It's a Work in Progress, Okay?

I hate charming boys. Shoot. I take that back. I'm doing this new thing where I'm very peaceable and calm and benevolent and loving of the entire world which is difficult for me because it involves not stomping feet or stabbing anyone (no link to that, I googled "stab" in my blog and my browser almost overloaded and crashed). This little resolution came about in two ways:

1. A little while ago I had a really bad couple of days. It wasn't quite rock bottom but it was close. Like if rock bottom were a balding middle aged woman who is realizing that the man she married twenty years ago likes reenacting historical scenes with stuffed animals more than he likes her, then I was that woman's illiterate country cousin. But as with all things in life (yeah? that sounded pretty zen, right?), the crappiness challenge eventually passed and I realized that I am just a spoiled brat who pouts or buys shoes every time she gets her feelings hurt. And I vowed that if I had to be a spoiled brat, I would be one who doesn't throw tantrums too often because feet broken from excessive stomping will not wear new shoes well I am a mature and sensible woman who is at peace with herself and with the world.

2. I spent some quality time with a friend of mine who is the most tranquil, sunniest person I know. I've never heard her say anything bad about anyone, and even though she's younger than me she makes me want to be like her. Recently something really great has happened to her, and I'm pretty sure there is no one more deserving. She's head over heels in love and it's insane; I've never seen anything like it. A lot of my friends (reference all three of my roommates) are in relationships, but I've never seen anyone glow the way Ash did when she told me about her boyfriend. I mean, a little cynical part of me (the part that remembers about a thousand broken promises by a variety of douchebag boyfriends) thinks that it might be puppy love, and I'm a little scared that she's so optimistic she's gonna get hurt, but another part of me (the part that listens to Taylor Swift) thinks this is the most AMAZING THING IN THE WORLD. And it's so nice to see her once in a while and remember that the world isn't full of jerks.

So I take it back. I hate am uneasy around charming boys. I hate don't like how they can do the most appalling things but all they have to do is crack a joke or flash a smile and everyone adores them again. I guess this is why I may have, in the past, gravitated toward guys who are really (and I mean really) rough around the edges, because they seem to have no pretense.

But. Uh. No. So wrong. Unfortunately life is not a romance novel. Which means that that guy who's a little brusque and rude and not so nice to you? He's not hiding any inner pain that you can magically cure him of. He's actually kind of just a jerk who probably likes making girls cry. And you know how in love stories two people will find each other infuriating and engage in a shouting match that ends up in a steaming bedroom scene (ref: The Notebook, or any other love movie ever made)? Yeah, that doesn't happen in real life either. Apparently being told about all your character deficiencies isn't a big turn on. Who knew criticizing someone's personality didn't count as foreplay?

I had to read this book for one of my classes called The Female Quixote and I feel like every boy in the world should read this. It's set in late 19th century England and it's all about this young woman who's beautiful and intelligent and rich and basically perfect except that she was brought up in a castle far from society and all she had for entertainment were romance novels. Yes that's right. So she expected all her "lovers" to suffer in quiet anguish for her (confessing one's love was very much not allowed in her romance novels) and only after years of this kind of emotional torture could he maybe kiss her hand and that would be enough for him to be inspired to go off and perform all these mighty deeds in the name of his love and when he comes back, the lovely lady will blush and avert her eyes and confess that she "does not hate him" and he will rejoice and proclaim himself the happiest man alive. I swear I'm not exaggerating at all.

So I don't get why anyone would call me high maintenance just because I like shoes and don't hate compliments. It's like uh. Am I asking you to buy me shoes? No. I buy my own damn brightly colored sneakers or questionably skanky boots. And if I get a little upset because your insults outweigh the compliments you give me by maybe 1000 to 1 then no, I'm not being unreasonable or childish, you are being a bully and a stupid douchebag a fellow human being who is completely entitled to your own opinions, but wouldn't the world be a much nicer place if we didn't poison other people's souls all just tried to have a more positive attitude?

