THE LEARNING CURVE

Source

Over the weekend, I broke my ass and my pride at the top of a mountain in a process also known as learning to snowboard.  While recovering from one of many aerodynamic falls on my face/ass/and shoulder, it occurred to me to wonder why I was going through this, and if this was related to a personality disorder.  It seems, the fun doesn’t really happen until you have achieved a certain level of skill, and this assumes that you don’t die in the process.  

Do you try to learn new things anymore?  And at what point do you lose the tolerance to go through the learning process? I don’t think I’m there yet, but I suspect I may be a masochist. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push([‘_setAccount’, ‘UA-38185031-1’]); _gaq.push([‘_trackPageview’]); (function() { var ga = document.createElement(‘script’); ga.type = ‘text/javascript’; ga.async = true; ga.src = (‘https:’ == document.location.protocol ? ‘https://ssl’ : ‘http://www’) + ‘.google-analytics.com/ga.js’; var s = document.getElementsByTagName(‘script’)[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })();

Advertisements

RANDOM PICTURES: I LIED EDITION NO. 2

So I may have mentioned before that I would only include ugly pictures on this blog.  Then I decided to  see if I could become a better photographer, and to lie.

There is a method to this: If I am hoping that if I monitor my progress over time, I will hopefully see that I improve.   var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push([‘_setAccount’, ‘UA-38185031-1’]); _gaq.push([‘_trackPageview’]); (function() { var ga = document.createElement(‘script’); ga.type = ‘text/javascript’; ga.async = true; ga.src = (‘https:’ == document.location.protocol ? ‘https://ssl’ : ‘http://www’) + ‘.google-analytics.com/ga.js’; var s = document.getElementsByTagName(‘script’)[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })();

INDECISION IS THE DEVIL

Source: Stress Intervention

By the way, this post has nothing to do with religion.  When I say “the devil,” I am talking about nothing more sinister than a behavior that may drive you insane, and then take you to hell.  By “hell” of course, I mean the house of the satan.  All clear?  Moving on.

I have noticed that there are some behaviors that make being alive much more difficult than it has to be.   One of these (yes, there are more than one) is being indecisive.   Sometimes I find myself agonizing over – and there is no better way to say this – some fairly stupid decisions.  I’m not deciding whether or not to donate bone marrow to a child molester, I’m trying to decide which pair of basic black boots to buy.  I am too ashamed to admit how much time I spent agonizing over this decision, suffice to say, there is a reasonable amount of time that one could spend, and I overshot that by a mile.

When I realized how much of my precious life I was wasting, I decided to just pick something, anything, just to end the indecision.  When I did, it was such a huge relief for something so small.  Finally!  Done and done. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push([‘_setAccount’, ‘UA-38185031-1’]); _gaq.push([‘_trackPageview’]); (function() { var ga = document.createElement(‘script’); ga.type = ‘text/javascript’; ga.async = true; ga.src = (‘https:’ == document.location.protocol ? ‘https://ssl’ : ‘http://www’) + ‘.google-analytics.com/ga.js’; var s = document.getElementsByTagName(‘script’)[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })();

CAN YOU DISAGREE WITHOUT ARGUING? (PART 2)

Photo: Shutterstock.com

So…how long does it take?

When someone contradicts you, or finds an exception to something you’ve just said – how long does it take before you get angry, annoyed, or just a touch irritated?

It’s not a bad thing, I think it’s a natural reaction, like sneezing, a kind of social friction.  Anger in reaction to disagreement sometimes falls under something you have no control over.  From here, however, things can go deep south.

What I have noticed is this equation:  disagree + get mad = stop listening –> bad things happen

However, if you can remove the anger from the equation, you might be able to just…have a normal conversation.  When I’ve heard disagreements between sane people, they disagree, and then they linger for one or two more arguments…and then they just drop it.  That’s all.  I am shocked. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push([‘_setAccount’, ‘UA-38185031-1’]); _gaq.push([‘_trackPageview’]); (function() { var ga = document.createElement(‘script’); ga.type = ‘text/javascript’; ga.async = true; ga.src = (‘https:’ == document.location.protocol ? ‘https://ssl’ : ‘http://www’) + ‘.google-analytics.com/ga.js’; var s = document.getElementsByTagName(‘script’)[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })();

NITPICKING FIFTY SHADES OF GREY: THE UNAVOIDABLE POST

Source: 50 shade of cake

Many people hate or love this book for various reasons.  Possibly depending on whether they find it a turn on, with its redheaded-grey eyed romantic lead*, or whether they find the naive protagonist a huge boner killer.  I received this as a gift and tried to read it, but I just couldn’t.  Why?

