Tag Archives: imma crazy like that

Wig Out

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I took a nap today from 2 pm to 4 pm.

(Wait. Let me jot down the date for today. On October 17, I TOOK A 2-FUCKING-HOUR NAP, RELATIVELY UNINTERRUPTED, AND WOKE UP ON MY OWN!!!)

When I woke up, I was completely disoriented because I thought it was morning. At first I was confused, then I went into a panic: I thought I had overslept. This seems to happen every time I (get to) take a nap: I need an hour to recover from the grogginess, not to mention the residual memory of the said panic attack. Sometimes I am not sure it is worth it.

The house was absolutely quiet when I stepped outside the bedroom. The kids were outside playing, I remembered them whispering in my ear, asking for permission when I was sleeping. Strewn on the floor were the wig called “70s Dude” and the John-Lennon-esque sunglasses my 7-year-old “Mr. Monk” just got from the annual trip to the (overpriced and crappy-quality) Mega Halloween Costume Shop. I thought, “Why not?”

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The Bloggess was right: Wigs rock!

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I screamed when I turned around and saw Mr. Monk quietly sitting in front of the computer.

“I didn’t know you’re home.”

“Is that my wig?”

Should I be concerned that he was completely unfazed by my behavior?

All of a sudden I heard a commotion: my 7th grader and his friends were running across our backyard, passing the open windows and barreling towards the back door. I pulled the wig and the sunglasses off right before they came in sight. I smirked as I remembered this line from Sara Gruen’s Water For Elephants (one of the books sitting on my nightstand and inside bathrooms which I hopefully will be able to finish by the end of this year)

Keeping up the appearance of having all your marbles is hard work but important.

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I actually tried on several wigs when we were at the said Mega Halloween Shop Stuffed With Mass-Produced Crap. In fact, I believe I tried on ALL of the non-blonde wigs they had: Elvira, Rebel Witch, Lolita, Hot Pink, Flapper Girl, Shirley Dimples, Sexy’n’Trashy, French Kiss Cheyene, Seductress, 60s Babe, Sultry, Punk Girl, Glamour, Madam Destiny.

Here’s the thing. My kids tried to talk me out of every single one. They must have found it unnerving. In fact, I KNEW they found it unnerving and that was why I stayed away from the blonde wigs. Mr. Monk kept on wanting me to try on the wig called “Mom” because

“That’s you. You are a mom!”

My 12-year-old tried to steer me towards the BLACK wigs.

“You should try this one. Or that one.” he pointed to the Egyptian Princess wig and Sassy Black Wig. Finally after the third pink wig that I asked for his opinion on, he said, “You really should just stick with a black wig, you know, because it does not look out-of-place.”

Yes, clearly, they did not understand the concept of Halloween when it came to their own mother.

And yes, though I am not proud to admit it, I sulked. I swallowed an entire speech right then and there and suggested that it’s time we check out and head home.

As we passed by the “Asian” aisle (labeled as so), the 12-year-old pointed out the wall with various geisha, China girl, Far Eastern girl costumes (black wigs included of course) “Mom, look! Yikes!” I turned towards him,

“Did you see? This was what I heard when you told me that I should stick with a black wig: A white woman can choose to be whoever she wants, having whatever color of hair she wants, whereas I have to stick with being Asian. With black hair.”

I sometimes feel very sorry for my children. “Other moms” don’t wig out over wigs, I bet.

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This was the fortune I got today:

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I once read that Fortune Cookie fortune writers have to strive to come up with messages that are neutral, offend no one and appeal to everyone.

What are the odds of this fortunate being “Absolutely not applicable – I am telling you honey, sweetie pie, no, I swear, this is just a stupid fortune, not going to come true, and of course I am not sad that it won’t come true” to whomever receives it.

Head in the Clouds

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I really should go to bed right now. I haven’t slept since I got up at 6:30 am yesterday.

Long story short: On Monday, I found out that the meeting where I would be presenting a Power Point slide deck based on the big giant Excel file that I have been living with has been pushed up to as soon as I land and get into the office. The problem with that is I am one of the worst procrastinators. Actually. No. I prefer to think of myself as a Deadliner aka one who is highly motivated and miraculously inspired when the deadline is right in sight. I’d spend the majority of the time before the deadline ruminating, musing, plotting, strategizing and agonizing over the task. Then when there is no more escaping it, BOOM! I sit down and complete the task with a lot of unnecessary stress.

