For innocent teenage boys out there who still believes PMS hits women once a month, sorry for bursting your bubble. It's really basically present at all times, just waiting for the right, or wrong, chemistry to set it off.
Definition: Premenstrual Syndrome = a symptom or collection of symptoms that occurs regularly in relation to the menstrual cycle, with the onset of symptoms 5 to 11 days before the onset of menses, and resolution of symptoms with menses or shortly thereafter.
It must have been a man who came up with the term "premenstrual syndrome". Having P stand for "pre" is really oversimplifying the equation.
For physical symptoms such as headache, backache, bloating, abdominal cramps, breast tenderness, acne flare-up, nausea, constipation/diarrhea, and the rest of the endless list, 11 days pre plus 7 days during and maybe 2 to 3 days post might as well be the entire cycle. Oh no wait, that's only 3/4 of the month. So lucky us do get 7 days' rest. 10% of women are believed to have symptoms so severe they are considered disabling. That's not it; combine the above list of physical symptoms with other aspects like anxiety, confusion, depression, hostility, fatigue, paranoia, low self-esteem, and more. In my opinion, any person suffering from all of the above should be deemed disabled, period. Try carrying out a normal day's routine "under the influence" and you'll know P really stands for "Please kill me, God".
If you're a woman, or if you know a woman, chances are you've already figured out that the non-physical symptoms can emerge even during the 7 days' breaks. P stands for anything but predictable. Anxiety, depression, paranoia and yes, hostility can all kick in when you least expect it, and in any combination imaginable. So the next time your mom/wife/girlfriend/sister/female boss throws a fit over the sky being blue when you've specifically marked on your calendar that her cycle had just ended, brace yourselves and acknowledge that P stands for "Pretty much 24/7".
Oh, and the next time a girl tells you she doesn't want to do something because she has PMS, let her be. Even if you suspect she's using that as an excuse, it's too great a risk to endure. For if she was telling you the truth, P stands for "Pray that I won't bite your head off".
Nowadays, as better nutrition is offered to us, girls can begin to menstruate at as early as the age of eight, and can continue on until the age of 60. I couldn't find any stats to support the numbers, but let's just say the dollars a woman would need to spend to purchase a lifetime of winged products would equate to the down payment of a winged vehicle. Pricey lingerie is already enough of a burden, but at least they are reusable and provide some kind of enhancement to a woman's appearance. I think the World Health Organization should seriously consider either funding manufacturers for research and production of female sanitary products so they can go nonprofit, or taxing men to subsidize women for purchase of such products.
Friday, May 30, 2003
Wednesday, May 21, 2003
Proud to Be
Going up an escalator from the MTR yesterday, I saw two ordinary-looking men in their 30's standing side-by-side three steps in front of me. They appeared to be having a decent conversation, as their eyes never left each other's. They might as well have been a gay couple. Okay, they were a gay couple. They were holding hands the whole time.
For those of us living in urban cities, a regular one-floor escalator ride in a subway station lasts, at most, 10 seconds. I admit... I spent the first three and a half of those seconds trying to find some trace of boobs on either one of the two of them. When I realized that not a dash of femininity could be found on either, I thought to myself, "wow". Actually I believed I mouthed it out too, at the same time that I raised my eyebrows, and nodded a reassuring nod. I couldn't, and still can't, think of any legitimate grounds for myself to claim any part of their pride. But at that moment, I really had an urge to go up and give them each a pat on the shoulder, and say "Good for you".
If I were still in Toronto, none of the above paragraph would have applied. Putting aside that Christmas would be here by the time anyone reaches the top of any escalator in that city; people are simply more outspoken with their sexuality. Gays/straights/whatever could be having an orgy on the roof of a bus and nobody would think much of it. Back to yesterday, the reason why I spent four and a half seconds doubting in my mind that what I saw was a genuine closet-free gay couple is because--I am in Hong Kong! For an ethnic group with over 5000 years' history and to whom having a daughter instead of a son is considered a punishment from their god, homosexuality is the ultimate taboo. Sure it's acceptable for gay couples to display affection in public--the behind-closed-doors-in-gay-bars kind of public.
Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against homosexuality. In fact, I might just have something against those who have something against homosexuality. I have known enough gays/lesbians to understand that their choice of lifestyle doesn't differ from, or affect for that matter, that of heterosexuals any more than Coke tastes different from Pepsi.
