Daffnee

A good sign of maturity must be when the gag reflex doesn't kick in while trying to push by a model-beautiful couple indulging in some PDAs on the corner of Robson and Howe (that's Personal Displays of Affection, not the Palm Pilot variety), even while with siblings, aunt, and very cool grandma in tow. I started getting those warm fuzzies that anime cartoonists represent with glowing pink auras and a sudden shift to super-deformed animation, and really wanted to hug someone. Two years ago, I'd still be in the go-find-a-room contingent; now, I'd be better suited to penning Hallmark commercials.

And along the lines of the ain't-life-grand train of thought, there's this guy (guys, it turns out -- they're identical twins) that were on Robson that can do ridiculous things with a spray can. I'm not sure I would have chosen to specialise in psychadelic lunar landscapes, but I have a good deal of respect for anyone that can wield anything well enough to create a poster in ten minutes while dressed in a metallic suit and gas mask. Most days, I'm tempted to write off the achievements of humanity, but SprayCanMan and the Metropolitan Museum of Art should keep that cynicism at bay for a bit longer.

It's time for New Year's resolutions, isn't it? I've loved them ever since I read Bridget Jones' Diary, because, quite frankly, everything seems cool when the British do it.

I will
Stop believing my hair will behave without due effort on my part.
Accept that 1 assigned essay = 3 actual essays written.
Receive calls and visits from family with grace and enthusiasm befitting one who owes parents everything.
Sit up straight.
Sip, not gulp.
Dress warmly.
Be fiscally responsible and financially savvy.
Read the paper. And then recycle it.
Do the Special K thing: eat well, exercise, and relax.
Visit my grandparents.
Write letters, birthday cards, and thank-you notes.
Get out more, while also expanding mind with self-selected literature.
Clean contact lenses according to optomotrist's directions, not own.

I will not
Buy more than 6 units of any fruit at a single time. Ditto 4 L jugs of milk.
Pass out at Dan's apartment within 20 minutes of arrival when visiting after class.
Obsessively research schools, cities, careers, clothing, or courses.
Stop drinking coffee, or falsely claim to be "cutting back".
Order even potentially spicy dishes at restaurants.
Presume to know more than my parents.
Avoid more than 1 out of 3 family dinners.
Leave laundry until wearing last pair of underwear.
Exercise compulsively.
Skimp on the moisturizer, conditioner, or dental floss.

Oh, and for personal posterity: my sister and I have devised a generational life goal for the three of us to tackle and give our lives meaning. Yes, I want kids -- extended immersion in Winnie-the-Pooh merchandise does that to the brain -- but that's kind of boring.

Instead, we're going to start a charitable foundation in our parents' name. They insisted they weren't leaving us a legacy -- they wanted to finance our education, which is a much bigger deal than it looks written down -- so we figured we'll give them one. Or try to!

Happy New Year! Here's to family, friends, the good people I'll never meet, and living for today.

Despite a few weeks of desperate scrounging, begging old profs for recommendations and having a frank unloading session with a doctor, I don't feel so bad about not getting a Rhodes interview after seeing what this girl's up to!

It's Christmas Day, and I'm gamely trying to pig out on graham crackers and apple juice in the Christmas spirit after a night of romancing the bathroom sink with the (meagre) remnants of my Christmas Eve dinner. This must be the first time I'll be missing the turkey, butternut soup, and all the other holiday goodies thanks to my traitorous tummy, but at least my nerdy brain still has something to laugh about! Good thing I was home when the flu hit, though; I don't get nearly this level of service or sugary liquid reserves when I'm at school.

Well, time to go "rest up" and live vicariously through on-screen avatars and some X-men action. It's quality brother-sister bonding time!

I get a guilty pleasure out of poisoning my friends (and myself, by association). Spending two days in a Whistler chateau with 16 loosely-associated university students cements my confidence that I'm not associating with any closet Hongers: gallons of white pasta, alfredo sauce, trans-fat laden Costco cookies and breaded fish, frozen quesadillas, Mr. Big ice cream bars, full-fat cream cheese, tubs of gummies, Lays, hot chocolate, and the remains of at least ten chickens must be a tab's worst nightmare, and I'm glad to say we all partook to excess. (I mention all this because I don't remember events, per se -- I remember food.) Someone once told me that being Honger was a state of mind, not a genetic fact, and after my mini-vacation with 16 CBCs, I tend to agree.

The white Impala in our driveway with the Texas license plates made me stop and think, though -- how well do I know these people? This Whistler ritual started with our CSP 2001 "Senate" (a.k.a. kids who thought putting together an annual yearbook and having lunch together was the definition of socialization), but these days, we're spread out across 3 different faculties and too many programs; in all honesty, I see most of these people once every three or four months. In theory, this gives us more stuff to catch up on. In reality, I find myself holding my breath all the time. What do eight months of exam cramming sessions and "collective" work on assignments three years ago entitle each of us, anyway? I mean, look at this poor guy -- I only know him through a CSP friend, and he doesn't deserve what I put him through.

I'm the odd one out thanks to my major, aspirations, That Boy, and a line of logic that has me cheerfully giving up a day of Whistler skiing for backcountry showshoeing and cooking up disgustingly huge amounts of pasta. I don't envy them my company, even if it's sporadic and infrequent! But such are all my friendships. We can live our lives, suffer through Gangs of New York, Michael Douglas movies, and 3 viewings of Finding Nemo, ski together once a year, and still be throwing snowballs at each other two years after we all went our separate ways.

In a way, I'm glad friendship doesn't have to involve hours of emoting in coffeeshops and having a cellphone glued to the side of my face, despite what my entire economics class seemed to think. It's cheaper, more aesthetically pleasing, and surprising than that.

