Uno. In another part of the room, the hostess was playing Chinese chess with one of the guests. I watched the game of Chinese chess. The guest was well aware that his ability in Chinese chess was far outmatched by the hostess’s ability. He whipped out his iPhone and initiated a Chinese chess game with a skillful computer opponent. He mirrored the hostess’s moves on the iPhone to see what move the computer opponent would do, and then moved his pieces in the “real life” game accordingly.

Essentially, he was nothing more than a robot faithfully executing the moves instructed by the computer opponent. Despite his complete lack of intellectual effort, he nonetheless attributed “his” eventual win to himself, congratulating himself sheepishly and boasting loudly.
It is very difficult for me to understand what sort of joy that “winning” in such a way could bring someone. It certainly doesn’t bring me any joy. I have an unsolved Rubik’s cube that I play with now and then. Once a house guest picked up my cube and whipped out his iPhone, looking for solve algorithms and pointing out that I could solve the cube that way. To me, that misses the point of having a Rubik’s cube.

My Rubik’s cube is not unsolved because I don’t have the ability to find a solve algorithm on the internet. I’ve in fact found solve algorithms based on Jissica Friedrich’s method before, “solved” the cube using such algorithms, and then found that I in fact derived absolutely no satisfaction from mindlessly executing moves that someone else figured out for me. I then re-scrambled my cube and decided to try to solve it on my own.

Don’t get me wrong. Studying someone else’s solutions may have its own benefit. But for me, I learn best when I have to struggle on my own first. It was true when I was in college, true when I studied for the LSAT, and true in any job where I had to pick up new skills. My Rubik’s cube isn’t solved because I don’t understand it fully yet. But I understand it a lot more from the times I have struggled with it and made a little progress, than from the time that I “solved” it using a published solve algorithm. And I may well arrive at a solution that is the same as one that’s already published, but it’s the journey there that’s rewarding.

Facebook friends you need to dump

2011-11-09T22:06:00.000-05:00

“Friends” you would never be friends with in real life because they are assholes, debbie downers, sexists, racists, bigots, or homophobes.

Constant posters of TMI, boring, whiny, or otherwise unnecessary status updates.

People who stalk you online and/or post creepy comments on your wall or photos.

People with low self-esteem who constantly post flattering (at least in their opinion) pictures of themselves, in the hopes that someone they only barely know in real life will post a comment like “nice ass!” or “U R so pretty, can I be your real friend?”

People who constantly spam your message inbox and/or wall with junk completely irrelevant to you

Farmville (or similar game) players

Anyone who pokes you, unless the two of you engage in mutual poking

Science magazine probably hopes you won't notice

2011-09-01T15:48:00.003-05:00

So I'm going to point it out.

This post is a follow-up to my earlier post regarding an article published in Science about a supernova called 1987A. The article as published online on July 7, 2011 contains a gross factual error. I, and I am guessing others, submitted an e-letter gleefully pointing out this embarrassing mistake. Although my e-letter wasn't published, and Science did not issue an erratum (as far as I can tell), this gross error was stealthily corrected in the print article that was published September 2, 2011.

Falling on one's buttocks

2011-08-06T10:29:00.000-05:00

Today I fell squarely on my buttocks, because my landlord's draconian solution for keeping people off his newly growing patch of grass is to block off an entire section of steps on the shortcut I use to walk to my apartment. To walk around The Rope of Futility, I had to descend steeply from some stones, whereupon I slipped and fell.

While cursing my landlord's penchant for finding "solutions" that cause more problems than they solve, I thought about how I had learned to fall down in Taekwondo class (ages ago, when I still trained in Taekwondo). The lesson was extremely useful, and there was something really beautiful about the premise of the lesson: "You WILL fall, at some point, so you'd better learn how to do it properly."

And that premise has proven true so many times, both literally and figuratively. I'm starting to see that there's an intrinsic value to falling, although perhaps there was not much value in today's incident. When you fall a lot, you get good at it.

I fell all the time, for example, when I was an undergraduate at Caltech. The most valuable things I learned at Caltech weren't anything that could be found in a textbook or problem set. It was realizing that I wasn't that smart. (In fact, in comparison to a lot of my classmates, I was really stupid). It was having to work really, really hard all the time so that maybe I could start to grasp some of the things I was supposed to learn. It was staring at question one on a test and not having any idea how to attack it, looking at question 2 and having the same feeling, then looking at question 3 and panicking. These things were huge blows at first, because I'd been a straight-A honor student all my life before that. But after a while, it wasn't so bad. I learned to deal with it.

At Caltech, I knew at some level that these experiences were good for me, but I didn't really appreciate how good it was to fall hard until I'd met people who hadn't yet. Later in life, I met people who throughout their entire life, inclusive of both undergraduate and graduate school, had been the smartest people they'd ever met. Everything came easily to them and they never had to struggle to understand anything. They were the smartest people they'd ever met and everything came easily to them not because they were super geniuses, but because they'd never been challenged. And they'd never cared to challenge themselves. They liked being the smartest people they'd ever met, which is really sad.

By the time they were challenged for the very first time (for example, by their first demanding job), they were already well into adulthood. And these people, rather than being boosted by confidence from being the best their whole lives, fall really really hard. I've seen some of them break down and cry because they can't handle not being the best. They can't handle having to struggle and working hard in order to understand or accomplish something.

So Lori Gottlieb's article in the Atlantic ("How to Land Your Kid In Therapy"; July/August 2011 issue) resonated well with me. Gottlieb described her observations as a psychologist. Many of her patients seemed to have great childhoods and great parents, but they were really unhappy as adults even though there appeared to be nothing to be unhappy about. When Gottlieb delved deeper, it appeared that these patients often had one thing in common - parents that were overprotective of their childrens' self-esteem, the kind of parents who call a teacher and ask that she not use a red pen when correcting their child's homework because red ink makes their child anxious, who come running and comforting the minute their toddler starts to cry, who would rather have their child be labeled with a learning disability to explain non-stellar academic performance than have their child be branded "average." This overprotection of self-esteem, Gottlieb argues, is bad for children because they don't learn how to deal with real life, which is much different than the kind of lives their parents are preparing them for.

These children grew up to be adults who were unprepared to deal with any setbacks in life, even relatively minor ones. In other words, they don't know how to get back up because they don't know how to fall.

I've been plagiarized

2011-07-29T04:32:00.000-05:00

A fervent loonie has "written" an essay opening with a paragraph alleging that most university professors are Communists (of course, for all I know, this opening paragraph may have been itself plagiarized), then has copied and pasted my "How to Demoralize Thoroughly Your Graduate Student" post from 2005, then had added other paragraphs at the end. (By the way, the loonie is apparently either so stupid that he/she missed that my post was sarcastic, or willfully uncomprehending.)

I wrote to the owners of the publishing site where the loonie's essay was published. We will see if I get any response.

***
Dear Scribd,

One of your users, confede, has plagiarized my blog post from 2005. I published "How to demoralize thoroughly your graduate student" in 2005 on my blog (link here: http://impropaganda.blogspot.com/2005/08/how-to-demoralize-thoroughly-your.html) and I noticed today that this essay is copied in its entirety, sandwiched between other paragraphs that are not mine, on scribd:

http://www.scribd.com/doc/51909777/Inventors-and-Instruments-of-Demoralization

Although my blog is linked on the title, the way that confede's post is "written" gives the impression that "How to demoralize thoroughly your graduate student" is his/her work. If there was any intention that my post was simply quoted (in full) and not plagiarized, it is not clear from reading confede's post where my work ends and the paragraphs he/she appended after it begin. Thus, even as a "quotation" (in full) of my work, it fails.

I would appreciate if Scribd could take steps to address this matter.

Sincerely,
Suzanne
***

Can you tell me what an "insurgent" looks like?

2011-07-28T06:45:00.007-05:00

This past weekend, a NATO strike killed at least 80 human beings. This loss of human life was unfortunately overshadowed by the massacre in Norway that occurred last Friday, deemed less important because the strike took place in Afghanistan (where loss of human life is usually considered nothing to get upset about in the West), and downplayed by some creative word play.

Both the New York Times and the CNN website featured articles about it, although they're not as easy to find as the photo of the Norwegian Christian fundamentalist who committed mass murder last Friday (Could news outlets please stop printing that glamour shot of his? To have his self-selected glamour shot printed in every newspaper is exactly what he wants.) One way in which the articles differ is that CNN quotes NATO as saying that fifty of the eighty dead were "insurgents" (1) and the New York Times article (2) conveniently omits any details regarding how many of the eighty dead were actually insurgents. In fact, unless one reads the NYT article carefully and skeptically, one would likely get the impression from the way it was written that all killed were "insurgents." And if all were "insurgents," it just makes it a lot easier to feel good about ourselves and continue believing in the Holy Righteousness of all war waged ostensibly on our behalf.

But what is an "insurgent" anyway? Merriam-Webster's first definition of an "insurgent" is "a person who revolts against civil authority or an established government; especially : a rebel not recognized as a belligerent." (3) The Vietnamese who were resisting French and then American occupation/invasion were considered "insurgents." Iraqis who were resisting the American invasion were considered "insurgents." Basically, to most of us in the West, an "insurgent" is anyone who is on the other side, because the only "civil authorities" or "established governments" are the ones that we in the West recognize, which usually means an "authority" or "government" that we propped up and/or support monetarily and militarily.

Nevertheless, if you try to understand the meaning of "insurgent" as it is used in news articles in the West and in press releases from organizations like NATO, it is actually much looser than the Merriam-Webster definition. It also includes anyone who was killed by a NATO/US/other Western power strike, and whose murder is more conveniently justified if one uses a label that strips the victim of her or his humanity.

The deadly NATO strike last weekend is nothing new, and neither is invoking "insurgent" or a similar term (such as "militant") to downplay the loss of human life (4, 5, 6, and 7). In some cases, NATO has claimed that those they killed were "insurgents," while local authorities and civilians have claimed that they were civilians (4). When it is harder to deny that civilians were killed, NATO has justified the strikes by insisting that "the strike was against insurgents" (6) or saying that the strikes were "in retaliation for an insurgent attack" (7).

Killing first and negatively labeling later is a tried and true method, not one invented by NATO. For example, during the war in Vietnam, the US military often posthumously labeled anyone they killed as "VC" (8, 9). This method is attractive because it makes reports of deaths palatable to the American public and other Westerners. The method works because most people won't go beyond the label, whether the label is "insurgent," "militant," "VC," or "military-aged male."

It is too much work, and too disillusioning, to think about who is covered by the label. It is much easier to keep using the label "insurgent" even if we don't have any idea what an insurgent actually looks like.

Notes/references
(1) "Gunbattle in Afghanistan leaves 80 militants dead, governor says," CNN.com, July 24, 2011.

(2) "Toll Climbs to 80 in NATO Raid on Insurgent Camp in Southeastern Afghanistan," The New York Times, July 23, 2011.

(3) Merriam Webster dictionary entry for "insurgent."

(4) "Afghanistan: 'Twelve dead' at protest over Nato raid," BBC News, May 18, 2011.

(5) "Afghan officials: Up to 16 civilians killed in NATO strike," CNN, July 12, 2011.

(6) "Nato air strike in Afghanistan kills scores," The Guardian, September 4, 2009.

(7) "Afghan officials say NATO strike killed 14 in residential area," Los Angeles Times, May 30, 2011.

(8) "The Village of Ben Suc" (1968) and "The Military Half"(1968) by Jonathan Schell, as published in the book collection "The Real War." See especially pages 91-93, pages 126-127,

page 327: "'When we kill a pregnant woman, we count it as two V.C. - one soldier and one cadet,' he said. Everyone laughed."
and
page 241: "... a Vietnamese who had been shot by our troops was almost invariably a 'confirmed V.C.' (The soldiers had a joke that ran, 'Anything that's dead and isn't white is a V.C.' The practice that had grown up of judging the guilt of a Vietnamese by what we happened to do to him could be clearly seen in the Army's use of the category 'detainees.'"

(9) Vietnam, Inc. (2001 edition) by Philip Jones Griffiths (Phaidon Press Limited).
See especially the caption on page 60: "A platoon from the 1st Cavalry... kills still another civilian (posthumously elevated to the rank of VC like all the rest)."

and the caption on page 54: "Wounded VC suspect, regarded by these men of the 1st Cavalry Division as more likely to be 'hard-core' VC simply because he was already wounded when he was delivered to them for interrogation. He later turned out to be an innocent farmer.

Things that escape peer review, part 1 of many

2011-07-26T01:56:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, I read an article in the New York Times about an article published in Science about supernova 1987A. The study of supernova 1987A provided clues about the source of cosmic dust that, for example, can be used to form planets. When I read the article (published July 7) on July 8, it contained a statement that shocked me:

"The supernova occurred in 1987 in a small galaxy known as the Large Magellanic Cloud, about 160,000 light-years away. It occurred when an aging star’s core collapsed, creating a violent explosion visible to the naked eye from Earth."

I then sent the following letter to the New York Times:

To the Editor:
What astronomers actually observe

Sindya Bhanoo’s article of July 7 (“Getting a Handle on Cosmic Dust Caused by Supernovas”, Observatory) contains a gross factual error that can contribute to public misunderstanding of basic astronomy. Bhanoo’s article refers to the supernova as having occurred 25 years ago in 1987 in a galaxy located about 160,000 light years away. If the supernova only occurred 25 years ago, we would not have been able to observe it yet, because light and other radiation would take about 160,000 years to travel from that galaxy to Earth. The supernova was first observed on Earth in 1987, but it happened around 160,000 light years ago. This distinction is important. Light takes time to travel. When astronomers observe far into the skies, they are observing events that happened long in the past.

I checked the press release on the website of the European Space Agency (ESA), the agency that oversees the Herschel Space Observatory. There were actually several different articles on supernova 1987A on the ESA website, and one of them also contained a similar error.

In the meantime, a friend pointed out to me that the original Science article also wrote about the supernova as occurring in 1987:

We report far-infrared and submillimeter observations of Supernova 1987A, the star that exploded on 23 February 1987 in the Large Magellanic Cloud, a galaxy located 160,000 light years away

I purchased a copy of the full Science article, and the error is repeated elsewhere in the article. I should note that Science is a peer-reviewed journal.

I wrote letters to both the ESA and Science. The editors managing the ESA website got back to me and they corrected their press release. Although the New York Times did not reply to me, they published a correction on July 13, 2011 addressing the issue I raised in my letter. (I imagine I'm not likely the only one to have pointed out the error to them.)

Although two articles intended for the lay public (the New York Times article and the press release from the ESA) were promptly corrected, Science has not, as of this writing, corrected the article or published any letter pointing out this gross error. So I hope you don't believe everything you read in Science.

Soundbites

2010-02-07T22:07:00.005-05:00

I once read that Noam Chomsky didn't particularly like being interviewed by the mainstream media, essentially because of the tendency of mainstream journalists to reduce complex issues to soundbites that don't do justice to the story being told.

When I was younger, everything I thought worth writing turned into a cogent story or essay carefully drafted in my notebook. If I wasn't bringing a book to read during my parents' friends' dinner parties, I brought a notebook to write in. I had periods in my life during which I wrote in a notebook every day, and I wrote everything from accounts of things that happened in real life to contemplations about the future to creative pieces. Writing became such a habit in my life, and a stress-relieving one, that when I was drafting my Ph.D. thesis, I would often take a break by writing creatively.

After many years of writing in my private notebooks, I forced myself to put some of my work in public view. I started a blog partly so that I could become used to exposing my writing to others and to receive feedback about it.

As my schedule became more hectic with my new job at a law firm, I've written much less. It's been ages since I've written anything creative. When I return to creative pieces I've begun and wanted to expand, I find myself at a complete loss for ideas. It's as though my mind has shrunk.

Although I want to blame my "situation" of being in a job that forces me to write as uncreatively as possible drafting patent specifications, in reality, I think my loss in creativity is due to disuse of that skill. I no longer find myself weaving intricate tales or crafting clever pieces. I'm reduced to occasionally clever Facebook status updates, and am tempted to use one-line Twitter updates as well.

Essentially, I've reduced myself to occasional soundbites that don't do justice to the stories I could tell.

Eyes, eyes, groin, groin

2010-01-03T02:29:00.002-05:00

Caltech line-by-line #6

As a freshman, I sometimes studied late at night at Millikan library, the campus's main library. One night as I was taking the elevator in Millikan to my "favorite floor," there was a man in the elevator with me who looked somewhat familiar. He kept glancing at me as we were both riding the elevator. I clutched my physics textbook, "the Mechanical Universe," close to me and eyed him suspiciously. We were alone in the elevator. I got off at my favorite floor while he stayed in the elevator.

Then after a few hours of studying I noticed him coming onto my floor and walking around and looking at me. Then I packed my belongings and left, heading into the elevator. He headed into the elevator with me.

I was taking a self-defense course that quarter and the class really heightened my awareness. I was alone in the elevator with a man who seemed to be following me, and all I could think about was what self-defense maneuvers I would execute on him should he attack me. I decided that I'd definitely incorporate a maneuver called "eyes, eyes, groin, groin". He leaned in toward me. I clutched "the Mechanical Universe" closer with one arm and readied my hand on the other side to jab at his eyes.

He cleared his throat and began talking.

"Um... so... I couldn't help but notice you're taking Phys 1? How are you finding that class? I'm one of the TAs."

I then realized that he was in fact one of the teaching assistants for the class, though not the TA for my section. And after a few awkward seconds, I realized that he was not about to attack me, but was awkwardly trying to have a conversation, Caltech style.

It still would have been nicer if he didn't follow me around though.

Was it worth it?

2010-01-03T01:21:00.003-05:00

I was asked recently by a law student I met at my firm's reception if my Ph.D. was worth it. Although it has been some time since my awful experience commonly euphemistically named "graduate school," I would still say I'm not sure it was worth it.

I repeatedly received much unsolicited counsel from colleagues - and even friends - advising me that my life would be a disaster should I choose to leave the program without a Ph.D. But they didn't know what staying in my thesis laboratory was doing to me. If I'd had had to deal with yet one more manipulation from people who were supposed to help nurture my professional development, I would have left whether or not I had any degree to show for it. And I have full confidence in myself that I would have found another path in life.

I acknowledge that my Ph.D., now that I've gotten it, has opened doors. However, the experience euphemistically known as "graduate school" considerably damaged my sense of self.

Also, there are many other things that I could have done with that near decade of my life that would have opened doors. I've no doubt that some of those other doors lead to something better than what I have now. A decade of work experience would have also opened many doors. A J.D. degree straight out of college plus years of work experience would have actually netted me further along the path of working in a law firm than I am now, which is at the bottom of the totem pole somewhere close to paralegals and occasionally lower than the assistants. Several years living and working in a foreign country learning a new culture and a foreign language would have opened MANY doors that my Ph.D. from MIT won't.

I'm not saying, of course, that I'd necessarily choose any of the paths that I've written down as examples, or that those paths don't have their own drawbacks. But I do note that plenty of people who do not have Ph.D.s from MIT lead fulfilling lives, whether professionally, personally, or both. And some of those people have started Ph.D. programs and have left. Many paths in life are possible.

So considering how low my graduate school experiences brought me, I would again say I'm not sure it was worth it. And I still think that all those people who tried to counsel me into thinking that my life was going to end unless I got a Ph.D. from MIT fundamentally do not understand that there are many things in life much more important than a piece of paper.

Endings

2009-12-30T02:33:00.003-05:00

"I am nevertheless most grateful to the people who have influenced me outside of the laboratory. It would not have been possible for me to complete any of this work without their encouragement. Among my family, friends, former teachers, and confidants, I am lucky to know so many people who understand my need for self-expression. I acknowledge them for reminding me that the most important things in life cannot be contained in any thesis, lab notebook, or research paper."

That's how I ended the Acknowledgement section of my Ph.D. thesis. Somehow reading that again made me happy about myself.

Strong in 2010

2009-12-24T23:01:00.003-05:00

For some years, I've formulated New Year's resolutions by picking a theme and then trying to live up to it. I had "2001, the Year of Living Dangerously," the year I tried to live more boldly and take more risks in decision-making. Then I had "Hot Body 2002," which involved exercising more regularly and eating better. Then I had "Hot Body 2003," and then "Hot Body 2004, Dammit!" and then a few years in which I went without New Year's Resolutions altogether.

For 2010 I've decided to pick an adjective that I want to describe me well. 2010's theme will be "Strong." I like this adjective because it embodies several goals all in one. It can motivate me to get back on a regular exercise schedule again, and work on attaining that ever-elusive upper arm strength I've been coveting since the summer after my sophomore year in college. (Hundredpushups.com and climbing wall, here I come!) I'd also like the adjective "strong" to describe my emotional state and overall personality. I'm going to re-bound more quickly every time anything or anyone knocks me down, brush the dust off my clothes, and forge right along. That's what strong people do.

Still waiting for that creative mojo to come back

2009-12-13T19:58:00.002-05:00

It's been gone for about 5 years at least. I used to write more, both online and off. I had more to write about. I could cite being busy at my job as the main excuse for my not writing as much (and before I got my job, I could cite my frantic rush to finish my Ph.D. and look for a job), but even when I do find myself with free time, I find that I have few if any interesting thoughts to convey.

It is very sad. I wonder if there is a correlation between working in a profession where my main task is to write in a very boring way and the self-reported decline in my creative spark.

The Neon Boob

2009-11-13T23:57:00.002-05:00

Caltech line by line #5

My TA for the physics lab class I took (which was more of an introduction to data analysis) had a heavy French accent. Before people started running their experiments, he would go around and talk individually to each student and make sure they had understood their preparatory homework and the experiment properly.

When he came to speak to me one time, he started by saying "Today... oui are going to do an experiment with a new-on boob."

"Excuse me?" I said. I was the only girl in the class, but still, it seemed kind of incredible that my TA would try to hit on me.

"Oui will play with the new-on boob today" he insisted.

"Huh?" I said.

Finally I realized he was talking about the neon bulb experiment.

My physics TA was hot

2009-11-13T23:51:00.003-05:00

Caltech line by line #4

Whenever he held review sessions, my best friend and I would come and sit in the front row, and we would scribble nerdy jokes on each other's notes: "Oscillate me baby!" "I want to be underdamped!"

No, really, I am listening

2009-11-13T23:45:00.003-05:00

Caltech line by line #3

Quantum mechanics homework was due twice a week: on Mondays and Wednesdays. In other words, on Sunday nights and Tuesday nights I didn't sleep.

Chemistry lab was on Mondays and Wednesdays from 8 am to 11 am.

One time in chemistry lab, I was standing while my TA went over the experiments for the day with me and my lab partner. I woke up to "Suzanne! Wake up! Wake up! You're falling asleep while standing up!"

5-minute napping

2009-11-04T23:20:00.004-05:00

Caltech line by line #2

Class got out ten minutes early once. Instead of heading to my next class and waiting in that classroom, I biked to my dorm room, took a five-minute nap, and then biked to my next class. I was that sleep-deprived.

Caltech line by line

2009-11-04T00:09:00.003-05:00

As I've been assembling my applications to law school, thinking about my unimpressive undergraduate GPA and reviewing my transcript from Caltech has brought back many memories, both good and bad.

I suddenly became inspired to write a series of short posts about my time there. (Well, I've become inspired by my memories to write a serious of posts; lack of time inspires me to keep them short.)

Here's my first post in a series about Caltech, one line at a time:

"He pontificated that admissions standards were lower for girls... as I was helping him with his calculus homework."

Are you laughing or are you crying?

2009-06-23T18:23:00.004-05:00

I once read some advice about boyfriends. To figure out if he's worth keeping, ask yourself if he makes you cry more than he makes you laugh. I've followed this advice and have found it very helpful in my romantic life.

But only recently have I come to realize that this advice should be followed when it comes to analyzing other relationships as well. In a certain big relationship in my life, I feel like I'm on a roller coaster. Overall I can't help but think of the low points and how they negatively affect my well-being, as well as my relationships with others. I would chalk up today as a day that this relationship made me cry. If I keep getting more of these days, I think it's time for me to move on. Of course, that's easier said than done.

UPDATE:
Since I couldn't sleep due to thinking nonstop about today's really bad incident, I created an Excel spreadsheet to help me analyze this relationship rationally.

In column 1 I put dates, e.g., June 23, 2009.

Columns 2-4 are intended to be filled with checkmarks, as appropriate. Column 2 is titled "My __ made me feel good about myself." (For other relationships, I'd label this "My __ made me laugh," but I'm being realistic about this particular relationship. It hardly ever makes me laugh.) Column 3 is titled "My __ made me cry and/or really hate life." Column 4 is titled "I couldn't sleep because of my __."

Column 5 is for comments. Entries for June 2-7 and June 22 included the comment "___ hell," and this comment seems to be very characteristic of this relationship, especially in the past month.

So far most of the checkmarks are in column 3, although I'm just going to keep in mind that the last two months have been particularly difficult.

The sick plan-loving part of me

2009-04-25T18:46:00.003-05:00

When I ordered a set of Turbo Jam (TM) workout DVDs (which I highly recommend), it came with a brochure outlining a 10-day plan to "kick start" my metabolism. For each day in the plan, there are recommended meals and snacks (along with recipes) and a recommended workout. The brochure beckoned to me this morning as I was deciding between different Turbo Jam or Yoga Booty Ballet DVDs for my morning workout.

I like plans. And despite my rebellious nature, there's a sick part of me that occasionally enjoys sticking to plans that other people lay out for me and/or being told what to do. This sick part of me is the reason the hundredpushups.com plan appeals to me, even though I can't motivate myself to do more pushups on my own. I need(ed) a plan to outline the schedule, number of sets, and number of pushups each set. This sick, plan-loving part of me also attracted me to martial arts, because in martial arts training, you usually have a master of some sort who tells you how to train.

So, as the plan-loving part of me was getting excited this morning, I thought, "why not try the Turbo Jam 10-day plan?" It isn't so much that I want to lose weight (though I have noticed that I somehow gained 10 pounds in the last year and a half, despite working out more than ever), but that I want to think about my food differently. Overall, I am impulsive with food. I eat according to mood, and go through phases when I eat voraciously (example: an entire pizza for dinner one night). I don't plan my food well. Most of the time my mind blanks entirely as to what I could cook for myself, and most of the time, by the time I realize that I'm hungry, I'm too hungry to eat anything other than already prepared foods.

So a plan for meals and recipes was especially appealing to me. The Turbo Jam 10-day plan mostly involves chicken and turkey, both of which I don't like. So I am substituting chicken and turkey with tofu and veggie substitutes. For lunch today (day 1 of the plan), I made a tuna salad with lettuce, spinach, capers, onions, egg, mustard, olive oil, and lemon. (I added the lemon even though it wasn't part of the recipe.) It was astoundingly delicious, and so much healthier than the food I usually eat.

I realized as I was shopping for ingredients to cook these meals that the Turbo Jam 10-day plan was forcing me to buy more fresh vegetables and berries, both of which tend to be kind of expensive here in Boston.

I also realized, as I was eating according to the plan for day 1, that I was eating more food (in terms of quantity, not likely in terms of calories) than I'm used to eating. It's 8 pm, and even though I got up at 7 am, I've only so far eaten the breakfast, lunch, and two snacks for the day. I don't think I'm hungry enough to eat the dinner today.

I really appreciate that the plan shows me tasty ways to eat my vegetables and make sure I get enough protein.

My Get Out of Jail Card

2009-03-24T22:35:00.000-05:00

(**I wrote this over two years ago, when I was writing up my thesis. Somehow it was still sitting in my 'drafts' box.**)

My friend Anne says that the PhD thesis is the longest form you'll ever fill out. It's not as though anyone actually cares what is written in your thesis, so long as they aren't trying to find excuses to tell you you can't graduate.

I read in Nature a "graduate journal" account of someone who was finishing up her PhD. She said that completing a PhD was like running a marathon - and it felt good at the end, and she would never been able to do it without the support of her family and friends.

I think that's a really nice picture, but as much as I dislike running, I think the marathon analogy doesn't describe my experience accurately. Even I start to feel good after I've run the first three miles in any course. Grad school started to suck after the first few years.

I think doing a PhD is akin to being in jail. For some programs, where the length and the requirements to graduate are murky, you don't even know when you'll get out of jail. I feel completely trapped in my PhD program and feel like I'm being punished for a bad decision I made over 8 (gasp!) years ago. That bad decision was deciding to go to grad school. I had been working as a lab technician and wanted to get credit for the work I did for a change. It turns out that, while it's much easier for a grad student than a technician to receive due credit, being a grad student is no protection against intellectual theft and etcetera.

Unlike the author of the "graduate journal" entry in Nature, I don't feel all warm and fuzzy inside about my (not yet obtained) PhD. I'm not proud of my "accomplishments" in grad school, at least not the ones having to do directly with grad school. I do feel like I've grown and changed, but that was in spite of my experiences in the program and certainly not because of the mentorship I received. I'm quite sure that the ways in which I've developed as a person is not valued in my field of research.

So as I've been writing my thesis, and the paper that is also now required of me to graduate, I've been thinking about what Anne said. It really does feel like I am filling out a long, tedious, form. I could not be more bored. But I'm also starting to view the paper and the thesis as my "get out of jail card." Maybe that will motivate me to do what I need to do to get out.

Drowned out

2009-03-24T22:14:00.007-05:00

I dreamt that my sister had a child out of wedlock. I was in a car with my parents, my sister, and her new baby boy. The baby boy was sleeping soundly in the back seat and I was looking at it, thinking how adorable it was. I was thinking how it was cool that my parents were happy about the baby and not at all freaking out about the fact that the child was born out of wedlock, and that we didn't know who the father is. (Presumably my sister did but she didn't tell us.)

I was excited about the baby and asked my sister something about the baby. (I probably asked something like "How much did he weigh when he was born?") My sister lashed out angrily at me and yelled at me for asking her any questions or attempting to converse with her at all: "WHY? WHY ARE YOU ASKING ME?") (This is exactly how she responded in real life when I asked her last Christmas how her new job in California was going.) It was as though she were angry at the world, and while everyone else focused on the new and exciting life that joined our family, she could only stew in anger for God-knows-what reason.

Suddenly she and I were in a noisy pub and I told her bluntly what I always felt - that she was just an asshole who had no consideration for other people. I may have used the term "social miscreant." But the noise in the pub drowned me out so that no one could hear me, and it didn't matter anyway, because she was ignoring me.

One day you will realize that you are wrong...

2009-02-01T13:56:00.004-05:00

I dreamt that a guy with whom I had been briefly involved and whom I hadn't seen in quite a while suddenly appeared and asked me if I wanted to go for a walk. It was night time and we walked along a lighted brick pathway not far from where I lived. I didn't think he had any agenda, but after a while he made it clear that he had something to tell me.

He brought me to a street vendor who knew what he wanted to tell me. She produced a sheet of paper describing what it was he had wanted to tell me. He didn't say anything to me and gestured for me to read the sheet of paper. I was confused, and only skimmed the piece of paper. From the sheet of paper I found out that he had been out of town a lot, but hadn't been on vacation or business trips like I thought he had been. He had been going to Vietnam and working for the French intelligence, sort of like the equivalent of the CIA. And he had been there around the times there were terrorist attacks on Vietnamese citizens. (This is an anachronism - though the dream took place in the present day, the reference to French presence in Vietnam clearly related to the 40s in Vietnam when the French was trying to maintain Vietnam as a colony.)

Even though it had not been explicitly stated, it was clear that my erstwhile romantic interest had been engaging in terrorist attacks responsible for killing hundreds of Vietnamese. It didn't make any sense because he wasn't even French, but amidst my confusion it was perfectly clear to me I didn't want to see him again, ever.

We didn't say anything to each other as I walked away angrily. He was following me at a distance from the other side of the street as I was walking toward my apartment. I was trembling with anger. I didn't entertain any thoughts as to him changing or wondering why he worked for the French intelligence in Vietnam. I didn't feel any sadness that I wouldn't see him anymore. It was as though I never had any feelings for him; he was just a monster to me.

I wanted to be away from him and have nothing further to do with him. He was still following me, so finally I turned to him and yelled "One day you will realize that you are wrong to kill my people!"

Then I turned my back to him and ran into the subway to lose him.

21

2009-01-13T00:47:00.002-05:00

"I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch,
He said to me, you must not ask for so much.
And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door,
She cried to me, hey, why not ask for more?"
- Leonard Cohen

I was probably not more than 8 when my cousin explained to me the rules of 21, otherwise known as Blackjack. I thought it was the second stupidest card game ever. I thought the stupidest card game was War, in which you shuffle, divide the deck among two players, flip cards, and determine who wins the round by who has the higher card. Blackjack didn't seem much more intellectually involved than War.

"So that's it? You just decide if you want another card or stick with what you've got?"

"Yeah, that's how you play 21."

It seemed too simple to be a card game, let alone a card game that adults played and bet money on. It was binary. Do you want more or is that enough?

But even though the decisions are binary, there's a lot more to 21 than saying "more" or "enough." If you ask for too much, then you lose. If you don't ask for more at the right time, you lose. You have to know when to stop and when to ask for more.

And isn't most of life like a big game of 21? Most of our decisions can be broken down into binary questions like more/enough, more/less, etc. Should I put on another layer of clothes, or am I warm enough? Should I put on a more or less revealing outfit for tonight? Should I add more salt, or have I already added enough? Harder decisions are also often binary. Should I share more of myself, or have I already given too much of myself? Should I tell my friend more of the truth (which might hurt her), or have I already said enough? Should I wear my heart on my sleeve one more time, or has it been paraded in public enough already? Should I stay here any longer, or have I already been here too long?

Sadly, just as when I was 8, I'm still not good at 21.

City Life

2009-01-13T00:02:00.002-05:00

"I never liked this apple much
It always seemed too big to touch"

- John Mayer

A few days ago, I read an article in Real Estate section of the New York Times featuring houses that could be bought for about $600,000. I do not have $600,000, but I was curious what sort of houses could be bought for that amount in today's economy. The first house featured in the article was a huge four-bedroom three-bath house on Great Diamond Island near Portland, Maine. The house is spacious and comfortable-looking, and life on Great Diamond Island is a lot different than the life I'm used to. According to the article, Great Diamond Island's general store is open only seasonally; most people take a ferry to Portland to shop for groceries. One thing that seems especially appealing to me was that there are no cars on the island; people ride bikes or golf carts.

As intriguing as life on a carless island seems, it also seems so different and isolated, I couldn't really picture myself living somewhere like Great Diamond Island. I repeated to myself my supposed need to be in a densely populated city. I needed to be around a lot of people.

But last night, I lay awake thinking about my life in this city. Sure enough, on my way to work, at work, on my way home, at the grocery store, etc., I encounter plenty of people. But how much of that encounter involves really talking? What is the point, I thought, of being around other people if we are all mostly strangers who put on iPods and avoid eye contact whenever possible? What is the point of living in a city close to your neighbors when you don't know who your neighbors are and can't count on them to notice if something's wrong? What is the point of encountering a lot of people every day, if most of the time we all view each other as nuisances who walk too slowly in front of us on the sidewalk or who talk too loudly on our cellphones?

This city lifestyle is really starting to bother me.

"Did you think I was cute when I was a baby?"

2009-01-03T00:55:00.004-05:00

When I was at my parents' house recently, I spent quite a bit of time with my six-year-old cousin Izzy. At one point, he asked me out of the blue, "Did you think I was cute when I was a baby?"

His mother was within earshot and explained to me that Izzy is really insecure (despite being absolutely adorable) and would ask those questions a lot. It made me think about insecurities and how we think of and deal with them. We tend to psychoanalyze people we don't like in the context of their insecurities. (For example, "He can't stand people with stellar credentials because he's insecure about his own resume.") But although we ridicule insecurity-ridden people, I know very few people who don't have, at some point or another, an insecurity about something. So I don't think having insecurities is the mark of a bad or deficient person.

In the past, I used to react uncharitably to questions (like Izzy's) that were driven by insecurity and that sought reassurance from me. I'd respond to "Does my stomach look fatter?" with a "Yes" without even looking. I just didn't want to have to deal with that sort of question again, and I figured by providing an unkind answer, I wouldn't be asked again.

But Izzy's question made me think that questions like that aren't so bad after all. Those questions are mostly harmless. I've had enough with adults who deal with their insecurities by manipulating others and/or waging stupid territorial wars. And I've decided that it's much better to be naked about your insecurities and seek reassurances by asking questions like Izzy's than to play mind games.

Oh, NOW you like me!

2009-01-03T00:49:00.003-05:00

I dreamt that I was dating a nice guy who was just okay-looking. I wasn't that into him, but he was very nice. He kept making plans to have dinner with me every night, and I was undecided about whether this high-maintenance relationship was what I really wanted. On the one hand, it was nice to be seeing someone nice for a change. On the other, I wasn't used to seeing someone so often and doing everything together.

Shortly after I realized I was in a relationship with the nice okay-looking guy, I realized that several very attractive guys I knew were interested in me. Then I became annoyed that either I didn't realize that other people were interested in me until after I was in a relationship, or the very attractive guys didn't become interested in me until I was dating someone else.

I think this dream might have been related to my recent obsessions/musings about what would have happened if I'd married ex-future husband number one. I wrote about it before in a negative way, but lately have been wondering if it would have been so bad after all.

Vampire Lady

2008-12-30T20:33:00.001-05:00

I dreamt that I was staying at a bed and breakfast with some friends somewhere in Boston near Fenway Park. The woman who ran the bed and breakfast was young and attractive, but also a vampire. Vampire Lady got a lot of business out of “father and son” night at Fenway Park, because (according to the dream I was in), fathers and sons would make a night of it and just crash at a nearby place, such as Vampire Lady’s bed and breakfast.

Vampire Lady went on a blood-sucking and killing spree that left several people dead in her courtyard. I knew she was the culprit, but it was as though I were in a B-horror movie, and everyone wasn’t supposed to figure that out until the end of the movie. So I didn’t accuse Vampire Lady to her face, or even run to the authorities. I was really scared of her.

At one point, I was standing in the courtyard of Vampire Lady’s bed and breakfast. Vampire Lady was standing outside the closed glass door of the courtyard, flirting with and seducing two men. I could hear her giggling through the door. Suddenly I saw the two men being slammed against the glass door and then collapsing down to the ground as they died, with their blood leaving huge stains on the glass door. It was exactly the sort of scene you’d see in a B horror flick!

In the next scene in the B horror flick, I was at the Harvard Stadium running up and down the steps to exercise. I was alone, and I suddenly wished I’d convinced some friends to come with me. I was in the middle of running up some steps during my second repetition, when I saw Vampire Lady enter the stadium and start running steps herself. No one else was in the stadium aside from her and me.

My heart started beating very quickly as I thought about the possibility of Vampire Lady coming over and sucking my blood. I finished running up the steps, and then ran down again. I pretended I was done with my workout even though I had only done two reps. I tried to gather my belongings as quickly as possible without appearing panicked or scared. For some reason I’d brought every pair of gloves I owned with me to the stadium and had dumped them along with several of my coats in a pile at the stadium. So it was taking a long time for me to gather my stuff. As I was gathering my belongings, a friend of mine whom I know from Taekwondo called me on my cell phone. I didn’t pick up in time and tried calling her back, but then she didn’t pick up either. She left me a voicemail telling me that she figured out what I already knew – that the woman who owned the bed and breakfast was a vampire. Even though I couldn’t connect on the phone with my friend, I pressed the phone to my ear and pretended to be talking to someone, so that Vampire Lady would guess that I was telling people where I was and who else was there.