During that 10-second interval, I noticed another man in his 20's standing one step in front of me on the escalator. He simply could not have stared any harder at the couple, scanning from their hands to their faces and down their bodies and back to their faces again. It's quite sad to think that a population exposed to as much drugs, prostitution, teen pregnancies, organized crimes, homicides and suicides as we do can still manage to be so conservative when it comes to homosexuality. In my opinion, the gay population should play it loud. Perhaps people won't look twice as they get enough exposure to gays/lesbians, I know I wouldn't. I regret searching for boobs on the couple, after spending one and a half year in Hong Kong I have become one of those I condemn. I'd like to think that I wouldn't have to waste another three and a half seconds the next time I come across any couple.
For those of us living in urban cities, a regular one-floor escalator ride in a subway station lasts, at most, 10 seconds. I admit... I spent the first three and a half of those seconds trying to find some trace of boobs on either one of the two of them. When I realized that not a dash of femininity could be found on either, I thought to myself, "wow". Actually I believed I mouthed it out too, at the same time that I raised my eyebrows, and nodded a reassuring nod. I couldn't, and still can't, think of any legitimate grounds for myself to claim any part of their pride. But at that moment, I really had an urge to go up and give them each a pat on the shoulder, and say "Good for you".
If I were still in Toronto, none of the above paragraph would have applied. Putting aside that Christmas would be here by the time anyone reaches the top of any escalator in that city; people are simply more outspoken with their sexuality. Gays/straights/whatever could be having an orgy on the roof of a bus and nobody would think much of it. Back to yesterday, the reason why I spent four and a half seconds doubting in my mind that what I saw was a genuine closet-free gay couple is because--I am in Hong Kong! For an ethnic group with over 5000 years' history and to whom having a daughter instead of a son is considered a punishment from their god, homosexuality is the ultimate taboo. Sure it's acceptable for gay couples to display affection in public--the behind-closed-doors-in-gay-bars kind of public.
Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against homosexuality. In fact, I might just have something against those who have something against homosexuality. I have known enough gays/lesbians to understand that their choice of lifestyle doesn't differ from, or affect for that matter, that of heterosexuals any more than Coke tastes different from Pepsi.
During that 10-second interval, I noticed another man in his 20's standing one step in front of me on the escalator. He simply could not have stared any harder at the couple, scanning from their hands to their faces and down their bodies and back to their faces again. It's quite sad to think that a population exposed to as much drugs, prostitution, teen pregnancies, organized crimes, homicides and suicides as we do can still manage to be so conservative when it comes to homosexuality. In my opinion, the gay population should play it loud. Perhaps people won't look twice as they get enough exposure to gays/lesbians, I know I wouldn't. I regret searching for boobs on the couple, after spending one and a half year in Hong Kong I have become one of those I condemn. I'd like to think that I wouldn't have to waste another three and a half seconds the next time I come across any couple.
Monday, May 19, 2003
Get Length and Mass
A regular Hotmail account user receives an average of eight junk mails each day. (I don't have the stats to back this statement, but I have the account to prove it.) From the good old "Become bigger and longer, safely and naturally" to the overly generous mortgage bargains like "Borrow up to 125% of your homes", having your business / personal email account bombarded by e-flyers is no less annoying than having telemarketers gobble up your cellular airtime. But if you are like me and have a separate to-be-disclosed-on-public-web email address, junk mail can be a preferred pastime to Solitaire.
As a tribute to the copywriters who squeeze every drip of their brain juice to come up with the catchy subject lines to these soliciting mails, I have gathered up a list of my all-time favorites.
***Top Five Junk Mail Subject Lines***
5. Turn Pennies into Dollars
This one only made the list because I misread it and thought it suggested a new business trend, ...yeah, dirty-minded me.
4. 100% FREE archive of PEEING TEENS
Seriously, is the peeing thing in now? Are guys out there getting aroused every time they take a leak? If so, doesn't the task become rather tricky?
3. Re:
A good example of "less is more". I gotta admit, there were times when I was tempted to click in and see if it's really anyone I know.
2. She laughed at your prick huh
Just another way of phrasing "Become bigger and longer..." But hey, creativity counts! Though this one is rather insensitive, I feel sorry for the guys reading this and secretly thinking "now here's someone who understands".
1. Make me scream your name (Oh GOD)
This one just cracked me up! (Oh GOD)
As a tribute to the copywriters who squeeze every drip of their brain juice to come up with the catchy subject lines to these soliciting mails, I have gathered up a list of my all-time favorites.
***Top Five Junk Mail Subject Lines***
5. Turn Pennies into Dollars
This one only made the list because I misread it and thought it suggested a new business trend, ...yeah, dirty-minded me.
4. 100% FREE archive of PEEING TEENS
Seriously, is the peeing thing in now? Are guys out there getting aroused every time they take a leak? If so, doesn't the task become rather tricky?
3. Re:
A good example of "less is more". I gotta admit, there were times when I was tempted to click in and see if it's really anyone I know.
2. She laughed at your prick huh
Just another way of phrasing "Become bigger and longer..." But hey, creativity counts! Though this one is rather insensitive, I feel sorry for the guys reading this and secretly thinking "now here's someone who understands".
1. Make me scream your name (Oh GOD)
This one just cracked me up! (Oh GOD)
Wednesday, May 14, 2003
Ex-Men
Ah... the mutants.
Haven't we all looked back once or twice and thought we had to be in a trance to have gone out with THAT person? If you haven't, it must have applied the other way around. ...My condolences. As much as we strive to maintain a first-rate portfolio for future references, exes come in just about any shape and size. But most of the time, they are just an ordinary combination of extraordinary characteristics.
Take Nightcrawler for example. The classic teleporter. At any time or place, as long as he feels like it, poof! He's gone. If not for the trail of black smoke he left behind, you'd think you were hallucinating. And as swiftly as he had vanished, when his profile is just about to be wiped off of Stryker's database, poof! He's back, and acts as if he had never left.
Then there's the manipulative Mystique. She first grabs your attention by disguising into whom you think is perfect. She then takes control of everything around you by seizing your identity. Not even imitating your voice, she would call up old girlfriends you still have contact with and tell them to back off. Or better yet, ask you to do it in front of her.
Not quite as psychotic, but just as strenuous, is Rogue. She can suck you dry in record time, in every which way the phrase applies. (Hey that rhymes!)
A rare breed in urban cities but still present is Storm. Get ready to say "wow" each time she enters the room. She's got a handful of astounding abilities you can find no practical use for. A double master in pig Latin and origami is phenomenal, Hun. But what's in it for me?
Then there's the typical Lady Deathstrike. Looks good and all, but dies too soon with no sensible justification. A mystery to us all.
Then there's your typical nightmare, Xavier, an incredibly intelligent guy who earns respect from millions by doing more good deeds than bad with his knowledge, who ends up fucking up everything because he just had to listen to a little girl. Figures.
Last but not least, the one you still long for, the movie-end hero Jean Grey. The I'll-sacrifice-myself-for-your-joy, your-life-is-more-important-than-mine, let-me-endure-all-the-pain kinda hero who leaves you feeling miserable and remorseful until she comes back, looking hotter than ever, in the next sequel.
This should about wrap up the database of ex-men/women. If on the other hand the characteristics listed above portray those of your ex-isting men/women....My deepest condolences.
If only we were like Wolverine. We could really love like we've never been hurt. Or love like we have amnesia.
Haven't we all looked back once or twice and thought we had to be in a trance to have gone out with THAT person? If you haven't, it must have applied the other way around. ...My condolences. As much as we strive to maintain a first-rate portfolio for future references, exes come in just about any shape and size. But most of the time, they are just an ordinary combination of extraordinary characteristics.
Take Nightcrawler for example. The classic teleporter. At any time or place, as long as he feels like it, poof! He's gone. If not for the trail of black smoke he left behind, you'd think you were hallucinating. And as swiftly as he had vanished, when his profile is just about to be wiped off of Stryker's database, poof! He's back, and acts as if he had never left.
Then there's the manipulative Mystique. She first grabs your attention by disguising into whom you think is perfect. She then takes control of everything around you by seizing your identity. Not even imitating your voice, she would call up old girlfriends you still have contact with and tell them to back off. Or better yet, ask you to do it in front of her.
Not quite as psychotic, but just as strenuous, is Rogue. She can suck you dry in record time, in every which way the phrase applies. (Hey that rhymes!)
A rare breed in urban cities but still present is Storm. Get ready to say "wow" each time she enters the room. She's got a handful of astounding abilities you can find no practical use for. A double master in pig Latin and origami is phenomenal, Hun. But what's in it for me?
Then there's the typical Lady Deathstrike. Looks good and all, but dies too soon with no sensible justification. A mystery to us all.
Then there's your typical nightmare, Xavier, an incredibly intelligent guy who earns respect from millions by doing more good deeds than bad with his knowledge, who ends up fucking up everything because he just had to listen to a little girl. Figures.
Last but not least, the one you still long for, the movie-end hero Jean Grey. The I'll-sacrifice-myself-for-your-joy, your-life-is-more-important-than-mine, let-me-endure-all-the-pain kinda hero who leaves you feeling miserable and remorseful until she comes back, looking hotter than ever, in the next sequel.
This should about wrap up the database of ex-men/women. If on the other hand the characteristics listed above portray those of your ex-isting men/women....My deepest condolences.
If only we were like Wolverine. We could really love like we've never been hurt. Or love like we have amnesia.
Tuesday, May 13, 2003
Trial and Error
What does it mean when a red exclamation point in a circle lights up on your dashboard? It's really hard to tell when everything seems to be working just as they should and black smoke isn't coming from anywhere. And depending on the brand and model you're cruising in, the possibilities could just be endless.
I should have known. The amount of doubt I've had all along was too great to have been disregarded. It was definitely negative omen, a neon yellow arrow pointing the opposite direction.
In my opinion, 90 minutes of Ashtanga yoga is too hardcore to be offered as a trial session, for a beginner who only wants to take advantage of a freebie anyway. (Though for as many more times as I'd have to talk about this episode the rest of my life I'd remember to blame it on the lack of air circulation in the 30'x30' room with the aroma of perspiration off seven other people.) In everyone else's opinion, a person as physically retarded as I've proven to be should not be as headstrong as I try to be.
The preliminary yoga my religion teacher demonstrated in high school was no valid representation of the real stuff. Chanting "om" in the lotus position just doesn't begin to tell you the work involved in the to-be-Olympic sport.
Approximately 50 minutes into the session, in the midst of an attempt to have my chin touch my shin while sitting with my "left heel up against my anus" (I'm quoting the instructor here) and my disjointed arms locked behind my strained back, it happened. The red exclamation point in a circle flashed before my eyes, along with the Big Dipper. My fingertips began to tremble at 30 when they should have been at 90 degrees to the floor. My legs fell asleep four seconds into locking a lotus. My heart was beating at the rate an electronic toothbrush swivels. Every part of my body except my mind was telling me to stop.
I broke down at precisely the 89th minute of the 90-minute session. Not only were all warning lights on my dashboard lit and flashing. I could see a roadblock set right in front of me, and sirens were wailing in my head. And yes, black smoke came from the cracks of the hood. None of these went away for the next three and a half hours. Each and every part of my body was punishing me for not having stopped. I should have watched the rpm. I should have stopped for gas. I should not have made that last sharp turn.
I have yet to recover from this state of shock I'm still experiencing from the traumatic episode. I have officially had a close call. Should I give out the impression that yoga got me all Zen anytime in the near future, don't be fooled, I'm just dazed.
I should have known. The amount of doubt I've had all along was too great to have been disregarded. It was definitely negative omen, a neon yellow arrow pointing the opposite direction.
In my opinion, 90 minutes of Ashtanga yoga is too hardcore to be offered as a trial session, for a beginner who only wants to take advantage of a freebie anyway. (Though for as many more times as I'd have to talk about this episode the rest of my life I'd remember to blame it on the lack of air circulation in the 30'x30' room with the aroma of perspiration off seven other people.) In everyone else's opinion, a person as physically retarded as I've proven to be should not be as headstrong as I try to be.
The preliminary yoga my religion teacher demonstrated in high school was no valid representation of the real stuff. Chanting "om" in the lotus position just doesn't begin to tell you the work involved in the to-be-Olympic sport.
Approximately 50 minutes into the session, in the midst of an attempt to have my chin touch my shin while sitting with my "left heel up against my anus" (I'm quoting the instructor here) and my disjointed arms locked behind my strained back, it happened. The red exclamation point in a circle flashed before my eyes, along with the Big Dipper. My fingertips began to tremble at 30 when they should have been at 90 degrees to the floor. My legs fell asleep four seconds into locking a lotus. My heart was beating at the rate an electronic toothbrush swivels. Every part of my body except my mind was telling me to stop.
I broke down at precisely the 89th minute of the 90-minute session. Not only were all warning lights on my dashboard lit and flashing. I could see a roadblock set right in front of me, and sirens were wailing in my head. And yes, black smoke came from the cracks of the hood. None of these went away for the next three and a half hours. Each and every part of my body was punishing me for not having stopped. I should have watched the rpm. I should have stopped for gas. I should not have made that last sharp turn.
I have yet to recover from this state of shock I'm still experiencing from the traumatic episode. I have officially had a close call. Should I give out the impression that yoga got me all Zen anytime in the near future, don't be fooled, I'm just dazed.
Friday, May 9, 2003
A Dozen of Each
If you asked me what my favorite flower was, I would say tulips. Only because we used to grow them in our front yard and new buds would develop every spring without the need to reseed.
To me, flowers are like Chinese tea. I'd be able to tell that one cup tastes different from another, but I'd never bother to reflect on how they're different.
Despite how much women claim they love flowers, men are the ones who buy them. Somehow men got the idea that flowers do magic for the opposite sex. Has it never occurred to men how ironic it is that we could appreciate something with such a short life when we've universally agreed that diamonds are the way to go because they're forever?
I can understand when someone buys flowers for friends staying in the hospital because patients can use something soothing to look at, or when someone uses rose petals in drinks or baths as aromatherapy. But what is a guy trying to say when he buys his lady a bouquet of flowers? If it's to create a relaxing ambiance in her apartment, get her a Monet.
As a gift, flowers serve no purpose and convey no message (you can forget all those crap you tried so hard to memorize about the hidden meanings of each flower and the significance of the number in a bouquet, florists are smarter entrepreneurs than you'd thought.) If you were sending it to her workplace, a small bouquet would be mocking; if you were giving it to her on a date, a large bouquet would be mortifying as you'd be the one carrying it for three blocks down and three blocks up again. And may I remind you that some of you are already carrying her purse. (That's a whole new blog topic right there!)
It takes tedious work just to keep flowers from dying within 48 hours*, and even more work to hang dry them so that they could forever take up the space of four shoeboxes for "I'm sorry" and "I miss you" or that of eight shoeboxes for "I'm very sorry", "Happy Birthday", "Happy Valentine's Day" and "Happy Anniversary".
Flowers and the stagnate water they're in generally attract pests. When flowers wilt, the petals become black and wrinkly, the leaves and stems soggy then dry. The dirty water leaves behind a stain on the vase.
So unless you're a gardener and are ready to take care of every step for her... consider getting her Chinese tea next time. And start a savings account to put aside all the money you'd ever spend on flowers for girls. You could really wind up with the budget for a Monet.
* In order to keep flowers fresh for longer than a cheesecake: 1. The vase has to be cleaned. (We're the assumption that every girl owns a crystal vase.) 2. All leaves that would be under water must be removed. 3. The stem of each flower needs to be re-cut... every three days! 4. Flower food should be added to water. 5. Water has to be topped off daily and replaced every few days.
To me, flowers are like Chinese tea. I'd be able to tell that one cup tastes different from another, but I'd never bother to reflect on how they're different.
Despite how much women claim they love flowers, men are the ones who buy them. Somehow men got the idea that flowers do magic for the opposite sex. Has it never occurred to men how ironic it is that we could appreciate something with such a short life when we've universally agreed that diamonds are the way to go because they're forever?
I can understand when someone buys flowers for friends staying in the hospital because patients can use something soothing to look at, or when someone uses rose petals in drinks or baths as aromatherapy. But what is a guy trying to say when he buys his lady a bouquet of flowers? If it's to create a relaxing ambiance in her apartment, get her a Monet.
As a gift, flowers serve no purpose and convey no message (you can forget all those crap you tried so hard to memorize about the hidden meanings of each flower and the significance of the number in a bouquet, florists are smarter entrepreneurs than you'd thought.) If you were sending it to her workplace, a small bouquet would be mocking; if you were giving it to her on a date, a large bouquet would be mortifying as you'd be the one carrying it for three blocks down and three blocks up again. And may I remind you that some of you are already carrying her purse. (That's a whole new blog topic right there!)
