One-and-a-half years out of my last relationship, my single ladies swagger had finally fallen into place. Balancing medical school with extracurricular activities, on top of spending time with family and friends and then juggling dates on a regular basis, balance was in order and life was good.

And then, I met Jason.

Jason and I met at the university gym. He was doing planks on the mat; I was doing floor stretches. Unlikely time and place, and more so--nobody looks attractive when they are heaping hot messes of sweat. He was a business school student, and though there were no overlaps between either of our programs, we were already indirectly networked through the MD/MBA joint program on campus.

We said our names to each other exactly once. A couple of guys approached him soon after, and feeling like I didn't want to intrude, I left and said goodbye.

Later that night, I found an email from him. I had no understanding of how he got my email, but the stalking that he had to accomplish to find my email address and add me on Facebook (despite me being almost impossible to find) was somewhat flattering and less creepy.

Two weeks later, I'm sleeping over, we're cooking breakfast, and making Valentine's Day plans. This is moving so fast. How did we get here? Where are we heading?

He's moving to New Jersey in June after he finishes his program.

June is four months from now. We've got time.

But do I want time? I don't want to fall for him--this can't end well.

I can't leave California, and I would never ask him to stay. I know I'm over-thinking this, but as defensive, guarded, and as afraid as I am of my own emotions, the thought of emotionally investing in something, someone for the short term is mortifying.

Take things slowly--breathe.

Taking a deep breath,

Shopgirl.

A Thanksgiving short/blurb

It's Black Friday, and I'd almost forgotten the fight I would have to put up just to find a dinky little parking spot. (I just want to go to Coffee Bean, people--promise!) Though I love shopping, I have never understood the insanity of Black Friday bargain hunting. During Thanksgiving dinner last night, my aunt boasted about how she was going to be up at 4 AM to do some Walmart shopping. Walmart is crazy enough during the off-season (see Creatures at Walmart); I couldn't imagine what goes on in there during Black Friday.

Luckily, I found parking and made it to Coffee Bean safely. I'm sipping on a Japanese Cherry green tea latte--pure heaven! I haven't been to this Coffee Bean in ages, namely because my stalker frequents this location. Glad to know he's not here today... or so he's making me think...? :(

It's easy to forget the "meaning of Thanksgiving." Growing up, I remember something about the pilgrims making friends with Squanto, an American Indian, despite the fact that the pilgrims brought disease (amongst other things) to the Americas and wiped out several tribes. Ok, so I didn't learn it that way--but we all know it's true.

So we put together a cornucopia filled with the season's harvests and place it next to a turkey. I'm not even sure that the pilgrims really had turkey. Did you know that the pilgrims probably ate eel during their momentous feast? (See Give Thanks for... Eel? - NYTimes.) Imagine that on your dining table, in between the potatoes and the corn.

That's the beauty of Thanksgiving, though--the act of giving thanks is purely subjective. No, my ancestors didn't come to America on the Mayflower--they came by airplane. Any by ancestors, I mean parents. Our Thanksgiving dinner is celebrated with pancit and kikiam, a Filipino-Chinese variation of meatloaf, which, by the way, is nothing like the meatloaf that Bobby Flay makes. All of this variation on giving thanks makes reason for celebration even more valid.

***

I remember sitting in class, an awkward little fourth grader amongst other dorky kids, when my teacher asks us what we wanted to be when we grew up. Everybody seemed to mention a particular job or career, though it never occurred to me that we never expected answers like "I want to be a gracious and balanced friend/daughter/son/parent." I think these are aspirations that are often overlooked and rarely emphasized during adolescence. But thank goodness I was able to find a loving group of people to keep me in check because I know I can't thank them enough for putting up with my absolutely obnoxious attitude. Thank you, ever so much, for being amazing and positive influences in my life. I wouldn't, couldn't be here without you!

Grateful and full of thanks-giving,
Shopgirl.

Another chicken vs. egg analogy

lemontea: How long does rubber cement take to dry?

Shopgirl: A few hours, tops.

lemontea: So, do you think leaving the glue to dry overnight is long enough to keep the penis in place?

Shopgirl: Oh, yeah, totally. I used to use that crap all the time.

Before you go on--no, this isn't some bizarre anatomy project or piece of abstract art here. In fact, I almost wish I were speaking about a bizarre anatomy project or "piece of art." Moreover, I wish the subject was just as or more innocent than either the former or the latter.

Unfortunately, we are referring to the vibrator that lemontea's ex-boyfriend had so lovingly molded out of his own genitalia. (I'm absolutely serious.) Of course, he saw this doohickey as a treasure befitting that of a birthday present to lemontea last year.

Shortly after he had bestowed his "gift" upon her, he broke up with her for his "lesbian" co-worker.

Shopgirl: Told you, you should've glued that thing on top of his car. Reminds me of that Teletubby.

Exhibit 1: Green Teletubby.

Shopgirl: Why do you even still have that thing?

Shoes...??? :(

lemontea: Haha, yeah. I don't know, really. I keep it tucked away in a shoe box. You know, random--but Bert called me the other day and left me voicemail about how his boyfriend Ernie had wanted to see what my ex's junk looked like.

Shopgirl: That's so weird. Did you actually bring it?

lemontea: Yeah. It's a good thing he caught me before I left.

***

lemontea's ex, whom we shall henceforth know as Ken, seemed like an unassuming, well-educated, and cerebrally-gifted intellectual. Actually, I'm understating that. He's a total geek, which was endearing about him and seemed like a trait that lemontea truly prized. Though everyone's got their secret tendencies, who would have known that Ken had that much freaky-deaky to him?

I promise this has a point. Did you ever create a list of qualities that you find ideal in a mate? Don't lie. And making even just one list still counts. It's ok, I did, too. (See Gettin' ready to check you off.)

The really funny thing is that we create these lists, thinking that once we find someone who fits all of the criteria, they are serendipitously perfect.

The problem though, is that when you meet someone who satisfies "all of the requirements," what's to guarantee that the requirements are enough to sustain the attraction?

To satisfy our curiosity, we conducted a research study at Maggiano's, subject count = 1.

Shopgirl: Do you think that people learn fondness for each other and build attraction from there on, or do you think that attraction lends itself to build fondness?

