Train arriving at Cairo's Sadat station

To visit a country is only to skim the surface.

You can never truly grasp a place in a few days. Sometimes understanding can take months, even years. When visiting a new country, the differences are something you appreciate, the differences are why you’re there, they’re part of the experience, you may even say they are the experience. Staring at the queer fruits and vegetables in a market you say, “Wow, we don’t get these back home!” It excites you. Everything excites you. The voices, the people, the food, the streets, the sky, the mountains. Everything.

Later, you leave, go back to the comfort of your own fruits and vegetables. Back to your own voices, your own people. Back home, to what you know and love. Back to comfort.

Culture shock happens when you try to change that home, even temporarily. When you try to make a transition between the new life you’ve started and the old life you’ve left behind. You can visit a country for a week and believe it’s the greatest place on earth. You can stay another week and the cracks might start to form. You can stay for a month and you’ll go crazy.

Those fruits and vegetables that were once so exciting fill you with resentment. Your mind struggles with the way things work in this new place. You don’t know the new systems. The magic has worn off. Nothing excites you. Everything around you is just a reminder of your old home, everything you are used to. You miss the way things were back. You miss your familiar life. You miss your fruits and vegetables. You’re homesick.

In the past I worked with the notion that culture shock didn’t exist when going to a country much like your own. I’ve been to America a few times. People spoke the same language, ate the same vegetables and acted in much the same way. Their culture is the same, I thought. But, I was naive.

A culture is more than what’s on the surface, a culture runs deep. Even when the language is the same, the systems are different.

Chances are you’ve never noticed there are systems at all. Everything around you has always been there, you’ve lived in a place so long that you subconsciously know how things work. You instinctively know what to do in any situation. You understand your world.

Culture shock is understanding nothing. It’s being blind in a world where everybody around you can see. Life becomes a challenge. Riding the bus becomes a scary experience. How do you pay the driver? How do you queue? How do you get off the bus? How do you stop the bus (do you put your hand out, or does it just stop?) Everyday situations, in a new country, become obstacles, something you must overcome.

When you are faced with hundreds of new challenges each day, when buying a pint of milk becomes a task which you must consciously think about, that’s when you get frustrated, and culture shock sets in. But you can learn.

Here’s a skill you probably take for granted. If you have coins in your pocket, you can look at them in your hand and within a moment you will know roughly how much money you have. It’s something you’ve learnt at one point or another, but you never think about it. It’s almost always been there. But you must learn it again. You have to learn it all again.

The easiest way to get from A to B, where to go if you need toothpaste, who to ring if your car breaks down, what brand of tea is best to drink, where to go if you break your tooth, how to haggle at the local market.

Guides can tell you where to go, maps can show you how to get there. But there is no map to use for living. The smallest details are the most important and those are the details people never mention, because they never seem noticeable. But you will learn.

Some things come quickly – learning how to cross the street, mastering the bus, finding out how much those coins are worth. Other things come slowly – learning to talk like the natives, mastering your routine, finding out how to cook with those crazy fruits and vegetables.

Eventually though, there’s nothing more to learn. Life is no longer a challenge. Every little skill you’ve mastered is pushed back into your subconscious. You can look at the money in your hand and know what you have. You can feel comfortable knowing where you are.

Home.

——————

Photo is “Train arriving at Cairo’s Sadat station” by modenadude. Published under the Creative Commons license.

Emergency Contact Emergency (E-mail #2)

By Dan B

Featured

humour, life, me, opinion, travel, vancouver

3 Comments

Hello again,

Has it been a week already? Man, does time fly when you’re sitting on your arse doing nothing – which is what I’ve been doing mostly this week. I’ve already got into the old, productive routine of waking up, then checking my emails for 12 hours straight. I tell myself I’m looking for jobs, but who am I kidding, I’m mostly just looking at cat videos.

Thankfully, I have managed to fill in a few job applications and have signed up for a couple of recruitment agencies. Applications aren’t usually a problem for me, but recently I’ve been struggling with one section a lot, the good old emergency contact.

Back home, my emergency contact is usually my mam (awww), but over here I’ve come to the horrible realisation that I don’t know anyone. You can’t exactly meet somebody for 5 minutes then say, “Hey, by the way, I’m putting you down as my emergency contact!” It’d be a bit awkward, wouldn’t it? It’s almost like proposing marriage, you need to find the right person first, somebody you can trust, somebody you’re close to, somebody that doesn’t mind if you fart aloud in bed.

If you’re in an accident at work, and you’re in hospital about to die, who would be the person you’d want to see before flying into that tunnel of light? Your emergency contact, of course!

But, I have no emergency contact. I’ve met a few people, sure – but I’m still at the stage with most of them where I tend to forget their name and what they look like. Hardly emergency contact material. I can hardly write, “That tall dude with the brown hair who might be named Bob or Rob” on application forms. Plus heaven forbid that I’m actually in an accident and they turn up to the hospital, look at me and say, “Sorry, have we met?” I’d look completely pathetic! Especially when explaining, “Yes, of course we’ve met! Don’t you remember? You’re my best friend. I held the door open for you at the supermarket that one time…and you said ‘thanks’…”

So for now my emergency contact is myself. I’m hoping nobody notices and just thinks I’ve got a friend with the exact same name and phone number. God help me if I’m in an actual accident, I’m the last person I want to see before death.