This may be particular to me, but…the book is written in first person, present tense, which is like trying to get off on a picture of…no, I really shouldn’t go there.

Compare:

1st person, present tense:  I look in the mirror and wink at myself and think: what a good-looking female I am!  Then I take a walk in the park.

1st person, past tense:  I looked in the mirror and winked at myself and thought: what a good-looking female I was!  Then I took a walk in the park.

Past tense always sounds at least ten times less ridiculous, no matter what you happen to be saying (to yourself).   This was too much of a roadblock for me; it was the mental florescent lighting that blotted out all potential sexy good times.  That 50 shades of cake, however, I would totally eat.

* As an aside, do you find the concept of a man with grey eyes and red hair a turn on?  I kept trying to picture this in a sexy light and failed repeatedly.  I will further add that my imagination is rock solid.
* Did anyone else read Archie comics as a kid?  That’s who my imagination kept turning to. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push([‘_setAccount’, ‘UA-38185031-1’]); _gaq.push([‘_trackPageview’]); (function() { var ga = document.createElement(‘script’); ga.type = ‘text/javascript’; ga.async = true; ga.src = (‘https:’ == document.location.protocol ? ‘https://ssl’ : ‘http://www’) + ‘.google-analytics.com/ga.js’; var s = document.getElementsByTagName(‘script’)[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })();

CAN YOU DISAGREE WITHOUT ARGUING? (PART 1)

Part 1 Posting Extravaganza! Topic: Arguing, a post told in 2 parts.  Why 2 parts? Because I don’t want a long, boring post.

Let me start with two general, let’s call them assumptions that can lead to hours of arguing*:

  1. There are some problems that do not have a solution
  2. For every rule, there is an exception
If you have hours to blow, try this: I had a relationship discussion with my friend S.  Relationships sometimes fall under problems that have no solution.  (example: Do you think I should get a divorce?)  Now, S. is a problem solver, not a sympathizer.  This is simply how she is.  I cannot change her, what I can do, is not present her with a problem that cannot be solved.  What you get in return are an endless supply of solutions, and none of them will work.  
Party time! Have you ever been found yourself opposite someone who automatically has to contradict statements thrown their way?  In sane conversations, there are maybe two disagreements, and then it just dies.  But the really mundane conversations can go on forever, like so:

Pam: She’s really pretty, but she’s wearing a lot of makeup.
Lisa: Yeah, people always look better with makeup.
Pam: Not people with tattooed makeup, they look worse.
Lisa: My aunt has tattooed makeup, and she looks really good.
Me: (to myself) OMFG.

* As a disclaimer, I don’t enjoy arguing.  I enjoy problem solving, and becoming more informed by being presented with an opposing, informed perspective.  If either of these is not in play, then I consider it a pissing contest. 

var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push([‘_setAccount’, ‘UA-38185031-1’]); _gaq.push([‘_trackPageview’]); (function() { var ga = document.createElement(‘script’); ga.type = ‘text/javascript’; ga.async = true; ga.src = (‘https:’ == document.location.protocol ? ‘https://ssl’ : ‘http://www’) + ‘.google-analytics.com/ga.js’; var s = document.getElementsByTagName(‘script’)[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })();

I HAVE SOME EXTRA XANAX IN MY POCKET

Link

You know those times when you’re waiting by the elevator (or some other public location) and your supervisor is talking on his cell, talking about how great his medication is working for him, and only one of you (you) is uncomfortable?

For those of us who do not have a bathroom shelf full of meds, Xanax is a psychoactive drug used for panic, general anxiety, and social anxiety, none of which I would want anyone else in the world to know about me, possibly because it might be discussed in a public blog later on.

In contrast, I am someone who will discretely put their hand over their credit card up until the millisecond before handing it to the cashier.  Why?  In case.  In case what?  In case the Google van happens to drive by the cash register at that exact moment and my credit card number and ugly driver’s license photo end up on YouTube.  You will notice, I never claimed to be the one who was less crazy.

