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There's a tendency for alien underwear to creep into my collection now and again, usually my mother's, who used to buy the same Hanes as I did and which created all sorts of awkward, cringeworthy problems. (I've long since acquired a large distinct batch and defined clear borders, so I may return to my usual habit of grab-and-go.)
So when a few days ago I was weeding out old, ill-fitting, high-waisted undies -- which bunch up in a somewhat unsightly manner over my current styles of pants -- out of a crammed drawer, I wasn't all too surprised to find a batch of pretty, lacy panties. They were clearly not mine, I thought, as I shovelled aside a pile of practical white cotton, but I was fairly certain I knew whose they were. "Moooooooooom!" My mother was watching her soap operas. "What?" I held up the handful. "Your stuff." "They're not mine. They're yours." "Huh?" "Remember? That one shopping trip when you said you wanted to try something different and be feminine?"
"Uh..." But blue and violet lace? Impressionistic flowers? Ribbed edges? Black baroque lace? This was getting too sexy for my stodgy ways; did I know this supposed Gloria? Then ... "Oh. Oh. Yeah. Jeez." I stared, still flabbergasted. I had underwear I didn't even know were mine. I suppose as I grow older, this will become a more frequent occurrence (hopefully...?). Well, at least they were surprisingly comfortable. (For some reason, even though most of my upper undergarments are black, most of my lowers are white. Eh? Strangest of all is that I like to co-ordinate even my socks when I am able; how have I so long tolerated this discrepancy?) Now I face every female's worst nightmare -- I have these fancy skivvies (other synonyms for "underwear" include but are not limited to: bikini, bra, briefs, BVD's, corset, drawers, intimate things, jockey shorts, jockeys, lingerie, long johns, panties, shorts, smallclothes, underclothes, underclothing, undergarment, underpants, undershirt, underthings, undies, unmentionables, woollies), yet nowhere to wear them. Alack!
I dislike fast food, and moreover, fast food places that feign distinction, with completely straight faces.
One of the strategies employed is by tugging at strings of health-conscious consumers. When McDonald's unveiled their "Healthier Choices" menu, I was torn between laughter and bovine-esque gaping. Clearly, they knew that the reasonable capabilities of the average Mickey D's goer were not impressive; by "healthier", the consumer would somehow deduct "healthy." The same consumer, however, also never quite realizes that while being quickly devoured by a man-eating lion may be slightly more pleasant than having one's genitals dunked into a barrelful of sulphric acid, it is still not pleasant. Another terrible ploy is to parade "ethnic" dishes. For the uninitiated, fried chicken wings are not Chinese food. That shiny red glop -- allegedly sweet and sour sauce but looking more like the goo from Ghostbusters and tasting like it -- is not Chinese food. If you should ever be unsure whether what you are eating is authentic and of quality, the words "Chinese-Canadian" and "buffet" and -- sorry, but it's true -- the proliferation of Caucasian customers are generally reliable tip-offs. The décor and uniforms are usually equally appalling. At Made in Japan, for example, they have faux wooden framing and matte linoleum combined to imitate rice paper doors. The employees wear red and tan outfits designed to look like strange Oriental bellhops, because obviously it is not tolerable for them to wear simple shirt and pant ensembles like other human beings with the privilege of dignity in the workplace. I am uncertain why this is such a prevalent policy, but maybe companies think that such attire would disrupt the otherwise total illusion that a noisy, sticky food court in the middle of downtown Toronto is in fact Shogun Japan. Perhaps they should be focusing on the edibles ... for instance, when my runny, nutty teriyaki sauce is squirted out of a soft squeeze-bottle onto my dry, well-done, tasteless chicken. Egh.
Today I underwent the written test to obtain a G1 Ontario driver's license, three years after I theorectically qualified when I became 16. So I take my time ...
Being a scholastic perfectionist, I was overcome with anxiety before the exam. Of course, as it turned out, it was absurdly easy and peppered with hilarious illustrative videos from the 80s. Being the government however, in order to wear my nerves down even further, they dared to give me the incorrect test and quizzed me for about twenty questions or so on the Commercial Vehicle Operator's Registration system beforehand. I confess. I don't have any heartfelt intentions to drive. I only really want the small piece of plastic that lets me into bars, the back of seedy bookstores, and other delightfully savoury locales. When I casually mentioned this to my parents, who mere moments ago were congratulating me, unleashed a barrage of reprimand, partly because they don't understand English as well as Cantonese, and partly because their knowledge of the Ontario licensing system is approximately twenty years out of date (they believed I had a year to complete my first road test, when I had closer to five). Strangely, these misunderstandings between us occur extremely often, and in the end -- speaking in the most objective sense of course -- they are usually at fault. But they also usually manage to make me feel like the big bully instead. Bah. Well, anyway. Congratulate me. The first day of my life in the fast lane (accompanied by a fully licensed driver with at least four years of experience) begins today. (Witness my triumph here. The blacked out areas are really rather unnecessary, but they give me an inflated sense of prudence and importance.)
Someone once remarked on the Blogdrive main tagboard that he found it interesting that there was a term for the hatred of women ("misogyny") and yet not a term for the hatred of men, implying a double standard.
I, in the course of composing an ode to men following the hurtful accusation that I lacked a healthy appreciation of said demographic, stumbled upon this word, supplied again by those etymologically friendly Greeks. Thus, I present to you: Source: Dictionary.com. . Tuesday, July 06, 2004I need to like coffee and alcohol. It does not seem to be a regular item on most "to do for self-improvement" lists, but the fact is, because I find neither alluring or fit for my personal consumption, my social advancement is being obstructed as a result. First, coffee.
