Sunday, February 21, 2010

Incompetent voice projection

You know how every so often you have moments of self affirmation? I often have them about aspects of my personality that I have forgotten or perhaps chosen to ignore. For example, sometimes I forget I'm bossy. But, whenever that happens, I'm quickly brought back to reality when I have a tourette's like moments. Such incidents have included other people doing the following (and this is by no means an exhaustive list): continuous pulling apart of Blu-Tac, slow walking, fast walking, cooking in wrong pans, bags on tables and so on.

I have recently started classes at a new type of gym. By 'new type' it's not really a gym, more an establishment that holds a variety of interesting classes. Don't worry, there's a point to this. The point is, I recently had a moment when I remembered I'm not a class participator. So everyone can relate to this, I've prepared a list of non participating examples for various stages of life. Yes, all are from my life except the last. I don't know anyone called Lorraine.

School: never really asked questions. Probably because I wasn't listening and was too busy trying to draw the perfect Superman symbol (see previous posts re. Dean Cain).

Uni: never participated in discussions. Probably because I was in shock (for three years) that after having gone to an all girls high school that the only boys to look at were mature age Trekkies.

Work: only ask questions if I'm in a challenging and perceptive mood. This depends on how much sleep I've had and my corresponding intelligence levels. If other people prolong meetings by asking too many questions, I WILL glare at them.

Retirement: you go to your watercolour class, but you spend limited time asking the teacher how to draw the perfect vase. You roll your eyes at Lorraine who hogs all the teachers time asking banal questions about circles.

So my recent re-realisation is that I have a quiet voice that doesn't project in gym/group like situations. When the instructor asks if everyone's warm, I will answer, but in a voice like the smallest doll in the toy pile, well, that's if dolls could fucking talk. I don't know why, but I can't get loud enough. And this is the one time in my life when I'm quite enthusiastic about something yet I can't muster enough volume to make myself be heard. I remember in another class, our instructor used to make us count down our squats. I was never that person you could hear. He'd even come up to me and I'd do this weak as shit, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 - pathetic. But it's not just in gyms I can't make myself heard. Put me in a loud pub and half an hour into talking, I'll have lost my voice.

After having given it some thought, both medical and philosophical, I think I have half a genetic reason as to why I'm poorly equipped in the vocal department. I remember learning when I was 12 that Asians have small lungs, so knowing me, I got the small lungs as well as the short eyelashes. Oh and slow legs. At least I am good at squatting.

Monday, February 15, 2010

Unnecessary high fiving

Now, let me just start by saying, I like the odd high five. But it should only be done occasionally. Like once every three months and only if something really good has happened. For instance, if you’ve finally mastered juggling or if you’ve been learning how to tie nautical knots and can do a double loop bowline with your eyes closed.

I am exposed to a high fiver. There are many problems with this. The first is she does it too hard. She leaves a stinging sensation on my left hand. She is muscley and doesn’t know her own strength. Secondly, she makes me high five things I don't believe are warranted. I get to work late again on your job? High five. Let's make logo take over the entire page? High five. It gives off the impression we are ‘all on the same page’ but in reality, I'm reading 'What's my poo telling you' and she's half way through 'Eat, Pray, Love'.

Now, I like the girl, so I go along with the slapping, but I really want her to stop it or at least make the slap softer. I guess I could just completely miss her hand one day and then she might feel awkward or sorry for me and NEVER DO IT AGAIN.

Good idea?

Tuesday, February 09, 2010

People who end their emails with an initial

So, like most things in my life, I started off in awe of this new thing I'd learned. It was in my first job and my kind of boss was called Sara. She used to sign off all her emails saying 'thanks, S'. I thought it was so, so clever. So working girl. What was this innovative and quick way of signing off emails? As someone with seven letters to type, I was blown away with this new world that working had opened my eyes to. However, I never thought I could adopt it as a practice of my own. Sure, I was even called 'V' as a nickname so I was pretty much entitled to it, but I couldn't, for I decided it was as uncomfortable fit as me suddenly calling people 'sweetie'.

In my second job, I learned the sign off 'cheers'. Cheers? I'd never heard of it as an email ending. It was so casual, yet friendly. So new age. Fuck 'regards' I thought, 'cheers' is the new way forward and it was, until I realised it was stupid.

So my new life rules are:

I will accept email endings with an initial if you have a first letter that ends in 'ee' so G, B, D etc. However, if you are an S, H, A etc, and use the afore mentioned letters as an ending to your correspondence with me, I will roll my eyes and internally ridicule you. If you choose to ignore my personal and, of course, ridiculous wrath, simply take a long, hard look at yourself in the mirror and then repeat your prohibited initial fifty times.

Monday, February 01, 2010

A conversation with the 14 year old me

The follow imaginary conversation will feature me now (MN) and me then (MT).

(MN): Yo, V dog (you may think this is a classic old person getting into the young person vibe but it's not. I was heavily into R&B from 14-16 and I would have appreciated the lingo from someone as cool as myself at age 28)

(MT): Hey.

(MN): Listen, I just wanted to let you know a few things; you will get a boyfriend one day. Oh and you'll grow into your nose.

(MT): Really? Thanks, you know how much I hate this honker. Will I ever marry Dean Cain?

(MN): Dean Cain will grow into a fat old man with moobs. You will outgrow your obsession in about three years. In another ten years you will be embarrassed when your work colleagues learn of your teenage fantasy and put a picture of him wobbling out of the water on your desk filed under 'celebrity has beens'.

(MT): No way. I'll always love Dean (draws a superman symbol on her homework)

(MN): Whatever, so I'm going to tell you some more insightful things.

(MT): Yeah, like what? What am I going to do for a job? Am I going to be, like, successful? God, by 28. I'm probably going to be married, have a house. Oh my god, maybe have a baby!!

(MN): Erm. The success thing is somewhat debatable. The rest, well, let's just say no to all the above but you will have gone on some amazing holidays and done some really cool things.

(MT): Oooooooh, like what! Hang out with famous people?!

(MN): Umm, no. I can't think of all of them right off the top of my head, oh wait, like live in London?

(MT): London, no way, I want to live in America. I might meet Dean Cain or Jonathon Taylor Thomas. Someone might discover me in a mall.

(MN): Stop fucking talking about Dean Cain and trust me, you'll lose this America obsession. Oh, here's something. People will still be telling you to smile more in 14 years time. How's that for annoying?

(MT): OHMYGOD. I HATE people telling me that. I'm daydreaming, why don't they realise?

(MN): Because people are dumb. Hey listen, I have to go.

(MT): Why, are you going out clubbing or something?

(MN): Err, something like that. Although a more accurate description would be going to bed.

(MT): God you're old. Man, if I was allowed to, I'd go to the R&B clubs EVERY SINGLE NIGHT.

(MN): That's because you don't know any better. Goodbye and please, stop wearing those baggy jeans, you're going to go to France with mum soon and some American girls are going to laugh at you. You'll then leave them in France in embarrassment when you could have saved you some room in your suitcase. Oh and don't let mum buy you that leather hat in Florence because Stephen will tell you you look like you belong in a gay pride march.

(MT): Um, ok thanks. I just wanted to say: