Fashion Foibles

Don't be ashamed if you have to look up foibles, man. I had to.

Here's the thing about my semester at Eddie Bert: I made really great friends. And I loved writing about their crazy British ways. But now I'm back at the Bo', and according to Dave, my blog is no longer relevant. At least, it's no longer chock full of people and places he knows. Which is why, in today's special entry, everyone's names have been changed to names of Eddie Bert kids I know. That way Dave will feel like he's reading about his own life.

While sitting around in Fi's flat, drinking Ribena, eating jelly, and jacket potatoes, we started talking about Andy's dress, which looked suspiciously like mine. Except the top part was completely different. Andy complained that his dress was so low and he is so short that the dress revealed too much of his boobs.

Alan, because he knows so much about fashion, then started making helpful suggestions, much to the horror of all the girls in the room...

Alan: Why don't you just wear those doily things that girls wear?
Elle: You want her to wear doilies?
Alan: No, what are those things called? Those lacey, embroidered things girls wear when their dress is cut a little too risque?
Kaz: I don't think anyone in this century has worn any embroidered doilies.
Alan: They obviously don't wear doilies. Maybe this was in the 80's. They wore those doily, lacey, snowflake things! You know?
Hannah: I don't think people wear embroidered snowflakes.

Apparently, the word he was looking for was camisole.

Fi then ran a color test on Alan, asking him to describe her missing jacket. Alan tried to pretend that he wasn't really a boy and that he knew his colours, using 'periwinkle' and 'lavender.' Despite his best attempts, however, he still failed, proving once again that boys know nothing about colours or female dress. The word we were looking for was 'slate.'

The Queen then relayed this story about her brother, who was also a boy and apparently did not know much about female apparels.

Brother: What're you wearing?
Queen: Legwarmers.
Brother: Why?
Queen: They keep my legs warm.
Brother: Don't trousers do that?
Queen: Yes, they do. But legwarmers can, too.

Later on, I used the loo, left the flat, rode down the lift, had some chips (NOT FRIES) and climbed Arthur's Seat. All in a day's work in my favorite city.

Red Socks Nation

I have a pair of Hang Ten socks that are red. Very red. They are new, starting to get dirty, but I think I am falling in love with the pair and thus do not want to give them up and move on to less red socks.

They are my revolutionary socks and my Santa socks all rolled up into one lovely pair.

Like Ehud Before Me

My entire nuclear family is composed of lefties. My mom had all her left-leaning tendencies beaten out of her at an early age, so I consider more a lefty-poser, but she likes to call herself a lefty. My parents used to joke, because joking about the state of Chinese politics can be so funny, that we were true leftists because, unlike other socialists, we were left-leaning on the inside. When my father repeated that line for the zillionth time, but also the first time in years, on Thanksgiving night, I realized that it had taken me twenty-some years to understand what he meant by leftest. I always thought he just meant really, really left-handed. All the sudden, at the dinner table, I perked up and exclaimed, "Yeah! I guess I am a little!" It made me sad that I had been dense for so long. But I don't think anyone at the table noticed, cared, or believed that I would have leftist tendencies.

Anyway, anyone else find it strange that the international emblem of socialist international is a right fist? I thought it was just the silly Democratic Left kids (formerly the Dem Soc) on campus that messed up, but no, it's the international emblem. That's a bit like if the drummer "from Def Leppard's only got one arm" actually had two arms, isn't it? Maybe not so much, but nevertheless, I wanted to give a Rick Allen shout out.

Wayback Machine Goes to Market

 

A man with his merchandise of bamboo mats walking through the crowded market.

In the end, though Body is not so good with words (what with Mind having all the brain power) and Soul not being much of a help (it's literate all right, but not a great speller), Body still managed to triumph over Mind. I am having an incredibly restful break and consequently, completely behind in every single class. And what do I do when the academic going gets rough? Hop onto the Wayback machine, of course- to a time when I didn't have to write about China and the tensions between State and family, I just had to be in China. 

I Am Your Mother

This morning, Taiwan tops the headlines in the NYTimes. Here, for you nonsubscribers, is the cheerful opening:

At times, Taiwanese politics is a blend of opera and blood sport, and this is one of those times. Scandal and outrage, lying and humiliation — all of it messy and delivered in a loud, public fashion — are consuming political life here, as a virtual death watch has settled over the second term of President Chen Shui-bian.