In other news, you may remember last week that I swore off meat due to its expense. Rather predictably, my vegetarianism only lasted around a week. My friend mentioned to me that I’m here to have fun, not to live like a hermit and I managed to see some sense. I’ve decided to say FUCK IT. Even if meat is too expensive, I’m going to eat it regardless. With that in mind I headed straight for Japadog – a fast food restaurant that sells Japanese hot dogs.

Now you may be wondering, what exactly a Japanese hot dog is. I can tell you that the hot dogs themselves are NOT Japanese, just normal hot dogs. It’s what they put on top that is Japanese. Take a look:

Yup, a hot-dog smothered in sea-weed. Very Japanese. It was surprisingly tasty and the perfect way to break my meat fast (although I guess it was only technically meat, since it was probably made of cow anuses.)

After finishing my hot dog, I thought a little dessert might be in order, which is when I looked up and saw this:

I decided the sea-weed hot dog was enough adventure for one day, and went on my merry way, happy to be back to my meat-eating ways. But I’m unfortunately still not allowing myself to buy one thing due to its expense. Beer. At around $8 (£5!) a pint it’s $8 more than I’m willing to spend. Finally a good excuse to stop drinking the damn stuff!

Anywho, that’s enough for now! Have a good week everybody.

Dan

An Email Back Home (E-mail #1)

By Dan B

Featured

humour, life, me, travel, vancouver

Fear of Freedom

By Dan B

Featured

canada, life, opinion

19 Comments

Skydiving

My flights are booked. My visa approved. It was the easiest-tough decision of my life. In 9 weeks, 1 day and 14 hours, I will begin a journey, turning over a new page in my life.

At 25 years of age, I will move to Canada. For 8 months, maybe longer, I will move to Canada. Alone.

I have no real plan. Nowhere to stay. No job. No friends. Just a vague itinerary and the ability to put off thinking about most problems until they face me.

Yet, still, I am shitting myself.

It’s strange how our first reaction to freedom is to be scared. People are planners. We love to be comfortable with our tomorrows – we love to see around the next corner – we love to know.

A fear of the unknown is something most people share. We hate mystery, it pulls at our stomach and wont let go. If something is unknown to us, our imaginations can take over, and nothing can be more damaging than our brain on the loose. We can think up such terrible situations that could never possibly happen in real-life, yet we convince ourselves they could.

The best horror movies play on that fear – involving monsters that we never fully see, only glimpsing the features, making up the horror with our minds. When we do eventually see the monster, usually the movie stops being scary. Once you know what that great horror really is, once it can be understood, it’s no longer a threat. When we can compare the reality to what we imagine, we realise that our imagination was far scarier.

This fear of an unknown future is what stops most people from making drastic changes in their life, even when the changes will eventually be better for them. When the future becomes a blank void, everything becomes scary. We look forward and all we can see is series of ‘what-ifs’ with no pre-determined path. Anything could go wrong. Anything could go right. We can see no reality, only the imagined. We never know what will happen. Scary.

Most people don’t take the leap. They just stay in a comfortable bubble, they know what will happen tomorrow, some know what will happen in 10 years, some have their whole lives planned til their death. There’s no problem with that, but to me there’s something boring in that inevitability.

A book is no longer fun to me when I can tell what’s going to happen. It feels like I’m just going through the motions, reading for the sake of reading. Life with a huge plan is like living for the sake of living. You already know what will happen, so why bother at all?

I’d rather live for the unknown plot-twist. But to do that I will have to conquer that fear. I will have to jump head first into the unknown, with nothing to protect me but the briefest of hopes that everything will turn out good. Knowing that the future is a blank canvas, that I can do anything with it.

Knowing that I am truly, completely free.

——

Photo is titled Skydiving by Kaipullai(கைப்புள்ள)

A Hoodlum Spat In My Face

By Dan B

Featured

humour, life, me, opinion

14 Comments

Hoodlum

Yesterday a stranger spat in my face. Literally, not metaphorically.

I was sitting with a friend at the time – waiting for the bus – when a group of hoodlums walked by. One of these ruffians turned to me, shouted the word “BISCUITS” and spat in my face. I don’t know why he shouted “BISCUITS”, possibly because he knew that I would go back to this word in an attempt to find some meaning within it. Perhaps he knew that word would keep me up at night, constantly questioning me, forever making me wonder “Why?! Why did he say biscuits?! What does it all mean?!”

Immediately after the spittle hit my face, I felt nothing. I did not feel angry or sad, just apathetic. I was apathetic, precisely because the entire scene didn’t mean anything. He didn’t do it for any reason I could fathom and without a reason, how could I have a reaction?

Later, I searched for meaning, part of me wishing that there was a little drama to the event. That I had somehow wronged this man in some way. That we were part of some tragic Shakespearen tale. I’m not completely against spitting if the scene calls for it. If the spitter minces their way over dramatically, shouting the words “I spit on thee and thy house for the wrongs thou hath done me *hawk-spit*” At least that spitting means something. Spitting in disgust. But I’m not disgusting. Give me some meaning if you’re going to spit on me dammit!

But NO, this spit meant nothing. Not spitting for feminism, or spitting for socialism. Just spitting for the sake of it. What a waste of spit. Spit that was on my face. Spit that I barely cared enough about to wipe away.

Yet, I must regress, I am perhaps being a little misleading. When I say he spat on me, I know what you’re thinking:

You’re thinking it was in slow-motion. (Such things always happen in slow-motion.) A weasel-looking youth, with a small moustache, looking down on me with a crafty flash in his eyes.

You’re thinking of the sound he made as he built up the spit. A low rumble of phlegm in the throat.

You’re thinking of the quick instant when he shot the saliva out of his mouth. You’re thinking that I watched it slowly gliding through the air towards me as I screamed one long “NOOOOOOOOOO!”

You’re thinking the spit hit me on the eyebrow, my head kicking backwards like I’d been hit by a gun. You’re thinking the ruffian smiled slyly in my direction, so happy with all he’d accomplished.

But let me tell you, you’re thinking wrong.

It all happened so quick that I barely had time to realise it was happening. It wasn’t slow-motion, it was fast-motion. Suddenly this man was in front of me, he was shouting “BISCUITS!”, he was spitting.

And the spit was weak. There was no conviction behind it. It was apathetic spit. It was spit that said “meh, I don’t really feel like doing this, but I’ve got to.” It was like the piece of homework you leave until the night before deadline. Lousy, half-hearted and lazy. Just plain rubbish. I was the teacher that received that lousy homework, shaking my head and thinking “come on now, we both know you can do better than this! You’re underachieving. You’ll never make anything of yourself if you go through life like this.”

There was no build up of phlegm, there was no force behind the release. In fact, the lousy little shit didn’t even have the common decency to open his mouth! He instead spat through his lips. It was half spit, half accidental raspberry. His spit dispersed into a number of minute, micro-spittles. It was like when somebody tells you a funny joke, just at the moment you’ve taken a swig of cola. We’ve all been there right? The instinctive laugh that we try to hold in at the last second, which shoots a mist of cola onto our friend. (Or in my case, laptop, because I have no friends.)

That’s how his spit was. A short, shallow mist. If spitting were a sport, then my grandma could have beaten this guy. When the spit hit me I was barely aware that it actually had. When my friend asked seconds later “did that guy just spit on you?” I suddenly started to wonder whether he actually had or not. Had he just spat on me? I felt like running down the street after him. “Erm, excuse me, sorry to bother you, I was just wondering… did you spit on me back there? Just, I’m not sure if you did, which means I don’t really know how to feel about the whole thing. Oh. Oh, right. Oh, you did just spit on me. My mistake. Didn’t mean to trouble you. Oh, wait. Wait, wait, wait! Just one more question before you leave. Uh, soooo… what was that you were saying about biscuits?”

Perhaps I’ve got it all wrong though. Perhaps his friend had just told him a hilarious, long-winded joke. The type of joke that goes on and on, and is all building up to one, perfect punch-line. A punch-line like “BISCUITS!” Perhaps upon hearing this punch-line the ruffian was forced to also exclaim “BISCUITS!” Because after that long build-up the punch-line was so obvious, but also so hilarious. “BISCUITS! HAHAHAHA! MAN THAT’S GOOD!” But maybe all he could do was exclaim “BISCUITS” before trying to hold in his laugh. And maybe that laugh turned into an inadvertent raspberry of spittle in my direction. Maybe he didn’t spit at me. Maybe he just accidentally spat in my direction. Maybe he felt really bad about it, but he didn’t apologise because, well, that’d have been really awkward, wouldn’t it? Apologising to the stranger you just accidentally spat on. Maybe he was just being polite by not bringing me into an already awkard situation. How kind of him.

Maybe he had a medical condition that prevented him from controlling his lips? Maybe he thought I was on fire and was trying to put me out? Maybe he didn’t like my jacket? Maybe, he spat on me for no reason at all. No no. That can’t be right. Ridiculous! It must have meant something! Surely!

Maybe. Just maybe, I reminded him of one thing. The one thing he hated more than anything else in this rotten world. A thing that had haunted him since the day he’d been born. A thing that chased him down long corridors in his nightmares. A thing that had killed his mother, his father, and his pet goldfish. A thing he feared, but a thing he also one day vowed to destroy:

BISCUITS.

__________________________

Photo titled Hoodlum by carbonnyc.

The Annual Existential Crisis (Birthday)

By Dan B

Featured

life, me, opinion

13 Comments

By Dan

Last week I turned 25. I tried to forget about it, tried to push it to the back of my mind, tried to pretend it was a normal day. But, no. Noooo! Over 30 people (most of whom, let’s be honest, I barely talk to) were there on Facebook, “politely” reminding me that it was my birthday with a constant barrage of jovial messages.

It’s not that I dislike birthdays. I like presents. I like cake. I like attention. But what I hate is that moment. The moment when the party is over, the house is empty, cardboard hats cover the floor, the food on the table lies half eaten, and you sit alone on your sofa and you think, ‘so, I’m 25 now, what have I done with my life?’ The silence is the answer.

Nothing.

I am 25 and I have done nothing with my life. I don’t say this with pride, but I also don’t say this with self-pity. I just say it. How many 25 year olds have done anything with their life? Not many I wager. So why do I feel bad that I’ve done nothing with mine?

