Tag Archives: sarcastic bitches rock

Old Rules. They just need to be said again.

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I don’t have any new rules to share with the world like Bill Maher and his team of writers. What I have though is a list of OLD rules that I just want to humbly scream out loud into the abyss of the Internet.

  • Old rule: Don’t say that you do your own laundry if you do NOT fold the clothes. Throwing in the dirty laundry into the washer and then moving the clothes from the washer into the dryer is like you accidentally getting a girl pregnant in the back of a Chevy. The real work is in carrying the baby to term and giving birth.
  • Old rule: It does not count as doing the dishes if all you do is rinsing the dishes and stacking them on the kitchen counter.
  • Old rule: Please stop telling people you enjoy cooking. Try cleaning up the kitchen next time and we will discuss how much you still like cooking afterwards.
  • Old rule: Turning on the turn signal AS you are making the turn is the same as NOT using the turn signal, and it makes you a law-breaking d-bag.
  • Old rule: If you drive a sporty car, DRIVE it like a sporty car. Don’t go under the speed limit. It is not Cruise Night. Listen. Your car is crying.
  • Old rule: Just because you can see me, it does not mean I can see you. You can see me because I am driving in a car with its headlights on; I cannot see you because you are effing riding a bike wearing dark clothing at night.
  • Old rule: Just because you can see me, does not mean I can see you. You can see me because your back is towards the sun; I cannot see you because I am driving dead west at five o’clock and the sun is attacking my eyes with its giant laser beams.
  • Old rule: Adding a smilie face at the end of your curt email only highlights the passive aggressiveness of it.
  • Old rule: If you don’t know the back story, don’t tell someone, “Don’t be a bitch.”
  • Old rule: You ask me to have coffee and catch up. Please refrain from scanning the room the whole time seeing who else comes and goes. I don’t know about you, but the whole networking approach taught in B school is really getting on my nerves. You’ve climbed far, more power to you. Next time, please feel free to fail to contact me. It will save us both time.
  • Old rule: It is extremely rude to make that “hurry up” gesture when someone is talking no matter how long that person has been droning on.
  • Old rule: Be nice to people who do not matter, e.g. servers, doormen, delivery people. Your true character shall be judged on this.
  • Old rule: It makes you an asshat if you do not hold the door open for the next person if they are within “the courtesy zone”.

 

Whenever I find myself in the awkward zone, I hurry up so I could get into the courtesy zone asap

 

  • Old rule: When you find yourself in the awkward zone, DO hurry up so the person that’s holding the door for you can 1. stop feeling awkward, 2. move on with their life. He’s not your doorman. You are not god’s gift to men. And for goodness sake, thank them!
  • Old rule: When someone says “Thank you”, the proper response is “You are welcome” and not “uh huh”. It makes you sound bitter.
  • Old rule: Use Please. Thank you. Excuse me. It is really that simple.

 

I know there are a lot more. It’s 4 am. Old rule: Stop telling people what time it is when you are banging out gibberish on your keyboard. Just go to bed already. Anyhoo, would LOVE it if y’all wouldn’t mind adding your own in the comment section.

Just say NO to Mother’s Day

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Yes, I am the Grinch, Mother’s Day version. I wrote a whiny, bitchy, grouchy post on/near Mother’s Day every year. I thought about restraining myself this year because as we all know, bitterness is extremely unattractive. The problem with bitterness is that it easily borders on envy, and as we also know, envy is one of the seven deadly sins. (That being said, I still call bullshit on the killer’s motive in Seven…)

Unlike the optional Father’s Day that celebrates the underprivileged, undercelebrated fathers of the world, Mother’s Day is an internationally recognized holiday. My memory of Mother’s Day was forever ruined when I was a kid back in Taipei. In grade school, for Mother’s Day every year, a period would be scheduled for making carnations out of tissue papers and wires. Sounds fun, right? Now consider this: There is a suggested “rule” for the use of carnation: wear a red carnation if your mother is still alive; wear a white one if your mother has passed away. And imagine this: someone in your classroom had just lost his mother… Picture this: on every desk was laid out pieces of red tissue papers, except one.

I cannot recall whether the boy cried or not. But whenever I think of Mother’s Day from that day on, I see the white tissue papers on his desk.

And then I want to go back in time and punch those stupid teachers.

 

As I said, I was going to shut up about Mother’s Day and join in the festivities at least online. (IRL, I am working, and nothing has been planned to mark today any different from any other Sunday. In fact, I completely forgot about it for myself, and therefore I forgot to get anything for my MIL and my own mother. Yes, I can be a heartless bitch. I am very sorry, Mom. I really really am… One more thing, if I may ask, why is it MY job to remember Mother’s Day for MIL and Father’s Day for FIL? I love them dearly but still.)  That is, until I saw this Forbes article about the founder of Mother’s Day, Anna Marie Jarvis. I knew that Jarvis campaigned to have a day established to commemorate mothers all over the world per her own mother’s wish. She asked people to wear carnations on this day in memory of her mother because carnations were her favorite. What surprises me, and should everybody else, is that Jarvis was outraged by the gross commercialization of Mother’s Day soon afterwards. “Jarvis detested the commercialism of what the day had become. With her sister Ellsinore, they spent their family inheritance fighting the day’s designation.” She dedicated the rest of her life to campaign against Mother’s Day, or probably more accurately, the gross commercialization of Mother’s Day.

A printed card means nothing except that you are too lazy to write to the woman who has done more for you than anyone in the world. And candy! You take a box to Mother—and then eat most of it yourself. A pretty sentiment.

So there you have it.

Jarvis would have been an awesome blogger, imo.

Did I ever mention that I have a pathological need to be liked? Ok, it may not be obvious considering how paradoxically I cannot help being a sarcastic bitch. Anyway, that need extends to my children as well. I don’t doubt that they love me, but LIKE is something else. You need to earn it. (Except on Facebook, I guess.)  My decidedly unsentimental sentiment towards Mother’s Day aside, every year on this day, instead of expecting some obligatory adoration from my family, I become even more paranoid about how I have been performing as a mother. The self doubt becomes overwhelming as the day progresses and I just want it to end so we can all get back to our regularly scheduled programs. I was rescued from myself when Mr. Monk handed me a hand-made card with a twenty dollar bill inside. I burst into tears as I read the words. Maybe Mother’s Day does not suck that much after all.

 

 

p.s. But wait. What does he mean by “inside every dark world”? Is he saying that his world is dark? That he is unhappy? He’s not even 10 years old yet. What have I done to my child??!! Oh lord… The saga of my guilt trip continues…

Hostage

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As soon as I stepped into the house from a business trip, I heard a moan from a heap at the corner of our sink-and-swim sofa. Shit. I thought to myself.

“Dad was not like this a second ago. He was ok before you came home.” Mr. Monk, my 9-year-old, informed me with mischievous glee.

“So he’s like a little kid? Now that his mommy’s home and all of a sudden he’s feeling a lot sicker because he wants his mommy’s attention?” I babytalked (which I seldom did to my kids even when they were real babies).

I wish I had kept my mouth shut. To this, The Husband launched into an indignant speech about how

1. He’s so sick the whole time I was gone. READ: It’s my fault.

2. There is no medicine in the house. READ: It’s my fault.

3. His throat really hurts. READ: It’s my fault.

4. There is no lemon. READ: It’s my fault.

5. His co-workers said, “Oh, your wife is going to take care of you.” To which he replied, “She doesn’t care. She never takes care of me.” READ: The Passive Aggressive meter was shot so I could not read the score on it.

Sometimes I am convinced that if I were one of those submissive wives, everybody involved including myself would have been a lot happier. So maybe those crazy people do have a point? My natural, confrontation-averse inclination would have led me to simply ignore his tirade. Let’s move on. But my years of immersion in women’s lib made it hard to not stand my ground and make some sort of comment. Eventually I bit my tongue. I bit my tongue because Mr. Monk was watching our interaction like a hawk with bated breath, and I simply could not do that to him. So I swallowed the sharp comebacks that were swarming inside my head.

 

What do I have to do to take care of a grown man who’s suffering from symptoms of a common cold?

I am genuinely sorry that The Husband is sick. But I am stumped. “What do you want me to do to take care of you so I won’t be accused of not caring?” Ok. In hind sight, that’s really not the best way of making a conciliatory move… You can take the sharp words out of a bitch’s mouth, but you can’t change a bitch’s tone of voice.

“Forget about it!” He ended our conversation abruptly like a petulant child sans door slamming. I had to stifle a laugh (and made a mental note to watch The Man Cold on YouTube again and also to, of course, blog about this)

Why is it that when he is sick, he commits the error that men (e.g. he) like to accuse women (e.g. me) of: I am not going to tell you what I want because it would devalue the things you do for me if I have to ask for them. 

Seriously?

This has been how it feels like this past week: I am held hostage by “care police”. At every cough and every moan, I made sure to remember to ask, with exaggerated worry in my voice so my good intention is obvious, “Are you ok?”

 

When the kids are sick, I give them cold medicine, and tell them to stay in bed. I offer ice cream or some other treat. That is it. Sometimes the kids get mad at me when the medicine is not working. “Make it go away!” “Why won’t you give me something that works?” “It does not work. I am still feeling ______!” At that point, I figure they are either hungry or tired so I either feed them or tell them to go to bed, or both.

Now that I think of it, “You don’t care!” seems to be a common accusation. I have only myself to blame since I never do these things that TV/movie parents do – Sitting by the bed and singing them a lullaby. Putting my hand on their foreheads and looking into their faces with concern. Bringing them breakfast in bed on a tray with a red rose in a vase. Maybe I should watch politicians’ campaign videos: most of them got that “I care so much about you RIGHT AT THIS SECOND because the camera is rolling” look down, and practice in front of the bathroom mirror my “I do care” face. Apparently the “I do care” face speaks more volumes than the calm “I just cleaned up your puke without a complaint for the Nth time” face.

 

By the 4th day of violent coughing, the frequent complaint of “It’s not getting better!”, and the occasional hint at “I am so sick and you are not doing anything about it!”, I suggested that The Husband seek out professional help (instead of waiting for me to perform a medical miracle).

I called him from work on Monday. “Did you call a doctor yet?”

“No.”

Face palm.

Today I prodded again. “You should call a doctor.” No response.

Seriously? WWFRGS? (What would Feminist Ryan Gosling say?)

 

In the holy name of keeping a stable home for my children, because it is *MY* job to maintain a happy family environment, I extended an olive branch. “Would you like me to call the doctor? If I call the doctor and make an appointment for you, would you go?”

He nodded.

And he was happy(ier).

 

I want a wife.

 

Porn for Women

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You can say that I have given up on attracting more male readers… Since I am of the Drastic Measure type of bitches: It is All or Nothing to me, I have decided to actively repel men*, esp. the straight kind. Let’s go all the way, baby!

 

This is a real book.

The Cambridge Women’s Pornography Cooperative asked women, young, old, rich, and poor, “What really, really gets you hot?” Armed with their findings, they worked day and night to create Porn for Women.

(Granted, the book should have been more accurately titled “Porn for Straight Women”… And some of the things attributed to the men/actors are plainly condescending, if not insulting, to women IMO, such as “Ooh Look! The NFL Playoffs are today. I bet we’ll have no trouble parking at the craft’s fair.”…  At any rate, I hope you all get the chuckle or drool out of these…)

 

Some choice pornographic photos from the book:

 

I found the following on Flickr:

(This one, to me, is more about fairness: Yup. If you make the mess, you clean up the mess. IMO, most men that claim they love to cook do not have to clean up the pots and pans afterwards. If they had to clean up afterwards, they would not have used three pots to cook one dish!)

 

 

 

As Liz Lemon would say:

I want to go to there.

 

 

* I understand that this is an affectatious** statement: by claiming that I am actively repelling men, I am implying that otherwise they would have visited this blog in drones. It’s like I prefer to think to myself that people dislike me because 1) they are racists, 2) they hate my gut. The truth is, I am deeply aware of this, they probably simply dislike me because they dislike me.

** The use of the word “affectatious” is itself ironically affectatious.***

*** The fact that I pointed the above out is an act of affectation.

**** And so on, and so forth.

***** I don’t really worry about the fact that I have few male readers. In order to prove myself to you, I will talk about menstrual cycles next.

