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Monthly Archives: March 2011

Rose colored glasses

We’ ve all heard it before, the little cliche that says you are a happy-go-lucky optimist, looking at the world through “rose colored glasses“.

I’m a bit confused. Since when is seeing the world solely through the pink wavelength an acceptable, much less good, thing? When I look at my salad, I want to see a fresh green salad, not some wilty, salmon-colored, disease-stricken lettuce leaf.

Perhaps optimists have some sort of rare genetic mutation that not only causes them to see the positive side of everything, but affects their eyes as well and limits their physical vision to that of tickle-me-monochrome.

Does this mean they can’t see with 3-D glasses? Do green tinted ski goggles negate their pinkish vision and turn everything black? Does everyone look like they’re constantly blushing and therefore the world seems madly in love (or feverish)?

It’s a paradox. If everything is rose colored, then your lawn, the road, the clouds, everything is pink. Using what twisted mindset can these rose-colored anomolies look up and say “Ah, the sky looks beautiful today, because the entire horizon is colored like the backdrop of the apocalypse”.

Nope. Not foreboding in the slightest.

The gall these people have, automatically associating one of the ugliest colors known to man with all that is good and optimistic. Simply because I do not see the world in one color does not, I repeat, does not make me a pessimist.

Expecting to get cancer, live through a third world war, and watch as the world crumbles around me via climate change and ridiculous wealth disparities?

That makes me a pessimist.

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Posted by on March 31, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Monday Monday Monday

Yes, I had to type it three times just to convince myself that it is indeed this dreaded day of the week. You’d think the signs were obvious; I’m falling around in heels, sitting at the desk and perusing facebook like there’s no tomorrow. Productivity is in the pits, and I am one poorly timed break away from falling asleep at work. Yep, it’s Monday all right.

Unlike the other days of the week, Monday has absolutely no redeeming qualities. It’s useless, bland, and life would be basically the same if not better had no one invented Monday. No one wants you, Monday. You’re like the white color pencil we give to the annoying kid in class because everyone else got the cool colors. Even brown is better than you. Stinkin, poop colored brown.

Wednesday? Hump day. The week is halfway over. You pat yourself on the back for making it through the 50% mark. And maybe hit up happy hour, just for kicks.

Thursday? It’s the day before Friday, the weekend. You only have one more day until freedom, and 80% done with the work week. That’s a B-, but it’s passing!

Friday? Pay day. Weekend. Enough said.

Saturday? You can sleep in, run errands, have afternoon tea and morning brunch (not that we do per se, but we can, and that’s all that matters).

Sunday? Church is pretty cool. You can’t sleep in but it’s still a weekend. More brunches and lounging? Yes, please.

Tuesday? It’s not Monday.

See what’s happening here? Monday is so bad, that simply not being Monday is considered a positive characteristic.

I’m not blaming Monday for existing, or saying that it should curse the day it was born and crawl back into oblivion. I’m not even telling it to come to grips with the fact that no one likes it and that fading from our lives completely would be the greatest thing to happen since my neighbors got unencrypted WiFi.

But I’m not saying it shouldn’t, either.

Yes, dear, we know. I won't tell you it's your fault. But it probably is.

 
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Posted by on March 28, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Please steal correctly

Oh hi there.

I didn’t notice you come in. Feels like we haven’t spoken in a while. That’s odd, it’s only been-

Good grief it’s almost been three weeks?!

Erm. Uh. Yeah…

Time sure flies when you’re not doing much.

Part of this can be blamed on buying Dragon Age 2 (already on my third round, can you tell I like this game?). Part of it can be blamed on my work schedule finally catching up to me. Part of it can be blamed on my brother’s spring break, forcing me to go snowboarding during the week and enjoying a marvelous day off. Honestly, the woes I suffer for my siblings.

Last I checked, March had just begun. Now it’s almost April. Hoo boy.

I don’t even remember much of what happened this month. Except for one thing: apparently someone got a hold of my debit card and used it at someplace called the Thrifty Inn.

A few red lights with this situation. One: the card was still in my wallet. It’s a bit difficult to steal a card if the holder is still holding onto it. You could say that it was an online purchase, but that comes to problem number two: it was for eight measly bucks. What can you possibly buy at an inn, online, for eight dollars? Did they buy on-demand porn or something in their already purchased room? Why didn’t they use my card to purchase that room to begin with then? Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad the amount wasn’t very high, but truthfully I’m baffled. Baffled I tell you.

And lastly: really? The Thrifty Inn? If you’re going to steal someone’s card and use it for as long as possible before they find out, it’s advisable to use it somewhere generic, like a grocery market or department store. You know, normal places that don’t sound like a sketchy trailer park in the middle of the desert with a sign made of lights stolen from the local casino. I’m not condoning identity theft or anything, but come on! If you’re going to break the law, do it right.

Fortunately the bank cleared that up pretty easily, and now I have a brand new identity theft, porn-free card. Whoopee. Three cheers for idiotic thieves and short sighted money spenders!

Anyways, there’s my little blurb. I shall return shortly with a real post later. No, really, I’ll be back within a week. Don’t worry your pretty little head.

 
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Posted by on March 24, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Coming of Age

While driving my brother home this weekend we listened to the blasting music and went back and forth switching between hot air and cold air. Why do boys never get cold? It’s just not fair I tell you. The little red squiggly lines for hot air even look like bacon, aren’t they supposed to fall for that stuff like teenage girls fall for tough guys with soft and sensitive insides?

Amidst the silent temperature debate and my final window roll up, he sat back and stated a thoughtful “Hmmm”. The sort of hmmm he does when he’s learned something new and wants to share, but doesn’t have the knack of twisting conversations to his desired topic yet. I’m sure he’ll learn in good time.

So, to amuse him, and distract him from my subtle switch to warm air, I responded with my own inquisitive “Hmm?”

With a very matter-of-factly face and the best scholarly disposition his tiny pre-pubescent frame could muster, he stated “You know, racism still exists.”

It’s a good thing there were no other cars on the road, or I would have probably swerved into any and all oncoming traffic. Maybe I was being naive, or just too hopeful that my innocent baby brother, who has never even held a girl’s hand, would somehow avoid all contact with this part of the world and forever be a child to this uglier factor of society, that he’d avoid taking another step into cynical adulthood. Guess I should have known better, eh?

Diverting my focus back onto the road, I asked with my most nonchalant tone, “Oh? What makes you say that?”

“Some guy at school called me a chink.” He gave an equally nonchalant shrug, as if it he had just told me that the lunch ladies now wore blue aprons instead of white.

What was I supposed to say? A part of me wanted to tell him to go old school and mess that kid up. Another part of me wanted to be the politically correct good role model, and tell him to take aside the offending party and talk it through like civilized adults. Of course, neither of these would work because a) He would almost definitely lose that fight, and b) I’m not a very good politically correct role model.

My mind became distracted with different thoughts and scenarios. I wanted to go through the history of Asian-American civil rights. I wanted to discuss with him how society is still transitioning and growing and learning. That even though now it’s politically incorrect to call someone a n***** on public broadcasts, it’s still acceptable to go through the “ching chong ching” skit on the radio/TV and have few to no negative consequences. I wanted to explain the double edged sword of model minority status, to talk about the segmentation between minorities caused by differing stereotypes, the so-called preferential treatment Asians receive as middle ground below whites and above blacks. I wanted to lie and tell him that this sort of thing doesn’t happen often and will have no effect on his life, to shield him from the truth of discrimination. I wanted to tell him to not be ashamed of who he is, to not fall into the trap that so many minorities get pulled into that tells them to desire to be whiter, to be “better”.

But I didn’t. For all that I wanted to say, I had no idea how to say it without sounding like a lecture, or without lying through my teeth. Heart to heart talks are a rarity in my family, and for good reason. So instead, I settled with the generic; “I see. What did you do?”

He carelessly leaned forward and switched the air back to cold. “Nothing, I ignored him. He’s pretty stupid.”

Ignoring the urge to go into why it’s bad to judge people you don’t know, I couldn’t help but smile. All my concern for his emotional and psychological well-being faded back into the music and we drove in comfortable silence.

Well played, youngin. Well played.

 
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Posted by on March 7, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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