I've noticed that a common opening line suggests getting a coffee. How do I respond without committing to an inaccuracy? Going the way of honesty results in some terrible utterance like "I'm sorry, I hate coffee, but please, like Calgon, take me away"? If I should submit, what do I do once I am in the coffeehouse? Mochas, lattes, frappucinos, javas, espressos ... Italian is the descendant of Latin, yes, but the Romans unfortunately kept to water and wine. I have had one coffee in my life. It tasted precisely what it was -- brewed beans. The gag reflex kicked in as advertised and at that moment I developed a counter-instinct towards coffee. I also have a natural aversion towards drinks that require additives. I have my tea and my milk, but apart -- a simplicity and conservatism that seems to permeate every aspect of my life. Second, alcohol. The members of my social circle, one by one, are entering that stage where alcohol has been opened to them, and experimentation and bubbling discussions about ideal mixes are abound. Smirnoff's, Everclear, Bailey's, shooters, coolers ... and I sit there, like a stone, staring ahead, holding onto my juice, Coke, water, whatever that is keeping me apart. It's difficult to ignore that distinct feeling that I have been left out, and more difficult not to flaunt moral superiority as a way of dealing with that isolation. Naturally, then, the resentment begins to run both ways, slowly thickening into a poison. Strangest of all is that I have this thought, this intellectual though not "gut" urge, to join them. That I should. That why shall I not enjoy myself, and submit to these alleged effects, melting away tension, and stiff lips? I have been told. I am a "downer." A "prude." I am "uptight." Therefore, shouldn't I in fact have the greatest need to partake? And yet while there may be a need, I have no real want. I don't want alcohol. I want conversation, laughter, all that used to come just fine without any 80 proof aid. But, now, there's something wrong with that. No, don't say "But you are a prude, Gloria"! This is my blog -- I expect to be pampered, to be indulged, to be humoured with pitying sympathy. A pat on the back and a reassuring "Naturally, naturally, m'dear" -- that's what I want. . Monday, July 05, 2004Greece defeated Portugal, 1-0, yesterday. I joined my friends on the Danforth, an area known in Toronto as a distinctly Greek area, that day washed in a crisp sea of blue and white.
While outwardly I kept my usual dour expression and gave at best tolerant smiles to my wilder acquaintances, I felt privileged to be there. There is absolutely nothing as joyous as watching a jubilant people, joined together in celebration. . Friday, July 02, 2004As part of our Canada Day festivities on July 1, we went lunching at the bland but uncrowded Pickle Barrel. I ordered spaghetti without the meatballs; two others ordered spaghetti with. After a considerable wait, our affable server brought our food, and began passing the orders out to their respective orderers.
"You're the one without balls, right?" he said as he planted my meal in front of me. I had not looked at him, so I did not see his expression; he sounded sincere. There was, however, a meaningful pause as I exchanged glances with the diner across from me. As they all caught on, my pals gave out a roar of laughter, and I sighed.
Being single, and being with my social sensitivities (that is, none), I have this tendency to mull over past encounters -- a shamefully small stash of stories I run over and over again -- and pick over details, wondering, wondering.
Then I realized I had the Blogdrive masses at my fingertips! (Naturally, a vast majority of them don't pass by here much, but it's a good, arrogant, blanket statement to make.) He was -- is -- a gamer; I played a couple of major RPGs, due mostly to my brother (but never Dungeons and Dragons!). We took the same art class, and sort of vaguely knew each other at the onset from the previous year's English class, when I knew him as a girl's whipped boyfriend (she held onto his hand, for Pete's sake, like a damn safety leash). He probably knew me as the slightly odd and sarcastic one who hung out with the more sarcastic one and a slightly bumbling one. So we had seats across from each other. We talked, a bit. I have this capacity for noticing when I shouldn't be talking -- i.e. when the teacher has noticed -- but he hadn't, so frequently he would be reprimanded while I stared at my desk and made sympathetic faces afterwards. I'm not entirely quite sure why he never became angry with me.
He invited me out to a movie. It was Star Trek: Nemesis. Yes. I was a Trekkie then. It wasn't a high price; I enjoyed being one then, even as I was fully aware of the social repercussions. It became one of our touching points. He did, though, invite me out with a group of his friends, all whom I knew by name and face, but not much more. Now, I never figured out what he meant there. Was it just as it seemed, and he was considering me a friend, slightly "one of the guys", a fellow, dangit, Trekkie? Or was he using them as a stepping stone towards something more private later on? If I agreed to a group outing, would that mean he would feel more confident asking me out on our own? Then he went onto complicating it further by confessing to me one evening in an online conversation that he had a dream where we kissed. Be quiet. I was quite taken back at the time. (And admittedly, I would still be.) The key was not that he dreamed it -- while his theories are fascinating to read for someone with offhand interest in psychology, I more or less think Freud was a quack -- but that he told me. My first, terrible reaction is to laugh it off. I badly bungled even that, crassly overreacting (or, overacting). He laughed along, of course ... but now, so late, I wonder whether he was testing the waters, holding back his own judgment to see mine, in order to save embarrassment for himself, and for me, in the case I was repulsed. He had certainly framed it so it sounded like he couldn't quite believe it himself ("WEIRD" was his exact wording, I think), but now I realize that he never actually expressed a positive or negative opinion about it. Alas, possibly the worst is that he is happily attached now. I feel a twinge of that "what could've/might've been" regret, but also a bit of relief -- seeing the pretty, stylish, outspoken girl he is with now, I don't really believe I would've made a very good girlfriend for him. Still, ghosts follow me where I wander ... If you feel benevolent enough to indulge me, your verdicts are most welcome. |
2. As "Americana" defines itself as artefacts of American culture, "Gloriana" consists of the artefacts of my culture. home | contact | profile art blogging body childhood consumerism dream durr family fashion film history humour internet language lit nerd people poetry rant romance school sex social relations toronto ttc work 
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