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Decaf Twinings Earl Grey + Vanilla Piroulines + Keeping Up Appearances episodes + A/C = recipe for a relaxing Saturday afternoon.
I've also just washed out my fountain pen and can't decide what color ink to fill it up with next, and perhaps write a letter to a friend in Germany.
Why don't we use fountain pens more often here? For the longest time, I wondered why the letters I received from Germany were always written with fountain pens. Only recently did a young German intern tell me that in elementary schools, they still make students practice their penmanship with fountain pens. Apparently it does wonders (?) for one's penmanship, and also forces kids to write with their right hands.
True, fountain pens aren't very convenient when you've ran out of ink and need to fill it up with ink or insert another cartridge, but it's one of those vestiges, like a good cup of afternoon tea, that makes life just a little bit more interesting.
Ever since I got my "Full Bouquet" set of "Keeing Up Appearances" earlier this summer, I haven't had the chance to watch it. Always put it off because I now own it - isn't that the way it goes? The jokes repeat themselves, but the smile is a guarantee. Hyacinth's snobbery and classism is frighteningly funny; her poor husband, Richard, is a poor chap who has the patience of 100 men; her neighbor Elizabeth always spills her tea or crumbles her biscuits.
Speaking of which, tea-time is what I most often miss about England. Everyday, at 4 p.m., everyone stops for a cup of tea and biscuits or cucumber sandwiches. Why don't we do it? If we don't get the 2 hour dejeuners or siestas, at least we can spare a couple of moments for tea. It's such a relaxing activity.
Hm, I think I'll bring a mug, my newly received Earl Grey, and my tea ball to work tomorrow.
It has been a crappy day, so I have to vent. You won't find deep thoughts here.
The temperature must've hit 100 today. That, coupled with the humidity, made any of my seconds out in the sun simply unbearable.
I just applied for loans for this upcoming year. $20,000 more in debt that I already am, and the interest rates for student loans went up on July 1. Not happy about that.
What made that even worse was I checked my grades from this past semester, and it turned out to be my worst semester, ever. Can't figure out why; didn't think I did too poorly on the exams save one, but I guess my professors thought otherwise. Of course, what used to be the over-achiever in me has had her confidence and intelligence questioned ever since I quit my nice-paying job and came back to academia. I can't help but feel like hell looking at those grades; it's not as devastating as the first time I saw such letters on my transcript but it still blows. I've learned (and many others have confirmed - which leaves me wondering who are all the people getting the damn good grades) that while grades do matter in some respects, they do not matter at all in others, and the grades are completely subjective despite what they tell you. A professor in a good mood will probably give you a higher grade. A paper that's graded early will also probably get a better grade. Those who got better grades, I doubt they're all geniuses. A big part of me often wonders why I am putting myself in such deep debt for such poor returns, and another part of me knows that I am not stupid. So what gives?
The only thing I can bank on is the fact I have tons of experience in this field, compared to many of my colleagues, and I've never gotten a bad review at any of my previous jobs. The hard part is convincing many employers to focus on that experience and to look past the grades.
How do you convince someone, who has never traveled internationally and who has set (though misguided) ideas about parts of the world, that a certain country, despite its poor reputation and civil strife, has a developed cell phone and internet network?
I wish he would bother doing some research to dispel his preconceived notions, because a person's life could be at stake here.
But people rarely want to challenge their preconceived notions. IMHO they're worse off for it, and the rest of the world with them.
(SPOILER warning in the comments. Don't read them if you don't want to know what happened in the new Harry Potter!)
I got HP in the mail from R yesterday and finished reading it at 5:30 am this morning. I suppose at several points in the book that I could've just closed it and went to sleep, but I couldn't resist "just one more chapter."
"Dammit" and "whoa" were my first 2 thoughts as I was coming to the home stretch.
Ready to discuss HP with any interested folks now.
I spent a whole morning going over a person's file. This particular person was applying for asylum; on paper his case was solid - singled out, tortured, and beaten for his political opinions. Obviously from a country where there's no democracy to speak of. I read through his statements, country reports, and human rights records of his country. Really hoping that he would receive a favorable decision because no one should live in fear of speaking out.
