Email: Twenty Questions to Avoid Heartbreak and More.

A few days ago, I struck inspiration. A couple of friends and I were having a conversation at work about men. I related last weekend's experience with Spaghetti. Apparently, I'm so undate-able that he wouldn't call even when he was halfway to a date. Or so I thought.

A guy co-worker of ours gave us the low-down on men. He said that sometimes, guys make plans they have no intention of keeping. This is because most girls don't want just a one night stand. So the guy figures, if he makes it sound like he wants more than just one night, then it will increase his chances of going home with her and getting booty. The three of us sat in stunned silence. I hadn't even considered that scenario. It hadn't even cast a shadow across my mind. But it made sense given Spaghetti's strange behavior. GUYS ARE SO SNEAKY!!! I couldn't believe it. That would explain the half-made plans and the lack of follow-up. I should've known. If a guy uses the word "sexy" more than twice within the first 10 minutes of your conversation, all the alarms should start going off in your head. I bet he's laughing at my voicemail. I left a voicemail telling him I couldn't make brunch anymore because I ended up having to go into the office on Sunday. To think, I thought I was being considerate! He's probably hooting it up because I BELIEVED HIM. Good Lord am I naive.

That was the catalyst for a conversation about all the men we know who suck. All the men who we've heard of who suck. All the men who are boyfriends of people we know, who suck. That night, I went home and wrote the following email, inspired by the conversation at work. I wrote it on behalf of myself and all the girls I know who've met guys who are sub-par. It's a compilation of experiences. The "Do you kiss like an attack dog on a piece of meat?" was in honor of Spaghetti.

----Original Message Follows----
From: "me"
To: [girls_list]
Subject: twenty questions to avoid heartbreak and more.
Date: Wed, 26 Feb 2003 23:13:28 -0500

ah the vicious cycle of heartbreak. there are times when you wonder, is there such thing as a decent guy out there? how do you weed out the schmoozers from the losers? How come they don't teach you things like "how to avoid a shitty boyfriend" in college? Or "how to recognize a playa". Those are the kind of "life skills" that i know i could've used.

so. there is no manual. but i figure, there's a wealth of female experience out there that has gone untapped. so, from the minds of three girls, i've extracted the following information.

as a bunch of my girl friends, i thought you should be the first ones to get the first draft of "How To Avoid The Jackass: SexEd101".

Chapter 1: Questions You Should Ask Guys Right From The Get-Go.

do you have any emotional problems? are you emotionally stunted? do you have trouble committing? do you treat the ones that you like/love worse than your friends? do you have a problem with looking "uncool" in front of your friends if you treat me well? Do you have a teenie weenie? Do you have a girlfriend? do you kiss girls like you're an attack dog on a piece of meat? Do you understand that pms is something that we have to deal with every month, and therefore you will have to also? are you a pothead? Do you use sex as a band-aid for all our problems? Do you believe that semen is "healthy" for a girl's skin?

And that's just a good beginning with contributions from 3 of my personal gal pals. Any additional contributions or suggestions are welcome. Feel free to forward it on to friends you know who may have interesting contributions to add. Thanks to all the girl friends (and their ex-boyfriends) who've given me suggestions and inspiration for these. This is what your brain ends up doing at work in order to amuse yourself after 2 hours of copy/pasting into Excel. Yeah corporate life!

-n

The lovers, the dreamers, and me.

Tis the season. June is coming up and the wedding invitations have started to pour in.

Now that my friends have started getting married, it's become a question that weighs heavily on the minds of all of us. Does this mean we're officially old? Have we officially become "grown-ups" now that we know married people? Month by month, the number of people that goes out to bars decreases. We feel like the survivors of some terrible disease. On one hand, we're thankful that we're still around, but we're uneasy. Who's next?

At this age, the question always starts to come up, given the divorce rate in this country, are we settling for less because we're afraid to be alone? The fear of loneliness is a fear that transcends all countries and cultural barriers. Divorce, however, is something that seems unique to the United States. Being a liberated country, with freedom of choice being the banner under which we fight all our wars, "divorce" and "abortion" seem to be the biggest things that set us apart from every other country. That and our loud obnoxiousness and disinclination to be embarassed by any of it. Therein lies the extra special ingredient that gives our country the divorce rate that we have. The fear of loneliness (the base ingredient in every human being) plus the extra zest of freedom to choose and be obnoxious. Combine these to get "50% of all couples in the U.S. get divorced".

Settling for less seems to be a human trait. Everyone weighs their odds. Settling for less at 22 is a sin. But, once you're starting to hit 30, the women are beginning to show their age, and the men aren't in hot shape either. Once you start hitting the big 3-0, people start thinking about cutting their losses. The spectre of growing old and dying alone starts to loom. The fear of "I might not get anyone better than this" becomes recurring as your body starts to sag just a little. And somehow, we convince ourselves that we love them. Because we need to believe that we're living the dream. After all, no one thinks they're settling when they're getting married. No one thinks "Yeah, we're going to get divorced" when they first get engaged. Everyone is convinced that this is The One. Well, statistics show that half of all people are wrong.

What I want to know is, what do the statistics say about the spinsters? You know, those women who never get married. Let's face it, a human being alone is a sad animal. I watched The Gift on TV the other day. Cate Blanchett plays a single mother supporting her children. When Keanu Reeves breaks into her house and threatens her, her children peep around the corridor and watch. He threatens her children and she tries to throw him out of the house. She looked so fragile and small beside him and his rage. I watched her putting up a brave front to protect her kids, but as a woman, I could feel that underlying sense of fear that every woman, even the strong ones, feels when threatened by a man. The sense of helplessness and knowledge that if the man really wanted to hurt her kids, there really wasn't much she could do. Besides buy a gun and shoot him. She can't throw him out of the house or scare him away. Men are never as aware of their strength and physical advantage as they are when they are angry. You can tell by the posturing, the threatening poses. All made to intimidate. And women, as the smaller sized dogs in the pack, are intimidated even as we snarl back. The sense of helplessness battling with the the need to stand and be strong. You're left vulnerable, at the mercy of your own physical smallness. At that moment, I caught myself thinking "Wow. It's so hard for a woman to be alone without a man." A year ago, I would have spit on that statement. But the older I get, the more I see the differences between men and women, the inequalities that exist, and how they make up for those inequalities by being together. They fill in each of what the other is missing. Despite the divorce rate, with the knowledge that society is the way it is, I have this sneaking suspicion that a woman might be better off with a good man than she is by herself. And vice versa. Show me a middle aged man who doesn't have a woman - not a pretty sight.

Is this the reasoning that an individual goes through before picking the man with the best resume instead of choosing with your heart? After all, if no one catches your fancy, you've got a choice of waiting and risking the fact that he/she will never come along (or even if he/she does, they may already be married), or you make the best of what you have and choose the one with the best resume. For women, this means someone employed, who you get along with, who you can imagine getting along with forever, who is responsible, who would be a good father and husband. Chemistry goes out the window as a criteria point when women start looking at resumes. Chemistry has to do with matters of the heart. And when you're considering resumes, it's because you've given up on matters of the heart.

At this point in life, I'm not too worried. That sort of decision point is far down the road for me. And hopefully I won't reach that decision point because I'll be one of the lucky ones who find the elusive One. But if I'm still single and looking at the age of 29, I know that it is a choice I will have to make. It's something I think about often. What would I do? I like to prepare for worst case scenarios. Just in case.

Spinsters are the ultimate idealists. The ones who believe and never stop believing. The ones who float forever in fantasy. Or is it? Spinster-hood. Is that the price you risk paying for being a dreamer?

I'm not sure which is worse. To stand up for my dreams and be punished for them by having to die old and alone. Or to sell-out and settle. There comes a time when you have to start wondering whether you're being realistic. Does that count as "settling"? After all, everyone is flawed. Perhaps you're looking for someone that doesn't realistically exist. There also comes a time when you need to stand up for your principles and refuse to compromise on something as important to your life as love. But at the end of it all, you have to wonder, where has it gotten you? Is something better than nothing? My dad says a lot of things to me that end up coming back at odd times. One of those things he said was in reference to my smart-ass remarks as a teenager that would set my mom off and get me grounded. He said, "You have to think about which principles are worth it and which ones aren't. Sometimes you win the battle, but you lose the war."

Are you willing to gamble with the stakes as they are? Is all fair in love and war?

"Who said that every wish would be heard and answered
When wished on a morning star?
Somebody thought of that, and someone believed it
Look what it's done so far.
What's so amazing that keeps us star gazing
And what do we think we might see?"