The dream ended there.

The Yellow Belt Period

2008-12-23T22:48:00.003-05:00

In the Taekwondo club of which I'm a part, the yellow belt is one of the first color belts you earn after starting as white belt (complete novice). The yellow belt is a really sweet period to practice Taekwondo, because you're just starting to learn basic techniques, and not much is expected of you (at least in my club). All it takes to impress is a willingness to learn and maybe a little bit of aptitude. Because you're not expected to know that much, but are applauded for what you have learned, being a yellow belt is really fun.

At more advanced stages, everything becomes more complicated and difficult. Much more is expected of you, and you start to expect much more of yourself as well. For example, I've started to become really embarrassed that I'm not better at certain things at my stage. I was much less afraid to make mistakes and embarrass myself when I was a yellow belt.

I realized today that many things in life have a yellow belt period. Recently I decided to spend more time cultivating foreign language skills I started acquiring in grad school and last year. I searched meetup.com for language speaking groups and found a French one, a German one, and an Italian one. All of them claimed to welcome "all levels of speakers," but the only one I put on my calendar was the Italian one.

That's because I'm in my yellow belt period of Italian. My knowledge of Italian is limited to 30 lessons of Pimsleur and four days in Italy (half of which was spent asleep, exhausted from jet lag and work). I know that I don't know much Italian, but I'm not afraid to sit down at a cafe and embarrass myself in front of strangers. I figure that I'll be forgiven because I'm such a novice.

I'm past my yellow belt periods in French and German. And that's precisely why, even though the meetup groups claim to welcome "all levels of speakers," I've self-censored myself as "not good enough" to go chit chat in French or German with strangers. I know that I should know the subjunctive form of certain verbs in French, or how to interject precisely the right phrase to convey the right tone, or what gender all the nouns should take in German. But I've forgotten. So I know that I don't know things I used to know, and furthermore, I know enough French and German to know that I'm not that good. I figure that I won't be forgiven so easily because I should speak more fluently by now.

It makes me sad to remember how brave I was to speak German on my first trip to Germany. I'd had only one semester of German, but I felt undaunted to go off on my own and navigate subway systems in cities I'd never visited. I always began conversations with strangers in German, and don't recall ever switching to English with them.

Now when I contemplate trying to find someone with whom I can practice German, I feel like I have to preface it with "but my German's really rusty." As for my French, it's so far behind that I'm not sure I could really go through with a practice session of any sort, for fear butchering the language in front of a native speaker.

But I know that I won't get better at any language until I go back to being unafraid of making mistakes and embarrassing myself again. In other words, I need to become a yellow belt again.

Faking it II

2008-12-09T01:20:00.002-05:00

There's a Sex and the City episode in which Miranda has to fake being excited about a sonogram because everyone else expects her to be excited about finding out that she is having a boy. After trying to fight everyone else's expectations, she gives up. She responds to someone else's "Oh my God, Miranda! You're having a boy! Aren't you so excited? Oh my God!" with an obviously fake and forced smile.

Miranda had to fake it, but wasn't good at it.

I'm not good at faking it either. In fact, I'm terrible. I don't have to fake being excited about any sonograms, but I often feel like I'm expected to fake a personality I don't have. My mother would always lecture me growing up that girls have to smile all the time, and in a way so have most other people I've encountered. Despite being 33 years old, I guess I still fall under the category of "girls." It seems that if I don't go around smiling and giggling a lot, I'm scolded by any number of people, including random office mates with whom I barely converse, complete strangers on the subway, and cab drivers.

"Smile!"

Like Miranda, I've put up a resistance. I've wanted to yell back something like "What, I'm not giggly enough for you? Would you ask me to smile so much I were a fat hairy old man? I think not."

But, again like Miranda, I think I'm going to give in and give a fake and forced smile. I might even emit a fake giggle: "Tee hee! Tee hee hee!" The last thing that the Smile Enforcers will get from me is any shred of genuineness.

Meta-feelings

2008-12-09T01:11:00.002-05:00

I was introduced to this concept by a friend of mine. Meta-feelings are how you feel about how you feel about something or someone.

Sometimes I feel numb or apathetic toward someone who used to mean a lot to me. And then I kind of feel bad that I'm so apathetic. But then I don't feel bad enough to actually do anything, like try to be friends with said person or stay involved in his life.

Economic hardships

2008-12-08T01:37:00.005-05:00

In an attempt to become more educated about the world around me, I starting reading the news during my lunch break at work. Last week I read an article about how economic times are so hard, some American families are not able to buy presents for their children this Christmas. The story on CNN.com featured an American family in particular. Feeling sympathetic, I clicked to read the full story. The mother of the family explained that last year, she had spent $600 on presents for their three-year-old daughter. This year, they can't afford to do that.

So by "not being able to buy presents," what they really meant is that they are no longer able to spend $600 on presents for their daughter who was three the previous year. (Do three-year olds even covet material goods, or equate love with hefty price tags, the way some adults do? And if not, is it not alarming that their parents are trying to teach them to covet and equate that way?)

The story reminded me of another one I had read two days before I read that one. The other story was about economic hardships in Haiti. Times are so hard in Haiti that Haitian mothers often have to choose which of their children will live and which will die by deciding which will get to eat and which won't.

Faking it

2008-12-08T01:28:00.000-05:00

During my most recent trip to Europe, I finally met some native French speakers who didn't mind speaking French to me: Air France stewardesses. They might have been duped into thinking that I actually speak French fluently, because our conversation was limited to my choices of beverage and of the in-flight meal. I faked French fluency by practicing the phrases in my head, then delivering them with complete confidence as the stewardesses approached me.

I was elated to speak French to a French person and not receive a scowl in return; I was even more delighted when they spoke French back to me. Before that, the only French people I'd met who did not scowl at me for attempting to speak French were my French instructors.

Speaking with the Air France stewardesses made me realize that it was easier than I thought to fake French fluency. The key was to speak with confidence and a touch of arrogance, and I would be taken for a native French speaker.

When I had dinner in Pisa later that night, I faked it in Italian by mimicking whatever the Italian restaranteur said to me. "Un acqua naturale?" he asked.

"Si, un acqua naturale, per favore," I responded, making a mental note to distinguish the kind of water I wanted when ordering water in Italy.

After my first night in Italy, it occurred to me that it might be possible to fake fluency in a foreign language, at least for surface interactions. One might be able to fake it by mastering ten or so key phrases and picking up the rest from street signs, magazine covers, and listening in on others' conversations.

Then I realized that I am often faking it in English when I talk to strangers. I fake it in English not because I have trouble with the language, but because I often don't want to make a full effort to participate in a conversation. Many a time when I find myself an unwilling participant in a conversation with a stranger, I don't actually listen. I fake it by tuning in only a fraction of the time, and by responding with a few well-placed key phrases such as "absolutely," "you're right," and "I see." I seem to fake it very well, because the strangers seem to think that I'm very engaged in the conversation. Then they leave convinced that I find them interesting and that I'll call them at the number they gave me. Then I feel bad that I faked it. But not that bad.

What Suzanne really wants

2008-12-07T23:42:00.002-05:00

This weekend, I slept in late, worked out at the gym, went to Taekwondo practice, tidied up my apartment, fixed the hem of one of my favorite dresses, had dinner with friends, partied with friends, had a few friends over for drinks, watched Alias, etc. In other words, I didn't work at all.

I want to have this kind of weekend a lot. And I also want to not feel guilty about it.

Late blooming creativity

2008-11-15T16:31:00.004-05:00

Wow. For anyone who creates, I highly recommend Malcolm Gladwell's article on late bloomers. The article was published in the New Yorker this October, but can also be found on his blog.

If you like to create (written work, visual art, whatever), and you talk to a lot of people about your creative aspirations or projects (which I counterrecommend, for reasons mentioned hereafter), you'll likely stumble across a lot of rigid ideas about how "creative" people should work, whether or not you bear the mark of a creative genius, and how you shouldn't give up your day job.

Gladwell's article was a refreshing counter to that utterly uncreative way of thinking by people who nonetheless have a lot of things to say about creativity. There are different modes of creativity, and genius isn't always associated with precociousness, Gladwell contends. I, for example, identify well with the artists he described who need to experiment, who create without necessarily knowing what they're trying to create. When I work on my bigger writing projects, I rarely know what's going to happen next. I just have to sit there and write, and I literally experiment with different things that could happen or different ways that characters can develop. It's puzzling to me when people are obssessed with "But what's going to *happen* in the novel?" or "Oh, that's original... yeah, that story's been told before."

What happened in Catch-22? Things happen, but what makes Catch-22 so great is that the way the story is told. For me, it wasn't so much what happened to Yossarian as the punch that Heller delivers with every sentence. Good writing, I submit, is about execution at least as much as the story being told.

Speaking of execution of writing, consider this passage from Gladwell's article, in which he quotes Roger Fry discussing Cézanne (a late bloomer):

"All these qualities of his inner vision were continually hampered and obstructed by Cézanne's incapacity to give sufficient verisimilitude to the personae of his drama," the great English art critic Roger Fry wrote of the early Cézanne. "With all his rare endowments, he happened to lack the comparatively common gift of illustration, the gift that any draughtsman for the illustrated papers learns in a school of commercial art; whereas, to realize such visions as Cézanne's required this gift in high degree." In other words, the young Cézanne couldn't draw.

When I read passages like that, I wonder why Fry didn't just write "The young Cézanne couldn't draw," as Malcolm Gladwell summarized. I guess if he wrote that, he couldn't use big words like "verisimilitude," and "endowments."

Dots

2008-10-28T21:22:00.002-05:00

There is a popular riddle that involves monks, some of whom have dots on their foreheads. There are many versions of this riddle, and it's Google-able, so I won't attempt to re-iterate the entire riddle. The monks have to figure out if they have a dot on their forehead, which in one version of the riddle signifies that they have a deadly contagious disease. But they don't have access to a mirror, can't communicate with each other, and can't tell by feeling their foreheads.

They have to deduce if they have a dot on their forehead based solely on the behavior of their fellow monks (who might also have dots on their foreheads). In some versions of the riddle, the monks only see each other at the nightly dinner. Those who have figured out that they have the dot on their forehead (and therefore the deadly contagious disease) have to kill themselves before the next dinner.

Sometimes I feel like I have a dot on my forehead that I can't feel or see when I look in the mirror. I have only started to deduce that there's a dot on my forehead based on other people's behavior. Most of my life I have gone around blissfully unaware that such a mark existed on my forehead. Maybe I saw it on other people's foreheads, but I never imagined that I would have a dot myself. That dot is the dot of a pathetic, desperate, and helpless loser who is also a jerk.

I never imagined that any of those words would at all describe me or my life. Perhaps I have a swollen ego or maybe I'm just delusional. I think my life is pretty good and that I'm a pretty decent person.

The behaviors of others indicate otherwise. Over the years, I have had some clues. One came from Mr. Small, whom I dated briefly after a period of intense friendship during which he and I spent nearly every day together. At the end of our brief torrid affair, Mr. Small accused me, basically, of being the most awful person who ever walked the Earth. I was so shocked by the awful picture he presented of me, I started to wonder who held the gun to his head, making him hang out with me every single day for months before we dated. Why did I never see this person who held a gun to Mr. Small's head, and why did this invisible person never just shoot Mr. Small and put him out of his insecurity-ridden misery?

There are also ongoing clues mostly from women in the their teens and twenties, who seem to think that any woman over 30, especially single ones, should be shot on the spot or at least sent to a leper colony. Such interactions have prompted me to wonder if there were a memo about 30th birthdays that I somehow missed. Even if I were to receive this memo, it's unclear how I am supposed to proceed with my life. Apologize for existing?

In any case, I've rubbed my forehead both figuratively and literally, and spent many minutes staring at myself in the mirror trying to see if there's a dot on my forehead. I can't see anything, so despite clues to the contrary, I'm just going to operate on the assumption that I'm okay and shouldn't kill myself.

Swayed

2008-10-28T20:59:00.002-05:00

I read a book recently called Sway by Ori Brafman and Rom Brafman. Sway discusses irrational behavior, a topic with which I am obsessed. The book was not as interesting to read as I'd hoped. It was a cursory survey of studies showing the humans are irrational, which (I think) most people know. Though the studies themselves were interesting, the book was strikingly lacking in analysis. For example, the book didn't explore why people think they are so rational in the first place. There also seemed to be no acknowledgement in the book that at least some people (myself included) are fully aware that they are engaging in irrational behavior, yet continue to do so. I would have felt more satisfied if the book had explored at least one interesting angle like that. (Incidentally, the lack of meta-analysis in the book left me feeling empty and likely contributed to the existential crisis I am now experiencing.)

One particular irrationality in human behavior that was not discussed in Sway is the need to have a rational explanation for everything. At least I think it is irrational to expect everything (particularly things that concern human emotions) to have a rational basis.

To me some of the most absurd attempts at rationalization tend to concern the basis of human sexual attraction. When I wrote "Night and Day", one of my earliest blog posts, I was thinking of how people try to explain why they are attracted to someone. It usually doesn't add up. People can often think of "reasons" or qualities about a person that makes the person attractive, but you can often find the same qualities in other people, and even the same combination of qualities, yet be repulsed by the other person.

I argue that sometimes it doesn't make sense to try to explain. Sometimes it makes more sense to let yourself be swayed.

China Doll

2008-10-04T12:11:00.003-05:00

My neighborhood is full of sketchy and/or disturbed characters. One weekend afternoon, I encountered separately two people (within the span of minutes) who were ranting loudly about something to no one in particular. I hope I never turn that crazy, I thought. But at the same time, I recalled reading somewhere that parents shouldn't worry if their toddlers talk to themselves, that talking to themselves actually helps children learn to sort out their thoughts and develop problem-solving skills.

I also realized that I talk to myself all the time. "Ok, Suzanne, you can do it! You can push on for six more hours and finish this draft! You can do four more pushups!" I just don't do it out loud, not in public anyway.

As I was contemplating the thin line that may or may not exist between myself and the people I deemed crazy, I encountered a hideous older guy sitting on a bench.

"Hey China doll!" he said as I was approaching the sidewalk near the bench. I was fairly certain I was the only Asian girl in a radius of about 30 meters around him, but he didn't appear to be looking directly at me. I ignored it.

"Hey China doll! Come here, my little China doll!" he said again as I walked closer to his bench.

It was now clear he was talking to/about me. Again, I avoided eye contact and ignored him as I walked past him.

I suddenly pictured certain ex-boyfriends of mine. This would be their future, if they did not take steps to curb their Asian fetishes. One day they would end up homeless/jobless and would spend their days sitting on a bench half drunk, looking ugly and sketchy. And they would do things like yell out "hey China doll!" at women/girls half or a third their age who walked by. I shuddered, but also engaged in a moment of self joy. I was grateful for having exited their lives before they got to that point. I started smiling again.

"Hey China doll!" The guy on the bench yelled again at me.

I began fantasizing about scaring him. I find that it is really easy to scare people when you are a small girl, especially if you are Asian. People hold strong stereotypes about small Asian girls, for example, that you are sweet, like to giggle a lot, and speak in really soft tones. Or maybe that you will offer anyone a "massage" for under $5.

All I have to do to scare people, I found, is disappoint their expectations. I wondered what would happen if I lunged at him the way we are taught to lunge forward in sparring practice in Taekwondo class. I imagined the guy on the bench flinching. I even thought about what kick I could pretend to throw to make him jump out of his seat.

I suddenly felt strong and fierce. But I also remembered that it is not necessary to do or pretend to do anything physical to scare people. Again, it only takes disappointing their stereotypical expectations of me. One trick is to glare at them, signaling very strongly that I am not going to giggle at their lame come-on or attempt at a joke, and also that they should immediately cease entertaining all thoughts that I will give them a "massage" later.

Another trick is to say something inappropriate of the stereotype.

"This China doll is gonna whup yo' ass," I said, with the biggest gangster-sounding accent I could muster. "Yeah, you heard me, this China doll is gonna WHUP YO' ASS."

Okay, I didn't really say it. Not out loud or in public anyway.

Shoes

2008-10-04T11:55:00.004-05:00

I dreamt that my apartment was even swankier than it is in real life. The swanky apartment in my dream was about three times the size of my apartment in real life. It had a lot of secret rooms and interesting spaces. There were three or four phones located throughout the apartment that were connected to my buzzer. One was in the master bathroom, and I thought it was cool that I could buzz someone in while being "occupied."

There was also a closet full of old and ugly shoes, most of which I would never wear in real life, partly because they were men's shoes. It was as though the shoes belonged to men I knew or had known at some point in my life, and somehow they accumulated in my closet throughout my lifetime. When I discovered the closet full of old and ugly shoes, I made a mental note just to throw the shoes out.

But in the dream, I was in the middle of my housewarming party, so I couldn't throw the shoes out then. I had invited a lot of different people. X (straight, non-gross guy) came with his friends. Although they weren't particularly rude, they mostly ignored me and made themselves at home in my swanky apartment. It was disappointing that I didn't get to talk to X, or to anyone I knew, for that matter.

Some people wanted drinks, and I dug around in my cabinets for four similarly-sized small shot-sized, wine-glass-shaped glasses. (I don't even have tiny wine glasses like that.) In the dream, I felt that I needed those particular glasses to serve whatever drink I was serving. But I couldn't find them, and had to make do with the smallest glasses I did have. I began washing the ones that I found, but the party guests became impatient and grabbed their own glasses, made their own drinks, and then went to my living room to have a drink with other people while continuing to ignore me.

So after a while I ignored them and went to my closet full of old and ugly shoes, and began the process of throwing them out.

Halloween

2008-10-01T02:08:00.004-05:00

Halloween is a big deal to me and I look forward to it every year. I know I'm too old to go trick or treating and can buy my own candy now, but I'm always excited about dressing up.

But I am a Halloween snob. I scorn people who buy costumes that come in one handy package and take great pride in making or assembling my own costume. I snicker at people whose idea of a Halloween costume is a slutty outfit and/or who go topless or nearly naked for the supposed shock value. Lately I have decided that anything that isn't scary, funny, or a little bit of both, is not properly classified as a Halloween costume.

My snootiness about Halloween is now a huge problem. I can't re-do my ninja costume this year, having already dressed as a ninja for two years in a row already. I've fixated on one particular new costume idea, but now find that it would probably be easier to buy a store-made costume rather than assemble or make it. The only reasons preventing me from doing that so far are that 1) the store bought costume would be ultra expensive and 2) that would make me a Halloween hypocrite. So I'm going to spend some of my precious time racking my brain for a new Halloween costume or going all around town trying to find a way to make the costume.

Crazy week

2008-09-29T22:26:00.002-05:00

Billable hours worked in 6 day period, hereafter known as Crazy Week: 76
Unbillable hours worked during Crazy Week: 3.5
Taekwondo practices missed during Crazy Week: 2
Hours slept during Crazy Week: 20
Minutes slept on Tuesday night/Wednesday morning of Crazy Week: 12 minutes
Hours billed on Wednesday alone: 20 hours
Unbillable hours worked on Wednesday on top of the hours billed: 1 hour at a monthly meeting to discuss ways to bring in more work for the department
Times someone asked me during Crazy Week if I had any "capacity" to help them with their work: 3
Times I wanted to kick someone in the head: 3

Times sneezed during the following weekend because of a resulting cold: 15
Hours slept during weekend of recovery/illness: 25

Retail therapy at target.com, newport-news.com, metrostyle.com, and crateandbarrel.com: $944

New Boyfriend Pre-Screening Form

2008-09-28T17:47:00.003-05:00

PRE-SCREENING FORM
Name: ____________________________
Relationship status: _____________
ONLY SINGLE APPLICANTS ARE ELIGIBLE
Contact info (please enter a phone number and/or e-mail address): ________________

This Pre-Screening Form will be used to determined which, if any, of the candidates should advance to Round 1 interviews. Round 1 interviews will be conducted at a time and a place to be determined. More information about Round 1 interviews will be disclosed only to those candidates who have passed the pre-screening stage. Applicants who will not advance to Round 1 will not be notified. They are expected to not call, but rather, wait for a call that may never come.

Successful candidates from Round 1 will be invited for Round 2 interviews, which are generally lengthier and more involved. It is anticipated that Round 2 interviews will be conducted in a timely fashion after evaluations for Round 1 have finished. The interviewer may, on occasion, consult a Committee of Friends to complete evaluations of Round 2 candidates.

Applicants who have been invited for Round 1 interviews but who are not chosen to advance to Round 2 will also not be notified. They are expected not to call, e-mail, IM, or otherwise stalk the Interviewer.

1. Do you have man boobs? __ Yes __ No

2. Are you homophobic? __ Yes __ No

3. Do you shower regularly? __ Yes __ No

4. Do you have an Asian fetish or "preference?" __ Yes __ No
--> If no, do you really have an Asian fetish but are lying about it to get past the pre-screening stage? __ Yes __ No

5. Will you cheat on me?
__ Yes __ No

--> 5a. If yes, will you trap me in your room for an hour while you explain in excruciating detail your thought processes as you justified to yourself why it was okay to cheat on me? __ Yes __ No

--> 5b. If yes, will you whine when I dump you by text message? __ Yes __ No

6. Do you expect me to clean up after you and/or do your laundry? __ Yes __ No

7. Do you ever wRiTe oR tExT lIkE tHiS, spell definitely as 'definately,' or use apostrophes inappropriately? __ Yes __ No

8. Suppose you and I are in a relationship and we have a discussion about politics in which it is clear that we disagree. How do you react to the fact that I disagree with you?

(a) Assume that it means I am terribly upset and might cry and that maybe I will dump you or something.
(b) Demand that we keep debating until I agree that you are 100% right.
(c) Accept that we will disagree on some things and take the fact that I am arguing with you to mean, simply, that I am stating my opinion, and that my opinion is different than yours. No less, no more.

9. Suppose you and I have dated for a few months and you are at my apartment. When you use the toilet to take a dump, do you close the bathroom door?
__ Yes ___ No

--> 9a. If no, WHY THE HELL NOT? WHY DO YOU THINK IT'S OKAY NOT TO CLOSE THE BATHROOM DOOR WHEN YOU SHIT? THAT IS NOT MY IDEA OF INTIMACY. Okay, I am done yelling.
__ You are right, I am gross. __ You are right, I am really really gross.

10. (Please write in complete sentences and use proper English.) Why is it wrong to say that the velocity of an object is 25 m/s?
___________________________________________________________
___________________________________________________________

"Institute of Technology"

2008-09-06T23:35:00.002-05:00

If I want to order transcripts from the California Institute of Technology, or from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, I have to send a cumbersome FAX or fill out a pdf form and use snail mail. I can't send an e-mail or use an online ordering form. Those appear to be formats that are too technologically advanced for these two freaking institutes of technology. For Caltech, I can type into a fillable pdf form, but I can't save any data I enter. I have to print it out after I fill it out, and if I accidentally navigate away from the pdf document from the Caltech website, I have to fill everything out again.

On the other hand, if I want to order a transcript from the Tacoma Community College, where I took some classes when I was in high school, I can fill out an online form thanks to the National Student Clearinghouse. TCC made arrangements with the National Student Clearinghouse so that their former students may easily obtain their transcripts. Note that TCC does not have "Institute of Technology" in its name but manages to make chores like requesting transcripts easier for its alumni/ae using today's technology nevertheless. Meanwhile, the two Institutes of Technology where I have been schooled fail at doing so.

Now I understand that there may be reasons Caltech and MIT may both demand that I send a signed document in the mail or FAX in order to get my transcript. Perhaps they want to have a signature as a security or liability measure, in case some evildoer wants to obtain my transcript without my knowledge and do whatever unspeakable horrors someone with unauthorized access to my transcripts might do. But I don't see how this provides any measure of security. Anyone could fake my signature and the assistants working at the registrar offices of Caltech and MIT do not know what my signature looks like anyway. Furthermore, websites such as banking websites use certain internet security measures to check identities of users. While they're not perfect, I just wonder why Caltech and MIT stick to old-fashioned FAXes and snail mails for transcripts.

This reminds me of the poor state of classroom and lab equipment at MIT.

I'm not going to wear red and blue tights anymore

2008-09-06T18:30:00.000-05:00

[drafted May 2007]

Some possible theories to explain why some people I know might mysteriously and suddenly act cold toward me, though I really have no idea what's going on and can't find out, since they've been ignoring and avoiding me:

1. E-mail/ Instant message hacker
This theory came to mind instantly. All it takes is a net-savvy geek with ill intentions to impersonate me online. But this then leads me to another question: why would the ill-intentioned hacker want to ruin my relationships with other people? It seems to me that any such hacker would have to be someone I know in real life, and who has a bone to pick with me. Unable to recall anyone whom I've kicked*, punched, or robbed in my life EVER, I can't come up with a single suspect for the "E-mail/Instant message hacker" list.

*aside from when I'm sparring in Taekwondo.

2. Resurfacing, Misbehaving Doppelgänger
The existence of a doppelgänger is not as farfetched as it may sound. A lot of people have trouble distinguishing one Asian woman from another. Even though there may not be someone out there who looks exactly like me, some clueless Caucasian guy might think so. For all intents and purposes, any Asian woman might serve as a "doppelgänger."

I may have a bona fide doppelgänger. Many years ago when I was in high school, people kept confusing me with some other mystery woman. I'd walk into the tailor's and then the seamstress would say "Nice to see you again... did you wear the dress yet?"
"Huh?" I'd respond.
"Didn't you come in last week and get a dress fitted?"
"No..." I'd reply.
"I swear I saw you come in last week and get a dress fitted!" she'd insist, as though it were a life and death matter.

This scenario repeated several times during a two month period. In another incident, my sister came home from school with a "I'll stick a knife in you if you don't stop messing around with Cody" threat she was supposed to communicate to me on behalf of someone in her class. I had no idea who Cody or the threatener was. My protests of innocence were only met with "don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about," again communicated via my sister.

It was starting to freak me out. I never found out who the other woman was, but I stopped hearing about her after a while. Except possibly for the person who didn't want me to mess around with Cody (whose ethnicity I do not know), all of the people who confused me with the putative doppelgänger were Asian. I assumed that they didn't have general difficulty distinguishing Asian people from each other.

If this doppelgänger from my past has resurfaced in Boston, I'm totally screwed. Some evidence for a Boston-based doppelgänger exists. One time a creepy stranger on the street accosted me and said that I looked "just like [his] girlfriend." I thought it was a cheesy pick-up line. Maybe I was wrong. What if he was telling the truth?

3. Dream confused with reality
Another possibility is that the now estranged friend/acquaintance had a dream and confused it with reality. Maybe in the dream, I did something really nasty like kick him repeatedly in the head and not stop. If he thought that this incessant kicking had happened in real life, I would totally understand why he wouldn't want to talk to me anymore.

4. Multiple Personality Disorder
Suppose I suffer from Multiple Personality Disorder, and the different personalities are unaware of each other. I don't know if this is actually true of MPD. But supposing it were, then it is possible that one or more of my personalities is a total jackass, and I go about most of my life completely unaware of all the mean things the jackass personality/ies do and say to other people. Maybe for whatever reason, the jackass personality/ies have become more dominant lately, and the now-estranged friend/acquaintance can't take it anymore.

5. Sudden Revelation
The now-estranged friend/acquaintance suddenly realized that I'm a woman/Asian/biologist and he is a misogynist/racist/anti-biologist.

6. Spiderman confusion
The guy with a funny face who is supposed to be Spiderman's friend, but really wants to kill or otherwise hurt Spiderman for most of the movie, has somehow confused me with Spiderman. In his misdirected plot to "go after Spiderman's heart," he is going after my heart by severing personal ties in my life. I really should stop parading around in red and blue tights.

Dr. V

2008-09-02T23:05:00.000-05:00

[drafted November 2007 - yes, blog posts sit in my drafts folder for that long!]

Dr. V is Russian. On that day, she wore a lime green outfit that looked like a three-way hybrid between surgical scrubs, pyjamas, and gym sweats. She appeared old enough to be somebody's grandma. In my mind, I juxtaposed an image of her as a grandmother with an image of her as a surgeon. It was a pleasant combination.

Dr. V introduced herself and queried, "So... I understand you have not been to see a dentist in a long time..."
I embarassedly answered, "Um... yes, well, I haven't had dental insurance for quite some time."
"It's okay, that happens," she assured me. "We will just start with some X-rays and general cleaning, and see if there is anything else that needs to be taken care of."

She led me into the dentists' workspace, an area that took me back to my childhood. In those days, I was covered under my parents' dental plan. I actively resisted going to the dentist. I did not like having my mouth propped open for a long time while drool dripped out of my mouth. To me, it was even worse that the dentist would try to make conversation with me. Dentists are generally respected for being well-educated, which should imply that they would have a basic level of intelligence. Nevertheless, I would think that most people who are reasonably intelligent would be able to deduce that you can't have a civil conversation when your mouth is being propped open and drool is dripping out of it.

I had had many long conversations with my parents about why I needed to see a dentist. I did not go see a doctor every year to take care of, for example, my foot and my foot exclusively. I did not see why my teeth required a whole entire separate kind of doctor and one whom I needed to see every year. My parents' best answer was directed along the lines of "but if you don't see one this year, you may not be able to see one next year." This logic did not convince me. Instead, it excited me with the possibility that I might never have to see a dentist again, if only I could find a way to weasel out of going to the dentist this year.

In any case, being taken into Dr. V's and her colleague's workspace reminded me of those times. I looked at all the equipment and the chairs. It was as though nothing had changed in the past two decades. When I was a child, the soft music that played in the dentist's office was a mix of 70s and 80s. In 2007, the soft music that played in the dentist's office was... still a mix of 70s and 80s.

"Have a seat here," Dr. V indicated.

It suddenly struck me that what I was experiencing at the moment had a few major differences from the dentist experiences of my childhood. I had never even heard of a woman dentist when I was a child. There were women who worked in the dentist's office, but they either worked the front desk or were dental hygienists. All of the dentists were male, and the women were there to do the work but not receive any credit. A woman dental hygienist would clean my teeth and take X-rays, then the male dentist would come in and look over her cleaning job, prying my mouth open with his massive thumb. Then he would say something about the X-rays and ask the dental hygienist to do something else while he talked at me, inanely expecting me to be able to answer with his thumb jammed in my mouth.

I suddenly realized that there were no dental hygienists working for Dr. V. Dr. V herself was going to clean my teeth. Dr. V herself had led me from the waiting area into the workspace. Dr. V is a doctor, and Dr. V is a woman. Dr. V made me fear dentists less than I used to.

I sat down and braced myself nonetheless for what I expected would be an unpleasant experience.

"Make yourself comfortable. Relax!" she continued.

I tried to relax. I took the clip out of my hair and let my hair down. I leaned back into the chair. For a moment I pretended as though I were at a hairdresser's.

"We will start with the X-rays, and we will let them develop while I do a basic cleaning of your teeth. Then we will go over your X-ray results together and discuss if we need to do anything else."

It sounded like a good plan to me. I was nervous. I had gone more than 10 years without a dentist appointment, due in part to my dentally uninsured time as a grad student at MIT.

Dr. V began by padding some plastic X-ray film holders with gauze, explaining that the plastic could hurt as it pushed against the soft flesh inside my mouth. I was grateful for the care she took in padding the film holders, but was apprehensive about it still. I started to think of the song "Turning Japanese," and began humming the lyrics to myself in my head:

I want a doctor to take your picture... So I can look at you from inside as well

"Okay, this will hurt a bit..." she said as the plastic cut into the flesh of my mouth. It did hurt.

I closed my eyes and turned up the music in my head.

You've got me turning up and turning down and turning in and turning 'round... I'm turning Japanese, I think I'm turning Japanese...

A friend told me what this song was really about. It still made a good distraction while Dr. V was pressing the plastic things into my mouth. She was taking my picture so that she could look at me from the inside. I wondered how I looked from the inside.

Dr. V thought I looked beautiful inside my mouth. "What beautiful teeth you have," she said. "I am not finding much to clean at all. You must take good care of your teeth."

I admitted that I actually practiced poor dental hygiene, even confessing to her that I usually don't floss. I wouldn't normally confess such a thing to a dentist, but Dr. V made me feel comfortable about admitting my flaws.

"Yes, well I can see why you wouldn't bother. Your teeth are so perfectly straight, I'm sure you don't need to floss." I wondered where Dr. V went to dental school, and why didn't my childhood dentist go there too? Why did I have to be scolded as a young child for not flossing, when, according to Dr. V, I didn't even need to? She continued to praise my allegedly beautiful teeth.

I suppose dentists think that teeth are inherently beautiful. I am guessing that most medical specialists come to find what they chose to study beautiful. I once went to see a dermatologist for a hideous large mole on the bottom of my big toe. I wanted her to freeze it off or cut it out, but she peered at it with a magnifying lens and declared it both beautiful and harmless. Then she refused to do anything about it. On a different visit, I saw the same dermatologist and her trainee for a skin rash over my face. They spent a few minutes admiring my skin. They peered at my face through a magnifying lens and called my skin beautiful, apparently oblivious to the rash. Or perhaps they thought the rash was beautiful?

But I digress. When Dr. V was done cleaning my teeth, she took the developed X-rays and sat next to me. "And now," she said. "Guess what?"

"What?" I asked, apprehensive that I would have to return for a root canal or get a piraty-gold tooth. (Everyone knows I'm not a pirate kind of girl, but rather a ninja.)

"No problems at all... your teeth are just fine." I breathed a sigh of relief. And then I wondered, if I got away with 10 years without seeing a dentist, maybe I could get away with another 10 years?

Losing weight II

2008-08-28T22:04:00.000-05:00

It keeps talking and I am confused. It talks about how it is sorry, but it can't be my knight in shining armor. I am unable to recall when I ever asked it to be my knight in shining armor. I try to recall why I would need a knight in shining armor, and furthermore why I would ask it in particular to be my knight in shining armor. Is my life in such a dire state? I make a checklist in my head as it keeps talking:

Education:
The 185 pounds I am losing: H.S. diploma
Me: B.S. (Caltech), Ph.D. (MIT)

Job:
The 185 pounds I am losing: None; sustains itself on rich dad's money
Me: Yes

Living situation:
The 185 pounds I am losing: Dorm room on campus
Me: Swanky apartment that I have all to myself

I am still confused and I politely ask it to shut up. I don't really say "shut up," but rather "Okay, I get it. You don't have to give me the pity talk." It gets angry that I don't want to hear the rest of the rambling speech it had prepared. But I have heard it all before, and I don't see why I should listen to it again.

It prances around my swanky apartment that I have all to myself (did I mention I live in a swanky apartment that I have all to myself?) looking for everything that belongs to it. It even checks my laundry hamper for its dirty underwear. I'm really glad it plans on taking its dirty underwear. When it's finally done gathering its stuff, it stands there expecting a goodbye kiss or a goodbye hug. I don't really believe in goodbye hugs or kisses, so I just say no and walk it to the door. At the door, it looks at me one last time, expecting that in the ten seconds that it took me to walk it to the door, I would have changed my mind on the goodbye kiss. I don't change my mind.

I shut the door and enable my security system. Then I confirm on Facebook that I indeed lost 185 pounds.

I was nice to you once, so you should have sex with me now

2008-08-11T23:48:00.002-05:00

I have explained in a previous blog post and alluded to in another post why I do not like Nice Guys (TM). Neverthless, the Nice Guys (TM) continue to whine and demand their fair share of sex from women who won't give them the time of day. They recite to no end their whiny mantra: "I was nice to you once, so you should have sex with me now."

Guys who talk about how nice they are rarely are nice. I have discovered that "nice," when used as an adjective to modify "guy," is really a euphemism for "not physically attractive." Not being physically attractive is no guarantee of a good personality. In fact, the ugliest of my ex-boyfriends are also the meanest. These mean, ugly ex-boyfriends whined the Nice Guy (TM) mantra to me all the time until I started to give them the time of day and then eventually dated them. That won't happen again, by the way.

The Nice Guy (TM) is a subspecies of the male of Homo sapiens. Like some of the other subspecies, the Nice Guy (TM) does not view women as people, but rather as property of which he seeks to claim his fair share. The only difference is that the Patent Asshole (TM) subspecies believes that sex with the women of his dreams is his inherent right, whereas the Nice Guy (TM) believes that sex with the women of his dreams is his inherent right, after an ostensible showing of good behavior. Both subspecies think of women as property they "deserve" to have. They are, as the comic strip explaining Nice Guy (TM) mentality explains, actual or borderline misogynists.

Beware, sisters.

Misguided temptation

2008-08-06T22:44:00.002-05:00

Comcast sent me an offer for a free Wii if I sign up for their Comcast Preferred Plus Triple Play package. I don't even have a TV and am getting by just fine wasting time and procrastinating by Facebooking, eating Japanese sweets, and pretend kung fu fighting. And to get the Wii, I would have to commit to a 24-month contract. Twenty-four months is a long time in Suzanne years, especially because I don't like to commit. But now I'm seriously thinking of signing up.

Goddamn them.

Of course, I could just buy a Wii.

toyfriend

2008-08-04T23:42:00.002-05:00

\'tȯi frend\ (noun):
A boytoy who objects to being called a boytoy, but isn't really a boyfriend either.

Well then why don't you actually break up with me?

2008-08-03T01:20:00.003-05:00

Tonight when I was unable to fall asleep, I picked up an issue of a New Yorker to read. I had subscribed a few years ago after buying a few issues here and there, prompted by a few interesting cover page articles. Over the last year, I've gotten busier and busier and I've stopped reading the New Yorker almost entirely. Also, despite my initial attraction to the New Yorker, it only publishes about one article that I find interesting every five issues. Most of the time, it's a Seymour Hersh or Malcolm Gladwell article. I don't think I've ever enjoyed any of the fiction published there. I don't think I've ever understood any of the cartoons in the New Yorker.

As a result of my lack of free time and my waning interest in the New Yorker, I've been lackadaisical about renewing my subscription. I'm fairly certain that my subscription expired last year and that I haven't renewed, despite many pleas from the New Yorker subscription department. Nevertheless, the New Yorker, like other magazines to which I subscribe, adopts a strategy of sending increasingly desperate letters asking me to renew. The letters are full of denial as well; they are written along the lines of Can it really be you don't want to renew? Perhaps you simply forgot or have been too busy? Maybe you sent in a renewal notice, and it's crossed this letter in the mail? Please renew now! Don't let your subscription lapse, or we won't send you any more issues!

But though my subscription would officially lapse due to my failure to renew, the issues would keep coming uninterrupted. I started to view the subscription renewal notices as empty threats. It reminded me of people who are dissatisfied with their relationships and threaten to leave, but never do.

As I sat there staring at the boring issue of the New Yorker, I thought of an ex-boyfriend known in some parts of my journal as The Boy Who Cried Wolf. He would decide that our relationship was unhealthy and threaten to or say that he was ending it. But he would keep calling me and wanting to see me.

The New Yorker, with its entirely wrong strategy of threatening to stop sending more issues while sending me issues uninterrupted, made me think the same thing that the The Boy Who Cried Wolf did: Well then why don't you actually break up with me?

ugly AND naked

2008-07-29T22:39:00.003-05:00

Yesterday I dreamt that I was sitting on my patio when I suddenly noticed an ugly older guy sitting on the corner of my patio on my chair, next to my table. He wasn't doing anything in particular. He seemed as though he might be half-asleep, or perhaps drunk. But it was clear he wasn't supposed to be there, as it was my private patio. He was intruding.

As I walked around my patio, I was able to view him at another angle. It was then, when I saw him unobstructed by the table, that I realized he was completely naked. Although he wasn't touching himself, I suddenly realized that I had to get him out of my patio NOW. I decided to retreat to a safe place to call the police and escort him out.

When I woke up from the bizarre dream, I felt anxious, and my heart was beating quickly. I knew exactly what the ugly naked guy in my dream was all about. There's a really ugly person (and I'm talking about inner ugliness) who's invaded my life and is most definitely unwelcome there. I've recently been able to see the said ugly person for everything she really is. I can see her unobstructed by anything else. And I know I have to get her out of my life NOW, but I should probably make sure I'm in a safe spot and get some help in order to do it.

Status check: summer 2008

2008-07-28T00:05:00.002-05:00

At work a while ago, I boasted to my colleagues that I had a really awesome evening the night before. I got home from work early, I explained, and had a lot of time to myself. I told my colleagues that once I got home, I didn't do any work. Instead, I did things all for myself: I exercised, I ate dinner, I cleaned my apartment, I scrubbed the tub, and I blogged.

Then I realized just how low my standards had sunk. I had gotten home from work at 8 pm and considered it 'early.' Having time to exercise and eat dinner shouldn't be considered special luxuries. And scrubbing the tub could hardly be considered a special treat. But having a few hours to myself, even to do those things, felt so precious.

So that's how my life is right now.

Oou gawazik. Oou birfl CLUTCH!"

2008-07-23T01:12:00.008-05:00

Tonight when I was taking a cab home from work, the cab driver was listening to a talk radio show on which two men were yelling angrily at each other as though they were talking about something of utmost importance. I was so tired that I tuned out the words at first, and only picked up on their tones. What topic of utmost importance, pray tell, could these two grown men be discussing? What could prompt tones of such passion, such moral outrage, such disgust of each other? Could it be the privatization of water in Bolivia, which involved companies trying to exact exorbitant prices for water and trying to prevent poor people from collecting rainwater? Could it be Dow-maker-of-napalm-Chemical's ridiculous "Human Element" ads? Could it be the rape and torture of women and children at Abu Ghraib and attempts by many in the the military and our government to cover it up?

Alas, they were not discussing any of these things. The topic deemed worthy of a screaming match between two adults, and furthermore worthy of precious airtime, was baseball.

Although I consider myself a native English speaker, there are times when I feel as though I do not quite understand English-language conversations around me. When people discuss certain sports, such as American football and baseball, I feel as though they might as well be speaking a foreign language.

Tonight's baseball conversation sounded like this to me:

"CLUTCH!"
"Manny Ramirez? CLUTCH? Birfl vooli."
"Gawazik, Ramirez floof livoor 'CLUTCH.'"
"Gawazik, Ramirez birfl floof CLUTCH!"
"Jool, Ramirez floof floof CLUTCH! CLUTCH CLUTCH CLUTCH!"
""Oou gawazik. Oou birfl CLUTCH!"

I did not really know what they meant by "CLUTCH." I thought it was a kind of a small, overpriced, and relatively useless purse. I did not see what a small, overpriced, and relatively useless purse had to do with baseball. Perhaps the men were alluding to the fact that tickets to a baseball game are small, overpriced, and relatively useless.

In any case, the above high-decibel conversation continued with no hope of any intelligent gems ever being recovered from either of the two angry men's mouths. I was starting to feel nauseous. I whipped out my iPhone and began to net-surf, hoping to drown out the men's voices with news feed items from Facebook. It made me even more nauseous, so I put it away.

Eventually the talk of CLUTCH subsided, and the conversation topic switched to spam e-mails about penile enhancement. Ah, a much more intelligent topic of conversation. I felt my nausea go away.

the opposite of Schadenfreude?

2008-06-10T23:22:00.004-05:00

Finding out that a newer, sexier model of the iPhone is now being offered for a third of the price that I paid for the one I have now is like finding out that an ex-boyfriend who was a fat emotional train wreck when I dated him is now cut like an Abercrombie and Fitch model and in a stable, drama-free relationship with someone else.

(That was a really long sentence that might have worked better in German.)

All I really needed

2008-06-08T21:24:00.003-05:00

Yesterday when riding my bike home from a barbecue, I suddenly realized what I needed to be really happy. These past few months, work has been really stressful and I have been sleep- and exercise-deprived, as well as sick. I had three colds so far this year alone, and I was feeling miserable. In search for a cure-all for my blues, I did all sorts of things. I exercised when I was dead tired at 12:30 am, just to make sure I would get some exercise. I slept in occasionally on weekends, even when I couldn't really afford to. I popped vitamins. I engaged in retail-therapy more than my wallet really allows.

But all that I really needed to be happy was much simpler. I just needed to ride my bike home on a hot summer evening. Somehow those few minutes of pedaling on the same bike I've had since I was 17, while wearing my red and white summer skirt and breathing the hot humid air, made me so very happy.

I can't tell the difference between a USB cable and a Firewire cable, but I pretend to in real life

2008-05-20T01:00:00.004-05:00

I recently discovered that guys who work at Staples can be just as annoying as guys who work at Radio Shack. I went to Staples this weekend to buy, among other things, a USB cable for my printer. Upon arriving at Staples, I realized that there were several USB plug types that looked similar to the plug on my printer model, but I wasn't sure which one it was. Staples sold cables having, for example, 5-pin plugs or 4-pin plugs, or with an oddly shaped interface that wasn't a "5-pin" or a "4-pin." I took the USB cable that I thought resembled my printer's plug and then found the same model printer as the one I owned in the store.

"Excuse me," I explained to Staples Dude. "I have the same printer as that one at home. Do you mind if I just check the USB plug in the back to make sure I've got the right cable?"

"They're all the same," he bullshitted.
"Excuse me?"
"USB cables are all the same," he said, moving closer to me.
"Um, no. You sell ones with 5-pin plugs and ones with 4-pin plugs. So they are not all the same."

I could tell he was annoyed about my making a simple statement to rebut his bullshit. That was part of why I did it.

"Well," he said, moving closer to me. "You've got all the wrong cables. What you've got there are Firewire cables."

This time I didn't waste any words on him. I waved the packages in front of his face and pointed at the labels that read "USB." I couldn't believe it. Normally when I catch people in the middle of their bullshit, they back off rather than getting deeper into bullshit. Also, it struck me as vastly inane and arrogant all at once for him to assume, just because he couldn't read or tell the different between USB and Firewire cables, that I couldn't either.

"Oh," he said. "Uh... well those are not the right cables for the printer."
"If you would just let me check the back of the printer, then I could..."
"Let me show you the right one."
"Let me just check the back of the printer."

I did, and discovered that the right plug was neither the 5-pin nor the 4-pin, but the third type I'd seen before. I didn't need Staples Dude's help, but he accompanied me back to the cable aisle to tell me something I already knew. He grabbed a package and said, "This is the one you want."

"Are you sure?" I said, which was really "Is that just another bullshit statement of yours?"
He cowered a little and replied "yes" softly, and then said something along the lines of "those cables you were holding looked like Firewire cables from far away."

I glared at him, took the package, and promised myself never to ask for "help" from annoying Staples Dude again.

/googlebation/

2008-05-15T23:02:00.005-05:00

(noun)
: the act of Googling oneself.

Example: "She indulged in a fit of googlebation one morning before work and discovered, much to her sadness, that according to the Internet record of herself, she used to be so much cooler."

Men are pigs! Oh, and by the way, I have a Ph.D.

2008-05-13T00:22:00.004-05:00

[drafted June 2007]

The Man With a Van, the moving company I hired for my upcoming move, called me when I was at work a few days ago. The purpose of the phone call was unclear at first. The Man didn't get to the point. Since I was in the middle of a busy work day, I didn't want to talk for long on the phone.

Reception on my cell phone was bad, so I asked to call him back using my office phone. By the time I got through to him again, I forgot where we were in the conversation.

"Are we done?" I asked, meaning, "Is there anything else you need to tell me or ask me?"
"Um... did I do something to upset you?" he asked, sounding really hurt.

For all the crap they give us women for being super sensitive or "emotional," it's mostly guys who seem to get upset with me for not wanting to spend hours on the phone with them. The conversation with the Man was even more absurd because he was a complete stranger. It seemed as though he wanted to chit chat, perhaps out of sheer boredom. I didn't agree with his inane idea that it was my job to relieve him of his boredom.

On the other hand, there is a part of me that is slightly worried that I am turning into an asshole. I've been treated like a smart and capable person at my new job, which is a really nice change from my grad school days. But the new job, along with other things going well, has made me feel so good about myself, I may be thinking too highly of myself these days.

"No... sorry... I'm at work and I need get back to it soon. Do you need to know anything else?"

He went on, again in a convoluted way, about the possibility of me changing my moving appointment (a second time) to accommodate his other customers who were booking their moving appointments last minute. I had already answered his question earlier in the conversation. I guess he was using the common male strategy of repeating the same question with the hopes that eventually I would turn "no" into "yes."

"No, the appointment's already been changed one time and I made rearrangements. I don't want to rearrange again."

I was merely stating the facts, but then he got defensive and condescending.

"Well... the moving business is fluid, sweetheart."

Sweetheart? Usually the only guys who use that term with me are trying to establish some sort of power relationship in which they prop themselves up as being smarter than I am. Always the guys who do that are not as bright as they think they are.

I was annoyed at his calling me "sweetheart, " but didn't say anything about it. He was already wasting too much of my time. I hung up and went back to my work. I don't plan on tipping the Man very much. But when moving day comes, I'm tempted to do what the kids in my Taekwondo club wrote into a skit this spring. The skit roasted seniors and other graduating students. The "Suzanne" character in that skit kicked a guy in the nuts, then said "Men are pigs! Oh, and by the way, I have a Ph.D."

It feels like constipation

2008-05-12T21:09:00.005-05:00

My coworkers think that I am unhappy if I don't get to kick (attend Taekwondo practice) in a while. This is somewhat true. Generally, I need to get at least a minimal level of exercise to feel alright. But what is truer is that I am unhappy if I don't get to write, and I haven't gotten to write (anything other than patent applications and responses to the Patent Office) in a long long time.

Other writers out there understand what I mean. When I don't get to write, it feels like constipation. It is really uncomfortable. I am agitated and ansy all the time. Sometimes I just have to get it out, and I'll stop whatever I'm doing just to get it out. And once I do, my body feels right again.

A marathon does not a decent man make

2008-03-31T00:27:00.003-05:00

This movie, Run Fat Boy Run, must be the fantasy of every deadbeat out there. Behold the tagline posted on Facebook:

"Dennis left his pregnant fiancée Libby five years ago. To win her back, he enters a marathon to show he's not a quitter."

According to the universe in which I live, someone who leaves his pregant fiancée (at the altar, no less) is, by definition, a quitter (a.k.a. "deadbeat.") The premise that running a marathon after five years of being a deadbeat should suffice to win back a woman's love is outright ridiculous and insulting. Where was the deadbeat doing during those five years? No doubt partying with his friends, sleeping around, and posting pictures of such activities on Facebook. If he is a typical deadbeat, he also probably occasionally stalks Libby by showing up where she is known to work/hang out/socialize/do Taekwondo.

On top of the ridiculous "I've been a deadbeat dad for five years, but I can make up everything by running a marathon" premise, this movie incorporates yet another fantasy of the typical loser American male. Despite being grossly unattractive and having no discernible positive qualities, the loser guy gets the hot, intelligent, got-it-all-together girl. It was already a miracle that he ever got her to give him the time of day in the first place, but after ditching her and being absent for five years (except when he randomly stalks her), he wins her back too? And all it takes is a marathon?

Please tell me that life will not imitate art. And I am using the term "art" loosely here to encompass Run, Fat Boy, Run.

Dream had during 6 am delirium

2008-02-09T06:03:00.000-05:00

I dreamt that I was back in a molecular biology lab again. I had two tubes of purified DNA that a close friend of mine wanted to use as controls in her experiment. She just took my tubes and used them without asking me. I was really aggravated at her, because they were my only stock of DNA. I yelled at her and told her she should have asked me for an aliquot of each, rather than help herself to my stock tube and do who knows what to the whole tube. I thought she should have known better, being a molecular biologist herself. At the same time, I felt bad that I was letting a good friendship go sour over two tubes of DNA. (Maybe this dream was inspired by a conversation I had with someone about things I don't miss about working in a lab.)

Later in the dream, I was trying to cook a simple meal for my family, but was prevented by my mom, who was goofing around doing silly things. At one point my mom tried to mock kick me, and she was half-assedly pretending that she did Taekwondo as well. I was irritated not only that she was getting in my way while I was trying to cook, but also that her kick was awkward and resembled nothing at all like any kick that anyone in my Taekwondo club would do. So I kicked her with a real Taekwondo kick, and then she fell over and got hurt. And then I felt bad that I hurt my mom just to get her to stop goofing around.

Somehow I think this dream is about me having to be more responsible than other people who should be just as, if not more, responsible than I am, and also about me being irritated about it. It's interesting to me that the two scenarios, being in a molecular biology lab and trying to cook in a kitchen, were juxtaposed in the same dream. I've often told people how similar to cooking I find molecular biology experimenting to be.

I need you like I need my pinkie toe

2008-02-03T19:47:00.000-05:00

At work, we record the time we spend on each "matter," and the time we record serves as a basis for determining how much to bill the client. I record my time by using a timer on my computer. I turn it off when I take a break, but if I'm eating at my computer and only taking spoonfuls here and there while I'm working, I leave the timer on.

A few weeks ago, I was eating oatmeal while drafting a document on my computer. The oatmeal was bland. It needed salt. I turned off my timer and grabbed my cup of oatmeal, heading to the firm's cafeteria. I knew I was losing some precious "billable time," but I was not going to eat something that bland.

As I made my way to the cafeteria in search of salt, I thought about the story "I love you like I love salt." The king didn't appreciate it when his youngest daughter told him "I love you like I love salt." He banished her from his kingdom. It wasn't until later, when he tried to eat a salt-less meal she prepared for him, that he realized that "I love you like I love salt" was a compliment. Not only that, it was a true and honest expression of love, as dispassionate as it sounded. "I love you like I love salt" means "I could live without you, but my life is bland without you."

The "I love you like I love salt" story reminded me of what my parents told me about the French occupation of Vietnam before and during the Second World War. The French came up with an array of crazy taxes that drove an already poor population to mass starvation and ultimately death. One was the so-called "body tax," meaning that there was a tax levied for each male in a household, simply for being. It didn't matter if the males were crippled and couldn't work or bring in any income. Their existence meant that their household had to pay the French occupiers a certain amount.

But another one of the French innovative taxes was a heavy tax on salt. You'd think that people could just learn to live without salt, in order to make ends meet. But that was not the case. The heavy salt tax contributed heavily to the mass starvation of Vietnamese that led up to 1 million deaths in 1945. (By then, the Japanese occupied Vietnam, and the harsh Japanese occupation is often blamed for the 1 million deaths. But the conditions that led up to the mass starvation were set up during the previous years under the brutal French occupation.)

As I pondered the importance of salt, both in a fictional story about a king and his daughters, and in the history of Vietnam, I thought about other things we don't really notice until we have to do without.

I hadn't realized, for example, how important my pinkie toe is. I had stubbed left pinkie toe during the warmup before a Taekwondo match. During the match itself, I was on such an adrenaline rush that I didn't feel the pain. But after the match, I noticed the massive bruising on and around my pinkie toe. It became painful to stand or walk, and I limped around for weeks after that. I had never known how important pinkie toes were. I would have thought that I would be able to keep pressure off the toe as I walked, but the pinkie toe actually contributes a lot when we walk. We just don't realize that until it's injured, or if we have to do without it.

And then I realized that I need some people like I need my pinkie toe.

heterophobia

2008-02-03T01:24:00.000-05:00

(noun)
: (1) discomfort around heterosexuals, also known as "breeders"
(2) general suspicion or hatred of heterosexuals

related word: heterophobic (adjective)

Examples
1. As she rode the subway, her heterophobia overcame her as the couple in front of her made out and threatened to reproduce themselves. 2. Her heterophobic tendencies prevented her from enjoying herself at straight clubs.

Signs you've been a molecular biologist for too long

2008-01-08T00:22:00.000-05:00

4. You shun all genomics and biocomputing scientists as "armchair biologists" because they don't do "real" experiments.
3. You say things like, "Back when I was a grad student, we purified our own T7 polymerase."
2. When someone of the opposite sex smiles at you at a department function, you think, "he just wants a reagent from me. Well, I'm not giving him any."
1. Your number one fantasy is still to make out in the dark room next to the Kodak X-Omat automatic developer.

Signs you've been a mouse geneticist for too long

2008-01-08T00:18:00.000-05:00

5. When you spot a mouse in your apartment, you do not freak out or scream. You calmly grab a flashlight and start moving things around looking for it, proclaiming "I'm gonna kill that thing, dammit!"
4. Most people get used to the smell of their shampoo in their hair, so that they don't even notice it anymore. You've gotten used to the smell of mouse shit in your hair.
3. You have actually accidentally swallowed a mouse embyro before, through the mouth pipette that is in every mouse embryologist's toolkit.
2. The last time you said "I love you" it was to a mouse that finally, as you'd hoped, gave birth to a litter.
1. Your mice get more action than you do.

All of these things are true of me or were true of me at some point.

Me Against the Moths

2008-01-07T23:59:00.000-05:00

[drafted June 21, 07]

I appear to be losing the war with the moths that have invaded my apartment. Or, in W-speak, I am "not winning" the war, but not necessarily losing.

Despite the strategic laying of three moth traps around my apartment, the moths have not yet been decimated. Usually they are gone within two weeks of my laying down the traps. The traps are clearly working to some degree - quite a few moths are caught in all of them. The traps work by baiting the moths with a moth pheromone. Once drawn to the trap, moths get stuck crawling around on the sticky surface on the inside of the trap.

A few moths seem resistant to the pheromone traps. I wonder if these moths are asexual, in which case my problem will go away because those pheromone-resistant moths wouldn't breed. But I don't know that much about moth sex - maybe pheromones have nothing to do with it. I did catch two moths doing it on the wall of my pantry. I found that kind of revolting.

Do you have something in your eye?

2008-01-07T23:52:00.000-05:00

[drafted March 5, 2006]

I play this game sometimes, wherein I try to think of some recent incidences in my life as if they comprised an episode of "Sex and the City." A lot of these incidents fall under the same theme and occur within a few weeks of each other.

In one recent episode I like to call "Do you have something in your eye?" I kept running into one and only one type of guy. They had different names and occupations, but they were basically the same guy. The archetypal guy in this episode had a girlfriend. Whenever he was around me, he would have something in his eye, causing him to wink uncontrollably whenever his girlfriend wasn't looking. In that episode, I was frustrated that only guys with girlfriends ever seemed to have something in their eyes. I ran away from those guys.