Server: I don't think you can predict whether or not you'll fall in love with someone.

Survey has it, folks--you cannot fall in love instantaneously. Some of you may agree, while some of you believe that love at first sight is possible. I liken this debate to that of the chicken or the egg. What comes first--attraction or fondness?

Or maybe you've got it all figured out. But what happens when your Barbie or Ken turns out to be one of those creepy Troll dolls with the bejeweled belly buttons?

Will probably avoid looking through any of lemontea's shoe boxes, for future reference,
Shopgirl.

Saving the world, one PDF and exam at a time.

Just over three months ago, I sat propped up in bed, laptop rested against my knees, a TV remote control in the left hand, and a glass of shiraz in the other. Surely I was living la vida loca. It was my first summer vacation, and I was going to milk it in all my laziness glory. After two years of teaching inner city high school, I was spent, and I needed recovery time before med school began later that summer.

Now here I am, still propped up in bed with my laptop rested against the knees, except no TV remote control in the left, and no wine either. In fact, I don't even own a TV--not because I am trying to prove an elitist point--more so because I am too cheap to buy a TV or subscribe to cable. (Thank you, Netflix!) And on enjoying some alcohol on a weeknight? Fah-get about it! There comes a point when my body boasts, "Oh, you fancy, huh? You want that drink? Ok, drink it." At this point, I decide that I am the master of my body and retort, "It's my body, I do what I want!" and drink the crap out of my drink with much gusto and fervor. Of course, this mismatch in preferences normally ends in tragedy for my mind and body as I stumble for Advil in my medicine cabinet the morning after celebrating, post-exam.

Med school has got my entire class on iPads in an initiative to go paperless and more high-tech. Many of us have adapted to take notes on PDFs using apps like iAnnotate, Evernote, Smartnote, and Noterize. Though I prefer writing with my stylus on the iPad over taking notes on my laptop, I miss the crisp turn of a page. But if I must to save trees, then it shall be done! Well, that, and I don't have to carry an extra ten pounds of notes with me when I study.

We're currently in a testing block, where we've had about seven tests for seven Mondays in a row. Cardiovascular physiology on Tuesday, and we wrap up, just in time for Thanksgiving. It couldn't come any sooner!

As for life out of med school--well, it's pretty much non-existent. You know the time you hate when you're sitting around bored? Yeah, I miss that. In fact, I want that. I'd happily accept moments of boredom if that means that I get time to breathe. I could use it to blog, which would have been nice, since my blogging time is currently infiltrating my precious sleep time. :(

I just have to remember that break is near. I don't know if it makes me want to work harder or get lazier because it's so close. I guess we'll find out on Tuesday!

Sad that I didn't go to sleep earlier since tomorrow is going to be another exhausting day,

Shopgirl.

Feelings make me feel weird.

Having a sudden urge for chicken noodle soup, I chasséd into the kitchen and reached for the can collecting dust in my cupboard. I plunged my hand into the dishwasher (it's where we keep clean dishes) for my housemate's can opener. Hm, not electronic, I thought. That's ok. I can bleed people--I can open a can! I would place the can opener parallel to the brim, allowing the blade to touch the very edge of the surface. Fixated upon the handle, simple, repetitive torque applied should do the trick.


Needless to say, I threw the can opener back into the dishwasher and shoved the can into the dreary crevices of my cupboard. No, seriously, I don't really know what's back there.


I had glorious, restful sleep last night, after several nights of insomnia. Of course, that means that my brain refuses to turn off tonight. It's 1:22 AM and I know I want to go to class tomorrow. Bright and early, 8 AM. I suppose I could be studying for my histology "quiz" on Monday, but that would be too productive and my brain despises productivity.


I started seeing a therapist to discuss my insomnia and my pending ADHD status. What started out as a conversation about my difficulty sleeping and concentrating suddenly turned into a survey of my commitment issues and fear of intimacy. I sulked into the leather couch and knew we weren't going to be focusing on my ADHD evaluation anymore. Feelings. Ugh, we are talking about feelings. There is no conversation topic more awkward to me than my feelings.

Therapist: Anytime you have a feeling, I want you to write it down so that we can talk about it the following week.

Shopgirl: Um, ok, what kind of feeling? A good feeling? A sad feeling?

Therapist: Any kind of feeling.

Shopgirl: Ok, because... I mean--I have lots of feelings, I guess. And I mean, when you say 'any kind of feeling,' that's kind of vague. Like, hunger. I mean, that's a feeling. And you know, sometimes I get really hungry. And when I get really hungry, I get upset because I still can't believe that I haven't eaten.

Therapist: Well, I want you focus on your deep-rooted emotions. For instance, how you feel when you feel wronged, or how you feel when something wonderful happens.

Shopgirl: When I feel wronged, well, yeah, I feel wronged. I mean, what am I... huh?

Therapist: Just write it down.

Shopgirl: Okie dokie.

I didn't want to lug my 10-pound journal and grabbed the smallest notebook I had lying around. This notebook happened to be my 4" x 8" American Medical Association spiral notebook. It even has a quick medical reference guide! That way while I'm documenting "feelings," I can memorize handy values like normal blood cell and SGPT/ALT-7 counts.

Ready to get in touch with my "feelings,"
Shopgirl.

Lessons from Lil Wayne

Pillows stacked behind me, I'm propped up against the wall, with feet secure in my blanket, left hand on the keyboard, and right in a bucket of animal crackers. Playing hooky can be exciting, except when you're coughing out pieces of lung. I'm wearing cerulean pajama pants splotched with obnoxious neon blue goldfish. My granny-panties are so loose that I'm pretty sure I could use them to catch air and go gliding. My hair sits on top of my head in a bun reminiscent of a sea urchin. Of course, I tidy this 'do up with licks of saliva and a pinstriped headband. Three words: epitome of sexy.

George Hamilton

I'd been feeling lethargic for the last few weeks and thought I'd get a panel of metabolic blood work done. Good news is that I'm not anemic (I have a history of iron-deficiency anemia); bad (?) news is that I'm vitamin D deficient. Bizarre, considering that I live in Southern California, land of skin cancer and George Hamilton wannabes.

Anyway, I decided to take my doctor's advice and headed to the pharmacy. I sifted through bottles of vitamin D supplemental goodness. Gel caplets? Pill form? 400 IU? 2000 IU? I'd better ask the pharmacist.

