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Not Your Garden Variety .............. << previous // next >>
(Forewarning: The following contains incoherent ramblings. If you're looking for eloquent, smooth-flowing sentences, I recommend you check out "Frankenstein" [the original 1818 edition] by Mary Shelley. If, however, you are easily amused from reading choppy sentences, poor word choices, and humility masked by dripping sarcasm, read on. I am not responsible for opening OR closing minds.) When I was little, around the age of 7, my first desire for a career was unconventional. When asked the popular question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?", most young girls answer that their dream is to become a princess, model, actor, or teacher. On the flip side of the same stereotypical coin, young boys often relish dreams of becoming a firefighter, doctor, police officer, or superhero. I guess feminism was kicking around in my little veins even at such a young age, because I didn't secumb to gender stereotypes in this respect. So what was the career that captured my fancy and put the sparkle in my eye? Believe it or not, I wanted nothing more than to be a Private Eye -- a spy. I was (and still am) fascinated by codes, attempting to decipher them, observing human behaviour/interaction, and keeping notes on such things I see and hear. In my possession, I still have this little book on becoming a detective. It has been packed up into a storage trunk, but one of these days, I'm going to open it up and get all nostalgic. My parents bought the book for me when I was a kid. It had a small hole that went through every single page. The purpose, of course, was to pretend like you were reading the book, when really you're looking through the hole to spy on your unsuspecting subjects. The book actually DID have a lot of content (such as nifty codes, camouflage tips, fun gadgets to make so that you could spy on people, etc.). Some people explode into a fit of rage while driving on the road. Others go berserk under the influence of drugs. Then, there are people like me who get irritated by typos. My passion for language is so strong that I actually get frustrated when I read something (anything!) that contains errors. Ever since I learned how to read, I read books, yes, but also everything from cereal boxes to fine prints in advertisements to toliet paper packaging to packs of gum to furniture construction instructions. I'm still weird like that now because I often find myself reading things that most people tend to ignore. At times it's alarming to note what some people don't read -- important stuff like medication directions and the fine print and conditions you must agree with in order to sign up for a credit card. Once when I was enrolling in a store's credit card, the employee told me to sign at the bottom, but after a few seconds when she realized that I wasn't going to sign it yet and was reading the contract, she said, "Oh...you're reading it!" with such surprise in her voice. I think it's very normal to read things before signing your life away. If you just assume you know what the terms and conditions say without reading it, your lack of knowledge is going to bite you in the butt one day. I digressed from the topic at hand. Let me go back to discussing my annoyance with typos. I realize that errors slip by even the best of us, but still...it irks me in ways that bumper-to-bumper traffic bothers a person with road rage, minus flipping the bird and cussing though. My annoyance usually leads later to disappointment and it's the disappointment that bothers me the most. I expect more from people....I expect the best, actually. When I see a spelling or grammatical mistake that another person made, I cringe, but what's ten thousand times worse is when I catch my own writing errors. For instance, sometimes I'll re-read some of my older diary entries and I'll catch a mistake....ARGH! I remember in Dan Brown's book "Angels & Demons," I caught a spelling mistake in the paperback edition. The word 'Christian' was misspelled 'Chrisitan'!!!! That's unacceptable to me, considering that there have been so many reprints. The editors should've caught it. There was also another problem with quotation marks. They used the open quotation mark, but didn't have the closing one. ARGH! I have a close attention to detail especially when it comes to writing, in case you haven't noticed. Heck, even when it comes to sending out casual e-mails, I still proofread them for clarity and to make sure that there aren't any typos. Of course, sometimes a mistake will slink by my radar and damn, it's annoying! (There probably are some mistakes in this entry, even though I read it over once before posting it!) It's funny, but back when I was in grade 10, I used to get on Excite's VPlaces Chat daily. Looking back now, I believe that it was a serious addiction -- I'll go more into detail later. Whenever I used to instant message someone and strike up a conversation, the person would always comment on how I use proper punctuation. Especially in chatrooms, lots of people seem to forget (or at least just disregard) proper English usage, so capitals aren't used. (Hehe...even to this day, I get itchy and scratchy whenever I see messages like this --> "it wuz gr8 talkin 2 u!" When I was in grade 3, I pretty much exhausted my usage of (what I thought back then were) "clever" combinations of alphanumeric sentences like "We're gonna be 2getha 4eva!" I got over it faster than a ferret on speed. I feel that even in a chatroom, you should use proper English...unless you're saying something in particular to make a joke, be silly, or to emphasize something. The English language is so beautiful...and beautiful things shouldn't be butchered. Okay, going back to what I previously called my addiction (well, a former one, anyway). I used to get on the chat daily and if for some reason I couldn't (like if the ISP's connection was down or if I had used up all my 60 hours before the month was over -- because back then I didn't have DSL), I would be very crabby. I would try to occupy myself with other things, but I would always think (in the back of my head) that I'd rather be on the chat. I think that I used it as a method of escapism. I'm not sure what exactly I was trying to escape from, considering that I was beyond crazy happy all throughout my high school years. Maybe it was an escape from the pressures that are inherently there by just being a woman (such as the pressure to look like models in the magazines). In this (and many other cultures), there is more pressure for women than men to put more effort into their appearance and to look a certain way. I found that on the chat, people could only pay attention to my personality and weren't allowed to be biased by mere physical characteristics. I knew and I know that I'm not an ugly duckling because I always get flattering compliments, however, one cannot help comparing oneself to others, especially those whose photographs have been airbrushed to perfection. I guess that I really liked the element of remaining quasi-mysterious. I had dozens of e-mail penpals and even more regular chat partners from all over the globe. Oddly, most of the people I initially met online were from Ohio or Florida. I don't know why they dominated the scene back then. It's also funny to note that all the men who I ever conversed with on the chat seemed to be from Florida or California and described themselves in the typical blond-haired-blue-eyed-6-foot-2-dimple-cheeked-surfer-all-American-guy. It got to be almost revolting, to be honest. Even though I expect the best from people, I am not naïve. Behind the description may lie someone completely different. Some people use the internet to morph into another person -- at least as a fantasy, but I guess some people (over a long period of time, pretending to be someone they're not) may rear its head into reality. I've said it before in a different diary entry --> Behaviour changes attitude (and perception). One day, I knew that I was so addicted to the chatroom and I had to do something about it. Trying to 'limit' myself as to how much time I could spend on the chat wasn't working. I'd often say to myself, "Just one hour," but then I'd look at the clock the next time and it would be 4 hours past my limit! So much for that, eh?! I knew it was a problem and although it was difficult, I got rid of this addiction cold turkey. I literally deleted my Excite VPlaces Chat program and all my avatars and gestures that had taken me many hours to download over a duration of several months. I also got rid of the program I had used to create my own avatars (in case I would ever feel the urge to make them and get back in the chatroom again). I remember feeling odd as I deleted the programs (chat and avatar creator) in the recycle bin on my computer. I knew that it would be gone for good. "This is it!" I told myself. Click....click....click and it was gone. I immediately felt like downloading it again, but I forced myself not to. Gradually, over about a week's time, I stopped even FEELING the urge to chat. I kept myself busy doing other things. Of course, that included hanging out with friends, but even while I was so-called addicted to the chatroom, I still maintained active friendships. I've never been friendless in my whole life. I'm glad and I feel lucky/blessed that through everything that I've been through, I've always had someone to turn to in joyful and tumultuous times. I realize that not everyone has this. I am thankful and I honestly feel that a guardian angel is looking over me at times. (I could go into detail about why I feel this way, citing examples, but I want to stay on track with my current topic.) Small addictions like the one I mentioned can be overcome, if you have the drive to chuck it. I believe that everyone can rid themselves of addictions if they want to help themselves badly enough. The hardest part is actually doing something about the addiction and sticking with your decision, even though it is usually too easy to revert back to your old ways. In life, we can't always get away with taking the easy way out. We need to struggle to succeed most times, but that's what makes each person's life an intriguing story....a compendium of experiences and philosophies. After you rid yourself of your "demons," you probably won't be able to believe how long you put off