In another episode I call "You'll do," I was receiving mixed signals from potential interests. They all turned out to be madly in love with their hot but unavailable female best friends. They would insist vociferously that they were "just friends" with the hot best friend and that they were actually interested in me, but somehow their body language read "I can't get her, so you'll do." In that episode, I decided that no place was better than second place in someone else's life. I ran away from those guys.

In "On sale at Kmart", an episode that began with a flashback to my early college days, men confessed their uncontrollable Asian fetishes to me. "I really like that you're around," they'd say, "because I like Asian girls." Wink, wink. (See the "Do you have something in your eye?" episode.) In that episode, I was puzzled why the guys thought they should tell me that. Didn't they know it made me feel like I was a commodity, on sale in aisle 5 at Kmart? Didn't they realize that I wanted to be appreciated for something other than just my ethnicity? I ran away from those guys.

Secret Single Behavior

2008-01-07T23:43:00.000-05:00

[drafted on August 8, 2007]

In one Sex and the City episode, Carrie explores the topic of behaviors single people do during their alone time, their so-called secret single behavior. Miranda likes to put moisturizer on her hands, wear some cosmetic gloves, and watch infomercials. I think Charlotte did something really weird like smell some flowers over and over. I forgot what Samantha did in her secret single time.

My number one favorite secret single behavior used to be dancing by myself to clubby music in my living room. I used to do this a lot in the mornings when I was trying to convince myself that I was awake and ready to face the day. Nowadays I do it more in the evenings. After Taekwondo practice, which ends late in the evening, I often feel pumped up (after a brief period of utter exhaustion). I can't even eat, let alone sleep right after Taekwondo. So I usually turn on my music and start dancing.

Lately I started Secret Single Kicking. I was obsessed with one kick in particular - the so-called fast kick. It was the second kick I learned when I started Taekwondo, but I felt like I still didn't quite get it. One time when we had an instructor who doesn't come by very often, she showed me to turn my hips more when I kicked. I felt that I suddenly got it. And then I didn't want to stop doing fast kick.

I then took my secret single behavior one level further. I combined Secret Single Kicking with Secret Single Dancing, fast-kicking to songs like "Kung Fu Fighting."

Other times, I'm feeling lower energy but have a lot to think about. I lie on my tatami mats staring at the ceiling. I leave all my lights turned off except my blue-tinted halogen lights and listen to the Kill Bill soundtrack. There's something about that soundtrack that brings me into a state of peace.

I know that's weird.

My man-sized stick

2007-12-16T15:09:00.000-05:00

Yesterday when I unenthusiastically went to the department store, I chanced upon a rack of umbrellas in the men's department. There were small-sized umbrellas and larger ones. When I examined the labels, it turned out that all of the smaller-sized umbrellas were marketed as being for "ladies," whereas the larger-sized umbrellas were marketed as being for "men." Having grown up blissfully unaware of the fact that there were gender differences in umbrellas, I was quite intrigued.

Upon closer inspection, the "ladies'" umbrellas were marketed as ones that would automatically close. The men's umbrellas also had this feature, but were larger AND were marketed as capable of resisting inversion. The capability of resisting inversion interested me greatly. My number one problem with the various umbrellas I've had short-term flings with are their inabilities to stand up to the wind in Boston. Such umbrellas would invert, thus being ineffective at keeping the rain off of me. Meanwhile, it seemed as though the inverted umbrella was like a sail that enabled the wind to push me along and possibly blow me away.

I looked through all of the "ladies'" umbrellas, eager to find one that also was capable of resisting inversion. No such umbrellas existed. Now, I thought, that is funny... why exactly do the makers of these umbrellas think that women - excuse me - "ladies" do not want umbrellas that resist inversion? And who ever thought to genderize umbrellas in the first place? Why also the insistence of making a bigger umbrella for men? Do men really take up that much more area than a woman does from a bird's eye view? If they wanted to make different sizes of umbrellas for people of different girths, wouldn't it make more sense to size them "small," "medium," and "large?"

Perhaps this marketing strategy of genderizing umbrellas plays to men's insecurities. Perhaps there are a lot of men who are more willing to buy an umbrella that is labeled a "men's" umbrella that is also larger than the other umbrellas. I imagined all the men who bought the larger "men's" umbrellas because they didn't already have a large stick. It was an amusing mental exercise, but it still didn't solve my problem of wanting an umbrella that resisted inversion.

I bought the "men's" umbrella. The cashier asked me if I wanted a gift receipt, which is fair question given that it was Christmas shopping season, and I answered "no." I put my man-sized, inversion-resistant umbrella into my pink girly backpack, which was nevertheless big enough to accommodate the man-sized stick.

Steamed Buns

2007-12-14T22:36:00.000-05:00

remind me of 6 am in Hanoi: walking out onto the street, smelling the city, saying "good morning, sister!" to strangers, and feeling at home in a country I'd only been in for four days.

"Also, excuse me, but what's so clean about dicks?"

2007-09-24T21:38:00.000-05:00

This is not really a blog post. I am cheating, but I just have to share.

I cannot put this book down. One of my activist friends either gave or sold me Inga Muscio's book "Cunt." (Please don't close your mind about this book until you've started reading it or found out where the word came from and what it used to mean.)

There are too many good passages, so I'm randomly throwing out this one:

"I went to Anystore U.S.A. to buy a box of tampons. I had but eleven dollars to my name. I went down the aisle where I would find 'feminine hygiene' products, bitterly playing that term through my mind.

Why are words like 'hygiene' and 'sanitary' - which imply that a woman's cunt is unclean - acceptable in our society? Why are these people trying to sell me feminine deodorant spray? That's like hawking floral air freshener to a lady who lives in a rose garden.

Also, excuse me, but what's so clean about dicks?

One never hears of sanitary jock straps, deodorant condoms, perfumed Hershey-Squirt protection pads or hygienic ball wipes, whereas I've heard tell of need for such products."

Please note: the author is a lesbian, so that's why she says she's "heard tell of need for such products." I can confirm there is a need for such products.

Memo Re: 30th Birthday

2007-09-23T21:24:00.000-05:00

[excerpt from Dispatches from the Leper Colony]

I went to a barbecue once with the guy I was seeing at the time, who was several years younger than myself. A bunch of us were sitting around and chatting, and suddenly a young woman in her early twenties began talking about “women over age 30” as though we were social pariahs. I am not sure if she knew that I was one of those women to which she referred. In any case, she began talking about how no one wants to date women over 30 because all we want (according to her) is to get married and have kids. Wherever she got this idea, she was absolutely confident that all women over age 30 fit her description, and that we were all completely undesirable to men, and that we might as well just die. She was quite serious in her tone, and sounded very alarmed at the prospect of anyone turning 30 without a man at her side. (She herself felt lucky to have someone.)

It was as though she were reciting verbatim from a memo, a memo that I never received. Listening to her, I became privy to part of the memo, but I had to use my imagination to fill in the blanks of the rest of the memo. Maybe the memo read something like this:

“Attention, female!
The purpose of this communication is to warn you that come your 30th birthday, precisely at the stroke of midnight, your breasts will shrivel up and fall off your chest. Do not bother to collect the shriveled and fallen breasts. They cannot be re-attached to your body.

Also, deep wrinkles will magically appear on your forehead, cheeks, neck, and hands. Beauty products such as Oil of Olay are ineffective.

Also, your width will suddenly expand to reach 1.5 times its size prior to your 30th birthday.

Also, you will suddenly crave marriage and kids and be unable to talk or think about anything else.

If you are single, we counter-recommend being seen in public after your 30th birthday, let alone letting yourself be imaged either by video or in still pictures.

There is talk of a government program to set up isolated living communities for females over the age of 30, who have not be salvaged by the generosity of a man to take her in. We will advise you in another memorandum when such living communities have been established.

You must accept your new body and life, and the fate that comes with it.

No man will ever look at you again, let alone want to date you. In case you didn’t get memo #31, the reference of a man in this memo is to remind you that you are worth nothing without a man.

If you did not snag a man before age 30, you are doomed to a life of loneliness.

If you did snag a man before age 30, but do not manage to keep him through your 30th birthday, you are also doomed to a life of loneliness.

If you did snag a man before age 30 and manage to keep him through your 30th birthday, you are doomed to a life of loneliness when he seeks the company of females younger than yourself. It is understandable, after all, because their breasts have not yet shriveled up and fallen off their chests.

Please immediately disseminate the valuable information contained in this memorandum to every female you encounter, including complete strangers at barbecues and parties.”

Helpless

2007-09-22T22:15:00.000-05:00

On the subway last week, I was seated next to a woman and her baby. The baby was not cute, and it reminded me of the expression "a face only a mother could love." The woman clearly loved her baby very much. Despite its uncuteness, I could also see myself loving the baby if I were its mother. It was so helpless - it needed someone to love it, to take care of it so that it could survive.

Then I wondered if there were such a thing being lovable by virtue of being helpless. Do people sometimes love other people specifically because of the beloved's helplessless? If so, that would explain why there are so many awesome women who cannot help but love incompetent, helpless guys. I always wondered, since those women have got it all together, why do they have any patience for such helpless guys who need their hands held through every small task? Maybe whatever it is that drives people to love helpless babies is the same thing that explains a competent woman's affection for a guy who can't clean up after himself, plan and execute simple maneuvers, or keep his dick in his pants.

Then, thinking about the relationships I've been, I realized that I too have catered to and spoiled exactly that type of helpless guy. Ugh.

Things I didn't like about him anyway

2007-09-21T19:37:00.000-05:00

(Entries taken directly from the red book)

Entry 1, written after date 3:
The Pre-Cancerous Blob
- doesn’t make me laugh
- might be homophobic
- might have an Asian fetish
- chain smoker
- will probably die of cancer at age 37
- “let’s take it slow?” WTF?
- needs a haircut
- I’ll bet he has chicken legs
- mumbles a lot

Entry 2, written after date 2:
The Dude who Signed his E-mails with Freaky Emoticons
- * misspells a lot in e-mails… and what the hell is “:8”? or was it "8)" ?
- probably has a lot of chest hair
- looks a little like ex minus 3
- has a really weird accent
- used me for my hockey tickets
- probably kind of stupid

* should have been a dealbreaker from the get-go

Entry 3, written after date 3:
Asexual Scammer
- never had any cash with him
- is possibly asexual, and only went on dates with me for the dinners I ended up paying for
- talks at about 2 words per hour... sometimes when I'm sitting there, I wonder what percentage of my life is being expended trying to listen to him finish one sentence

Entry 4, written before date 1:
Bad Speller
- can't spell, worst of all, wrote "definately" in e-mails
- "definately" very stupid
- sounded really sketchy in the voice mail message
- couldn't get my name right
- probably not as cute to people who are sober

If you want to change the radio station, just go somewhere else!

2007-09-20T19:36:00.001-05:00

I miss the days when sleeping until 6:30am was not considered "sleeping in."

Nevertheless, I slept in this morning, because I was supposed to get up at 6am, but my alarm didn't go off. I panicked when I suddenly awoke at 6:30. I grumpily dragged myself out of bed, only half-heartedly trying to keep to my plan of leaving my apartment by 7. I put on my so-called power suit, a black wool skirt suit. This suit usually makes me feel like a million bucks. Everyone is nicer to me and moves out of my way when I wear it, because they think I'm an important person. This particular morning, I hated having to wear it. I was going to a schmoozy event and didn't want to risk being underdressed. Since it was cold when I got up, I chose the power suit also because it was the warmest suit I had. But I didn't really feel like wearing all black.

I spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to fix my recalcitrant bangs. I hate my bangs. This morning, they made me late for a 7:45am event in downtown Boston. I hopped into a cab. I hate taking a cab and spending the money solely because I am running late. I arrived at the breakfast meeting a few minutes before 8. All the while, I wondered what sort of sick people organize events that begin at 7:45am. I decided that I hated that sort of people. Meanwhile, I answered my own question in my head: the sort of people who organize events that begin at 7:45am are the sort of people I now rub elbows with as part of my new job. I might become one of those people one day, if I didn't watch it.

I was sleepy and still grumpy. On the way back from the meeting, I walked through the park at the Boston Common. I cursed myself for being too sleepy to appreciate the nice day and the beautiful scenery around me. I hated that I was wearing all black on a nice and sunny day. I was in a daze. On any other day, I would have stopped along the way to imagine stories among the pretty trees and flowers.

Just before I got to Park Street Station, I walked by a bum, an old guy. He was playing music on his portable stereo. It was the BeeGees. It wasn't Stayin' Alive, but I recognized the high-pitched vocals of Andy Gibb. I felt myself waking up from my daze.

To no one in particular, the old guy began yelling "And if you want to change the radio station, just go somewhere else!"

He really liked the BeeGees.

Somehow he made me laugh and it just made my day.

If I don't have it, I'll keep craving it

2007-09-17T21:26:00.000-05:00

At lunch with some co-workers a few weeks ago, I spied a tuna and cheddar melt sandwich on the menu. Normally I eat vegetarian meals, and normally I crave very light and healthy meals like salads and noodle soups. But once in a while I crave very greasy foods that may also involve seafood. I was set to order the tuna and cheddar melt. Then a colleague told me that she was eye-ing it too and decided against it, because it was so obviously unhealthy.

I knew she was sort of right, so I leaned toward a Thai salad on the menu. But then I kept lusting after the tuna melt, and then went through a ridiculous rationalization process as to why I had to have it.

"Sure it's bad for me," I thought. "But if I don't have it just this one time, I'll keep thinking about it and craving it all afternoon, and then I'll be unproductive at work. So I have to have this tuna melt, in the name of my productivity."

And then I ordered the tuna melt.

The problem with my life is that I use that sort of rationalization for other things that I know are bad for me, and I just can't stop.

Phenocopy of X

2007-09-09T09:09:00.000-05:00

There is a phenocopy of an ex (hereafter denoted as "the phenocopy") of mine at work. He has a lot of mannerisms that remind me of an ex (hereafter denoted as "X"), most especially the way he talks. But the phenocopy is gay.

I really like the phenocopy, though I'm not so fond of X at the moment. For some reason, I find the phenocopy much more palatable than X. The phenocopy has some characteristics that I would find irritating, were they characteristics in X or any of the straight guys I know. Instead, I find these character attributes in the phenocopy forgivable, if not endearing.

I've been mulling over what I think is my possible heterophobia or double-standard. Do I have a different bar for likability in my gay acquaintances versus straight acquaintances? At the end of my mulling, I came up with the conclusion that I'm overall more comfortable around gay gays. I know that I can have extensive, deeply intellectual conversations with them that won't be punctuated by non-sequitur requests for threesomes with me and a female friend. I like that when I'm talking to them, there is very little likelihood that they'll suddenly whip something out and expect me to do something with it. I like that they don't talk about women as a dairy product like milk or farm animals like cows or chicks.

Nueni-central

2007-09-08T20:38:00.001-05:00

Do you know that running Saturday Night Live skit that involves a European couple of unidentified country of origin? They are both named "Nüni," (?) though apparently their names are somehow distinct. They live in a posh apartment with very strange decor and furniture that is practically useless. They have a gay butler-type dude who lives with them and feeds them strange foods that are liquidized.

I've encountered several of my new neighbors, and am starting to think that I live in a building full of Nünis.

"Come here, you sexy little thing,"

2007-08-29T06:06:00.000-05:00

I said this morning as I woke up and reached for my smoking hot, make-everyone-jealous, sleek new

iPhone.

I love not having to get out of bed to check my e-mail.
I do realize that this is
1) just one more step toward couch potato-ness that I don't need
2) somewhat pathological that I have an easier time expressing affection toward inanimate objects than toward human beings.

Butterlicious?

2007-08-22T21:59:00.001-05:00

Dear makers of Jolly Time Butterlicious popcorn,

I write to protest your false advertisement of your popcorn as "Butterlicious." On the outside packaging, there is also a misleading "butter meter" indicating that your product is at or near the maximum level of buttery-ness. I enclose for your reference, in a vacuum-sealed plastic bag, 10 randomly-selected kernels of popped corn from one bag of the aforementioned product. You will note that most kernels barely have any hint of butterliciousness on them. The only two that have a fair amount of butter on them are only about 50% covered in butter. There is not a single kernel that is thoroughly doused in butter.

This is not my idea of "butterlicious." It is not most people's ideas of "butterlicious" either. I stood on Newbury Street in Boston on a busy Saturday afternoon with a bowl of popcorn (of the aforementioned product line) and proffered all the passersby some free samples. I asked them if they thought that "butterlicious" would well-describe the popcorn. Of 33 people randomly polled, most people said that at best, the popcorn was "slightly buttery." One guy gave me a dirty look and said "get a job."

I also sent a sample to the Butter Analysis lab at the Southern Heights Institute of Technology, SHIT. They analyzed the butter content, and the weight of the butter constituted a mere 0.02% of the weight of the popcorn sample. They also performed taste bud analyses in a new in vitro cell culture system, and found that the activation of taste bud cells using your popcorn was roughly the same as 5 other popcorn products on the market, which were NOT advertised as "butterlicious." It seems that if your product is only about as buttery as those other products, "butterlicious" is not a word you should use.

"Butterlicious," as most people would commonly understand it, means that the butter is overpowering. The butter is the primary taste, and the popcorn is only a vehicle to carry the butterliciousness. (This is much the way bread, lobster, and clams are. They are only vehicles to carry butter.) If you can barely taste the butter, it cannot be "butterlicious."

I also submit that I did not have a jolly time eating your non-butterlicious Jolly Time Butterlicious product.

Please immediately cease and desist your false advertising, or better yet, make a truly butterlicious product.

My lawyers will be contacting you shortly.

Lukewarm Regards,
___

Bored by the heteros

2007-08-19T20:47:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure why women get the bad rap for supposedly being not as bright as the other sex. When I think of the most inane conversations I've ever had, they've all been with guys, most especially the straight ones. I've become really bored with most of the straight guys with whom I've interacted. I realized it's because my conversations with them are always limited to three basic themes:

Theme 1: They talk about how they'd like to sleep with X, where X can be any girl they know or have spotted somewhere, whether in real life or on a billboard or in a cartoon or on the playground.

There used to be a time when this topic was interesting to me, because I would discover something new. I would discover, for instance, that some of the heteros I know are really undiscriminating or have sick pedophilic tendencies. Now that I've figured out that most of the heteros I know would fuck anything that moves (and a good number of things that don't), this topic bores me. When I made this revelation, I also stopped being so easily flattered by attention from a straight guy.

Now when they tell me they want to sleep with someone, it's like them stating that the sky is blue. I don't understand their need to iterate ad nauseum what I already know.

I try to change the topic to something more interesting, but usually the heteros lapse into automated-hormone-driven-drooling-animal mode. Then there's nothing for me to do but move out of the way and hope that none of their drool drips onto me.

Theme 2: They talk about how much other women would like to sleep with them.

This is also extremely boring, yet extremely popular among the heteros. I am always skeptical of their definition of other women wanting to sleep with them. Do they mean the women didn't run out of the room when they hit on them? Do they mean the women were wearing makeup, and they automaticallly assumed that the makeup meant the women wanted to sleep with them in particular?

Even supposing that the putative desire on the part of the women existed, what of it? Why would this topic need constant dissecting and revisiting? Are these heteros so insecure, that any sign of approval in any form must be celebrated by constantly talking about it? Several clues have emerged from the sub-themes of this conversation topic that I've encountered.

In sub-theme one, the hetero says something along the lines of :

"I'm SO hot. All these women want to sleep with me. There's this chick ___, then another chick ___, then this other chick ___. [sigh] My life is so difficult, because I'm just not interested in any of them. It's too bad, because they all want me.... I'm just THAT hot. But I don't want to sleep with any of them. Did I mention I am SO hot? By the way, can I come over to your place tonight?"

In sub-theme two, the hetero says something along the lines of:

"I'm SO hot. All these women want to sleep with me. There's this chick ___, then another chick ___, then this other chick ___. [sigh] I can't help it if everywhere I go, some chick wants to sleep with me. I'm just THAT hot. Sorry babe, I just can't be monogamous. I'm just TOO hot. By the way, how dare you talk to other guys?"

Theme 3: Useless, unsolicited advice

I have gotten and continue to get, against my will, a flurry of useless advice from hetero guys. The topics span a wide range, from how short I should cut my fingernails to how I should organize my finances to how to arrange my furniture. Sometimes the advice comes out of nowhere. I may not even be conversing with them at all, when suddenly I get an instant message informing me how I should live my life.

I am puzzled as to why the heteros feel a constant need to give advice. It cannot be that they are so stupid as to believe that their advice is actually helpful. After mulling on this for a while, I came up with a theory. I theorized that the heteros I know are actually smart enough to realize that they are useless. It's precisely their realization that they are irrelevant to me that makes them want to give me (and likely other women) advice. The more independent I am of them, the more they realize how irrelevant they are in my life, and the more they want to change that. Desperate to establish some degree of relevance in my life, they grasp at straws and spurt out whatever they can think of. But they are not smart enough to think of anything useful. Rather than saying one useful thing, they say a thousand useless things, hoping that by chance one of the things that they have blurted out might at least seem insightful to me.

Sometimes I wish they'd just shut up.

What I'll put up with detached limbs and spurting blood for

2007-08-08T21:56:00.000-05:00

I am not usually into gory movies, but Kill Bill is one of my favorites. The first time I saw Kill Bill vol. 1, I actually left the room and refused to watch the rest of it.

But there are several elements of the movie, especially in vol. 2, that override my distaste for gore and have brought Kill Bill into my top movies list. I re-watched it last December and am feeling the urge to watch it again.

Overall, I like the theme of a woman kicking ass. I like the scene in which Uma Thurman as "the Bride" stalks Bill's brother outside his mobile home, ninja-like with her Hattori Hanzo sword at the ready. It's HOT. I am not talking about her tall and slender physique and her body-clinging ninja-wear, but rather the fire in her eyes. She wants revenge and she wants it bad. I love that look.

But moreover, I find the most farcical elements of the movie very attractive. By "most farcical," I am not talking about the physical improbability of the Bride slicing through 50 assassins with a Hattori Hanzo sword to annihilate one of her enemies. I am not talking about any of the other gory scenes that involve spurting blood and detached limbs.

What I find most farcical - and most attractive - about Kill Bill, is the lack of inane platitudes showered upon the lead character, a single woman. Such inane platitudes and the accompanying useless and unsolicited advice permeate my own life as a single woman. It is like a thick and smelly, gooey ether that I have to walk through every minute of my life. That it is possible for a lead character in a major motion picture to be a single woman who traipses through several hours of footage without having to deal with that crap is both unbelievable and inspiring at the same time.

In the movie, the single woman kicks butt and people take her seriously. There are no useless guys at Radio Shack or the hardware store to interview her for half an hour before letting her buy a soldering iron. There are no random instant messages at midnight from her ex-boyfriends to give her unsolicited advice about everything ranging from her current love life to her new apartment to how to kick in Taekwondo. There are no icky guys with Asian fetishes who randomly accost her on the subway or on the street and say such off-putting lines like "hi Chinese lady!" "Ni Hao," "I have always been fascinated by Asian cultures," bla bla bla.

In the movie, no one tells her that even though her ex-boyfriend killed her closest friends and tried to kill her, she should just do yoga and try to find inner peace. No one lectures her about how she should be the bigger person, as though "being the bigger person" ever comes with any benefits. No one says "don't get angry, just move on." She lays out a clear plan for revenge and executes it, and never is there any doubt about her right to do back to Bill and his cronies what they did to her.

As if all that were not farcical enough, no one in the movie tells her that it was her fault and that she should have seen it coming for having dated Bill. In fact, there's very little of the ever-popular Blame the Woman game in Kill Bill. There's so little of it, that I wonder if Quentin Tarantino grew up in an ultra-feminist household.

Even more farcical about this movie with a single woman character in the lead, no one talks about how there are plenty of fish in the sea, presuming that she is even in the mood for fish at all. No one tells her she needs a man to complete her life. No one says she is a bad person for not wanting to be with anybody and for not being obsessed with marriage and kids. There is no annoying guy in the movie who thinks that he's just a nice guy and begs her to give him a chance. There is also no friend to lecture her about giving "nice guys" a chance, nobody who naively assumes that any guy who proclaims his niceness is really as nice as he imagines himself to be.

In the movie and in contrast to real life, no one holds on to the illusion that deep down, Bill is really a nice guy who just made a bad mistake. Everyone knows that Bill is an asshole, and even his friends do not regard him as a normal person. They all know that he's a creep and that what he did to her was in no way at all excusable. And in very deep contrast to real life, they know that the revenge she has planned for him is what he well deserves. In the movie, it's the asshole guy who had it coming, not the woman. Again, so little of Blame the Woman!

All these things are what remind me, when I'm watching Kill Bill, that I'm watching a work of fiction. But I love the fantasy world that Tarantino created in Kill Bill. If only for a few hours in that fantasy world, I'll put up with detached limbs and spurting blood.

A slobbering mass of incompetence

2007-08-07T19:06:00.000-05:00

I dreamt that my friend came over to my apartment to cook dinner for us and her boyfriend. While my friend set up in the kitchen, her boyfriend plopped down in my living room on the tatami mats. He began re-arranging my mats and flipping them wrong-side up, until finally I told him to leave them alone so that I could fix them. He hadn't messed up my mats out of maliciousness, but rather gross incompetence and lack of coordination.

When I finally put my tatami mats back in order, he spilled his lego pieces all over my mat. He had brought a whole box of legos to play while his girlfriend was preparing dinner. Soon dinner was ready, and my friend informed both of us that it was time to sit down and eat. The boyfriend was helplessly unable to clean up after himself. He was literally incapable of picking up the pieces of his lego set and putting it back in his box.

While I liked legos a lot, I was repulsed at his inability to do anything useful at all. Yet in my repulsion, I was somewhat fascinated. I stared at him. He resembled a little child, but even worse, the kind of child who was unable to communicate. He was just a slobbering mass of incompetence. My God, I thought. If I had one of these, I would spend all my time cleaning up after him. I wondered if my friend was ashamed to go out in public with him.

Making do in the dark

2007-08-03T23:11:00.000-05:00

The halogen bulb in my torchier-style lamp went out. I was light-less for a week or so until I was fed up enough to cut out of work early enough to hit the hardware store. Unfortunately, my first attempt at halogen-bulb buying failed. The one I bought had a metal fin base, and my lamp required a different kind of contact. After another trip to the hardware store, I finally acquired the bulb of the right wattage, contacts, etc.

I thought I was all set. I installed the new bulb. It was a simple maneuver involving only a screwdriver. I turned on the lamp, and then smoke started coming out of the bulb. I thought maybe some dirt or grease was burning off the bulb. In an attempt to watch the bulb as it lit, I may have partially blinded myself. After a few rounds of turning the bulb on and off and seeing more smoke, I decided to play it safe go on a Googling expedition first.

And OMG:
Consumer product safety commission memo

I am going to make do in the dark until I can buy another kind of lamp.

No Kodak film for you

2007-07-25T15:55:00.000-05:00

At a recent dinner, I sat with a group of married women who were either my age or slightly older. The conversation turned quickly to husbands, pregnancy and children. I should note that all of the women at the table have advanced degrees and awesome jobs and are very bright. And I don't at all disrespect them for talking about family. But I felt like I couldn't connect with them, despite being in the same demographic age- and education-wise. I couldn't relate and I didn't envy their lives. I felt like an alien.

Then later that night, I dreamt that I was co-habiting with an artist-type dude with a greasy pony-tail. I use the word "co-habiting" loosely in that he seemed to have found a way to interlope into my life, ostensibly as my romantic partner. Yet I didn't recall welcoming him into my life. In the dream, the only feelings I had for him were feelings of disgust and disrespect. I also vaguely recall that he was very ugly.

In any case, he was bumming off of me by living in my apartment and eating my food. One time at the grocery store, he took it one step further by trying to sneak $862 worth of Kodak film into my shopping cart.

When I discovered his attempt at a massive unauthorized purchase at my expense, I promptly returned the Kodak film to the shelf and didn't pay for it. It was ridiculous because it was my money and because he could have just as easily taken images with a digital camera.

The incident with $862 worth of Kodak film was the straw that broke my back. I kicked him out of my apartment and had nothing more to do with him.

This is not what I've been missing

2007-07-18T22:59:00.001-05:00

Today I received an automated e-mail from a social networking site with the subject header "This is what you've been missing." Having neglected to go to most of the numerous social events to which I have been invited (as part of a mass mailing), I have now gotten on some sort of "recluses who are missing out" list.

I looked at the photos showing what I've been missing by not going to these events. There were beautiful women in tight clothing staring at the camera and holding drinks. In other e-mails of this nature, I have seen pictures of scantily clad and naked beautiful women being ogled by thankfully clothed ugly men.

I did not feel that I was missing out.

First of all, there were no ninjas in any of the party pictures, which hinted strongly that I've been missing out on some very boring parties.

Secondly, I once went to a party that was advertised through that same social networking site. I remember distinctly being surrounded by very un-beautiful people. Most noticeable among the un-beautiful people were a vast army of hairy desperate men who seemed to wait at every corner of the room, ready to pounce on any nubile female who walked within 10 feet of them.

I was astounded later to see pictures from that same party posted on the website. The pictures were full of beautiful people I'd never seen before in my life. There were no pictures of any member of the army of desperate, hairy, lurking, and pouncing men. I thought I had made a mistake. Was I really looking at pictures from the party I attended? The website claimed so.

Now when I see pictures of beautiful people as advertisement for a party, or as part of a nagging "this is what you've been missing" e-mail, I completely distrust it.

Thirdly, I am not into beautiful people anymore. I may have never been that into them anyway, but in my life right now, I definitely don't want anything to do with beautiful people. If I wanted to go to a party at all, I'd avoid parties with beautiful people. No matter how unfair this is, I can't help but associate the beautiful people advertised in the parties as unforgivably vapid and obnoxious.

Ich würde lieber, dass ich kein Deutsch kann

2007-07-14T09:56:00.001-05:00

I took two years of German classes at MIT. I had gotten quite comfortable speaking German and traveling around Germany all by myself. I had become so familiar with the subway system in Frankfurt, that a German woman who was traveling from another city asked me (in German) which stop she should get off at. But I haven't practiced German in so long.

In an attempt to preserve some of my German language abilities without actually having to talk to Germans, I began listening to news videos from the Deutsche Welle website while getting ready for work. I thought that this would be a pretty innocuous new habit. It doesn't involve talking to other people, can be done whenever I am home, and saves me time in my busy schedule. I also hear news stories I don't usually get from the New York Times or from CNN. From Deutsche Welle, I learned that talking stuffed animal rabbits are all the rage in France now.

But one time while brushing my teeth and listening to Deutsche Welle, it suddenly hit me how utterly useless it was for me to speak German at all. During that news segment, Claudia Schiffer and some ridiculously dressed German guy accompanying her were being interviewed. There was something snooty about both of them and what they were saying. They were so self-important, and the ridiculously dressed German guy appeared to be completely unaware that he was ridiculously dressed. If anything, he probably thought that he was making a grand fashion statement. As for Schiffer, I never thought she was snooty when she spoke English, but I couldn't stand her when she was speaking German. I suddenly didn't want to be associated with the two of them by being able to speak their native language.

In the beginning, I had been excited to take German classes because a friend of mine was also taking German. It was our "thing" to learn German together. And I had been annoyed that the German speakers in my lab, of which there are and were many, talked about me in German right in front of me. I figured that would end as soon as I learned the language. It did, but then they shifted to talking about me exclusively behind my back.

Speaking German has made it easier for me to become acquaintanced with Germans. While this may seem like an advantage, I argue that it is a major drawback. Overall, my experiences with Germans have been overwhelmingly unpleasant. When I think of the extended interactions with Germans I've known, I think of myself on the examination table at the doctor's getting a pelvic exam and waiting for it to be over. Please, let it end now, I think. I'll be a good girl and I won't swear at people anymore. I'll call my parents every week and sound cheerful when I talk to them, and say "yes" whenever my mom gives me advice, even if I'm not going to take it. I'll clean my room and make my bed every day. I won't roll my eyes when other people talk, even if what they're saying is really that inane.

But it won't end just then. Even when I think I've endured enough, the doctor/ German comes back with yet another tool to poke at me. And the doctor/German is always lying when he or she says "This won't hurt a bit."

Looking back, I started to regret the time investment that I'd spent learning the language. What did I ever get from learning German? I mentally assembled a list of the positives. It was short.

Positives about the German language itself:
- The words "Schadenfreude" and "Doppelgänger," two favorites of mine.
- Modularly built and logical grammar rules.

Positives about me learning German:
- Can swear in German at car drivers who almost kill me when I'm on foot or on my bike.
- Was able to talk to those people in Cologne about George Bush being a dumbass, and we probably wouldn't have had that conversation had I not greeted them in German.
- Have access to and can understand the lyrics to a wider range of breakup and unrequited love songs.

This list did not compensate for the extended pelvic-exam-like experiences I had, nor was it worth two years of classes. Why didn't I invest that time learning some other language, like Italian or Japanese?

I pondered this as I spat my toothpaste/saliva into the sink. I rinsed my mouth, but the only thing that could be rinsed out was the toothpaste. I could still speak German.

Espace

2007-07-12T23:23:00.000-05:00

There is a special group in my cell phone book called Annoying Guys. Whenever guys who are part of this special group call me, my phone rings in a different way. That way, I know without looking at my cell phone that an annoying guy is calling. I really dislike having to fumble through my purse or get up from where I am to get my cell phone, all just to find out that some annoying guy I don't want to talk to is calling. This is my work-around solution because I don't know a way to block phone calls.

The Annoying Guy Cell Phone Ring is called "Espace." (My cell phone is set in French). I guess it's supposed to mimic some space-y sort of sound. I can't really describe it other than it sounds really annoying.

The "Espace" sound doesn't make me think of outer space. It makes me think of perverts in trench coats whistling at girls walking by on the street. It makes me think of guys who try to hump girls they don't know on the dance floor. It makes me think of sweaty and hairy real estate agents who say things like "this is the best it's going to get, sweetheart. You're never going to find anything better out there!" It makes me think of cheating bastards with all their would-fuck-anything-that-moved desperation and drool dripping from them.

That's why I chose "Espace" for the Annoying Guy group.

This proved to be an idiotic decision. One of the features that annoying guys have in common is that they keep calling even after you either (1) ignore their phone calls or (2) tell them explicitly to leave you alone. One time when I was trying to sleep, my phone went off with the Espace ring. Annoying Guy #1 was calling, and he kept calling and calling and calling. I think he called every 5 minutes during the span of one hour. I debated turning off my cell phone, but was relying on my phone as my alarm in the morning. So I ended up lying in bed hearing the Annoying Guy Cell Phone ring over and over again, unable to sleep.

Classmates of mine from Caltech probably understand the effect that conditioning from such sounds can have on a person. At Caltech, the tradition during Finals Week was to blast the Ride of the Valkyries loudly in all the dorms throughout campus at 7 in the morning every day. This was supposedly to make sure that people got up to study or take their finals. (Our finals were mostly take-home at Caltech.)

I resented the tradition of playing the Ride, because usually at 7am during Finals Week I was in the middle of taking an exam, and often after not having had much sleep. But the worst part of the Ride tradition is that to this day, when I hear the first few chords of the Ride play, my spine arches, my body tenses, and my heart palpitates.

I now have that sort of physiological response when I hear Espace. I think that were I to switch the Annoying Guy Cell Phone Ring to a different ringtone, I'd start to have the same physiological reaction to the new Annoying Guy Cell Phone Ring.

Last weekend when I was at the hardware store, I suddenly heard Espace. My body froze and I wondered which annoying guy was calling. I hadn't heard from any of them in a while, and I assumed that they were done being annoying. But after looking at my phone, I realized that it wasn't my phone that was ringing. It was the phone of the woman who was standing behind me.

She actually answered her phone, which strongly suggests that she was not using Espace as the Annoying Guy Cell Phone Ring. But I find the sound of Espace so annoying, that I couldn't fathom she used it as her regular ring. I was very tempted to ask her about it.

Later that evening, I ventured out to a straight club with a close friend. I hadn't gone out to a straight club in a long time. I've been avoiding straight clubs because they usually leave me either disgusted or depressed or both. In any case, that evening I tagged along with my friend, thinking that one night at a straight club can't possibly be that bad.

Within five minutes of arriving at the club, I spotted Annoying Guy #2 (hereafter denoted as AG2) at the club with his friend. AG2 earned his place in the Annoying Guy group for calling too often too soon. I had met him at a straight club through some friends, and we talked for literally five seconds before I left to go home. I had given him my phone number on the way out of the club, thinking he was kind of cute. (I am now revising my policy of giving my phone number to any guy who asks for it.)

The night I met him, AG2 called at 2am. I was in the bathroom of my shitty old apartment trying to deal with a cockroach I spotted when he called. (I don't think, by the way, that it is mere coincidence that the cockroach appeared at the same time that AG2 called. This sort of synchronicity with an annoying insect appearing the same time as an annoying guy has happened several times before.) Since I was busy trying to annihilate the cockroach, I didn't even hear him calling.

When I saw that someone had called and I checked my voice mail, I heard AG2 blather on and on about how he "really enjoyed our time together." I guess it is possible to "really enjoy" five seconds of surface conversation, but I never have. AG2 suddenly stopped being cute.

I rolled my eyes and then rolled them again when I heard him insist I call him back.
The next morning, I rolled my eyes yet again as he called at 11am. That was when I decided he definitely belongs in the Annoying Guy category.

So last Saturday night, when I was at a straight club for the first time in a long time, I was displeased to see AG2. And it was on the same day that I heard Espace for the first time in a long time! Since AG2 had "really enjoyed" the five-second surface conversation we had, I was worried that he would think we were married or something if we ended up having a real conversation at the club. He had been so aggressive about calling me before, that I was worried he'd head straight over and bother me if he saw me. He also seemed like the type to stalk, and the last thing I wanted was for him to follow me home and find out where I lived.

So I spent a lot of my time at the club standing in the corner hoping he wouldn't spot me and come over. "Don't look over here; don't look over here," I thought. I turned my body and face away from him. This action has the unsurprising effect of not actually preventing someone from looking in your direction. I knew my attempt to not be spotted was lame, but I figured if I didn't look at him, then I could at least pretend I didn't see him.

Meanwhile, I mentally prepared for what I would do if he did come over to talk to me. I came up with three options:
(1) Feign ignorance:
"Um... who are you?"
(2) Feign English inability:
"Sowwy... me no s-peak Ing-ish."
(3) Brutal Honesty:
"Dude... I would have gone on a date with you, but you were just too pushy with the phone calls."

After a few more minutes of pretending I didn't see him and crossing my fingers that he wouldn't see me, I couldn't take it anymore. I ditched my friend and nearly ran out of the club.

And then I promised myself not to go to a straight club again... at least for a few months. I really need my space.

Getting shot

2007-07-11T23:24:00.000-05:00

Today at work I had to be shot, and they called in a professional to do it.

I received a packet a few weeks ago from the Marketing Department informing me that they had scheduled a professional photo shoot for me. My company is re-doing their website according to the latest fashion, which means there will be full body shots of all the lawyers and scientists at the firm. Apparently a lot of the women were upset by this, but their protests were paid no heed.

In the packet from the Marketing Department, there were several pages of pictures depicting examples of acceptable dress for persons of my gender. There were images of about 30 women in suits on each page, all looking somewhat uncomfortable while posing in various positions with or without props. Sadly, there were no examples of inappropriate dress.

In addition to the pictures, a written description was provided. It was an interesting document. Rather than stating that they don't want people to wear short skirts, they claimed that "skirts photograph best when they are between knee and mid-calf length." I think I have seen plenty of pictures of women in short skirts that disprove that claim. Also, rather than saying they want women to wear high heels, they claimed that "heels photograph better than flats do."

In the weeks leading up to the photo shoot, I wondered what sort of pose I was going to do for the full body shot. I assumed flipping off the camera would be considered inappropriate. I also figured Taekwondo poses would "not photograph well." Anything fun at all would probably be disapproved. I decided that I had to be and look as boring as possible for my photo shoot.

So I showed up in the make-shift studio this morning trying to look as serious as possible. The photographer thought my hair was messy because I have bangs, and kept trying to get me to move my bangs away from my forehead.
"Do you normally leave your hair like that?" He confirmed my suspicion that my hair really was a disaster.
"Uh, yeah..." I said.

After a few test shots, my serious look was not enough for him.

"Okay, now how about some smiling?"

I faked a smile. Whenever I fake a smile, I always end up looking like I'm smirking. I think that's partly because smirking is my default expression. I'm trying to change that, because I think smirking excessively has given me extra wrinkles in my dimple area.

But now I understand why Dick Cheney is smirking diabolically in the life-sized photo of him in the Federal building in downtown Boston. I had previously assumed he was smirking so hideously because he's evil. It turns out he is just a human being like me who can't fake a smile worth anything.

I did the fake, awkward smile for a few shots, and then I started bursting out laughing. I couldn't help myself. The whole scenario was so ridiculous. "Brush you hair this way," the photographer would say. "Now move your feet that way, and bring the heels a bit closer. Now straighten out your hair and bring it in front of your shoulders. Now tilt your body this way but your head the other way." (By the way, the experience confirmed for me that I do not ever ever want to be a model, no matter how many reality TV shows Tyra Banks produces.)

I couldn't stop laughing, and the photographer snapped away while I was laughing.

So now in my professional photo on the company website, I'll either be smirking or laughing uncontrollably.

I ran away as quickly as I could

2007-06-30T07:16:00.000-05:00

Three dreams

1. I knew instantly that it was going to try to mate with me

I somehow ended up at an artist's loft building when I was trying to find the subway. While there, I spied a party down the hall. I wanted to crash the party.

The woman at the concierge gave me a costume to wear to the party. It was a large, life-sized unicorn costume made of a balloon-like material. When I put it on, it wasn't even possible to see me. I really looked like a balloon-version of a unicorn.

I headed down the hall to the party. Before getting in the door, I spied a real-life unicorn hanging out at the entrance to the party. The real-life unicorn spotted me, and I knew instantly that it was going to try to mate with me. I thought about all those stories I'd heard about big animals trying to mate with humans, injuring them in the process. I thought about how the unicorn would likely hurt me with its unicorn-horn in the process of trying to mate with me.

I ran away as quickly as I could in my unicorn costume.

Looking back on that dream, I'm not sure why I didn't think to take the unicorn costume off.

2. But what are you going to do all day anyway?

I was dating a guy I know (whom I'll call AJ). (In real life, AJ and I neither have any romantic relationship nor any desire to.)

I was talking to AJ in his office at work, and he was talking about how I was going to bear our children and then I would quit my job and be a stay-at-home mom. It was a strange conversation. I felt like we were negotiating a business deal, rather than talking like two people who were in a relationship.

He was matter-of-factly telling me what the deal was going to be, as though I had no say in the matter. It was presumptuous of him on so many levels. I don't think we were even engaged in the dream, but he was presuming we'd get married and have kids, and that I'd be the one to sacrifice my dreams for the kids. I was starting to wonder if we were even dating. Maybe AJ was presuming that I'd date him as well.

I said "No, no way. I am not getting pregnant and quitting my job."

He was shocked that I was putting up any resistance.

"But what are you going to do all day anyway?" he asked, as though motherhood was a solution to my putative boredom and lack of things to do.

I was too confused to be offended. AJ seemed to be unaware that I really liked my job, that it was a good job, and that it kept me really busy. He also seemed to be unaware that I also had plenty of activities I really loved. Somehow everyone else, even people I didn't consider friends, weighed in on the conversation as well. They were all harshly condemning my refusal to accept that path that he had laid out for me without consulting me.

I ran away as quickly as I could.

3. I'm not pregnant; I have stomach cancer!

(I had this dream during the most intense part of the period during which my parents were trying to get me to marry the Texan.)

I had a big belly, and everyone thought that I was pregnant. My family demanded that I get married as soon as possible to someone, anybody. My mom flew a bunch of random Vietnamese guys in from other states, including the Texan. The "suitors" made a lineup in our living room, and then my mom and everyone else demanded that I choose one of them. The suitors were waiting patiently and obediently for my decision. Everything was set up for an instant wedding. There was a wedding cake and lots of food. There was a priest and a professional photographer. The suitors were wearing tuxes, and everyone else was dressed up.

The only person who wasn't dressed for a wedding was me.

Everyone kept saying "Suzanne, you have to pick a guy from the lineup and marry him."

My mom kept saying, "Just tell us who the father is. That would make it easier." I kept trying to tell her that I wasn't pregnant, and that I actually had stomach cancer, but she wouldn't listen. She thought I was too embarrassed to admit who the father was.

"Okay," my mom demanded, "by midnight you will choose one of these guys, and you'll marry him, and that's that."

I ran away as quickly as I could.

Losing weight

2007-06-27T23:17:00.000-05:00

# of ex roommates' stuff to get rid of: 2
Trips to the Goodwill: 9
Trips up and down 2 flights of stairs: 50
Pounds of trash hauled to the dumpster: 250
Pounds of furniture hauled to the curb: 400
Pounds of recycling hauled to the curb: 150
Evenings spent after a long day at work cleaning up: 5
Entire weekend days spent cleaning up: 3
Number of roommates at new apartment: 0
Never having to clean up after someone else again: PRICELESS

Insomnia cured?

2007-06-16T08:35:00.000-05:00

My new job may be good for me in more ways than I could ever imagine. It's reading-intensive, which contributes to the feeling of mental exhaustion I have by the time I'm done with the day. This, in turn, contributes to my being able to sleep. Of course, the last few days I haven't let myself sleep that much anyway. It's been (6am Yoga Booty Ballet + long work day + 7pm Taekwondo + packing for my move) on the heaviest days.

I am not getting as much sleep as I did before I started my job, but I think I'm getting higher quality sleep. I'm no longer laying there half awake and unable to stop thinking about random things until the wee hours of the morning. I love it that I fall asleep now within minutes of hitting the bed.

Yay mental and physical exhaustion!

3am Jadedness

2007-06-09T04:33:00.000-05:00

[the nakedest I have ever been]

I realized today that it doesn't matter that I'm 31, or that I have a PhD, or that I have a good job lined up or that I've got a nice apartment. I am still incomplete according to the world. I'm still going to be treated like a little child, some sort of helpless creature in need of constant (useless) advice, supposedly unable to perform simple mathematical calculations or think for myself. Whatever decisions I make, they are automatically met with skepticism and people (usually male) feel a need to "correct" me even if his correction involves bullshit and my decision involves actual calculations based on numbers I researched. Complete strangers feel the need to tell me what I want or need, despite my never having asked for their opinion and their not knowing me at all.

I think this is how it's going to be so long as I'm unmarried, unless I opt for a sex change. Well, actually, the only thing that would probably stop if I got married is being told that I need to get married.

It's so defeating. Also, the more I'm confronted with the opinion that I'm a freak for being single and that I should freak out about getting married or having kids, the more convinced I am that it's all a rotten deal. I am even more repulsed by all of those things I'm supposed to want at my age, but don't.

Thanks, but no thanks. I want to be my own person and am not interested in finding someone to control me or tell me what to do. The unsolicited advice from other people (mostly male) suffices, and there's no way I am choosing to have even more of it. I don't want to have to laugh at someone's jokes even when they're not funny, and I don't want to have to love someone when he's fat and hairy. I don't want to have to pretend to be stupider than I am so that he can feel smarter and so that he can protect his ego. I'm not interested in sacrificing my needs for someone else, or doing someone else's dirty laundry and making him dinner while he drinks beer and plans his next date with his mistress. I'm not interested in seeing the money I earn with my hard work go to feeding a pig.

Thanks, but no thanks.

[braces self for more unsolicited and useless advice]

Don't call me; I'll call you

2007-06-06T01:56:00.000-05:00

"So what are you thinking? What are you thinking?" Jimmy asked.

I yelled at myself for having answered the phone. I couldn't believe he was calling me just hours after having dropped me off, as though I had nothing better to do in the intervening time but think about him. Didn't he know I was a busy girl?

I couldn't help but picture him as a drooling puppy dog, panting heavily and threatening to lick my face. I shivered thinking about his probable bad breath. Thankfully we were just on the phone. I racked my brain for a way to get off the phone with him as quickly as possible. Finally, I used my standard line.

"I'll call you."

He seemed dissatisfied with my answer. It's amazing how you can tell someone's mood on the telephone even during a moment of silence. I imagined him making a face and wanting to protest in some sort of way, but being unable to come up with anything to say without sounding desperate. After a moment of silence, I hung up.

I admit I felt a bit of power saying the line that guys typically use. I felt power because I knew I wouldn't really call him, which makes me a liar. But I had told him when we parted that I would call him if I wanted anything from him. I thought that implied pretty clearly that he shouldn't call me, and hinted that I didn't want anything from him. I guess he had trouble with the concept of "don't call me; I'll call you."

I was already turned off when I met him earlier in the day. His chest hair was spilling out of the space between his neck and the first buttoned hole of his shirt. I thought that this was a strong argument for him to button all the way up to his neck, but he clearly didn't agree. His one redeeming quality was his nice cologne, which convinced me to give this whole thing a try.

In his car, I awkwardly tried to make conversation. I didn't know him at all, and finding common conversational ground with a complete stranger often leads me into boring territory. There are only so many words you can say about the weather. As for sports, I don't follow anything other than the World Cup. So I talked about the only other thing that strangers can have in common: making fun of other people.

"Haha! Look at that woman in the other car! She's putting on her mascara while driving."
"Oh yeah, people do all sorts of things in the car," he remarked.

That was the extent of my attempt at conversation. During the rest of the afternoon, I tried to be polite as he prattled on in his pushy, "I am God's gift to women" manner. I didn't bother talking much, because he wasn't much of a listener. He kept talking on and on about things he assumed were important to me. He thought that I cared about size, but I'm really more about interesting and creative uses than size. What's the point of something really big if you don't know how to use it?

I think I only spent two hours with him, but it felt like an eternity. I sighed with relief as we drove back to where I'd met up with him. I looked at my watch and realized I was meeting up with someone else very soon.

"Whoa, I need to be at Boylston and Fairfield in five minutes. Can you drop me off?"
"Where are you going? Who are you seeing?" he asked, while projecting an expression of faux-hurt.

I resented the way he implied that I was doing something wrong by making plans to see someone else. Sure, it was right after seeing him, but no one had made any promise of exclusivity. I had absolutely no desire for that sort of arrangement, certainly not with him. I was pretty sure he was seeing other people too. That didn't bother me in the least, but there was no way I was going to hold myself to a higher standard than he held himself. Besides, I wasn't going to see him again anyway.

"I gotta go. I'll call you if I want anything," was my non-answer.
"You're never going to find anything better out there!" he yelled.

Oh yes I will, I thought as I gave him a skeptical look. What a presumptuous asshole. I dismounted from his big SUV (probably compensation for something) and closed the car door.

I grinned sheepishly as I walked down the street, because he had no idea that the person I was seeing after him was a woman. She was well-dressed, cute, and not pushy. And she didn't have chest hair spilling out of her shirt. My mood lifted. Annaliese and I were going to get along famously. I knew it right away.

Sure I'd wasted a lot of time with Jimmy, but now I found someone I liked. In a way, I was lucky. It's normally really tough trying to find a good real estate agent.

The Hostages

2007-05-30T01:50:00.000-05:00

I dreamt that I had brought back two cute German boys with me when I returned from my last trip to Germany, years ago. It was really sketchy what I’d done, actually, because it was more like I’d kidnapped them against their will. I brought them back to my parents’ house and left them there.

Then I abandoned them and totally forgot about them during the intervening years. When I “found” them again, they were sitting in the exact same spot I’d left them, on some couches in the living room. They were completely listless and I wondered how they’d survived so many years just sitting there like that. My mom told me she spoonfed them every day.

I felt really guilty for having kidnapped them and then abandoning them. I decided I needed to set them free. I went over to Cute German Boy #1 to talk to him. I told him that he needed to move out and be on his own, for his own good. Then he started having a crisis and acting as though we were kicking him out on the street. I tried to comfort him and assure him that I would help him with his new independent life, but he couldn’t stop crying.

Ex minus 1 and Orbital Occupancy

2007-05-07T10:20:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine had a system of nomenclature for her exes. She would refer to them as "ex," "ex minus 1," "ex minus 2," etc. The system made mathematical sense. "Ex" referred to her most recent ex-boyfriend. "Ex minus 1" referred to the one before that, and "ex minus 2," the one before "ex minus 1."

Still, it was really confusing for me, as I didn't have a clear map of her dating history in front of me. Also, she began using the nomenclature system in conversation without explaining it to me at first.

"Wait, who is 'ex minus 2?'" I'd interject.
"___, of course," she'd say. Then she'd go back to her Melrose-Place-like drama of the interplay between ex and (ex minus 1).

I never understood why she couldn't just use their names, given that we were usually talking in a quiet café with no one else around. At first I thought she had forgotten their names, but every time I asked her who "ex minus n" was, she was able to respond rapidly with a name of what sounded like a real person.

I had another possible explanation in mind. Maybe there was going to be some sort of mathematical interaction between all her exes, and it made it easier to refer to them as such. Maybe "ex plus 1," her future boyfriend, would combine with "ex minus 1," and then if she divided them by two, she'd end up with her most recent ex.

But I waded through several of these conversations, and no exciting addition or division ever took place. Instead, I was entangled in a web of ever-increasing complexity. The different exes not only knew each other, some of them lived together and dated the same girl other than my friend. On top of that, the girl that ex and (ex minus 1) had in common ("y") was threatening to move into my friend's apartment. Also, I too was acquainted with ex, (ex minus 1), and "y," all of whom felt a burning desire to confide in me the troubles each of them had with the others in the Bizarre Love Web of Entanglement. I didn't want to be stuck in the web, so I had to navigate carefully.

My own personal history has never come close to approximating Melrose Place. I think very linearly, in terms of work, life and career goals, and romance. My exes mostly don't know each other, because there is usually enough time and space between them. Thus, there's no tangled web. The romance-related emotions I have are like a limited-capacity electron orbital. The orbital has space for at most two guys of opposite spins at the same time: one spin up (current) and one spin down (ex). There is never more than one guy at a time occupying the "spin up" part of my life. As for the "spin down" part, once the most recent ex moves into that spot, he bumps out the other exes. It's as though I never knew them as anything other than friends.

In practice, the appearance of a "spin up" electron is enough to kick the "spin down" electron out of the orbital. Thus, most of the time, my orbital is either completely unoccupied or occupied by only one electron.

Having written all this, maybe the "ex minus 1" nomenclature system is simpler and easier to understand.

Social Disproof

2007-05-05T16:21:00.000-05:00

My friend is obsessed with this book, "The Game," which gives pointers on how to pick up women. He cited to me the concept of "social proof," which describes how women supposedly behave regarding men. When women see a guy with a woman, it's as though she's certified him as worthy to spend time with. This makes some women more interested in the man than they would be if he were alone or hanging out with a bunch of guy friends.

I think this was mentioned in one of Chris Rock's acts. According to Rock, when men see their friends with a really awesome woman, they think, "I want a woman like that." When women see their friends with a guy (and let's be realistic, he doesn't even have to be awesome), they think "I want THAT guy."

I've observed social proof in action, when I watch ElimiDate (why are those fabulous women fighting over that total dud?) and when I go out with guys. Whether I'm out with male friends or a boyfriend, it's as though all the women at the party or club want to be with my male companion merely because they saw me walk in with him. And me, personally, I don't want to be with a guy who's been rejected by everyone else.

But I feel that the concept of "social disproof" better describes how I operate. If I meet someone and find out they're in a relationship, I quickly lose interest. It isn't just that I decide I don't want to be a homewrecker and I back off, I actually am not interested anymore. I also find myself struggling to see what my friends see in their boyfriends. This could be related to the high opinion I have of my friends, and the general feeling that no one can really be good enough for them.

When guys try exploit "social proof" to their advantage, I am turned off. It doesn't make me more interested to know that a guy is flirting with and "could go home with" any number of girls. (I put "could go home with" in quotes, because that's the story according to the guy, and not necessarily reality. Some guys think that anything female that says "hi" to them wants to sleep with them.) When it's clear that a guy has many flirtatious interactions with other girls, or many "chances" as he might put it, it makes me think he's icky and extremely easy. Then I don't want to be anywhere near him.

Celebrity Schadenfreude

2007-05-05T12:11:00.000-05:00

I'm staring at the cover of a Life & Style magazine. Brad is supposedly telling Jen "I made a huge mistake" and he wants her back. I'm not sure why I bought the magazine. I think I was in a goofy mood and wanting to read something non-serious when I spotted the magazine at the checkout counter at the grocery store. Though I bought it a few weeks ago, I still haven't actually read it.

I think a part of me was drawn by the personal tragedy and heartbreak experienced by these celebrities. Sure, it's sick to take pleasure in other people's pain. I do it anyway. I find it somewhat excusable in the case of celebrities, because I generally don't like them. Maybe it's not their fault, but the press makes it seem as though as anything they do at all is a huge accomplishment. Whenever a celebrity has a baby, gets married, or joins a yoga class, it becomes a magazine cover and center spread. This confuses me. Don't people have babies, get married, and do yoga all the time? Do we have lower standards for people who are famous? Is it because we have such low expectations of their ability to do rather mundane things that we are supposed to be impressed when they can tie their own shoelaces?

I don't envy celebrities though. I wouldn't want my personal tragedy to be the cover of a magazine, wouldn't want my heartbreak to be something that amuses people all over the world for pages and pages. And yet I find myself drawn to the love triangle dramedy that is Brangeliniffer.

Spiderman isn't cute anyway

2007-05-05T08:34:00.000-05:00

[warning: Spiderman 3 spoiler]

I saw Spiderman 3 last night. I thought it was interesting that when Spiderman kissed a girl other than his girlfriend, the audience didn't really react. But then when Spiderman's girlfriend kissed another guy, a large portion of the audience boo-ed. The way the scenarios were set up, Spiderman's extra-relationship kiss wasn't understandable, whereas hers was (he wasn't there for her, he had already kissed someone else, and his kiss was on the front page of every newspaper.)

I guess we still live in an age where it's okay for men to fool around, but we've got a scarlet letter waiting for women who do the same. This double standard shouldn't surprise me, but it does. I refuse to accept that I'm supposed to behave according to a stricter moral code than the guy I'm seeing.

Personally, I cheered when she kissed someone else. I thought she should have dumped that self-centered, tights-wearing, chubby egomaniac long before. Maybe she should have never dated him in the first place. He's not cute anyway.