I hunched over to the counter and asked for my prescription cough syrup.

Shopgirl: Also, could you tell me which of these bottles of vitamin D is--

Pharmacist: No, you don't want any of those. [He shimmies through the counter and promptly returns with another bottle.] You'll want this bottle instead.

Shopgirl: [I look at him blankly.] I'm sorry, what's the difference?

Pharmacist: [Blinking twice through his Mr. Magoo glasses] Well I suppose you could buy this bottle of 400 IU. But then you'd have to take it three or four times a day. Or, you could just sit out in the sun.

I wasn't sure if he was kidding but decided that his serious face called for serious action. I opted out of the lesser quantities of vitamin D and purchased my promethazine DM and Nature Made vitamin D, 2000 IU per pill, which, by the way, is five times the daily requirement.

I spent the rest of the day in a floaty haze, high as hell off of cough syrup. I passed out around 10 PM last night and woke up at two in the morning with an everlasting hacking cough. I reached over to my side table for my promethazine. No time to get a spoon, I thought. I twisted the bottle cap off and took a healthy swig. This must be what it's like to be Lil Wayne!

Lil Wayne, probably sippin' on some
sizzurp. Note that there is a "C" tat-
tooed in between his eyebrows. May-
be he forgot his initials.

I remember sitting on an airplane, reading an article about Lil Wayne and how he was addicted to cough syrup, or rather, sizzurp. Oh, that's what that is? Something about getting high off of "grape" or "cherry" flavored Robitussin or Dimetap seemed... I don't know... clever? Really? No, not really.

It's lunch time and I just took another swig of the stuff. It really is convenient not having to carry a measuring cup or spoon around. Time for a nap!

Sippin' on some sizzurp,
Shopgirl.

Insomnia: 3; Me: -2

Plagued again by my persistent insomnia, I thought I'd actually get out of bed this time and get productive.

Carey Mulligan
Vogue Oct 2010

On a rampant drawing spree, I designed my Halloween costume (Michaels, here I come!), sketched a self-portrait, and got a little fanciful with Carey Mulligan's cover on Vogue. (Please pardon the crappiness in the photo--the iPhone, despite its superior features, has the most incapable camera of its smartphone peers.)

Something about the teeter-tottering of a pen or pencil in my hand is therapeutic. Whether writing or drawing, every whisk of such a simple, yet elegant tool serves purpose. A conservative scribble denotes a harsh, solid sternness, while a flirtatious swish portrays a soothing catharsis. Every mark has intention--you control it, inputing as much energy or emotion in every curve as needed.

I was never one to focus wholeheartedly into any kind of activity, except when pursuing artistic ventures. Before I found myself wrapped up in education then medicine, I spent most of my time dabbling in art. In retrospect, I don't think that I could focus on anything longer than ten minutes, unless I was working on art. To think about it, I don't know how I made it to medical school, considering my poor memory and that I have the attention span of a two-year-old. My ADHD diagnosis is pending! No, seriously.

The time on the clock is 6:51 AM. It's time to hop in the shower and make it to class today!

Hoping for a productive day,
Shopgirl.

Sorry I'm not home right now--I'm currently pushing a catheter through an artificial penis.

"Sorry I'm not home right now. I'm walking
through a spiderweb, so leave a message and
I'll call you back!" Anybody remember that
song? No? Ok, fine.

Scooby: ...I just know that if I really wanted to make time for someone, I would.

Shopgirl: Scooby, we have a great time together, but I'm just really busy.

Scooby: I don't understand. I feel like you're avoiding me. I mean, when I ask you to hang out, it's like you're purposely trying to avoid me.

Shopgirl: It's not that I'm purposely trying to avoid you. You can't call me one day and just expect me to be free. When I tell you that I'm busy, I'm legitimately busy.

Scooby: What about when you're not busy?

Shopgirl: I don't know, Scooby--I don't have free time often, but when I do, I just want to be goofy and do stupid girly things.

Scooby: That's what I'm trying to figure out. I mean--why can't we do goofy stuff together?

Shopgirl: Scooby, you don't get it. You're demanding. We're not even committed to each other and you are already expecting too much from me.

Scooby: No, no--that's not true. I think you're being a little condescending.

Shopgirl: Huh? Scooby, please try to understand. I can't give you what you want. I don't have a lot of free time, so I--

Scooby: I do understand. What I don't get is why we can't together enjoy some of the little time you have.

Shopgirl: Because if anybody is going to get any of my free time, I want to savor every moment.

Scooby: Yeah, isn't that what we have?


No, this is not "Confessions of a commitment-phobe, Part Deux" (see "Confessions of a commitment-phobe"). Contrary to what my nearest and dearest might tease me of, I'm no ice princess. My refusal to commit is perfectly valid for this reason: I don't have much free time, so if I'm going to share any of my free time with anybody, I don't want to have to explain myself. In fact, I don't have time to explain myself.

Maybe this reason is a bit unreasonable for some, but I cannot imagine committing to someone who needed a one-hour explanation for fundamental principles I live by. In addition, my time is divided amongst many people. That makes men jealous. Most people I spend time with are men. That makes men even more jealous, but I can't help it if I grew up a dude in a girl's body.

The point is, it's not about making anybody jealous. It's not even about playing elusive or hard-to-get. This may be shocking to some, but not all women are looking for a boyfriend. (And please don't misconstrue the previous statement as something equivalent to "single female looking for a bedtime buddy" or lesbianism. Yes, I get this question often, if you must wonder.)

According to many men, I'm a difficult person to share a commitment with. My response? I'm inordinately busy and need a truly confident partner. That is--he's got to understand that while I don't have much time to give, the little time that we do share is time savored and undeniably appreciated. Please let go of your insecurities--my gratitude is real and obvious, if not explicit. I don't sugar coat--in fact, I don't have time to sugar coat.

So what about Scooby and me? We are just incompatible. Do I ever wonder if I'll meet my match? Often, but I'm not on a treasure hunt. Nor do I care for fool's gold.

Thank you for putting up with my ramble. I despise writing lengthy posts, but I know you were absolutely torn about my not posting for months. (Lucky you!)