"I just finished a 10 pack of peppermint patties." -me
"I almost finished my box of Godiva." -Lux.

I have a sweet tooth.

And I mean the biggest sweet tooth imaginable. A few hours after every meal, I get the craving. I'm not even hungry, I just want to taste it. The sweetness. My friend lost 20 pounds doing Tae Bo Get Ripped and avoiding carbs and processed sugars. She's inspired me. I don't want to lose 20 pounds (I'd disappear into thin air if I did that), but I wouldn't mind fitting comfortably into my work pants again. I don't care about poundage. Merely about comfort. I got a yogurt parfait, but that didn't cut it. It was 2 pm and I had a craving for peanut M&M's like you wouldn't believe. I promised myself a peppermint pattie for dessert after dinner. Peppermint pattie's are a low fat candy. So are Twizzlers. I informed Lux of this fact over instant messenger. Too bad peanut M&M's don't fall into that category. Lux just as informatively informed me back that low-fat candies are high in sugar. And if you don't use that sugar right away, then it turns into fat anyways.

What the hell is the point of low fat candy then?
"Make people on diets buy them."

Thank you Lux.

I briefly considered sucking the candy coating off an Advil. There isn't that much sugar in that right? I felt sick. I couldn't believe that I lacked so much self control that I would consider sucking on an Advil to taste sweet. It wasn't even like I was hungry. I had a pretty big lunch. I was only cutting down on desserts. But it didn't stop the craving. Lux and I decided that electroshock would be good for us. Kind of like that Simpsons episode where they go to family therapy and they have the capability to zap each other with a button. Lux and I would zap each other everytime we took a bite of illegal sweets. Get fried everytime we eat chocolate so that we don't want it anymore. It will be like reverse Pavlov's dogs.

Sadly enough, "feeling good about myself" isn't enough incentive for me to really start to eat healthy and exercise. Probably because I don't really feel all that bad about my extra weight. Financial reasons are -almost- enough incentive. Buying new pants is expensive. Discomfort is also a pretty good incentive. Although that tends to peter away as I start wearing my drawstring pants more often to work.

I love food. It comforts me when I'm upset. It's there to celebrate when I do well. And it keeps me company when I'm reading in bed. In the absence of a significant other, I think food has become my surrogate boyfriend. Food and I have a good relationship.

"Oh definitely, it gets me more excited than any boy has in a while." -Lux

Fortune Cookie: "You will find great love." Yes, my mother actually mailed that to me.

My mother is on the warpath. It is impossible to have a conversation with her that doesn't involve finding a husband. It's not that she wants me to get married now. It's that she wants me to be well-on-my-way. She's no silly dolt. She knows I'm too young to get married now. But she figures, for me to be ready for marriage at 25 or 26, I should be finding the right person right now. Which makes sense mathematically, but it's a fact I try very hard to ignore. She's coming to see me this weekend. I bought her Broadway tix to Phantom for Christmas. Put a hole in my budget. But since I'm not very nice to my mom on a day-to-day basis, I figure the least I owed her was a good show. My goal for the weekend is to keep my smartass remarks to myself. I'm going to find a nice Chinese restaurant to take her to in Chinatown, and then take her to Barney's, Henri Bendel, Fifth Avenue, the works. She'll love it. And if she happens to want to buy me something at Barney's, I'd be happy to let her. After all, I'd be paying for it anyways. And I don't mean financially. I mean in mental strain. I'll have to put up with a whole weekend of criticisms and not-so-subtle hints about my single status. Just grit your teeth and bear it Nine. Nod and smile when she says "You know, I never understood why you never dated a Wharton boy while you were at Penn." Or "Whatever happened to that nice boy from freshman year?" He was a friend mom. "How come he never was more than that? I really liked him you know." "He's gay mom." I can lie with a complete poker face these days. Must... control... rolling... eyes...

My mom hates it when I roll my eyes. She tells me I'll never get a man like that. "It's so unattractive." Great.

I told her that I was coming home next week to get my hair cut and that I was bringing a friend with me. "Is it a boy?" I could hear the hope in her voice. "No mom, it's Lux." It's sick how I get a small measure of satisfaction out of disappointing her.

I am a terrible daughter.

But the bottom line is, I have a hard time seeing myself married. Probably because it's hard for me to imagine finding true love. Part of me thinks I don't deserve it. I haven't done any good to anyone. Plus, I'm a seriously flawed individual. Sure, I'll believe that someone can love me. But to love me -forever-? Forever's a long time.

My best friend from high school got married last March. Her one-year anniversary is coming up. They bought a house in Philadelphia. And meanwhile I'm still trying to figure out how to attract guys who aren't drop outs or potheads. It was a beautiful wedding. Her husband got down on one knee and sang to her at the reception. I tried not to cry. I don't like being one of those prissy girls who bawls at weddings, but my eyes got kinda teary. partly because it was so sweet. And partly because somehow, I didn't believe that that would ever happen to me. It seemed like such a foreign concept. I cried because I was happy for her. I cried for her, and for myself.

This past weekend, a friend said something that's been ringing in my head for days. She said, "You know, when I was little, I used to think that I'd have kids when I was 24 or 25. And now I'm 24." She's still single. She sounded sad. The rest of us were silent. Because she had voiced what we were all ignoring. We're growing up. All of us live in ultimate denial that there's any hurry. We still live like we're 19 and in college. We ignore the math. Because if we don't, we'd all fall into despair, we'd become so desperate that we'd take any guy out there. And sometimes, even when defeat is imminent, all you can do is face it with a brave face and pretend everything's okay. Sometimes, in order to carry on with life, you must live in denial.

Is this the point at which women start settling for less?

Project:Migration of FTP servers and corresponding transfer jobs from one environment to another.
Role: Making sure that nothing breaks during the move.

This means that I do testing. I run a bunch of scripts in the new environment, and if something breaks, I figure out why and fix it. Booooooring. However, the worst part of my day is calling people. In order for me to determine whether something broke or not, I have to send the file over, then call them to make sure it got there in one piece. Usually, I end up calling these people more than just once. We develop a relationship.

To make my day go faster, I play a little game with myself. I categorize people into "I like you" and "I don't like you" lists.

I judge who I "like" and who I "don't like" based on how helpful they are to me. A few people are middle of the road. Semi-helpful, semi-not. I categorize those based on their voice and their names. Example: Scott Ashley is on my "I like you" list. That's a terribly sexy name. Example: Matt Jones is on my "I like you" list because he had a wonderfully low voice.

The worst is when I get the runaround from someone who isn't the person I'm calling. These people are usually other girls. They're either a) the person's secretary or b) a tech girl who is on that person's team. Scenario b) usually happens when my contact is on a helpdesk sort of position and has a "help hotline" as his phone number. These women always give me a hard time. I'm thinking it's because they feel somewhat territorial of these guys, and I'm another woman horning in.

me: "Hi, may I speak to Stan?"

the runaround: "... May I ask who's calling?" "...Is he expecting your call?" "Where are you calling from?"

Good Lord just put the damn guy on the phone. I've been tempted to answer that last question in a variety of ways.

"Oh, I'm just calling from home. I wanted to tell him I had a wonderful time last night."
Or "I'm calling from Triple X Video Rental. He's overdue on returning My Little Pony."

Why do I think such terrible things? I'm going to get myself and Stan both fired. Whoever he is.

My favorite guys are the ones who work in companies down south or in the midwest. They're so nice and easy-going and always ask me what a gal like me is doing working in tech. If it'd come from the mouth of anyone else, I would've pulled some feminist stunt on them. But when that question is asked with a southern drawl, you can almost -see- the grin and dimples through the phone and somehow... it's not quite as offensive.

My favorite email exchange:
"We've received your files and successfully decrypted them. They're timestamped at 11:43 and 13:12. -Matt"
"That's perfect. Thanks so much for all your help! -n"
"No worries. Appreciate the calls and service. -Matt."

I can't believe it. I thanked him, and then he turned around and thanked -me- for bothering him. What a winner.

Brunch and Spaghetti.

I was supposed to have brunch this morning at Sara Beth's with Spaghetti, this guy I met on Friday at Suba. He originally wanted to have brunch on Saturday and was disappointed when I wouldn't cancel my lunch with a friend for him. He asked about Sunday, suggested Sara Beth's, and said he'd call to set up a time. Then he insisted that I take his number too, even though I didn't really want to. I was surprised he wanted to do something this very weekend. Normally, guys wait a week before asking you out, if they end up doing it at all.