Will someone PLEASE get a sharp pin over here and burst my inflating ego?

There's a nice pitter-patter of rain outside and a radiator under my bed, but I can't sleep despite it. (I know there are those of you who think I get up this early normally, but that was only for a 2-week stint during second year when I was experimenting with 'alternative' study tactics brought on by too-much-math stress.) Who knew -- not only does alcohol make me sleepy, but that rum and Pepsi (inferior to the rum and Coke, of course) I had seems to also keep me awake at ungodly hours. For this, I blame Dan for not drinking more hot toddies and leaving an almost-full flask of rum on his kitchen table. But who needs sleep? I figured I'd do the trendy 2003 web thing and blog instead.

As a complete surprise to me, my shoes have secret superpowers previously unbeknownst to me. I already knew they were great at bleeding red leather dye over my white socks during a downpour, but it also turns out that they have tab-attracting properties -- tab-waitress-attracting properties, to be precise. Normally I'd be flattered, but having a Mandarin-speaking waitress accost you while your mouth's stuffed with yam tempura sushi rolls -- a mark of E Bei's latent genius, and second only to their gomaae rolls -- kind of highlights my lack of social graces and fluency in Mandarin. (My mother translating kind of puts a dent in the ego too, though having her talk about how great my shoes are is an unusual and pleasant experience no matter the circumstances.) We seemed to hit a snag at the part where I tried to explain that Winner's isn't a specialty shoe store ("more like the Bay...do you know about the Bay? The Bbbaaaayyy!") and eventually sent her away with the half-baked notion that I got it from some shoestore-like place at Robson and Granville.

And I didn't even get my futomaki, after all that.

Get well soon, Dan!

And remember, don't go easy on the rum for the hot toddies.

Sometimes, I really wish the feminist movement hadn't gone and guillotined Miss Manners. I never thought engraved calling cards were outrageous. Never. Ditto with crust-less cucumber sandwiches, obscene amounts of tea, or societally repressed sexuality. They might have had a thing going with the bra-burning, but after Gloria Steinham got married, I'm a bit confused. I mean, who am I supposed to go to now for answers if my roommate, who leaves for Winnipeg tomorrow, gives me a last-minute Christmas present and I've been more fixated on hating French for the last three days?

And one of my MUG leaders just came by with chocolate cake for me and my roommate. Home-baked, for the coup-d'etat. I feel like such an ungrateful and unconsciencious toad next to her; we both have the same French exam tomorrow morning, but she goes downstairs and chats him up, while I thank him, promise to try some tomorrow, and slink back into my room. They're still there, I think, and this of course is after I go downstairs to boil water, making it abundantly clear that I am an antisocial, myopic (the best kind) geek.

I hate that the Japanese can be trendy, extroverted, and have great minimalist style simultaneously. As someone from a heritage that likes covering all architecture with great swaths of red and fake gold paint, I'm feeling like the next time a guy at Second Cup marks me out as of Hong Kong descent I'm going to make like I'm Mongolian. Or Polynesian. I figure there's no better way of getting over my ab insecurities than wearing a hip-enhancing grass skirt and lei.

I love having friends who aren't in school and have time to find stuff like this. I learned today what triclavianists are!

It's been a darned productive day so far...

My roommate apparently had someone over last night.

I only know this because she stumbled into my room this morning, asked if I had a phone, and eventually managed to tell me she doesn't really know Drie all that well, but had a wild night drinking with her and eventually wound up crashing on her bed somehow. And now she doesn't know where her wallet and keys are. She's using my cell now and hopefully getting over her hangover.

There was a time when I complained it was too hard to meet people, but this is getting ridiculous!

Well, I'll be.

Where is my razor? I understand that an angel of sorts might have seen my old-generation Gillette, decided the poor thing was obsolete next to Natsuki's nifty pink Venus, and helped me make the difficult step of retiring that aquamarine model to something else that George Lucas hasn't turned into a Star Wars communicator yet, but that wouldn't explain why only the razor portion is missing. Even George knew that the important bit was the handle with the funky rubber grip. It's just that the functional bit is the part with the razors, and who doesn't want the option to wear a tank top even in December?

I've just been alerted to the disturbing news that American ketchup actually tastes like tomato, as if the prospect of living under the reign of George Bush and parenting stars-and-stripes-saluting munchkins doesn't already scare me enough. Having not visited the States for a goodly while, can anyone comment on this? I'm a bit curious.

And did anyone else know there's a city called "East Fishkill" in New York?

Sorry that the "seedless" label doesn't seem to go away after posting, by the way -- but entetation's run by English people, who are probably above such petty concerns!

Does anybody else find it thoroughly frustrating when you (as in me) go to a library with a laptop, fully intent on churning out a few quality pages for that research essay, but have to pack up 10 pounds' worth of computer gear because you need to go to the washroom and there's no one to watch your stuff?

This may or may not be a not-so-thinly-disguised plea to those still at UBC to form a bag-watching initiative with me, a.k.a. study/essay-writing group, but you may or may not choose to act on your interpretation as you see fit.

We've entered the university exam-period, a plane of existence where there are no weekdays and weekends -- only exam days and non-exam-days. I'm beginning to suspect my chronic indifference has no relationship whatsoever with my academic productivity, or have at least a few degrees of separation; not only am I looking at my pink-and-brown exam schedule in Bodoni BT font and not panicking, but I'm almost two days ahead of schedule on my Religion, Literature and the Arts paper and am getting a Cliff Notes education on Buddhism. More on that later, when I get my spiritual attic cleaned out and ready to be put on display.

Until then, I've rediscovered the joy of snooty literary magazines, especially those of a particular English extraction. The New Yorker is not the end all and be all of sardonic artsy wit!