[Insert clock-ticking sound effect from 24]

And yes, I memorized the times so I could later blog about it! There’s no shame in that…

4:22 am. Finally finished my presentation. OH SHIT FUCK HELL I AM GOING TO DIE!

4:30 am. Shower. Done. Wow I’m Speedy Gonzales.

4:45 am. Still figuring out what not to wear. Priorities, people. They are what keep us straight!

4:58 am. Left the house. SHIT FUCK HELL I AM GOING TO MISS THE FLIGHT! I am so tired but I am not tired. I am so jacked up. It feels so weird to drive the car in this state of utter exhaustion. The car seems to be moving on its own without me exerting too much pressure on the paddle. I keep on looking at the new moon that’s beckoning ahead of me, grasping at the wheel afraid that I may let go or make any sudden movement.

5:06 am. There is only one lane open on the highway. The traffic is completely backed up. Red brake lights as far as my eyes can see. OH SHIT FUCK WHAT THE HELL! Why is there a traffic jam at 5 in the morning?! I quickly swerve off the exit ramp and take the alternate local route. In the dark. When I can barely focus. And why are the roads all of a sudden so curvy? And what happened to the street lights?!

5:22 am. Much to my surprise, I arrive at the airport parking garage in one piece. Now let’s hope that the airport is empty and the security line is not too long.

SCORE! Breeze through security checkpoint. Thank you Tuesday morning!

5:31 am. Arrive at gate. And they have not started boarding yet. I WON! I am so awesome! I’m woman. Hear me roar! Doing the victory dance inside my head. These people have no idea what a feat I have just pulled. Oh god, I want to climb onto the chair and announce to the world all the crazy shit stunts I have just pulled to be able to catch this flight. They have NO FUCKING IDEA what a victory it is that I am sitting here right now at this gate!

But I need to tell somebody! Otherwise this memory, this moment of my glory, too, shall pass. It will not be wise to call and wake up husband in order to tell him that I have made it despite my procrastination.

Note to self: Need to blog about this so as to gloat in self’s awesomeness.

I lost all consciousness as soon as they forced us to turn off our phones and took a power nap. Naturally I looked (more) like crap when I got off the plane. Don’t believe me?

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My eyes were bloodshot. The shadows underneath were not from poor lighting. I looked like a friggin’ druggie alcoholic vampire! What was worse was that my hair was completely limp and I was wearing a black dress shirt so I looked like…

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Fortunately the presentation went well despite my lack of inner monologue – the fatigue feels like drunkenness. Several times I told my bosses, “Did I just say that out loud? Sorry.” I either succeeded in glamouring them with my vampire eyes or he was in awe of my being a dead ringer to an evil wizard.

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I am dead tired but I don’t feel tired. I am running on pure adrenaline now. I am jacked up like Beavis and Butthead on their famous sugar high.

I am the great Cornholio!

I am having an out-of-body experience. It feels as if the speed of the film that is my existence is out of sync with everybody else’s. I am moving around in slow motion while the world whizzes by and nobody knows the better. It feels like I am swimming in the clouds I saw this morning from the plane.

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What do you know. Come to think of it: I actually travelled through the clouds…

I am walking in the clouds now.

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Postscript: OMG. One of my colleagues just startled me by throwing a big exercise ball at me. (Exercise balls are one of the options for “seating” in my company and therefore they are everywhere in the office). I did not realize until tonight that they make an adorable Boing Boing sound when you bounce them.

“You sure we are the only two people left now?”

“You sure there are no surveillance cameras?’

I ended up dribbling the big giant pink ball down the corridors of the empty office building and to my colleague’s surprise (and I hope, admiration) dribbling it under my knees.

So it has been confirmed: I am drunk. Drunk from too much adrenalin.

“Which Sex and the City gal are you?”

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I am going to bet that at one time or another 99% of the women were asked one or all of these questions:

“Which Sex and the City gal is your favorite?”

“Which Sex and the City gal do you want to be?”

“Which Sex and the City gal are you?”

I never knew how to respond. Because deep down in my heart, I know who I resemble the most, dread resembling the most even though I also know, deep down in my brains, that I am crazy (also self-presumptuous and self-delusional) for thinking so.

Laney Berlin.

Who?

Laney Berlin. From Episode 10, Season 1, originally aired on August 8, 1998. “The Baby Shower”.

It is no surprise you have no memory of her. My google search only came up with ONE picture of her:

Laney is the Fab Four’s former friend, or more accurately, frienemy and to Samantha, rival.

Laney Berlin. You can’t really describe her. You just had to know her. Chances are eight years ago you probably did.

