Life is all about the little things. I mean, I can't wait for the big deals to come around in order to be happy; if I did I'd be a bitter Fat Chick with a hell of a lot of time on her hands. So, I take the small stuff and cheerfully run with it. And I consider myself fortunate that I can do the occasional happy dance.
In the past 7 days I've had a few victories:
1. I played "peonisms" for 140 points and "zits" for 94 points on Scrabulous. WHOO to the HOO, bebbeh.
2. I finished Porgy the Pig's parts. Now all I have to do is put him together.
3. I nabbed my favorite seat on the bus EVERY MORNING. I always feel victorious when I nab my favorite seat. Sometimes I have to elbow people out of the way, and I have been known to shove little old ladies. But hey, it's not my fault they didn't hear me call dibs.
4. I finished inputting my 2007 reciepts in a spreadsheet. MAN THAT SUCKED! So now I just have to gather a few things and ship the lot off to my accountant. Oh, and... Uncle Sam? Are you reading this? Are you? If so... FORK IT OVER.
5. I finally returned those DVDs to Netflix (rented back in May, I think), so now I get to watch Maxed Out and some other chick flick.
6. Cleaned the living room. AND I did laundry even though I still had clean undergarments left.
7. Started planning my summer dives, got a couple scheduled.
And last but most definitely not least:
8. My article was published this morning.... and I was asked to be a regularly contributing author!!!
Yay!
Monday, March 31, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Cute Things My Cats Do: Howrah
I used to flop onto my bed at night. Since Howrah has come to live with me, I quit doing that, at least when it’s less than 70 degrees in the homestead. When it’s cool, her royal blackness likes to sleep under the covers. And she’s good at hiding. She’ll bunch up the comforter in a ball, and she’ll be in there somewhere but I can never really be sure where but you better believe that if I flop on the bed, then she’ll be right where I land. It’s a good thing that she purrs loudest when she’s squeezed and squooshed. Something of a glutton for punishment, the black one is.
She also she likes to sleep under the covers with me, especially if I am sick with a fever and therefore warmer than usual. (My cats love me because I’m warm on a cold day. That, and because I feed them canned cat food when they ask for it.) She lays so that she’s this long shiny black warm fuzzy running the length of my left leg and I sleep like a baby on those nights. Until she claws me. That’s when I kick her out of the covers and make her sleep on the corner of the bed with Hooghly.
She also she likes to sleep under the covers with me, especially if I am sick with a fever and therefore warmer than usual. (My cats love me because I’m warm on a cold day. That, and because I feed them canned cat food when they ask for it.) She lays so that she’s this long shiny black warm fuzzy running the length of my left leg and I sleep like a baby on those nights. Until she claws me. That’s when I kick her out of the covers and make her sleep on the corner of the bed with Hooghly.
Friday, March 28, 2008
A pretty for your Friday
So its the tail-end of yet another hard, 5-day slog, and I thought to myself, HEY! I need something pretty to look at. Don't we all need something pretty to look at sometimes? So then, while I was looking, I thought HEY! I'll blog about it. Why not? Gotta burn that triple shot latte energy somehow, right?
Some background: I love invertebrates. They fascinate me. The first big creature I ever saw underwater was a jellyfish the size of an SUV. And it was coming toward me. And my dive instructor wouldn't let me swim away in a panic. He made me STAY RIGHT THERE like I was a dog or something, and then wouldn't you know it, that jellyfish came within 5 feet of us and then turned because maybe there was something more interesting to its left. Had it been a little smarter, it would have figured out that I could have been dinner. As it was, I got one of those experiences that stay with you for a lifetime. It was majestic, that jellyfish.
I am also quite partial to nudibranchs. They are colorful tiny little sea slugs without shells. I spend much of my dive time looking for them, as they are, like I said, small and they tend to blend into their technicolor backgrounds.
A few months ago, I was reading about nudibranchs on Wikipedia (because the five books I have at home just don't satisfy the urge), and then saw a drawing of them I liked, so I clicked the picture and found out that it was drawn by Ernst Haeckel who also drew a bunch of other sea creatures and stuff. I decided that Haeckel's work would be the perfect antidote for the off-white walls in my office, and so spent a good half hour on a fruitless search for posters. My sister had the presence of mind to look on ebay, so I'm now the proud owner of 6 Ernst Haeckel posters.
Here are my two favorites, which, once I get framed, are going to be placed across from my desk so that I can stare at them everyday:
Some background: I love invertebrates. They fascinate me. The first big creature I ever saw underwater was a jellyfish the size of an SUV. And it was coming toward me. And my dive instructor wouldn't let me swim away in a panic. He made me STAY RIGHT THERE like I was a dog or something, and then wouldn't you know it, that jellyfish came within 5 feet of us and then turned because maybe there was something more interesting to its left. Had it been a little smarter, it would have figured out that I could have been dinner. As it was, I got one of those experiences that stay with you for a lifetime. It was majestic, that jellyfish.
I am also quite partial to nudibranchs. They are colorful tiny little sea slugs without shells. I spend much of my dive time looking for them, as they are, like I said, small and they tend to blend into their technicolor backgrounds.
A few months ago, I was reading about nudibranchs on Wikipedia (because the five books I have at home just don't satisfy the urge), and then saw a drawing of them I liked, so I clicked the picture and found out that it was drawn by Ernst Haeckel who also drew a bunch of other sea creatures and stuff. I decided that Haeckel's work would be the perfect antidote for the off-white walls in my office, and so spent a good half hour on a fruitless search for posters. My sister had the presence of mind to look on ebay, so I'm now the proud owner of 6 Ernst Haeckel posters.
Here are my two favorites, which, once I get framed, are going to be placed across from my desk so that I can stare at them everyday:
Thursday, March 27, 2008
This is cheating, I know
Maybe I'll start blogging every day again... once I'm able to sit down for more than three minutes without the phone ringing. You know that ream of paper all over my desk? That's a TO DO list of like 7000 things that have to get done between now and... now. So I'm cheating. Sorry.
So ever since that bloggie techie whatever convention in Austin, everyone has been talking about Twitter. Twitter's been around for ages, its just noone ever really paid attention. (I guess a bankload of money spent on advertising at your industry's premier convention has a tendency to generate some buzz.) So Twitter is this site where you can send text messages, kinda like miniblogs, and if your legions of adoring fans can't get enough of you, then they can "follow" you on the site. I usually participate out of boredom and the need to share my witty thoughts. Even when they aren't so witty.
Too bad I can send the messages straight to my blog. That'd be a great improvement. But, well, since I can't, here are some recent ones:
J-e-s-u-s also spells leper on this phone
Why are property values so high in Uptown? It's like paying a premium to live in the armpit of Chicago.
I am beginning to view crack whoredom as a viable alternative to my current occupation.
Hooghly's fur is really soft. She'd make a great pair of gloves.
I have a phobia of stranger farts. Especially on the CTA.
I still regret not buying SweetBabyJesus.com and using it to sell offensive t-shirts. Would have made a killing.
I'm told that it's spring. I'm not quite sure I believe it.
Peonisms for 140 points on Scrabulous. Bitch, you are going DOWN.
~.~.~.~.~.~.
Apparently, I can add my tweets to my sidebar. Which I've done.
So ever since that bloggie techie whatever convention in Austin, everyone has been talking about Twitter. Twitter's been around for ages, its just noone ever really paid attention. (I guess a bankload of money spent on advertising at your industry's premier convention has a tendency to generate some buzz.) So Twitter is this site where you can send text messages, kinda like miniblogs, and if your legions of adoring fans can't get enough of you, then they can "follow" you on the site. I usually participate out of boredom and the need to share my witty thoughts. Even when they aren't so witty.
Too bad I can send the messages straight to my blog. That'd be a great improvement. But, well, since I can't, here are some recent ones:
J-e-s-u-s also spells leper on this phone
Why are property values so high in Uptown? It's like paying a premium to live in the armpit of Chicago.
I am beginning to view crack whoredom as a viable alternative to my current occupation.
Hooghly's fur is really soft. She'd make a great pair of gloves.
I have a phobia of stranger farts. Especially on the CTA.
I still regret not buying SweetBabyJesus.com and using it to sell offensive t-shirts. Would have made a killing.
I'm told that it's spring. I'm not quite sure I believe it.
Peonisms for 140 points on Scrabulous. Bitch, you are going DOWN.
~.~.~.~.~.~.
Apparently, I can add my tweets to my sidebar. Which I've done.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Porgy the Pig
As I've mentioned before, I really really like crocheting amigurumi. If you first learned about amigurumi from this blog, then I fear your perception might just be a teensy bit skewed, though. They aren't all sex toys. I swear it. Even the ones I crochet aren't all sex toys.
(And I think I just added a few keyword searches to this blog... you would choke on your coffee if you knew how people search on google!)
So, without further ado, I'd like you to meet Porgy the Pig:
Actually, this is Porgy's cousin, crocheted by someone somewhere. And a very special someone somewhere because she's got GREAT TASTE IN AMIGURUMI. I haven't taken a picture of my darling porker yet. When I do, I promise to post it here so that all and asundry may marvel at his bacon-y beauty.
(And I think I just added a few keyword searches to this blog... you would choke on your coffee if you knew how people search on google!)
So, without further ado, I'd like you to meet Porgy the Pig:
Actually, this is Porgy's cousin, crocheted by someone somewhere. And a very special someone somewhere because she's got GREAT TASTE IN AMIGURUMI. I haven't taken a picture of my darling porker yet. When I do, I promise to post it here so that all and asundry may marvel at his bacon-y beauty.
Friday, March 21, 2008
To speak of raspberry jelly...
The difference between working with a man and working with a woman can be summed up in one anecdote:
I am in my office, door slightly ajar. It's Friday. It's snowing. It will take me forever to get home on the CTA since the city doesn't need no steenkin snow plows. I cancelled friendplans because of the snow. I'm not happy about this. I have a pile of work, and more last minute work has been dumped on my desk. I can't leave until its all done.
In walks a colleague. I explain its 3PM. I explain I have a lot to do. Said colleague wants to bitch about stoopid stuff (which I am usually the first in line to do). I give a pathetic puppy dog look and say, "I've got cramps."
IF THE COLLEAGUE WAS A MAN: He would have run screaming from my office, and I would have gotten my work done and gotten out of here a little early.
SINCE THE COLLEAGUE WAS A WOMAN: She said, "Here, I have some Midol in my purse. As I was saying..."
And now I'm going to be here well after quitting time.
I am in my office, door slightly ajar. It's Friday. It's snowing. It will take me forever to get home on the CTA since the city doesn't need no steenkin snow plows. I cancelled friendplans because of the snow. I'm not happy about this. I have a pile of work, and more last minute work has been dumped on my desk. I can't leave until its all done.
In walks a colleague. I explain its 3PM. I explain I have a lot to do. Said colleague wants to bitch about stoopid stuff (which I am usually the first in line to do). I give a pathetic puppy dog look and say, "I've got cramps."
IF THE COLLEAGUE WAS A MAN: He would have run screaming from my office, and I would have gotten my work done and gotten out of here a little early.
SINCE THE COLLEAGUE WAS A WOMAN: She said, "Here, I have some Midol in my purse. As I was saying..."
And now I'm going to be here well after quitting time.
On Being a Fat Chick: Am I a Fetish?
A lot of the men I date these days seem to be into S&M. When I am in a committed relationship, I am all about Savage Love’s GGG (selfish, judgmental, boring lovers are the worst jerkheads out there). However, it’s a bit jarring when, on the first date, a guy tells me he gets off on domination. Is that first date chatter in the new millenium? Did I miss the memo where it tells us to skip all the other mumbo-jumbo, like work/hobbies/friends, and leap right into whips and leather?
I went through this phase where I thought big mama honey were essentially fetish freaks (which should not, necessarily, be read as a bad thing). However, if fat fuckers were fetish-prone, the implication was that I, as a fat chick, might very well constitute a fetish in my own right. That worried me, as, if something was to be labeled “fetish,” it must also be described as at least slightly deviant. Was attraction to a larger woman deviant behavior?
So I picked up the phone and initiated an informal poll of my more open minded and sexually liberated friends. Turns out that, no, those lusting after the F or the C in FC didn’t have socially unacceptable appetites. Everyone has a “type,” so while I may drool over man hands and brown boys and firemen, and some guys may dig blond Hooters girls, my afficionados simply like a fluffy girl.
The anything-but-vanilla bent, I’ve been repeatedly assured, has more to do with maturity: It’s because I am now dating thirty- and forty-somethings who know what they want and don’t want to waste their time on uninterested women. Kinda like fine wine, fantasies get dirtier with age. According to my compadres, a stop in Fetishville is, by the time you arrive in Middle Aged Land, normal. It’s not more common at the larger end of the love spectrum.
I went through this phase where I thought big mama honey were essentially fetish freaks (which should not, necessarily, be read as a bad thing). However, if fat fuckers were fetish-prone, the implication was that I, as a fat chick, might very well constitute a fetish in my own right. That worried me, as, if something was to be labeled “fetish,” it must also be described as at least slightly deviant. Was attraction to a larger woman deviant behavior?
So I picked up the phone and initiated an informal poll of my more open minded and sexually liberated friends. Turns out that, no, those lusting after the F or the C in FC didn’t have socially unacceptable appetites. Everyone has a “type,” so while I may drool over man hands and brown boys and firemen, and some guys may dig blond Hooters girls, my afficionados simply like a fluffy girl.
The anything-but-vanilla bent, I’ve been repeatedly assured, has more to do with maturity: It’s because I am now dating thirty- and forty-somethings who know what they want and don’t want to waste their time on uninterested women. Kinda like fine wine, fantasies get dirtier with age. According to my compadres, a stop in Fetishville is, by the time you arrive in Middle Aged Land, normal. It’s not more common at the larger end of the love spectrum.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
The call of the wild
I get Lonely Planet's e-newsletter, The Comet. It's one of the only newsletters I read as though I'm an emaciated chicken who has found a handful of grubs. It nourishes my soul.
Or, more accurately, it fuels the wanderlust that is eating away at my soul.
[Note: I blame it on my parents: After I was 11, I never lived in the same apartment or house for more than 2 years. Not until I bought my own condo when I was 29. I'm used to being on the move. Parental units, and college. Studying cultural anthropology only exacerbated the affliction.]
So today's issue of the Comet is called The Great Journeys Issue. It's like they read my mind.
I'm at the point where I could use a great journey. I'm not talking about a 2-week stint in Peru, although that sure did increase my desire for a journey. I'm talking here about an expedition of a lifetime, one that would have me stare wistfully at the horizon FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. Something that would be impossible to describe to those who have not undertaken a similar journey. All my worldly possessions in my backpack. No guidebooks, no travel agents, no pre-arranged tickets, no hotel/restaurant/anything reservations and for God's sakes, NO GROUP TOURS. Just me, maybe a beloved or two, my backpack, high quality shoes, a fantabulous camera, and a decent supply of immodium.
But where should I go?
And when should I go?
Got stuff to do, you see. For now. But the day is coming. OH YES THE DAY IS COMING.
So, while I'm in this liminal space between dreaming and doing, I ask my readers: Where would you go? What would you do? How long would you be gone? What, in short, is your journey?
Me? Well, the following are calling my name:
Peru (EVERYWHERE in Peru)
Nicaragua
Panama
Antarctica
Turkey
Greece
Czech Republic
Saudi Arabia (but I'm Jewish, so I can't go there)
Israel
Kenya
Egypt
Tanzania
Morocco
Bhutan
Nepal
India (always India)
Indonesia
PNG
Philippines
Korea
Japan
Or, more accurately, it fuels the wanderlust that is eating away at my soul.
[Note: I blame it on my parents: After I was 11, I never lived in the same apartment or house for more than 2 years. Not until I bought my own condo when I was 29. I'm used to being on the move. Parental units, and college. Studying cultural anthropology only exacerbated the affliction.]
So today's issue of the Comet is called The Great Journeys Issue. It's like they read my mind.
I'm at the point where I could use a great journey. I'm not talking about a 2-week stint in Peru, although that sure did increase my desire for a journey. I'm talking here about an expedition of a lifetime, one that would have me stare wistfully at the horizon FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. Something that would be impossible to describe to those who have not undertaken a similar journey. All my worldly possessions in my backpack. No guidebooks, no travel agents, no pre-arranged tickets, no hotel/restaurant/anything reservations and for God's sakes, NO GROUP TOURS. Just me, maybe a beloved or two, my backpack, high quality shoes, a fantabulous camera, and a decent supply of immodium.
But where should I go?
And when should I go?
Got stuff to do, you see. For now. But the day is coming. OH YES THE DAY IS COMING.
So, while I'm in this liminal space between dreaming and doing, I ask my readers: Where would you go? What would you do? How long would you be gone? What, in short, is your journey?
Me? Well, the following are calling my name:
Peru (EVERYWHERE in Peru)
Nicaragua
Panama
Antarctica
Turkey
Greece
Czech Republic
Saudi Arabia (but I'm Jewish, so I can't go there)
Israel
Kenya
Egypt
Tanzania
Morocco
Bhutan
Nepal
India (always India)
Indonesia
PNG
Philippines
Korea
Japan
More to come, I swear it...
So I've been getting a fair bit of email asking me to write some more about my adventures in Japan, and in Aza-Itabashi in particular. I've also gotten email asking for more bits on being fat, and then an email or two asking for pictures (and NO! I WILL NOT TAKE PICTURES OF THAT AND SEND THEM TO YOU!).
I'm working on the writing stuff, though, I promise. I have lots of stories about my time in Japan, and will add one or two more. In the meantime, I've been doing my taxes, and well, those blood-curdling screams you here are the sounds I make when I come across another scuba-related receipt.
I'm working on the writing stuff, though, I promise. I have lots of stories about my time in Japan, and will add one or two more. In the meantime, I've been doing my taxes, and well, those blood-curdling screams you here are the sounds I make when I come across another scuba-related receipt.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
In Search Of: New Soup
A few weeks ago, I went out with a very nice, normal, entirely available man. He did everything right and even counted the freckles on my nose (seven), calling them the world's cutest. Sadly, after three dates, I still wasn't feeling it and gave him The Speech.
Several days later, I was out with a group that included a gentleman I've known for about a year. Nothing would make me happier than earning my pilot's license so that I could write his name in the sky. In cursive. With little hearts and stars and polka dots for decoration. Regrettably, he has never noticed my freckles (seven)... or so much as verbalized my name (Shannon).
Unrequited love - regardless of whether I am the unrequitee or the unrequiter - has got me thinking that the whole sappy, feel-good, everything-will-turn-out-peachy-keen Chicken Soup for the [insert societal/cultural/demographic group here] Soul is a load of crap. I want a new soup. I need a new soup. I need Matsupanis Soup.
Matsupanis Soup, in case you aren't familiar, was made by my grandfather. According to him, it is the national dish of the Matsupanians. The Matsupanians live in the city of Matsupanis, which is the capitol of Matsupanis, which is the world with a fence around it.
Were I to live in Matsupanis, I'd eat Matsupanis Soup every day and enjoy my life with a fence around it. My fence would keep me in daffodils and daisies and hopping little bunnies because it would only allow those who meet the following criteria to pass through:
1. The undate-able. This includes relatives and friends. And I mean real friends, as in friends that are more like family.
2. The mutually unattracted. If there is no possibility for gazing, longing, or wistful anything then he/she could enter.
3. The mutually attracted, one at a time. This is the real reason why I am in need of my own personal Matsupanis: Once, just once, I'd like the attraction to be mutual.
Grrrrrrr
Several days later, I was out with a group that included a gentleman I've known for about a year. Nothing would make me happier than earning my pilot's license so that I could write his name in the sky. In cursive. With little hearts and stars and polka dots for decoration. Regrettably, he has never noticed my freckles (seven)... or so much as verbalized my name (Shannon).
Unrequited love - regardless of whether I am the unrequitee or the unrequiter - has got me thinking that the whole sappy, feel-good, everything-will-turn-out-peachy-keen Chicken Soup for the [insert societal/cultural/demographic group here] Soul is a load of crap. I want a new soup. I need a new soup. I need Matsupanis Soup.
Matsupanis Soup, in case you aren't familiar, was made by my grandfather. According to him, it is the national dish of the Matsupanians. The Matsupanians live in the city of Matsupanis, which is the capitol of Matsupanis, which is the world with a fence around it.
Were I to live in Matsupanis, I'd eat Matsupanis Soup every day and enjoy my life with a fence around it. My fence would keep me in daffodils and daisies and hopping little bunnies because it would only allow those who meet the following criteria to pass through:
1. The undate-able. This includes relatives and friends. And I mean real friends, as in friends that are more like family.
2. The mutually unattracted. If there is no possibility for gazing, longing, or wistful anything then he/she could enter.
3. The mutually attracted, one at a time. This is the real reason why I am in need of my own personal Matsupanis: Once, just once, I'd like the attraction to be mutual.
Grrrrrrr
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
On Being a Fat Chick: Body Image II
Just like any woman, there are things I like about my body, and things I don’t.
I like:
• My hair. It’s shiny brown with lots of red highlights.
• My hands. I have long fingers, and I look great in hoochie-koochie red nail polish.
• My rack. I have melons, baby, melons, and I’m proud of them. Bonus, I have fantastic cleavage. (Thanks, Mom!!! Gotta love those mom-genes!)
• My nose. I have a perfect nose.
• My height. 5’6” to be exact, which rocks because I can wear 3-inch heels and not be taller than most of the men I date.
• My face. I’m cute and I know it.
I don’t like:
• My legs. I wish I had long legs so that I could wear short skirts. As it is, my legs are squat, like a wrestler’s. Thanks Dad. Thanks a lot.
• My stomach. It’s ugly, which has nothing to do with it being big; I have seen other fat chicks with pretty stomachs. Mine just happens to be sorta lumpy, which makes it ugly.
• My feet. They are seriously nasty and stink up a storm. If pedicures were cheaper, I’d get one every day.
Thing I don’t like, but change:
• My facial skin. I have rosacea, and have to spread sulfuric goo on me mug every morning. I’m saving for laser treatments.
• My fingernails. I have gorgeous nails, but they break a lot. So I shell out the clams for manicures.
• My hair. It’s slightly wavy, which you would think would be cute, right? Nope. It always looks messy or frizzy, so I use oil and a straightening iron like, hourly.
• My eyebrows. No unibrow here, but still, thank heavens for threading.
• Dry skin. I moisturize daily and exfoliate regularly. Can I just say that salt scrubs are the greatest invention since straightening irons?!?!
Liking/hating yourself, or your individual body parts, has nothing to do with being skinny or fat. It's all about perception.
I like:
• My hair. It’s shiny brown with lots of red highlights.
• My hands. I have long fingers, and I look great in hoochie-koochie red nail polish.
• My rack. I have melons, baby, melons, and I’m proud of them. Bonus, I have fantastic cleavage. (Thanks, Mom!!! Gotta love those mom-genes!)
• My nose. I have a perfect nose.
• My height. 5’6” to be exact, which rocks because I can wear 3-inch heels and not be taller than most of the men I date.
• My face. I’m cute and I know it.
I don’t like:
• My legs. I wish I had long legs so that I could wear short skirts. As it is, my legs are squat, like a wrestler’s. Thanks Dad. Thanks a lot.
• My stomach. It’s ugly, which has nothing to do with it being big; I have seen other fat chicks with pretty stomachs. Mine just happens to be sorta lumpy, which makes it ugly.
• My feet. They are seriously nasty and stink up a storm. If pedicures were cheaper, I’d get one every day.
Thing I don’t like, but change:
• My facial skin. I have rosacea, and have to spread sulfuric goo on me mug every morning. I’m saving for laser treatments.
• My fingernails. I have gorgeous nails, but they break a lot. So I shell out the clams for manicures.
• My hair. It’s slightly wavy, which you would think would be cute, right? Nope. It always looks messy or frizzy, so I use oil and a straightening iron like, hourly.
• My eyebrows. No unibrow here, but still, thank heavens for threading.
• Dry skin. I moisturize daily and exfoliate regularly. Can I just say that salt scrubs are the greatest invention since straightening irons?!?!
Liking/hating yourself, or your individual body parts, has nothing to do with being skinny or fat. It's all about perception.
Monday, March 17, 2008
On Being A Fat Chick: Body Image Part I
My body image is realistic: I’m fat. Really, really fat.
I’m not afraid to take my clothes off with men. While the first time with a new beau can produce a fair amount of anxiety, I get over it with a little self-talk. I tell myself that since the currently amorous beau is not a virgin 1) he has, by definition of being a non-virgin, had previous lovers, and 2) since he finds me attractive, his previous lovers were probably also Rubenesque, and, therefore 3) he should, by this point in his life, be well aware that naked fat chicks, are, well, fat. Ergo, putting on the birthday suit ain’t such a big deal for this mammoth mama.
That’s easy, though, getting all nature-like with a man whose boner is all for me. It’s not so easy getting into my skivvies around men – and women – who most definitely aren’t hungry for a hippo.
And I publicly don the skivs regularly. You see, I scuba dive, so I squeeze myself into a wetsuit pretty much every Sunday in the warmer months. For those of my dear readers who aren’t familiar with wetsuit hell, let me break it down for you:
• I dive in cold water, so I wear a 7 millimeter jumpsuit. Imagine looking like a walrus while walking like a penguin. That’s what it’s like.
• Wetsuits are supposed to fit like a second skin. This has two mortifying consequences: 1) They are a BITCH to get into (it’s not unlike trying to stuff yourself into a zip-lock bag gracefully), and 2) they loudly proclaim every flaw you would rather hide under three layers of duck tape.
In a word: Undignified. At best.
For the first season I dove locally, I was continually suspended in a state of utter humiliation; I would change privately and hide behind stationary objects (like SUVs and buildings). Despite being an overly social Chatty Cathy, I didn’t make much eye contact or conversation. I was like this gigantic neoprene blur splashing into the water way before my dive buddies had so much as filled their tanks with air.
In much the same way I had to overcome a water phobia to learn to dive, I had to face my fear of public blubberhood in order to get over my self-consciousness. It wasn’t easy, and it took an entire dive season, but now it doesn’t bother me in the slightest.
The first time someone sees me in my whale-wear, I grin, go all Vanna White on myself, and say, “It’s not my best look.” This elicits a chuckle, as it’s well-known that everyone – even a supermodel – looks awful in a wetsuit. While I will forever wish I didn’t have to flaunt my physical flaws in front of half the dive community – my community – it’s a price I’m willing to pay for the glorious, incomparable experience of diving.
And diving truly is glorious. It has changed my life in numerous ways, many of which I’ll blog about later. One of the lesser benefits needs to be shared here, though: I’ve never had anyone give me a dirty look or say an unkind word because I’m fat and ugly in my Akona. I’ve learned that everyone feels fat and ugly in their Akonas (or Hendersons or whatever brand they buy) regardless of their perfectly toned Adonis-muscles, and no one thinks less of me for it. In fact, men dig women who dive in cold water, and I’ve actually gotten hit on by men who first met me when I was– gasp – in full dive gear, looking like a giganormous creature from the Borg lagoon.
In retrospect, it was all about accepting, once again, a realistic body image: I’m fat in clothes, I’m fat when naked, and I’m fat in 7mm neoprene.
I’m not afraid to take my clothes off with men. While the first time with a new beau can produce a fair amount of anxiety, I get over it with a little self-talk. I tell myself that since the currently amorous beau is not a virgin 1) he has, by definition of being a non-virgin, had previous lovers, and 2) since he finds me attractive, his previous lovers were probably also Rubenesque, and, therefore 3) he should, by this point in his life, be well aware that naked fat chicks, are, well, fat. Ergo, putting on the birthday suit ain’t such a big deal for this mammoth mama.
That’s easy, though, getting all nature-like with a man whose boner is all for me. It’s not so easy getting into my skivvies around men – and women – who most definitely aren’t hungry for a hippo.
And I publicly don the skivs regularly. You see, I scuba dive, so I squeeze myself into a wetsuit pretty much every Sunday in the warmer months. For those of my dear readers who aren’t familiar with wetsuit hell, let me break it down for you:
• I dive in cold water, so I wear a 7 millimeter jumpsuit. Imagine looking like a walrus while walking like a penguin. That’s what it’s like.
• Wetsuits are supposed to fit like a second skin. This has two mortifying consequences: 1) They are a BITCH to get into (it’s not unlike trying to stuff yourself into a zip-lock bag gracefully), and 2) they loudly proclaim every flaw you would rather hide under three layers of duck tape.
In a word: Undignified. At best.
