I’ll be quick and to the point: shoo.
By which I mean: scram.
That is to say: go away.
Or rather: out of the way.
I’m personally still flip-flopping on what appears to be a weekly basis on what’s really the non-issue but, perhaps, consequential residue of my former quasi-crush. Sometimes, I would like to give quasi-crush a quasi-smush just to get him out of my system. He– or my recollection of him– bugs me.
Thus, shoo.
By shooing him away, I can clear space for someone more suitable to me. Makes sense, right? The longer I boohoo and sniffle over him, the longer it will take before someone else can come my way. Because my way is impeded. Clogged by tissues saturated with saline and rheumy. What gentleman is going to wade his way over to a woman with that kind of obstacle course?
I’d say none.
So, to clear the way for a new and improved guy to come around, it’s important and, let’s face it, paramount to permanently put aside the previous dud– er, dude. Same diff.
——————————————————————————————————————————-
ABC Girl: A Bit Confused.
Questioning her identity, her origins, and her perception.
Filed under: Women
Girlfriend.
She was so excited when we first were introduced. Maybe a little too excited.
She enthused how happy she was to meet me and how much easier her last two months would be now that she knew I was here. She gushed on and on about how she’s the type of person who always has girlfriends around, who goes shopping with girlfriends, does manipedis with girlfriends, and essentially enjoys the company and presence of girlfriends. She told me to call her any time, to come over any time, and to even sleep over in the spare bedroom on the third floor of her and her husband’s house any time.
I was touched by her enthusiasm. But I was cautious to trust it—I mean, these were words she lavished on me after our second encounter. They couldn’t possibly be true, right?
The current situation seems to suggest so.
Her husband is the one who brought us together. I was on the verge of stomping out of this country, angry at my fellow Americans’ diplomatic ineptitude, and, long story short, she told her husband to invite me over to dinner after he had called his wife to express his hurt and disappointment after having met with me and seen my hurt and disappointment. So, I accepted the invitation, and she and I got along great.
We’re both of the same ancestry, for example, and can identify with a common history and culture. She’s a writer and I’m a blogger of sorts. She is nice but has an attitude. So do I. She loves Sephora, I love Sephora– simply stated, we seemed to have hit it off. Granted, I couldn’t indulge in the manipedi sessions at the local Hyatt beauty salon—my salary doesn’t exactly allow me to afford such extravagant frivolity—but that didn’t stop me from accompanying her there when she called me over.
She summoned me a lot, actually, and I knew it was because she wanted my company (people are self-motivated, you know). But still, I was wary about being around too much and sleeping over—which I’ve done twice now—even though she insisted I was welcome. And from the looks of the last encounter, I believe, just as I had vocally expressed to her every time she started insisting I could come any time and stay any time, I overstayed my welcome.
The last time I saw her was at dinner in her home. She was upset that her husband hadn’t told her in advance that he’d be out of town for two full nights. She remarked that he “couldn’t wait to get away” from her. (I should mention that I was also scheduled to go on this out-of-town trip.) The dinner previous to this one, something similar had happened—she was irritated and asked him, “What kind of husband are you?” (She hadn’t asked him that in front of me, but her five year old son told me so after his parents were arguing upstairs while I was in the kitchen doing the dishes.)
Small things like that make me uncomfortable about the strength of their marriage, and I didn’t help matters any when one day, casually, I mentioned to her that her husband had told me I reminded him of his wife. The day after my first sleep over, their son happily reported to his mom that I would be moving in and staying in their house because “Daddy said yes.” Kids say the darndest things, no? And this child is highly sensitive; I fear what other observations he has shared about the dynamics surrounding his parents and me.
I know I hadn’t done anything, but the fact that her husband apologetically implied I couldn’t stay the night as I (and his wife) had arranged, and the fact that he didn’t even drive me home but put me in a taxi instead… well, I have a feeling her displeasure had something to do with me. She hadn’t said good-bye to me when I left, having closed herself into the master bedroom. I felt really ashamed during the cab ride back to my place. Really ashamed. As I wrote, I know I hadn’t done anything… but as I’ve written and as I’ve been aware for much of my adult life, there’s something about me that committed men are attracted to.
I’m not saying that her husband is attracted to me. I hope not, because I would feel really bad about that. It’s so obvious to me he adores his wife—her and her rail thin figure—but if I had to come home to a wife who’s upset and unpleasant and wants to pick a fight with me, I’d be more inclined to lay my eyes on someone whose character is more enjoyable. (By the way, isn’t this how many affairs happen in the case of committed men? Emotional as opposed to physical attraction?)
