While observing a conversation on the tagboard on the topic of sexual schedules, I made the following remark:

"I like that term. 'Losing' one's virginity. As if it merely fell behind the dresser and is waiting for rediscovery while gathering dust ..."

I am amused by this phrase. Obviously a construction with a bit of a history, it must've stemmed from a time and culture -- back in the proverbial "day"  -- much more puritanical than today's ... so wonderfully conservative (as though I am not!) and innocuous-sounding. 

With current social trends every day taking a step forward in sexual equality for all, to say one has "lost" one's virginity seems a dated turn of phrase. It distances the person from what he or she has done, as though it had been through no fault of their own, maybe as a bow to the socially proscribed modicum of shame and modesty. To have "lost" also implies a temporary vacuum ... please help me find it.  

Perhaps the term was coined with women particularly in mind ... again, from an era past, when females were regarded much more as the fairer and weaker sex and as simple vessels in the act of reproduction, and when the most highly regarded attributes of femininity were qualities like passivity and demureness.

(I use past tense here as a nod to recent advances, but I acknowledge that sexist attitudes prevail today, still rather rampantly ... against both sexes.)

To say one's virginity was "lost" seemed to fit those modes of thought ... that she was not so much as the instigator as the one instigated upon ... that such an event was not so much in her control (although in some cases, this might still be applicable). To have "lost" implies clumsiness, carelessness -- in other words, the intellectual inferiority and emotional immaturity of women, as compared to men. As I mentioned before, a "loss" is never initiated by the bereaved; it happens when it does, hardly of the affected's own accord. "Oops! There it goes! Silly butterfingers ... simply wasn't paying attention."

In the interest of equality and female empowerment, I suggested that more dynamic terms be used, to more closely involve the most relevant party, being the woman herself. "I obliterated my virginity last night! Take that! Bang! Bang!" (Pun unintended.) 

I. Action. She took charge. She caused an occurrence; the occurrence did not cause her.

Wailfulrhyme came up with "annihilated" (which I remarked somehow reminded me of Space Invaders ... which might therefore make it a popular hit with gamers) and Rocker volunteered "desecrated" (which immediately made me believe that whoever used this term would have done so upon in a confessional box or cemetary).

For those not so radically action-oriented, I offer "given away." Take it; I bestow it upon you.

It's a gift.  

A thought:

He reads, softly and clearly. The pages are turned with musical crispness; he smoothes them with large, gentle hands. The light is warm, golden, transforms the pages from a pale white to a creamy ivory, and reflects in his eyes. The room, quiet ... as though existing purely to accomodate his voice, which speaks the words with rhythm and surety.

I lay my cheek against his lean, sturdy shoulder; my breath comes slow and gentle as I listen. He smells like soap, and ... himself. I stay at his arm; our legs entwine. I watch his toes flex and curl. He smiles when I brush his neck with a finger, and tilts towards me -- the heat between us grows in anticipation -- his eyes drop briefly to my mouth. But his smile becomes sly, and he leans away. Not a word is missed.

I sigh. 

The seduction continues.

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?"

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:

Miˇsanˇdry (miss-ANN-dree): n. Hatred of men.
Source: Dictionary.com.

I 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.

Greece 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.