Is the government ridiculous? Yes. But not unlike many other democracies we know.

Speaking of nonsubscribers, Mother succinctly summarized her thoughts on the NYT: "It's just big words." Oh, Bo, you have made me such a snob.

At brunch (not because we're the type of family that eats brunch, but because we were hungry at 10:30am and it is unlikely that Mother will make us lunch), Father commented on how Patriots Coach Bill Belichick's sweatshirt reminded him of Luke Skywalker, thus leading us all down Geek Lane. Father and Mother remembers the characters in a combination of translated and English names...

Moi: ... you mean Obi Wan Kenobi?
Mother: Yeah, Obi Wan. What are they called? That type of good guys?
Moi: Jedi?
Mother: Are Jedis ninjas?
Father: No, no, no.
Mother: What are they then?
Father: They're just Jedis. Jedis are Jedis; ninjas are ninjas.

And that, was my favorite sentence of the day.

Longing for the Jenkins

I don't live the Jenkins family reunion. My family isn't like that. Grandma doesn't bake pies. Uncle doesn't carve the ham. No knitted sweaters, no family rituals, I don't even think my aunts and uncles know when my birthday is. But apparently this Thanksgiving, I've got the token ignorant family member at the table.

I walk into the dining room and hear my mom chatting with my father's cousin, saying things that you don't want to know...

Racist Second Cousin: ... so it's not that they're not smart?
Mother: It really isn't, so you can't just make those assumptions. If my kids hear you say that, they'll call you a racist.

That's right, Mama, we taught you well.

That's All My Folks?

My parents have just come back from a month away in the Motherland. No, not the Motherland of motherlands, not the tartan one and not the commie one, just their motherland. And they have come back as changed people. Sure, we have all changed. Since the last time I saw them, I have become a get-up-at-7am-eat-breakfast-by-8am type of freak. And my parents?

My dad has come back with a pair of Chucks. Not faux-Chucks, as I brought back from the motherland (and dearly love, blisters aside, I mean, do you have sneakers whose tops you can fold down?), but real, genuine, All-Stars.

Moi: Converses? Do you know what these are, Bah?
Father: Yeah, Converse All-Stars snakers. I really like them.

Later, he asked if I wanted to see his new shades.

Moi: Why're you so stylish?
Father: Cool, huh? Don't I look like a Triad boss?

And indeed, he did. Shades, mustache, goatee, and slightly greasy long hair, he looked just like any other Asian villain in action movies. Awesome.

So I'm rummaging through all the food that Mother brought back from the Motherland, seeing if I can bring any little snacks to Advisor Riles:

Mother: Do any of your professors wear extra large?
Moi: Um, could we not be giving clothes to my professors?

God's Little Gifts

My parents love little children. They've long toyed with the idea of adoption and they are pretty good with children. All of this, I think, helps to explain why they rocked as parents when we were little (we, as in Brother and I, not you and I) but have slacked off considerably in recently years.

So I'm talking to Mother on the phone, she is waiting for her luggage at the airport:

Mother: There are so many cute children here, I really want to take one home.
Moi: Do it! Adoption is so expensive. If you can get one for free, go for it.
Mother: But they all look like they're old enough to talk. Those are hard to steal away.
Moi: That's why you need to get one that doesn't speak English. We can teach them Chinese. Oh! A Spanish-speaking one would be ok. We could make it work. No wait, too many people speak Spanish, they'd know...
Mother: Yeah, that's too hard. Does this mean no Mexican children? Do they speak Spanish?
Moi: You should aim for those obscure little European countries. Or countries in Asia minor. Those would be good.
Mother: You are horrible.

Good Clothes, Bad People

While not putting my life to good use, I discovered this site selling vintage inspired clothing. Not 'vintage' in the sense of classic elegance a la Audrey Hepburn, but sweatshirts and shirts that aren't actually old, but are made to look like they've been in your attic for twenty years, yet still oddly expensive. What's more odd about the site is the models that they employ seem to make their clothes less flattering. And thus, I present to you a game I like to call Cute shirt, Ugly Model.

Cute Shirt:

















AH! Ugly Model:

















Don't get me wrong now. I appreciate their use of non-commercial, healthy, real models as much as the next woman, that's not what's at stake here. And some of their models actually look good in the merchandise, but most of them, well, you'll see:

Nice, demure dress(almost a little to plain):

















One model pulling it off nicely:

















Another, not so much:
(I don't even think she's wearing the same dress)

















Lastly, my favorite contrast. Cute dress:

















#&@!?!? Model:

















Why, people, why!? How is this ever a good idea for selling clothes!?