Laney did A&R for a record label… Every time she went on a scouting trip, she came back with some hot new group… and a gynecological condition no one had ever heard of.

Those things make so many public appearances, they need a booking agent.

Disclaimer: Of course I am nothing like the above. I’ve never had a hot body for me to lament the loss over it. I’ve never had a wild, rebellious streak in my life, that is, until now… mostly inside my imaginary inner world, and even at that, with limitations. Tis sad that I channel Woody Allen even in my wildest fantasy.

In fact, Laney was another Samantha… until she found herself an investment banker, got married and moved to Connecticut. The Fab Four reluctantly went to Laney’s Baby Shower at her stereotypical suburban MacMansion surrounded by stereotypical suburban Stepford Wives. The gifts they brought? A fistful of cash. A bottle of Scotch. And pastel condoms.

Incidentally I gave birth to my first child in March 1998. I squirmed as I watched a dichotomy being artificially formed when the world of Sex and the City was split in two: Me and the pregnant, suburban Laney on one side; the gals on the other (And goddammit I want to be on that side with the Fab Four too!) and what happened when Laney tried to cross the bridge, back to the other side.

Laney, despite the outward appearances of marital bliss and contentment, felt regretful of her choices. Back  in the city, the gals found a pregnant Laney crashing Samantha’s party, demanding vodka (and attention naturally], offering to show her tits, and struggling on the stripper pole.

[Carrie] This is at once so sad…  and the most fabulous validation I’ve ever gotten in my life.

The image of Laney on the table surrounded by the party-goers who are obviously appalled has stayed with me since. I understand that 99% of the disapproval came from her being so “due any day now” pregnant and you simply DO NOT SHOULD NOT imbibe alcohol (and Vodka at that!) when a child’s life is at stake. However Laney on the table also symbolizes for me the attempt to grapple with the erasure of one’s (imagined or not) identity and the desperate attempt to retain/regain the last vestige of youth/freedom/autonomy/carefreeness/etc. It is that desperation that makes it so sad, that I respond to viscerally.

Every time when I behave like a wild child, act and dress against what I believe is age-appropriate and role-appropriate, flirt with strangers, skip down the sidewalk, party like it is 1999 (or 1997 aka 1 BC – “Before Child”), because this is who I am without thinking, I get a flashback of Laney on the table and I am immediately paralyzed by an onslaught of self-consciousness. I put myself in my place through the eyes of the others:

“Do I look like I am trying too hard? Too desperate? Do I look ridiculous? These people… What are they thinking of me? Are they laughing with me or at me?”

And the thought that I absolutely abhor:

“Do they feel sorry for me?”

I am desperate to not appear desperate. Insane? I know.

This is why every time when I am at a party I make a beeline to the bar and down 2 shots of vodka before the party starts for me. Because as it turns out, thank goodness, Laney Berlin can be warded off with alcohol.

Missing a hole here

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I woke up to a bad allergy attack this morning:

runny nose
sneezing
itchy, watery eyes
itching of the nose or throat

p.s. I just copied that litany from the back of my bottle of Zyrtec.

I’ve got them all. As I was using up the last tissue from the giant Kleenex box, I was contemplating tweeting about it. (Yes, I do compose tweets in my head as I go about my daily business. Shut up! Don’t tell me you don’t. Liar!)

Something to the fact of:

Bad allergy! Every hole on my face has liquid coming out of it!

I slay myself sometimes.

This imaginary tweet reminded me of the common Chinese phrase for describing a brutal death (e.g. from poisoning or from a freakishly ginormous renegade Shaolin monk clapping his Thunderous Fists over your ears in a mortal combat) :

Bleeding from seven holes   七孔流血*

Here is an illustration:

This guy is dying from Psychic Powers.

PSA: Do NOT search for images with keywords “七孔流血” or worse, “nose bleed manga” at work.  It is like a codeword for “Show me pornographic images please”. Srly, people? The above is like the only image not involving a scantily-clad lass.

Since I am such a math geek (Har har) I automatically counted out the seven holes (and I swear I did not point my fingers to my body parts as I did this…)

My two eyes
My two ears.
My nose.
My mouth.

Hey, that’s only SIX. WTF? So I started thinking of other holes there could be…

Oh.
No.
Could it be that?
No…?
Or that?
Hmmmm.

Then it hit me. Of course! There are TWO nostrils. Duh.

As I opened up a new box of Kleenex, I thought to myself, “I am sucking more and more at being Chinese. And you people really have a bad influence on me!”