I spent last night at Bauhaus for G's birthday and expected a missed call and a voicemail when I left. Nothing. Which wouldn't normally bother me. Getting numbers at a bar means nothing these days. But for this guy to set something up and seem so eager beaver to do it, and then not call, was a bit weird. I guess this means brunch is off. I thought vaguely about calling him. I had nightmares about it all morning, to the point where when I woke up, I wasn't sure whether I'd actually done it or not. This is the ultimate dilemma. Do you call a guy when he doesn't call you? Especially when you have his number, not because you asked for it, but because he insisted you take it? Was all that talk about Sara Beth's and brunch on Sunday just all talk? The words of a drunken man? Something doesn't jive. Well, I took the plunge and called him. Lux told me once that you regret the things you don't do more than you regret the things you do. I left him a voicemail about whether this afternoon was still on. I was a bit groggy so I'm sure I sounded like I had a frog in my throat. I imagine if he calls me back, thumbs up. Otherwise, thumbs down and I'm deleting him off my phone book in a burst of pointless revenge.

Kicks and the New Generation.

I went unsuccessfully shopping for sneakers today. As I scoured the shoe stores in Soho, I could not find one pair of running shoes I liked. I couldn't understand it. Does no one carry normal sneakers anymore? What's all this metallic crap all over them? And zippers? I just want a standard pair of lace-up sneakers. For running. No checkered patterns, no funkiness. That's when it hit me. I'm officially old. I no longer like new trends, and find myself turning my nose up at the "crazy" stuff that's out these days. I'm heading out for one last-ditch effort to Foot Locker tomorrow. In a worst case scenario I'll come back with one of those nutty sneakers that's out these days.

Boobies!!

Now that I've gained weight, my wardrobe is severely limited. My goal today is to buy sneakers for running. I even made an impulsive purchase and bought the Sony MZN707 off of Ebay for a whopping 165! I placed my bid in with 3 minutes left. 5 minutes later, I had won it. Talk about instant gratification. Now I have music to run to, and by the end of today, I'll have sneakers to run with. This leaves me with no excuses for not exercising.

I tore my wardrobe apart looking for something that I could still fit into for going out. I settled for my "comfy jeans" (because my dressy jeans are scandalously tight now) and a low-cut black shirt. One thing for weight gain, I think I have cleavage now. I'll be sad to see these puppies go.

Yeah. I guess I'm not. Except I don't squeal.

But you're not.

Yeah it would. Although it makes me feel so unbelieveably sickeningly GIRL sometimes it makes me want to puke. It makes me feel like one of those stupid girly girls. Because I end up thinking such terribly sappy thoughts about them that I can practically see the bubble-gum-pink halos. I kinda like myself better when I'm not being stupid. I'd like to think that I'm the kind of girl I would respect. And I tend to be more of that type when I'm single. I hate the stereotypical princess girl who squeals over a Tiffany's gift from a boy. I'd like to think I'm above that.

I suppose it would be nice.

Hey, nowhere to go but up.

After your last experience, I'm surprised you didn't turn into a man-hating lesbian feminist.

Non-existent boyfriend. Although it'd be nice to have an existent boyfriend again.

??

I wasn't even thinking that far ahead. I was thinking more of... christmas gift from boyfriend.

One day baby! A big fat diamond!

Let's take a page out of Jon's blogging roots.

It's G's bday tomorrow. C. asked me to take a look at the Tiffany's site to see if I could suggest any good presents for her. So... I'm looking at the Tiffany's site.

Music sets my soul free.

Ella Fitzgerald is a woman of many emotions. When I last walked with her in Central Park, she made me appreciate the nip in the air, the people walking by, the fall colors on the trees. When I listened to her over Christmas, she made me think of chestnuts and fires and snow.

Today, when I listened to her at work, she made me think of love. For all her wonderful voice and wonderful tunes, each song is fundamentally about men and women's relationships with them. That is what makes her timelessly appealing. Some things don't change, and cross-sex interactions is one of those life-long mysteries that no one will ever quite figure out. Men will always be a completely mystery to women (Why do they do that? How can they not get it? Why are they so weird?). And likewise, women will always befuddle men. And yet that magnetic attraction will always remain. Perhaps one of the fundamental points of attraction is that men and women -are- so different. After all, what fun would it be if you dated someone who was exactly like you? Part of making a relationship work isn't about understanding everything the other person does. No woman will ever completely understand a man. Men are completely different creatures.

Ella is all woman and she knows it. She flaunts it when she has to (Baby It's Cold Outside w/ Louis Armstrong), aches with a woman's heart ("Only man I ever think of with regret." - Someone To Watch Over Me), cries the ocean of angry vengeful tears that every girl who's been freshly dumped is familiar with ("Now you say you're sorry for being so untrue. Well you can cry me a river, I cried a river over you." - Cry Me A River). She understands my strange attraction to bald men ("You make me smile with my heart." - My Funny Valentine), and hopes with every 20-some who is cynical and doesn't believe in true love ("Love's a hand-me-down brew." - Black Coffee), but still somehow wonders if she'll ever find The One ("Maybe I will meet him Sunday maybe Monday maybe not." - The Man I Love).

Ella reminds me of what it's like to be in love. Love isn't all fun and games. Love is the whole shebang. The fun and the terrible craziness. Love is a roller-coaster ride. You reach incredible highs and dip down to terribly low low's. You no longer belong to yourself as someone else has direct impact on how your day will go. Ella reminds me of the whole panoply of emotions. The whole panoply that I haven't experienced in God knows how long. Partly due to practicality, partly due to fear, partly due to fed-up-ness. After all, if you throw up after a roller coaster ride, it'll take a bit before you're willing to set foot on another one. Ella reminds me of the thrill of the whole thing. I've been fearing the low's and forgotten the high's. She makes me wonder if maybe it's time to come out of my self-imposed cocoon of safety and warmth. Stop hiding in my beloved hidey-hole. Perhaps it's time to peep out and see what else is out there.

Life lived in khaki has its pros. But I want my life to be a splash of colors. I want to be a Kandinsky painting. Perhaps a Van Gogh in his cubist days. I want to be bright brights, and terribly dark darks. After all, can you truly experience and appreciate the bright vibrance of joy if you haven't also experienced the dark undertones of despair?

My desk is a mess. Or, to be completely accurate, it's an organized mess.

There are piles of paper all along one end of it. But they're neat stacks of paper. Neat stacks of unfiled, unorganized, random bits of information that I thought I would need. This means that "important" emails are stacked inbetween print-outs of code that are in between install docs for this software or that software that are inbetween contact lists for this organization or that organization. But to the untrained eye, i've just got stacks of paper that people assume are organized in some fashion. I say, nothing is organized unless it's in folders. Folders are an indication that thought was placed into the placement of each sheet. Folders are an indication of categorization and organization. Stacks of paper, however neatly they're stacked, are not. Stacks of paper are an indication of disorganization combined with an obsessive compulsive need to -feel- organized. Stacks of paper are an indication of a faker. A blissful ignorer. That's me.

Fortunately enough, I've never managed to lose anything. Whenever I want a certain piece of information, I go digging through my stacks. I have a vague idea of which stack any piece of information would be in, based loosely on how long ago it was. The stack all the way in the right corner contains information that I thought would be important when I first started this project. The stacks worked theirselves towards the left.

I -never- lose anything. Besides the occasional glove. I've never lost my keys. I do manage to misplace them almost every day though. I've managed to lock myself out of my apartment exactly 4 times since I've moved in, lock myself out of my laptop only once, and lock myself out of my desk drawer only twice. I've lost my cell phone zero times, but left it by mistake in the hotel three times. But I've recovered each item every time. I never lose anything.

But today, I lost something. I couldn't believe it. I scrabbled through the stacks of paper looking for it. The sheet of paper that has all the account login's and passwords for all the business partners. Yes, the master sheet. The sheet that has the ONE and ONLY copy of the login's and passwords. If that sheet is gone, no one else has that information. It's not stored in soft copy anywhere. It's a handwritten piece of paper. It was a security measure to only have it stored in one place. And I had lost it. I went through everything, searched the most unexpected of places (including the women's bathroom). I saw my career flash before my eyes.

I went to see Supervisor Z. with dread in my stomach and my heart in my throat. For all my hating on this job, I would hate even more to get fired. There's something debasing about getting fired from a job you hate. I hate the job. But I don't want it to hate me back. I told him I couldn't find the account sheet. He gave me a funny look as if I was kidding. "You're kidding me, right?" I wish I was kidding. He raised an eyebrow at me, and then dangled a piece of paper in front of me. He had it. He had the damn sheet.

"How come you didn't tell me you took it?!"
"I did. I told you I was going to borrow it right before lunch."

...He did tell me. I completely forgot. I went back to my desk with my ears burning. Burning and relieved. Business isn't made for scatterbrained absent-minded people like me. I'm a ticking bomb waiting to get fired.

Peer Review.

Aw. I'm touched. Thanks to Jon for the link in his blog (2/18), and to Karma Bum for his support as well (1/12). Nothing makes your day more than having a friend turn to you and say "Hey. You rock."

Okay, so they didn't -actually- say that. But I know that's what they meant.

I met Jon recently this summer. My friend from summer camp is his friend from college. Imagine that. It turns out, he knows my college roommate too. As well as a whole slew of other people that I knew. He sauntered on over to New York last summer and dropped on by in that oh-so-casual way of his. Phone call: "Hi. I'm coming by in about... 5 minutes." "Wait, I'm kinda busy. I just moved into my apartment today. I'm trying to build furniture." "No problem. I'll help you build." Alright. I can handle that. My brother had left me to fend for myself as he went to go visit his girlfriend. And so I met the infamous Jon. He helped me build furniture. Now, everytime I look at the broken hinge on my IKEA wardrobe, I think fondly of him.

Karma Bum went to college with me. I met him when I was living in a frat house last summer for 150 a month. Yes kids, I lived on the top floor of a fraternity house that had no air conditioning, and I had a loft bed. My room could've been the set for Britney Spear's "I'm a Slave For You" video. Claudia lived downstairs. I'd sleep on her couch when it got too hot in my room. And KB was a friend of Claudia's. He was writing a book at the time. A novel. He had a website where he'd post up chunks of his book as he wrote it. I was intrigued. An investment banker who is writing novels on the side. I'd just started my own fledgling blog at the time. We swapped url's (yes yes, geeky), and that was that. He actually prefers calling me Nine now instead of my name, which he had been using for some time before the url exchange. Cute. He's now living the life I dream of. He's quit his job and is going to Oz to go backpacking. I've lost a comrade, but I wish him well on his escape from corporate hell. I'm following slowly in his tracks. Tell me what it's like out there Mr. Fisher. I'm on my way.

The Perfect Storm.

Yesterday, I stepped out of my apartment building at 6:30 AM and froze. It took me a few seconds to put my finger on exactly what seemed eerie and out of place. I couldn't quite pinpoint it. Then I realized that there was nothing to pinpoint. What was eerie was the lack of something, the lack of sound. I had never seen New York City so quiet before. I tramped my way through the knee-deep snow, dragging my luggage behind me. I stood on the corner of 62nd and Broadway and tried to find a cab. For the second time that morning, I got that eerie feeling. There were no cars on the street. I felt like the world had ended in the night and I had somehow been spared. I was alone in an empty city. Just me and the darkness and the lamplights and the blizzard that blew silently around me. The City that Never Sleeps had been put to sleep under a 2 foot blanket of snow. I shivered. I waited on the corner for about 10 minutes before deciding to undertake the trek to Columbus Circle. Maybe the subways are running. At that point, I was anxious to see any sign of life. Logically, I knew it was impossible that the world had ended. But I couldn't shake that creeping feeling on the back of my neck. That I was the only one left. I wondered vaguely whether it was up to me to repopulate the entire world. Whether I was the inadvertent new Eve and that this time, God had decided to punish mankind by snow instead of a flood. He said he would never finish the world by water again. Does snow count? Am I taking God up on a technicality? If I have to repopulate the world, that's an awful lot of sex. Pro. But that's an awful lot of childbirth also. Con. Who's my Adam? I had a flashback to all the bad things I'd done in my lifetime. Is all my bad karma coming back to haunt me in the form of a terrible bucktoothed, slobbering, disgusting Adam? It gave new meaning to the popular rejection line: "I'd never date you even if you were the last man on Earth." I realized that if there really was only one man left on Earth, I'd probably date him. It's terrible what darkness and solitude will do to a human mind. Imagination is a larger foe to fear than any boogeyman.

The traffic lights were the only other signs of life. Those three-eyed sentries that normally held so much power, directing the ebb and flow of traffic into the controlled chaos that is New York, now blinked and directed invisible cars with non-sounding horns. I made it past one such sentry. One block. Fifteen minutes. I looked back at how far I had come and wanted to cry. One block. The only sign that I'd walked that block was my panting breath, the snow that kept flying in my face, and the tunnel I'd made through the drifts with my suitcase. I stood by the traffic light. Partly because it made sense to stand at an intersection with the wild hope that a cab would come by. Partly because it made illogical sense to stand near the sentries, the only other sign of life, a symbol of authority and order, if a somewhat empty one. I walked another half block in the middle of the road because it was marginally easier to walk through packed tire tracks. I worried uneasily about getting run over. Visibility was only a few feet. A few cars drove by, but no cabs. I started to wave down any car that came by. I was a small figure in a black coat, with black wellington boots, and a black hood over my head. I imagine I looked like a female child 21st century version of the Grim Reaper. I stood on the corner with my suitcase, stuck my thumb out, and tried my best to look as unthreatening as possible.

A couple picked me up and brought me to Penn Station. They refused money but I gave them 10 dollars anyways. My train was only running half an hour late. I was grateful and disoriented at the same time by the subdued hubbub of Penn Station. Relieved to be catapulted back to the real world, where I didn't have the responsibility of being Eve. But disoriented because I'd so thoroughly convinced and frightened myself with the idea that it was disorienting to be just another Joe Schmoe, the female version.

I pulled into Connecticut 3 hours later and worked from the hotel lounge with Supervisor Z. The office building had closed for the day. It was the usual stuff I complain daily about. Insubstantial intangible knick-knacks. Arranging conference calls. Organizing emails. Making to-do lists. Making excel sheets with deadlines on them. Calling people to set up testing schedules. I looked out the window into the blinding blizzard and couldn't stop grinning. The storm had become what it usually was to me. Lots and lots of snow. Snow, like chocolate, makes me feel euphoric. The storm had become relievingly normal. No longer a harbinger of the end of the world. It just made me happy like snow always does. And suddenly, my inconsequential job seemed awfully nice in its mundane normality. I felt relieved to be doing all those nonimportant things. I wouldn't have to repopulate the world on my own after all.

The Pawn Shop of Life.

I used to be able to see the future so clearly when I was younger. The rule was: if I could imagine it happening, it would happen. But I can no longer see the future so clearly. It's like a huge concrete wall has sprouted up in front of me. And not only can I not see the future, but I can't even imagine it. I used to know what I wanted. If not exactly what I wanted, I knew at least what options I had in front of me. A wide array of possible futures that I wouldn't mind having. At the age of 7, it was a choice between being a waitress, a fireman, or an astronaut. At the age of 15, it was a choice between being a scientist, a doctor, or an astronaut. At the age of 22, the choices have suddenly disappeared in the wind. I'm left with nothing. I have no desires. All that remains are un-desires. I went from a life full of "I want to do this!" or "I want to do that!" to a life of "Well... I know I don't want this." My imagination is left with nothing to play with, nothing to daydream about, nothing to run amok with wild possibilities. Everything seems distasteful. Nothing has that pink halo that is so characteristic of dreams. Everything has the gritty grey of reality. The 6 year long toil that composes a PhD in science. The thousands of dollars of debt that transforms an individual into a lawyer. The sacrifice of the soul that is required to turn an analyst into a partner. There are no daydreams anymore. Only a choice of the lesser nightmare. The path that has the lightest feet of lead.

I've changed so much from the child that I was. I was a dreamer. I believed in faeries for much longer than the average child does. I believed in Prince Charming for an awfully long time as well, until my ex-boyfriend came along and dashed that idea. I believed that all things in life were fair, that people who deserved it were rewarded, and that if you worked hard and were honest - you would end up in a mansion with wonderful kids. I could imagine myself as a grown-up. Going to work with people who were exciting and smart, loving my job, and having that wonderful significant other that is built from bits and pieces of male leading characters from a variety of romantic comedies. Now I can't imagine any of that. I've realized that no matter where you work, there's going to be a jackass somewhere, loving your job is not possible when you're trapped in cubicles - the 21st century equivalent of slave labor, and that male leads in romantic comedies are nothing but that... male leads. Nothing in life is quite like it is on TV. I used to sigh dreamily at the end of romantic comedies. It'd leave me feeling sappy and slightly depresed, but dreaming of the time when I would meet that perfect man. Now it leaves me just as slightly depressed, but mainly because I know that realistically, no guy can ever live up to such things. And the purpose of romantic comedies seems to be to show girls what they will never find in real life. Besides, to be quite honest, if a guy I met pulled some of those "dreamy" lines on me in real life, I'm likely to roll my eyes at him and ask him if this is a joke. Some things are better left in movies.

I think my imagination has died. I can't imagine being in a job I love. Mainly because I don't know what to imagine. I can't imagine meeting my perfect man. Because it's been so long since my ex-boyfriend, that I can't imagine ever liking someone that much again. But that might be a good thing. It's probably not healthy to be that blindly infatuated with a guy again.

Lux and I decided to make a list of things we wanted in men last night, after she roundly trumped me in Scrabble (she beat me by 100 points! I want a rematch.) Top on both our lists were: Easy-going. Rugged. Guys who know how to change the oil in their own car. None of these soft pansies who pay everyone to do everything. It didn't take us long to figure out that if we wanted this sort of guy, we were living in the wrong city. We live in New York, home of uptight investment bankers and easy-going rich boys with wealthy trust funds who wouldn't know a sprocket from a wrench. Easy going isn't quite en vogue in the city that never sleeps. We, of course, fit right in, being rather anal ourselves. We're part of the city that never sleeps, the fast-pace, the double-talk, the slick scenes, the perpetually single. But where are we supposed to meet nice guys when we're traveling every week for work, spending our nights in a hotel room with the TV and room service, and spending every weekend doing bills, laundry, and charging up on alone-time? It only added to the growing cycle. We decided that our lives, instead of evolving, had devolved - into an unhappy mix of careers and men. Did we really ever talk about anything else? And when we did talk about these two items, did we ever talk happily of these? What has become of the well-rounded dreamy-eyed college girls we used to be?

Somewhere along the way, things got lost. The dreams went away not because imagination went away, but because even imagination needs some fuel to get going. And cubicles provide little fuel. As do over-slick boys in bars. The dreams went away because it's hard to move right now. In this economy, having a job, period, is something to hang onto. People are sitting unhappily in them because there aren't any other jobs to go to. There's not enough time to look for another job as we're shuttled from project to project, and even less time to take care of our own psychological needs, much less look for a boy. It's a tough time. All my friends are buying lottery tickets. It's a sign of the times when the young ones dream of a better life the way the older generation does.

The dreams went away, because we're becoming part of the older generation, and the cost of each dream is becoming apparent. We're no longer window shopping for futures, but have entered the shop and started to haggle with the Divine Dealer. The currency we pay with is time and dignity. Loiter too long, and you'll be hustled out of the store with nothing but the free circular in your hand. Haggle too much, and you end up with a product you had to compromise on. Browse carefully. For on each item lies a little price tag. Look at all the shiny futures. The aim is to purchase what you want, not what other people want, not what other people tell you you want, not the shiniest one in the display, not what seems to be a "such a great deal!" Weigh your pocketbook carefully, and determine the true value of what you have, and the true value of the prospect in the window, whether you're shopping for career prospects or significant others. The process doesn't really change. After all, in all cases, you take the final purchase home and live with it. Sales are not final. But only store credit is allowed, since you can't buy back time. It's time to take out the pocketbook and flash the money, to show that you're really serious about making a purchase. It's time to really look carefully and decide. Put your mouth where your money is. And hold your breath that you won't get ripped off.

Weekends.

I did a quick calculation. Right now, I spend weekends home in New York. This means 2 days per week, times 4 weeks per month, for a grand total of 8 days per month that I spend at home. For my 1240 rent, that's a pretty damn expensive room I've got. And this weekend, I'm spending at Lux's in North Jersey. So you can up the daily ante some. But none of that matters. Tonight is Scrabble night. It's day one of a long awaited tournament. There are two contestants: Lux and I. I plan to whup her booty from this side of town to the moon with my dazzling three letter combinations. And for every spectacular word formed, the opposing member has to take a shot. Scrabble Hazing.

So in a few hours, off I go. For a weekend of Century 21, Entenmann's Soft Baked Cookies, facials, pajamas, and Scrabble.

Food, Food, and more Food.

I've gained weight. To the point where my pants are definitely uncomfortable. As I was in the bathroom of the office this afternoon, I got up after doing my "business" and buttoned up, tightly. I realized that if I was trying on these pants in a store, and I was in a dressing room instead of a bathroom stall, I would flag down the store attendant and tell her to get me pants in a size larger.

I'm not too surprised. I always gain weight when I'm on a project. I sit in an office chair all day, staring at a computer screen, and then I go home to the hotel with Burger King or room service, and eat dinner on my bed while watching TV. The rest of the night is spent lying on the bed with the remote in my hand. The most activity I haVe consists of walking from my desk to the bathroom, from my desk to the cafeteria, from my desk to the building entrance, where the hotel shuttle picks me up and takes
me to the hotel. From the hotel front door to my hotel room, where again, I lay my body down to rest. A body at rest tends to stay at rest.

Last night, I ate a light dinner and told myself I would refrain from snacking all night. At around 9 pm, I picked up the phone and called room service. Dessert. I wanted dessert. I ordered a Strawberry La Bamba, which was a delicious concoction of strawberries, almonds, cheesecake. I ate it lying on my bed, with the plate on my belly, the fork in one hand, and the remote in the other. I even dropped strawberry syrup on the front of my shirt by mistake, like a true fatty. And I didn't bother to change the shirt either. Just brushed it off with a napkin and finished off the cake.

Mmmm... cake.

The Clinic.

I went with a friend to an abortion clinic today. She wanted to check out her options in case her test results came back positive. It was strange. I was half-afraid walking in, half-afraid that I'd be bombed while I was in there. It was an odd feeling. To be afraid while going somewhere to supposedly get help for yourself. Afraid of people who would stand between you and that help, people who would rather see you die than get it.

We went up the correct floor for the clinic, furtively signing our names illegibly in the downstairs book. The clinic was the most depressing place I've ever been to. The sadness that was there hit me like a mack truck. It filled every molecule in the air. And the silence. The silence was terrible. It was everywhere, weighing down on me, heavy. Silent, except every seat in the waiting room was taken. And I mean -every- seat. Taken by stone-faced women who had obviously been crying. By men who looked quiet and lost. And they weren't sitting upright properly in the chairs either. Women were sprawled across two chairs, half laying on their boyfriends while they wiped their noses. Everyone looked beaten. The only sound was the TV, where some comedy show was playing. The audience laugh track only made the silence more pervasive and heavy. I have never been in such a sad sad place.

It blew my mind that in some parts of the country, women like this had to cross picket lines, had to endure taunts and risk their lives to get abortions. It blew my mind that anyone, anyone could possibly think that any woman would be a callous-hearted individual who has abortions for kicks. I looked at the faces of these women, and I knew how hard it was to even be there. How sad each woman was about what she was doing. The thought of protesters throwing plastic fetuses at these women and intimidating them by calling them murderers and whores infuriated me. How dare they. How dare they intimidate women from getting proper care. How dare they use those kinds of tactics. How dare they. How many young girls have been scared away from proper clinics by these people? How many young girls ended up having illegal abortions in a dirty apartment somewhere as a result? How many young girls died in this manner, without proper medical attention? It made me angry beyond belief. How dare they put these women through more than they have to go through. How dare they. I couldn't help staring at each woman's face in the clinic. Trying to imagine what was going on behind the red-rimmed eyes that couldn't seem to stop leaking tears. The thoughts. I knew they couldn't be happy ones.

We went in for the consultation. The nurse's voice rang out with my friend's name like a bullhorn cutting through the fog. We jumped up in a hurry. She explained to the counselor that she wasn't -positive- that she would be making an appointment here.... yet. But she wanted to see what her options would be, just in case. I crossed my fingers for her that the "just in case" would never happen. The counselor explained the options to us. There were two. And neither of them were pretty.

The first one was the standard abortion. They called it "aspiration". End to end, you'd be in the clinic for 4 to 6 hours. But that includes paperwork. Blood tests. A sonogram. Counseling. Etc. The actual procedure takes about 5 minutes. They open up your cervix and suction all the fetal matter out. And then they take another sonogram to make sure it's all gone. Recovery period is minimal. You might bleed for a few days. But some women get up and go to work the next day and are perfectly fine. And if anything goes wrong, you have doctors around to help you out. Psychologically, it seems pretty traumatic. I mean, this is the real thing. You're ripping it from the uterine walls. It's invasive. They're going into your body. But, at the same time, because it's so quick and has so little side effects, the counselor said that most women can carry on with their lives pretty quickly. Because the next day, your routine comes right back. You can go out and carry on.

The second option was the abortion pill. You take the pill orally on the first day at home. On the second day, you have severe cramping and very heavy bleeding the next day. The cramping is supposed to be terrible. It's equivalent to giving birth. Your uterus contracts to expel it out. You're basically laid up in bed all day. On the third day, you're supposed to push 4 pills up your vagina. These will dissolve and help expel the rest of the fetal matter remaining. You can count on bleeding for a maximum of 4-6 weeks. Or, that's what the counselor said. I skewed it down to 2-3. They always make it higher than usual to cover their butts. And it's not regular period bleeding, she said. We're bleeding fetal matter. We'll be passing blood clots. It's likely to be chunky. Jesus Christ. Seven days after you've taken the first pill, you go back to the office and have a sonogram done. If there's still fetal matter remaining, then you get aspirated anyways. Thus nullifying the whole point of taking the pill, which is to avoid aspiration. But, according to the counselor, this happens in very few women. She did add though, that one woman took the pill on the first day, and the cramping was so bad that she came back and asked for the aspiration. But she also noted that all this depends on each woman's individual body's reaction to the pill and her pain tolerance. Not very comforting.

My friend and I looked at each other. Prior to coming, we'd decided that the pill might be best. It was less invasive, and it made you feel less like you were really having an abortion. I mean, popping a pill seems so deceivingly easy. It seemed more natural somehow. But after hearing the whole story from the counselor, the two abortion methods suddenly seemed like they were on equal ground. By nature, women tend to shy away from things like "aspiration". It seems so... unnatural. And traumatic. You can't deny the fact that you're having an abortion. They suck the pregnancy off your uterus walls. The pill seems psychologically easier. But its worse in the sense that you have to wake up every morning and see your baby in your pants. The pill seems like Chinese water torture. It tortures you a little bit for days and days and days. The aspiration seemed like having your hand chopped off all at once. I tried to think about what I would do in her situation. I tried to think about how panicked I would feel if I was at home taking the pill, and not knowing if this was supposed to be happening this way or that way, and being nervous. What if something goes wrong? Maybe it's better to have doctors around like the aspiration. I tried to think about being on a table with my legs spread and someone poking around in there. Suddenly, being in the privacy of my home seemed better. I tried to think about whether I'd rather wake up every morning and see chunks of fetal matter. Would I want to be reminded for 3 weeks straight with full color detail and gore of what I've done? I thought about whether I'd want to be laid up for 3 days minimum if I took the pill. The terrible cramps. Or whether I'd rather have my insides vacuumed out and then get on with my life.

It seems like being a psychological wreck is a constant part of the equation. That's not going to change regardless of which method you choose. It's choosing between the lesser of two evils that's hard.

I don't envy the women in that room and the choices they have to make.

Snow.

I like it when it snows fat flakes. I like it when the trees are draped in trappings of white velvet. I like how the branches of the trees are etched like delicate black lace against the winter sky. I like it when snow falls in big fat dollops, like drops of whipped cream floating down to cover the chocolate cake of the earth. I like how the lines and angles of the trees are accented by edges of white. How everything is brought into sharp contrasting shades. How the shape of things catches your eye when given a white border. I like how everything is muffled, every sound muted, like the world has been put to bed under a blanket of white. So quiet. So still.

I like how detailed everything looks, as if the world has suddenly been brought into sharp focus. I like how straight the tree trunks look, how I can see further into the woods than usual. How my depth perception is increased. I like how everything looks like it's been covered by a layer of frosting. Yum. I like how the curves in the roads are emphasized. How the snow collects in drifts in hollows. I like how the snow catches in your hair and on your wool coat, lingering for a bit before melting. I like how it collects on windshields and stays, so you can see every edge and curlicue. I like how it snows -up- when I'm in tall buildings. I like how people scurry in the streets with their shoulders hunched over and their faces muffled in earthy colored scarves. I like how a hot cup of coffee trails wispy spirals of steam into the cold air. I like how the lights inside homes look so twinkling and warm, like the windows have become the eyes of the house and snowfall has awakened it, allowing you to see into its soul. I like how snow makes even the ugliest things beautiful, turning junkyards into fascinating twisted shapes of white icing, like funnel cake. I like how everything is turned romantic by snow, and how it warms your heart as it chills your hands. I like how everything is larger than life. The fields look somehow bigger and the trees more majestic.

I like snow.

Gong Gong. Zhai Jian.

Somewhere, in desolate, wind-swept space,
In twilight land, in no man's land,
Two hurrying shapes met face to face
And bade each other stand.
"And who are you?" cried one, a-gape,
Shuddering in the glimmering light.
"I know not," said the second shape,
"I only died last night."
- Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Identity

My grandfather died last night. I got the voicemail from my dad. "Grandpa left last night. You might want to call your mom. We're flying to Taiwan next week." It took a little while to register. I've never known anyone who's died before. I called home at 11 pm to see how my mom was taking it. I knew she didn't get along with her father, but I also knew it must be a shock. After all, you've never really known life without your parents until one of them is gone. As far as you're concerned, they're one of The Things That Always Are.

Or Were. I find it hard to shed tears for my grandfather. Mainly because I never really knew him. He was already largely gone when I saw him for the second time ever, summer 2001. He'd sit in the corner of the room and stare off by himself. We weren't even sure if he was aware that we were in the room. I found him fascinating, even at the age of 20 back then. The human mind fascinated me, and the fact that he was locked inside his own head intrigued me. No one knows what he's thinking in there. I wondered what he could be re-living. His eyes were still luminous even as they didn't focus on me. My grandfather was an extremely interesting character. I want to write a book about him someday.

He was a soldier in Chiang Kai-Shek's army, back in the day. Tall, lean, and strong, he was a young man who believed in a cause. He met my grandmother on the day of their marriage. My grandmother's father arranged the entire affair. My grandma came from an bourgeoisie upbringing. So as Mao was raiding the cities, he'd pillage the wealthy and destroy them. My great-grandfather was worried about his daughters being raped and killed, so he arranged my grandmother's marriage to a Nationalist soldier. He figured that she would be safe as long as she was traveling with the opposing army. My grandfather was a lot older than her, but he was tall and handsome, and came riding into her village on a horse in his uniform. She went with him willingly and traveled with the army for a year or two. They had two children. Then the war was lost, and Chiang Kai-Shek retreated to Taiwan. His soldiers went with him, thinking they would establish a government there, regroup, and then return to the mainland to win back their country. It would be temporary. A hiatus. It would be fun and interesting to be on an island for a little while. They never imagined that there would be no return, that they would never see their families again, that they would never see their homeland again. A small stretch of water away, but forever out of reach.

They never imagined the hostility they would be greeted with when the permanence of living of Taiwan settled in. Taiwan back then was largely agricultural. "Made in Taiwan" referred to people like my mother, who had mainland blood but were conceived and raised in Taiwan. The farmers weren't very open to the new refugees who invaded their land with their city clothing and silks and urban ways. Not that they really brought much over with them. Back then, it cost an arm and a leg to escape to Taiwan. The ship captains charged a fortune because they knew people would pay any amount to save their lives. My grandmother was smuggled out in such a ship after paying a high price for passage. She hid for days in the cargo hold of the ship waiting for it to leave port. All she brought with her was one small bag, and a few toys to keep my aunt and uncle, who were young at the time, quiet and content. They stumbled out on the other end dirty, exhausted, and half starved. Not to welcoming arms or a warm home. But to miles and miles of fields. With not even flushing toilets available. And hostile native farmers.

My grandmother's silk dress drew hostile stares, so she had to get rid of it. It went to make a blanket for the kids. She had to learn how to wash her own clothes for the first time. She had to learn how to cook and sew. She had to learn how to change cloth diapers for 6 kids. Yes, when the realization set in that they weren't leaving this island ever again, many of the soldiers became depressed and turned to comfortable items. For my grandfather, this meant sex (and the resulting 6 kids), gambling, and alcohol. My grandmother's prince who came riding (literally) into her life on a horse to rescue her, turned into a drunk and a gambler.

That is what my mother remembers the most about him. Once in a while, she'd speak fondly of the times when he was sober and fun. But as #5 of 6 kids, by the time she came along, he was pretty far down the road and those times came few and far between. Only my oldest aunt and uncle have any memories of how my grandfather used to really be. My mom grew up knowing nothing but Taiwan. She spoke the local dialect even as my grandmother tried to enforce "proper Chinese" at home. She never saw China. She still has never been there.