From Body, with Help from Soul

For Body and Bobby

Body:
Look, buddy, I know you're not very bright 'cause I've pretty much got all the brain power, but I will try to use little words to explain. I need you to work with me. In two days, you can get all the sleep you want, plus turkey, stuffing, and I'm sure some other amazing things. We'll even go out for sushi. But you need to work with me here. Until Tuesday afternoon, we cannot have any sore muscles and fatigue, ok? I pretty much need to go the next day and a half without sleeping. I promise it'll be worth it. Do you understand delayed gratification? In a couple of days, you can sleep anywhere you want, in the car, on the couch, the futon, the bed, for as long as you want. I'll even let you just sit and watch TV. But you've got to stay strong, buddy. You do not sleep until told to. And I don't want to hear your whining again, none of that "Oh no, Big Mean Mind is bossing me around," ok? I'm doing this for your own good. Do you want to be working on your feet, doing heavy lifting, scrubbing floors, and working back-breaking minumum wage jobs for the rest of your life? That's right, didn't think so. I wouldn't mind you know, I would get a break. But this is for your own good. I always look out for you.

-Mind

Shots with Scholars

Today's title was brought to you by Matt. Good work, Matt.

This has been a week of stress (to be followed by a weekend, then holiday, then December, of stress). It has been a week of sickness of almost everyone on campus but me (yay, immune system, hang in there). And it has also been a week of smart words from sharp professors. Here along with such highlights are completely unrelated apple picking pictures.

In physics, we had a substitute for a class. Because only in physics would you have a substitute for a college course. We didn't mind, though. Vita-K and I actually rather looked forward to being reunited with our 103 Prof.


(On his in-class demo)
You know, you could very well get excited about all this. I could stare into this all day







Can you feel what's coming? Do you feel it? That's right, integrating!... The type of integrals you probably do for breakfast.




The sun's a very hot place. I wouldn't recommend it as a spring break destination.









And of course, there's the Band Man:
BM: Huh?
Chris: Oh no, I was just nodding in agreement.
BM: It's so rare for me to get that in class.


(On giving pop quizzes)
BM: I think I may have done that in grad school, I was probably drunk... with power.
Moi: You were also just drunk.
BM: Probably, I've repressed much of grad school.





(At Pints with Profs at the Pub, Eve and I are in the middle of two conversation groups, with no one talking to us. We glance around at the professors in conversation, consider their fields, and loudly drop words to grab their attention.)





Eve: How 'bout that psych, huh?
Moi: And physics. When I grow up, I want to be a neurophysicist psych person.
Eve: A neuropsychphysicist? Me, too!
Moi: Exactly! I want to be a neuropsychophysicist.

(Later, when we're talking with a few of profs, most of whom I've never met...)
"Rick": Yeah, that class of 2006. They were a classy bunch. They had real pints.
"Sam": And you didn't have to pay. They paid for their profs.
"Rick": Class of 2006. Weren't they your favorite class? They were mine. I think we had caviar, too, champagne. Everything was free. None of this pizza and Sierra Nevada, real food, real pints.
Moi: Well, they had real profs, too.

(Collective shock at my words, followed, "OHHHH!", "Ooooooh!", "Burn!" and thankfully, laughter. All's cool until Rick leans in to explain what I had said to 103 Prof, who was just joining in.)

Moi: No! No! Not [103 Prof], he was a real prof! Top of the line! Because I had him and he graded me and I'm afraid he'll take back my grade. Please, don't take away my grade. Plus, your office is really close to [current 104 Prof's] office...
103 Prof: And we talk all the time.
"Sam": We talk all the time, too.
"Rick": Yeah, and didn't I hear that you want to be a neurophysicist? You'll probably have to go through us if you want to do that. Good luck with that.

Chariots, The Roof, and My Hand

Why such a flurry of blogger activity? I do not expect to make it out of the next week alive. And even if I do, the coming weeks look to be an academic inferno, and so I post now, before I will not have a chance to sleep, eat, or write, for another month and a half.

Sometimes, when I start missing my Eddie Bert friends, I post pictures of my American ones. The people you are about to see are actually not America's finest offerings of my friends, but they were right there at a night I remembered to bring my camera, and that's all that matters, because convenience is what counts most in friendships...