For the first season I dove locally, I was continually suspended in a state of utter humiliation; I would change privately and hide behind stationary objects (like SUVs and buildings). Despite being an overly social Chatty Cathy, I didn’t make much eye contact or conversation. I was like this gigantic neoprene blur splashing into the water way before my dive buddies had so much as filled their tanks with air.
In much the same way I had to overcome a water phobia to learn to dive, I had to face my fear of public blubberhood in order to get over my self-consciousness. It wasn’t easy, and it took an entire dive season, but now it doesn’t bother me in the slightest.
The first time someone sees me in my whale-wear, I grin, go all Vanna White on myself, and say, “It’s not my best look.” This elicits a chuckle, as it’s well-known that everyone – even a supermodel – looks awful in a wetsuit. While I will forever wish I didn’t have to flaunt my physical flaws in front of half the dive community – my community – it’s a price I’m willing to pay for the glorious, incomparable experience of diving.
And diving truly is glorious. It has changed my life in numerous ways, many of which I’ll blog about later. One of the lesser benefits needs to be shared here, though: I’ve never had anyone give me a dirty look or say an unkind word because I’m fat and ugly in my Akona. I’ve learned that everyone feels fat and ugly in their Akonas (or Hendersons or whatever brand they buy) regardless of their perfectly toned Adonis-muscles, and no one thinks less of me for it. In fact, men dig women who dive in cold water, and I’ve actually gotten hit on by men who first met me when I was– gasp – in full dive gear, looking like a giganormous creature from the Borg lagoon.
In retrospect, it was all about accepting, once again, a realistic body image: I’m fat in clothes, I’m fat when naked, and I’m fat in 7mm neoprene.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
My fabulous weekend
I think free wifi at coffee shops was invented just for people like me. People who, when confronted with an overwhelming to do (or, more accurately, HOLY SHIT I MISSED THE DEADLINE BY THREE MONTHS) list, find an inordinate amount of more pressing and worthwhile activities... I mean, distractions at home. I just can't concentrate on stuff like taxes and writing articles when my cats are so darn cute and in need of affection.
So I grab my laptop, head out for a latte (or three), and do my icky stuff sitting next to a bunch of strangers who are also drinking lattes and doing icky stuff. It works for me.
This weekend's icky stuff has been all about getting those receipts into a spreadsheet so that I can get a better idea of how much I owe Uncle Sam. This year, I have to say I've been a little surprised by the wads of cash I've laid out on diving. So, in order to align my diving with my spending limits, this year I'm going to:
1. Find a profitable scuba-indstry related company and buy stock.
2. Steal other people's gear and sell it on ebay.
3. Offer dive boat operators my soul in exchange for discounts.
If that doesn't work, I'll just have to do what I've always done: Spend way more than I anticipated, and then choke on my latte come March.
Some things are just worth it.
So I grab my laptop, head out for a latte (or three), and do my icky stuff sitting next to a bunch of strangers who are also drinking lattes and doing icky stuff. It works for me.
This weekend's icky stuff has been all about getting those receipts into a spreadsheet so that I can get a better idea of how much I owe Uncle Sam. This year, I have to say I've been a little surprised by the wads of cash I've laid out on diving. So, in order to align my diving with my spending limits, this year I'm going to:
1. Find a profitable scuba-indstry related company and buy stock.
2. Steal other people's gear and sell it on ebay.
3. Offer dive boat operators my soul in exchange for discounts.
If that doesn't work, I'll just have to do what I've always done: Spend way more than I anticipated, and then choke on my latte come March.
Some things are just worth it.
Friday, March 14, 2008
ISO: Green grass
So I've been wondering which is better:
1. Do I go the contented route, satisfied that my life is pretty damn amazing, and just sit back and enjoy?
or
2. Take some serious risks that could bankrupt me, get caught up in a whirlwind of frenetic activity, and hopefully improve on my already pretty damn amazing life?
Anyone who has read my birthday post will know the answer... but...
Now that I'm in the middle of the hurricane, I'm wondering what the hell was I thinking? I wanted this? I wanted to give up fun stuff so that I can be up until 3AM working? Because I like that sort of thing? Because really, I want to be a workaholic? Because I wanted to say, "Gosh, no, I would LOVE to go out for a cocktail, but I have to work." (Me? Trade hootch for work?)
Because eventually... EVENTUALLY I'll see Bali at the end of the tunnel. Right? I will, won't I?
And I know this only makes sense to some people, and I'm sorry for that. It would make more sense to more people if I could post the WHOLE MOUNTAIN OF POSTS that I have saved as drafts and use the proper tag to categorize this post. But I can't. Not yet. I will one day, though, but first I have to go through and change names. And given the sheer volume of names I have to change, that could take a while. I mean, that's the honorable thing to do, change the names of people who have UTTERLY SCREWED ME OVER, right? Because if I were the screwer (and why is it that I always end up the screwee?) I'd want my name changed.
But that's ok, they can screw away. I don't mind, really. I actually owe them a debt of gratitude. It's because of the screwocity of my current... situation... that I have stuff to look forward to. Like a speaking engagement. And an article that makes me look like a Know It All Expert (SMOKE IN MIRRORS, BABY!), and rubbing shoulders with people who might just maybe respect me and my skills a little bit more than the BASTARDS WHO UTTERLY SCREWED ME.
And like Bali. I'm looking forward to Bali and a bungalow that is waiting for me somewhere between rice paddies and the sound of waves lapping the shore. The bungalow is there, I know it because I see it everytime I close my eyes. It's that sandy island pink color and there's a balcony off the second floor and a little yard where someone has thoughtfully planted a banana tree and tomato plants and the road going up to the bungalow hasn't been maintained so there's a few potholes.
I come from Chicago, after all. Potholes are a part of my identity.
1. Do I go the contented route, satisfied that my life is pretty damn amazing, and just sit back and enjoy?
or
2. Take some serious risks that could bankrupt me, get caught up in a whirlwind of frenetic activity, and hopefully improve on my already pretty damn amazing life?
Anyone who has read my birthday post will know the answer... but...
Now that I'm in the middle of the hurricane, I'm wondering what the hell was I thinking? I wanted this? I wanted to give up fun stuff so that I can be up until 3AM working? Because I like that sort of thing? Because really, I want to be a workaholic? Because I wanted to say, "Gosh, no, I would LOVE to go out for a cocktail, but I have to work." (Me? Trade hootch for work?)
Because eventually... EVENTUALLY I'll see Bali at the end of the tunnel. Right? I will, won't I?
And I know this only makes sense to some people, and I'm sorry for that. It would make more sense to more people if I could post the WHOLE MOUNTAIN OF POSTS that I have saved as drafts and use the proper tag to categorize this post. But I can't. Not yet. I will one day, though, but first I have to go through and change names. And given the sheer volume of names I have to change, that could take a while. I mean, that's the honorable thing to do, change the names of people who have UTTERLY SCREWED ME OVER, right? Because if I were the screwer (and why is it that I always end up the screwee?) I'd want my name changed.
But that's ok, they can screw away. I don't mind, really. I actually owe them a debt of gratitude. It's because of the screwocity of my current... situation... that I have stuff to look forward to. Like a speaking engagement. And an article that makes me look like a Know It All Expert (SMOKE IN MIRRORS, BABY!), and rubbing shoulders with people who might just maybe respect me and my skills a little bit more than the BASTARDS WHO UTTERLY SCREWED ME.
And like Bali. I'm looking forward to Bali and a bungalow that is waiting for me somewhere between rice paddies and the sound of waves lapping the shore. The bungalow is there, I know it because I see it everytime I close my eyes. It's that sandy island pink color and there's a balcony off the second floor and a little yard where someone has thoughtfully planted a banana tree and tomato plants and the road going up to the bungalow hasn't been maintained so there's a few potholes.
I come from Chicago, after all. Potholes are a part of my identity.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Daily drivel
I don't think there is a corporate worker bee out there who relishes the morning commute. Noone ever says, "Oooo! Let's move farther from downtown so that we can spend just a bit more quality time on the CTA." It's just not done. What right-minded individual would consciously choose to endure such squalor and inconvenience unneccesarily? In fact, I have a theory that the nastier the CTA gets, the more property values rise close to the Loop. Just a theory.
Were one of the two pub trans atrocities - squalor and inconvenience - to improve, life would be daisies and roses for so many. Take squalor, for starters. Standing in the subway, I often find myself wiling away the time by WATCHING THE RATS on the tracks, and more than once I could have sworn the pestilential beasts were looking for a way to come onto the platform to kidnap me for the ransom money. But, well, in all fairness to the CTA cleaning crew, the rats do blend in. You have to actually LOOK for them amongst the dirt and debris. It's not like they are immediately apparent.
Which cannot be said for the aroma wafting through train stations. Eau de CTA, in case you are unfamiliar (read: You don't live in Chicago), is a heady mix of stale urine, body funk, rotting food, garbage, and bathroom cleaner. Lovely. Really.
What is truly disturbing, though, is that it is my fellow Chicagoans that cause such nastiness. Those yellow splatters on the wall didn't just fly there of their own accord. Nope. Some man had to whip it out IN PUBLIC and pour the lemonade, so to speak. GROSS.
Or... all those spit stains. And that is what got this whole post going in the first place: A MAN SPIT AT ME THIS MORNING. I was minding my own business, calming my nicotine addiction, and standing NEAR a bus shelter. He yelled at me for smoking in an "enclosed space" so I, in a rather unwise move, explained to him that an "enclosed space" requires walls. AND THEN HE SPIT. ON THE GLASS OF THE BUS SHELTER THAT SEPARATED US. He really did. He spit at me. And then the spit was on the glass and DRIPPING DOWN and I tried not to stare but the horrified fascination took over and I couldn't look away. I mean, he spit, for God's sake. On a surface that some unsuspecting fool could touch. Hasn't Grossety Gross ever heard of COMMUNICABLE DISEASES? This is still flu season, asshole. And here is Grossety Gross SPITTING.
