January 2005 Archives

I'm just curious: Why is it that a huge number of the girls who compete to be in Playboy: The Mansion's be in the game are posing mostly in very seductive, inviting positions, exposing themselves to the very edge, while the "Sexiest Guys" mostly post their portraits, baring little or nothing (perhaps two or three show their bare chest)?

What does this say about gender expectations? Does guys really think that girls are satisfied seeing a nice face, but no butt? Does girls mistakenly think that posing in alluring, bare positions is what guys want to see? Are these roles real?

Mark isn't sure if this is a big deal:

He's been doing a lot of work in schools, explaining AIDS to kids and trying to convince the rest of us that, if "just say no" is our final answer, then AIDS will succeed where apartheid failed. Sex happens.

Sex does happen and why should it not. Preventing AIDS is wonderful, but so is preventing unpleasant experiences.Sooner or later, we all do something that we regret. I think the question here is: what happens to young people down the road? These sexy girls & boys are not women & men. They are being tempted to participate in a game they know little about. These photos are public. What if they regret this?

Thanks to these two, impressive gentlemen!

... to exercise and to eat fruit.

I'd like to learn how to drink water (I never do).

Perhaps I'll know how to say a few things in French.

Stop caring about things that don't matter.

Stop being obsessive (thanks for pointint that out, Anja )

Organize every single item in my house and on my hard disk neatly and perfectly.

Wear my hair short again, at some point.

Put my sorry fiascos behind me for good (do I have to make the links?).

Write a short story a month, and share it with you all.

Use Flickr for all my photo notes.

Teach Sir OrangeFlaggytail how to fend off PanterGirl.

Teach Mr. Teen how to do dishes (actually, all my other house chores too, while I'm at it).

Bat baseball at least twice a month.

Write Malcolm Gladwell just to say hi.

Stop showering for an entire hour in the morning just because that's how I get my singing practice.

Learn as much as possible about Typography.

Guard my blogroll: No more meaningless links.

Try not to make anymore holes in my shoes, because I still have to wear them.

More new years promises.....A new, superb little video show! I love it. Look at those slippers under the table. Steve is just so cute when he defers to Carol. When is the next episode?

No 71 Watertown stopped at the stop just a minute before I got there. I wasn't running: my first stop is the last stop of the route, and the drivers usually get out to stretch before they drive off again.

A MTBA car was parked on the other side of the street. Someone sat inside with the window rolled down, killing time. The bus driver, a large, italian looking bostonian walked towards him excitedly, tucking his shirt into his pants: "How yah get there? Yah cah's FILTHY. Who's lettin' yah drive dat cah? (In Male, this means "how are you! I'm so glad to see you!")

I passed them silently and got onto the bus. It was empty.

Some minutes went by before the driver came back, winging himself into the bus, leaping into his seat with rough, wild movements. The doors closed and he got the engine running, shouting joyful farewells out the window to the other guy.

We drove through the intersection and towards Harvard Square. The driver made a few, careful dance moves in his seat, humming to himself. Suddenly, he leaned abruptly over to the left, steering the bus towards the tunnel down to the station. I flew sideways down my seat, but somehow managed to hold on tight. Oops.

Just as we entered the tunnel, Mr. In A Fantastic Mood Today took a deep breath, followed by a very, very dramatic pause. No more humming! In the driver's mirror, I saw his face change colors, slowly. There is not a whole lot of pollution is this place, I thought, thinking that I should probably tell him that it wasn't really necessary to hold his breath? But before I got to say anything, he slammed the breaks hard and we stopped. Oy. Was he having some kind of asthma attack?

Suddenly, a scream so horrifying and frightful that my blood froze stiff loomed through the bus. Startled, I stared at his face in the mirror, my heart beat harder, faster, his face turning redder, redder, violet, blue... white...then he stopped and snapped for air. Ten seconds of silence passed.

"Ha ha ha ha" he snickered softly, now fixing his hair in the mirror. That's when he saw me.

"You he'hah?" The large, gruesome voice had become small and gentle. "You shoul'dah told me!"

"I was just waiting for my Tarzan fix of the year," I explained. "And you were quite excellent!".

(based on a conversation with a friend late one evening at Harvard House of Pizza. I had a palm zire, she had the story..)

I was waiting and waiting. I can't believe that he didn't call me. It was Christmas & everything, and not a single phone call.

He didn't call me until after New Years eve.

Actually, I called him.

"Is this normal behavior in your culture?" I asked.

"No, I'm just very self-centered," he said. Can you believe that? That's what he said!

I should have hung up right there and then.

And then he said he didn't call his parents until 2 days after Christmas. And that's when I freaked out.

I didn't say anything, but I was like freaking out, my jaw dropped! He didn't call his parents for Christmas!

"Who am I going out with!" I thought to myself. "Who is this guy."

And then, he said, that he really should try to be better, and that he liked me.

So we got together. And he did call the next morning.

But the next thing, he didn't call for days again!

Perhaps he really is just an MIT guy after all. Perhaps he should just stay in his lab, or something.

Mr. Teen and I got to borrow my friend Erik's car. I mean ship. A large, silvery Mercedes-Benz; Mr. Teen and I sit comfortable inside. Or do we?

The buzzing sound of seat machinery fills the air. Mr. Teen pushes all the buttons he can find: recline, raise, move forward, and then tilt backwards again... I stop the car to join the fun. Oh, and the steering wheel can be moved, too! We spend 20 minutes of fun getting comfortable.

Outside, it is pouring rain. Our ship is gliding forward, steadily, safely. "Now THIS is a CAR" I sigh. Mr. Teen, looking good in a blue sweater, agrees: " And I can sit & SLEEP!"

We get on the highway; we can hardly see the other cars on the highway (in Boston, these are called "opponents") for rain, it's like being under water. I put on the classical music station.

Mr. Teen is watching the speedometer. I explain to him why this ship is such a delight and easy to sail, how solid the skeleton is, how the wind doesn't move it an inch, why I am not so worried about the water on the road. I go on and on for quite a bit. He nods to all of this.

"Now, wouldn't you agree we'd be pretty happy if we had a car like this?" I ask, but then, come to think of it, a car alone wouldn't do it, would it? I get greedy: " - and a house: a beautiful house with many windows! And some great stuff inside, books and.... shoes. And.."

Mr. Teen, resting comfortably with the seat reclined, doesn't lift an eyebrow. He knows that women are often like this. "Actually, I think we'd be pretty happy enough if we just got internet access at home," he says, and presses a button. The seat rolls slowly back up. ... is he being ironic? Is he a deprived child? Have I failed as a provider? I'm confused, but when Mr. Teen turns to me with a smile, it turns out that he was just being practical: "At least then I wouldn't have to hang my antenna out the window to catch the neighbors wifi."

My cousin is dead. He was in his early twenties and it shouldn't have happened. The last memory I have of him is blurry, he is standing somewhere in front of me, tilting his head towards me, calling me. I can't remember what he said. There were kids running around us, making noise. Waiting for my response, his immensely blue eyes were smiling; lips curled upwards, dark hair shining. He looked so different, so much older, and I had not seen him in a long time. I looked down, catching a glimpse of his tall, lean silhouette, and then my memory fades.

I don't know what else to say, it breaks my heart.

Researchers in Britain claims that the higher a female's intelligence, her changes of marriage is less likely (link in Norwegian). She can't find men who are interesting enough!

But - they also claim that smart men don't want intelligent women, but a "copy of their mum, doing house chores" (how insulting: mothers of men aren't very smart?).

And of course, unlike women... men with a higher I.Q increases their chance of getting married.