From dinner last night. MC T-Chu handled the grilling while Elizabeth and I were relegated to domestic pursuits like salad, bread, and dessert.

Elizabeth, making that great dessert native to this great country we call 'Brownie from a Box.'
Multi-tasking Tim, totally not paying enough attention to his zucchini. Who talks on the phone in the midst of grilling?

Don't be fooled by these two, our only boys at dinner. They may look like they're sharing barbeque war stories mano-a-mano, but Tim is actually showing Isaac his newly manicured hand.


Does it look like we had been hanging out by the grill? That was the look I was looking for. To jazz up my pictures, I dragged everyone out of the comforts of the warm kitchen to pose with fire.











O deliciously juicy and plump jalepeno burger. It may look wondrous and innocent, but the burger cost me immense distress. I was in charge of dicing the peppers, and because I was not informed of the intensity of the peppers I was handed and thus did not realize I had in hand a habanero and should have worn gloves (and because I was stupid and don't think before I cut peppers), my right hand burned for the remainder of the night. The pain started slow and didn't get bad until after I got home from dinner. I am not exaggerating when I say my entire hand was in excruciating, crippling pain. It was submerged in an ice-milk bath for most of the night, which did not dull the pain enough. I had to clutch an ice pack and later, a bag of ice, to sleep.



People with healthy, unharmed, fingers enjoying their dinner.

Tinker Toys

My dollar sweater from Salvation Army.

Sure the sweater is magically charming, but I wonder about the labor practices in Fairyland. 

Corrections

Bobs has informed me that my weekly habit, SuperSnacks, is a singular noun, as in Super Snack. I'd like to inform Bobs that this is my blog, not his.

The Color Purple

This is a story about feeling red and seeing blue.

Last night, because the Bo' is the most adorable small liberal arts college in the world, an etiquette dinner was hosted for members of the senior class. About sixty of us were to dress in interview attire and, as the Band Man put it, "increase our social capital," by learning the things to do and avoid at a formal dinner. A great chunk of us, myself included, will never have the opportunity for formal business lunches or interviews, but the free food and chance to hang out with everyone all dressed up, that had all of us sign up in a heartbeat. And oh, etiquette is trickier than you might expect. We were all forced to introduce ourselves and fake networking (though we all pretty much knew everyone else in the room, this being the Bo' and our senior year) during the opening reception. The tricky part was that we had to have something in our left hand during the opening reception (food or drink, not both). I chose the white wine, forgetting that a. I had not had anything to eat for quite awhile (and couldn't, now that I'd committed to the wine), b. the room was quite warm, and c. I look like a lobster when I drink. So there I was, just half a cup in, listening to the President's wife, our hostess, lecture about not drinking too much at these events, and already noticeably red. Very proper indeed. I had to give up my wine at that point, not wanting people to think I was sauced at the reception. Jackie did ask our hostess if all of us afflicted souls should avoid wine at such events and surprisingly, she said for us to just go ahead and drink. Most people, she said, should understand. So please understand, people, I have an enzyme deficiency.

Today, discussing the pretty encouraging election results in our soc seminar, Chris commented on how much he admired the Band Man for just speaking the facts about the election.

Band Man: You mean hiding my absolute joy?
Chris: Yeah.

Band Man then goes into a long discussion about being honest about his beliefs but at the same time, not wanting students to feel intimidated about bringing up dissenting ideas or supporting a different system.

Band Man: ... if you ever have conservative views, feel free to be open about them and speak up... (pause)... before I slap you down.

A Dee Do Da

This morning, in an awkward roommate bonding moment, as Captain Kilowatt was unsucessfully helping me unzip a fleece jacket that was caught so high up the collar that I could neither see the snag nor fix it effectively:

Captain Kilowatt: [The Bo'] needs to make jackets for people who don't know how to use zippers.

White Fight

How did I come to discover that I have such an unfortunate birthday? An insane woman held us hostage today.

This morning at church, a group of us usuals from the Bo' were just standing around after service, lamenting the absence of brownies at this week's refreshment table and how there are never enough bagel chips in the Chex Mix, when this lady came out of nowhere. She had seen 20/20's report on privilege in America and basically wanted us to admit to two things, that colleges are incredibly biased against poor people (to the point that they'd turn down a kid with a perfect SAT score, gasp!) and that colleges hate conservatives with passion. She also threw in some anecdote about the Bo' that I think speaks against affirmative action, but I can't be sure. She just spoke really aggressively, cornering us to agree with her. And basically, we stood around and listened politely, trying to answer when we could, until she dropped this bomb:

"They would never invite Ann Coulter to speak on campus, right? They would never let her come."