You know what really gets me, every time? When a file happens to have a picture of the person. It's the eyes. Behind them you can almost always see what things have befallen on them. Sadness. Desperation. Loneliness. Fear of the unknown. When I see a face, it really hits home that I have a person's life in my hands. Well, the life is actually not mine to decide; I don't have that much power, but something instinctive drives me to want to save the person.
But even the best case on paper can go down the drain with a crappy, ill-prepared lawyer. You REALLY feel for the person then. Some people just don't get any breaks.
This guy's legal aid attorney, who supposedly has a good reputation otherwise, did not do him any favors today. She went on and on about some details that weren't even important to his asylum application, and then failed to draw out and emphasize the relevant parts of his story. Didn't look like she prepped him at all, or if she did, did a piss-poor job at it, because he just wasn't giving straight answers. All of this made everyone impatient; even the judge, who is very patient, seemed quite worn out. I suppose in some regions of the world, when one is faced with authority figures and is asked a question, one must start explaining oneself. In our courts, however, we are always instructed to answer only what is asked. Any lawyer should know that, and any good lawyer should always make sure the foreign clients understand that.
What's more, a lawyer who supposedly has been practicing for a while should know how to get the client to develop his story so that it is convincing. Nevermind the jokes and bad reputations that lawyers get for being good at doing so; that's a lawyer's job and when the time comes, everyone wants a lawyer who can represent his/her side well. But this guy's story was awful and sad, which meant his case should have gone smoothly with the judge persuaded by his tale. At the end of the day I found out that he was so close to that grant of asylum, but his lawyer's lack of preparation (of herself and of him) actually made the judge reconsider the merits of his case. That's horrid lawyering for you.
And then, there was the horrendous interpreter. This guy had to speak through an interpreter, who despite being certified apparently didn't know proper interpretation techniques. She never faced the judge while interpreting, so the judge had to stop her several times to tell her that he couldn't understand a word of her English. She mumbled both English and French, didn't always interpret the guy's statements completely (bet she didn't think there were other people in the room who could speak French), and blamed him for having a very heavy accent and mixing English words with his French statements, when she herself couldn't enunciate for her life and often started speaking English to him when she was supposed to have been translating. It was unbelievable. If even I could understand his French, then there was no excuse for her not to and messing up the translation on so many occasions. You really had to feel for the guy if you knew what was going on. I made sure I caught the judge on break and told him that the interpreter was just plain awful. Don't know what difference that will make but at least I tried to prevent the same thing from happening to some other poor people.
The more I see in this area of law, the more I feel like I need to help everyone, but the less I feel like I should because I know I would get too emotionally involved and feel completely responsible if something goes wrong. Is that a cowardly thing to say? It also depresses the hell out of me and makes me want to cry. Now I desperately need to watch a silly movie and make myself laugh.
The News Hour With Jim Lehrer just had a segment with two guests commenting on the latest Harry Potter craze. Actually, "craze" may not be a good word because both of these guests, one a book critic and the other a librarian with the ALA, agreed that the HP series will last through the decades. The librarian commented that children who love the HP series will likely carry the stories and the love of books into their adulthood. That's not a surprise; once you've discovered what wonderful things stories can offer you, how can you not hunger for more?
But.
I used to be such a voracious reader. When I was still trying to learn English, we'd go to the library every weekend so I could check out books, whether I had heard them mentioned at school or they just looked interesting on the shelves. It probably helped that my local library had this really neat incentive program to get kids to read during the summers, where it'd encourage kids to sign up for this game, where you would roll a die several times and move your piece forward on a game map, each time landing on a category of books (i.e. books about animals, mysteries, novels, etc.), and you would have to check out a book from each category at the end of the game, go home, read the books, create a list of the books, and write a brief summary about your favorite out of the week's reading. When you go back the next week, you turn in your little inventory/report sheet, and then you'd get to reach into a grab bag and get a little prize. It was a marvelous idea (thank you, public library!), and I probably wouldn't have come across any of the Choose Your Own Adventure stories or the McGurk Mystery series, both of which turned out to be some of my favorite reads, ever. Then I wouldn't have been a huge fan of all of Beverly Cleary's books, or any of the Little House on the Prairie books, or move on to any of the Dickens, Brontë, Dostoevsky classics.
I still am a voracious reader, but I usually feel incredibly burned out from reading. Turns out that I'm not the only one, thank goodness. At lunch today, I was at a table of voracious readers - a judge and an attorney. We all came to the conclusion that law school completely burns you out and turns you away from reading for pleasure. You read text, day in and day out, almost every waking moment of the day, and much of the time it is very UNpleasant. Then you have to analyze it, read it over again perhaps, and read some more supporting material. Reading can become such a chore that sometimes you don't want to have anything to do with it if you can help it. The judge said that he hasn't read a book for pleasure for years; although he reads lots of magazines and articles, he simply has no time for books. Or rather, he doesn't want to make the time for books because once he picks one up, he won't be able to put it down, because he has to read all these briefs for work at home!
Well, I don't feel so guilty anymore about taking forever to finish a book for pleasure, or that I often don't have the desire to read, because I AM NOT ALONE.
That librarian, he didn't warn y'all about what law school would do to stunt reading, did he?
In about 30 minutes, some Harry Potter fans will be very happy as they get their hands on their books. I, on the other hand, must wait...though I've been playing Diablo II the past couple of hours. That'll be about as much fantasy-genre as I will have tonight. Except, I plan to see "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" tomorrow if the weather permits, so hopefully that will make up for my lack of Harry Potter. Who can resist Johnny Depp anyway?
I may have missed hurricane Cindy, Dennis may have whizzed by with nary a mark on this city, and Emily is still out in the Caribbean somewhere, but I have no idea what caused the torrential downpour this afternoon. Can't remember the last time I had to walk in such weather conditions; I didn't even make it half of a block before the rain, which was being blown sideways and rendering the umbrella completely useless, completely drenched my capris. Walking across the big street was like wading through a small stream. I could hardly see where I was going, and almost ran into some umbrella-less folks because I was holding mine in front of me.
I finally made it to the bus stop, but as would be expected of the city on a day like this, the bus that was supposed to show up never did. About 10 people and I were huddled under the protruding entrance of a Walgreens, waiting for the bus that never came. Then, when a bus did come, the traffic conditions were so bad (and it was rush hour on top of that) that it took the bus 50 minutes to get me home, double the usual time. And wouldn't you know it, by the time it made it to my part of town, the sun was shining with barely a drizzle.
It only occurred to me on the bus that all the water I had to walk through must have had so much debris, bacteria, bugs, bug guts, and who knows what else that regularly paves the roads of this city.
Yucky. Off to take a much-needed shower.
With the likes of Shin Kong Mitsukoshi, Dayeh Takashimaya, and Sogo now bracing the skylines of Taipei, department stores such as JC Penny, Sears, Robinson-May, or Nordstrom just pale in comparison and do not seem to deserve to be called "department stores." Even before the string of Taiwanese-Japanese cooperative department stores popped up 15 years ago, we were used to tall buildings with levels upon levels of capitalistic shopping pleasure, each level a department all by itself. But such buildings were an especially nice, air-conditioned escape from the hot and sweltering tropical climate for those of us who didn't have A/C in the house. Not sure how we ever survived the summers. Anyway.
My mom and I took the rapid transit system to now one of the many Mitsukoshis in Taipei, partially out of boredom, and partially for the A/C. As we usually do, we walked through the levels, critiquing the latest trends in fashion and trying stuff on.
Then we came to the Ladies' Intimate Apparels department. And I seem to meet the most interesting sales people.
Because my mom gets gift certificates for these department stores, on a whim we decided to walk through some of the bra aisles in search of those rare, all-cotton bras with underwires but no shaped cups. (They are the best, ladies. Don't give me any of those non-breathable nylon ones or the shaped/padded cups that seem to be so popular nowadays.) A sales lady came up to us and asked what we were looking for. I told her what I wanted, to which she replied that there's no such thing as a cotton bra; only some have cotton lining inside the cups. (She needs to take a trip over here because I happen to own several cotton bras.) She then directed me to a different selection of bras, trying to sell me on their qualities: that they were nicely shaped and gave lots of support. Then she just sort of casually said to me that I could probably use some "adjustment" because I'm actually rather meaty in my chest area, and with the right bra I could lessen the gap between my boobs.
