Showing posts with label awesome. Show all posts
Showing posts with label awesome. Show all posts

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Book Review: I Am Malala: the Girl Who Stood Up for Education and was Shot by the Talban (2013)

I Am Malala, by Malala Yousafzai, is a hero's autobiography. Malala is a longtime Pakistani advocate for education, especially girls’ education. Fearful of her efforts and her growing influence worldwide, the Taliban shot her in the head when she was on her way to school. She was 15.

Now 19, Malala continues to work for her heart’s desire: education for every child. In her book, which is mostly chronological, she touches on many broad themes, including:

Home and Identity 

Named after Malalai, “the Joan of Arc” of Pakistan, Malala is put on the path to awesomehood by her father, a determined educator who built schools and was very active in local peace organizations. At every point in his daughter’s life, Ziauddin encouraged her to succeed in her studies, and to take real action to effect change to be of service to the less fortunate. He led her by his example, with every expectation that she would live up to her name. He was so known as a champion for education and progressive values that his family became more and more afraid that the Taliban would target him. Nope, they went for his little girl instead.

Malala loves the valley of Swat, frequently mentioning it and describing it as a paradise on earth. She speaks lovingly of her house’s fruit tree, of the flat roof where adults had tea and the kids played cricket, of the bazaar where her mother bought food and supplies. She also talks about the waters made filthy by human waste, and a mountain of trash that the community’s poorest children pick through for useable scraps. Good and bad, she loves her home – but hasn’t been back since she was airlifted to the UK after the attack.

Malala also explains the many identities assumed by her people: Pashtuns first, Pakistanis or Muslims second, and so on. By laying out these internal complications and conflicting loyalties, she points to possible reasons for the complicity of her fellow Pakistanis in the rise of the Taliban throughout the region.

But there are lighthearted moments, too – like when she describes her fights with her brothers, fantasizing about being a vampire like in Twilight, and chatting with her friend about skin whitening cream (!). She’s a teenager! But, y’know, a Nobel Peace laureate and world-famous activist.

The Rise of Terrorism

Malala illustrates the poverty and ignorance that allows terrorist groups like the Taliban to seed, and the government corruption/weakness and global tensions (particularly anti-US sentiment) that help them flourish. She observes that theirs is a society that shows little respect to the lowest classes, like orphans or manual laborers, and so it these young men who are taken in by radical madrasas and taught a distorted version of Islam.

More specifically, I Am Malala shows how the Taliban grew in her region: one man started a radio broadcast that initially appealed to many in Swat. He called for greater adherence to Islamic teachings, praised individuals by name when they did something “good” (e.g. stopped their daughters from going to school), and collected money from supporters. Then, bit by bit, he escalated his rhetoric and gained enough followers – Talibs – that public beatings and harassment became a practice. They proved to be resilient foes: even the army’s intervention did not completely erase them from the region, as evidenced by the attack on Malala.

Faith 

Malala is strongly religious. Every mention of the prophet Muhammad comes with the acronym PBUH – “peace be upon him.” She has tremendous faith in a gentle, kind god, one who listens to the prayers of children and protects the innocent. She cites the lessons of the Koran as emphasizing education and compassion. Implicitly throughout the book, she is presenting herself, her family, and all others who fight for peace as true Muslims, and the Taliban and their supporters as at best misguided and at worst monsters who are intentionally misusing their shared religion.

They destroy and build nothing new, Malala writes, listing the numerous ancient sites and statues the Taliban detonated in Swat when they were at the height of their power. The Taliban also forbade girls from going to school, the sale or consumption of Western music or movies, and cracked down on petty infractions, like a man’s pants length. Clearly, these are the actions of men without faith. And one reason for that is that many of them are orphans, and were raised in the lessons of jihad. Another reason is the antipathy toward change and Western dominance, which is shared by wealthy Middle East countries, which incidentally also fund radical madrasas. Resentment, anger, and fear are the festering core of the terrorist movement – not faith.

There are more things to praise in I Am Malala, including her absorbing retelling of the events immediately after her shooting – events that were relayed to her afterwards, because she only regained consciousness weeks later. The structure of the book is compelling, beginning with a snapshot of the shooting, and ending with Malala’s musing that she would have answered the gunman’s question – “Who is Malala?” – by identifying herself as Malala, and then telling him that all she wants is education for him, for his children, for all children. And to this day, this is her wish, and because she’s badass, she’s still fighting for it.

TL;DR: An inspiring young woman’s tale of love, education, geopolitics, history, and the bullet that ended her fears instead of her life.

Bonus: Malala’s UN speech at age 16 and her Nobel prize acceptance speech.

---

This post brought to you by a light fall shower!

Friday, May 9, 2014

Eddie Izzard: Force Majeure (live, 2014)


Eddie Izzard has reached his next stage of evolution: Action Transvestite. The previously Executive Transvestite is back on stage and sharing his bizarre thoughts with appreciative audiences. Topics range from human sacrifice, the Magna Carta, learning other languages, and a documentary called The Clash of the Titans.

Themes from previous acts persist: he riffs on Hitler, talks about his desire to join the military as a lad, mocks Caesar's legacy (this time as a salad--last time it was a brand of dog food), and does the God voice. As always, his physical comedy skills are beyond reproach: he mimes, makes sound effects, and runs back and forth across the stage pretending to be two people having a strange conversation.

Izzard's overtly anti-right wing stance is new and a bit surprising, but maybe he was just playing to his audience of liberal Bostonians? Anyway, he did an encore about the Lord of the Rings where he attempted to do mathematics, and it's as hilariously weird as it sounds.

Here are his US tour dates. Catch him if you can!

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Lessons From Mama and Papa

I think most people who know me would agree that I'm not a seaworthy douchecanoe. On occasion, I may rise to the level of Decent Person. I owe a lot of that to the lessons that Fragrant Mother and Father taught me. I like to say that I'm half-crazy on my mom's side (edit: my mom says she's a "free spirit") and half-robot on my dad's, but overall, I think I made it through Life pretty okay, for now anyway.

Here are the nuggets of wisdom dropped by my parental units that help me out:

MAMA SAYS: BE POLITE.

This is not to say that you should hide your raging homicidal tendencies behind a veneer of civility. No, the politeness my mom espoused had to do with acknowledging another person's existence, which is the foundation for respect. Respectfulness and politeness go hand-in-hand in Tagalog; the language is structured to indicate one's position in the age hierarchy. Elders get the most respect, and have to be addressed by their proper titles -- Lolo/Lola/Ate/Kuya/Tito/Tita/etc. -- and the honorific "po" or "opo" attached to sentences when speaking to someone so exalted because they were born before you. When I was a kid, my mom would roar, "OPO!!!!" when I forgot myself and just said the ordinary "oo" for "yes" when speaking to someone older.