WTF?
I have to assume that the man in question has a bad temper, as well as "anger management issues." Or, in FatChickSpeak, he's a crazyass motherfucker. But still, why spit? All acceptable insane behaviors: Hurl insults, call me a bitch, threaten my first born child, tell me how my addiction is going to kill me, and really, haven't I considered losing weight? But spit? That's vile and contributing to the general State of Squalor of the CTA. And God knows it won't be cleaned with bathroom cleaner. Oh no. That slimy ooze will dry and harden into a crust, and won't be washed away until it rains. AND I HAVE TO WAIT AT THAT SHELTER EVERY DAY FOR THE BUS.
Ick.
Were one of the two pub trans atrocities - squalor and inconvenience - to improve, life would be daisies and roses for so many. Take squalor, for starters. Standing in the subway, I often find myself wiling away the time by WATCHING THE RATS on the tracks, and more than once I could have sworn the pestilential beasts were looking for a way to come onto the platform to kidnap me for the ransom money. But, well, in all fairness to the CTA cleaning crew, the rats do blend in. You have to actually LOOK for them amongst the dirt and debris. It's not like they are immediately apparent.
Which cannot be said for the aroma wafting through train stations. Eau de CTA, in case you are unfamiliar (read: You don't live in Chicago), is a heady mix of stale urine, body funk, rotting food, garbage, and bathroom cleaner. Lovely. Really.
What is truly disturbing, though, is that it is my fellow Chicagoans that cause such nastiness. Those yellow splatters on the wall didn't just fly there of their own accord. Nope. Some man had to whip it out IN PUBLIC and pour the lemonade, so to speak. GROSS.
Or... all those spit stains. And that is what got this whole post going in the first place: A MAN SPIT AT ME THIS MORNING. I was minding my own business, calming my nicotine addiction, and standing NEAR a bus shelter. He yelled at me for smoking in an "enclosed space" so I, in a rather unwise move, explained to him that an "enclosed space" requires walls. AND THEN HE SPIT. ON THE GLASS OF THE BUS SHELTER THAT SEPARATED US. He really did. He spit at me. And then the spit was on the glass and DRIPPING DOWN and I tried not to stare but the horrified fascination took over and I couldn't look away. I mean, he spit, for God's sake. On a surface that some unsuspecting fool could touch. Hasn't Grossety Gross ever heard of COMMUNICABLE DISEASES? This is still flu season, asshole. And here is Grossety Gross SPITTING.
WTF?
I have to assume that the man in question has a bad temper, as well as "anger management issues." Or, in FatChickSpeak, he's a crazyass motherfucker. But still, why spit? All acceptable insane behaviors: Hurl insults, call me a bitch, threaten my first born child, tell me how my addiction is going to kill me, and really, haven't I considered losing weight? But spit? That's vile and contributing to the general State of Squalor of the CTA. And God knows it won't be cleaned with bathroom cleaner. Oh no. That slimy ooze will dry and harden into a crust, and won't be washed away until it rains. AND I HAVE TO WAIT AT THAT SHELTER EVERY DAY FOR THE BUS.
Ick.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Anonymous... or typical?
The Baghdad office opened in 1989, and serves as a valuable training ground for associates and partners we deem in need of training and behavior modification.
Anonymous Law Firm makes me smile. Whenever I encounter what seems to be a stress-producing situation at my firm, I take a look at the Chicago Office of ALF and think to myself, "Well, at least the cockroach isn't our mascot."
It's about damn time
So everyone knows about hulu. They've known about it for quite a while, and have enjoyed the benefits of online streaming video and movies WITHOUT TELLING ME ABOUT IT. Damn you, you big mean secret keeping monsters.
Having said that, seeing as how it's only Fox and NBC programming and movies, I'll happily stick to YouTube and Netflix, and ABC.com when I'm desperate for back episodes of Grey's Anatomy and Ugly Betty.
Still, I think it rocks that hulu has The Big Lebowski. I keep meaning to watch that one, since friends are all over it.
Having said that, seeing as how it's only Fox and NBC programming and movies, I'll happily stick to YouTube and Netflix, and ABC.com when I'm desperate for back episodes of Grey's Anatomy and Ugly Betty.
Still, I think it rocks that hulu has The Big Lebowski. I keep meaning to watch that one, since friends are all over it.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Exit Strategies II: Real Deal Breakers
The first installment can be found here.
In the hopes of improving second-date prospects (consider it a public service announcement), I offer this list of deal breakers to anyone considering taking me out. Some points may be picky, others may be rude and mean and I very well could be the B word incarnate, but heck, I gotta have some semblance of a baseline for bipedal, you know?
Gentlemen (and considering the kinds of guys I've been dating lately, I use this word loosely), should you perform any of these little atrocities on the first date, there will (probably) be no second:
1. Pick your nose.
2. Discuss finances of any sort. (Materialism is not my thing.)
3. Rant about the hideous cow that is your ex-girlfriend (who you swear you are over).
3. Tell me everything you are seeking to avoid in a relationship and/or a woman.
4. Smell bad. You don't have to wear cologne (but it would make me happy), but please at least exhibit good personal hygiene.
5. Exhibit symptoms of jock itch.
6. Exhibit symptoms of Tourette Syndrome. Unless you have it. Then I don't mind.
7. Tell me you are "in an unfulfilling relationship."
8. Don't pay.
9. Talk about your Playstation or Wii or whatever the teenie-boppers are psyched about these days.
10. Compare me to your mother. Or Grandmother. Or any female relative, for that matter.
11. Take a phone call or text message.
12. Exhibit the warning signs of drug addiction.
13. Drop hints that you like strip clubs.
14. Tell me you ate glue in elementary school. (Its surprising how often grammar school glue eating comes up in conversation.)
15. Have an obviously memorized list of first date conversation topics and an unwillingness to deviate from said list.
16. Whine. About anything.
17. Maul me.
18. Discuss your medical ailments. Really, I don't find that appendectomy fascinating, and I need you to understand that I suffer from the combination of a weak stomach, a sensitive gag reflex, and an over-active, multi-sensory imagination.
19. Speak in baby-talk. GROSS!
20. Inquire about my undergarments.
In the hopes of improving second-date prospects (consider it a public service announcement), I offer this list of deal breakers to anyone considering taking me out. Some points may be picky, others may be rude and mean and I very well could be the B word incarnate, but heck, I gotta have some semblance of a baseline for bipedal, you know?
Gentlemen (and considering the kinds of guys I've been dating lately, I use this word loosely), should you perform any of these little atrocities on the first date, there will (probably) be no second:
1. Pick your nose.
2. Discuss finances of any sort. (Materialism is not my thing.)
3. Rant about the hideous cow that is your ex-girlfriend (who you swear you are over).
3. Tell me everything you are seeking to avoid in a relationship and/or a woman.
4. Smell bad. You don't have to wear cologne (but it would make me happy), but please at least exhibit good personal hygiene.
5. Exhibit symptoms of jock itch.
6. Exhibit symptoms of Tourette Syndrome. Unless you have it. Then I don't mind.
7. Tell me you are "in an unfulfilling relationship."
8. Don't pay.
9. Talk about your Playstation or Wii or whatever the teenie-boppers are psyched about these days.
10. Compare me to your mother. Or Grandmother. Or any female relative, for that matter.
11. Take a phone call or text message.
12. Exhibit the warning signs of drug addiction.
13. Drop hints that you like strip clubs.
14. Tell me you ate glue in elementary school. (Its surprising how often grammar school glue eating comes up in conversation.)
15. Have an obviously memorized list of first date conversation topics and an unwillingness to deviate from said list.
16. Whine. About anything.
17. Maul me.
18. Discuss your medical ailments. Really, I don't find that appendectomy fascinating, and I need you to understand that I suffer from the combination of a weak stomach, a sensitive gag reflex, and an over-active, multi-sensory imagination.
19. Speak in baby-talk. GROSS!
20. Inquire about my undergarments.
Three Confessions & a Funeral Massacre
Without hesitation, I admit:
1. I am woefully behind the times. (I just bought a DVD player and a laptop of my own last year.) And I'm always the last to learn about juiceeness.
2. I still play Frogger on my Atari 2600. Typical cool things, like World of Warcraft, confuse me. WoW just has too many options, like weapons I can't pronouce. I prefer up, down, right and left. Oh, and splat.
3. My sense of morality has been described as "twisted" and overly logical.
So I recently heard about The Great Funeral Massacre, which happened several months ago or several years ago (see #1, above). I have to say that I think it was a fitting tribute, how it all went down. I mean to say: It was a beautiful tribute to a gamer, to have a funeral in game, and it was a further tribute that the mourners were utterly, completely, and without any mercy whatsoever destroyed. It is a GAME, right, and the deceased loved the game, right? And the purpose of the game is to take out athropomorphic beings, right? I like to think that the deceased watched from her lofty height with warmth in her soul and vengeance in her heart and a healthy respect for the ruthlessness of her opponents. I mean, that's the GAME, right? THAT'S THE POINT OF WOW.
It all makes sense in a the-human-condition-is-totally-wacked kinda way.
But then, I'm the girl who introduced her father's cremated remains to the other jars he'd be sharing eternity with, and, um, see #3, above.
1. I am woefully behind the times. (I just bought a DVD player and a laptop of my own last year.) And I'm always the last to learn about juiceeness.
2. I still play Frogger on my Atari 2600. Typical cool things, like World of Warcraft, confuse me. WoW just has too many options, like weapons I can't pronouce. I prefer up, down, right and left. Oh, and splat.