Likely to celebrate Single Awareness Day 2011,
Shopgirl.


P.S. If you were wondering, I left my teaching career to learn the art of penile catheterization.

One thing that Nick Nolte and I have in common.

It's been a while since I'd thrown in a post, but I thought that taking a hiatus from deep, meaningful reflection might do my self-confidence some much needed recovery.

Yet at the risk of more embarrassment (which shouldn't really surprise you if you've ready any of my previous Shopgirl posts), I itch to twiddle away at my keyboard once more.

Unemployed since July 2nd and returning to school on August 6th, I've spent ample time with myself, many times trying to find others to spend time... with... myself. (The only thing I actually planned on doing during vacation was sleep, lots.) I forget that most people do not have the summer off and that most people my age have "real jobs" that they must tend to on a M-F basis. (Go figure.) But anyway, the point is that hunting for friends to hang out with can really do a doozy on your self-esteem, especially if your friends (1) live far away, (2) are extremely busy, or (3) just don't like you enough to make time for you.

Humiliation aside, spending time alone is revitalizing--being lonely too much is self-deprecating. A lack in return, whether it's a phone call, email, or text message, is enough to send your imagination flying. Your brain starts to tinker and concocts the worst case scenarios possible--Did they lose my message? Are they hurt? Did they die?! Okay, maybe it's just my brain and my imagination, but you understand the paranoia, or at least a fraction of it.

It never seems to strike me that perhaps the lack in communicative followthrough is unintentional. Because for me, my communicative return is pretty darn speedy and en pointe. I feel like I have an obligation to acknowledge others in a timely fashion, at the very least enable others to acknowledge that I acknowledge them. After all, it's the very least that I would do for them. (The inner Ron Artest in me screams, "Acknowledge me!" Bonus points if you got that.)

Though this may shock you, not everybody anticipates response the way I do. It's been a hard lesson to learn, and I've swung my sharp tongue only too many times at the detriment of really good friends. I've been described as abrasive (agreed), but bless their little hearts for withstanding my steel wool exterior. (Because really, I'm quite squishy on the inside. Teehee!)

I thought a lot about my close relationships--past and present--and why it is that I go into panic mode at the thought of losing communication. I thought about all the friends I'd lost while moving continents, counties, cities, and schools. And then I came to the conclusion that the reason why I'd held my close friends so tightly with so much anxiety was because I was afraid of losing them. I didn't want to lose them like all the other "good friends" who promised to keep in touch but didn't. As a result, I learned mistrust. Years later at twenty-four, mistrust is still something that I'm dealing with. I have a hard time believing what others say and too often force myself to read in between the lines. I might just be illiterate.

We often times put up defense mechanisms to injure others in hopes that we come out unscathed. But the consequences are usually far from what's intended.

If you're wondering if this is about you, it is.

Humble and apologetic,
Shopgirl.

P.S. Nothing screams "apologetic" more than Nick Nolte's mug shot.

Confessions of a commitment-phobe

SLR: You're the reason why good guys turn bad.

Shopgirl: Uh, say wha, say what?

SLR: Girls like you make good guys turn bad.

Shopgirl: I hardly believe that. You exaggerate.

SLR: Think about it. Every guy has his breaking point. He can only take so much of "you're so sweet and thoughtful, but..." and then bam! Friend status. Girls like you always want the bad guy and always shaft the good guy. You don't even give the good guy the time of day. That's when good guys decide to screw it all and forget about being so nice.

Shopgirl: You're generalizing. That's only partially true. And even if it were, I have a perfectly legitimate reason for such sheisty behavior on my part. I'm allergic to commitment.

SLR: That's bull and you know it.

Shopgirl: Sincerely, honestly true. I may have gravitated towards "bad" boys in the past because they kept me from getting bored. Nowadays, I tend to avoid the "good" guys because I'm not ready for commitment or anything that might resemble one. Trust me, I know what a good guy looks like--I just can't get caught up in something I'm not ready for.

SLR: Uh, on your choice of men--you sure about that? Sometimes I question your filter.

Shopgirl: First of all, I'm offended by that. Second of all, yes. I did date an amazing guy for years, remember?

SLR: Then why the lack in selectivity?

Shopgirl: Dating a good guy with good intentions on both ends would mean the possibility of building the foundation for something more.

SLR: And tell me again why that's a bad thing?


It's been about nine months since my ex and I called off our six-year, on-and-off (mostly on, by far) relationship for good. I took a few months to rebound, went into a reclusive dormancy, then emerged from my cave hole, ready to embrace dating etiquette with a fresh perspective. Spring was upon me, flowers abloom and birds in harmonious song.

Nevertheless, sensing even a slight whiff of commitment sends me running in zigzags. And while I can't speak for all commitment-phobes out there, I can offer a bit of enlightenment on why the sweet scent of seriousness turns putrid:

1. Sometimes, you just want to have fun. "Fun," of course, is up for interpretation. This kind of fun is not easily had when attached, 'nuff said.

2. Life constraints make an already hectic life even more difficult. Life constraints could be any of the following--life-consuming work, life-consuming school, an anorexic bank account, or all of the above for a home run in life instability.

 3. Commitment demands more emotional output from an already waning puddle. This has got to be the number one reason why commitment-phobia prevails, even after meeting the "right" significant other at the "right" time (the concept of "right," of course, is relative). Shall we break it down, in lieu of its complexity? (As if you had a choice!)

3a. Emotional immaturity. Lacks in ability to introspect, empathize, and sympathize are all examples of emotional pathology. 

3b. Emotional insecurity. This results from an inability to realize self-worth and may or may not be linked to emotional immaturity. For whatever reason, a commitment-phobe may not feel deserving of a healthy relationship with a fully competent partner.

3c. Self-destructive tendencies. This is a direct result from having emotional insecurity. Let me elaborate: Commitment-phobes, like other human beings, do appreciate the care and company of a genuine partner. However, the disconnect lies in the emotional insecurity. As the saying goes, "If it's too good to be true, it probably is." Such is the mantra of the self-destructive commitment-phobe. Rather than having a good thing taken away, willingly push it away.

Commitment is a scary thing. In fact, it's terrifying. It demands change and compromise, often times in ways that we may not be equipped to handle. Though the right person can withdraw the fear out of commitment, commitment-phobes have been known to remain in stagnant relationships for the sake of companionship.