—The End—

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* Google Translate is so awesome! I typed in “Bleeding from seven holes” and it presented the exact phrase! I *heart* you Google Translate even though you say dumb things sometimes…

Eat Pray Love. Why not?

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Now that the fever towards the book and the movie has died down, hopefully, I feel it is safe to explain why I cannot bring myself to pick up this ever-popular book. And really, it is not like there were not a pile of books in my house waiting for me to finish, and that War and Peace I for some inexplicable reason requested two Christmases ago is still staring at me accusingly every time I scurry past the bookshelf.

Simply stated: I am tired. How come the dark-skinned, exotic, “mystic” in the third world never spouts any wisdom for me? Or women who look like me? I want an easy piece of wisdom that would help me reach my A-HA moment at the snap of a finger. Or at least get me a hot piece of ass like Javier Bardem goddammit!

I’ll let someone a lot more eloquent summarize the inner struggle I feel whenever I come across scenarios as portrayed in Eat Pray Love.

[These movies that rely on such a trope] don’t teach you anything new about Asia or the Middle East. They rely instead on the stereotype that the East is someplace timeless, otherworldly, incomprehensible, waiting to be discovered by Westerners in search of self.

Now, nobody’s protesting Eat Pray Love, or saying that you should. After all, it’s kinder, gentler and subtler than Aladdin.

But it operates with the same Orientalist repertoire. It may not warrant protest, but its proximity to Orientalist tropes should make you think twice.

By Mia Mask on NPR

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There is also something quite personal: Elizabeth Gilbert’s Bali is different from the one I visited. In 1992. Or 1991. I’ve only retained very fuzzy memories of my trip to Bali. In all honesty, after all these years, they could only be fairly categorized as impressions by now.

I was very tanned and therefore I was constantly mistaken as one of the locals by the Western tourists (since NO locals would have mistaken me as one of their own. We don’t all look alike. By “we” I mean “Asians”…) The locals however did mistake me for someone from the Indonesian mainland since quite a significant* percentage of Indonesians were (are) of Chinese descent. My friend who has much paler complexion however was mistaken for Japanese. It suffices to say that all this made an excellent Comedy of Errors in which we were constantly propositioned by men of different races and national origins, and in which men, as I was surprised to find out, expected us to be grateful for the attention. Some more than the others…

Of course Bali was (is) gorgeous and spectacular as every single tourism brochure says it is. And I am not saying that it is different from any other region that relies  on tourism for the majority of its revenue. What I remember most, however, and you all know I am crazy so please feel free to ignore what I have to say and stay with the tourism brochures and/or Gilbert’s book, was…

Disclaimer: My father was a tour guide and a travel agent, my mother, a hotel maid. I have always felt ambivalent towards tourism and therefore my perspectives when traveling are always “unnecessarily” skewed.

My impressions from my trip probably had more to do with who I was than the actual locale. It is highly likely that I would have felt the same way towards some other popular tourist destination…

The vendors, mostly children, swarming the van our local tour guides drove us around in, calling out, “One dollar. One dollar.”

Our determination to bargain the price down as we were instructed so we were not taken for fools.

The shame I felt afterwards when I remembered how little one dollar meant to me in comparison.

The cottage we stayed in which was located in the midst of a local village an hour or so away from the main tourist area.

People’s stares and curious expressions because they could not easily identify me and thus conveniently label me when our local tour guides showed us around (and off?) to their friends and families.

One guy from the village decided to climb up the coconut tree to procure fresh coconuts for us and was ridiculed mercilessly by his friends for trying to impress the ladies. We all had a good laugh.

The sight of women bathing on the side of the road which was as natural as the stream that ran along the road.**

The disappearance of familiarity exhibited by our local tour guides with whom I thought we had become friends as soon as we arrived in the “city”.

The puzzlement at our friends’ refusal to join us for lunch in the city. And further puzzlement at their decision to say “Yes” to the same restaurant but “No” to the same table.

Their apparent discomfort when we were approaching the fancy upscale hotel in which a Taiwanese tour guide we met on our flight to Bali managed to finagle a room for us.

Their abrupt decision to not help us carry our suitcases into the hotel. Their sudden movement to take out our luggages and leave them by the van as the hotel bellboys materialized. Our failure to say a proper goodbye with our extended hands that were not taken as they quickly got into the van and drove off as if to say, “We don’t belong here.”

My inability to enjoy the fancy surroundings as what happened outside the hotel kept on being reenacted inside my overactive brains.

The casual comment by the Taiwanese tour guide about how easy it was to access the red light district: someone would come pick you up on a moped. My being surprised and immediately not-so-surprised. My sadness as I remembered what it was like in the village less than an hour away.

The two young Japanese men who offered to videotape my friend and me and focused the entire minute on breasts and asses.***

My much, much later realization that there was (is) a “myth” of the prevalence of gigolos in Bali. My remembering the smirks when we were paraded around, and my attempt to dismiss it.

My first encounter with Westerners (other than bars and pubs in Taipei) and my not-so-positive impressions of the loud, obnoxious, drunk males late at night on the “strip”.

My first experience of being mistaken for a “local” and the complexity it entailed when trying to get a vendor to serve us in a night market populated by Western tourists.

My first suspicion that there was something off about how I was treated by “foreigners” even before I learned of colonialism, globalization, Orientalism and the fact that “exotic” does not just apply to flowers and animals.

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It could be that I am simply jealous. I am jealous of Gilbert’s privileged freedom to be oblivious.

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* By “Significant” I mean the classic case of 1% of people controlling N% of the wealth which has resulted in conflicts and outright violence in the recent past.

** I struggled with whether to include this since I worry that this may further add to the stereotype of exoticism. But it serves as a stark contrast to what I witnessed later in the city and therefore I’ve made the conscious decision to include it, despite the potential downside.

*** Yes. We were naive idiots.

This is 100% innocent. I swear.

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Dear Soren Lorensens,

I know I have not been a good blogger: for one, I haven’t managed to respond to the comments you kindly left me so I don’t go into yet another bout of depression thinking that nobody loves me. I have also not been leaving comments on your blogs. I am killing my Tamagotchi here.

I finally have some time now to surf the Interweb without people walking by seeing my monitor (which is conveniently facing the frigging door!!!!). The office is empty. Yes, between gallivanting around Boston as if I were single again and hanging out with you guys online, I CHOOSE YOU! (Take that, Pikachu!) However, I feel it is my duty to bring your attention to this commercial for a new fangled weight training product.

I saw it today at a sports bar (for a work function, I swear…) magnified manifold on multiple giant HD TV screens. I burst out laughing but then quickly caught myself.

Is it just me?

This is absolutely innocent. Really. Honest to god. I mean, they show this in prime time. On ESPN. In crowded bars. Frequented by manly men. But why do I feel dirty?

(Watch especially Sec. 35 and onward. Oh my lord)


The Rocky Horror Picture Show

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Jack B referred to The Rocky Horror Picture Show in his comment, and all of a sudden I was transported back to when I first arrived in this country. I started remembering these bits and pieces of my times in the US when I was, for all intents and purposes, an FOB.

You may still remember my tale of landing in the middle of corn field where the Champaign-Urbana airport is located and wondering why everything looked different from the American films I had seen back home. I wanted New York! I knew the Midwest was going to be different. But CORN FIELD as far as my eyes could see? *sobs*

It was the summer of 1993 when temperature routinely reached over 90+ (at least as I recall). As I struggled to my dorm room with my two gigantic suit cases (in one of them I had packed a rice cooker, typical FOB international student behavior), my jaw dropped when the door opened to reveal a tiny, tiny closet masked as a “room” with NO air conditioner. Tears started stinging the corners of my eyes.

It was a nightmare. I had made a mistake.

The International House (or whatever the department that is in charge of the lucrative trade of luring international students who receive no financial aides and pay full price) paired the newly minted students up with volunteers who would introduce these foreigners to the American culture. They forgot, however, that most of the foreign students were GRADUATE students (so perhaps a bit on the geeky side? Definitely not walking on the wild side… ) and the volunteers were all young undergraduates. My “volunteer” showed up at the door of my dorm room and, picture this: Tina from Glee reminded me of her. Only that this girl standing in front of me was a bit more Goth (before I even knew what Goth was and that Goth existed).

We had an uneventful “getting to know you” session at a coffee shop. The conversation was halting at best. Remember: I landed in a strange country less than a week ago and I had no prior experience conversing chitchatting strictly in English. Before we ended our first session, she mumbled something about taking me to a movie. Sure. I am game! But why did she ask me to bring a water gun, toast, and to wear a rain jacket? I was certain I had heard her wrong.

