Yet another person who's cooler than me...

Dear Glob,


And he's not even 3 months yet... Gah, I need some street cred and fast!

CURSE-ive Writing

Dear Glob,

Growing up, I perpetuated the “hardworking studious Asian” student stereotype, always the super nerd who excelled at every subject… except for 1 - handwriting. Back in the day when grades only consisted of O’s (Outstanding), A’s (Average) and P’s (Poor), my report card always donned straight “O’s,” with the occasional “A” borderline “P” for Phys Ed.* Then came 3^rd grade along with 2 big writing milestones: 1) We were making the transition from baby-like pencils to grown-up pens (albeit erasable pens) and 2) Learning how to write in cursive. But, of course, there was a stupid little catch – you weren’t allowed the cross over from pencil to pen until you proved your penmanship to the teacher. I always thought handwriting was a joke, needing no real effort or brainpower. Who cared about nicely dotted I’s and crossed T’s when you were leading long division study groups and reading at a 5^th grade level by the age of 8?

In 3^rd grade, afternoons were spent completing assignments from the morning’s lessons. Once we finished and were cleared by our teacher, it was on to the best part of the day, playtime. Naturally, the first kids to finish not only had more free time to run amok, but also had first pick of all the toys, and the coolest of the toys were hands down the big cardboard bricks. Nothing was more satisfying than building a big castle with your friends, hanging out inside while maintaining a strict door policy of who was cool enough to gain admittance, and, best of all, violently knocking it down at the sound of the dismissal bell. I held a scared truce with the other 2 smart kids in the class: whomever finished first would claim the blocks and always allow the others in our fellowship of 3 to partake in the exclusive rebuilding and demolition of the cardboard brick castle. This cycle was flawless… until one fateful day when the cursive writing handbooks were distributed.

I remember this day vividly. After our teacher showed us how to execute the flow-y forms of a capital and lower case “Aa,” we were assigned to complete the first section of our new workbooks before our afternoon playtime. This was easy chump work I thought as I quickly and carelessly traced and wrote lines of cursive “Aa’s.” I triumphantly finished well before all of my classmates and happily skipped over to my teacher, expecting another gold star for my excellent work. But to my utter dismay, my teacher abruptly returned my workbook, sans gold star, and began to reprimand me for my sloppy handwriting. Surprised by her reaction, I dejectedly sat at my desk trying to make my “Aa’s” a little rounder and even. After one row of painfully slowly executed cursive “Aa’s,” I decided that was enough to clear me for playtime, but was once again ushered back to my desk. How unfair and unreasonable my teaching was acting! I coached other kids through remainders, read quietly and competently when my teacher struggled with other reading groups and here I was being punished for not caring about something as stupid and useless as cursive writing. Freakin' waste of my time! This attitude stubbornly stuck with me through “Bb” and “Cc,” and I gladly gave up half of playtime refusing to try harder in protest against the faux importance of cursive writing.

B is for BORING... and, not so coincidentally, Boston

It wasn’t until “Dd” did my teacher up the ante. After this particular lesson she circled the classroom handing out blue pens to students she deemed had perfect penmanship. Although I was still scrawling away in chicken scratch, I was shocked when I was not awarded a coveted blue pen. What was happening here? Wasn’t I in the fellowship of 3, who were always “O”utstanding? As I watched the lucky few write their “Dd’s” in blazing blue script, I decided now was the time to sell out and conform to cursive writing society. Easier said then done - For the first time in my life something school related did not come easy for me. Even if I concentrated extremely hard on forming each letter, I could not rise myself up to the elusive pen level. I was sick of having to sharpen my pencils as everyone else whizzed along with their never dull pens. My dull grey lettered work looked inferior to others penned beautiful sapphire blue ink. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, then came the moment of truth – Report cards. Marring my wonderful streak of “O’s” was a red “A” blazing next to Handwriting. All my drive and ambitions flew out the window and I slowly began to deteriorate in all my subjects. My teacher was alarmed by my sudden academic decline and called me to her desk in order to determine the source of my undoing. Like a rushing flood, I lamented all my handwriting woes and despite my best effort was still stuck writing in boring old pencil. My teacher looked at me and reflected on my plight, and to my great surprise, she decided to take a gamble and promoted me to ink. I carried my precious new pen back to my desk and, lo and behold, beautiful lines of perfect cursive script flowed effortlessly onto the paper. When I finished my assignment, I brought it up to my teacher, who was floored by the progress I had made after a simple switch from pencil to pen. Inspired by my change of heart, the next day she promoted everyone else still struggling in pencil to pen and finally leveled the playing field. Although I enjoyed a brief season of lovely penmanship, the novelty soon wore off and I reverted back to the messy combination of print/script I use today.

Now basking in the age of technology and, more significantly in term of this particular post, word processing, I wonder if they still push penmanship in elementary school. Reflecting back to the days of pens, cursive writing and scarlet letters, I scoff at everyone who has ever dissed my handwriting. Provided you are not a teacher, who still has to write on blackboards for the benefit of their students, when was the last time in your adult life you had to write more than 2 sentences for someone else to read? Yeah, I thought so…

*Yes, I also fall into the girl wuss stereotype that stands in the back corner during dodgeball.

My Dad is so cool!

Dear Glob,

I wish I had cool pictures like this of when I was a "rebellious young teenager."

Too bad the majority of my adolesence was spent with weirdly splotched bleach blond hair, braces and green/ox blood Doc Martins... Sigh, will I ever be cool?

I'm a Big Kid now!

Dear Glob,

Finally… the relocation has begun.

Since Monday, 2/12/2006, my state of mind has moved to Brooklyn, more specifically Prospect Heights. Oh loyal readership, words cannot the happiness I feel – and believe me, that’s not the only lame excuse for not posting new glob entries. Other than my lack of connection to the super information highway, I am slowly trying to reinsert myself back into civilization by meeting up with everyone and their moms located within the MTA system. No, I am not that popular (far from it!), but amazingly enough I have something to do almost every night next week! Not to completely dismiss the last couple of wonderful months with my former Roommates, but it’s damn good to be back!

My apartment is super fabulous! Being the small little girl I am, the space is almost intimidating (not to rub it in… kinda). SAP, D dot and Kristofferson, all knowing my sparse-lifestyle tendencies, joked on my first night that I’d probably never fully furnish my new abode and it would remain an echoing barren wasteland. Contemplating on what I could do fill the space, we came up with the following options: 1) Fill up the entire living room with plastic balls* and make it a ball pit obstacle course or, 2) Adopt 50 or so cats and become the crazy Cat lady with litter boxes strewn in every corner. Although I moved in some odds and ends today, we’ll see which direction my apartment evolves… Maybe the loneliness of living alone will eventually drive me to the nearest ASPCA, but as of now, it is pure bliss. I’m usually the biggest scardy-cat, who can’t even go into my sister’s old downstairs room for fear of Yoda living in her closet… So you can see why I had hesitations moving in by myself. When he heard that I was living alone, Younger Brother told me he would go nuts without another human presence. The Whale overheard our conversation and said that as you get older, you start to crave the alone-ness, and, subsequently, a good marker of whether not you should marry someone is if you don’t mind them invading your space for more than a couple of days. After a week of living in my apartment, I still can’t wipe this silly grin off my face I’m so gosh darn happy. Case in point: On Wednesday, I woke up from sleeping on my deflated air mattress (the pump was broken) to a snowy winter wonderland. Not having to shovel or worry about my morning commute, my green wellies easily trudged through the snow to the subway. When I got into work, people had roses or candy on their desks, sent to them from loved ones in celebration of Valentine’s Day. I am an ardent hater of everything winter and am usually bitter about my seemingly perpetual state of singledom. I should have been ready to throw grenades attached to boomerangs, but instead felt nothing but sweet sweet euphoria… So good. So good. Baby, its so good.

Again, writing is hard when all you want to do is cartwheel and proclaim how good everything is to anyone who will listen. Its kind of like how Alanis Morriset had a hit record when she wrote angry "You outta know" songs, but was soon revealed to be the chump she really is when she started singing happy tunes. So pardon this high peak in my biorythm, and give me a couple more weeks to settle down. I’m sure I’ll be back to my usual campy writing voice soon. But as of now… HUZZAH HUZZAH!

*BTW: If anyone finds themselves at a McDonalds with a play place, think of you buddy, Chewie, and grab a bucketful for my apartment.