Anyway, I am glad that I hadn’t fully trusted her enthusiasm and eagerness to be girlfriends. I mean, we are—sort of—but not to the degree of proximity that I, personally, would expect if I were the one going on and on and on about how welcome my girlfriend is to my world. After that last dinner, she hadn’t made an effort to touch base with me—I was the first to email a quick message to wish her well (she had been under the weather). She responded. And that’s kind of been it. No more calls to go for coffee. No more text messages about manis or pedis. No more invitations to meet up, much less come over.
What I’ve learned from all this is, sure, women want girlfriends around—until they suspect their husbands want them, too.
————————————————————————————
ABC Girl: A Bit Confused.
Questioning her identity, her origins, and her perceptions.
Well, the rose colored glasses are off. They’re not broken, yet, so I am sure there’s still a possibility for me to feel as I felt for someone else in the future.
From the week he was here, I have to say there’s nothing in the future, per him, and no, I don’t believe he knows what he’s talking about but, hey, I don’t want to argue or be bothered to show him how he’s incorrect. Besides, he wouldn’t like being shown he’s incorrect. He’s a man. Men more than women flinch at having their mistakes pointed out.
So, the wishful thinking’s over. It is what it is, deal with it. Get over it, as he said to me. Nice, right? Get over it. I’m not fully there, yet, but it will help me get there when I get out of here. My current place of residence, I mean. I’m ready to leave.
You know, it’s really stupid. This woman here writing this? She’s so fucking stupid. When she—I mean, when I—started this assignment, I knew it would be very difficult. I knew I would be so frustrated by the conditions. I knew this from my gut, I knew this from Tarot, and I knew this from the final report written by my predecessor at the institution to which I am currently assigned. The report was bad and it fit the bad feelings I had sensed prior to actually seeing the report. I even read in Tarot that I might get fired or I might quit—both of which are openly possible at this point—but that’s not the issue I want to emphasize.
The point is that even knowing all of this didn’t stop me from accepting it. I accepted the nonsense and I accepted the bureaucratic bullshit and I accepted all the inconvenience that comes with being in this third world, post war country. I was able to take the frustration of getting taken for a ride by Embassy delegated locals—my realtor, for example—and I can live with paying too much for my apartment that has a window I’ve had to tape shut because I can’t get it to close properly. It doesn’t bother me too much that the satellite dish doesn’t work and I can’t watch the news in English, and I’m okay that the furnishings are all old and falling to pieces. That’s fine. I can deal. I can make do with cramming myself into a mini-van twice a day and standing on the street, getting covered in car exhaust and filth, as it takes about twenty minutes on average to flag down a mini-van with space for one more. No problem.
Now, however, that the rosy spectacles are off; now that I know he decided I’m not worth his interest; well, now what reason have I to be here? I have none. And that’s the stupid and pitiful part.
This place is not bad—I’ve been through worse, believe me—but it isn’t worth even seven and a half more months of my life if he’s not available. I could take it for him. I could do it for him. It was worth it for him. But without him? It’s not something I care to put myself through, and isn’t that just awful? That he is the make-it-or-break-it variable? I think it’s pathetic. You may think it’s romantic, but I disagree. It’s stupid. For me to do certain things and put myself in certain situations contingent on him?
Idiot.
I think this is something many women experience, and I’m not sure why we do it. It seems to me that more women than men will go out of their way and discomfort themselves for the way and comfort of the men they care and feel for. Maybe it’s our upbringing. I don’t know. But I think it’s something women should be more aware of and cautious of avoiding because once the man is gone, then what? Then we’re stuck with something we hadn’t wanted for ourselves. And why’s that?
Because we were wearing rose colored glasses.
You know what? On second thought, I say shatter the lenses while you can while they’re off so you won’t make the same mistake again.
———————————————————————————–
ABC Girl: A Bit Confused.
Questioning her identity, her origins, and her perception.
I was watching another installment of “The Fierce Wife,” and the jilted wife—who was physically forced by her now ex-husband to sign the divorce decree while she was recovering in the hospital after an automobile injury—is on a mission. Her mission? To win back her ex-husband, who is, by the way, now openly in a relationship with the ex-wife’s younger cousin.
“An Zhen is an idiot,” I mutter to my mom. “She actually wants him back? She’s crazy.”
“Well, she’s trying to get him back because that’s what her mom told her to do,” comes my mom’s reply.
Silence.
“What?” I ask coldly. “The mother told her daughter to try to get him back?”
“Yep.” That yep sounded way too casual and matter-of-fact.
I shook my head. “Her mother doesn’t love her enough. What kind of mom tells her daughter to try to win back a man who treats her that way? He cheated on her! He forced her to get a divorce. What is wrong with her mom?!”
“Well,” my mom answered, “it’s because they have a family. The daughter, you know, is just a kid. The mom thinks that An Zhen should get her husband back to keep the family together.”
I was incredulous. “This man chose to walk out on his wife and his daughter. He decided to leave his family—because he doesn’t care about them. By telling her daughter to win him back, this mom is condoning this guy’s actions. She’s saying it’s okay that he treated her daughter so badly.” Disgusted, I muttered, “What kind of mom would tell her daughter to win back such a son-in-law?”
It didn’t take long for my mom to respond, “A traditional mom.”
I shake my head—and my fist—at that. A traditional mom. My grandmother falls under that category—as does my own mother. It’s not a good thing to be a daughter with this kind of mom who sells her daughter short. From what I’ve been told, my grandma adored my first aunt’s first husband—never mind he was a wife beater, a womanizer, and a dead beat who couldn’t even put food on the table on a daily basis. Why did my grandma like him so much even though he was so awful to her own daughter? Rumor has it that he would give her nice things, was very charming, and quite the looker, too. Yeah, I know this is hearsay, but I believe it’s true.
It wasn’t just my aunt who my grandma discounted. My grandma has the same attitude toward my mom and her relationship with my dad. My dad’s a very good man and the best friend and most loyal employee any person or boss can ever hope for, but he’s not much of a husband. I’ve never seen him physically abuse my mom, but in all other facets, hell, I would’ve left him long ago if I were his wife. My mom? She didn’t agree to a divorce even after he proposed one on four different occasions. My mom has had a very difficult married life, but she stays because she lacks self-confidence. I believe this is my grandma’s doing. Whenever my parents fight (which is about 90% of the time—a conservative estimate), no matter who is right or wrong, my grandma defends my dad. She’s always against her own daughter.
Tell me, why the hell is this picture so skewed?
My mom’s no better than hers. Since 2008, I have not once solicited nor welcomed her advice when it involves my love life. She wanted me to stay with the boyfriend who had lied to me about his marital status; she encouraged me to hang on to DAVE who I was utterly miserable with; and she blamed me for the panic one guy experienced when he realized he liked me more than he had intended, thus abruptly ending things. After telling me I was at fault, she proceeded to coach me on how to get him back.
Get him back? Pardon my ignorance, but why would I want that? I’m not interested once a man so blatantly disrespects me. Do I think so lowly of myself that yes, a man who cheats with me, or a man who makes my life misery, or another man who freaks out on and walks away from me, is a man worthy of me? Do I deserve no better?
I don’t mean to disappoint, but I am not that woman. I’m not even going to say sorry and shrug, as I habitually would when giving unwanted news. This attitude—a mother who undermines her own daughter’s dignity and self-worth—incenses me. By treating one’s own daughter as inferior to the boyfriend or husband who is, in fact, the culprit, it’s no wonder Asian females continue to perpetuate the submissive little woman prototype.
Fuck. That. Shit. Don’t mess with a hybrid of Asian and American. Best of both worlds right here, baby.
When a man wants to walk out on you?
You show him the door, period.
And remember: there’s no all over you in that walk.
——————————————————————————–
ABC Girl: A Bit Confused.
Questioning her identity, her origins, and her perception.
It ain’t gonna happen.
I had diagrammed a flow chart in my head last night and was already thinking about which icons and buttons I could use to make myself an actual visual aid to consult in my mental tug-of-war: to accept or decline the invitation to travel. Thankfully, the universe had already made the decision for me: it was a no go. Why not? Poor timing. (Or, as it may be, good timing.)
In case you missed it, my quasi-crush propositioned me to accompany him on a week long holiday on the other side of the country. I was elated (“He likes me!”). I was bashful (“Omigod, omigod, omigod!”). I was confused (“Wait a minute….”). I was skeptical (“Why me?”). I was suspicious (“What is he up to?”). I was offended (“What kind of girl does he think I am?!”). In a nutshell, I was torn.
And I was thinking way too much about something that was resolved really easily once the dates were suggested. September? Sorry. I’m very likely going to be in neither town nor country then. Pity, because I do rather fancy him and would like to follow-up with that fancy—but it is what it is and, well, I could’ve saved myself a hell of a lot of brain cells had I not thought so damn much into it.
As my self-proclaimed geek chic friend remarked, all women do it. We think excessively and over analyze things that don’t require any analysis at all. Paranoia seizes us and we start to wonder and speculate about different scenarios; raise hypothetical questions and answers; and ultimately look too deeply into what we fathom an Olympic-sized pool that is in reality a pitiful little remnant rain puddle on tomorrow’s sunny day. Goodness, how good women are at thinking ahead.
My thoughts yesterday were consumed by the vaguely pretty woman-ish proposition. I thought about what he thought me to be. (“A tart who travels on her own dime to get down with it?! I think not!”) I thought about what to say and even how to say what I had yet to decide to say. (“Oh my God, what am I going to do?! You know what, I’ll just not answer him—yeah, that’s right, ignore the issue!—but whatever I ultimately say, I have to say so politely and graciously.”) I thought about not going. (“Well, that’s the end of anything more to that friendship.”) I thought about going. (“Well, maybe if he pays… but then I’d really be a whore.”) I thought about my love life. (“I still need a third failed relationship—maybe it’s him? A week of sex between friends counts as a relationship, right?”) I thought about sex. (“Do I want to, yes, but should I, no. But I’ve never done it with a foreigner before. Maybe now’s the time to try. Hmm.”)
You can see from those snippets—and believe me, there was a lot more than that speeding through my head—that yes, I was thinking too far in advance. But I wasn’t just thinking ahead. Not really. What my thoughts were largely centered on was what was in his head. I polled four male friends on what this “Let’s travel together!” thing meant. One said it’s a definite sign of fucking (bingo). Another said sex will only happen if I want it to (now there’s a gentleman), but that quasi-crush should come to me, not the other way around, if he sincerely likes me. Yet another said that sex isn’t as great an issue because, seeing as how I’m attracted to quasi-crush, I would sleep with him anyway (right)—but, the issue is that I’d be out of my element in a foreign environment, which could negatively affect my usual habits and choices (right again). The last male friend said to forget this guy, period—but he has a soft spot for me and I think that’s why he is especially protective of me.
Anyway, my thoughts ran through the mental traffic light that had been flashing the stop signal from the start. Talk about a waste of precious brain power. There was no green indicating go, only red and maybe some yellow, too.
Just like autumn in New York.
———————————————————————————-
ABC Girl: A Bit Confused.
Questioning her identity, her origins, and her perception.
Oh my God! He asked me to travel with him! For a week! Ahhh! I’m so happy!
He likes me! He really likes me!
No wait. What if he has asked other girls the same thing?
Hmm. That’s right. I can’t be the only American girl he knows.
Right. Remember that list of ladies he posted?
Uh-huh.
A lot of them went to UCLA, too. Oh, who cares?! He wants me to join him! Me!
I’m so happy, I’m babbling like an idiot! Smiling like a fool! Yay!!!
But he’s not the one. No, he’s not the one for me.
Oh who cares what the Tarot said? It’s not set in stone, remember?
Yeah, I know, but still. He’s not the one.
What– so I’m really going to search for an air sign? Come on!
No… I’m not. But he just wants a fuck buddy.
Do I know that for sure?
No, but I think that’s all he wants. For a week? He just wants to have sex while on holiday for a week. Right?
Maybe.
Besides, girls aren’t supposed to travel to see guys! Girls shouldn’t do that because they lose.
Definitely right about that. Don’t go to him.
So what am I going to do?
I don’t know.
Like, he said before that he’d like to come to the city and go on a tour with me this summer or next summer…
I remember. How that made my day and made me smile!
and he even said that the thought of that, even if it doesn’t happen and even if I don’t agree with it– he asked for my permission– made him happy. Like, he wrote that he felt happy thinking about that.
Thinking about sex?
No– I mean, okay, sex, but not just sex. I think companionship and friendship are in there, too. We have similar ambitions and, how can I put this, guiding concepts in how to live our lives. By giving back as we take, so to speak. Doing good. Anyway, I know it’s not only sexual with him, but come on. He’s a guy. Guys want sex.
So what?
So what? If I fly my ass out to where he wants to meet, even if in the States, and if I spend a week of playing his stand-in friend with benefits, then am I not going to lose?
Depends. What do I want?
Not just sex, I can say that.
Hmm.
Also, he had said before– long before– that he’d like to come visit me where I am. Or was. You know, in Oman. And even in Korea. But who knows? Maybe he just wants free room and board and, again, sex when he’s hanging out.
Hahaha! Look who’s thinking about sex all the time!
No, it’s true! All men want sex. And come on! He’s somewhere that doesn’t really have too many women. He’s not going to be picky, and maybe he thinks I’m a sure thing because he suspects or knows I like him– I mean, what guy wouldn’t think so, whether or not it’s true? Men think the world of themselves. Yes, I do like him, but what if I didn’t? Would I still keep in touch regularly with him? Sure, because I’m still awed that he’s even doing what he does. I want to learn and maximize his misery. Make the most of it. Plus, I understand how shitty it can be, having experienced the Arab sun and moon first hand. It sucks. So that’s my compassion and sympathy in the correspondence.
Hmm. Okay, so now what?
I don’t know. I’ll have to think on it. I’m not crazy. I have free time now and can afford to travel, and the proposed destination is always en vogue. However, I don’t want to go if I’m just going to be his sex toy for the week. Unless he has worthier intentions than getting into my pants, I don’t think I will accept his invitation. And that’s another thing– because he’s inviting me, does he expect me to pay for accommodations and such? I can fly myself, but hotels and that sort of thing… I don’t think so. Not to be an on-call call girl.
What if I accept?
Well… it would be great to see him again and get to know him some more. Swap notes on future career trajectories. I wouldn’t sleep in the same room as him, though. Or, jeez, if there were only one room, then there had better be two twin beds.
Ha, like with Joe?
Hey, Joe basically overstepped the boundaries and took too much liberty in arranging that trip! I had no intention of going, especially with the expense of India and Turkey and Spain all in six weeks. He and his horniness went ahead and bought my ticket– which I paid for, by the way, because I didn’t want to owe him a single baisa– and I only stayed in the rental unit because the room was wide enough with plenty of space between the twin beds. Granted, I didn’t want to acknowledge his parading around the room shirtless… ugh….
Okay, so no sex?
If I can mentally prepare myself or, better yet, have my period? Then yes. I challenge myself to no sex.
Heeheehee. See what happens, eh?
Indeed.
———————————————————————————-
ABC Girl: A Bit Confused.
Questioning her identity, her origins, and her perception.
Last time I watched that insipid singing show, I complained about how Asian women appear culturally conditioned to act like little girls to maintain their attractiveness and sex appeal. Ick.
I watched some of that same show again tonight because my mom wanted to show me Jiang Su Na’s nose. Jiang is one of those celebrities well past her hey day, kind of like J.Lo or Celine Dion, but a notch worse because unlike Jenny or Celine, Jiang’s a contestant on a pitiful show that’s not even equivalent in heft to “Dancing with the Stars.” Like our Puerto Rican-American and French-Canadian entertainers, Jiang’s well in her forties. I think that background information is sufficient.
While Jiang looks better than many women creeping into their fifties, it’s pretty obvious– even as an Asian woman– that she’s no spring chicken. Tell me if this attire suits a forty-something year old woman: peep toe, four inch spiked heels; black sequined mini skirt; white graphic tee with silver metallic fabric (for the sunglasses print, see) and other bedazzled parts; black three-quarter sleeved leather jacket with over-sized lapel; and sparkly bangles, large hoop earrings, and blingy cocktail ring. Oh, and a black watch with silver trim.
Did I give her attire any justice in my description? Can you envision her now?
My initial reaction was, “My goodness. She looks like a fool, dressed like that. How inappropriate.” Really, had Jiang bent over, her butt and lady parts would’ve been very exposed. There was a point when I even wondered if her skirt was indeed opaque because I could’ve sworn I saw the outline of her, uh, vajayjay and upper thighs in one of the camera’s shots. Mamma mia.
Speaking of whom, my mother’s reaction was a little more sympathetic with a touch of envy and defense. “Well,” my mother began, “She’s a celebrity, so she’s trying to look young.” “But she looks old!” I exclaimed. “Wait, you can tell she’s not young?” asked my mom. “Yes! I told you, even before she came on in person and it was her music video, that her face looks old! She looks at least forty!” My mom went back to her original statement, “Well, she’s just trying to appear young.” We had a brief debate that went as follows:
“Yeah, I get that, Mom, but she looks so stupid wearing that. She’s old! She can’t dress that way!”
“Well! Who said old women can’t wear nice clothes?!”
“I’m not saying old women can’t wear nice clothes. I’m saying they have to dress age appropriately. She’s not twenty! She can’t dress like that.”
“Who says?! A lot of Taiwanese and Hong Kong and Chinese entertainers dress like that!”
“That’s because they have no taste!”
“Well, how do Korean celebrities in their forties dress?”
“With class. Really. Koreans dress very classy, Mom. This? God, Chinese people have no class.”
“Well, I see a lot of Hong Kong celebrities–”
“Mom, Hong Kong is China.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Same thing, Mom. Republic of China. Hong Kong, Taiwan, China. It’s all the same.”
“Well, what about Xiao Ming? You saw what she wore to Emily’s wedding.”
“Yes, I did see what she wore. And I told you when I saw the photo that she looked so ridiculous.”
“Why? She thinks she looks so good, and she has such a slim figure, so why not?”