In further news, I never meant to be for this blog to be a monologue, or some king of exercise in self-brown nosing.  If have have something to say, I am open to converse.  I just haven’t made it it a habit to ask open ended questions. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push([‘_setAccount’, ‘UA-38185031-1’]); _gaq.push([‘_trackPageview’]); (function() { var ga = document.createElement(‘script’); ga.type = ‘text/javascript’; ga.async = true; ga.src = (‘https:’ == document.location.protocol ? ‘https://ssl’ : ‘http://www’) + ‘.google-analytics.com/ga.js’; var s = document.getElementsByTagName(‘script’)[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })();

MY BRAIN IS FAT

Pretty pictures!  I love staring at pretty pictures – I mean, that room is perfect – the glossy black end table with the acrylic ashtray, the grey color palate, the arching floor lamp (OMG, is that IKEA?).  I could stare at that picture for hours…and unfortunately, I probably have.  I used to subscribe to glossy magazines, but blogs have replaced that, their content is updated daily.  It’s funny, how some of our habits don’t change, they just evolve.

Now the bad part: how to say this…at some point in time, my brain stopped fitting into its fat pants.  My memory was shot.  Names and words on the tip of my tongue stayed there and died.  I began to suspect that snacking on a diet of pretty pictures was making me dumber.  My vocabulary had taken a nose dive off a metaphorical cliff.

No, let’s not be dramatic here; I’ve found the best solutions are usually the simplest ones.  I just need to limit the amount of time spent staring at pictures which, I think, are too easily processed, and more time making my brain work a little harder – possibly by reading, possibly by formulating and articulating ideas.

With that in mind, I will intentionally limit the visual content of this blog, because I don’t want to add to the aforementioned “fat brain” (Also, I would have to troll the web for pics).  Ironically, most of the blogs I like to look at are beautiful, and even inspiring, and I wouldn’t even have bothered starting this one if others hadn’t paved the way.  Ironic, no? var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push([‘_setAccount’, ‘UA-38185031-1’]); _gaq.push([‘_trackPageview’]); (function() { var ga = document.createElement(‘script’); ga.type = ‘text/javascript’; ga.async = true; ga.src = (‘https:’ == document.location.protocol ? ‘https://ssl’ : ‘http://www’) + ‘.google-analytics.com/ga.js’; var s = document.getElementsByTagName(‘script’)[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })();

SEXUAL HARASSMENT!

G-Dragon

Have you ever been to Brazil?  If you have, you may have been the recipient of *kissy kissy* face, when a male (usually) makes a serious of luxurious *kissy* noises up to a full inch in distance from your face.  Sometimes a bead of spit will manage to traverse this small distance to land on you, as was the case with my traveling companion, J.  And isn’t it so much easier to talk about when it didn’t happen to you?

I was reminded of this the other day when, while crossing the street, I happened to look up at the driver of a car next to me, to notice that he was making Kissy Face.  “Wow!” I thought, “It’s like I’m back in Brazil!”  For full disclosure purposes, let me add that I am a small Asian female.  I know, right?  So you can see where this is heading…but no.

Given recent sad events in India, this could be a depressing or even angry post, but that’s not where I want to go with this.  My friend J. and I were subjected to Kissy Face from 9:00 in the morning (J: “Already??“) until late into the evening, and we even had a Kissy Face drive by, which J. tried to protect me from, but I looked by accident and got an eyeful.  We laughed about the drive by for hours.  There may have been a reenactment.

My point is this: I could have written this post a variety of ways: a) angry (men are international bastards!), b) distraught (why can’t they just leave me alone?), or c) with a bit of humor.  I can’t always see the humor in things, but I would like to, because I think it gives you a bit of power, like the bad parts can’t affect you, or at least, they can’t leave a lasting impression, and kind of bead off you like water. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push([‘_setAccount’, ‘UA-38185031-1’]); _gaq.push([‘_trackPageview’]); (function() { var ga = document.createElement(‘script’); ga.type = ‘text/javascript’; ga.async = true; ga.src = (‘https:’ == document.location.protocol ? ‘https://ssl’ : ‘http://www’) + ‘.google-analytics.com/ga.js’; var s = document.getElementsByTagName(‘script’)[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })();