Making the first move.

When I was younger, I was a hopeless romantic.  I felt that men should be gentlemanly, women should be modest and ladylike, and that men should always, always be the one to make the first move when it comes to relationships.

Years later, I’m less of the hopeless romantic.  My personality became a lot stronger throughout the end of high school and through university, and because of that my opinions on gender roles changed quite a bit.  My perspective gradually shifted from the archaic gender stereotypes to a more utilitarian stance – that people should do what, through reason and logic, results in the most benefit, regardless of what is or isn’t traditionally considered “appropriate” for their sex.  In my opinion, this is a valid viewpoint throughout many aspects of life, including the romantic.

In spite of all this, I still require my partner to make the first move.

Let me add a disclaimer that I do not believe this because of hopeless romanticism or other hogwash.  Nor do I believe that it is valid in all cases; women should not be afraid to ask a guy out if they so feel.  The reason that this is the case for myself is because of that personality I mentioned earlier.  I am an assertive individual and tend to break stereotypes, and am completely unabashed about who I am.  I am far from soft-spoken and will take initiative to do what is required even if no one else has stepped up to the plate.

Because of this, I can be intimidating as a romantic prospect to men, and in many cases this is completely justified.  I’m too much woman for most guys to handle, and when I enter into relationships, if the guy does not have enough backbone, I end up feeling more like their mother than a partner.  This is why, in my case, I want the guy to be able to make the first move.  I need my partner to show me that he has the backbone to be a on equal grounds with me, will be able to metaphorically look me in the eye, and isn’t so intimidated by my personality that he won’t have the confidence to take the risk and go for it.

Otherwise, forget it.  I don’t need to lead someone spineless by the hand into a mother/son-like relationship.

A Gen(d)eration Gap

Normally I hesitate to post “debates” that I’ve had with my mother, as I like using logic and reason, which offends her sensibilities to the point where she turns her side of the debate into personal attacks about how I used to wet myself when I was 7.

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Anyways, a few days ago my dad was invited to his female friend’s 60th birthday party, organised by her friend.  My mom wasn’t invited as the birthday girl was my dad’s friend and not a mutual friend.  The plan was to invite 60 of the birthday girl’s closest friends for her 60th birthday to go have drinks at a pub.

Me: “That sounds like a pretty cool idea!”

Mom: “That is so rude!  How can someone invite someone’s husband and not their wife??“

As someone who has been considered “one of the guys” most of her life, I was rather confused by this.  I’ve often hung out with my non-single guy friends in groups, without their girlfriends there.  I’ve never heard, either directly or through the grapevine, of any of these girlfriends getting jealous because their boyfriends wanted some non-attached hangout time.  I brought this up with my mom.

Me: “I’ve never had a problem from any of my guy friends’ girlfriends when we’ve hung out.  I don’t normally invite them because they’re not my friends.”

Mom: “Well you should, it’s rude otherwise!”

Me: “What about when guys just want to have a guys’ night out?”

Mom: “That’s different.”

I got the gist that because I am a girl, it changes the entire dynamic of having a guys’ night out, and therefore I should always invite the girlfriends of people I hang out with, regardless of whether I know them or not.  I just chalked this up to my mom being nuts, but then the subject got brought up again a few nights later at my mom’s friend’s party.  It was the same night as my dad’s friend’s 60th birthday party, so my dad was there making an appearance and hadn’t yet arrived at my mom’s friend’s party.

Mom: “…I can’t believe she invited someone’s husband but not the wife!”

Mom’s friend: “Yeah, that seems awfully rude to me.  And kind of strange.”

Me: “I don’t see anything weird about it.”

Mom’s friend: *quizzical look* “Really?”

Me: “It might have something to do with me being ‘one of the guys.’”

Mom’s friend: “Oh yeah.  You always were the tomboy.”

The conversation went somewhere else after that, but it got me thinking about the changes in what is culturally appropriate between one gender and the next.  I saw nothing unusual about someone getting invited to something without their girlfriend/wife, and I doubt anyone else in my friend circle would either.  Usually when I invite a friend to something and I don’t know their girlfriend, that person might ask, “Hey, is it okay if I bring my girlfriend along?”  And I almost always say “Yes.”

My version of being polite when hosting something versus my mom’s is that instead of assuming I should have invited the girlfriend anyway, I acquiesce when someone asks to bring their significant other.  Of course, if I know the girlfriend is the suspicious type, I’ll take that into account and invite both her and her boyfriend.  But I assess the dynamic rather than just inviting everyone.  I would think that would just create far too much awkwardness when a bunch of people who don’t know each other are shoved into an event with each other.  They can’t converse easily and their boyfriends, instead of having a good time chilling with each other, end up having to try and entertain the awkward crowd of girls.

I suppose that one generation prior, wives and husbands were expected to be part of the same packaged deal, and if you invited one without the other it was considered an insult.  Perhaps it is a result of this generation being more individualistic in comparison with the last.  Or even a cultural thing with my mom being raised in Hong Kong while I was raised in Canada.

I think, however, that it has to do with the progression of gender roles and equality in one generation compared to the next.

Thoughts?

There’s vodka in my apple juice.

I’M BACK.

F*ck yesss…

I’m back in Vancouver after my second-last semester as an undergrad at the University of Guelph.  Staying in Vancouver for Christmas.

AND I’M SINGLE.

Yes, for the first time in years I have been single for more than a few weeks and I am planning on keeping it that way.  I’ve learned a lot about myself and friends in the two months I’ve been unattached, and it’s been FANTASTIC!

Not that life hasn’t been without drama.  I hung out with an old friend of mine today, whom I’ve never really been able to completely get over, but being single for a while has definitely helped me not be a complete idiot around him.  We actually had decent conversation without me tripping over my words!  Success!

Also, I like someone again that I shouldn’t like.  Alas, c’est la vie.  The circumstances are not right and I want to be single for a while longer.

THAT IS ALL FOR NOW.

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Of Black Macaws and Creeping Things…

Close to waking, I experienced a rather strange dream – strange not in its content but in the way it was perceived.

The earthy path curved gently through the evergreens.  The sunlight pressed gently against my neck and shoulders and I breathed in the dwindling scent of the city I was leaving behind.

“Hallo there!”  A reedy, adolescent voice broke the peaceful silence, and I looked up to see a frantic-looking boy, dressed in  the red uniform of a telegram messenger boy.  His countenance was disheartening; distress lit his eyes and his shoulders drooped.  Clasped in one gloved hand was a letter in brown parchment, and in the other, a large, ornate birdcage.  It was empty, its door ajar and swinging weakly with the boy’s trembling.

“Miss,” he said in shaky Cockney as I drew nearer. “I’ve lost a parrot I was s’posed to deliver.  It’s all black with feathers tipped in colour.  Have you seen it?”

I acknowledged that I had not, but decided to help him look.  To find a black bird amongst dark green foliage mottled with shadow seemed futile, but after a time I found it roosting in the top of a tall tree, its rainbow-tipped plumage exotic amongst the leaves.  Hoisting my skirts, I displayed dreadfully unladylike behaviour and climbed to reach it, the messenger boy close behind.  Eventually I reached it, and as it swung about to defend itself against the messenger boy with its large beak, I grabbed it by both ankles and slowly climbed down the tree as it flapped wildly against me.

The boy looked relieved as he snapped the cage door firmly shut with the black parrot inside, and thanked me.  As we were heading down the same winding path, I accompanied him until we reached the next city.

That’s when things got a little weird.

We reached the city, a modern metropolis.  At some point it was discovered that the delivery boy didn’t need to bring the parrot anywhere, and we brought it to some kind of menagerie, which contained many parrots of the rare, black variety.  The boy went on his merry way, and I, now somewhat attached to the feathered creature, visited it every once in a while.

This is when I realized I was dreaming.  And now I desperately wanted to wake up, but couldn’t.  I was stuck in a dream.  And it was alarming.  I tried to will myself awake but couldn’t – I kept opening my eyes to the same dreamscape.  Eventually I remembered learning about hypnic jerks – the feeling of falling in a dream that wakes you up.  So I let myself fall forward.  Once, then twice, before I woke up.

Except that I woke up in the body of a man, a trucker-looking type, with a woman at my side.  I couldn’t see, and realized that I was still dreaming.  I let myself fall again, and that’s when I actually woke up, in my room in Guelph.

It kind of triggered something in my brain, and while the idea of being trapped within a dream was rather disconcerting, I just feel happier than I have felt in a while.  Strange.

Sheer Failure: I haven’t LOL’d so hard in a while…

So the Conservatives have blundered a lot when it comes to trying to get the votes of University students.  Stephen Harper’s statement that students don’t vote raised some ire and has resulted in marches like the one we had in Guelph recently, where students dressed up with giant signs stating, “WE WILL VOTE!”  Several times in the past few weeks students have been kicked out of Tory rallies for no good reason (i.e. one had a Facebook picture where they were standing beside Ignatieff, one had NDP stickers on their car, one was dressed in Canadian colours and assumed to be a Liberal protester…).

So here is some laughter-inducing literature for those of you who read my blog.  This is the Conservatives’ idea of reaching out to younger voters…and utterly failing at it.

I have a deep voice.

I have a low voice.