****** Why is “MEN” in the word “MENstrual”?

******* Come to think of it, I think Elly has beat me to it [i.e. talking about menstrual cycles] with this video she posted on her blog called “Her First Period”.

******** I really should turn my footnotes into a separate blog post. And I am writing my footnotes before I write the post proper, and am having more fun doing this.

******** Do people even read these footnotes?

Just sit down and relax, honey.

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I heard this study that was published this May on the radio today. The headline is:

Men relax best when wives are doing housework chores!

 

My first question was: How is it possible that I did not hear about this until now?! Is the Universe conspiring to keep this earth-shattering news from me?

You are probably thinking: “I need a study to tell me this?” I know. But it is always nice to have your suspicion confirmed by rigorous scientific research.

For starters, the researchers “measured stress hormones and daily activities”, specifically, they “sampled saliva repeatedly to measure cortisol, which increases in stressful situations”, a most objective measurement: so there is no arguing that women only feel more stressed because they bitch about everything and they CARE MORE about whether the dishes are done, the laundry is folded, and the floor is not covered with random objects.

The study was done with researchers observing “30 dual-earner couples in Los Angeles, each with at least one child ages 8-10. Most had two or three children. The average marriage was 13 years and the average age was 41… Over four days, two weekend days and two weekdays, researchers tracked activities at 10-minute intervals.”

And here are the highlights of their findings:

  • For women, healthier cortisol levels resulted when their husbands spent more time pitching in on housework
  • For husbands, more leisure time was linked with healthier cortisol when their wives spent more time doing house-related work and less time in leisure.
  • Men, when they come back home, tend to be alone in a room.
  • Women, when get back home, tend to be with one or more children doing childcare.
  • When women are alone, they tend to be doing housework; When men are alone, they tend to be relaxing.

(Note that none of these families have YOUNG CHILDREN. I can only imagine the discrepancy to be even more skewed between men and women were babies and toddlers present in these households studied)

 

You know what? All my feminist sisters could throw banana peels at me. I am not outraged by the research findings at all. Nope.  Au contraire!

I. AM. ELATED.

Why?

Because I am going to remember this research next time I hear about some other woman talking about how her husband pitches in, 50-50, and then I will not secretly hide in the bathroom and cry.

Because I am normal. I am NOT alone. I am part of the statistics. Part of the cogs that make up normalcy. Like the common stock photos showing a man reading newspaper while his wife vacuums and him lifting his legs up for the vacuum out of consideration.

Kapow! Woohoo! I am doing a happy dance while I survey the disaster zone that is our house and also my weekend project. (If you call housework a PROJECT, you feel more accomplished and less housewifery…)

 

It is truly a relief to know I am simply part of the normalcy.

 

Happy Father’s Day! Really. I mean it.

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At 11:50pm, both boys were still awake. Hey, no judging! Summer vacation…

Mr Monk, my 8 year old: *sigh* In 10 minutes, I cannot be mean to dad any more.

Me: Oh, you are right. It will be Father’s Day.

Him: (Shrugs) Well, enjoy it while it lasts!

Me: (Thinking to myself) That’s what she said!

Things I learned today

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I will never ever be able to fold a fitted sheet perfectly no matter how much time I spend on it. Fitted sheet, consider yourself folded.

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Checking my email is never going to be “QUICK”. I will always spend more than “Just one minute” when I log in my email account. I will be tempted to click on the links in the emails and it will always take longer than I think to read and comment on a blog post. And when you forget about your child’s lunch, he will hunt you down and demand lunch, but in a nice way that actually makes you feel even shittier.

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Corporate brand image does not necessarily mean Caution and Stodgy and Prim&Proper. “Inappropriate” innuendos are allowed in official press release; sometimes it makes it a WIN.

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"Clipart - Housewife Washing Up at the Sink Whilst a Man Sits in an Armchair Reading a Newspaper"

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My husband has blue hair!

Saturday Smörgåsbord

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I have been watching SpongeBob with Mr. Monk this whole day except when I am being the Chauffeur. (And I know I am not the only Weekend Chauffeur around here…) You know what I admire SpongeBob the most? He does not seem to understand the concept of Envy and Jealousy, and therefore he is always genuinely over-the-top happy for other’s good fortune, accomplishment and success.