My grandfather never saw China again either. Or at least, not while he was all there. That was what broke him the most. The terrible homesickness. He longed for the village where he grew up, his neighbors, and his family. He missed his brothers. He never found out what happened to any of them. My grandmother never found out what happened to the rest of her sisters either, or to her parents.

When I was in Taiwan two summers ago, I went with my aunt (Aunt #3) to go visit them. My grandmother was lucid and cried when she saw me. She said I looked just like my mother when she was young. I cried. Not because I was moved by the event of seeing my grandparents, but because my grandmother was crying. I don't think anyone's ever cried over me before, and that moved me. I could see myself through her eyes. Modern. American. Ridiculously tall compared to everyone else in Taiwan. Wearing scandalously short shorts. My aunt tried to get me to wear something a little more conservative before we went to visit the nursing home. But all I had brought with me were "American style shorts", as she called them. My grandma cried over me for a bit, wiped her eyes, and immediately asked about my brother. Of course. The sons are always the most important. Sons are like the stars that the daughter planets orbit around. And in her eyes, I was nothing but an orbiting planet of passing interest. I told her of my brother's acceptance to MIT. How he's even taller than I am. She cried again. I cried again. Because I doubted that anyone had ever cried over my brother either, with the exception of a few silly teenage girls, and since he wasn't around to be moved by it, I cried in his stead.

My grandfather drooled in the corner. Through all the emotional outbursts, he was like the steady black hole in the room. My aunt whispered to me that they brought him back to China last year for the first time since they fled to Taiwan. They weren't even sure if he would recognize that he was back in his home town since he was so far gone already in the head. But when they set foot in his village, even with all the changes that 5 decades can bring, he started to cry. Tears formed in his eyes and dripped down his face even as his eyes stared into nothing.

That summer, he had relapsed back into the darkness. I stared at him even as he stared at me and saw nothing. I wondered what he was thinking inside his head. I wondered what he saw. I wondered if he was reliving his youth, playing in the dirt path and fields of his hometown. I wondered if he was aware of the sterile nursing home walls around him. I decided that it didn't matter where his body was, because as far as he was concerned, he was already somewhere else. I wondered if he realized that his granddaughter came to see him. I wonder if he recognized me. After all, he did call me by my mom's pet name once when I was saying goodbye. I wonder if he feels sorry that he never got to see my brother before he left. I wonder if he regrets not sticking around long enough to see his grandson all grown up. I wondered what those luminous eyes saw. I wondered what went on inside his head. The nurse must've read my mind because she leaned down and whispered "No one knows what's going on in there. No one knows what he's thinking." But I had a good idea what was going on in there. I knew what my grandfather had wanted the most in his life. And I know that last night, he finally got to go back to China the way he wanted to. Not as a decrepit old man, but as a laughing young man, tall and handsome, on a horse.

So fades a summer cloud away;
So sinks the gale when storms are o'er;
So gently shuts the eye of day;
So dies a wave along the shore.
- Mrs. Anna Letitia Barbauld, The Death of the Virtuous

1+1 = 3.

My friend had a baby on Friday. She went into labor around 2 AM. As of 7 pm, she was still in labor. Good God. Just hearing the update at 7 pM ("nope, no baby yet") gave me a mild panicky feeling. And I'm not even the one in labor. But I shuddered nonetheless and felt a depth of horror that had never been inspired in me by scary movies. Yes, childbirth terrifies me to no end. More than Freddy Krueger, Chucky, or being possessed by demons a la Exorcist.

Pregnancy, like snowboarding, is an all or nothing sort of event. It goes from one extreme to the other. Just like how you always fall violently forwards or backwards in snowboarding, there is no middle ground in pregnancy. People are either thrilled that they're pregnant, or completely freaked out that they are (and desperately looking for a way out). No one is ever "eh, whatever" about being pregnant. Kids are either wanted, or not.

The Roe vs. Wade anniversary was a few weeks ago. Pro lifers marched on Washington, as did Pro Choicers. Though I'm pro-choice, I'm pro-choice with a sense of shame. I'm pro-choice who's a pro-lifer at heart. As far as I'm concerned, other women can do with their bodies what they want. But I'm a relucant prochoicer, becuase I know that when it comes down to me and my body... I have some serious moral issues with having an abortion. I'd be convinced that my soul is damned to burn in hell forever. I do believe that every life is a miracle, and something inside me wonders uneasily, if I got an abortion, would that be thwarting God's master plan? I've lived most of my life with the thought 'Everything happens for a reason.' After all, I can't just... apply my life philosophy when it's convenient for me. People do make mistakes and they learn from them. But part of being an adult is dealing with the consequences of your mistakes. You don't make someone else pay for the consequences of your mistake. You don't let someone else take the fall for something that you've done. You don't duck out like a coward.

But yet, I stand with almost absolute certainty that if I was to get pregnant tomorrow, I would have an abortion. That is a rock solid truth that lies within me, and swirling around it are uneasy misgivings. That truth seems to be the antithesis of everything I believe in. That life is a miracle. That you shouldn't take the easy way out when you mess up. That it's not fair to harm an innocent because you wanted to have a little bit of fun. I realize all this about my morals and about the way I think, but at the same time, I realize that I would still get an abortion. For selfish reasons. Because I want to live my 20's. Because when I think about having to take care of a baby at this stage in my life, it makes me want to cry for everything that will be lost. Because when I think about how much my life will change, it makes me want to despair. Because I know that right now, I'm not ready for one. And not only am I not ready for one, but I'd probably be a terrible resentful mother. And I would never want a kid to come into an environment where they're unwanted. But are these reasons valid enough to justify destroying this little bunch of cells that will eventually become a life? No. Absolutely not. I firmly believe that. And yet, I know I would still do it. Because having a baby right now would mean the downslide of my life. I would most probably slide into the welfare system. I would be less likely to get married as a single mother. There would be more issues. This. This is not how I would've wanted it to happen. Somehow, it all sounds like a lame excuse of "it's inconvenient", even in my own ears.

Still. I know what choice I would make. Even despite my moral discomfort. I don't want to sidetrack my life because of one night. I think about all those single mothers who chose to have their babies instead. You know, the ones on tv who talk about how it was the best thing they ever did, and they're so glad they decided to have their babies. I wonder, would I feel like that too, after I had it? After all, you can't veto things just because life doesn't happen the way you planned it. Would I forever wonder what it would've been like? Would I be like those women in the commercials who see their ghostly aborted children playing on the playgrounds? Would it have been tall or short? A serious child or a laughing one? Would I be able to look in the mirror every morning with the knowledge that I had ended a life forever before it even began? I'm not a perfect individual, but I can say with confidence that I've never really done a Bad Thing. Abortion, I feel, is a Bad Thing. Would I be able to live with this blemish on my soul,convinced that God will make me burn in hell? Because in black and white, the Ten Commandments state: Thou Shalt Not Kill? Will I just spiral downwards into a cycle of depression thinking about what I've done? I read somewhere that the suicide rate for women after abortions is abnormally high. I can see myself thinking that I'm not worthy of living because I've done such a terrible thing. That I don't deserve to have people love me.

But. Despite my misgivings, it all comes back full circle to the hard certainty that I'd still do it. I would learn to live with all of these things. Because I know without a doubt that I would bring them upon myself. It is the ultimate irony perhaps, that I would rather bring all these terrible things upon me, than to bring a new life into my 22-year old life.

Selfishness. That's what it all boils down to. Selfish choices. Mine. My life. Not yours to take away. I'm not ready to have you take my life away. You can have the next 40 years after I'm 29. But no, not now. Yes, I know it's not your fault. It's mine. And I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I don't think any woman sees abortion as an easy way out. I view it as a cop-out, but it's still not an easy road to walk. Living with yourself is in a lot of ways, much harder than living with a baby. I believe that people should have the option to make selfish choices. I believe that if Roe vs. Wade was overturned, our already decrepit foster care system would buckle. There would be a lot of struggling women having babies when they're not ready. There would be a lot more babies abandoned in the dumpsters. There would be a lot more children on welfare, abused and unloved. I believe in Roe vs. Wade. Because it gives women control over their lives. It's easy for men to walk away from it all. But women, we are bound by our nature to take care of our children. We are bound to them by chains of duty and love. I believe in Roe vs. Wade, because it ensures that the children who are born, are wanted. I believe in Roe vs. Wade, because it gives me a loophole to run through should I ever find myself in a bad situation. It gives women a chance to live. And it is a woman's life who is most affected by the arrival of a baby.