That said, if you're currently "attached" to a commitment-phobe, I can't speak for why he or she has decided to linger so long. That's a whole 'nother conversation.

Speaking the honest truth on a more serious post,
Shopgirl.

I would make a great assassin!

A few days back, Yogini directed me to take a Myers Briggs personality test on OkCupid. If you’re not familiar with the test, what it does is categorize you into one of four temperaments (Guardian, Idealist, Artisan, Rational) and then one of sixteen personality types (enfp | enfj | entp | entj | estj | esfj | estp | esfp | infp | infj | intp | intj | istj | isfj | istp | isfp). Your personality type, summed up one of the sixteen combinations listed, is a combination of personality quirks like Introverted vs. Extroverted, Sensing vs. iNtuitive, Feeling vs. Thinking, and Perceptive vs. Judging. If my half-assed explanation was not enough and you’re offended by half-assed effort, feel free to peruse the Keirsey Temperament Sorter to get a better breakdown of the temperaments and personality types.

I took the test a total of three times from three different occasions on three different websites, out of speculation for their accuracies. Remember, I’m a scientist and thus especially appreciate experiments when data are reproducible.

I don’t remember where I took the first test or what I even scored, but here’s a sum of my most recent personality quirks:

Keirsey.com would say that as an ENTP, I am a Rational Inventor. Personally, I think that me being pegged as an ENTP is quite accurate. I’m known to be unconventional in many respects and also very supportive of marijuana legalization. The best part about being an ENTP though, is that I would probably make a good dictator, or perhaps an international spy or assassin. If that doesn’t work out, I suppose I can become an ambassador if I’ve not yet been placed under international sanctions by then.

I think I’d much rather be an ENTP than an INTP, the personality type I tested under the second time around. Here’s a summary of the INTP personality, in a nutshell:

As an INTP, I’ve been dubbed a Rational Architect, rather than the ENTP Rational Inventor. Inconsistency is the scientist’s nemesis! I almost wanted to throw my computer against the wall, but my unemotional ENTP/INTP logical nature reminded me that I just finished paying off my MacBook. So ixnay on the throwing of the computer.

I must examine these quirks more closely for thorough comparison. One consistency between ENTPs and INTPs is that both support marijuana legalization. Can’t argue with that. Both personality types still tell me that I am unconventional in thought and actions, though as an INTP I have reclusive loner tendencies and as an ENTP I can be quite entertaining. Quite a conundrum, I am!

Drawbacks of being an INTP—I do resent that I’m regarded as one who does not like happy people. That’s not true—I love happy people. It’s just that extremely happy people tend to be as happy as they are because they are ignorant and haven’t yet developed a ripe sense of cynicism. Again, let me reiterate. I absolutely adore happy people!

As a whole, I’m not sure what to make of these inconsistencies. Am I introverted or extroverted? Attention-seeking or evasive? Well, either way I would still make an excellent assassin. Or maybe I’ll consider becoming a mortician? Can I choose to be one personality type over the other? I think the advent of these test results calls for a career change!

Currently polishing my sniper rifle,

Shopgirl.

Insecurity Walls and Cold Wars

Yogini: You should say something to him.

Shopgirl: Impossible. Saying something would totally undermine my ego.

Yogini: It shouldn't be a power struggle.

Shopgirl: You're right. It shouldn't have to be a power struggle but there always seems to be one anyway.

I glanced at my phone to check for incoming messages. None. I wasn't sure what kind of response I was expecting or if my expectation was in itself a lack of any response altogether. I slid my phone aside and decided it was best to leave and let be. I turned my attention to the panda assembling the drum set on stage:

Drummer for Sanguindrake at Hotel Cafe. Yes, folks. That is indeed a panda.

It's easy to find yourself on the defensive edge of a personal Cold War. Anticipating the next move, having one-up on the opponent, yet never really accomplishing anything? Yeah, that's a cold war. I get caught up in all these stupid little games, which more or less might just be in my head, though my deluded sense of hubris would certainly argue otherwise.

It's the game of cat and mouse that men and women play. Take cat-string theory, for instance. A few years back, a guy friend of mine pointed me over to The Game by Neil Strauss, a geek to chic story of a man's journey to becoming a world-renown pick-up artist, AKA a world-class man-whore. In the novel, Strauss describes cat-string theory:

Listen. Have you ever seen a cat play with a string? Well, when the string is dangling above its head, just out of reach, the cat goes crazy trying to get it. It leaps in the air, dances around, and chases it all over the room. But as soon as you let go of the string and it drops right between the cat's paws, it just looks at the string for a second and then walks away. It's bored. It doesn't want it anymore.

I reconsidered my end of the cat-string theory. Was I the feverish feline on alert for the bait?


Yogini: If you really are friends, there shouldn't be a power struggle.

Shopgirl: I like to think that we are, that we've both moved on from our fling and are perfectly capable of having a platonic relationship, but all this ambiguity makes me feel like he's breaking up with me.

Yogini: That's silly. People don't break up with friends.

Shopgirl: Precisely. Which is why I feel even stupider about this whole thing.

Yogini: Maybe he's not over it yet. Maybe you're not over it.

Shopgirl: Me? Not over it? Yogini, you know me, I'm way too noncommittal in way too many ways to ever consider something remotely meaningful. And you know that I'm moving.

Yogini: Then why do you care so much? You have plenty of friends--why him?

Shopgirl: I don't know. For some reason, I'm drawn to him. He's intense in so many ways that I wouldn't ever anticipate from anyone, but the intensity resonates with me on levels that most people never understand. It's like he sees me for who I am, seeing through the walls I put up to purposely shut people out.

Yogini: Walls, huh? Even me?

Shopgirl: Well of course not. You know what I mean!

Yogini: Ok, just checking. Carry on.

Shopgirl: So I feel like we're on a similar brain wave, which was jolting because I felt like he could see into my insecurities. He read me like a book and asked me to read him in return, but I refused because I completely freaked out.

Yogini: So what do you think about it now?

Shopgirl: In retrospect, him reading into my insecurities is almost comforting. It's as if I don't have to put up any fronts. He knows who I am without me having to explain. That's hard to find in anyone, dating potential or friend.

Yogini: Why don't you tell him that?

Shopgirl: Are you nuts? He'll think I'm psycho.

Yogini: What've you got to lose? And besides, you're supposed to be friends right? You'd be completely honest with me, why not with him?


I reach for my iPhone and swish through the pages. Shall I send my neurotic thoughts via text or Facebook message? I opt for the Facebook message since it was going to be a long one.

A softer, yet bolder me,
Shopgirl.

You must not know 'bout me, though I think Beyonce (and the Ghetto Tooth Fairy) might.

I don't usually blog out of frustration, but it's been brought to my attention that my kindness or love of a jolly good time might be misconstrued for fragility or lack of a backbone.

Don't get it twisted.

In behalf of the Ghetto Tooth Fairy and all the misunderstood out there, please get a life and stop with the egocentrism. Furthermore, what you seem to find so endearing about my sugary nature might actually be my cynicism snickering behind my sweet smile.

It's not that I'm not upfront with what's on my mind or that I'm unreasonable to great extents. I do believe that when entering social contracts with one another, certain obligations ought to be met. Am I the Social Contract Police? No, that's silly (and so is the Ghetto Tooth Fairy!). But do be courteous and do your very best to meet your obligations to one another. And what if you fail to meet these obligations? Well there is nothing wrong with being upfront and honest with the circumstances of the occasion.

I think that eloquence in language and communication as a whole is often misinterpreted as beautiful, flowery, floaty language that functions to sugar coat the matter at hand. On the contrary, the kind of language described is anything but eloquent. Rather, it is deceitful and offensive to the listener or recipient of the message as it assumes a lesser cognitive ability of the recipient. Eloquence in communication is conveyed when the message is delivered in a concise manner, all the while capturing a tone that is subtle yet worthy of empathy as to engage the recipient completely with the moment of that message.

Spewing out thoughts about how we ought to communicate to each other (just sayin'),
Shopgirl.

Gettin' ready to check you off!

Date: So, tell me about yourself.

Shopgirl: Um, that's kinda vague. Care to elaborate?

Date: Ok, tell me about your activities, your interests.

Shopgirl: Haha, are we filling in a questionnaire about me?

Date: Ok, how about your family? Where are you from? You're so exotic.

Shopgirl: I'm from Southern California.

Date: No, where are you from?

Shopgirl: Uh, Orange County?

Date: No, like, where are your ancestors from?

Ok, hold it right there. So maybe I can be a little difficult on first dates, but  after reading that thread, you can't blame me for being cynical.

Don't get me wrong. I get excited and nervous about first dates too. I pay careful attention to how I do my hair and make-up, how much skin I want to show (or cover up), if I want to wear the "cute" or the "sensual" perfume, and even how the height of my high heels might convey a sneak into my sly nature.

Expectations of myself for the night include playing the cute, coy role. I typically don't like to reveal too much about myself on the first date because I'm too busy observing the minute things he does and says so that I might get a better glimpse of his character. Expectations of my date? Very simple. I'd like him to be himself and mindful of personal space.

You might be wondering what's going on my my head as I closely people watch my date. Am I going through a checklist in my mind?

Has a job? Check. Lifetime goals? Check. Is he wearing Ed Hardy? Uh-oh, d-bag alert. Either that or poor fashion sense. I'm putting an exclamation point next to that one.

Yes and no. These thoughts aren't necessarily part of the checklist I govern by. But then again, I don't have much of a standing, firm checklist nowadays.

Not to say that I didn't have checklists before. They're things we all develop, as if to narrow our searches down to the perfect mate. Think Weird Science. You plug in your preferences and out pops the "perfect" man or woman.

These lists, whether or not you admit having them, are dynamic things. They change with age, experience, perhaps status change. Take for instance, my ever-changing picture of the ideal mate:

Elementary School Cutie:
1. Pushes me during recess.
2. Wears awesome LA Lights shoes.
3. Loves tag, handball, and teatherball.

High School Hottie:
1. Has a car.
2. Athleticism of some extent.
3. Knows how to get booze.
4. Good at jumping fences.

College Stud:
1. Smart.
2. Funny.
3. Athletic.
4. Has a real major.
5. Planning to graduate within 4-5 years.

Post-college Preferences:
1. College-educated.
2. Has a job, or better yet a career.
3. If criteria #1 or #2 are not met, must currently be in grad school.
4. Smart, funny, athletic.
5. Loves science.
6. Reads often.
7. Between 5'10" and 6'4" in height.
8. Wears properly-fitting clothing.
9. Wears cardigans.
10. Prefers Apple over Windows.

Current Preferences:
1. Can hold a conversation.
2. Eccentric and artistic.
3. Smart, funny, athleticism is a plus but not necessary.
4. Knows how to shut me up.
5. Likes the outdoors.

I think nowadays, what I tend to look for in an ideal mate are general characteristics rather than specific personality traits and mannerisms. It's easy to think that you know exactly what you want, feeling young, spry, and perfectly capable of achieving ambitions you'd set forth to accomplish.

Out of college, I thought I knew exactly what I wanted (hence, the exhaustive list). When I found men who had met those specific criteria, they were lacking in many more ways that I wasn't willing to compromise--like integrity, honesty, willingness to becoming emotionally capable.

Nowadays? I don't know. I do feel like it's absolutely necessary to find a man that I can respect. Does that mean that this man needs to have a particular degree or job? Not at all. Just don't let me step on you.

An open, more humble me,
Shopgirl.

What we owe each other.

For millennia, mankind has tried to devise all-encompassing schools of ethics in attempts to define what is just and unjust, agreeable and disagreeable, worthy of social praise and worthy of social ostracism. Schools of metaphysical thought were some of the first formal constructs that defined guidelines from which its followers were expected to abide by. Each modeled the creation of the universe and our presence in this world. They discussed our obligations to ourselves and to others, or lack thereof. (One might call some of these social constructs religion.) Written documentation of such guidelines and a growing literacy amongst followers facilitated dispersion worldwide.

Meanwhile and in some cases soon after (and in other cases much later), the buildup of empirical evidence on the known universe and the physical properties of this world led to a revolution that allowed science to take precedence over older (and some would argue obsolete) schools of metaphysical thought. We dropped questions regarding metaphysics and instead directed our focus to the present state of society and how to remedy its shortcomings.

We thought more about what we owed to ourselves, our partners, our friends, our families, our neighbors, our communities, our nations, and to our international counterparts. Suddenly our perceptions of such obligations required stronger cognitive effort to take into consideration things like political correctness, diplomacy, and pre-nups.

The funny thing is that throughout these years of thinking, though we have an idea of what's right and what's wrong, nobody can completely agree on how to make a universal set of morals. Take this cartoon on Utilitarianism, for instance:

What exactly makes people happy? And in the same regard, who are these people, exactly? Do things make us happy because we have arbitrarily associated happiness to such things, or do they have an intrinsic happiness factor inherent within them?

*****

One of my good friends was recently diagnosed with a serious chronic infection. I may be one of the only people that he's told. Nevertheless, I haven't seen him in months. I want to see him, believe me--to comfort him, help him run errands, do silly stupid things with him, just to offer some sort of strength and support--but any form of contact with him always turns into failed attempts.

I told him that I would be open to him when he's ready to talk or just hang out. I can't help but wonder if the reason why he's avoiding me is because facing me would mean having to face his illness. Heck, even I'm having a hard time accepting it all.

I want to be there for him, but it's not easy being there for someone who is too preoccupied with himself that he can no longer show compassion or show appreciation for or towards others (uh, ok, by others I mean me). Needless to say, I can't even imagine what's going on in his mind. As empathetic as I can try to be, I lack the insight because I lack the understanding.

All I can do is remain receptive and go along my merry little way. Though it's hard to be merry with this constantly looming in the back of my mind. How are you? Where are you now? How have you been?!

*****

What do we owe to ourselves and to our friends? Altruistic behavior, in a biological sense, has been documented in several animal species as a means of contributing to the survival of the community at one's own expense. However, all this begs the following questions: How much is too much and how little is too little?

We enter social contracts like friendships, assuming that the relationship exists for the benefit of both parties. Yet, how much benefit is one party getting if the other feels like the unwilling recipient of the two girls one cup smoothies (bonus points if you got that)?

Trying to end on a somewhat positive (though admittedly disgusting) note,

Shopgirl.

Crazy moms bring up sane children.

The picture on the right is a screen shot from The Joy Luck Club (1993), a  movie based on the novel by Amy Tan. The book depicts four Chinese women and their journeys to the US as well as the culture disconnect they experience from their American-born daughters.

I remember seeing this movie when I was in elementary school, thinking, "Oh my God, all Asian moms are crazy. I knew it." I felt a sense of relief--camaraderie even--with all the misguided and culturally frustrated Asian American children growing up with neurotic Asian mothers.

My next encounter with The Joy Luck Club occurred during my senior year of high school when I read the novel for Advanced Placement Literature. I read every word thoroughly, annotating each page with questions and revelations. By the time I finished it, the front cover had fallen off and the binding unglued from excessive bending. Something about reading instead of watching at this older age allowed the plots to resonate much stronger with me. I remember peering over at my mom during reading breaks, wondering about her story to America and the traumatic event she left behind. "There must've been some trauma," I thought, "How else would she have turned out so psychotically strict? Amy Tan knows."

*****

My grandaunt's wake took place last night. After the prayer service were the eulogies from her children. My uncle was last to take the podium, telling a poignant tale of his dynamic relationship with his mother in his quiet, raspy voice. While I can't capture every perfectly stated word or poised pause he conveyed in the eulogy, I'll do my best to share what I can from my memory.

Not too long ago, Michael Jackson, arguably the greatest entertainer of all time, passed away. I remember watching the news and listening to an interview with one of his children. "My dad is the greatest dad in the world," he said. The child must've been around ten or twelve years old. I wondered what that all meant--what exactly is "the greatest dad in the world" and what kind of understanding does a child have about the greatness of his or her parents?

I thought about my own relationship with my parents, my own relationship with my mom. I think that our perceptions of what the "greatest moms in the world" seem to us go through four stages, each marked by a certain age or accomplishment.

In the first stage, we're young children. We think the greatest moms in the world are the kind that don't make you eat your vegetables and allow you to eat candy for breakfast. We think they are the kind that play with us all day long and then have the time and energy to read us stories to bed.

The second stage occurs in the teenage years. We think the greatest moms in the world are the ones who don't nag us about our grades and don't ask us questions about our friends. They don't punish us when we arrive home too late or may not even do much punishing at all.

In the third stage, the greatest moms in the world don't meddle with our business. You see at this stage, we think we know everything. We are already well-educated and working, making our own money. We think we know better than our moms, so we want them to leave us alone and stop bothering us.

The fourth stage is when we are mature adults. I think I'm at this stage. It's at this stage when we realize that the greatest moms in the world don't do what we as their children think they should. They aren't their children's greatest friends. What's difficult about being a great mom is that they have to accept that they may do many things that their children will resent. They tend to sacrifice themselves, including approval from their children, to be the best mom they can.

Thinking back about my mom, I still don't think that she's the greatest mom in the world. I think she's better than that. I don't know if anyone can accurately describe what the greatest mom in the world would be like. What my mother has done for our family and me is beyond anything that I can ever conjure up.

I sat next to my own mother as I listened to this eulogy. I put my arm around her and leaned in closer to her, thinking about all the times we bickered about all the things that could be bickered about.

I hate to say this, but as morose deaths in the family can be, they tend to bring people together. My grandaunt was known to be the backbone of her immediate family, reminding everyone to keep in touch and bringing everyone together with her delicious cooking. In death, she brought together feuding family members as we all reunited for her funeral this morning.

Thinking about you, Lola (grandma in Tagalog),
Shopgirl.

Creatures at Walmart keep me up at night.

The creature above is just one of many depicted at People of Walmart. While I worry why a hospital in-patient is wandering the public isles, I worry more about where the opening of her gown is. God forbid she flash anybody with the goodies underneath.

Though I must say, I cannot say the same for the gentleman below. Apparently, he has decided to leave very little to the imagination.

Maybe I didn't want to know that he had a perfectly tan body, but he sure didn't give us the chance to make this decision, did he? Unfortunately, the sight of his quasi-nude body has led me to ask another question that I know you will all regret--what the heck is holding up his pants?

It's almost 1 AM and I'm online checking out news on Walmart. No, this is not a common occurrence for me. I hate that I'm still on my computer (1) constantly refreshing my Facebook News Feed to see who else is up, (2) checking mindless Internet garbage for mild entertainment, and (3) playing the same soundtrack (Where the Wild Things Are) for the last three hours. (Sorry Karen O, I love ya, but this must soon end.) What's worse is that I've got to be up for work in T-minus four hours, and none of this awake time is being utilized to do anything productive.

Numbing my mind is how I cope with stress. I was never the kind to mourn with strong outbursts of emotion, mainly because I'm not sure I know how to. And then thoughts of sleep present their own problems as they remind me of the awful nightmares I've been having lately. So until I figure this all out, mindless Internet garbage it is!

See y'all at Walmart,
Shopgirl.

You're only artsy if you kill yourself--that's hot.

Late last December, UniqueDaily.com posted up the Top 10 Reclusive Artists. Their list is as follows:

   10. Cormac McCarthy
   9. Terrence Malick
   8. Bill Watterson
   7. Harper Lee
   6. Emily Dickinson
   5. Stanley Kubrick
   4. Syd Barrett
   3. Thomas Pynchon
   2. Greta Garbo
   1. J.D. Salinger


Whether or not you agree with this list is debatable. Personally, I don't consider an artist a true recluse unless he or she commits suicide. There's no better way to pursue seclusion than to disappear from the world entirely, leaving behind all of one's organic remains of course. Unless one requests cremation as to pulverize anything human about the body. But even then, requesting cremation would require contact with the outside world. Not to mention that once cremated, one's ashes have a better chance of being distributed, which would further deter from complete seclusion. Is it possible to annihilate one's remaining matter completely? We've been taught that matter can neither be created nor destroyed. Though I suppose that we can juxtapose such matter with anti-matter to completely destroy oneself + remains, assuming that one has access to it. Does accepting the absurd start to become absurd at any point?

I was recently involved in a fling with one I might describe as a tortured artist. Intelligence, talent, and freedom from normative inhibitions are qualities that often breed attraction and intrigue from those who observe. The departure from norms adds a sort of mystique to such a persona. In short, yes, some musicians are hot by virtue of their artistic capabilities and tortured souls (Note: SOME). No, I'm not a groupie. And no, I don't cry when Dashboard Confessional comes up on my iPod. And yes, I do own Dashboard Confessional music.

I normally try to avoid anything that smells insincere, especially men who try too hard to enamor women with their status, profession, and/or godly physiques. It's just not cute--save it for the bro-hos and dimwits, please.

And yet, something about the tortured, reclusive artist keeps me interested. (No, I'm not insinuating that tortured artists pose insincerity. I'm merely implying that some try pull off the persona for the sake of appearances.) Perhaps it's a puzzle that I feel demands my attention to be solved (as if you can solve a person). I can't help but wonder what's behind those wild, unruly eyes. Give me a hint of crazy and I want more. Maybe I'm a little crazy too and crave something similar, as to provide me with some sort of insight into my own sporadic, misunderstood reclusivity.

Before you jump the gun and assume that this man is just playing me, fine--I'll admit that this is a possibility and hence quite problematic for my ego. Yet, despite popular belief that I'm a radical feminist/man-hater, I do believe that there are some men who offer redeeming qualities, thereby providing some salvation to the rest of their gender.

So what's a girl to do? I'm not worried. I think that the beauty in these kinds of relationships is the ephemerality of it all. It's all so short-lived, that all one can do is enjoy it for its current value. Never mind all the strings attached because there are none.

Freedom lies in letting go of worldly attachments and accepting consciousness as a prize in itself. Yet suddenly, I feel like cutting (ok, terrible joke and total misuse of an otherwise elegant concept--duly noted).

Enjoying the beauty in my day off from work,
Shopgirl.

Law good. Reading bad? Un-interpreting health care reform

I scrolled down the News Feed in my Facebook homepage to search for the link titled:

Two thousand, four hundred and nine pages of health reform bill... in case you're perplexed by the media storm. Enjoy! :D

Why Brad, you just read my mind! (Thank you, by the way, for the link.) Downloading the bill, titled HR3590, was by no means an easy task. I was at work at the time, and I'm pretty sure I overloaded our already sporadic wi-fi network for a good fifteen minutes. Nonetheless, it had to be done. Research awaited!

I read through the cover page. Ok, easy enough. Then suddenly, the next few pages turned into a blur. I skimmed through twenty or so pages of what I can only describe as a massive table of contents. Eager to get to the bulk of the bill, the narrative-stylized text--as I had pictured, I scrolled down in horror as I noted that the bill was written to mimic the lovechild between a Shakespearean sonnet and the Bible.

Undeterred, I plowed through what I assumed was the first paragraph. Ok, one paragraph down. And then I realized I had to go fold my laundry.

I was never much for legal jargon. Scientific jargon, yes. Legal matters? Utterly hopeless.

For the last two years, I've been trying to keep up with all things health care reform, but the fact that they are often presented in context of opinion makes it difficult to allow myself to form my some of my own. Hence, I thought that taking the bill into my own hands for interpretation would ease my confusion. Who needs Congress or the media to tell me how to think? Ok, so I need a Cliff Notes version!

I consider myself sufficiently educated, yet I have difficulty processing massive amounts of legal jargon, especially 2409 pages of it. This problem then begs the following question--How do we enable the masses to access, read, and interpret the law as to empower them to form their own opinions of it? Only then could we confidently fight for what we truly believe in.

Upon Congress passing the health care reform bill just last Sunday, John Boehner (R-OH), the House Minority Leader, said the following:

We have failed to listen to America. This body moves forward against their will. Shame on us.

What exactly do the people want? And even if we knew what the people wanted, are those wants the same things that America demands? There are only a select few who have an understanding of the massive bill in its entirety. Some tend to swing in the direction of their affiliations with a particular political party or religious group. The rest are either confused or too complacent or too apathetic to care. We depend on the government, media, and our institutions to speak in our behalf. Their representation is valued, assuming that they are listening. That said, how do we know that they're listening if we're not talking?

Ever the idealist and still out of answers (despite my replenishing list of questions),

Shopgirl.