NITPICKING FIFTY SHADES OF GREY: THE UNAVOIDABLE POST

Source: 50 shade of cake

Many people hate or love this book for various reasons.  Possibly depending on whether they find it a turn on, with its redheaded-grey eyed romantic lead*, or whether they find the naive protagonist a huge boner killer.  I received this as a gift and tried to read it, but I just couldn't.  Why?

This may be particular to me, but...the book is written in first person, present tense, which is like trying to get off on a picture of...no, I really shouldn't go there.

Compare:

1st person, present tense:  I look in the mirror and wink at myself and think: what a good-looking female I am!  Then I take a walk in the park.

1st person, past tense:  I looked in the mirror and winked at myself and thought: what a good-looking female I was!  Then I took a walk in the park.

Past tense always sounds at least ten times less ridiculous, no matter what you happen to be saying (to yourself).   This was too much of a roadblock for me; it was the mental florescent lighting that blotted out all potential sexy good times.  That 50 shades of cake, however, I would totally eat.

* As an aside, do you find the concept of a man with grey eyes and red hair a turn on?  I kept trying to picture this in a sexy light and failed repeatedly.  I will further add that my imagination is rock solid.
* Did anyone else read Archie comics as a kid?  That's who my imagination kept turning to.

A PICTURE FOR THE WEEKEND NO. 1

That's all.  Being concise is good.

CAN YOU DISAGREE WITHOUT ARGUING? (PART 1)

Part 1 Posting Extravaganza! Topic: Arguing, a post told in 2 parts.  Why 2 parts? Because I don't want a long, boring post.

Let me start with two general, let's call them assumptions that can lead to hours of arguing*:

1. There are some problems that do not have a solution
2. For every rule, there is an exception

If you have hours to blow, try this: I had a relationship discussion with my friend S.  Relationships sometimes fall under problems that have no solution.  (example: Do you think I should get a divorce?)  Now, S. is a problem solver, not a sympathizer.  This is simply how she is.  I cannot change her, what I can do, is not present her with a problem that cannot be solved.  What you get in return are an endless supply of solutions, and none of them will work.  

Party time! Have you ever been found yourself opposite someone who automatically has to contradict statements thrown their way?  In sane conversations, there are maybe two disagreements, and then it just dies.  But the really mundane conversations can go on forever, like so:

Pam: She's really pretty, but she's wearing a lot of makeup.
Lisa: Yeah, people always look better with makeup.
Pam: Not people with tattooed makeup, they look worse.
Lisa: My aunt has tattooed makeup, and she looks really good.
Me: (to myself) OMFG.

* As a disclaimer, I don't enjoy arguing.  I enjoy problem solving, and becoming more informed by being presented with an opposing, informed perspective.  If either of these is not in play, then I consider it a pissing contest. 

I HAVE SOME EXTRA XANAX IN MY POCKET

Link

You know those times when you're waiting by the elevator (or some other public location) and your supervisor is talking on his cell, talking about how great his medication is working for him, and only one of you (you) is uncomfortable?

For those of us who do not have a bathroom shelf full of meds, Xanax is a psychoactive drug used for panic, general anxiety, and social anxiety, none of which I would want anyone else in the world to know about me, possibly because it might be discussed in a public blog later on.

In contrast, I am someone who will discretely put their hand over their credit card up until the millisecond before handing it to the cashier.  Why?  In case.  In case what?  In case the Google van happens to drive by the cash register at that exact moment and my credit card number and ugly driver's license photo end up on YouTube.  You will notice, I never claimed to be the one who was less crazy.

In further news, I never meant to be for this blog to be a monologue, or some king of exercise in self-brown nosing.  If have have something to say, I am open to converse.  I just haven't made it it a habit to ask open ended questions.

MY BRAIN IS FAT

Pretty pictures!  I love staring at pretty pictures - I mean, that room is perfect - the glossy black end table with the acrylic ashtray, the grey color palate, the arching floor lamp (OMG, is that IKEA?).  I could stare at that picture for hours...and unfortunately, I probably have.  I used to subscribe to glossy magazines, but blogs have replaced that, their content is updated daily.  It's funny, how some of our habits don't change, they just evolve.

Now the bad part: how to say this...at some point in time, my brain stopped fitting into its fat pants.  My memory was shot.  Names and words on the tip of my tongue stayed there and died.  I began to suspect that snacking on a diet of pretty pictures was making me dumber.  My vocabulary had taken a nose dive off a metaphorical cliff.

No, let's not be dramatic here; I've found the best solutions are usually the simplest ones.  I just need to limit the amount of time spent staring at pictures which, I think, are too easily processed, and more time making my brain work a little harder - possibly by reading, possibly by formulating and articulating ideas.

With that in mind, I will intentionally limit the visual content of this blog, because I don't want to add to the aforementioned "fat brain" (Also, I would have to troll the web for pics).  Ironically, most of the blogs I like to look at are beautiful, and even inspiring, and I wouldn't even have bothered starting this one if others hadn't paved the way.  Ironic, no?

SEXUAL HARASSMENT!

G-Dragon

Have you ever been to Brazil?  If you have, you may have been the recipient of *kissy kissy* face, when a male (usually) makes a serious of luxurious *kissy* noises up to a full inch in distance from your face.  Sometimes a bead of spit will manage to traverse this small distance to land on you, as was the case with my traveling companion, J.  And isn't it so much easier to talk about when it didn't happen to you?

I was reminded of this the other day when, while crossing the street, I happened to look up at the driver of a car next to me, to notice that he was making Kissy Face.  "Wow!" I thought, "It's like I'm back in Brazil!"  For full disclosure purposes, let me add that I am a small Asian female.  I know, right?  So you can see where this is heading...but no.

Given recent sad events in India, this could be a depressing or even angry post, but that's not where I want to go with this.  My friend J. and I were subjected to Kissy Face from 9:00 in the morning (J: "Already??") until late into the evening, and we even had a Kissy Face drive by, which J. tried to protect me from, but I looked by accident and got an eyeful.  We laughed about the drive by for hours.  There may have been a reenactment.

My point is this: I could have written this post a variety of ways: a) angry (men are international bastards!), b) distraught (why can't they just leave me alone?), or c) with a bit of humor.  I can't always see the humor in things, but I would like to, because I think it gives you a bit of power, like the bad parts can't affect you, or at least, they can't leave a lasting impression, and kind of bead off you like water.

LIFE LESSONS: CAR TRANSMISSION

There are generally few pieces of wisdom I have lying around in my garage to impart, but here is one that I have picked up recently: the car transmission is one of the most damn expensive engine parts to replace in your car - I am talking in the thousands of dollars here - and the only thing mechanics ask is, "Did you change you transmission fluid regularly?"

Let's say, for argument's sake, that I did not.  Well, then it's all my fault.  Damn you for asking.  And for having the annoying ability to fix cars and rip people off.

What is my point?  Change the transmission fluid regularly, and it will save at least one huge expense over the life of your car.  Where is my car, you ask?  In the shop.

THE MEANING OF LIFE

I have no idea.  What I mean to share is why I am attempting (I will not say succeeding, because I don't post at all enough) to blog.  I was trying to explain how I cannot call myself a writer if I haven't written anything.  I have the personality, I have ideas - possibly even good ideas - but it doesn't count if I don't do anything with them and develop them.  Hence, this blog.  Based on the theory that the writing muscle is a muscle like any other, my daily posts should eventually build up my saggy self into a slightly more toned version, which will then attempt a novel.  

There are a lot of shopping, beauty, fashion, photography, and interior design blogs that I enjoy reading, which is how I know that I would not be able to improve on them in any way.  Hence, I will attempt to put here information that you would not find on more attractive blogs and whatever somewhat useful information I find along the way.   

As a final note, I used to really enjoy writing, before it became a source of anxiety.  It used to be source of solace.  If I worked at it, I could find that again, but like all things, it just takes a lot of work.  Happy 2013!

THE ART OF SARCASM

Some e-cards is probably not a good way to introduce this topic since their cards are fairly witty and enjoyable, while I am beginning to question whether by using sarcasm, I am actually not saying anything useful at all.   

Let me give a better example of what I mean:

Person A:  I just lost my job and realized my skirt has a rip in it.  

Me: Niiiiiiiiiice.  

Or see:

Person B: *burps*

Me: (looking over) Good one.

As you will doubtless have noticed, I am pretty useless in these scenarios.  This was not apparent to me until my friend pointed out that sarcasm is an American characteristic. Sometimes the words mean nothing, sometimes they mean the opposite of what the speaker actually means, and sometimes people use it to create this facade of jaded sophistication.  

What concerns me is that by using sarcasm I'm actually copping out of saying anything meaningful or sincere.  I am one small step above that person my friend E calls "the placeholder."  This type of person likes to go to parties, where they will stand in a circle of friends and laugh at everyone else's jokes or witty remarks and appear friendly and nice.  However, this person never contributes anything to the conversation, and is hence, "a placeholder."  

I myself have nothing against "the placeholder," I just don't want to be that person.  In that same vein, I would like to hold myself to either higher standards of sarcasm (a la Some Ecards), or to contribute something that involves flexing my brain.  Just a little.    

The Ideal v. The Real

 

Before I died, I thought I might want to add one more post to this blog, hence I will introduce  my "Ideal Self."  Sometimes, an Ideal Self can make you feel bad about the person you actually are, because your Ideal is...well...perfect, and you, in contrast, are not.  For example, my Ideal Self would have daily posts that she did not agonize over, they would inspire people to better their lives whilst also being self-deprecating, and yet she would still be attractive and photogenic (Note the lack of a photo.  That is not a mistake).  

I prefer to be amused by my concept of an Ideal Self, a person entirely of my own invention, and the complete contrast between her savoir faire, and my rather blah existence.  

My Ideal Self rides a classic Dutch style bicycle around town, helping to preserve the environment along with her lean physique and toned triceps.  If you have ever ogled most cyclists' triceps, you have a fairly good idea what I mean.  For reference purposes, I have included what I visualize as her beautiful bicycle.  For gratuitous purposes, I have also attached a picture of my own bicycle, where it has sat for over a year, locked to the banister by the side of the stairs because that thing weighs too damn much for me to bother hauling up and down every single day.   It costs me $40 at target many years ago, and you get what you pay for.  Most days I take the bus, and when I'm feeling particularly cheap, I walk.  

At some point in my life, I will allow someone to steal my bicycle, and then go on Craigslist and hopefully purchase a bike that actually belongs to the owner.