I don’t know what to do with my life. At all. But I feel I should be doing something. So my mind is caught in a constant cycle. First I must feel bad because I’ve not yet done anything. Then I must feel bad because I don’t know what to do. Then I must feel bad because I haven’t done what I don’t know what to do. I feel constantly confused. Like I have no place. I feel lost. I’m unsure about everything.

There’s a term for this. A “quarter life crisis”. A time in a young person’s life where they becoming introspective and start to question their existence. We go back to that question again of ‘who am I?‘

I’m sick of asking it. Really sick. The question is even starting to bore me. I’m starting to not care about who I am. Who gives a shit! Who says I should give a damn anyway?

The world. That’s who. My generation has been brought up with an unhealthy dose of optimism. As children we are told we can be anybody we want to be. That we can do anything we want to do. If we dream big, those dreams can one day be turned into reality. We can all be a great person. A memorable person. We can change the world if we want.

Then you grow up and you realise that unhealthy dose of optimism has turned you into a pessimist. You come to the realisation that you can’t be anybody you want to be. You can’t do anything. If you dream big, you eventually realise your dreams will never happen. You can’t change the world. You can barely build up the courage to change your hairstyle.

We’re raising our children to have a false grip on their existence. If we raise every child to believe their life is special, then eventually there’ll be a fallout when all of these children grow up and realise they’re just the same as everybody else. We aren’t all great people.

If everybody is a great person then what’s the point of being great? If everybody is great, then that just means being great is average. So really, what we’re saying is, everybody is average. It comes as quite a blow when you realise you’re just the same as everybody else. You will live, you will do nothing with your life, then you will die, and 100 years afterwards you’ll be lucky if your name turns up on a family tree. That is all.

We can’t all change the world. We all read the same books. We all think the same thoughts (even these thoughts, right now, that I’m typing.) We all buy our clothes from the same stores. We all feel. We all speak. We all see. We aren’t unique. We aren’t special. We are average. That hurts.

But I wonder, did it hurt my grandfather? Did he ever sit alone after the party. Sad about being the same as everybody else. Sad about his life having no meaning.

I doubt it. My grandfather’s generation fought in two World Wars. They went off to a foreign country, barely adults, and they shot other humans, who were also barely adults. But they never thought about it. Never wondered “what does this all mean?” They just thought about their family. Their love back home. Their luck to be alive. Nowadays it’s almost as if we’re unlucky to be alive.

However my grand parents were sold a different dream. They weren’t special. They weren’t unique. They were simply told that if they worked hard, they could have a family, they could have their own home, they could have a dog. They could be happily the same as everybody else, and if they were lucky they’d have enough money at the end of the year to buy a full turkey for Christmas. And they were happy enough. Not truly happy. But happy enough. With their existence, with their lives, with what they had. They knew that true, complete happiness was an impossible dream, that happy enough was the best they could hope for. They were happy with happy enough.

So where did it all go wrong? Well, personally, I blame The Beatles. I love The Beatles. They’re one of my favourite bands. But we really should have smelt trouble when they stopped singing about holding hands, and started singing about LSD.

The 60s were amazing, right? The world started to become more liberal (and never stopped!). Everybody started to become open minded. We suddenly decided that people should have equal rights. That everybody should have a chance. We decided that everybody, everywhere, could be a great person. Even you. Yes, you! Right there, you! Sure you’ve been born into poverty. Sure you’ve got no education. Sure you’ve only got the skills to dig ditches for a living. But even you could change the world! You could be great!

Once people believe they’re unique, they start to believe their life has meaning. Which leads to a horrible, horrible discovery when they realise it’s meaningless. Religion used to solve the problem. Sure, we have no meaning now, but we’ll have meaning later! But even those damn liberals have stolen religion from us and replaced it with the worst thing possible. Choice.

You can choose. You can do anything you like with your life. You have a choice. So much choice. So so soooo much choice. Choice is great. Choice means we’re free. But. (Oh, shit, there’s a but!?) You must choose wisely, you must make the right choice. God no longer exists, heaven doesn’t await us. This is it. This is your life. You have only got one shot. One choice. So make it the right choice. But make it now dammit! Time is running out!

That’s a lot of pressure. Your whole life is brought down to a choice. Which you must make. Around about now. Around about 25.

I don’t know what choice to make though. There are so many choices, and so much pressure to choose, that I can’t choose. I’m like a deer standing in the road, paralysed by the light of a car coming towards me. Behind the wheel is life. Grinning madly. Happy to run me over.

What if I make the wrong choice? What if I screw up? What if I fail to be that great person the world has told me I will be? What if? What if? What if?

There are so many what ifs that in the end, I make no choice. I don’t become a great person. I don’t change the world. I realise I’m not unique. I realise my life has no meaning. I realise I am average.

I sit alone. After the party. Thinking these things. Realising I was sold a lie in childhood, that I’m now paying for in adulthood. Searching for a solution. Searching for a choice.

But as I sit there, I start get bored. Bored of thinking. About everything.

So I turn the TV on. I open a bag of tortillas. I eat.

I start to go on with life. Forgetting all about that choice

Forgetting, that no choice is the worst choice of all.

—————–

Photo is Progressione II by Iguanajo

The Confessions of a Lifelong Cheater

By goldfish.

May 18, 2011

crystal, humour, opinion

1 Comment

By Crystal.

I grew up surrounded by games. In my house, Sega, Nintendo and Playstation were staples, as well as board games like Monopoly, Life and Scattegories. Eventually, we got to the point where we had so many games that they filled an entire closet. After choosing what game you wanted to play, you’d have to carefully pull the box out hoping and praying that the rest wouldn’t come toppling down. A real-life Jenga.

More often than not, they DID come crashing down and you got screamed at by my aunt, whose closet they were kept in. Then we’d start to play another game — the blame game — but that’s another story entirely.It was mostly my cousin and my brother who played these games with me. Being several years older, one would think that I would let them win sometimes. Or at the very least, that I wouldn’t be a total jerk about my superior brain crushing theirs in a game of Tetris. No. I wanted to DOMINATE.

I can’t quite remember when this insatiable desire to win formed in me or when it became directly connected to games. Whatever the case, I was a fiend, desperate to win every single game, doing a victory dance when I did and throwing an over-the-top fit complete with flinging myself to the ground in tears when I didn’t.

The times when I didn’t win were few and far between, yet they are seared into my brain. I hated playing Clue[do] with the entire family only to have one of the adults solve the case before I did. HOW DARE YOU ACCUSE MS. PEACOCK IN THE KITCHEN WITH THE KNIFE! I was ONE weapon away from solving that, bitch!

I didn’t say things like that, of course, but I totally thought it and losing got to the point where I decided to do the unthinkable: cheat.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I was a cheater. Full-blown, 10-year-old, shameful, cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater.

Clearly I was destined to become an adulterer later in life, cheat on my SATs and end up as a bum on the streets. I was heading down the wrong path and IT. FELT. GOOD.

I mean, of course I’d always been taught that cheating was “bad.” But I was never really taught WHY. I didn’t learn until later that it’s because it’s unethical and unfair to other people. All I knew was that this cheating thing was AMAZING because I won. Every! Single! Time! So, really, how bad could it be?

I could sneak a peek at people’s cards and win Go Fish. I could accidentally-on-purpose toss a Yahtzee die on the floor and say “It landed on a six!” when I needed the fifth six to complete my Yahtzee. I could casually change my words on Scattegories when someone else had the same word as I did.

I could taste the sweet, sweet victories and I yearned for those more than I yearned for Hershey Kisses or Barbies or the desire not to be a total jerk to my family.

So I started to up the ante. I became less bold in my willingness to take chances. I started making rules about which games we could and couldn’t play. I was only interested in playing games I KNEW I could win. Games where I had a chance of losing (like video games) I only wanted to play alone.

My winning streak skyrocketed. And for a while, so did my fun.

But then I stopped bidding on anything in Monopoly and instead, hoarded my money. And I couldn’t play Mall Madness because my win was left to chance (an electronic credit card swiper decided the fate of your purchases, which was NOT something I was willing to gamble on, even though the game was really awesome, because it was a game about shopping, y’all). And Life? Forget about it. I was not going to end up with three sets of twins who I’d later have to put through college! Ugh.

This maniacal behavior, of course, made it so that nobody wanted to play with me.

On top of that, games weren’t really fun anymore. What’s the fun in cheating during a game of Uno when I’m playing Uno alone?! Then I win AND lose and that’s no fun, either.

The madness had to stop.

I started playing regular games again, though my crack-like addiction to winning made not cheating difficult. It made playing a game I wasn’t sure I’d win scary (but what if I looooose?! Then I’ll be destined for failure! I’d rather be destined for a life of sin and dishonesty!).

Eventually, I learned to let go of winning and to take losing in my stride.

But I’ll be honest: winning is still my favorite. Now I pretend to be really bad at games (“Oh, I don’t know… I’m so bad at this…”) and then relish in the glorious feeling of winning when everyone else thought they would.

So, yes, I let go of my compulsion and learned to have fun. (Since winning and being “perfect” at games isn’t everything.) But it’s clear that I’m still pretty evil and no amount of cleansing will rid me of that.

————–

Photo is Candy Land by Trojanguy

The Dating Game.

By Jamie

May 16, 2011

jamie, life, love

7 Comments

By Jamie

Jamie (Mobile)
Sent: April 22, 2011 3:31:34 PM
Are we still on for dinner plans tonight?

The Guy I like (Mobile)
Received: April 22, 2011 5:11:28 PM
Oh, that’s right. That was for tonight.
I forgot I have to stay late at work.

The Voice inside Jamie’s head: What the hell?! First off, it took him… (uses fingers to count out the math)…an hour and forty minutes to even respond back to my text! Secondly, he forgot!? So, you know what? I won’t even respond back. Or if I do, it will be three hours from now.

–

If Life were an exam, the above scenario* would be question number 34. The above example should feel quite familiar to most (at least I can speak on behalf of women). And if not, I guess I’m alone here and hopefully, you the reader, will continue following along anyway.

[*This scenario did not actually happen to the writer.]

After reading the said scenario on the exam, this question would follow:

What do you do next?

Tell him that you’re disappointed in him forgetting, but arrange for another night. He suggests breakfast instead, you oblige, and live happily ever after.
Call him, immediately, demanding to know why it took him so long to respond. Also make it known that you’re starving, and it’s all his fault.
You refuse to text him back until three hours later, feigning disinterest about the fact he completely forgot about dinner plans.
Other (Please write comments in the appropriate space below.)

However, this isn’t a question on the Life exam. We don’t have the time to clearly think about what we should choose. We don’t have the opportunity to study for it. It just….happens. We more than likely choose to do the first thing that comes to mind, regardless of how silly, crazy, and ridiculous it sounds at the time. (More than likely it sounds brilliant to you, anyway.)

Thus, irrational, crazy side ensues.
Thus, playing games occur.

And no, I am not talking about those games. I am not talking about a game of Scrabble, an episode of Jeopardy! or a game of Hide-and-Go-Seek. As those are quite fun. I am, however, talking about the games we play while in relationships.

The said scenario in which I keep referring to is an example of playing mind games in a relationship. The Voice Inside Jamie’s Head was contemplating what should she say to him, what should she do, or should she even do and/or say anything at all?! But why? Is it because playing games are inevitable? If so, when are they initiated?

After much thorough thinking, I have come to believe there are different games played while at different stages in relationships. I have provided some examples below. (Age, sex, and IQ can also be factors when it comes to choosing what game to play.)

A five-year-old boy teases a five-year-old girl. He pushes her on the ground to proclaim that he thinks she is cute. She is crying and never wants to speak to the boy again. [Note: The games are physical.]

There are two people, right now, unaware of how the other person feels about them. These two people are probably playing hard-to-get because one must never come off as needy, desperate, and readily available. EVER! [Note: The games are now mental.]

The aforementioned two people are now in a relationship. It has been three years already! However, they fight, a lot. They also threaten to break up with each other, and if they do, they come crawling right back to one another. They continue trying to make the other person jealous by going out, taking pictures with “good-looking” strangers and posting it on their facebook. They both are miserable.

There could also be another two people, right now, where one person is aware of the other being completely smitten with them. This person finds it flattering, and takes advantage of the smitten one. I don’t know the name of the game, but the person playing it is an asshole. They take comfort in knowing someone, right now, finds them fascinating even though they have no intention of getting with this person. (Namely because they already have a significant other.) But it’s a a nice stroke to their ego, and so it continues.

For the past few months, I have begun to like someone. Fortunately for me, the feelings are mutual, which basically means I don’t have to play hard-to-get. Yes! However, there could still be other games that will be played along the way. (You know, like naked Scrabble.)

But the thing is, I don’t feel like I need to. (Yes, there have been times when I felt I needed to. Don’t you remember the miserable couple from above? They believed getting one another jealous would prove to themselves that their significant other cared about them.) I feel quite all right with calling him or messaging him anytime I please without asking myself, “Am I being too…much?” (It also helps that he responds within a reasonable time frame.) But it could simply be because it hasn’t been long enough. We are still at the point where everything the other person says is fucking fascinating.

I’ve already discussed when the best time in a relationship is: the beginning. Right now, we are both on the equal-playing field. The trust is still intact. It has not been lost, forgotten, abused, or abandoned. Namely because I have put it in a safe spot, under my bed, wrapped in plastic, bound by a chain.

–

Jamie (Mobile)
Sent: April 22, 2011 5:23:14 PM
I can’t believe you forgot! When can
can we reschedule then?

The Guy I Like (Mobile)
Sent: April 22, 2011 5:25:09 PM
How about breakfast instead?

Jamie (Mobile)
Sent: April 22, 2011 5:26:27 PM
Doughnuts?

The Fear of Public Speaking

By goldfish.

April 17, 2011

crystal, life, opinion

3 Comments

By Crystal

Like most people, I’m terrified of public speaking. As a terribly shy, quiet person, speaking to a group of others goes against the very nature of my existence. I mean, talking one on one with people I don’t know makes me nervous enough. How am I supposed to carry on in front of several people at once?

Having graduated from college and settled into my newspaper job, I thought my days of public speaking were essentially over. That is, until my colleague happened to be a professor, who wanted me to speak infront of her class. Cue panic.

I can’t quite remember when I started to be afraid of speaking in front of others. All I know is that eventually, it happened. In fourth grade, I was the teacher’s pet and was therefore asked to assist him with a skit he was doing for a school meeting.

Let me back up a bit. In our elementary school, we had “school meetings” where the entire school would pack itself into the gym and sit on a dusty floor that hadn’t been cleaned for decades. You’d go with your class and your teacher and listen to the principal and Other Important Figures discuss things that I can’t really remember now because I spent most of my time staring dreamily at my crush and talking with my friends about which Spice Girl was better.

The one thing I recall about the weekly meeting was Safety Man. Safety Man was my teacher. Only, he had a cape and wore an orange cone on his head. Oh, and he took off his glasses. This was obviously a seriously convincing disguise (since, as anyone who has ever watched a 90s teen film will know, taking off one’s glasses makes said individual unrecognizable and, usually, hot — though Safety Man was far from that).

Safety Man would stand in front of the school and explain to us the importance of being safe. No running in the halls! Always carry scissors face down! Never stick a cat in an oven! To this day, I am not sure why Safety Man existed. But he did.

For the end-of-the-year meeting, Safety Man wanted some of my classmates to assist him with a demonstration. I was the first person asked. I declined. Then, I was not only terrified of being in front of a huge group of people (the entire school), but I knew that being associated with Safety Man would ruin me socially.