I tried really hard not to snicker up until that point. I was even going to be nice and concede that yes, crazy liberals are just as narrow minded as crazy conservatives, but when she said that, I had a really hard time keeping myself from shouting:

CRAZY, CRAZY WOMAN, WHO THE FREAK WOULD WANTS ANN COULTER? Who'd invite her!? Hsst. Hsst. Hsst. Away from me, crazy! AWAY!

But I couldn't. You never know what makes people click and what makes them crack. So I just frowned a little and put on a snide grin. And thank God, with a few more insults toward the Bo' and some loving words for the Reagan administration, the woman wrapped up her speech and pretty much just left without making anymore conversation.

When I returned from church, I naively thought that I needed to read up on Coulter before I could say nasty things about her. I turned to google, which presented me with the unfortunate birthday connection, but also reminded me that, oh yes, it's perfectly legit to hate Ann Coulter. It's been about twelve hours, but I still shudder just thinking about what transpired this morning.

A Very Unmerry Birthday

I am very sad.

Found out today that I have the same birthday as Ann Coulter.

The Season On Everyone's Top Five

This evening, whilst riding my bike, I nearly lost my fingers to the cold. I now realize that I must carry gloves on me all the time if I am to ride the bicycle, and that thumb loops are poor substitutes for mittens. For the past few days, everyone has been talking about skin feeling dry, complaining about the harsh cold, and contemplating humidifiers and space heaters. Just today, I applied had to apply lotion three times to keep my skin intact.

In short, we are entering the winter of our year, and of our lives.

Healthy, strong, young people do not discuss humidifiers, ever. Nor do we talk about the race to the bottom at SuperSnacks. Nor should we act like Roommate Amy (not to be confused with me), whose highlight of the week comes when the new supermarket shopper comes out. Within these short weeks, all my friends and I have turned forty years old.

And so I make a list now, of more pleasant things to look forward to, sometime in the future. Not old-work=a=day-tired-grim future we are surely heading for, but a reckless-time-is-on-my-side-with-youth future. I am thinking warm sand on the beach, thick flannel blankets, a New Yorker with all the mailing cards inside already pulled out, tuna and yellowtail sashimi, spider rolls, salmon roe, avacado halves with soy sauce paste, and grass jelly. I am thinking serving meals at a shelter, and distributing toiletry items. I am thinking having a job so I can have more income to give away. I am thinking up things and I don't know when, if ever, they will come, but these thoughts are going to help me get through the winter. And if they don't, the thought of another Jenkins Family Reunion ought to.

Ah. Jenkins. With members like Cousin Vinny, Promiscuous Aunt Sally, Stoned Hippie Older Sister Summer, and Cousin Jane Who Doesn't Know She's Adopted or Asian (guess who that was), to name a few, we snatched the top prize at senior pub night easy. (They really had to give it to us, we represented one third of the people there. Plus, Sketchy Uncle Armand knows some people.) If you're good, I'll tell you about all this some day, but not right now. Your patience will be rewarded, young cockroach.

Slackademics

A snippet from the morning's NYTimes on the vast amounts of money Division I universities are spending on academic centers for their athletes:

"Many universities have developed training and monitoring programs for tutors, and rules govern how much assistance they can provide. For example, tutors at Tennessee cannot type papers for athletes. Most universities make the tutors sign an integrity contract saying they will not perform work for athletes."

It tutors aren't allowed to type papers for athletes (after the athletes have hand-written the entire ten-page paper by hand, I presume), what are they allowed to do?

In other news, the Bo's much more studious student athletes made the news this week for a different reason. From Sports Illustrated's SI on Campus:

"Bowdoin College has enlisted the school's football team to help prevent dining hall theft. Once a week, football players will assist a dining hall employee to ensure that students present their ID cards. This may seem like a good idea, but considering that the team is 0-6 and has been outscored 127-13, they might not be able to protect a buffet any better than they protect the endzone."

The article fails to mention that these football players aren't just preventing 'dining hall theft,' they are protecting a sacred institution we call SuperSnacks.