3. My sense of morality has been described as "twisted" and overly logical.
So I recently heard about The Great Funeral Massacre, which happened several months ago or several years ago (see #1, above). I have to say that I think it was a fitting tribute, how it all went down. I mean to say: It was a beautiful tribute to a gamer, to have a funeral in game, and it was a further tribute that the mourners were utterly, completely, and without any mercy whatsoever destroyed. It is a GAME, right, and the deceased loved the game, right? And the purpose of the game is to take out athropomorphic beings, right? I like to think that the deceased watched from her lofty height with warmth in her soul and vengeance in her heart and a healthy respect for the ruthlessness of her opponents. I mean, that's the GAME, right? THAT'S THE POINT OF WOW.
It all makes sense in a the-human-condition-is-totally-wacked kinda way.
But then, I'm the girl who introduced her father's cremated remains to the other jars he'd be sharing eternity with, and, um, see #3, above.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Defeating the purpose
I've been twisting my brain into figure-eights in the hopes that a Postsecret-worthy secret will pop out. All I've gotten are headaches and the feeling that maybe, just maybe, I share a little too much.
Thus, it was no small event when, out of nowhere a mostly insignificant self-evaluation came to me, one so patently bland that I hadn't bothered to share it with anyone: It was the secret, and so I wrote it down and smiled at it and radiated floaty bubbles and butterflies at it and felt all complex and misunderstood and mysterious for a full three minutes. I actually started designing the postcard in my head.
That's when I found myself typing an email to my sister. What?!?! In a subconsious attempt to sabotage my submission to Postsecret (and, I'll admit, confirming that I am a bit too open), my immediate reaction was, "Ooo! I have a secret!!! Gotta tell my little bird!"
I was able to stop myself from sending the email, but, um, now I feel guilty, like I'm holding out. And for what? So that I can send a postcard to a stranger? I've been told its supposed to be liberating, like letting go, but I feel like I'm being dishonest and squirrelly.
Go figure.
Thus, it was no small event when, out of nowhere a mostly insignificant self-evaluation came to me, one so patently bland that I hadn't bothered to share it with anyone: It was the secret, and so I wrote it down and smiled at it and radiated floaty bubbles and butterflies at it and felt all complex and misunderstood and mysterious for a full three minutes. I actually started designing the postcard in my head.
That's when I found myself typing an email to my sister. What?!?! In a subconsious attempt to sabotage my submission to Postsecret (and, I'll admit, confirming that I am a bit too open), my immediate reaction was, "Ooo! I have a secret!!! Gotta tell my little bird!"
I was able to stop myself from sending the email, but, um, now I feel guilty, like I'm holding out. And for what? So that I can send a postcard to a stranger? I've been told its supposed to be liberating, like letting go, but I feel like I'm being dishonest and squirrelly.
Go figure.
Friday, March 7, 2008
My latest project
Natasha's comment on my amigurumi dildo sparked an online search for an amigurumi silver bullet pattern. When I wasn't able to find one, I decided What the hell? I'll design one myself.
And so I did.
It's the first crochet pattern I've ever created, and I think it's somehow appropriate that my first design would be somewhat inappropriate. Fitting.
I'm also working on a new and improved amigurumi dildo and other naughty stuff, as well as some more... mundane... patterns (like a crochet hook / knitting needle / pencil case crocheted using thread and a hat/scarf/mitten set).
And so I did.
It's the first crochet pattern I've ever created, and I think it's somehow appropriate that my first design would be somewhat inappropriate. Fitting.
I'm also working on a new and improved amigurumi dildo and other naughty stuff, as well as some more... mundane... patterns (like a crochet hook / knitting needle / pencil case crocheted using thread and a hat/scarf/mitten set).
And now for something completely different
Because sometimes is fun to watch stuff break, especially when it's in slow motion.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
A real friend asks a different question
It was my third, and final, year in Japan. The countdown had begun: I had about three months left, which meant I was in the midsts of the unpleasant task of telling all and asundry that I'd be leaving at the end of the school year in April. Actually, I only told those that I felt needed to know: The headmaster at my school, select colleagues, and friends. I figured the rest would either hear about it through the grapevine, or would guess when I didn't show up at the start of the new term in May.
I told my dear friend Tomoko (note: fake name) at three in the morning at our local ramen restaurant. I had been trying to tell her for days, but the words just kinda stuck in my throat. So, after a six hour dinner-drinks-dancing-karaoke-ramen marathon, I summoned up the chutzpah and let it out: I was leaving in April. She stared down at her pork belly delight for a few seconds, then abruptly changed the subject. I knew better than to push it: I didn't want to see her cry.
A few weeks later, Tomoko invited me out for another marathon (possibly triathalon) good time, and I jumped all over it. She picked one of my favorite izakaya (drinking and eating establishments) and promised that the karaoke wouldn't be too terribly painful (meaning noone would make me sing Hey Jude again). I was looking forward to it; Tomoko was a good friend and a blast to hang with, and I was having serious separation anxiety. Imagine giving up your whole life - friends, job, home, town, EVERYTHING. That's what I was doing, and so I wanted to spend as much time as possible with my friends before I left.
On the Friday of the dinner, we trampled through the snow to the restaurant, laughing at how difficult it was to walk in three feet of powder in heels, and sighing over how this was just ONE MORE THING in Aza-Itabashi. I noticed Tomoko was a little quieter than normal but didn't question her. She mentioned that there would be around twenty people attending, and I assumed that she was concerned about showing so many people a good time.
We had a small room to ourselves, common for larger groups (this gave a smidge of privacy, and allowed for a bit of rowdiness). The room had a tokonoma, so I did what anyone should do: I sat my bootie down next to the sliding rice paper door, as far from the tokonoma as I could get. Tomoko, though, made a big deal about me sitting directly in front of it, in the seat of honor.
RED FLAG.
I tried to resist. I smiled and told her I was very comfortable. She said that the zabuton were much fluffier at the other end of the table. I said that I planned on drinking beer, and everyone knows how that affects my bladder. She laughed and said that the room would be large enough so that I didn't have to climb over people. In my last ditch, slightly panicked, effort, I smiled and said, "But sempai, please, I want you to be comfortable." She smiled and responded politely, the gist of which was, "Move your lazy ass over here goddamn it and quit arguing with me."
I had never sat in the seat of honor before, and couldn't decide if a tall ume-shu sour would calm my nerves or make a drastic reappearance immediately after being ingested. WHY WAS I THERE? Something was going to happen and I was going to be the unwitting center of it. I didn't know what it was, and really dreaded the answer. I wanted to run away.
A few minutes after our seating argument, the other diners began filing in. Out of about twenty people, there were only 3 women. This was strange. Why were there so many men? Why the strange ratio of X to Y? I gave Tomoko a questioning look. Her cheeks reddened a little, she took a swallow of her cocktail and thoroughly avoided my eye.
BIG RED FLAG.
And then, something I'd never experienced at a friends' night out: Introductions. It was customary to introduce yourself at casual dinners, not to be introduced by the hostess. In an even more alarming development, Tomoko's introduction of me was incredibly personal and detailed and more than a tad exxagerated: According to her, I had a great job, wanted lots of children, was very cheerful, and spoke Japanese flawlessly.
WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING ON!?!
I know my face had turned seven shades of scarlett, and I was really regretting downing the ume-shu. I just sat there, staring at my plate, feeling totally naked while the men appraised me like I was some kind of pet bunny rabbit or something... and that's when I put two and two together.
I was being auctioned off.
I remembered that one of my coworkers in Sendai went to dinners like this. Basically, one person would invite all her single male friends and a few female friends to lessen the pressure. The purpose was kinda like a matchmaking service: You were looking for a husband or wife, and everyone at the table knew it and was there to either help you or dig you.
I about died.
I mean, I wasn't desperate. Tomoko didn't know about Sato-sensei, no way no how. And oh Jesus, if Sato-sensei found out about this... In the middle of the dinner I made a bathroom dash (to scope out who was at the izakaya) and was positively horrified to see two of my coworkers. This meant that EVERYONE would know on Monday. I silently cursed my friend, angry that she didn't explain this stickiness to me. Why hadn't she just ASKED me if I wanted to be set up, Japanese style?
Tomoko was my FRIEND. It would have been considerate for her to at least HINT that she was setting me up. I sat in the bathroom racking my brains: DID she hint? Had I just not picked up on it? I went over our conversation a thousand times, but couldn't find anything. She hadn't even told me it would be a large party until we were fishtailing through the streets on the way there.
I willed myself to be cheerful upon my return to the table, and gaman dekiru-ed the rest of the (very long) evening. Tomoko gave my number to all the men in attendance, and over the course of the next few weeks I went out with a few of them. Sato-sensei made me do it, for appearances' sake. Sato-sensei understood that were I to refuse, it would hurt my friendship with Tomoko. He made me go, and I went for both of them. I didn't want to, though, and resented wasting my precious remaining time in Aza-Itabashi. I smiled and laughed and complimented them and hated every fucking second of it and silently compared them to my beloved and wished that I was with Sato-sensei instead.
I went because Sato-sensei told me to and because I didn't want to hurt Tomoko any more than I already had. It was my last year and I wanted it to be a good one, filled with laughter and love and skiing and snow and snowball fights and ramen at 3AM and lots of ume-shu sours. Tomoko, on the other hand, didn't want it to be my final year in Aza-Itabashi. She fixed me up in the hopes I'd fall in love, get married, and get a mortgage.