Later, at the school meeting, I realized that all of the students who had volunteered to help Safety Man received CANDY for doing so. I was seriously pissed that I’d declined. I was willing to debase and humiliate myself for some motherfuckin’ CANDY. HE DIDN’T MENTION CANDY.

Nevertheless, the following year, when I won a spelling bee , I refused to compete in front of other people and forfeited my title. Obviously because no candy was involved.
I do think it’s sad (and maybe even sort of tragic) that we’re all so terrified to speak in front of others because we’re afraid of being judged by our peers, being laughed at, or of making a mistake. In some people, the fear can be crippling; in others, it can just make them very nervous beforehand.

Either way, you’d think, by now, someone would have come up with some really great way of coping, ASIDE from the asinine suggestions of “practicing” (nobody wants to practice speaking in front of people because that means you have to speak in front of people more than you had to in the first place, okay?) and of trying to picture the audience naked or in their underwear (which is just plain creepy).

In high school and college, public speaking usually meant my voice would be really shaky and I’d laugh nervously and awkwardly like Natalie Portman at the Golden Globes:

(For the record, her laugh is WAY extended in that clip, but it makes the awkwardness much more palpable and, of course, funny.)

Since being really awkward hasn’t actually worked to my benefit (shocker!), I had to find a new way to deal with public speaking. That’s where my college friend comes in. As someone who blushes profusely when put on the spot, she came up with the ingenious idea to bring in baked goods, which she would strategically pass around at the start of her speech, hoping delectable chocolate brownies would be enough to distract people from noticing her flaming red cheeks.

And guess what? It worked. Every time. It even worked when she and I were partners for a class project.Know why? Because people fucking love treats (as illustrated by my fourth-grade self who was full of regret for not embarrassing herself in front of the school for some Now and Laters!). They suddenly don’t care if you’re in front of the class pretending to be a cheetah or curing cancer; they just want to know if there’s enough for a second helping.

So, my bestie at work wants me to speak to the class that she teaches. I’m not sure I’ll accept, but if I do, you can bet your ass I’ll bring in a batch of cookies. Or brownies. Or cake. Or maybe a whole dessert table.

The Upgrade

By Jamie

April 11, 2011

jamie, life, love, Uncategorized

4 Comments

by Jamie

If I had a conversation with someone, and he or she were to ask me to describe a potential mate, the following dialogue would occur:

“So, Jamie, what do you look for in a mate?”

“Ah.. well, I seem to always look for the same characteristics in a potential boyfriend. I believe Mr. Almost Right must be attractive, intelligent, and funny.

“How… broad and unoriginal.”

“Okay, he must be a quick-witted, cynical, adorkable, and charming man, who plays Scrabble.

After exchanging the above conversation with the voice inside my head, I couldn’t help but wonder: if we look for the same qualities in a potential mate, are we just dating the same person over and over again? (Just in a different body with a different last name?) At first glance, yes, I was certain that I was dating the same person. Everything seemed to be the same: their mannerisms, their music tastes, their quirks, and even their noses. At giving it a thirty-second thought, I believe that we are just dating an improved version of the former mate.

Also known as an upgrade.

I have heard that people can sometimes be like fine wine because we typically get better with age: our wisdom, our patience, and even our confidence. We improve in our every-day relationships, including the romantic ones: what we look for, what we will and will not put up with, and (hopefully) develop a better sense to detect if he or she would be good for us. Which ultimately means we are one step closer to meeting that someone who is willing to put up with our shit, and find it completely endearing.

As adults, (normally) we throw out the superficial must-haves: He must be tall, dark, and handsome. We do this for a couple of reasons. Firstly, they’re undoubtedly unrealistic and shallow. I, a woman who stands at five feet, three inches, am coming to terms that wanting a man who is over six feet isn’t going to love me anymore than a man at five feet, nine inches. (He still needs to have dark hair, however.) Secondly, what we found attractive four years ago may not be so appealing now. I’m fairly certain the only prerequisites for a boyfriend I had in high school were that he should be good-looking, on the baseball team, and not in the Anime club. Who cares if he couldn’t hold a conversation? He was hot and I could flaunt him on my arm. You know, like he was an accessory.

Of course, I never managed to acquire the popular baseball player and wear him like a handbag. The only (and first) boyfriend I managed to get in school was during my senior year. He was tall, lanky, and musically inclined. He lived at home (his mom cooked us food), worked at Abercrombie and Fitch (Hello, discounts!?), and could get alcohol in my hands (Need I say more?). He was Mr. Almost Right to seventeen-year-old Jamie.

However, he would not be Mr. Almost Right to twenty-two-year-old Jamie. I wouldn’t be too thrilled to learn that a man over the age of 26 was still living at home. Sure, it would be nice that his mother could cook for us every time I came over, but it wouldn’t be so nice having to worry about a mother coming into the room, uninvited. And I wouldn’t be too delighted to learn that anyone out of high school is still buying clothes from Abercrombie and Fitch.

Like most good things, it came to an end. He shattered my heart and left me on my own. I was devastated. After all, he was my first everything: kiss, love, the one to see my naked body in all its glory, and now.. breakup. The inevitable thought occurred: I will never be able to do this again with someone. But after the seventy-second time of him dismissing my pleads and cries, I did the only thing a desperate seventeen-year-old girl would do: I went for an upgrade.