I’ve always been a little sensitive about this fact.  For a lass, my voice has a very deep timbre, and I’ve been mistaken for my dad’s son on the phone rather than his daughter.  My friend’s mom exclaimed, “Her voice is so low!!” behind my back to my friend.  I’ve been told by ex-boyfriends that their friends think I have gender confusion issues.  And it doesn’t help that I have guy-ish mannerisms at times due to being a tomboy for the majority of my life.

Over the years, I’ve come to accept that I have a peculiar voice, and most people by my age are tactful enough to not say anything if they think I speak kind of funny.

Last night I grabbed a cab home from the nearby grocery store because I was feeling faint.  On the way, my cab driver just kinda turned to me and said, “You have a very deep voice!”

I just kind of sat there because I honestly couldn’t think of any way to respond to that kind of statement.  She quickly retracted her statement by saying, “No no no no, I meant sultry!! Your voice is nice!!”

Major, major derpface.

Things That Annoy Me: Cooking Edition

I was raised in a family in which both parents were brought up with reasonably strict British household etiquette.  As such, there are certain things that people do that they wouldn’t give a second thought, but that make me cringe when I see.

One of those things is etiquette when someone is making a meal for you.  Not as in “cooking together” but when someone’s specifically preparing something for you.  The way I was brought up is that if someone’s cooking for you, you are essentially their guest (even if you live in the same household).  You can ask if they need help with anything and be a gracious guest,  but unless it’s agreed that you’re cooking together, you don’t touch their cooking unless asked.

There is reasoning behind this.  If the guest starts poking around with the food (i.e. checking on it while it’s being made), it’s as though the guest is assuming their host doesn’t know what they’re doing in the kitchen.  Which is a bit insulting to the chef (not to mention rude that the guest is poking at food other guests are likely going to eat).

Why I bring this up is because of a scenario that arose this morning.  MrAsianMan’s parents were over at our place, so we’d put together a hotpot dinner the night before, shared between MrAsianMan, his parents, a housemate we’ll call Hello Kitty, and myself.  After dinner, we’d agreed that the next morning I’d make pancakes for everyone.  In my house, I make pancakes pretty much every other weekend, and everyone in the household knows this.

So, this morning I woke up fairly early (9am on a weekend is early for me ) and started prepping.  Everything was going well and I had a few pancakes already made and in the oven, and was cooking up some more.  As I was waiting for the next batch to come out of the pan, I had my Nintendo DS out and was playing a bit of Pokémon to pass the time.  MrAsianMan and I were standing around right beside the stove.  Hello Kitty came downstairs and started checking out and asking what we were doing, which was fine – I’m not exactly the type of person who will guard recipes and eye people suspiciously if they ask how to make something.

Then she grabbed my spatula from off the counter, and with a “Oh, don’t mind me,” she started checking underneath the pancakes to see if they were cooked.  It was one of those moments where I kind of cocked an eyebrow but didn’t say anything; maybe she just wanted to see how much to let pancakes brown, for future reference.

Then she started chattering away and being like, “Oh, they were smoking and I saw you were playing Pokémon, so I thought I should probably check.”  At that point I was definitely taken aback.  Not only was she messing with my cooking, but she basically explicitly stated her assumption that I was so engrossed in my game (I was just setting the time on my DS) that I was letting the pancakes burn when I was standing right beside them.  I pretty much had to bite my tongue to stop from saying, “…it’s steam.  Things tend to steam when you cook them and they get hot.”  If anything the pancakes were still slightly underdone.

Maybe it’s just the way I was brought up, but I was definitely a little annoyed.  I take great pride in my cooking, alongside MrAsianMan, I can whip up something fairly delicious out of random odds and ends in my fridge.  Whereas Hello Kitty goes pretty much straight off recipe cards, at least in every meal I’ve seen her make so far.  I’m not saying that she’s “beneath me” in cooking level or anything, but unless she has a relationship with me that MrAsianMan and I share (living together for 3 years and experimenting together with food), or unless I’m genuinely about to burn down the kitchen, she really shouldn’t have interfered.

I remember reading an FMyLife anecdote related to this.  It read, “Today, my boyfriend was cooking me dinner. He walked away and I decided to help by giving the pan of veggies a sautee flip. My boyfriend failed to mention that he had just pulled that pan out of a 500 degree oven. FML” and was a blatant effort to garner sympathy from those who chose to comment.  Luckily most of the commenters had common sense, with my favourite comments being, “Well, of course he failed to mention it, you weren’t supposed to touch it!” and a sarcastic retort of “Today, I decided to be sweet and cook my girlfriend dinner. I took the pan out of the oven, placed it on the stove, and went to grab something. My girlfriend grabbed the hot handle, burned her hand, dropped the food all over the oven and floor, and blamed it on me. FML.”

So yeah.  Cooking interference annoys me.

Most awkward fail ever…

Poor guy.  Poor girl.  Poor everyone involved in this situation.

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