Saturday, October 22, 2005


My family's here for the weekend. Five suburban housewives all crammed into a studio-sized apartment. "It's so small!" "I can't find my pajamas!" "I'm too big for this stool!" Wah, wah, wah. Anyway, this morning, I told my dad about my lackluster dating track record, describing each of my rejected paramours in exaggerated detail. He doled out some of his usual wisdom in return, like this gem:

"You're asking me why there aren't more stable men in university? From what I see, you're not all that stable yourself."


Today's second entry will be a lesson in female linguistics. The given example was taken from a casual encounter with casual acquaintances during a casual excursion into the Lord's house (i.e. school library):

F1: "Lily! Down here!"

Lily: "Hey, you two! This is, what, the third time we've bumped into each other this week? I think I'm being stalked, heh heh.
(Translation: This is, what, the third time we've bummped into each other? I don't want to look like a stalker.)

F2: "You have so many shoes! Everytime I see you, you're wearing a different pair!"
(Translation: You have so many shoes. I hate you.)

F1: "That's what Lily's known for!"
(Translation: That's all she'll be known for.)

Lily: "44 pairs. I mean, you know what they say: Buy shoes, fill a void, right?"
(Translation: Okay, so we've established that I'm a bimbo.)

F1: "Why don't you fill that void with food? Hahaha ...."
(Translation: You also skinny. I hate you.)

F2: "Hahaha ..."
(Translation: I second that.)

Lily: "Hahaha ..."
(Translation: I don't get it.)

con't: "... Well, I do that too, but I've got that darn Asian gene."
(Translation: Booyah, skinny-nicotine-bitches!)

I think this is why we overanalyze what men say. Maneuvering through womanese is a daily battle. It's an all-inclusive struggle fought on dangerous terrain between you and an army of lipsticked guerillas. You try shaking away paranoia after getting shot at from all sides by unassuming belles armed with mascara wands and the latest issue of Cosmo (that evil book of prissy prose). It's hard work. So you can't blame us for our habit of dissection -- it simply means we don't trust you enough to stop.

No comments: