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In general, I like nice people. Most people do, I'm sure. But can someone be just too nice?
Yes. They are probably dwindling by the numbers, but sometimes I have to wonder how they get through each day without getting traumatized, with the world the way that it is.
K is one of the sweetest, nicest, and most academically intelligent person I know. No prejudices against anyone or anything - except towards anything that has the vaguest hint of, well, not being nice. I was telling her about Possession, one of the latest books I've read, and how it involves a scholar who accidentally discovers some love letters from a Victorian poet named Ash (completely fictionalized, mind you) to a woman who was probably not his wife.
Actually, I started off the conversation by saying that this was a book that has won prizes and critical acclaim, and even developed into a movie. K was smiling and very interested up until the point I mentioned the premise of the book, when her face turned at the subject and made a disapproving sound. Knowing K, I think she was secretly a bit abhorred by the fact that a book could feature such a premise and could win a literature prize.
Later on, some people were discussing the cartoon "South Park." It's been years since I last watched the cartoon regularly, but I'm sure it has only gotten cruder, perhaps sillier, and definitely more outrageous. But "South Park" has cartoon characters made from cut-outs of colored construction paper. It's as fictionalized and unrealistic as you can get. K cringed at the mere mention of the name and couldn't even stomach a discussion of the general themes in the show.
Oh yeah, and she looked at me like I had two heads and six arms when I said that I enjoy playing some computer games. They're great stress relievers. It's true. If you're frustrated about something, fire up that program and kill some evil monsters in a fantasy world to protect computerized people. It's great.
K is a dying breed. At best, she's a nice person with a heart of gold; at worst, she's a naïve prude. I love her dearly, but I don't know how she gets through life, except to shield herself from most of the world. (Actually, I do know. She's an academic who is devoted to her work and buries herself in research and data all day long. Nothing wrong with that, per se.) The world is dirty. It's nitty gritty, it's real, it's harsh. Most things aren't nice or pleasant, and pretty much nothing is perfect. Sure, most of the topics we discuss today were considered taboo, but those days were before our time. You have to accept the fact that people will do all sorts of unpleasant things, or at the very least, be able to talk about these things and be able to move on.
Sometimes I just want to tell K to lighten up and get a grip on reality. Live a little. It's not the end of the world if people talk about not-so-nice subjects. It's fiction.
Or perhaps to her, we become disillusioned and numbed by our world?
Not being able to find the right shade of foundation is like not being able to find the right sized bra. You'd think that by now, I would have the basics down, as so many women seem to have. I can't waltz into a department store, go to a certain counter, point to the shade that matches my face, then waltz out.
In fact, I've had so many makeup artists and sales people tell me different things that I'm just as confused as ever, if not more.
If you can't trust a makeup artist to tell you, who can you trust?!
I'm still trying to figure out whether I'm warm-toned, cool-toned, or neutral-toned. They don't teach you this kinda stuff in grade school art classes. They kinda need to.
Secretly, I think many default to, "Oh, you are definitely a warm because you have so much yellow in your face!" You know, Asian = yellow = warm. The last makeup artist I talked to, who went on about her 20+ years experience as an artist and knows what works for people, has the honor of that quote. Except, I thought, what about the red patches (read: pink) that she was just trying to cover up on my face with a concealer?
She did describe me as "pretty fair," though. At least that much I know. Probably because I do get sunburned easily.
But then, I read somewhere that if you think you look good in silver-toned jewelry and pastels, you're cool; if you think you look good in gold-toned jewelry and earthier tones, you're warm. I think I look better in silver and pastels. But just because I think it, does that make me so? Aren't Asians not supposed to be cool-toned? Aren't we yellow-colored folk?
The makeup artist prior to this last one was pretty sure I was a neutral. I think I believe him, and not just for the fact he spent almost 2 hours on my face and never went on about how he knew best. Problem was, he had the most difficult time finding a powder that matched my skin tone. Guess most people don't come in my shade.
And what exactly is "olive-skinned"? I've heard this term used for women whose colorings range from one spectrum to the other. No woman I know is the shade of any olives I know.
And while I'm already spouting off on this tangent, let me repeat a favorite: What is up with the clothing sizes? What the heck does a 2 correspond to, and how does it happen that I can fit into a 2 for one maker while barely squeezing into a 6 for another? Which dingbat made up these ridiculous numbers, anyway?! Now they've come out with curvy jeans, classic jeans, tailored shirts, straight-cut shirts, boot-cut pants, relaxed fit...I just want to tear my hair out.
Don't get me started on years of buying and tossing away bottles of foundation that are just never quite right. Uh, too late. Or that right shade of red lipstick. It's a clandestine ploy by cosmetics companies to have their counters indoors so that products appear to blend in, only for you to walk out and realize how ghastly you actually look in natural light, then to return with products for refunds. But they were kinda hoping you wouldn't go through the trouble. Rinse, repeat.
I feel like a freak of nature who doesn't match or fit anything companies make.
Men don't have to go through this. No wonder a new study shows that women get wrinklier than men of the same age. No wonder so many women have body image issues. No wonder it takes so much longer for a gal to shop and to get ready. It's amazing we even manage to put anything else on other than our undies.
Oh, wait. Will that be a thong, a high-cut brief, a bikini, boy shorts, girl shorts, a tanga, or a hipster?
The novel traces a pair of young academics - Roland Michell and Maud Bailey - as they uncover a clandestine lover affair between two long-dead Victorian poets. Interwoven in a mesmerizing pastiche are love letters and fairy tales, extracts from biographies and scholarly accounts, creating a sensuous and utterly delightful novel of ideas and passions.
Thus was the description of itself, on the dust jacket of A.S. Byatt's Possession. In many ways, this description is trite, dry, unappealing, and perhaps even inaccurate. For instance, it does not tell you how the book unhurriedly moves through 2/3 of its 605 pages, but that the last 1/3 rewards the patient reader for her journey, leaving her in tears and wondering where the pages had gone.
Or that, for someone who isn't keen on poetry, parts of the book can read painfully slow, and makes one wonder how it won England's prestigious Booker Prize when it was first published in 1990. And, if one fervently dislikes Gwyneth Paltrow, how one should ignore the fact she starred in the movie adaptation and should nonetheless give the book a try. (Or perhaps note that Jennifer Ehle and Jeremy Northam are also in the movie and so should nonetheless give the book a try. Or ignore the actors totally.)
Except, it is, after all, written by the same author who wrote Angels and Insects.
Maybe it was my own fault. After sitting on my to-read list for years, and waiting for me to wade through my period of nothing-but-non-fiction, a copy finally came into my hands. Knowing nothing of the author, and not much of the story, I had built it up in my mind to be of one thing, based on the title alone, but it had turned out to be another.
No, I wasn't looking for a tale of the supernatural or even horror, but I had hoped it would grip me - possess me - much faster than it did. But by the time I was truly into the story, when the loose ends of a mystery had finally become clear, it ended, leaving me satisfied. And so very not.
Pick up this book, but be in a certain frame of mind to read it. On second thought, having a disposition would only sooner deter the enjoyment of this book.
Word has it that yet another movie remake is in the works in Hollywood. Naomi Watts is reportedly starting in the remake of Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds, with Michael Bay's company producing it.
Yawn. Do we really need yet another remake?
I can't remember the last time I went to see a remake. Shaft, maybe? (Ok, after checking my list of movies watched, it was Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, which wasn't too bad, and I went really only because Johnny Depp was in it.) Even with King Kong, I felt sort of "eh" about it. Granted, it was Peter Jackson's lifelong dream to direct King Kong, I applaud him for realizing it, and the remake turned out to be a wonderfully acclaimed version. Perhaps there's more of a justification for that particular movie. But what ever happened to original ideas?
Yes, I know this complaint is old and repeated. Creativity still exists in cinema, and many unusual films still grace the theatres, i.e. The Science of Sleep, Little Children, though it pains me just a little that they are either in limited release, or are never heard of due to the lack of publicity, or are overshadowed by Hollywood remakes.
Things is, people shouldn't encourage studios by flocking to these remakes, many of which do not hold a candle to their classical counterparts.
I wish the average cinema-goer were a bit more discerning and demanding.
Looks like Beijing is trying to clean up its Engrish (or Chinglish, as BBC calls it, which I believe is a misnomer because Chinglish is akin to Spanglish, or mixing of English and another language - not the poor efforts at literal translation or slaughter of the Roman alphabet!) before the 2008 Olympics.
The comments submitted by readers are funnier than the article itself. :D
Which reminds me, I bought a pair of portable, stainless steel chopsticks during the summer. A little digression here: Eating out is a big part of Taiwanese culture. For the past two decades, street and night market food vendors have been encouraged and are using disposable utensils and containers to sell their food. They're much more sanitary, that's for sure, but imagine the bags (mountains?) of trash that must be carted away at the end of each day.
Enter portable chopsticks, utensils, and everything else that folded, carried, assembled, and easily washed so fewer things are tossed away. Go environmentalism!
Anyway, my stainless steel chopsticks are neat. They come in four pieces, in a short and slim plastic case, and can be easily put together when the occasion calls for chopsticks. (Or weapons, now I think about it.)
I am sure the manufacturer meant to brand the chopsticks "How Easy," but thanks to Engrish, I own a pair of "Ho Easy" stainless steel chopsticks.
Now, you know there's only one comment that can follow from such a name.
If you've never had a tire explode on you, I suggest trying your best to avoid it. Especially if you've never changed a tire in your life.
I think it was meant to happen. With the nervousness of driving in an unfamiliar city - actually, it still unnerves me a bit driving on the freeways near big cities because drivers crazily dash in and out of lanes - and trying to change lanes, I ran over something metallic.
I'm bad at split second decisions, and it kinda shows on the road.
There it was, kinda white and lying on the ground. Plastic? Paper? By the time I figured out it was not, it was too late. A loud bang and clank. I couldn't figure out if it was because the object had bounced and hit the side of my car, or if it just punctured my tire. The awful noise that ensued while driving 65 mph with a totally deflated tire pretty much told me something was wrong, and that I had to pull over onto the shoulders. Dangerous, yes, but I had not much choice. An exit wasn't in sight, and I wasn't about to drive any further on the rim of my wheel.
Plus, there was a visible scratch on the very bottom of the passenger side, below the door. You couldn't tell if you weren't looking for it, but I could see it. A big gash. My poor car.
The first thing that crossed my mind was, "Shit. I knew this was going to happen on the first major long drive I take. I should've gotten AAA."
They should hire me to do a commercial for them.
Sadly, after a few phone calls, it was determined that AAA couldn't help me because I wasn't added to my parents' card. Still, the AAA rep called the Highway Patrol for me, since it was pretty obvious that I was clueless. Change the tire? Well, yes, except I couldn't figure out how to get the jack out of my trunk. Where would I position the jack? Would I put the tire on backwards? Eh, let me just wait for the "professionals" to come and take a look at it.
Sometimes it's hard to tell if it's pure adrenaline and daring, or if it's foolhardy bravery. Sometimes, the less you know, the more calm and collected you are. It's like learning how to ride a bike when you're a kid. You don't really know how much it will hurt if you fall, so you do it. Whereas, if you're an adult, you know the consequences, thus it becomes harder for you to learn it.
(Incidentally, I've never learned how to ride a bike because of that.)
So, I am a city girl, no doubt about it. Despite getting my license at 16, I've only had this vehicle for about 4 months, and never drove such a long distance during my entire driving career. Give a girl a break, yeah? Tick, tock. I should've been somewhere close to I-5 by now. How late would it be by the time I complete the almost 400 mile drive?
Luckily, Highway Patrol showed up not too long after. 2 guys, both fairly young. They were probably amused at the fact they were called as roadside assistance. Then again, it was probably tons better coming to the aid of a damsel in distress than chasing drunken drivers. I couldn't care less. Any help, any authority figure, was a huge welcomed relief.
"AAA not going to help you, eh?"
I explained my situation, that I was driving across the state and had no clue of the area. Or of anything. "What am I supposed to do at this point?" I asked. I swear to god I wasn't playing innocent. Figured they'd probably get a towtruck out there and then let me deal with it.
One of them thought about it for a bit, smiled, and said, "We're not supposed to do this, but if we change your tire for you and your car gets damaged, would you promise not to sue?"
Hm, should I tell them that I'm waiting to be licensed as a lawyer? I bit my tongue. That was a much better split second decision!
Well, one ended up changing my tire for me, right there on the shoulder of the freeway, in the dusty, weed-laden uneven ground where I'd pulled over my car. He showed me how to position the jack and explained the different wheel nuts I had (I did not know one of them "locked" the wheel so no one could steal it, or that there was a "key" to the lock). He had white gloves on, too, and for some reason, I felt very bad about the fact he had to change my tire.
The other one drew me a detailed map of the area (thank goodness he was from the area!), including the overpasses and off-ramps, so I could drive myself to the nearest Costco for a replacement tire, then orally explained the directions twice so I'd understand.
"No faster than 50 mph on that spare tire, ok?"
They likely didn't know who they were dealing with, for I was the luckiest, most grateful tax-paying damsel today. No Highway Patrol officers had to help me the way they did, and at no time did I or was made to feel stupid for not knowing how to change a tire or what to do in a situation like this. They were friendly, gentlemanly, and incredibly helpful.
This is only one of the reasons why I LOVE my state and refuse to identify myself as being from anywhere else, even though I've been away for more than a decade.
In my anxiety to get off the road and get a new tire, I totally forgot to ask the officers for their names. I hope plenty of good karma comes their way, because they deserve it.
So, yeah, I ended up being stuck at Costco for a while and had to pay $118 for a new tire, but I got home safely.
I loved driving down a long, straight, open road. The scenery wasn't even that great - tons of dry bush, some hills, crops, and the occasional cattle - I could've taken the coastal route. But it was the sky, the road, me, and the car. Rugged, alone, and completely uninhibited. Every man/woman for him/herself. Didn't even need music while I took it all in. It was marvelous.
Now, if only driving doesn't come with road hazards.
Yesterday, Mexican president Vicente Fox, among other Mexicans and Americans of note, called the Bush administration's decision to build hundreds of miles of fence along the U.S.-Mexican border "shameful."
Now, I'm certainly no fan of Dubya and his people, and for the ease of reference, I'll focus on Fox. How is it shameful for the U.S., a sovereign country, to exercise its right to build structures within its territory? (I'm assuming that if the fence were to cross the official boundary, Mexico would've never given its permission.)
Moreover, why is it not Fox or Mexico that's embarassed? How is it not shameful that Fox has not improved the conditions in his own country so that his fellow citizens want to stay within its borders?!
In part, I am sure this criticism is to deflect attention from Fox's own failure and to point the finger at someone else for Mexico's predicament.
Some Americans have criticized this move for its lack of friendly, neighborly affection. Well, I am not aware that the definition includes not being able to build something on one's own property. NAFTA still exists; though not perfect, there's no reason why the U.S. should be responsible for fixing other people's economies (current U.S. policies in other parts of the world aside...shamefully).
Granted, criticizing the $1.2 billion dollars to be spent on this "wall" makes much more sense. It's pretty unnecessary, and I'd like my tax money to go elsewhere - making the higher education in this country cheaper through government subsidies, for example. People will still try to come over; illegal immigration is still a "problem" in this country and hasn't been deterred yet. Further, people will probably take riskier moves through smugglers and the desert to come over. A much better way to resolve this problem is through negotiations and immigration reform. All very valid concerns.
But they still don't absolve Mexico of all fault or relieve its burden of providing for its own citizens. For once, America is not to blame for another country's problems.