I believe in Roe vs. Wade, even as I disagree with the moral nature of abortion. I believe in Roe vs. Wade because I think it is necessary. Because I know I would want to have a choice. Because I know that I would rather live with the consequences and guilt of my own actions than be saddled down by the morality of the masses. Because I know what I would do and how I would feel if I was pregnant today. Because I know that no woman would abuse the law. Because abortion is no walk in the park. Because women deserve to live their lives.

I believe in Roe vs. Wade, because I believe in women. I believe in women's strength. And I believe in women's morality and our overbearing sense of guilt.

Abortion is a burden that most women will carry forever. But we carry it by choice.

The Za-Za-Zoo.

On days like this, I feel sorry for supervisor Z. for having to put up with me. When I'm tired, I get really grouchy. I'm a lot like a little kid in that sense. I feel overall tired, whiney, and complainey. My legs aren't too bad from the weekend, but everything from the waist up feels bruised and battered. It hurts to take deep breaths, and laughing makes me keel over in pain. Putting on my coat makes me wince. I hurt in places where I didn't even know I had muscles. Like the side of my ribs. Touching my ribs hurts. I can tell Supervisor Z. knows something is up by the fact that he's been carefully professional. I've been really quiet, not really talking to him unless I have to. Or not really talking to anyone unless I have to. This is one of those times when I want to retreat into a little corner by myself and make collages out of pretty pictures.

The weekend in Vermont was wonderful. I spent 3 days snowboarding. Lux and I hitchhiked to our class on the other side of the mountain the first day after being inadvertently stranded at the wrong lodge. Our friends had already driven away. We stood at the side of the road with our boards and stuck a thumb out in traditional age-old traveler fashion. Our snowboarding instructor Mark was quite a character. A hale old man at the age of 60-some, he was an expert snowboarder. Complete with wispy white whiskers and a flannel button down shirt underneath his Killington ski jacket, he was the epitome of the "cool grandfather". I learned really quickly that getting the hang of snowboarding is a much more painful process than getting the hang of skiing. There is no such thing as a soft fall when snowboarding. When you fall, you slam into the ground either face first, or right on your back.

Everytime I fell, I could see myself in instant-replay, flipping over in slow motion and landing on my face. I could see myself with x-ray vision (the way they do it on Discovery Channel), my skeleton crumpling as it slammed into the slope. Everytime I blinked the dots out of my eyes, I was surprised that I hadn't crushed a rib. A few times, I really ate it. I got snow in my mouth, down the collar of my jacket, inside my goggles, and IN MY EAR. I had to lie there for a few minutes and wait for the pain to subside before I could struggle up and clean out the crevices.

Driving up to Vermont was wonderful. It made me realize how much I missed my home. It made me realize why people leave the cities to raise their children in the suburbs. We drove through rural vermont with its trees and little stores. It all seemed so wholesome and wonderful. Everyone was so nice. And the stars... I looked up and saw millions and millions of stars. I felt that this, truly, was living. Not New York City with its man-made hubbub and excitement, but this - living as a human being on the face of planet Earth. A part of the cosmos. Looking up and seeing where you belong in the big picture. The way Nature meant it to be. I want to have a house up in Vermont. A beautiful home with a stone fireplace and a large kitchen.

Looking up at all the stars in the darkness made me think about everything else that was out there. It made me think about my problems in perspective. It made me think about outer space and how small we really are. I always wanted to be an astronaut. And I still do. Even with the recent Columbia crash. I always thought it would be the most exciting thing in the world. To see the Earth from above. To explore the rest of what God created. I realized at a young age that you have to have 20/20 vision to be an astronaut. That meant that i was out of the running in 7th grade when I got contacts. But even now, if they needed any doctors to volunteer and live up in the first-ever space colony, I would do it in a second. Or at least, that's what I thought back when I wanted to be a doctor. Even with the risk involved, I'd still undertake it. Everyone dies at some point in their life. It's unavoidable. I'd rather die doing something spectacular that I've dreamed of since I was a little kid than die in a car accident or from cancer.
I doubt they'll ever need a business person in the first space colony ever. But maybe they'll need a scientist.

Lux and I met a boy this weekend. He was a friend of one of our start-group members and was staying at the house with us for a few days. We'll call him Hugh, since has he has a passing resemblance to Hugh Grant. Lux has a mega-crush on Mr. Grant. I have to admit, he's not a bad package. Smart, witty, works in cancer-research, and snowboards. But yet, I didn't feel a twinge of anything. No "za za zoo". I'm like a lesbian, except I don't like women either.

Yet, Mr. Grant did manage to stir up something in me. A thought process about who I am and what I'm doing. I'm relatively sure I scared him off with my humongo monologue about my life crises. Way to go Nine. Start off the "get to know you" stuff by letting him know exactly how messed up and anal you are. After the monologue though, i realized a few things. I spout out the same things over and over again. Pros and Cons. Trading in one dream so I can have a better chance at the other ten. Sacrificing to have the means to do everything else I want to do. Blah blah blah. But what's the big conclusion? I'm all talk. But despite all my analysis about my life, I'm really no better off now than i was before. I'm still standing in the same place. All that wasted energy. I'm nothing but hot air. What's the point of having a report sitting on your desk Mr. bush, if you don't do anything with the information given to you? That's me. I've made my own report but I'm afraid to make a decision on it.

This job I have now, why am I here? I ask myself this question every day. For what reason am I staying? Even with a supervisor that's super-cool like Z., I'm not really all that much happier at this job. It's just easier now to give myself reasons for why I SHOULD be happy, and thus convince myself that I really am. I gave it thought and realized that I'm staying for one reason. The knowledge that this is what society accepts as something that will make me "successful". This is what my parents will approve of. This is what people will nod at and look impressed when I tell them where I work and what I do. This is the accepted path to the conventional definition of happiness. What I'm battling with is the thought of whether I'm right, or whether society is right. After all, societal perceptions exist for a reason. Because they are based in some truth.

What I realized though, is that it's time to stop listening to what everyone says is best for me. Society doesn't have to live my life. I do. It's time to stop listening to other people's opinions, to stop listening to what TV tells me success is. It's time to step up to the plate and make some choices and stop being so afraid. If I make a mistake, at least I can know that I've done it on my own, and not because someone told me to. That's made me realize that I'm probably going to go into science for sure if i get into a PhD program. Because for all the glamour and glitz of corporate life, having a nice paycheck, nice apartment, nice clothes, and new york, can I really say that I feel fulfilled and satisfied? Have I been able to use these new financial means I have to make myself happy? Not really. A good weekend here and there at a fabulous place isn't going to make up for the rest of my life. It's been fun, but I'm starting to see that there's more to life than just this.

Corporate life, like a lot of things in life, is not half of what it's cracked up to be. Like a lot of boys, corporate life is more of a frog disguised as a prince than it is a prince disguised as a frog. And the Prince Charming that was Corporate life ended up being nothing more than a big fat ugly toad. Science isn't going to give me what I want in life later on when I'm older. But hopefully by then I'll have won the Nobel Prize and it won't matter because I'll already be rich. Are Nobel Prize winners rich?

I used to look at my mother and think "she's not a happy woman and she doesn't even realize it". But I could see it. I wonder if I've become the same way. I can feel myself becoming slowly mutated the longer I stay here.

I miss the person I used to be.

Perhaps my lack of "za za zoo" for Mr. Grant may be because I'm not really happy right now despite the fact that it's so easy to pretend, to give myself a variety of reasons for why I -should- be happy. But the bottom line is, it's hard to like boys when I don't like my own life. It makes me feel whiney and complainey 100% of the time. Not exactly fertile ground for breeding romance. And it makes me easily irritated by people. Including cute boys. But in spite of all that, the encounter with Mr. Grant injected a bit of za-za-zoo into my goals-in-life if not my romantic life. Made me rethink all this reasoning I've made for myself and not just reason more, but look into the reasoning.

Lux is smitten by Mr. Grant. She's retrieved his email through a friend of a friend. I can't say I'm smitten, but I do have a few things to thank him for.

Lux: I dunno, it's fun crushing but I haven't met anyone that cool in ages. So why not at least try to keep in touch.
Me: True. All you really have to lose by flinging yourself at him is your pride. And pride is a renewable resource.
Lux: Exactly.

I salute you Lux and hope fervently that my interest in boys will rekindle. Perhaps I'll meet my own version of Mr. Grant. Otherwise, at this rate, why don't we just rip my ovaries out right now and get it over with?

::email nine::