Being polite sends a message: that everyone deserves a greeting or a thank you, that the world isn't actually filled with trolls, and that yes, you may ask me for directions, tourist, and I may even give you the correct ones. Most of all, it says you are not a clogged douchenozzle.

PAPA SAYS: WE DO NOT SPEAK OF BAD THINGS.

Sure, it could be a recipe for an early heart attack, but what he means is: if you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything. This is especially important when I feel angry. I just hold it in because I know, I know, that I will inevitably regret what I say. So I just go into silent mode until I can process my emotions or, even better, eat my feelings. My silence causes Fragrant Husband to go into panic mode, which is a happy bonus. j/k babes luv u!

MAMA SAYS: INVEST IN FOOD.

My mom used to plow through dessert before a meal. Why wait until after the meal to enjoy what you really came here for?, she reasoned, heart palpitating. Back in Manila, she brought us kids to all the rumored hot spots for food: fancy hotel restaurants, mountainside barbecues, and once to a sketchy hole-in-the-wall with Middle Eastern men openly asking for children from the waitresses. This happened. The shawarma was delicious.

Food is comforting. I feel good after a plate of curry, or a bowl of sinigang, or some divine fried chicken. Today at the office I was so stressed that I ate half a Dunkin Donut (the other half is for tomorrow!) and breathed a huge sigh of relief. Some folks like to buy art to nourish their spirits; I buy fries and my soul sings. An investment in food is an investment in your very soul.

PAPA SAYS: BOOKS ARE OUR FRIENDS.

A few months ago, my dad mailed me a flash drive -- shaped like a piece of sushi -- with thousands of e-books in it, continuing his tradition of giving me any reading material my little heart desired. Now I'm reading World War Z, and I'm happy as a clam on my daily commute. Fiction and non-fiction have the power to transport us into the lives of others. Books stimulate our brains and offer fodder for chattering excitedly at our spouses. They're a wholesome escape. Whenever I feel down, I pick up a book and voila! Serenity is mine.

Reading like it's my job also helped me score high on the verbals for SATs and GREs, which were stepping stones to some of the glittering text in my resume, which have been very helpful in le job search. See how it all ties together?

MAMA SAYS: WALK.

Me and mom used to go on walks around the village. I would tease her for walking like a duck; she'd get mad and not talk to me for five minutes; rinse and repeat. One time, I attempted to listen to music while we walked. The tragic wailing--"Y u no want talk 2 me?"--was enough to turn me into a super aggressive listener during walks.

Now that I work at a health center and have been writing proposals about type-2 diabetes and other preventable diseases, I believe ever more fervently in exercise. Walking is low-impact, social, and good practice for people-watching and gossiping while politely saying hello. Plus, I get to pet dogs! It's a win-win for everyone.

PAPA SAYS: SLEEP.

And how. In my childhood, my dad regularly showed his mastery of the art of falling asleep while sitting up. The man can sleep anywhere: on a lumpy couch, in a moving vehicle, and probably on a magic rug en route to Agrabah while Aladdin and Jasmine sing to each other. I'm still unclear whether I inherited his superior sleep-genes or if I just learned by watching him calmly pass out, but I can sleep anywhere, too. Very useful skill on international flights, let me tell you.

Sleep is also super important in everyday life, because without enough sleep, I turn into a tired, angry panda. I can't focus or spell correctly, I'm barely civil, and I am in actual danger of falling asleep at my desk, which would be B-A-D. So I've learned to tune out when Sheba gets her meow on. Still working on sleeping through husband's snoring.

MAMA AND PAPA SAY: WE BELIEVE IN YOU! BE HAPPY!

I've never had any doubt that my parents believe in me and want me to be happy. I wasn't petted and fawned over like a star athlete or an honor student (which I was, by the way, thank you for asking)--both parents always tried to be fair. But they made it clear that they knew I could do it -- whatever it was -- and that if I was happy and not axe-murdering people and/or committing other heinous crimes, that was fine by them. That assurance is a pretty great gift, and it makes me determined to never be a burden to them, although of course if my fortunes fall I shall be living rent-free with one of them in a hot second. Hint, hint.

***

This post brought to you by a pork chop that could have been more moist, and half-burnt wedding carrot cake. It's a long story.

I hope everyone survived their Hump Day!

Monday, July 15, 2013

Movie Review: Pacific Rim (2013)

Warning: massive spoilers ahead. Avoid reading if you are planning to watch the movie, or have already watched it. 



STACKER PENTECOST
143 Fragrant Elephant Drive, Boston, MA 58008 | stacker@fragrantelephantlover.com 


Veteran military professional currently serving as Head of Hong Kong Shatterdome 
and Marshal with Pan Pacific Defence Corps (PPDC).

KEY SKILLS

Leadership
  • As commander of Jaeger fighting machines, directed campaigns that led to defeat of Category 2, 3, and 4 Kaijū. Picture below shows Russian machine, Cherno Alpha, ironically not nuclear-powered. 
  • Foresaw utter failure of all non-Jaeger war strategies, and assembled all remaining Jaeger in Hong Kong for Humanity's Last Stand.  
  • Re-recruited traumatized main protagonist back into Jaeger program using persuasive language, then overshadowed him for rest of movie via sheer charisma.
  • Loomed impressively over everyone during entire movie.
  • Declined adopted daughter's pleas to co-pilot a Jaeger, then changed mind. Was proven correct in denying her in first place when facility almost blown up during test run. 
  • Rejected overexcited scientist's proposal to mind-link with Kaijū, thereby prompting him to disobey orders and uncover critical intel about enemy.
  • Shouted down protagonist's attempts to connect at emotional level. 
  • Ensured that protagonist and adopted daughter's Jaeger had different power source from other Jaegers, for when the enemy inevitably adapted to the machines. Also made them stay behind during crucial moment so as to unleash them as surprise reserve. (Note: self was the one surprised.) 
  • Gave inspirational speech to crew before personally leading mission to destroy bridge between Earth and vaguely genitalia-like Kaijū dimension.
Combat
  • Piloted first-generation Jaeger with name reminiscent of girls dancing on top of bars: Coyote Tango.
  • Fought off Kaijū trying to eat little girl in Tokyo.
  • Personally killed Category 5 Kaijū at cost of own life.
Handsoming
  • See photo at top of CV.
  • After rescuing little Japanese girl from monster, emerged from machine while majestically backlit by sun.
  • Offered mecha world a non-androgynous physique to appreciate:



In conclusion: Pacific Rim is a fun summer movie!

Monday, June 17, 2013

Instant Lunch, with Pictures!

Hello, internet friend. Today's post will hopefully inspire you to consider me for the Lazy Genius Award 2013. I need another trophy, you see, for my self-esteem. Not that I have any trophies whatsoever, come to think about it. Which means...I already won the Lazy Genius Award? YES!!!!

The insta-recipe below provides 148% of your mandatory Vitamin A, 60% of your required fiber intake, 20% of the calcium you ought to have in a day, a whole bunch of protein and potassium, some sodium, and, yes, more molybdenum than you strictly need, but your body knows what to do with it, so just eat!

Today's Instant Lunch: Black Bean Taco Salad
(A lazier version of the Vegetarian Nacho Salad)

Step 1: Place chips in bowl (Garden of Eatin' corn tortilla chips, pictured).
Step 2: Chop up preferred greens (romaine lettuce, pictured) and pile on top of chips.


Step 3: Heat up bottled salsa on stovetop. Add chopped fresh tomatoes and one Thai chili, preferably the smallest one on earth. Pour on top of chips and greens.


Step 4: Add shredded cheese on top! Lactose intolerants may have cheddar.


Be sure to scarf all this down as soon as possible, because the chips might get soggy. As a precaution against such an unmitigated disaster, keep a half-full package of chips nearby. The atoms of the dry chips have yet to be diffused into the collection of atoms in the salad, and therefore may be used to scoop up the contents of your lunch bowl.

Or, if you're really classy, use a spoon to eat the salad.

This post is dedicated to Ate Au, who is such a chip fiend that she keeps a stash inside her bedside drawer! How do I know this? Because all your chips are belong to me!!!

In closing, I would like to share my father's reaction to my original post about making this type of veggie taco salad:

"You cook?"

And a Happy Father's Day to you, sir.

Saturday, June 1, 2013

Kauai!

Kauai is the northernmost and most epic island on the great state of Hawaii. Fragrant Husband and I, both Hawaii virgins, celebrated our honeymoon there.

We stayed at the Grand Hyatt down in Poipu. The best part about this seaside hotel is the constant sound of the waves breaking against the shore. We kept our balcony door open all the time (which automatically shut off the airconditioning), so we caught all the ocean breezes and the magnificent KA-BLOOSH, KA-BLOOSH of the Pacific. The ocean lulled us to sleep every night.

The worst part about the Grand Hyatt is the fact they designed its 52 acres in such a way that rooms are far, far away from the important spots: the sea, the pools, the bars, the restaurants, and the front desk. One time, I was chilling in our private cabana (free with honeymoon!) and ordered a mimosa. The lady said I needed my ID. Instead of marching the long and winding path back to my room, I decided to be a sad, sober panda. That's how far away it was.

But that story has a happy ending -- Fragrant Husband generously volunteered to go back for my ID. So I had three mimosas to honor his noble sacrifice. Least I could do.

Here are some of the fun things to do in Kauai:


^ Hike the Na Pali coast! Drive up north and head all the way west on the 560. When you run over hippies and chicken families, park your car and get started on the trail. You'll have breathtaking vistas such as the one above. You may also pass out from heat exhaustion. This trail is not for the weak of muscle.


^ Plunge into the ocean! Kauai has tons of glorious beaches, all state-owned, apparently. The one in the photo is off the Na Pali trail. We plunged in to cool off before the return hike. Some places have a mix of fresh water and saltwater near the shore, because of the runoffs from the falls.


^ Rappel down a waterfall after kayaking! Observe my dutiful L-form. I would do that again.


^ Hang upside down on a zip line!


^ Ride an ATV! ATV stands for "all-terrain vehicle," and it's basically the steroid lovechild of a golf cart and a motorcycle. The point of the activity was to try to hit as many mud holes as possible.



While on the ATVs, we stopped to check out the field from Jurassic Park, where Dr. Grant and the kids flee from a Gallimimus stampede. The tour guide made us pose for a picture with a plastic dinosaur (see upper left, above). I think Fragrant Husband and I did the best job pretending to be terrified. He's the one in the right, pointing, and I'm gripping his arm and yelling.

***

Activities not pictured:
  • driving up to the Waimea Canyon, aka "the Grand Canyon of the Pacific"; 
  • going on a helicopter ride around the island; 
  • going on a boat ride with dolphins swimming right beside you; 
  • visiting ancient ruins; and 
  • shopping!
***

As for the food, well -- neither of us lost weight, let me tell you that. Kauai, and I imagine all of Hawaii, does fish really well. Most of the restaurants served the freshest fish that ever freshed. We had spectacular fish tacos, fish sandwiches, fish specials, sushi, and whatever else has fish in it.

Kauai also has a lot of cows, and one of our tour guides pointed to one and joked, "That cow is royalty! It's Sir Loin!" Har har. The point is, the cows there are grass-fed and delicious.

We went to a luau on Kilohana Plantation. Fragrant Husband took full advantage of the open bar. They would have lost so much money if they served whiskey. The food was great, especially the pineapple chicken. The performance started out cheesy, but the dances were amazing. The fire dancer was impressive. And the live singing and music throughout was damn good.

***

Numerous though they are, the chickens on Kauai were outnumbered by the Ilocanos. The Ilocos region, north of the Philippines, has a fine tradition of sending its men and women to Pacific islands. Everywhere I looked, my mother's people smiled back at me. I chatted with a bunch of them, and we shared our life stories, as per protocol.

According to census results, the population on Kauai is about 30% Caucasian, 30% Asian, and 25% biracial; and there are Pacific Islanders and Hispanics also! Quite a mix!

I blended right in. Most locals knew me as a proud daughter of Gabriela Silang at a glance. One lady at a restaurant told Fragrant Husband, "Filipinas are at the top of the hierarchy for wives! They're so loyal! They'll never leave you, even when times are tough!"

Well, mahalo! My wife cred seems solid!

***

In conclusion: KAUAI IS AWESOME!!!

Inevitably, I must end this blog post with a hearty, "Alooooo-HA!"

Saturday, May 25, 2013

Honeymoon

In Kauai for honeymoon with Fragrant Husband. Back in June.



Wednesday, May 15, 2013

Uncle Sam (Adams): Massachusetts Unemployment Benefits

Greetings, fellow person of inadvertent leisure! While you're reeling from the trauma of being separated from your source of income, stability, and self-esteem, allow me to help steady you by providing a candid description of the benefits awaiting you! Indeed, rays of light ever shine betwitxt even the darkest clouds.

In plain English, that means you will now get paid to look for a new job, if you qualify for  Unemployment Insurance (UI).

Employers typically contribute toward unemployment, and the Commonwealth of Massachusetts administers the funds. That means Uncle Sam (Adams) will step in if you and your job get separated "through no fault of your own," which is bureaucrat-speak for "Yo ass got laid off but don't worry boo, I got you. I got you."


Now your job is to hunt for jobs. In that spirit, I present your new job description:

***

Position: Job Hunter 
Reports to: Uncle Sam (Adams)
Status: Full Time
Location: Variable
Start date: Immediate

Position description:
The Job Hunter is responsible for securing a job. He or she must devote at least three days a week searching for viable employment opportunities.

Responsibilities include:
  • Using job search engines such as indeed.com or JobQuest.
  • Having a LinkedIn profile with a decent photo, as opposed to a "dorky" one, thanks for the feedback, dad.  
  • Keeping a work search log that conforms to the document on the mass.gov/dua/worksearch. 
  • In the event of being randomly selected for re-employment assessment, the Job Hunter must bring the work search log, an updated resume, and industry research results.
Essential Skills/Qualities:
  • Imagination -- Necessary when overselling qualifications.
  • Thick skin -- Useful for interrogations by well-meaning family members about job search.
  • Resilience -- Key to getting back up after multiple rejections.
  • Strong liver -- Uncle Sam (Adams) also wants you to drink, obviously. See poster above. 
  • Candidates should also have at least one supportive human in their lives.
Compensation and Benefits:
Job Hunters who qualify for unemployment benefits receive half their average monthly salary, divided into weekly increments. Job Hunters must claim benefits weekly, either online or via phone robot.

As a bonus, the state may also take pity on those paying exorbitant COBRA health insurance premiums. Please apply to the Medical Support Program to see if you qualify.

***

At first, I was too proud to even contemplate unemployment benefits. I was like, "I don't need help!" But you know what, dear reader? I do. Everyone does. We all have bills to pay. If I have to turn tricks for Uncle Sam (Adams), I shall do so.

Note: I believe "turn tricks" refers to prostitution, but I am too lazy to confirm.

Fiancé gave me a minor lecture yesterday when I mentioned my frustration with the work search log. For the lucky many who have never seen it, the work search log has multiple versions that use different instructions. It also requires Job Hunters to use three different methods to look for work, including "Informational Phone Interview," "Walk-In," and "Resume Filed Via Web."

Why, yes, I like the nineties, too!

My main gripe was that companies these days only want online applications, and how dare the government dictate the ways in which I conduct my search, to which my husband-on-Saturday said: "I don't understand why you're complaining. You get paid to look for work and list it on a piece of paper." He also gave me a death glare, which is very rare, and extremely effective because of his caterpillar eyebrows. I shut up.

This morning I went for my re-employment assessment. There were a bunch of us up for review, but the Career Center had the staff to keep up with the numbers. My lady was named Margarita. Sadly, I was not offered a drink named after her. She checked to make sure I had all the things I needed -- resume, work search log, a re-employment goal (I listed mine as "Improve LinkedIn profile"), and the results of my industry research. Did you know that Writers get somewhere between $30K and $90K in Massachusetts? And employment in the field is up by 13%? Heyyyyyyyy~.

Now here I am, having just submitted a couple more writing-related applications. Will one of them bear fruit? Will my interview next week follow the same classic pattern of them seeing my face, and then hiring someone else? Will the new Star Trek movie suck as badly as early critics say? Tune in to find out!

In the meantime, I have a wedding in three days. Mine, as it turns out. I might be a little distracted.

Now I must leave you, friend, so I can debate taking a nap versus going to the gym. It's going to be tough.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Thursday, May 9, 2013

Anniversary

Exposure to Fiancé's cold and my little brother's incipient flu eventually beat the crap out of my immune system this past weekend. Despite that, I still attended my friends' Cinco de Mayo barbecue the following day. Because I'm a superhero.

I rested for a few days after that. But then a circuit shorted in my brain and sent errant signals that made me feel fat. So I went to the gym yesterday. Did I almost pass out? Yes. But I powered through. And it was while I was doing bicep curls using resistance bands that I had an epiphany: Working out is like life -- you encounter resistance, and you fight against it and become stronger.

(cue triumphant music)

As though to underline that revelation, Fiancé tricked me later that day. He texted and said he and his coworkers were heading to a certain pub; did I want to meet them there and then we two would go have dinner somewhere nearby? Always a sucker for food (c.f. first paragraph of this post), I said yes and power-walked to the destination.

To my puzzlement, he sat alone at a table. "Where's everyone else?" I asked.

"It's just us!" he replied cheerfully. "Don't you remember? It's our anniversary!" He pulled out a card and a small gold-wrapped box tied in the ribbons of a local jeweler. He'd gotten me earrings to wear for our wedding.

As I derp'ed, he wistfully recalled the moment, exactly two years ago, when we sat at that very table and discussed being boyfriend and girlfriend. "And now we'll have a new anniversary!" he concluded brightly.

At my bachelorette, my maid of honor asked me when I knew I wanted to marry this man. I said it was when he showed that he adored Sheba. But moments like yesterday are high up on that list, too.

But what does that have to do with your epiphany at the gym, Fragrant Elephant?, you ask. Dear reader, I commend your attention to detail, and your commitment to the pillars of writing: focus, development, unity, and coherence. You deserve a blog that delivers all that. But, since you'r here...

In fact, Fiancé and I encountered a lot of resistance before we even began going out. But we pushed back, and here we are. Stronger, smarter, leaner (literally, in his case: he lost eight pounds via illness).

Let me extend the analogy in a more, er, unique way. My cynicism is like a resistance band. I need to keep pulling at it, to build my muscles of kindness. After all, a cynical person looks unkindly at her fellow humans. I've been a cynic since high school. Like Iron Man, I wrapped myself in what I thought was an armor of sneering pessimism. But that armor was a cocoon! And when the hairy, chubby caterpillar of cynicism melts away, what new butterfly shall emerge?

Hopefully, one that remembers anniversaries. Herp derp.

Saturday, April 27, 2013

Literary Juice Published My Story!

Literary Juice, an online lit magazine, has a section called Pulp Fiction that challenges writers to create a story with exactly 25 words. My piece, "Mole," is on this page. Hurray!

I winced when I saw the author bio. I sound like an asshole. The instructions were to describe myself in 75 words, so I threw in my life story. In hindsight, I would have just included the last two sentences. Well, lesson learned.

Tuesday, April 2, 2013

Bachelorette

The crew: the Bride, Crispy, Special K, Vitamin E, Big J, and Shaffles. I earned the nickname "The Mean One" at one point.

The place: Foxwoods Resort Casino in Mashantucket, CT.

The reason: To celebrate my final days as a singleton.

We started out with two bottles of wine in the hotel room. Then we lined up for our resident makeup artist, Special K, who had brought an entire suitcase full of beauty products. Once prettification was complete for all, we headed for High Rollers, the fancy bowling alley. We had signed up for the Bachelorette VIP Package, which included appetizers, champagne, and a scorpion bowl the size of my head. Thus fortified, we bowled our little hearts out. After two bottles of champagne and healthy sips of the scorpion bowl, this is what I looked like:

"These balls are yellowwwwwww!"

Towards the middle of our two-hour session, I hit just the right level of drunk, and got strikes all the time. Then I lost my powers and everything became gutter balls. Weird.

And the night had just begun! We scurried off to the casino, where Shaffles and I each lost twenty bucks in two minutes at the slot machines. We debated going for some blackjack, but then wandered off to the Scorpion Bar.

Ah, the Scorpion Bar. The sticky dance floor, the athletic professional dancers, the sketchy men. We had a round of margarita shots and then switched to another scorpion bowl. Special K and Vitamin E kept going to the dance floor, and whenever I checked on them, they would follow me like ducklings for some reason. Ducklings doing a conga line, that is.

We partied hard, chatted with strangers, and eventually returned to our hotel room. I sailed past everyone and into the bathroom, smiling serenely. I locked the door behind me and barfed everything I drank. We all did our ablutions and passed out.

The next morning I wanted to die. I had a blinding headache, and when I chugged water, my stomach immediately hurled it back out. Shaffles kindly bought me a breakfast of oatmeal and fruits, which I picked at miserably before giving it to Special K, who had to feed her tapeworm, Fred. Then I barfed what little I ate.

I perked up a bit when we went to MGM Spa for massages. It was glorious. We had access to all spa facilities, so we spent some time in the hot tub after our much-needed whole-body rubs. We could have all the water, juice, fruits, and bath products we needed. I softened my stance against first world overconsumption. Being pampered feels good.

We all went for a quick lunch at Al Dente. This was when my friends realized they'd forgotten to get me a tiara. Vitamin E quickly went all arts and crafts on our paper place mats, and made me this headpiece:

I wore my tiara/horns with pride.

In any case, I had recovered from my hangover by then and was ready for Night Two: No More Drunkenness. The second evening was indeed different from the first, in that the dance floor was jam-packed, not sticky, and the douchebag levels went up by 2,000%. This is because we went to Shrine, which fancied itself a classy joint, but really wasn't. I mean, girls were taking pictures of themselves in the bathroom. WTF? Plus, later in the night, the bar charged five bucks for bottled water, because they stopped giving out tap water. WTF10000??? Our bartender had no idea what an Orgasm was (so sad), and when I asked her for something that tasted like a Buttery Nipple, she made me a Slippery Nipple...with Sambuca and Amaretto. Wrong! So wrong! It's supposed to be Sambuca and BAILEY'S!!!

The best (worst) part of the night came after we finally settled down at an awesome spot: in front of the fireplace out on the covered patio. Other people mingled at a distance, so we had a semi-private lounge, almost. That all changed when an admittedly good-looking Stepford Smiler plopped himself down right beside me on the bed-sized bench. He tried to engage me in conversation, but I could barely hear him, so I just stared at him blankly.

He changed tact. "I'm not here for you," he smiled, "I'm here for the heat. You can't hog the heat." I shrugged and gestured that the fireplace was for everyone. Meanwhile, Big J was trying to send mind signals to the bouncers to get rid of this guy. I was saved when Special K made me go to the bar with her to help carry back drinks.

Stepford Smiler sidled up to Big J. "Are you married?" he asked her. She nodded, but he didn't get the go-away hint. "I'm divorced and in a relationship," he overshared.

Big J tried to be nice. "How is she? Or he?" We had just watched the Amy Schumer show and there was talk of gays, so she was being open-minded. Also, he was dressed metro.

Stepford Smiler went on a rant about "How could you think I'm gay?" and blah blah blah. He looked around and asked, "Where's the mean one?" and then went on about how he wasn't a homo. The rest of our group arrived, squeezed onto the bench, and had our own conversations as he yammered on, still smiling breezily. Eventually, he wore himself out and left. We were all, "W. T. F."

I tried to go on the dance floor, but there were too many people, and I was creeped out by how some guys' eyes would brighten when they saw our group. I found out later that by that point, Special K had been subject to a surprise Frenching, and Vitamin E had had to smack the offending dude. They also told me that they went back to check out the Scorpion Bar (I was exhausted and went home before 2 AM, because I am old), where some guy went, "ASIANS!!!" when he saw them, and some other guy (maybe the same guy, IDK) said to Vitamin E, "Fellow black person! I feel we must dance!"

So yeah...that was our second night. I think we toasted to love over dinner, and to fwendship the night before. Huh. It was like the toasts came true or something, but not in ways we expected.

The comedy of the next morning was the buffet breakfast, when our very nice waitress kept printing out our check, only to find that another person from the group had joined and was getting buffet, so she had to print another check. She did this like three times. We left a big tip.

Then off we went into the glorious springtime sunshine, each with our own and our shared memories, and with one-liners from the comedy show to sustain us. I'd offer my favorites, but I'm feeling family-friendly today, so I leave you with this photo of a food item and an ergonomic appliance:

It's better not to ask.

I'm out. (drops mic)

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Lasers Will Make Me Beautiful

A year ago, I underwent laser eye surgery, or Lasik. A battery of eye tests proved my candidacy for treatment, and an impromptu laser repair procedure for a hole in my right cornea rendered me able to receive the surgery.

I emerged as a doe-eyed butterfly from the tyrannical cocoon of eyeglasses. Sources confirm that I am now 1.75% prettier than when stylish brown/pink frames obscured the windows of my soul.

More importantly, I can now easily perform activities for which I used to have to put on or take off my glasses, including:

  • Rolling directly out of bed in the morning 
  • Taking off a shirt/sweater/tight tank top 
  • Smooshing my face against other people’s 
  • Wearing sunglasses 
  • Swimming 
  • et cetera 

In other words, Lasik vastly improved my quality of life.

Now I embark upon the next step: laser hair removal. According to my calculations, having hairless underarms shall enhance my beauty, and thus my societal approval rating and self-esteem, by at least 0.89%. I will also be able to wear sleeveless tops whenever I want. Whenever I want!!!

Being the third daughter, I follow in the path that my pioneering sisters forged in the past. My older sister already has flawless kili-kili, and my eldest sister gazes sternly at the world without need for corrective lenses. Here is my tale, in ancient legend form:

The Legend of the Laser Princess

Thousands of years ago in the land of snow and wind, there lived a princess and her consort. The princess had been both blessed and cursed at birth with an abundance of long, silky black hair. On her head, the hair looked wonderful and earned her admiration from the peasants. But everywhere else, her plentiful follicles caused her to despair and wear frumpy clothes.

One day, the princess went walking along the street and saw a sign for the Cosmetic Laser Center Beautification Palace in the Thundering Sky. She consulted the mighty oracle Google for reviews of the place. After finding an aggregated five-star rating for the Palace, she went in for a consultation. The technician zapped a test patch off her left underarm, and instructed the princess to see what happened next. 

Several weeks passed, and the princess discovered that the test patch hairs had died. Joyfully, she returned to the Palace and went through a full session that lasted barely two minutes. Afterwards, the princess ignored the stinging sensations and celebrated with her famous Happy Wiggle Dance in the elevator.

As the elevator doors opened, light shone from the sky and a voice boomed that with all the laser treatment she was getting, the princess may be eligible to receive the title, “The Laser Princess.” The princess agreed with the voice, and looked forward to her next session, and to wearing slutty revealing clothes after completing her latest laser treatment. And everyone lived happily ever after.

This post brought to you by a foolishly unguarded sandwich right outside the elevators.

Thursday, February 14, 2013

After Black Valentine's

Fiancé just called me downstairs to the office lobby to hand-deliver his V-day gifts for me: a little flowering plant, a Blu-Ray of Pitch Perfect, and a punny card, because I text him puns on the regular.

Last year, he got me a Flaming Katy plant (Kalanchoe blossfeldiana) and chocolate. Katy had flowers back then:


Here is this year's V-day plant, which I shall call Chloe, beside Katy, who lost her flowers and had a massive growth spurt in the past year:


Meanwhile, my officemates have been distributing chocolate and cookies like nobody's business. It's a fantastic V-day so far, and it'll only get better because we shall have a lovely dinner tonight!

But all this joy and delight comes after years of loneliness. Before this, I spent several years bemoaning my fate of being Forever Alone. But those years helped forge me into the strong, sassy, and sometimes shameless woman I am today.  Let me fill you in, because sharing is caring.

Back when I was finishing up with grad school, my then-boyfriend and I broke up. We spent five years together. Not three months later, he replaced me with a Brazilian model. True story. They canoodled on Facebook and wrote each other saccharine love messages. Devastated, I quit Facebook.

Still happy with that decision, by the way.

Years of singledom followed. It took me a while to realize how handicapped I had been by my reliance on another person to make me happy. I also saw that I created a narrative about myself ("I will marry whatsisface!"), and didn't have the emotional tools to cope when something disrupted that narrative.

My story is common. Many people in their early twenties make plans in their heads, only to be rudely awakened by the fact that, hello, it takes two to tango. Verily, the imaginary checklist that we as a society have compiled leads to much suffering. That checklist looks like this:

STEPS TO SUCCESS
__ Earn college degree
__ Get job
__ Get married  
__ Have fat babies
__ Die in bed surrounded by adoring grandchildren

After the big breakup, I spent years with absolutely no hope of checking off the other items after "Get job." I resigned myself to my fate. It was a good deal, really -- I had my own money, my own place, my group of friends, and I understood the system here. When V-day rolled around, it was just another day.

Unbeknownst to me, in the same city where I slogged through life, Fiancé had a tradition going called Black Valentine's. It was basically a night of drinking where only single people could join.

In other words, he and I endured our own Black Valentine's for many years. Then we found each other and felt mutual attraction, and, on top of that, discovered our compatibility. Booyah.

Hey, he and I spent a lot of time being that single friend at parties. We understand. I know that not everyone needs to partner, and some people shouldn't inflict themselves on others.

But, oh, the sweetness of having moved past Black Valentine's.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to a plate of chocolate, cookies, and Fun Dip to consume.

Happy Valentine's.

Thursday, January 31, 2013

Cloud Computing

Three and a half floppy diskettes became the pinnacle of data storage during my childhood. At school, I would slide the metal cover and gaze raptly at the nearly opaque disk inside. When I discovered the write-protect tab at the bottom, I felt like a genius. I saved my precious text files in my brightly colored diskettes, careful not to exceed the 720 KB limit.

Then, lo and behold, they came up with a 1.44 MB disk! Will wonders never cease? Did technology have any limits?

Well, yes, c.f. the flying car. But today's topic is data storage.

We exceeded even the miraculous 3.5" floppy with the magnificent hard disk drives, still the same size, but tucked away in your PC. Laptops got by with an HDD exactly one inch smaller. In accordance with Moore's Law, computer hardware advanced by leaps and bounds, please do pardon the cliche. In college, my Dell had a whopping 60 GB of memory. In grad school, my Lenovo boasted more than twice that space. In real life, my MacBook enticed me to fill up its 250 GB.

So of course, now I whine when Google only allocates 5 GB to my Drive. I pout when Amazon makes me pay for more storage space for my music. Somewhere along the line, files got bigger, just like my sense of entitlement. And unlike paper files heaped into boxes that trip you over, digital files hide away in virtual folders, their numbers growing as users blissfully click "Save." Don't even get me started on finding a free site for all my photos. And before you ask, no, I don't use Facebook. However, I do read Failbook, for the lulz.

If you're a normal computer user comme moi, your personal digital files will be divided into three categories: photos, music, and MS Office crap. If you're a pirate, you'll also have movies, games, and tons more music. Don't worry; there is no judging here.

Artists have Photoshop files. Architects and engineers who take their work home wind up with gigantaur CADs. Moms will have a bajillion photos, but require assistance to view them. And so on.

The point is, we are in the era of cloud computing, so you'd better have all those files backed up in whichever cloud catches your fancy. Google Drive, Amazon Cloud, Dropbox, Box, iCloud, SugarSync, whatevs. Just do it. That way, if your Acer/Mac/Vaio/Alienware spontaneously combusts from all that porn processor-intensive activity, you won't have to pray to the hard drive gods for salvation. You just log into the Cloud, retrieve your backups, and feel like a tech-savvy, postmodern human. Voilà.

This helpful blog post is brought to you by Lindt Milk and White Milk Chocolate Truffles, Limited Edition Seasonal Flavor. Still delicious even when slightly melted!

Monday, January 21, 2013

Bawdy Dragon-Slaying Song (For Girls)

Context: I told Fiancé this morning that I had a dream about leading an all-girl unit to take over a castle. He eagerly interjected, "And then they had a slumber party and pillow fights to celebrate?" I haughtily replied that this was my dream, and my girls would have more class than that. He continued to fantasize about girls slaying dragons and singing bawdy songs afterwards. Then he turned to me and said, "Do you think you can you compose a bawdy dragon-slaying song for girls?"

CHALLENGE ACCEPTED.

Readers, I present  to you:

Bawdy Dragon-Slaying Song (For Girls)
For mature readers only.

(rap)
G-g-g-girls, girls, where you at, where you at?
G-g-g-girls, girls, where you at, where you at?
We got sharp nails for killin',
We each is one in a million,
We gon' throw down with a dragon,
To show it we ain't havin'
None o' dat, none o' dat.
No, no, none o' dat, none o' dat.

(verse 1)
Ooooh, a dragon came to my cave
And by cave I mean coochie
And by dragon I mean ding dong
This song is an allegory,
Ooohhh, ohhhh
Ooohhh, ohhhh.

(verse 2)
If you want to slay a dragon,
You gotta figure out its weakness
You gotta get in the right position
You gotta make sure it's defenseless,
Ooohhh, ohhhh
Ooohhh, ohhhh.
(yeah)

(rapping)
You got to use your thighs, use your thighs
You got to squeeze real tight, r-e-a-l tight
You got to use your mind, lose your mind
You got to keep bein' fine, super fine.

(singing)
Ooohhh, ohhhh
Ooohhh, ohhhh.

(verse 3)
So ladies can I get a "Whu!"
(Whu!)
Ladies, let's go give it some
Some love
Some lady love.

(yeah)

Live performances by request only.

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

Book Review: A Memory of Light (2013)

The Wheel of Time now has an ending. A Memory of Light, the final novel of the Wheel of Time, is a beautiful and satisfying close to the epic fantasy series that Robert Jordan wove for us for almost twenty years before his death. The book combines Jordan’s and new author Brandon Sanderson’s voices, as both writers tell of the threads that come together to create the tapestry of humanity’s Last Battle against the Shadow. I laughed, I cried, and I lived and fought right beside all of those characters. The writing, the pacing, the plot developments and resolutions – they’re everything I hoped for, and more. A Memory of Light, as former court-bard Thom Merrilin would say, is exquisite.

I started reading The Wheel of Time in the early nineties. My grandmother handed me a paperback copy of The Shadow Rising. It was a thick book, but I sped through it, absorbed in Nynaeve, Egwene, and Elayne’s hunt for the Black Ajah; Rand’s journey to the Waste; Perrin caught between Berelain and Faile; Moiraine becoming visibly frustrated; Mat getting into trouble; and every other delightful thing that Jordan conjured. His skill at world building drew me. Fandoms sprang up across the globe, and I lurked happily in internet forums as erudite bookworms discussed the physics of channeling, debated character motivations, and came up with loony theories.

Then Jordan passed away in 2007. Sanderson took up the project. After reading The Gathering Storm and The Towers of Midnight, I was sad because Sanderson could not be Jordan. He was a huge fan of the series, and he did tell everyone that he would write in his own style. But I felt the loss of Jordan’s gift. I went into the final book with a critical eye.

A Memory of Light blew me away. Its narrative structure evoked Jordan’s rhythm; the beginning of the book built up deliberately to its explosive main chapter, “The Last Battle.” The first portions of the book feature Jordan’s deep affection for minor characters – we spend nearly as much time with Pevara Sedai and Androl, a demoted Black Tower Dedicated, as we do with Rand and the others. A Memory of Light hits its stride once all preparations are complete. The Light’s armies divide their forces among the battlefronts. One of those fronts is in Thakan’dar, and its defenders’ goal is to prevent anyone from interfering once Rand and his chosen two enter Shayol Ghul – the Pit of Doom itself – to take the fight directly to the Dark One; or rather, to where the Dark One’s touch is strongest.

In The Wheel of Time, Shai’tan’s prison lies outside of Creation, and it is only able to touch the world because of the Bore, or the hole in its prison drilled by a team of channelers in a previous Age. Our heroes spend the entire series fighting the Dark One, whose true nature becomes a major theme in this book. Since this is the Last Battle, everyone puts everything they have into every battle, and Light-aligned characters spit out their questions to Dreadlords and Forsaken: why fight for a being that intends to enslave all? Why believe the Father of Lies?

Moridin, the strongest Forsaken, has his answer: the Dark One has promised him oblivion, a final reprieve from the endless turning of the Wheel. It was the very same thing that tempted Rand in The Gathering Storm when he was at his lowest point—he also desired an end to the eternal cycle of death and rebirth. No more having to fight, no more having anyone hate and fear him because of the destiny that came with his birth. But Rand got over that, and in A Memory of Light, he enters Shayol Ghul determined to win. His death foretold by prophecies, he walks into the darkness to bring Light.

Every fight here matters. Rand’s metaphysical struggle and Olver’s flight; Nynaeve’s surgery and Talmanes’ repairs; Perrin’s hunt and Annoura’s repentance; Mat’s gambling and Gawyn’s decision; Egwene’s leadership and Loial’s hacking – it all counts, and they need all of it because the Shadow’s surviving minions are the strongest and most cunning. Graendal and Moghedien, previously shamed, now do what they do best, to devastating effect. Readers finally see Demandred in action. And then there’s the Myrdraal leading millions of Trollocs, who don’t need food because they eat humans and their own dead, and they don’t need horses, because they’re half-animal. Huge losses are par for the course in humanity’s last stand.

The ultimate Crowning Moment of Awesome in this book belongs to a main character. When it happened, I put the book down and sobbed. I’m glad I avoided all spoilers; the impact of that scene would have been lessened if I’d had an inkling of it. And the brutal death of a minor character also made me pause for a moment, mind reeling. So many characters die in here that a list of survivors would be shorter than a list of the dead. On the upside, the descriptions of battle formations, tactics, and units are amazing.

But the Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, and most everyone gets a chance at rebirth. And with that chance comes hope, that this time we’ll do even better, because we choose to. Buffeted by the winds of fate as we are, the choice to do good will always lie with us, and so we take destiny into our own hands.

Thank you, Robert Jordan. Thank you, Harriet McDougal. Thank you, Brandon Sanderson. And thank you, Lola, for giving me this book when I was a child.

May the Light preserve you, and the Creator’s hand shelter you. 

Monday, January 14, 2013

New Year’s Resolution Report

This year I resolved to give zero shits, pardon my French. That is not a commitment to constipation, but rather a determination to overcome my social conditioning and become a Zen master. The goal is to care less, by caring less. The means is the end. See? I’m well on my way to enlightenment!

I come from a family of maniacs enthusiasts. We’re passionate and pour our hearts into our favorite activities. We can get downright obsessive. And one of the things we love doing most is worrying. And by “worrying,” I mean “making venomous, seething volcanoes out of molehills.” We over-think, over-plan, and work ourselves into a frenzied state of over-anxiety. It’s practically a hobby.

My mother’s bold example in competitive over-worrying started during my childhood. My every complaint about a headache was met with a crisp, “It’s a brain tumor.” Stomachaches became gallstones, ankle sprains were bone fractures, and bad gas translated into pregnancy. But aspirin or other medicines were a no-no because they tore holes in the stomach and damaged the liver. Compound all this with pressure to conform to society’s standards of being thin, pretty, and partnered by age X, and you’ve got a highly neurotic young woman on your hands.

But starting this year, I give zero shits. It helps that I’m no longer in my twenties and running around lost, bewildered, and completely aimless. Fiancé’s presence in my life is also a giant plus. In fact, our being together points to the rewards of giving zero shits, because had I cared about what one psycho other people thought, I wouldn’t have asked him out after two years of unspoken mutual-yet-passive attraction.

Let me clarify: when I say “give zero shits,” I mean that I now care less about unimportant things, such as controlling things I can’t control. It means my reactions will be stoic, instead of hysterical. It does not mean I turn into a raging d-bag, although I certainly can, if you like.

Case study 1: Many of my dear friends and extended family are scattered around the world. They might not be able to make it to the wedding because of the distance and/or expense. Or, they won’t come because they give zero shits about the event. If I were two months younger, I would twist myself into a pretzel of agony at the prospect of looking like an unpopular loser at my own wedding. Now? I give zero shits. It’ll be awesome.

Case study 2: Blog readers object to my gratuitous use of the word “shit.” Do I give zero shits? Yes, I do. The big, fat nothing burger is on me. You’re welcome.

There you have it. If all goes well, I will listen, think, and then decide if I give a shit, which will be unlikely. Measured indifference has to be better than uncontrollable shit-giving. I hope it’s clear that I’m trying to redefine the phrase “give a shit.” I’m attempting to make it into a positive thing that means gradually replacing the worrywart in me with a serene warrior-goddess. And if I fail in that attempt, well…you know what my response would be, right?


Monday, December 31, 2012

Happy 2013!

Ho ho ho! Another year soon comes to an end, and a new one begins! Unlike last year, 2012 contained a minimum of fiasco and a maximum of fun, with a side order of frenzy. Whew! Let's review!

January opened with me still getting used to my new job. I moved in with Boyfriend in February. I had Lasik surgery at the end of March, and instantly became 1.75% prettier. Papa came for a visit in April, and Boyfriend casually asked him "if it would be okay if we got married." Papa said yeah, okay.

Boyfriend had a big party to celebrate a milestone birthday in May. We watched a Red Sox game up in a box! Some guy clambered over the seats and tried to crash the party, and security promptly booted him out. There is no messing around in the Fen, kids.

June was a haze of barbecues. July saw me in upstate New York enjoying nature with Boyfriend's extended family. The end of July happened to be my birthday weekend, a milestone one, thank you for asking, and Boyfriend had a surprise up his sleeve. Then Mama came up in August to check out our digs and try to drown us in food. Not to be outdone, we visited her in Philly in September and ate far too much.

We had Canadian Thanksgiving at the folks' place and finally got moving on wedding planning in October. We chose a place and I gently tried to dissuade Fiancé from inviting everyone he's ever met. The month closed with a Halloween party where a dog wandered around dressed as a taxi.

We had two Thanksgivings in November, one rowdy, the other cozy. My bridesmaids helped me find a wedding dress, and they got their dresses, too.

December saw us at the traditional watching of the Boston Pops Christmas Concert. We flew to Manila on the day after Christmas. We have gained weight since, damn the delicious food!

Oh, and early in the year I set up a separate website for my comics. Since it's just a hobby, like my writing, I will consolidate everything here next year.

Those are the highlights of my most excellent 2012. I hope your year has been as delightful as mine, and I hope this holiday season brings you joy and merriment!

HAPPY 2013!!!

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Merry!

In true holiday tradition, I have been overeating and drinking. Ho! Ho! Ho!

It started out with the Boston Pops Christmas concert, a Fiance family tradition. As always, the orchestra performed wonderfully. Santa made an appearance to request "The Twelve Days of Christmas," and he was, naturally, immediately tailed by hopeful children. Meanwhile, we downed white wine and snacked on chips and shrimp. Then we went to Capital Grille to have a proper dinner. Fiance had the largest bowl of French onion soup ever -- it was practically a trough. I had oysters to start. Most everyone had steak, but I opted for shrimp stuffed with crab and lobster. There were five pieces but I could only make it through four because of too much pre-eating. So...worth...it...

The next day, we went to the 'burbs for a Yankee swap with the man's extended family. There were meatballs, cream cheese and jam and crackers, turkey, ham, fruits, and several battalions of dessert, all intent on fattening me up. One dish stood out. Here is a photo of Fiance holding forth while an edible Christmas tree made of broccoli, bell peppers, and cherry tomatoes cries out to be eaten:



The following day, Mama stepped off the Acela Express and instructed us to take her to an eat-all-you-can, stat. We spent almost two hours at Maki Maki, a new Japanese buffet. Mama spotted the oysters and that was the end -- she took an entire plateful. She grudgingly allowed me one oyster, the Christmas Eve spirit being truly miraculous. Later, Fiance tried his luck at oysters, but someone had taken a whole lot, and there were none left. I got up to refill my plate no less than five times. Then I realized there was chocolate fondue, and no sooner had I lovingly dipped in my pineapple on a stick than my mother charged up next to me. "Where are the marshmallows?" she demanded. She grabbed two. Then she spent another minute cackling with delight as she poked the marshmallows through the flow of chocolate. She compared the parting of the chocolate to... let's just say she compared it to something biblical. That has nothing to do with Moses.

Now we are off for more food at the future in-laws' place. Food! Food! It will no doubt cure the cold I developed last night. I already feel better thinking about it.

MERRY!*

*Greeting taken from adorable sign sent by future MIL -- knowing us to be godless, she sent the "Merry" and omitted the "Christmas." 

Friday, December 21, 2012

Giving = Receiving

I love humanity...on principle. I can be nice. I help out lost tourists if they ask. (Do I send them in the right direction? Generally speaking, yes.) I tip generously. If drivers clearly have to rush home to poo, I let them go ahead when I'm at a crosswalk. I give to charity. I recycle. I call my mom every day. And today, as I listened to her laments about her bad back, it dawned on me that giving isn't better than receiving. Giving is receiving.

Allow me to elucidate. My mom puts up with a lot of crap at work. Apart from the evil administrators who deprive employees of basics like use of the microwave and going outside to eat, her coworkers apparently keep borrowing small amounts of money for lunch and then never pay her back. No big deal; both my parents believe that relationships are far more important than money, and have drilled this value into our heads. But it gets annoying after a year, right? So that's her situation: give, give, give. But then, recently she had a horribly painful backache while at work. It was so bad she started crying. She was all set to go home, but these same coworkers told her not to because her pay would be docked. Their solution? They split up her tasks among themselves so she could rest quietly in the nurses' station. So she got paid back for her generosity. (paid back -- get it? get it?)

Here's another example: Fiancé and I were walking home from brunch last weekend when we spotted a giant U-Haul truck with an attached pod trying to maneuver in the narrow streets of the North End. Ever gallant, Fiancé spent the next fifteen minutes helping the man make a very tight turn without hitting parked cars. Success! What did Santa's darling helper get as his reward? Why, the gift that keeps on giving: me.

Speaking of me, I got a bonus this week, plus a ton of presents from my coworkers. Seriously -- all the swag barely fit into an oversized bag. I am still trying to puzzle out what I gave in order to receive such bounties. My inspiring work ethic? Ha ha ha! No. My unflagging smile and cheerful hellos for everyone? Maybe. My spirited participation in all entertaining yet strictly useless discussions? Perhaps. My unsolicited showing off of pictures of my cats? Getting warmer, I think.

Whatever it is, I'm convinced that every good deed, like every bad deed, gets its due. 'Tis not just this season; 'tis all year round. Although there appears to be a concentration of good stuff happening around the holidays, selection bias might be at work.

Now if you'll excuse me, apparently someone just fell into the river next to my office, police and the coast guard and firemen are everywhere, I must ogle. From my nice, warm cubicle, obviously. It's wet and gross out there.

Oh, and happy Friday!