It didn’t take long to find my upgrade. I didn’t even research my options. In fact, I went with the first one that I saw that made my stomach flip-flop. That one, right there!

So, let me get this straight: You live on your own? You’re actually tall, dark, AND handsome?! You really ARE bigger and better.

Of course with every upgrade, come the risks. The risk that the upgrade may not be entirely compatible with the user. The risk that the upgrade could actually worsen the product. And it did.

I’ve developed a habit since. A habit where I (subconsciously or not) compare and contrast the past and present boyfriends to one another and to the ideal boyfriend who lives inside my head, rent free.

I must ask myself: (If yes is said, I move on to the next question. If I say no, I abort immediately.) Is he attractive? Does he know the difference between your and you’re and other homonyms? Does he make me laugh until I cry? Does he play Scrabble? Does he like cats? Does he read? Does he vote left? Does he find it funny that people believe in an imaginary man in the sky? Does he have good taste in music? Does he dress well? Does he cook? Does he like pulp in his orange juice? Which inevitably leads me to:

Is he worth the upgrade?

Unfortunately, most cannot seem to pass the homonym question.

Imposed Meanings

By goldfish.

March 30, 2011

art, crystal, humour, opinion

6 Comments

By Crystal

L: A scribble by Jack (a 5 year old), R: ‘Laburnum’ by Hans Hoffman (a “proper” artist?)

There was a study released that says that one in three art students can’t tell a famous painting from paintings made by monkeys and children.

While this is kind-of-really hilarious, I’m more curious why we give prestige to anything that can be confused with something produced by a monkey.

Don’t get me wrong. Monkeys are pretty great. A little freaky, probably, but you know – we evolved from them and all that crap, and they eat bananas, which are delicious, so they can’t be all that bad.

But when it comes to art, I can’t see them producing something on par with Van Gogh’s “The Starry Night”.

And yet… some of the art that is praised looks the same as if a monkey did make it.

I’m all for the notion that “art is art.” BUT. We seem to impose these notions that some art is great just because of who made it. Take, for example, “No. 13 (White, Red on Yellow)” by Mark Rothko

Or “Blue Green Red” by Ellsworth Kelly.

Both are on view at The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Both are considered art. Both are really nothing more than panels of color. You or I could make something similar and call it art, but they sure as shit wouldn’t hang that in The Met next to Monet and Dali. (Although it would be interesting to try, because I could use several million dollars and I’d be interested in doing nothing more than painting shapes for the rest of my life. Then I could use my money to buy an island or something and make it rain M&Ms.)

The point is: if we strip away the prestige and title of a painting and can’t decipher it from a painting made by a toddler or by an animal, then why is it prestigious in the first place?

This isn’t the only time when this applies. People have a hard time telling the difference between expensive and cheap wine or pate from dog food (true story!). Most of the stuff that has value and worth only has value and worth because we think that it should.

I mean, I should know. For the longest time, I had an irrational attachment to a phone case. The phone case had been touched (yes, touched) by my then-favorite celebrity, Nick Carter (why yes, he is a member of the Backstreet Boys, and I don’t even care). I met him and I had my friend, Chrissy, on the phone and I asked him to say “hello” to her. He did, using my phone and, in the process, touching that phone case to his cheek. He touched it to his cheek. HE TOUCHED IT TO HIS CHEEK! Eighth-grade me was riveted by this and couldn’t bear throwing it away (or letting anyone else touch it, for that matter, for fear that it would be “tainted”).

Even then, I think I had some inkling of just how bizarre and crazy and irrational that was. I couldn’t help myself, though. To anyone else, it was just a phone case (and a pretty ugly one at that). To me, it was special because he had touched it (in the same way that someone might think that a hat owned by Johnny Depp might be special).

Most of the time, we push our own feelings or perceptions on things – usually objects, but I guess it’s sometimes also fitting for people or places – and it makes us come to illogical conclusions. Sometimes it’s a big group of us admiring the same thing (like a Jackson Pollock painting) and sometimes it’s something personal, that wouldn’t mean nearly the same to someone else as it does to you.

It makes us think that a piece of art (which actually looks like a monkey swiped paint across his butt and sat on the paper) is “REAL ART” worthy of being admired and praised simply because of who it was created by. That the Chateau Lafite 1787 $160,000 bottle of wine (the most expensive wine in the world, I looked it up! Google never lies! Ever!) is somehow a million times better and more worthy of drinking than the $13.98 bottle of Apple Crannie (a real wine from a local vineyard, which is quite delicious). That a phone case touched to the cheek of a childhood role model somehow holds the essence of that person. Perceptions make us do crazy things.

For the record, I still have the phone case. But I keep it now to remind me of how crazy I was as a kid, not because he touched it. I swear.

—Das Bloggen

Dealing With Culture Shock

Emergency Contact Emergency (E-mail #2)

An Email Back Home (E-mail #1)

Fear of Freedom

A Hoodlum Spat In My Face

The Annual Existential Crisis (Birthday)

The Confessions of a Lifelong Cheater

The Dating Game.

The Upgrade

Imposed Meanings

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