It takes tedious work just to keep flowers from dying within 48 hours*, and even more work to hang dry them so that they could forever take up the space of four shoeboxes for "I'm sorry" and "I miss you" or that of eight shoeboxes for "I'm very sorry", "Happy Birthday", "Happy Valentine's Day" and "Happy Anniversary".
Flowers and the stagnate water they're in generally attract pests. When flowers wilt, the petals become black and wrinkly, the leaves and stems soggy then dry. The dirty water leaves behind a stain on the vase.
So unless you're a gardener and are ready to take care of every step for her... consider getting her Chinese tea next time. And start a savings account to put aside all the money you'd ever spend on flowers for girls. You could really wind up with the budget for a Monet.
* In order to keep flowers fresh for longer than a cheesecake: 1. The vase has to be cleaned. (We're the assumption that every girl owns a crystal vase.) 2. All leaves that would be under water must be removed. 3. The stem of each flower needs to be re-cut... every three days! 4. Flower food should be added to water. 5. Water has to be topped off daily and replaced every few days.
Thursday, May 8, 2003
Fast Break
I was once told by a linguistics professor that "breakfast" is a compound word that translates into what you'd want your morning meal to be...a fast break. Personally, I find it to be anything but that.
I don't plan to challenge the very idea that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. In fact, a large portion of my endless list of favorite food falls into the category of breakfast food. Eggs (hard boiled, soft boiled, sunny-side up, scrambled, omelet), bacon, bagels, French toast, Sausage n' Egg McMuffin, hash brown. For a taste of the Oriental, congee and deep-friend breadstick, chow mien, sticky rice with soybean drink. For beverages, milk, OJ, coffee, tea, coffee mixed with tea.
Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't it take an average of at least ten minutes to prepare any combination of the above list to make up what can be considered a wholesome meal? And wouldn't it take even longer to consume it?
If one wants to do it right, breakfast is nothing fast.
Alright. Breakfast doesn't translate to "fast break", it really means "to break a fast". Besides telling you how legitimate my University degree is, this also explains why the meal is stretched and crucial.
Can't help but mention here. My all time favorite place for breakfast food would have to be Eric's Kitchen, a small eatery located in downtown Toronto. Their specialty: eggs Benedict, with your choice of smoked salmon, asparagus, bacon, ham, grilled chicken or what-not to go in the middle, and an unlimited supply of their signature hollandaise sauce. The owners claim that their specialty is meant to be served as a brunch, that's why the portions are rather large. And it does provide more than enough nutrition to keep you energized for half a day. The later half of the day, that is. The walk back to my car after a visit to Eric's would be tedious carrying that load of food in me. When each serving means extra-large eggs Benedict and the rest of the plate the size of a roulette wheel filled with fresh fruit salad and pan fried potatoes, Eric's specialty might as well be served as a brunner.
I don't plan to challenge the very idea that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. In fact, a large portion of my endless list of favorite food falls into the category of breakfast food. Eggs (hard boiled, soft boiled, sunny-side up, scrambled, omelet), bacon, bagels, French toast, Sausage n' Egg McMuffin, hash brown. For a taste of the Oriental, congee and deep-friend breadstick, chow mien, sticky rice with soybean drink. For beverages, milk, OJ, coffee, tea, coffee mixed with tea.
Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't it take an average of at least ten minutes to prepare any combination of the above list to make up what can be considered a wholesome meal? And wouldn't it take even longer to consume it?
If one wants to do it right, breakfast is nothing fast.
Alright. Breakfast doesn't translate to "fast break", it really means "to break a fast". Besides telling you how legitimate my University degree is, this also explains why the meal is stretched and crucial.
Can't help but mention here. My all time favorite place for breakfast food would have to be Eric's Kitchen, a small eatery located in downtown Toronto. Their specialty: eggs Benedict, with your choice of smoked salmon, asparagus, bacon, ham, grilled chicken or what-not to go in the middle, and an unlimited supply of their signature hollandaise sauce. The owners claim that their specialty is meant to be served as a brunch, that's why the portions are rather large. And it does provide more than enough nutrition to keep you energized for half a day. The later half of the day, that is. The walk back to my car after a visit to Eric's would be tedious carrying that load of food in me. When each serving means extra-large eggs Benedict and the rest of the plate the size of a roulette wheel filled with fresh fruit salad and pan fried potatoes, Eric's specialty might as well be served as a brunner.
Tuesday, May 6, 2003
The Never-Ending Legend
You might stay away from spandex if you feel you're overweight like you'd avoid wearing black being aware of your dandruff situation. But a woman can have feet of Krusty the Clown and toes of Beetle Juice and still find the heart to accommodate yet another pair of open-toe sandals.
Being born female, one is automatically prone to this incurable addiction. As unique as I'd like to portray myself to be, I've been granted no exemption from this epidemic. Ever since I've had adequate spending power, I've contributed more than enough to the women's shoes industry to legally claim a share of it. I started buying my own shoes during my high school years. Of course, on a part-time salary I could only afford $30 pairs. Needless to say they were of pitifully low quality and often lasted just about long enough before I could find money to pay for the next pair.
Thank God that was 10 years ago. Since then, I have mellowed, and so have my collection of footwear. A woman's choice of shoes reveals more about her than her taste in purses and men combined. And I'm not only saying that because I own more shoes than I do purses and men combined.
I'd like to believe that somewhere on this planet is a woman with immunity to this syndrome, but that I'd be long gone before we could hunt her down and decode those mutated genes of hers. In the meanwhile, the next time you find yourself under the torture of having to behold neon green sparkling polish on a pair of chicken's feet stuffed in a pair of Manolo Blahnik, (yes, I watch too much Sex and the City) just calm yourself and forgive her. At US$400 a pair, she's the real victim.
Being born female, one is automatically prone to this incurable addiction. As unique as I'd like to portray myself to be, I've been granted no exemption from this epidemic. Ever since I've had adequate spending power, I've contributed more than enough to the women's shoes industry to legally claim a share of it. I started buying my own shoes during my high school years. Of course, on a part-time salary I could only afford $30 pairs. Needless to say they were of pitifully low quality and often lasted just about long enough before I could find money to pay for the next pair.
Thank God that was 10 years ago. Since then, I have mellowed, and so have my collection of footwear. A woman's choice of shoes reveals more about her than her taste in purses and men combined. And I'm not only saying that because I own more shoes than I do purses and men combined.
I'd like to believe that somewhere on this planet is a woman with immunity to this syndrome, but that I'd be long gone before we could hunt her down and decode those mutated genes of hers. In the meanwhile, the next time you find yourself under the torture of having to behold neon green sparkling polish on a pair of chicken's feet stuffed in a pair of Manolo Blahnik, (yes, I watch too much Sex and the City) just calm yourself and forgive her. At US$400 a pair, she's the real victim.
Monday, May 5, 2003
Death of a Teacher
Being a teacher was not a childhood dream. But the chance came along, and I be-ed.
I kept surprising myself during the past months by evolving into the good teacher, even mentor at times, that I was. I even have my own fans. I've never considered myself a likable person in any general sense. So I get amazed when little innocent, vulnerable beings become fond of me when I don't even have a cracker in my hand.
Spending time with the children has been most rewarding. It's such a cliche but they have revived the little girl in me. That's really something you'd have to experience on your own in order to know what it's about. My students have reminded me of how simple some things can be. I'm still searching for the courage to put this lesson in practice by exhibiting cloudless affection for people I adore, or hiding behind my mom when faced with those I don't.
As of this month, I'm a "Missy" no more. I thank all my kids for what valuable memories they've given me, and those I've given them. It's so very exciting to think that some of them will be able to vaguely recall me as part of their English education when they're in their 30's.
I kept surprising myself during the past months by evolving into the good teacher, even mentor at times, that I was. I even have my own fans. I've never considered myself a likable person in any general sense. So I get amazed when little innocent, vulnerable beings become fond of me when I don't even have a cracker in my hand.
Spending time with the children has been most rewarding. It's such a cliche but they have revived the little girl in me. That's really something you'd have to experience on your own in order to know what it's about. My students have reminded me of how simple some things can be. I'm still searching for the courage to put this lesson in practice by exhibiting cloudless affection for people I adore, or hiding behind my mom when faced with those I don't.
As of this month, I'm a "Missy" no more. I thank all my kids for what valuable memories they've given me, and those I've given them. It's so very exciting to think that some of them will be able to vaguely recall me as part of their English education when they're in their 30's.
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