This zen shit stuff is hard awesome.

The Art of Compromise. And Hair.

My idea of a good compromise: When Mango makes dinner and then I say I'll do the dishes but get too caught up in whatever sports game we're watching so he takes them to the sink and when I get up to help he says "sit down, you know you don't have to lift a finger here." (He literally says this, I think it might be part ironic but whatevers)

My idea of a not-so-good compromise: What happened to my hair over winter break.

Let me start at the beginning. If you've known me for a period of over two weeks you'll probably know that my hair is the bane of my existence. I'll complain about it for a few months, then I'll cut it, then I'll complain about it for a week, then I'll be reasonably satisfied with it for two months, then the process will start all over again.

This is because my hair is the most contrary thing ever. Like if if my hair were a child it'd be the kind of child who would knock all the items off a supermarket shelf and shriek while you frantically try to hide all the broken bottles before security arrives. Or if it were a preteen it'd be the kind who'd dye its hair the opposite of its natural color and get an eyelid piercing and use red paint to cover its walls in bad poetry. If it were an ex-girlfriend it'd be the kind who would steal all your forks.

So you get the point. Basically my hair sucks. And what I did to it over winter break did not help.

We were in Taiwan, a place known to me as home of good, plentiful food, generous uncles and cheap cosmetic procedures. My mom, you might remember, is fairly concerned over my appearance (refer to any post on dieting). I mean, she's not like a pushy crazy mother, like the kind you see on Toddlers and Tiaras. But I think in general she's just kind of girly, which would put her girliness level at wayy above mine, so we have some disagreements.

Like in Taiwan. She really, really, reeeally wanted me to get my hair straightened. Like the way she put it, it was like her main goal in life for the foreseeable future.

I did not want my hair straightened. First of all, remember how my hair sucks? It does not listen to damaging salon straightenings. I had done that to my hair once and three days later it was waving like a beauty contest winner at the town's annual parade. My mom dragged me back to the salon and demanded to know what happened. The lady who did my hair examined my head, prodded a little, and announced, "It's not our fault. That's just the way her hair is."

So I did not see why this time would be any better. My mom, however, had her own opinion. "Technology has improved," she insisted. "It's going to be successful this time."

It was not.

I admit that this was partly my fault. Instead of getting straightened hair that would plaster to my head and make me look like a basset hound, I wanted something kind of not like that at all. I wanted the kind of weird little crimpy hair things that I can't adequately describe but is basically the opposite of a straightening. The overly-diplomatic stylist thought it would be a good idea for my mother and I to not have a smack-down fight in the middle of his salon, so he made the suggestion that he would just straighten the TOP part of my hair, and then if I so desired I could crimp the bottom part to my heart's content.

I feel like visual aids are in order.

Option #1:

Option #2:

And of course, what actually happened:

So now what's happened is that my hair is half really flat and half really sticky-out-in-different-directions and basically wholly awful.

I am Mentally Incapable. It's Confirmed.

Oh man, I don't even know where to begin. Well actually I began by totally deleting the link to this blog off my facebook because that is just the kind of entry this is going to be.

So it all started with me wanting to go home for Chinese New Years. I'm pretty sure this was the catalyst because two things happen whenever I go home:

1. I get drunk the night before.

2. I have a lot of difficulty at the airport the next day.

I guess I don't learn lessons.

So on Thursday to cap off a two week period of midterms/fundraisers/dipping stuff I'm not allowed to eat in chocolate for five hours in one sitting/essays I got really drunk. I'm not going to go into details about the depths of my inebriation, but suffice to say it is a good thing I made that rule about wearing pants (or at the very least leggings) to parties way back in freshman year because I'm pretty sure at some point in the night I was not in total control of my limbs.

But this isn't really about the impressive amounts of cheap vodka I consumed or how I lost in semis in the beer pong tournament despite my amazing explosion shot to win the previous game or how around 2 AM I decided to play DJ and Maaron yelled at me for trying to put on old P. Diddy songs.