At this point, the memory channel gets really fuzzy. All I remember now is confusion. Lots of it.  I remember there was a movie playing in this auditorium that was not particularly clean. I seem to remember that “Tina” was a bit annoyed I had showed up empty-handed. There were people on stage dressed in outlandish costumes. I distinctively remember a guy in revealing women’s lingerie (and yes, it did take me a while to realize that was a man in full makeup and a full wig…) and stuff being thrown at various moments throughout the movie.

Oh. That’s what the TOAST is for.

I was sprayed with water and saw toilet paper rolls fly through the air. I also remember having popcorn dumped on me but that could just be real popcorn for eating at a movie theatre and not part of the Ritual.

Now some guy (Was it the guy in drag? I can’t remember for sure) asked demanded,

Where are the virgins? Give us the virgins! Where are you? Stand up if you are a virgin! Get up here. NOW!

Again, utter confusion as I desperately leafed through the pages inside my head to locate the word “virgin” and its definition.

OOOOOOOHHHHHH.

I was not. I thought.

Think again.

“Tina” pulled me up from my seat and physically delivered me to the stage… I was not a ham the way I am now. I was not at ease at all standing there, spelling out AWKWARD in blinking neon letters with my mere presence. I am pretty sure I was insulted (as demanded by the Ritual) but thank goodness for my lack of verbal English comprehension back then. The audience surely was laughing, slapping their thighs, cat calling.

I think I blanked out this part of my life: the rest of the evening after the man declared we were hereby deflowered and were no longer virgins and were allowed to get back to our seats. More screaming and foot stomping and cat calling. For something that should have been memorable to the extreme, curiously, I cannot remember what happened afterwards and NO alcohol nor medication was involved.

“Tina” and I never saw each other again after this. Heck, I don’t even remember her name. As a matter of fact, I did not remember this episode in my life, my indoctrination into crazy American Pop Cultures, until Jack’s comment. So thanks.

My only regret is that I wish I had a blog back then (since keeping a journal has always been out of the question for me – it’s just not for me). I would have recounted everything as soon as I got back to my sauna closet. Wait. Wait. I would have taken tons of pictures. Just imagine: The awesome blog fodder. The even more awesome tantalizing title for this post:

I Lost My Virginity at the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

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Jan Brewer: The New Face for the Fight Against Glossophobia

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Jan Brewer.

We all came to know Jan Brewer, the current Governor of the State of Arizona when on the fateful day of April 23, 2010, against (and perhaps delighted in?) the rising controversy and media scrutiny, she signed the “Support Our Law Enforcement and Safe Neighborhoods Act” (aka Arizona SK 1070), setting the record for Arizona as the state with the most encompassing and strictest anti-illegal immigration laws, effectively bringing the country back 100 years.

Little did we know that Governor Brewer, under the facade of mean-spiritedness, tough-shit, insensitivity and fuck-political-correctness a la Sue Sylvester in Glee, actually struggles with her own disability. She is a sufferer of glossophobia.

The New Spokesperson for Glossophobia raising awareness to this horrible horrible condition

Glossophobia is NOT the fear of gloss, as some of you may have thought. It actually means Fear of Public Speaking. Or in layman’s term, speech anxiety.

I used to despise her too. But no more. Have you seen the video of her at the televised gubernatorial election debate when she was caught all of a sudden by her glossophobia? ? She stared at her prepared speech for more than ten seconds, lost for words.  I assume that the extremely awkward gap of silence was not caused by her not having prepared for this debate especially since this happened during her opening statement when she was introducing herself and summarizing the wonderful things she has done for her state.  In fact, I assume that she must have practiced and practiced and practiced. But when you suffer from speech anxiety, you have no idea when it is going to catch up with you. Just like that. Snap. She blanked out.

When Rachel Maddow played the same clip on her show, she besought her audience to go against our humane tendency to avert our eyes when a proverbial train wreck is happening, to put in suspension our discomfort in witnessing our fellow human being’s moments of embarrassment. It is painful to watch, as Maddow said, but watch it you must otherwise how would you understand what a horrible condition glossophobia can be? The pain. The humiliation. The suffering.

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It was very painful for me to sit through those 40 seconds. I wanted to turn my head. That awful gap of silence that must have felt like a lifetime.

Tick tock tick tock. Oh fuck. My mind is blank. Say something. Make something up. Fill it with whatever. Think on your feet. Ad lib. Improvise!

As an actress, going blank on stage was my worst nightmare. As a mouse in the corporate maze, public speaking is my biggest fear.

People have asked me whether it is not ironic that the thought of speaking in public sends me straight to panicville when I have stood in front of a full theatre wearing nothing but a bustier and underwear. To me, there is a natural explanation: when I was on stage, I was someone else, saying someone else’s lines, living someone else’s life, all according to the script. It was actually safe.

Public speaking is a whole different beast. A much scarier one. Thinking on my feet? Making it up as I go along? Ad libbing? No not I. Improv? Not in this life.

This is why I have been content in my lot in life: Can’t speak in public? Well, let’s cross out all these things then as potential career choice… It was a long list to cross out. And I am pretty sure running for public office was one of them!

After I stopped shivering from witnessing that painful episode and recovered from my shock, three light bulbs immediately appeared over my head, like so:

Light Bulb #1: OMG. Jan Brewer is a victim! I cannot believe we have been so mean to her!

Hath not a glossophobic eyes? Hath not a glossophobic hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions; fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons? If you prick us, do we not bleed?

I cannot believe that I, a fellow victim of this condition, have been so callous as to think that there is something wrong with her. NO! Jan Brewer deserves our sympathy. I for one empathize with her.

Light Bulb #2: WTF? So you can run for public office and even be elected a state governor when you cannot finish a brief self-introduction without quivering and looking pitiful? AND you can also make grammatical errors when you are reading from a prepared speech? I feel CHEATED! I have been lied to! Where is that piece of paper where I crossed off potential career choices due to my “condition”?

Light Bulb #3: Thank you, Jan Brewer. You have inspired all the glossophobics to reach for the star! So what if we tend to blank out during our public appearances? We will no longer fear the sound of the crickets! Down with the crickets! We can still run for public offices and hope that we are brilliant enough to fabricate scare tactics such as “headless bodies popping up all over Arizona borders because of illegal aliens” and to manipulate people’s fear and frustration towards the economy into votes!

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CODA: Unfortunately right after I finished the draft for this post, Jan Brewer’s behavior made me question her commitment to the Glossophobia Awareness Movement. In fact, I doubt that she suffered from this condition at all!

After what I thought was her “coming out as a glossophobic” party at the debate, she went on the Sean Hannity show, managed to completely sidestep her performance (or lack of) at the debate and told everybody that Obama and “the federal government is after Arizona and they are going after everybody.” Ok…

Then I noticed it. The nasal voice. She sounded as if she had the worst nasal congestion the world had ever seen. I became breathless just listening to her. I kept on taking bigger and bigger breath because I was afraid I was going to stop breathing the way she was going to stop breathing. (Yes, I am an empathetic listener…)

Perhaps because of her severe nasal congestion, she’s got a lot of loogy, snot, boogie way up there? Or maybe it is the other way around? Man. I feel bad for her.

Or maybe it is all her. You know: *Jazz hands* Just Jan. *Jazz hands*

I mean, after all, with a maiden name like DRINKWINE*… Well… You know…

* Nope. Not kidding. Yup. It really is Drinkwine. Can’t make this shit up.

How to Talk to People (Now with Visual Aids)

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“7 magical conversational phrases”

I came across this article the other day on Match.com. (Eh. Don’t ask WHY I was on Match.com… That hot sexy blonde whose picture is winking at ya? Yup. That’s my profile: I used a picture I took of A Vapid Blonde… Now you know. People LIE about these things…)

It immediately caught my attention. I sure could use some help in social situations, and these are promised to be “magical”!

Smart phrase #1: “Tell me more about it”

Smart phrase #2: “What are the reasons for your opinion?”

Smart phrase #3: “I never thought of it that way”

Smart phrase #4: “That must have upset you”

Smart phrase #5: “How did it go?”

Smart phrase #6: “You are a really generous person”

Smart phrase #7: “I really admire that” or “That takes courage. I admire that.”

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As I read through the article, without much snickering, I became worried about the possibility that when the needs arise, I may not remember these 7 magical spells under duress. I remembered the days when I was trying to educate my kids the art of correctly using the alphabet: Yes. Flash cards work wonders, and visualization is the key to the mythical depth of human memory vault.

Here are the 7 visualizations to help me, and now you too, memorize these 7 magical conversational phrases and be the life of the party next time you are caught in one of those social occasions.

You are welcome.

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Magical Phrase #1: Tell me more about it!

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Magical Phrase #2: What are the reasons for your opinion?

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Magical Phrase #3: I never thought of it that way

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Magical Phrase #4: That must have upset you!

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Magical Phrase #5: How did it go?

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Magical Phrase #6: You are a really generous person

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Magical Phrase #7: I really admire that. I do!