That was Tomoko's Third Year Question, and it broke my heart to say "No." She, of course, never asked me a Stoopid Third Year Question, like "Do you want to marry a Japanese man?" Assholes asked that question, and the only proper answer was "No" because to marry a Japanese guy would be to stay in Japan. The real question wasn't about marital preferences, but "When are you leaving?" That's what the Assholes were really wanting to know: How long would I be dirtying their soil.
But Tomoko, like Sato-sensei, never asked me that. Rather, she set me up with a bunch of (somewhat cute, very well employed) bachelors in the hopes that I'd never leave.
Tomoko's Third Year Question was, "Will you stay?"
I told my dear friend Tomoko (note: fake name) at three in the morning at our local ramen restaurant. I had been trying to tell her for days, but the words just kinda stuck in my throat. So, after a six hour dinner-drinks-dancing-karaoke-ramen marathon, I summoned up the chutzpah and let it out: I was leaving in April. She stared down at her pork belly delight for a few seconds, then abruptly changed the subject. I knew better than to push it: I didn't want to see her cry.
A few weeks later, Tomoko invited me out for another marathon (possibly triathalon) good time, and I jumped all over it. She picked one of my favorite izakaya (drinking and eating establishments) and promised that the karaoke wouldn't be too terribly painful (meaning noone would make me sing Hey Jude again). I was looking forward to it; Tomoko was a good friend and a blast to hang with, and I was having serious separation anxiety. Imagine giving up your whole life - friends, job, home, town, EVERYTHING. That's what I was doing, and so I wanted to spend as much time as possible with my friends before I left.
On the Friday of the dinner, we trampled through the snow to the restaurant, laughing at how difficult it was to walk in three feet of powder in heels, and sighing over how this was just ONE MORE THING in Aza-Itabashi. I noticed Tomoko was a little quieter than normal but didn't question her. She mentioned that there would be around twenty people attending, and I assumed that she was concerned about showing so many people a good time.
We had a small room to ourselves, common for larger groups (this gave a smidge of privacy, and allowed for a bit of rowdiness). The room had a tokonoma, so I did what anyone should do: I sat my bootie down next to the sliding rice paper door, as far from the tokonoma as I could get. Tomoko, though, made a big deal about me sitting directly in front of it, in the seat of honor.
RED FLAG.
I tried to resist. I smiled and told her I was very comfortable. She said that the zabuton were much fluffier at the other end of the table. I said that I planned on drinking beer, and everyone knows how that affects my bladder. She laughed and said that the room would be large enough so that I didn't have to climb over people. In my last ditch, slightly panicked, effort, I smiled and said, "But sempai, please, I want you to be comfortable." She smiled and responded politely, the gist of which was, "Move your lazy ass over here goddamn it and quit arguing with me."
I had never sat in the seat of honor before, and couldn't decide if a tall ume-shu sour would calm my nerves or make a drastic reappearance immediately after being ingested. WHY WAS I THERE? Something was going to happen and I was going to be the unwitting center of it. I didn't know what it was, and really dreaded the answer. I wanted to run away.
A few minutes after our seating argument, the other diners began filing in. Out of about twenty people, there were only 3 women. This was strange. Why were there so many men? Why the strange ratio of X to Y? I gave Tomoko a questioning look. Her cheeks reddened a little, she took a swallow of her cocktail and thoroughly avoided my eye.
BIG RED FLAG.
And then, something I'd never experienced at a friends' night out: Introductions. It was customary to introduce yourself at casual dinners, not to be introduced by the hostess. In an even more alarming development, Tomoko's introduction of me was incredibly personal and detailed and more than a tad exxagerated: According to her, I had a great job, wanted lots of children, was very cheerful, and spoke Japanese flawlessly.
WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING ON!?!
I know my face had turned seven shades of scarlett, and I was really regretting downing the ume-shu. I just sat there, staring at my plate, feeling totally naked while the men appraised me like I was some kind of pet bunny rabbit or something... and that's when I put two and two together.
I was being auctioned off.
I remembered that one of my coworkers in Sendai went to dinners like this. Basically, one person would invite all her single male friends and a few female friends to lessen the pressure. The purpose was kinda like a matchmaking service: You were looking for a husband or wife, and everyone at the table knew it and was there to either help you or dig you.
I about died.
I mean, I wasn't desperate. Tomoko didn't know about Sato-sensei, no way no how. And oh Jesus, if Sato-sensei found out about this... In the middle of the dinner I made a bathroom dash (to scope out who was at the izakaya) and was positively horrified to see two of my coworkers. This meant that EVERYONE would know on Monday. I silently cursed my friend, angry that she didn't explain this stickiness to me. Why hadn't she just ASKED me if I wanted to be set up, Japanese style?
Tomoko was my FRIEND. It would have been considerate for her to at least HINT that she was setting me up. I sat in the bathroom racking my brains: DID she hint? Had I just not picked up on it? I went over our conversation a thousand times, but couldn't find anything. She hadn't even told me it would be a large party until we were fishtailing through the streets on the way there.
I willed myself to be cheerful upon my return to the table, and gaman dekiru-ed the rest of the (very long) evening. Tomoko gave my number to all the men in attendance, and over the course of the next few weeks I went out with a few of them. Sato-sensei made me do it, for appearances' sake. Sato-sensei understood that were I to refuse, it would hurt my friendship with Tomoko. He made me go, and I went for both of them. I didn't want to, though, and resented wasting my precious remaining time in Aza-Itabashi. I smiled and laughed and complimented them and hated every fucking second of it and silently compared them to my beloved and wished that I was with Sato-sensei instead.
I went because Sato-sensei told me to and because I didn't want to hurt Tomoko any more than I already had. It was my last year and I wanted it to be a good one, filled with laughter and love and skiing and snow and snowball fights and ramen at 3AM and lots of ume-shu sours. Tomoko, on the other hand, didn't want it to be my final year in Aza-Itabashi. She fixed me up in the hopes I'd fall in love, get married, and get a mortgage.
That was Tomoko's Third Year Question, and it broke my heart to say "No." She, of course, never asked me a Stoopid Third Year Question, like "Do you want to marry a Japanese man?" Assholes asked that question, and the only proper answer was "No" because to marry a Japanese guy would be to stay in Japan. The real question wasn't about marital preferences, but "When are you leaving?" That's what the Assholes were really wanting to know: How long would I be dirtying their soil.
But Tomoko, like Sato-sensei, never asked me that. Rather, she set me up with a bunch of (somewhat cute, very well employed) bachelors in the hopes that I'd never leave.
Tomoko's Third Year Question was, "Will you stay?"
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
A lie can be both convenient and entertaining
I began to notice a subtle shift in questions as my first year melded into my second. At that time, I was consumed with job hunting, exploring cities and towns and villages and rice farms (I wanted to move, although leaving Sendai saddened me) avoiding the gaijin police and their many attempts to remind me that my visa was expiring, and getting over a not-so-minor heart break. Quite frankly, I remember that March as "Holy shit, what am I going to DO?!" and that April as "Holy shit, I've got so much to DO!!" The details are a little hazy, although I do recall, for some reason, discovering a new coffee shop. ?
Still, all that time spent on the trains meant that I had more than my share of opportunities to be exasperated by strangers. It always started out the same: I'd be sitting quietly, trying not to doze off (something about the Japanese train system puts me - and pretty much everyone else - right to sleep), just enjoying the rhythmic clickity-clack of the wheels and the breathtaking beauty of Tohoku, when I'd start to feel... stared at.
I'd look up, and the Unblinking One would quickly look away. If it was a man, then he'd suddenly notice something extremely interesting to the left or right. Floaters in his retinas? Were it a woman, then she'd look at her hands, folded neatly in her lap, perhaps to see if they were still there and functioning properly.
I'd look back out the window, and slowly start to feel stared at again, and the whole process would repeat itself. By the third iteration, I'd resign myself to the disappointing conclusion that I'd either have to glue my nose to the window (how can you NOT look around when you feel eyes burrowing into your boobs?), or I'd have to make some sort of friendly gesture. That's when the Second Year Questions came:
What do you think of Japanese men?
How long have you lived / will you live in Japan?
Which do you prefer, Japan or America?
I never did figure out how strangers could tell that it was my second year in the Land of Hot Springs and Ski Slopes and that, accordingly, these were the proper questions to ask. It's not like I skiied and ate on the trains (unless it was the bullet train and I was eating bento kaiseki... man what I'd give to have one of those again!), so how did they know to ask me about men and my preference of countries?
By this time, I'd grown enough in my Japaneseyness that I was able to have a little fun. I only gave sincere (not necessarily truthful) answers when I was either in Aza-Itabashi or close enough that my responses might get back to me. In other words: Ask me these same questions in Sapporo or Tokyo or Hiroshima, and whoo boy you got an earful... limited only by my imagination. In this, the bullshit was directly proportional to the distance from my home and the number of ume-shu sours I'd imbibed.
(And I'd like to point out: I learned this from a coworker in Aza-Itabashi. One trip with her to Tokyo, and jeezy wheezy, I had a whole new perspective on How To Deal. More on that later.)
Some answers:
Stranger: Which do you prefer, Japan or America?
Me: Well, America of course. I really miss carrying a gun with me wherever I go. I just feel kinda... naked without it, you know?
Stranger: What do you think of Japanese men?
Me: I think that they don't make much money, so I might move to Hong Kong to look for a husband. I hear they are rich over there.
It was rude, yes, and unkind and a little horrible of me. But if my dear readers could have seen the facial expressions... It was all worth it.
Once, and only once, my answer came back to bite me in the ass. It was after a trip to Sapporo. I went with a large group that included friends from my work and Aza-Itabashi and friends and colleagues from Sendai. The revelry involved much alcohol, skiing, hot springs, horse rides (?!), and exclamations of "SUMIMASEN!" But not by me. I swear it. I had behaved pretty OK, well, at least when compared to my companions.
The long, happy weekend in Hokkaido was replaced by a cold, dark, dull Monday in Aza-Itabashi, and my coworkers and I had to BE SERIOUS. This meant that we had to pretend that we weren't hung over and we didn't just spend an entire weekend hiding eachother's underwear in the snow.
I was sitting at my desk, giving the impression of grading papers while acutally nursing my liquor-loving brain tumor, when one of my colleagues offered to sell me his car. It would have been impolitic to refuse outright, but, well, what use did I have for a car? I rode my bike or walked everywhere in town, and Japan Rail is nothing short of a Man Made Wonder of the World. I stared, somewhat dumbly, and agreed to take a look at his wheels after the kiddies went home.
Later that day, another teacher, a funny and charismatic guy, walked passed me in a lone, deserted hallway without so much as an acknowledgement or a hello. A twinkle surprised, I called out a little howdy that was met with silence. Aisatsu, greetings, are A Big Deal in Aza-Itabashi (and also Japan, I think, but definitely in Aza-Itabashi), so my curiousity was instantly piqued.
Back in the teachers room, I approached a teacher-friend of Funny Guy's. It might sound passive aggressive to my American readers, but in Japan, there is no way in Hades you'd ever confront someone directly. Teacher-friend, too, seemed pissy. So, I looked around at the 80 or so educators in the room, and decided that my best bet was a female teacher. Something about this scenario suggested that the only way to determine the root cause of the problem was to rely on the X factor.
It was a good call, too, because apparently, when I was drunk in Sapporo, I'd mentioned to the neighbor of the friend of the cousin of the dog walker of the friend of the Funny Guy that I preferred American men because they all have cars. Funny Guy and Friend of Funny Guy didn't want to tell me because then that would raise suspicions. You know, the whole penis/vagina thing.
Later, when I told my travel companion over lunch, she narrowed her eyes and said, "Yeah... I thought that one guy had a familiar accent and no sense of humor."
I learned to cool it a little on the QA front after that. Because it only took one distant acquaintance of a coworker for it to get back to me. And then it did. And it caused problems, OMG.
Still, all that time spent on the trains meant that I had more than my share of opportunities to be exasperated by strangers. It always started out the same: I'd be sitting quietly, trying not to doze off (something about the Japanese train system puts me - and pretty much everyone else - right to sleep), just enjoying the rhythmic clickity-clack of the wheels and the breathtaking beauty of Tohoku, when I'd start to feel... stared at.
I'd look up, and the Unblinking One would quickly look away. If it was a man, then he'd suddenly notice something extremely interesting to the left or right. Floaters in his retinas? Were it a woman, then she'd look at her hands, folded neatly in her lap, perhaps to see if they were still there and functioning properly.
I'd look back out the window, and slowly start to feel stared at again, and the whole process would repeat itself. By the third iteration, I'd resign myself to the disappointing conclusion that I'd either have to glue my nose to the window (how can you NOT look around when you feel eyes burrowing into your boobs?), or I'd have to make some sort of friendly gesture. That's when the Second Year Questions came:
What do you think of Japanese men?
How long have you lived / will you live in Japan?
Which do you prefer, Japan or America?
I never did figure out how strangers could tell that it was my second year in the Land of Hot Springs and Ski Slopes and that, accordingly, these were the proper questions to ask. It's not like I skiied and ate on the trains (unless it was the bullet train and I was eating bento kaiseki... man what I'd give to have one of those again!), so how did they know to ask me about men and my preference of countries?
By this time, I'd grown enough in my Japaneseyness that I was able to have a little fun. I only gave sincere (not necessarily truthful) answers when I was either in Aza-Itabashi or close enough that my responses might get back to me. In other words: Ask me these same questions in Sapporo or Tokyo or Hiroshima, and whoo boy you got an earful... limited only by my imagination. In this, the bullshit was directly proportional to the distance from my home and the number of ume-shu sours I'd imbibed.
(And I'd like to point out: I learned this from a coworker in Aza-Itabashi. One trip with her to Tokyo, and jeezy wheezy, I had a whole new perspective on How To Deal. More on that later.)
Some answers:
Stranger: Which do you prefer, Japan or America?
Me: Well, America of course. I really miss carrying a gun with me wherever I go. I just feel kinda... naked without it, you know?
Stranger: What do you think of Japanese men?
Me: I think that they don't make much money, so I might move to Hong Kong to look for a husband. I hear they are rich over there.
It was rude, yes, and unkind and a little horrible of me. But if my dear readers could have seen the facial expressions... It was all worth it.
Once, and only once, my answer came back to bite me in the ass. It was after a trip to Sapporo. I went with a large group that included friends from my work and Aza-Itabashi and friends and colleagues from Sendai. The revelry involved much alcohol, skiing, hot springs, horse rides (?!), and exclamations of "SUMIMASEN!" But not by me. I swear it. I had behaved pretty OK, well, at least when compared to my companions.
The long, happy weekend in Hokkaido was replaced by a cold, dark, dull Monday in Aza-Itabashi, and my coworkers and I had to BE SERIOUS. This meant that we had to pretend that we weren't hung over and we didn't just spend an entire weekend hiding eachother's underwear in the snow.
I was sitting at my desk, giving the impression of grading papers while acutally nursing my liquor-loving brain tumor, when one of my colleagues offered to sell me his car. It would have been impolitic to refuse outright, but, well, what use did I have for a car? I rode my bike or walked everywhere in town, and Japan Rail is nothing short of a Man Made Wonder of the World. I stared, somewhat dumbly, and agreed to take a look at his wheels after the kiddies went home.
Later that day, another teacher, a funny and charismatic guy, walked passed me in a lone, deserted hallway without so much as an acknowledgement or a hello. A twinkle surprised, I called out a little howdy that was met with silence. Aisatsu, greetings, are A Big Deal in Aza-Itabashi (and also Japan, I think, but definitely in Aza-Itabashi), so my curiousity was instantly piqued.
Back in the teachers room, I approached a teacher-friend of Funny Guy's. It might sound passive aggressive to my American readers, but in Japan, there is no way in Hades you'd ever confront someone directly. Teacher-friend, too, seemed pissy. So, I looked around at the 80 or so educators in the room, and decided that my best bet was a female teacher. Something about this scenario suggested that the only way to determine the root cause of the problem was to rely on the X factor.
It was a good call, too, because apparently, when I was drunk in Sapporo, I'd mentioned to the neighbor of the friend of the cousin of the dog walker of the friend of the Funny Guy that I preferred American men because they all have cars. Funny Guy and Friend of Funny Guy didn't want to tell me because then that would raise suspicions. You know, the whole penis/vagina thing.
Later, when I told my travel companion over lunch, she narrowed her eyes and said, "Yeah... I thought that one guy had a familiar accent and no sense of humor."
I learned to cool it a little on the QA front after that. Because it only took one distant acquaintance of a coworker for it to get back to me. And then it did. And it caused problems, OMG.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Ii shitsumon desu.
Gaijin often huddled in exasperated circles and bitched lengthy diatribes on the questions asked of them. I suppose the frustration level wouldn't have been so bad - as in, spontaneous combustion bad - if the questions changed from asker to asker. But they didn't. Ever. IT WAS ALWAYS THE SAME. It was like someone wrote an etiquette book for speaking to gaijin: Things To Ask and Really, Anything Is OK As Long As Its A Foreigner.
Somewhere along the line, though, I began to see patterns: The questions didn't change from asker to asker, but they did change over time. First Year Questions were different from Second Year Questions, which, I bet my readers can guess, were different from Third Year Questions. Rookie gaijin got the chopsticks Q while their more experienced sistahs and brethren got the Marriage Q. Inquiring minds and all that jazz.
Polite First Year Questions
Where are you from?
Can you use chopsticks?
Can you eat Japanese food?
Do you like sports?
Banal, boring, extremely superficial.... Maybe. The first question was, indeed, an opening question with no meaning beyond the obvious. The last three, like most Japanesey things, had deeper meaning.
If a gaijin could use chopsticks, then he/she might be more amenable to Japanese customs and RULES, and thus might eventually learn to be a properly civilized human. We'll give him/her a chance.
Ditto for the food. Maybe we can go for drinks after work sometime? Maybe. If he/she becomes civilized.
Oooo, he/she likes sports. What kind of sports? Maybe skiing? If not, maybe he/she would like to learn? Maybe we can go skiing, then to a hot spring? Maybe this person will become, after much public humiliation, a civilized human being AND a skiier? That would be nice.
Coming up: Second Year Questions
Somewhere along the line, though, I began to see patterns: The questions didn't change from asker to asker, but they did change over time. First Year Questions were different from Second Year Questions, which, I bet my readers can guess, were different from Third Year Questions. Rookie gaijin got the chopsticks Q while their more experienced sistahs and brethren got the Marriage Q. Inquiring minds and all that jazz.
Polite First Year Questions
Where are you from?
Can you use chopsticks?
Can you eat Japanese food?
Do you like sports?
Banal, boring, extremely superficial.... Maybe. The first question was, indeed, an opening question with no meaning beyond the obvious. The last three, like most Japanesey things, had deeper meaning.
If a gaijin could use chopsticks, then he/she might be more amenable to Japanese customs and RULES, and thus might eventually learn to be a properly civilized human. We'll give him/her a chance.
Ditto for the food. Maybe we can go for drinks after work sometime? Maybe. If he/she becomes civilized.
Oooo, he/she likes sports. What kind of sports? Maybe skiing? If not, maybe he/she would like to learn? Maybe we can go skiing, then to a hot spring? Maybe this person will become, after much public humiliation, a civilized human being AND a skiier? That would be nice.
Coming up: Second Year Questions
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