doing it and how negatively it WAS affecting your life (whether it was a huge or tiny influence). If you're like me, you may even feel disgusted with yourself for having wasted your precious time. Yes, time is precious...We all don't know how much time we have left on this earth. For all you know, tomorrow could be our last. Lately I've been doing some serious shopping for dress pants. I really want to get black ones with thin, pink (or vibrant blue), vertical pinstripes. I like those little details that make an article of clothing a bit more special, yet still very much a classic staple in a wardrobe. I found several pants from various stores that I drooled over, however, to my disappointment, after trying them on in the fitting room, guess what? They were either too wide in the leg area (because the wide leg style now seems to be "all the rage," apparently...*sigh* and I'm skinny, so it looks awful), too loose in the waist, or the pants' rise was ultra low. I have no problem with wearing ultra low-rise jeans, but when it comes to these type of dress pants, I prefer a more normal/average rise because it's more appropriate for the classy image. When I was in the Smart Set fitting room, the salesperson knocked on the door and asked how the pants fit. I told her it was too loose and she asked if I wanted her to get me a smaller size. I laughed and said, "Well, they're size ONE!" They don't carry anything smaller because apparently women can't possibly be that small, right? *rolls eyes dramatically* *receives award for dramatic performance* I can easily find jeans that fit me perfectly, but with dress pants, I dread even the prospect of trying them on. I'm petite all over and I'm proportional. I usually fit into sizes 0, 1, 2, 3, or 4. That's how ridiculous women's clothing sizes are today. It has now become all about the psychology of labels. Women who used to fit into size 16 now find that they can purchase stuff that says size 10 on the label. Sooooo, for small-statured people like me, I might need to go into the negative scale! Also, years ago they didn't even have such a thing as size zero. Whenever I try on a size zero, I almost feel depressed. It's like, "I'm size zero...I don't even exist." Personally, I wouldn't care if the labels on my clothes said "Size 555." If it fits and looks good, I'd get it. Lots of women, though, get attached to a certain size number and won't try on a size above their usual. That is so dumb because if you're THAT concerned with your label, you can always cut it off so that you won't see it OR (if you're obsessive), you could cross out the number and write whatever number you are hooked on. It's also annoying how smaller sizes tend to sell out first and the larger ones are left on the racks. Sometimes I'll see the perfect top and only XXLs are left...Grrrrrrr!!!! Since I'm in the complaining mode (hehe), I might as well continue, right? I also have trouble shopping for dress shoes because many of the reasonably-priced ones start at size 6 and come in a B (wide) width. My feet are narrow and size 5, usually. I have no problem buying sneakers and can take a size 6, but with dress shoes that you wear with pantyhose or au natural, the fit needs to be more snug. Cinderella and I have something in common. I remember when I was in elementary school and used to take ballet and tap dance classes. My parents took me to pretty much every single store within a 2-hour's drive that sold ballerina slippers. It was THAT hard to find ones that fit. The pair I ended up with fit a bit better than the ones at the other stores, so my parents bought it, but my mom had to sew on an elastic strap to each so that the shoes wouldn't slip off. Also, during a school concert (in the same year), we got to dress up in any costume we wanted. I decided to go as a ballerina, since I had the leotards, tutu, bodysuit, and slippers. I distinctively remember two middle-aged women pointing at my feet during the whole night. They were talking to each other, saying how I had dainty feet. Children are impressionable and I'm surprised that it didn't affect me more than it did. I'm not freakishly small. I'm just slightly below the average, however at my elementary school, it seemed like the average was really the "above average" in the 'outside world.' By comparison, that made me look much smaller than I really was. When I used to work at the public library's circulation desk, I recall a 40-something-year-old man gaping in awe at my (what he called) "cute, small hands". He also told me that I had a perfect figure...haha, but that's another story...*rolls eyes* On that odd note, it's time to wrap up this entry! Mary Shaw ~.*-.~.*-.~.*-.~.*-.~.*-.~.*-.~.*-.~.*-.~.*-.~.*-.~.*-.~.*-.~.*-.~.*-.~.*-.~.*-.~.*-.~.*-.~.*-. SONG STUCK IN MY HEAD: "Don't Lie" by The Black Eyed Peas LAST FEW SONGS I LISTENED TO: + "On My Own" by Hedley + "Lies" by Save Ferris + "Super Duper Love" by Joss Stone + "I Need a Hero" by Bonnie Tyler + "Come On Eileen" by Save Ferris + "Video" by India Arie + "Closure" by Emm Gryner + "American Badass" by Kid Rock + "I Want You to Want Me" by Save Ferris 
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Wednesday August 10th, 2005. - 12:45 AM