“Why not? Because she’s in her sixties, Mom. A sixty year old woman can’t wear a polka dot halter dress.”
“But everyone said, ‘Waa, Xiao Ming ah, you look so good!’ See?”
“Mom, they’re Chinese. Chinese people have no class.”
“Well… a lot of Taiwanese celebrities dress like that because they’re stars. They have to give that star look.”
“Mom, if they’re stars and giving a concert, then they wear wild costumes and stuff like that. This is a TV show. The clothes she’s wearing are so regular and every day. She’s not giving a concert, Mom, and that’s not what she’d wear if she were. She’s just singing on a stupid show.”
“Yeah… you’re right. At a concert, she won’t wear that.”
“Right. Plus, do you see any Western women who are older wear stuff like that?”
“Like who?”
“Like Julia Roberts? Do you see her wear that kind of outfit?”
“No.”
“Angelina Jolie?”
“No.”
“Celine Dion?”
“No.”
“See? Western women don’t dress trashy like that. Only Asian women do. And not even Korean women. Just Chinese and Taiwanese.”
“Yeah… you’re right. But still– she looks good.”
“Mom, I know that if you had the body, you’d dress like that, too, so I’m really glad you don’t have the figure because then I’d be embarrassed to go out with you.”
Harsh, I know. I can be so cold sometimes.
Anyway, the question seems to be, what constitutes age appropriate attire? Just because a woman is older– let’s start with the forties and move on up– doesn’t mean she can’t dress in a way that oozes sex appeal. It’s just that, in my opinion, the appeal has to correspond with the age (and maturity, which Asian women seem to severely lack, hence their faulty fashion choices). Jiang could’ve kept the upper half of her outfit along with the spiked heels and just swapped the sequined mini for a pair of indigo cigarette jeans, keeping her dignity in the process. Classy and sexy, no? A mini skirt really doesn’t belong on anyone past twenty-nine, in my opinion. That doesn’t mean a thirty-something year old can’t wear a skirt that falls above the knee– but a skirt that’s only two inches past the crotch?! I don’t think that’s very becoming of a full grown woman.
But hey, it could just be me. I’m a young soul governed by an aged mind in a body that can’t ever catch up numerically. I just think there comes a time when a woman needs to show a little less ass and a little more class.
———————————————————————————–
ABC Girl: A Bit Confused.
Questioning her identity, her origins, and her perception.
Filed under: Women
The beautiful ones? They’re not very bright.
I’m reluctant to say it aloud because I know it’s not necessarily true– but frankly, it’s often the case as I see it: the pretty girls are the dumb ones. What’s more, they don’t even have to be attractive in reality. It’s all in their heads. If they are conceited and think they’re hot stuff, then they’ll behave just as mindlessly as the generally agreed upon authentically hot ones.
I know, it sounds horrible– but honestly, it seems to be the general rule of thumb. Don’t you think? (Yes, I know you do think, but maybe you don’t dare to be un-PC, unlike me.) Besides, as a teacher, I see that mental road block behind a looker all too often– a pretty face with not a whole lot going on in her pretty little head. She could be sitting front and center and still, alas, exist for ornamental purposes only.
Such a shame, really. I don’t know why this happens to the pretty women. It’s like they really think that they can coast through their lives on their good looks. As a result of this mentality, they don’t really make an effort to improve their minds or develop their awareness of much more beyond looking good. They’ll scoot by on the bare minimum and exploit their appearance to compensate for their cranial shortcomings. And they’re smart in that way, I must say, to at least know to make the most of their beauty and exploit it for all its worth– because after a few rounds with Father Time, well, let’s just say he doesn’t mind sharing his sags. But you know, we all grow old and hoary, and it will show. So why not have brains to fall back on when the beauty thing ceases to work?
Maybe that concept is too far-fetched for the fetching. And hey, it’s their life. They can do what they want. What irritates me, though, is when they don’t use their brain when the context calls for it. Like in the classroom, for example. People attend class to learn– or flirt, as is often the case with Asian girls from Asia. (Shameless trollops.) For instance, there was a beautiful matryoshka in one of my classes. She would have been even lovelier in my eyes had there been a bit more sparkle in her brain than on her nails– she brought glittery pink polish to give herself a manicure in class one morning. Alas, she’s just a pretty young thang who’s pretty hollow from my vantage point.
Much like the doll of her native home. But I digress. She was in class, first and foremost, to do her French tips, but also to study. Kind of. So she has a teacher– me– whose job is to help her improve her English standardized exam writing skills. I can’t emphasize enough how much I loathe reading crappy compositions (last year, I paid a colleague—in a different department—fifty US dollars to read and mark twenty-six crap-at-first-glance basic three body essays), but read them I do and mark them I do and constructive feedback I do. Use more syntactical and lexical variety, for example. Insert transitions, duh. Indent, for God’s sake.
I must’ve been a broken record to her because she never made any attempt to fix her sloppy writing. In fact, she was very much satisfied with the shoddy work she produced because she kept repeating it. Unlike two of her peers, one who already wrote phenomenally but still incorporated my feedback, further enhancing his model texts, and the other whose first composition to me was nothing more than bulleted notes but in seven weeks’ time produced fantastic essays after heeding my notes, she never did.
Was it because she’s pretty and she knows it?
Hard ass, had-it-up-to-here teacher that I can be when provoked by insolence, I once told her, “Your writing is crap. Don’t waste my time. Edit it, fix it, re-write it. Then give it back to me when you’re finished. As it is? It’s rubbish. I’m not going to read it.” (And I’m serious– both in what I said and that I said it. I never claimed I was diplomatic.) You’d think a little explicit in-your-face mandate to make a piece of crap writing better would do the trick with Hey Beautiful, but on the contrary, she defended her writing. Good for her to stand her ground—I applaud that, truly—but bad for her to not attempt to improve.
Why ever not? I mean, she was there to learn because she was serious about the exam, but she didn’t seem to like to listen to what I had to say. Maybe she didn’t trust that I knew what I was talking about because, big maybe, I don’t look like I have any smarts or wits. (Oh golly gosh, could this mean that maybe I, too, am a member of the prestigious pretty girl club and hence have no need for a functioning brain? Oh yippee-teehee-go-pretty-me!) I kid. In all seriousness, more likely than not, I didn’t rule the class with an iron fist and so she didn’t believe me. But that’s okay because there are those who do– like my previous student, who wrote to me the following last night:
btw my SAT essay score jumped from 3 to 11 after taking writing class with you! u r the first one that popped out of my mind after i got that score! so thank you soooooooo much caroline! I owe u! 🙂
Ah, satisfaction. Twelve is the highest score an SAT essay can receive, by the way.
Oh, matryoshka. If only you had listened to me when you had the chance, perhaps you, too, could earn such marks. Pity you’re so very pretty dumb.
———————————————————————————-
ABC Girl: A Bit Confused.
Questioning her identity, her origins, and her perception.
Filed under: Women
Why are women so hateful toward other women?
This seems especially true when a man is involved. One of my friends once returned home one night to find her boyfriend in bed—with another woman. A known woman, in fact, and, you could say, a casual friend of the couple’s. Cut to the chase, my friend is still in a relationship with her boyfriend but has severed the other-woman-slash-gal-pal from her social repertoire.
I’ll give you another example, this time involving yours truly. My so-called sister flipped a shameless one eighty on me, mostly because she was a user and no longer had any use for me, but also because she learned from her crush that he had a crush on me and, needless to say, she didn’t like that. And so she channeled her dislike to me, rather than to him.
My question is: why?
Ladies, why do we hate on each other so? I don’t mean any of you, personally, but as a group? As a sex? We’re not very nice to one another and we seem to misappropriate the anger and frustration that ought to be directed to the, ahem, maddeningly stupid men—to lie under the sheets with another woman?! to ignore the charming girl next door in favor of me?!—to the women who aren’t exactly the right people to blame. Men don’t do that; they might scuffle a bit, but conclude it all with a chest bump and chant: “Bros before hos!”
Well, what about women? What’s our tagline for sisterhood?
Think about it.
Tonight, I was watching “The Fierce Wife,” a wildly popular drama from Taiwan currently broadcast on public television hereabouts, and it seems the series has reached its juicy climax: the jilted, teary-eyed wife musters the strength to stagger to her husband’s mistress’ office to deliver a solid forehand, sending her cousin—yep, the wife’s husband’s mistress is her younger cousin and adopted sister—careening to the floor. The wife could have also given her old man a sound slap on the face, too, since he and the third wheel are colleagues and share the same workplace—that and he appeared as soon as his mistress crashed to the floor to, get this, help slip back on her shiny red patent stiletto pumps that she’d fallen out of on her way down.
But the wife didn’t. Even after another confrontation in her home; even after her husband, once again, chose to kneel on the floor with his battered mistress; even after she saw disheveled bed sheets (even after the second show down!); even after her husband tells her he wants to separate; even after all of this, she still doesn’t once raise her voice or raise a hand to him! Not that I advocate verbal or physical abuse, but come on—if she’s going to scream and slap one party, then why not the other one as well?