He is, in fact, always happy.

For this rare virtue, he comes off as insane. Unaware. Unhinged.

(Ok, fine. For you anti-random-theorizing folks out there, SpongeBob comes off as insane mostly because he understands spoken words literally…)

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It is cold. As in…

I half expected to see a polar bear floating by on one of these pieces of ice

Breaking the ice. Literally.

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My husband complained about me not responding to his email or just in general, plainly ignoring him while he travels abroad on business. What can I say? I am the Champion in Compartmentalizing. Guilty as charged. So I sent him this picture above and wrote, “Wish you were here!”

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Completely unrelated. Really. I swear. Girl Scout Honor. I just saw this on our fridge and I am proud of our family motto, so I took a picture of it. That’s it. Really. Not trying to say anything. Not a comment at all.

The Need for Convenient Justification

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This is a different reaction from my reading of the controversy surrounding Amy Chua’s WSJ article, “Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior?”

Yesterday, I said, Bring it on! The can of worms has been opened! Today, I will continue to clear this raging case of “Oh oh oh I have something to say Pick Me Pick Me” via pontificating on my blog.

Disclaimer needed, again: I am not agreeing with Chua’s parenting style. This is simply ONE of my reactions as all these conflicting thoughts racing through my brains…

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Like many, I felt great anxiety and anger when I was reading Chua’s article. But I get anxious easily when it comes to parenting. Heck, I felt like screaming when I watched a holiday video from a Chinese friend showing her kids playing piano AND violin at a recital, speaking fluent Chinese AND French. Again, not because I wished my kids were better but because that video, akin to a resume for the future “survival of the fittest” audition, raised my anxiety level over whether I am doing enough to prepare my children for their future. And you know what? I wish my friend were a Tiger Mom, so I could easily dismiss her accomplishment as a parent by thinking, “Well, but her kids are like robots, and she is cold and unemotional.” They are not, and she is not.

To parent like this (ok, sans the name calling, BUT I did call my kids dumbasses more than once when they were, well, being dumbasses), it takes a lot of dedication and efforts. I am too selfish to devote myself like that to my children.  I cannot even spend an hour every day teaching my children Chinese. It really is easier to say, “To hell with it. Who needs to know Chinese anyway? [Ha!]” than to deal with all the crying and resisting. I WANT my children to like me. I don’t want to be the mean parent. My husband can be the bad cop. Me? I want to be the good cop.

I thank Amy Chua, not for the article since I knew all about “The Chinese Way of Parenting” and there was no surprise there, but for the 7000+ hateful comments and the public condemnations.  They reassured me, “Hey, what I am doing or not doing is OK. She thinks she is so successful, and her children are so successful, and her family is so successful, but you know what? They are all zombies with no emotions. And the Americans, including the Chinese Americans, HATE her.” Hopefully when I go home this February, when my parents cannot communicate with my children because they do not speak English, when people ask me why my children cannot speak Chinese and how come so-and-so’s American grandchildren can not only speak but read and write fluent Chinese and why I did not beat their asses so they would learn Chinese against their will, when my brother asks for the Nth time whether it is ok if he gives my independent children a beating and I say “Of course not” and he relents with a sigh “Americans…”, I will feel less like a failure.

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As the kids and I hurried along Michigan Avenue in downtown Chicago this Sunday night in the freezing temperature, I spotted a mother bundled up with her two children on the sidewalk. There was a can in front of them with a few coins inside. She was trying to cover the little one’s head with a tiny scarf. My heart skipped a beat. I stopped to give her some money and quickly walked away. My oldest patted my arm as we walked further.

“It is freezing. Those kids must be freezing.” I said. “I don’t know why she’s sitting on the sidewalk in the cold. There are shelters. Doesn’t she know there are shelters?”

In an effort to comfort me, he said, “I heard a story about this guy who would go into the city every day and beg and then every night he comes home to a big house and car and everything.”

“Do you know why this story became so popular and everybody likes to talk about it?”

“Because it gives you the justification you need for not doing anything?”

“Exactly.”

NaBloPoMo Final Stretch. More white socks please!

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Dear Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, are you sure I really need to add FOUR tablespoons of butter? Isn’t that like, a lot?

Dear vegetarians, I hate to tell you, but Tofurkey does not look nor taste like turkey. Or anything that is benign. If you are going to be a vegetarian, just suck it up and find peace within yourself. What is the point with fake meat anyway? It is like, oh, I can’t kill real people so I will just dismember Barbie dolls. CREEPY.

Dear people who love to make things from scratch, Stove Top stuffings taste better than any home-made stuffings I’ve ever had the good fortune of tasting. If you would like to convince me otherwise, feel free to send me yours.

Dear Parents-in-Law, “You betcha!” ceased to be funny the second time you said it. And I hope watching Sarah Palin’s Alaska and finding her “adorable” and her show “interesting” is not a sign that you consider her a legitimate candidate for anything more serious than a cable show host. Some people find Snooki on Jersey Shore “adorable” and the entire Housewives franchise “interesting”. Just sayin.

Dear Christian Conservatives and Tea Partiers, Ayn Rand (whoever she was) was an avowed atheist and she supported abortion rights. Just thought you should know.

Dear Uber Cool World Record Penny Pyramid, I am very sorry that I read the subject line as “Got Penises? Largest Penis Design Pyramid” and therefore I was not able to fully appreciate your awesomeness when I excitedly clicked on the link.

Dear PayPal, I am very sorry that I replaced the “P” in the last word in your new tagline “The world’s most-loved way to pay and get paid” with an “L” when I first saw it, and therefore for a second thought you finally found a way to optimize your revenue perhaps even with a joint venture with Craig’s List.

Dear semi-cute Starbucks Barista, you really broke my heart when you held my eyes for a long moment and then called me ma’am.

Dear SUV Driver, if you cannot park within the lines, you really should not be allowed to buy a car that big.

Dear Cadillac Escalade owner, please see above. In addition, please stop tailgating me. I am not going to budge because I am a bitch like that. You are not going to intimidate me with your mass. If you were driving a real truck with a gun rack and not some manifestation of conspicuous consumption, I may be scared. Costco will be there waiting for you. There is no hurry. And if you are late for your hair stylist appointment, I am pretty sure they will wait for you since you tip so well on top of the $200 you spend there every time.

Dear Sports Car Owner, you have a very nice car, drive it. It pangs me when you drag your ass below the speed limit: it’s like not having sex when you are sleeping with Megan Fox. (I use her as an example because I assume asshats like you go gaga over empty shells like her. You are welcome.)

Dear Person Whose License Plate says SORDID, I am going to assume that you have a secret identity that is more exciting than your train-taking commuting suit-cladding backpack-wearing self.

Dear Fellow Blackberry Widows, is it just me or do you find typing on Blackberry in the middle of the night in total darkness as annoying as banging on a typewriter while shining a bright light in your eyes?

Dear iPhone lovers, be honest: do you now type less carefully because in case when you make a mistake, it is actually cool to show people what hilarious suggestions Auto Correct come up with? Win-Win, right?

Dear Straight Men, what is it about Jennifer Love Hewitt that makes her so hot to you lot? I am gonna bet that every woman groans when you mention her as one of the hot actresses. We simply can’t see it. Jessica Alba. Yeah, I concur. Megan Fox. I can see why. But Jennifer Love Hewitt? Not so much.

Dear Husband, it is very uncool to quote with glee “It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again.” when I ask you to put lotion on my back. Same goes to saying “Redrum. Redrum.” in a creepy voice after our bedroom was painted, yes, red.

Dear Husband, I am not so sure about the lone item on your wish list: the 10 Disc set of “Romancing the 70s”. I can understand the 80s, and possibly the 90s. But Romancing the 70s? Are you gay? Because if you are, that would explain a lot. On the other hand, if you are, why do I get the one gay guy who is not stylish and does not appreciate shoes? You also do not make a good confidant. Just my luck. Ugh.

Dear Santa, I would like all my files to be transferred from my old computer to the new computer, neatly organized, like magic.

Dear Internet, I am sorry for subjecting you to more White Socks in my Crotch and Tissues inside my Bras to get myself over the finish line for NaBloMoFo. Be well. Stay well.