Uh... Not sure if I was supposed to blush or to feel amused by her comment. Was she actually telling me that I had big boobs and that I need the right bra to bring the girls closer together?
Except, she didn't know that underneath my shirt and camisole, I wasn't wearing a bra at all. Didn't have one appropriate enough to wear under a camisole, and it was too hot outside anyway, so I went without. Guess I better keep the adjustment thing in mind the next time I decide to go without.
And just when, during our conversation, did she study my chest anyway?! The last time I had a bra sales lady look at my chest, she barely took a glance and immediately directed my mom and I to the training bra section. I was 12.
So like, I decided that I should be amused because she was being so forward and all, but I tried to hide it while she kept talking and trying to suggest different bras to me. I told her I'd keep looking and we walked away without buying anything. My mom could hardly keep giggling as soon as we left the area. Poor sales lady; she tried so hard, and I didn't buy.
Well, no one has ever commented on how full my chest is, and outside of Asia, probably no one ever will. People are generally of a smaller proportion there. And here I usually am, doing the sometimes wishful female thinking that my body fat could miraculously adjust itself and deposit in the right places. It was a nice little boost of self-esteem, though I don't think I can afford that type of therapy at the rate that international airline tickets are going for these days.
If I had a digital camera, I would've captured what would've been my first Engrish spotting abroad. At the airport, there was a plastic container before the security checkpoint where passengers could throw away certain items that weren't allowed on the plane, i.e. scissors, lighters, etc. The sign for the container said something like, "Put dangerous objects in unforceful box." I think they meant to tell you that you should put the prohibited items in the container for safety reasons. I couldn't help but giggle and point out the sign to my dad, and explained to him what "Engrish" meant. He thought it was funny too. I think he has a much better grasp of the English language than he thinks.
Otherwise, most other English signs passed my Engrish check.
As an aside, merchants and flight attendants from Taiwan need to stop greeting me in English. I didn't think I had "American" written all over my forehead. In particular, when I was about to purchase a souvenir at the airport, one sales rep. rudely commanded me to show my passport and asked, "How you pay?" I calmly replied, in Chinese, that I was paying with cash. She not so apologetically said sorry but promptly walked away from my face. Hopefully out of embarassment. I probably should have said to her, "No speak Engrish!" But she wouldn't have gotten that. Oh well.
Am back and am feeling the full force of jet lag. Today was so unproductive as I pondered over one entire file and confused myself with the details - not my best behavior at work! Tonight hopefully the body will spring back into shape.
Funny how everytime I come back from the Far East, I always need several days to want to eat Western foods again.
My mom is usually the quiet one. She rarely told me stories of her childhood or of her parents; maybe it was because she never really knew all the details. But this time, she told me of things she heard from my uncle, her younger brother, of how my maternal grandparents were dirt poor and went to Japan during WWII to make lots of money, only to lose it all coming back to Taiwan because there was no such thing as currency exchange (or maybe because Japan lost) and they couldn't bring back any of it; of how they struggled to feed and educate a family of 5 kids, which would have been 7 had the other 2 lived; of how they often borrowed money or pawned checks so they could come up with tuition for their kids to go to school, but always hiding the fact from their kids so they wouldn't worry; of how my maternal grandfather so wanted an education but couldn't afford it, thus finding every possible way for his children to get one; of how my maternal grandmother was a beauty in her day, wore beautiful jewelry and lovely clothes until she became a bit depressed and obsessive-compulsive in her old age.
Some of the things my mom told me, like the money part, she never knew until recently. I have often heard tales of my paternal family from my dad or my grandmother, but hearing all these stories from my mom's side made me regret that I did not really grow up with or get to know the Hakka side of my family. As my maternal grandfather has been battling Alzheimer's for years, it is now impossible for him to tell more tales of his youth to his children.
You never really know what you're missing until you're about to lose it.