And that’s what I don’t understand—why punish the (other) woman but not the man? Who of the two in this scenario has greater accountability to the wife? The answer is obvious: the husband. He’s the one who took a vow to uphold and maintain or whatever the verb is his wife’s happiness. That there home wrecker? Not her domain (ha!). Let’s be real: there are always going to be other attractive women who will be increasingly younger and lovelier for Mister Married to behold—but the responsibility to keep his fly zipped and refrain from indulging in opportunity, whether it pursues him or is pursued by him, remains with him. (The same applies to married women and single men.)
Come on, ladies. Let’s be like men on this one. They don’t let their friendships unravel because of some girl. They’d sooner agree to call her a whore. Maybe they don’t believe it (I hope not), but for the sake of their buddy, they’ll say it and stick to it. If that’s what it takes to keep their bond intact, then so be it. There will always be plenty of pretty ladies, remember? (The same should apply to girlfriends and men.)
Chicks before dicks. Remember that.
—————————————————————————————
ABC Girl: A Bit Confused.
Questioning her identity, her origins, and her perception.
In seat 35H, I had a Miranda moment when the flight attendant asked me if I was traveling with the man sitting beside me. As in, if he and I are “together.” Like I can’t fly on my own—heaven forbid!—and would do so if, naturally, accompanied by a (male) significant other.
Nice.
By Miranda moment, I’m referring to Cynthia Nixon’s character on Sex and The City and that episode when she was buying an apartment in New York and third parties—the real estate agent, the mortgage officer, the new neighbor—repeatedly asked, “Just you?” to clarify that there was no guy involved in her purchase and that, why yes, it was her money she was spending to finance the flat: not her father’s, not her boyfriend’s, but hers and hers alone.
I don’t question that a woman needed a male chaperone or guardian for permission to go from Point A to Point B or acquire real estate centuries ago. It’s still the rule of thumb in more traditional (or, less progressive) cultures. But we’re in the 21st century, people, and I wasn’t flying to Saudi Arabia—but does the proper code of conduct for women regarding big decisions (buying pricey property) and big movements (flying across the Pacific) necessitate a significant male presence?
I don’t think I’m as pessimistic or jaded as Miranda, but give me five years to catch up with the character so that I can get back to you with a more definite answer. I didn’t have an allergic reaction to the question (or was it an assumption?), but it made me think twice because it’s not the first time I’ve received that question-slash-assumption. Not too many flights ago, I encountered the same query. I guess it could be a cute way to enter a relationship—imagine gushing to happy friends and family at the engagement festivities that, “It was Bernard, the cabin crew member on flight SQ 16, who matched up so-and-so and me! And yes, we’ve invited Bernie to the wedding!”
But Mister 35J and me? Hmm. I don’t really see a love connection with this arm rest co-owner, and I’m going to assume the view is mutual because, honey, there ain’t nothing pretty about me when I fly for half the day. Why did the flight attendant even assume it’s not 35K who’s flying with him? I mean, it seems more likely that they’d fall under the same age category*, which could indicate a marriage of equal partnership, not highest-bidder-and-play-thing—but then, 35J and I are both Asian. Maybe that’s the sticky adhesive?
Which leads me to ask: Is color what cinches couples together?
Of course not. That’s stupidly simplistic, right? But sure, I can see how people of the same skin color (yellow, in this case) could, statistically speaking, have more in common. Maybe. Similar culture, for example. Language, possibly. Chopsticks, almost definitely (exception: Thailand). And I confess, for all but the past two, possibly three, years of my dating life, I’ve preferred sticking with Asians—just because that was the limit of my comfort zone.
But you know, this isn’t about me. Not this time. It’s about others and how they match make me. And yes, I have been the subject of some not so merry matchmaking. Needless to say, the bachelors my Chinese family members and Chinese uncles and aunties choose are also Chinese. But what’s interesting are the men my non-Chinese friends want to set me up with. Forget who the men are and what they do that makes them individuals—it’s about what they are: Asian. Chinese. Korean. Singaporean.
I didn’t ask for them (I swear), neither for the men nor my friends to find the men. I think my friends just want to see me off the market—or maybe there’s not enough turbulence in their married lives and they want to re-live the dating scene through me. Whatever the reason, they fish for me and it’s yellowtail they catch. I appreciate their consideration and interest in my romantic life… but it only occurred to me from the flight attendant’s assumption, combined with match making attempts, that maybe color is another code to follow.
Or break.
*I glanced at 35J’s customs form when he was filling it out. (Yes, I’m shameless like that.) Let the record show that he’s 21 years older than I am. And he lives in Oregon.
————————————————————————————-
ABC Girl: A Bit Confused.
Questioning her identity, her origins, and her perception.
girlabc 