This is about the dangers of the morning after. So listen carefully, kids. You'll want to avoid the mistakes I made.

First of all - I'm not going to mince words - I looked like shit Friday morning. I had gotten home at four AM and by the time I showered (I have to shower before I get into bed no matter how opposite of sober I am - yes I am the epitome of hygiene) and dragged my dizzy self into bed it was god knows what time. And since I had a flight to catch at 1:30 I had changed my work hours that day to 8-11 and if you know me at all you'll know what a rough morning I had by the fact that I WORE GLASSES. Yes. Out in public.

The whole day was actually really comical in that kind of hazy, hungover, oh-my-god-is-this-really-happening way.

Let's list them:

1. The glasses thing. Trust me, it was serious. On top of that I was late because have you ever tried to wake up at seven after two hours of sleep while hungover? Then you understand why I didn't have time to put on make up or consider what to wear because I ended up in a pair of shiny red pants (I actually like these pants, and I totally wronged them with the rest of my outfit), this completely non-matching cream top and my Prolit sweatshirt. And purple moccasins. I basically looked like the personification of a hangover. Before I left I looked in the full length mirror by my front door and could only shake my head.

2. I had to bring my luggage to work since I was leaving straight from the office. I also had to bring the crushgrams that my co-workers bought for me. And I am so sick of hearing about them from the fundraiser that I don't want to explain but basically it was a six pack of glass soda bottles. Which I precariously balanced on my rolling suitcase while walking the four blocks to work. In my glasses. It felt like some sort of strange and strenuous dream.

3. Luckily my work is awesome so everyone sympathized and gave me different bits of advice on how to not die but THEN. Oh my god. This is kind of complicated but basically what happened was that Tando came into the office for the first time since he stopped working there, and I don't want to get into details but I was SO MAD that the one day I come into work looking like shit he happens to have an errand up at the office. When he came in through the door I lifted my head from its resting place on the table and was like "Jesus, please tell me you are joking," but nope. And I'm not saying that I look gorgeous when I step into the office everyday but I definitely don't usually look like a TellyTubby got drunk and threw up and the puke put on glasses and became me. And it's not like I'm trying to impress anyone but seriously. Talk about adding insult to injury.

4. Did you know airports had terminals? Well me and my hangover didn't. I'd never taken any airline other than Southwest from LAX, and Southwest is at terminal 1 right next to the security. So since I was already checked in for my United flight I was like "oh I'll just get off at Southwest because I'll be closer to security." Uh WRONG. United is at terminal 7. I was so confused. I literally had to text Arrow because I was like WTF WHERE AM I? And because he is the best friend a hungover girl can ask for (and has a strangely comprehensive understanding of the LAX floorplan) he directed me to the right place. It's not interesting enough to go in depth into but let me just tell you a shuttle was involved. That was how far I was from my flight.

5. The shuttle went to the ARRIVALS section of terminal 7. And there was this one other middle aged guy on the shuttle who got on and off at the same stops as I did (which helped because I was like oh hey I'm not the only one who makes these mistakes, and this guy doesn't even look hungover so he soberly made this mistake) so I started following him and he KEPT LOOKING BACK worriedly at me. I mean I was looking a mess and probably had on a pretty grim expression because I was wondering if I would miss my flight and also mentally vowing to never drink again but still after the fifth time he looked back I was starting to feel like an old-person stalker. Which didn't really help.

6. I made it to my gate in the nick of time. My flight was delayed. For two hours. My laptop and phone both ran out of batteries so I couldn't tell my dad when I was taking off. I had to pee but I couldn't because they loaded us onto the plane and THEN announced the delay. (I don't like airplane bathrooms.) I sat behind a crying baby.

Oh and on my way to the Flyaway shuttle I was telling Mango how I will never ever drink again and he gave me a baleful look and was like "you always say that. but you always do again" and I was like "oh this must be what it's like to be an alcoholic parent."

And that was my Friday. Happy Chinese New Year's everyone.