You did not heed the warning from the man in Chinatown

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There. You did it again.

Remember in the movie Gremlins? No water. No food after midnight. And of course the rules were immediately broken, WTF that nobody EVER EVER listens to those who live in Chinatown? Seriously? monsters were created and hijinks ensued.

Do not feed a closeted egomaniac.

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You never heed the warning.

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Blame this raging Navel Gazing post on Silvia @ A Bourbon for Silvia and Trish @ Patty Punker. They gave me water and fed me food after midnight. So to speak…

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So after they broke the feeding rules, they now want ME, the monster they have created, to follow some rules… Fine. You have to at least obey your own Dr. Frankenstein(s), eh?

  1. Thank the person who gave you the award.

    2. If you have never visited A Bourbon for Silvia, please do. “From here – Under the water” is one of my favorite posts. Ever. It makes you want to go skinny dipping. Not in a drunken teenager and Imma gonna live to regret it way. But in a good, self-realization way.

    If you have never visited Patty Punker, please do. She has a foul mouth and is proud of it. But underneath that hardness is one of the softest and truest heart. (Now she’s going to kick my ass for saying this about her…) Her “wtf work bathrooms” is epic. She’s my kind of working woman.

  2. List 7 things about yourself your readers do not know.

    3. Awww. You want me to talk about myself? No. I can’t possibly. I clearly do not like to talk about myself and that’s why I have a friggin’ blog!

  3. Award 5 bloggers who you’ve recently discovered.

    4. Well, this has to wait until I am done talking about myself! Because this post is all about me. ME. ME!!!!!

    *Cue maniacal evil laughter* <— For real. Do NOT click if you are at work!

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It took me a while to come up with things that I have not shared with you already…

  • Ok ok. This is a good one: I am an oversharer. And then I feel guilty for oversharing because I don’t want to burden people with my oversharing. Rinse and repeat.
  • I am full of contradictions. I am a Closeted Extrovert and a Closeted Introvert rolled into one. Implosion any minute now.
  • I am hormonal all the friggin’ time. I swear I am affected by the movement of the orbiting Moon.  I never fake cry. I can force myself to cry. And when I cry, it is for real.
  • This is going to make me sound crazy, but I am the most self-deprecating egomaniac ever. EVER!
  • Like Patty Punker and Wicked Shawn, I *heart* polka dots, so much so that I created a tumblr dedicated to polka dots in May.
  • I may have minor OCD, as evidenced by my obsession with going through ALL pictures with polka dots in them on google (current count: ~5,900,000). Once I start a task, I cannot stop until I am done. The way I deal with this? Start nothing. Can you see how blogging is seriously affecting my mental health? There is no end in sight to this thing!
  • I am cynical and gullible at the same time. Or maybe I am just an idiot who has been lucky so far. My brother once told me that he could hear the music by twirling a cassette tape with a pen through one of the holes. I believed him. I was in junior high then, and coincidentally I was the Valedictorian-equivalent in my class.

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Sadly, the time alloted for me to talk about myself, again, has come to an end, today. Now on to passing this award on to five beautiful human beings I have recently met…

Ok. Pause. One more thing you need to know about me…

  • I suffer panic attack whenever I need to do something like this: choosing, and by this act of choosing, excluding others. THIS has got to be the hardest part for me as a blogger. If I read your blogs, that means I think you are beautiful inside and out. I have very limited time so I am very selective. I may not be by for a while but it is because I have decided to have more sex. Or the attempts any way…
  • Another thing you need to know about me: I am a sneaky bugger. I have figured out that if you tell people you cannot do something because you need to have sex, people will understand. Oh god, please do not let my kids read this. Or my blog in general.

    • *Cue maniacal evil laughter* <— Seriously. Do NOT click if you are at work!

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Here are five of the beautiful bloggers that I would like to introduce you to, if you didn’t know them already:

Mature Landscaping – Southern and liberal. Come on. You know you want a piece of it!

IslandRoar – I swear it is because she is a good writer and not some ulterior motive for being invited to Martha’s Vineyard one day…

Fuck Yeah, Motherhood! – Anybody that uses single motherhood and long-hour job as an excuse for not parenting well should read this blog. She makes it sound so easy even though you know it cannot be easy.

here where i have landed – She came from Asia to the US around the same time I did. She lives in beautiful downtown Chicago. She is a working mom. Not hard to see why I lurv her, eh?

Bar Mitzvahzilla – Jewish and liberal in Arizona. She is fighting a good fight there!