Kitchen Tales

Hello,

Today I cooked a meal for my parents. It was my very first time puttering around the kitchen solely to feed my old folks. Usually, I am a giant freeloader and just wait for my mom to get hungry and cook for all of us in the process of satiating herself. Today, I decided to pull up my socks and take control of all things culinary.

It took me four hours to cook a three-course meal. In good news, it is a Saturday so I can afford to work at my leisure. Also in good news, I expended so much energy double-checking my cookbook at a rate of nine times per minute, that I worked up a hearty appetite by the time the food was ready.

My tummy is making strange, rumbling noises, though. The fish I had is probably merrily swimming its way through my GI tract. I have a feeling, both literal and figurative, that gas will be coming out of my orifices soon. (Yes, men, I am this sexy.)

*Awkward transition.*

Once upon a time, I was cutting green chillies for my mother and I, the fool that I am, decided that my itchy eye was worth rubbing halfway through chopping spicy peppers from hell. Well, as you can imagine, I thought I was going to go blind, and I actually dunked my eyeball in a glass of milk. Yes. I filled a glass with my dairy saviour and stuck my eye into it. It was the only way to save my cornea, I tell you. Maybe I absorbed some calcium in the process?

That is all for now. Hardly a Pulitzer-prize-winning post, but I am too busy digesting marine creatures to think of anything poignant to write.

Good evening to you.

Failure to Launch

One of the main objectives of this blog is for you, the reader, to learn from my idiotic mistakes. And trust me, any wisdom I have acquired is from all my experiences being inconceivably stupid.

I am lazy beyond belief. Any indication otherwise is one giant, guileful façade. If I have an energy-packed day (e.g. dancing, socializing), I legitimately take the following day off to recuperate and nap in the fetal position for an ungodly number of hours. A colleague of mine once said I have a less-than-robust constitution, a.k.a., "you are weak and feeble." Alas, I tend to agree.

However, this is mostly of my own doing. I am quite skilled at not taking care of myself. If I didn't have my dear mother forcing proper meals down my throat, I would probably be living on an IV drip by now. I am so bad at meeting my daily nutrition requirements. No, this doesn't mean that I starve myself or that I'm getting ready for bikini season; I just cannot motivate myself to make a proper meal when I can eat a granola bar or devour an entire bag of premade popcorn instead. Perhaps this is something many singletons face: if you're the only mouth that has to be fed, why bother with the intricacies of a recipe that makes twelve servings?

Such a philosophy has, unfortunately, led to the demise of my properly-functioning immune system. I woke up in the middle of the night with a sore throat from Satan's toy box. Usually, I would begin my journey into illness by cursing the entire microbial world for being a pain in the tonsils, but this time, I hung my head in shame as I admitted I had brought this upon myself with my poor eating habits. I have not taken care of myself and this is the lesson I need to learn.

If you think I am being quite dramatic about a measly sore throat, let me tell you how much I dislike being sick. A lot. And a sore throat? Gurl, that ridiculousness HURTS. As far as I'm concerned, germs are the greatest evil masterminds to roam the face of the Earth. (If something delicious falls on the floor, though, I will still eat it... #YOLO).

Anyway, learn from my failure to be a grown up that it is so important to take care of yourself. No matter how much success you achieve in every area of life, without good health, it is truly pointless.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go have some premade popcorn for lunch.

P.S. YES, I wash my hands. Excessively. Hence why they resemble elephant hide instead of soft, velvety epidermis. Thank you.

Granny Sammy Says

I grew up with the sound of dial-up ringing in my ears and memories of contemplating life during the ten minutes it took for a single webpage to load on my computer screen. That wasn't even that long ago, and it is mind-boggling to consider how far technology has advanced.

When I reached high school, Facebook was gaining momentum; although at that age, it was mostly a race to see who could have the most "friends" (heavy emphasis on the quotation marks, a.k.a. literary sarcasm). And since then, there has been a slew of social media applications geared towards connecting people. Texting/SMS is also the main go-to nowadays.

Awesome (no quotation marks = sincerity). Connecting with old friends over long distances is sweet as pie, as is using the far-reaching marketing power of these systems.

As someone very picky with her socialization tactics, however, I have my reservations for the following reasons:

1. Commitment: Remember (or go ask your parents about) having nothing but a landline to make plans with friends? You would dial their home phone number, which you knew by heart and could rattle off in record time, and the simple question of whether your friend was able and willing to hang out would be finalized in one swift response: yes or no. Then, unless he/she had some serious guts to call back at a later time and withdraw participation, it was pretty much set in stone that you and your respective mates would be meeting at so-and-so place at such-and-such time. There wasn't as much leniency as there is today with the convenience of text to decide that you feel too lazy or unenthusiastic about the pending get together. Today, it's just so easy to type out within 140 characters that you're running late or that you'd rather stay home in your PJs. The response, "maybe," is all too prevalent. (And yes, I myself am guilty of such behaviour.)
2. Interaction and communication skills: I have witnessed with my own two vision-corrected eyeballs the effect of giving children smartphones. I was working in an office, and a family of six came in. The kids were told to take a seat while their parents filled out boring paperwork. The entire forty minutes the adults were doing their thing, each of the four children had their eyes glued to their respective phones. Not once did they look up to confirm that their fellow housemates were still alive and breathing. They were completely oblivious to their surroundings, which happened to be incredibly scenic, and their eyes were glazed over, their faces motionless, like they had lost the ability to express. This is not healthy, people.
   Why only children? I remember taking a friend out for her birthday and the entire time, she texted her boyfriend, occasionally looking up from her phone to say sorry for her lack of attention. Apology not accepted. It was rude, humiliating, and I would have loved nothing more than to just leave her to text away on her own. That is not how to treat someone who has taken the time and effort to come see you in person. In fact, I think basic etiquette should be to keep your phone out of sight, out of mind as a sign of respect.
3. Effort and thoughtfulness: I really like Facebook, I do, almost to the point of obsession. It has become a reflex to check what's happening on my news feed every time I use my phone. But when it comes to special occasion announcements, dear Lord. Before I begin my third tirade, I would like to thank Facebook for at least notifying us forgetful ones of our friends' birthdays. Your reminder system is legit, I have zero problems with it. The actual act of wishing someone a happy birthday or congratulations, however, turns me into a raging rhino because about half of the senseless, cookie-cutter greetings you get are from people who really wouldn't give two hoots about your special day if it wasn't for the nagging reminder on the side of their screen. People who have forgotten you even exist all of a sudden write gushing, flowery sentiments as if you're the one who taught them the meaning of life. I guess something is better than nothing, but I do not tolerate insincerity so it gets my goat. I feel like it's a cop-out for putting in the effort to wish someone properly, either with a phone call or by meeting them in person to give a hug of congratulations. If you are known for being a minimalistic person in general, then go for the wall post. If you care about someone, please go above and beyond to make that special someone actually feel special.

That is all. I love my iPhone with all my heart; I would probably give it my kidney if required, but there is a time and place for these things and having been burned myself by the overuse of technology, I had the urge to write this post. I don't even think I'm being dramatic or overemotional. We should all demand a certain standard of respect and commitment from the people in our lives. Because we're worth it. L'Oreal Paris agrees.

I'm a Homo sapien! You?

Oh hihihi,

You know how sometimes you attend a party where you don't really know anyone, so spend most of the night introducing yourself until your tongue is numb? I don't know what that feels like, I stay home, but my point is, oftentimes the small talk veers off into, "So, where are you from?"

"Pickering?" is my usual reply (when meeting strangers not at a party), my voice going high at the end to intone that I have no confidence in my answer. This is to prepare for my companion's predictable follow-up.

"No, I mean where are you from? What is your background?"
"Oh, well, I have a PhD in procrastination and I also enjoy poutine --"

"No, Goddammit, I mean what is your ethnicity?"

At that point, no matter what I say, I never get a second date.

Okay, seriously, I find it odd when people ask that question, but not because it's unreasonable. On the contrary, any similarity allows for instant connection. At my university, I've seen many students happy to meet those of the same background, running towards each other in slow motion to unite in romantic embraces. And then all these different ethnic groups travel in little herds for the rest of their time at school, happy to be among their own kind (and the Most Patronizing Writer award goes to...).

I just think it's weird because, being a visible minority myself, I have never made use of my Indian radar. My strongest and longest friendships are with those of completely different races and cultural backgrounds. Throughout our formative years and innumerable moments together, never even in jest did we ponder our differences in skin colour or cultural activities, even though in hindsight, it was obvious we were quite exotic to each other. Not until I reached university and noticed blatant racial and cultural segregation did it hit me that it must be easier to make friends with people of similar ethnicity. I now realize that my childhood friends unintentionally embraced my own cultural nuances without batting an eye, and we saw each other as nothing but fellow human beings.

I'm sure our friendship was facilitated by other, more substantial commonalities, but I've known these wonderful people for over a decade and it blows my mind that to this day, we see past all the facets of our ancestry straight into each others' hearts. We bond because of the words we speak, the ideas we have, and the new memories we form each time we meet.

Like I said before, there is absolutely nothing wrong with having a foundation of shared culture, language, etc., to start off a relationship, but what if we were drawn to people because of deeper characteristics that we all share?

Let's just be friends because we are all human.
...I probably won't come to your parties, though. Juss' sayin'.

Take a Chill Pill

Does anybody ever actually relax when you tell them that? It's like poking someone in the eye and telling them to see clearly [now the rain is gone!].

I am writing this primarily to avoid studying, but also because I realize that my writing often gets heavy in delivering insightful commentary. As such, it is important to stop being a self-righteous know-it-all and talk about some airy fairy things every once in a while. I mean, I wouldn't want your head to explode with too much of my twenty-four-year-old wisdom. Leave some things to the really old people, shall we?

Here is a list of things that are not of any use at all:

1. Today, one of my ten fingernails is shorter than the others. This is because I was cutting onions yesterday and, possessing the culinary skills of a vacuum cleaner, I managed to slice off the tip of my fingernail. I then trimmed the rest of the damage off with nail clippers, but was too lazy to do the same to all the other nails.
2. Speaking of being an amateur, I literally sob every time I cut red onions. My poor vulnerable eyeballs are exposed to that onion-y chemical of doom and it feels like I am going to burn my retinas into oblivion. There are tears and ample amounts of snot running down my face after a single onion, and I beg the vegetable gods for mercy.
3. My cat is shedding fur thanks to the changing weather, and now I am quite positive my entire GI tract is lined with his hair. This is a result of cuddling him for excessive amounts of time (which, to him, probably feels like some sick, twisted form of abuse; he likes his freedom) and consequently, his hair enters all my facial orifices only to end up in God knows which organ of my body. I am constantly picking his fur off my face. I don't even care, I just love hugging the life out of him (wait, what?).
4. My parents love my cat more than they love me. I am not even upset, because it is impossible to love anyone or anything more than my cat. I suspect he has some feline hypnotic powers that can charm even the most resistant.
5. I am a crazy cat lady (under hypnosis).
6. I have two very fancy-looking vodka bottles that I use as water bottles because they hold a good amount of liquid and they are just plain nice to look at with their artistic forms sitting on my end table. However, they consequently make me seem like a bedside alcoholic. Especially because the way I drink water is to chug until my stomach starts cramping in horror. I just can't remember to keep sipping at a normal pace over the course of the day, so I end up compensating with Olympian chug-a-thons.

That is all for now.

Congratulations, You're Beautiful!

Where does the time go, am I right?!

Dove's latest ad campaign on the RB-X beauty patch has triggered quite the hot debate, and of course, it is time for me to add my two cents.

At a stretch, I can appreciate Dove's emphasis on natural beauty. However, at the end of the day, it is a marketing ploy intended to win the favour of your average, insecure woman... who now feels Dove understands her and shall therefore shell over her hard-earned cash to buy their skin-rejuvenating foaming cleanser. Oh well, at least the execs at Buy My Shiznit HQ are catering to the non-supermodel demographic.

Before you call me a big bully, let me establish myself as an even bigger bully by saying that I am not just against Dove, but pretty much the entire beauty industry in general. Whether by presenting you with a plain, sullen laywoman to seem more down-to-earth, or else by showing off a bedazzled bombshell (no fault of the models themselves), these companies want women of the Earth to believe that being "beautiful" is the epitome of success.

Well, what about being intelligent? Friendly? Compassionate? Can you live a successful and fulfilling life with those qualities independent of how you look? Could a young girl who is considered to be ugly go on to make a scientific discovery that changes the course of mankind, or heal people of their emotional afflictions simply by her words and actions? Would she not then be successful, even if she was deemed to have the sexual appeal of a rusty nail?

Yes to all of the above. Our society is obsessed with physical beauty. If we were as obsessed with enhancing the lives of our fellow living creatures (my cat included), then God knows our planet would be in the finest condition since its inception.

Okay, I love my makeup and facial scrub. I enjoy being pretty. But unless I am feeling up to the task, I do not need flawless skin and curled eyelashes to feel fulfilled. My appearance will not leave one ounce of a legacy after I die. My body is a piece of art that will disintegrate when I am gone, and trying to make myself a permanent fixture is a waste of my skills and talents. We all have beautiful minds that can truly change the world when we accept the impermanence of our looks.

So, let's not perpetuate that everyone (men included) needs to be beautiful to be successful. There are so many more adjectives to describe the amazing you. Let's use them, shall we? (SMART, FUNNY, BOMBDIGGITY, etc. etc.)

P.S. I do not mean to put down those who enjoy looking their best and enhancing what their mama gave them with the use of skin products and cosmetics. I just mean to say that it should be enjoyable, kind of like a hobby, something that doesn't consume you. Thank you.

Springing Forward

I can now finally wake up in the mornings without cursing my existence, for temperatures have risen along with the Sun, and I don't have to worry about cold toilet seats and that incredibly difficult decision to step out of a warm shower into the cold air bubble that is the rest of my abode - SPRING IS HERE!

Most associate spring with new beginnings, growth, the ground smelling like manure after festering under snow piles for six months, etc. This year also happens to mark my venture into the real world after I finish my undergraduate studies at the end of the month; which, as of now, entails a lot of uncertainty.

My parents want me to have a well-paying, high-status job, my friends want me to have any sort of job at all so that I can go out for drinks without counting pennies (or should I say nickels... Canada has entered a new age, my friends), and my acquaintances don't care because they have better things to worry about. Amidst all that, I have to figure out who is right - get a job that looks good in a matrimony ad, or get a job, period. But most important of all, I want to figure out what I think is right for me.

My mother and father dearest have this horrible habit of always being right, which has caused me much anguish during my teenage years. Their years of wisdom compel them to give me career advice that I would be foolish not to heed. And yet, the heart does not work with reason, and I cannot help but feel that I was not put on this planet only to make other people happy. I want to do something that makes me feel alive, that makes me feel like the work I do will leave a legacy behind for all of humanity to treasure; that I will be an inspiration well after I am dead and gone. I mean, if I love what I do, won't I automatically be successful and make others proud and happy?

To be honest, I do not have the faintest idea what my calling is (something with trees?!?!), but I am fortunate to be surrounded by people who are following their passions with no regard to the paycheque that follows. They do what they do simply because they love it and it makes them happy. It inspires me to find that one thing that lights my fire, because that is what I am meant to contribute to the world in this lifetime.

I am reading Harmonic Wealth by James Ray Arthur (2008; Hyperion, New York), and he tells a story (pg. 126) of an old man (your Average Joe) who dies and goes to heaven. He meets God and says, "What a mess down there, why didn't you send someone to fix it?"

God replies, "I did. I sent you." (My young, tender heart feels all the feels.)

So, are you doing what you were put on this planet to do?