Waiting... and waiting... and waiting...

So, I was standing in line at the Bank (after pay day, obviously) and I noticed that the line was basically shaped like an 'M'. I stood there patiently waiting for my turn for at least 45 minutes, and finally when it was my turn, the teller put up a 'closed' sign and just before she left, she asked me to move to the next line. To cut the long story short, I finally made my transaction after being at the (stupid) bank for around 1 hour and 20 minutes. Time wasted here: 1 hour and 5 minutes.

When I got back to my car, I had to wait for the gate to exit the parking lot to open, which took forever because for some reason, the gate was stuck. Time wasted here: 10 minutes.

As I got out of the lot, I entered a traffic jam that prolonged by journey to the office by about half an hour, causing me to be a total of 3 hours late to get to the office, while I had only asked permission to leave the office for an hour to get all the bank stuff settled. Time wasted here: 30 minutes.

This - all the agonizing waiting - is not the end of my story, my friends. At around 3pm, I was supposed to have a meeting with this agency, and while I managed (for once) to not be late and arrive at the venue at exactly 3pm, the agency was late because they had a flat tire on the way to meet me, so I had to wait for around 40 minutes until they finally showed up. Then, as they were going to present their concept to me, they had a problem with their laptop, so again, I had to wait. Time wasted here: 50 minutes.

On the way back to the office, traffic was fantastic and I was so happy to be able to arrive back before 6. I rushed to clear a few emails and left by just before 7, and... was greeted by none other than an evening rush of traffic. Home, which is essentially 20 minutes from the office, became 45 minutes away. Time wasted here: 25 minutes.

Dinner was OK, but then after dinner and after playtime with the kids, I wanted to log on to my computer to check Twitter and reply some personal emails and all of a sudden the wi-fi was off. I called the internet provider and got the automatic answering machine, and was told to... wait for it... WAIT! Imagine that... I waited for what seemed like ages, and finally a man answered and said I would have to wait while the technician checked. Internet was back on at around 11pm - which was about half an hour after I called. Time wasted here: 20 minutes.

Look, I know that patience is supposedly a virtue. But see, I wasted a total of 3 hours and 15 minutes that day, just waiting around aimlessly, when I could have been doing so many other things more useful in my life.

In 3 hours and 15 minutes, I could have read a book with my kids and played with them, I could have written another 1,000 to 2,000 words for my novel, I could have replied 100 emails at the office, I could have proof read at least 10 articles for the magazine I work for, I could have watched an entire movie, and I could have even watched 9 episodes of my favorite sitcom! Oh, my fave sitcom these days is How I Met Your Mother, by the way.

I just don't get it. On a daily basis, we waste so much precious time that we never get back, and at the end of the day, what do we get out of it? Nothing more than what we initially needed anyway. And I think about all the times I wished there were more than 24 hours in a day... I mean, if we saved all the time wasting, we'd have those extra hours we need, don't you think?

Maybe it's just me, because I'm pissed at all these people who have made me wait. But tell me, is it so wrong to want things to run smoothly, glitch-less and hiccup-less so we can all move along faster in life?

To be or not to be...skinny...

I have never been one to be faithful to sport, exercise or any kind of movement whatsoever. Well, besides running around after my kids, but I don't think that counts. Or does it? Oh, and let's not forget walking around shopping centers in super high heels. Yep, that should definitely count as exercise. Anyway, in order to get rid of the 10 or so pounds left of flab I still had on my body post maternity (second baby, Mikaela Natascha born Feb 08), I joined a fitness club near my office so I could go and work out before going to work. At that point in time, I had a new found respect for waking up at 5am to rush to the gym and have a full two hour work out before work. Awesome, right? Are you feeling the urge to applaud? OK, now, hands down please. It only lasted three months... :) *cheeks blushing in embarrassment*

Anyway, from day one of starting the whole gym thing, I noticed one thing. More women were members of this gym than men. I had this idea in my head that men would dominate the fitness world, with them hovering over the bench lifting weights and trying to have six packs or eight packs or chocolate bar abs, or whatever they call it now. Oddly enough however, I only found 4 men working out that morning, while 19 women (excluding me) were buzzing around the gym. And if you think they were sitting together gossiping or chit chatting, you are so wrong. None of them even spoke a word to each other, and were dead seriously working out. Except for me, naturally, I was too busy observing.

From day two onwards to day 45, I still saw the same women every single time. What amazed me was, I only worked out twice a week - and that was already enough to cause aches and pains all over my obviously untrained body - but these women worked out every day, seven days a week! Not a single day off unless truly sick, the kind of sick that would keep them strapped to their beds. I couldn’t understand this for the life of me.
Curiously, I started asking them while in the locker room after the sauna and showers. Woman A said, “I have to, if I don’t work out, my legs start getting all flabby and my husband gets completely turned off!” while woman B said, “I didn’t used to work out every day, but my wedding day is in 67 days so I have to make sure I fit into my dress properly. I purposely made it 2 sizes smaller”. Ok then!

Woman C had a completely different reason, “ I have a health condition, so I have to make sure I exercise at least 45 minutes a day, but light exercise” similar to woman D who was only walking on the treadmill everyday for 35 minutes because that is what she did at physical therapy anyway, and felt it was cheaper to join a gym. But woman E through to woman S all had one thing in common with woman A and B: they felt the need to be slim.

Why is it such a prerequisite these days that in order to be looked at, to be liked, to be attracted to and to feel good about yourself, there is a need to look into the mirror and be able to recognize and say, “I am slim” or even some to the extreme of “I am skinny”? Who says you look better when you're slim?

OK, maybe it's because I am not exactly skinny either that I feel so strongly about this. But I never understood it - and believe me, I am one of those people who insists that I need to be slim. That's why my recent posts on Twitter and Facebook have been all about the guilt in eating what I want in the portion that I want , and the guilt is has grown more and more ridiculous by the day.

I recently posted a question, asking if it was better to eat less and feel hungry and pissed all day, or to eat more and feel guilty all day. Almost everyone answered "eat more" seemingly to say that they didn't care about looks and simply wanted to be happy, but I know for a fact that those people who answered also look into their mirrors every single day and wished they were model-like skinny.

In Sunday School, we were taught to love ourselves no matter who we were, in whatever shape, size, color we came in, because we were created unique and special - yet we hate being different anyway. Our parents have taught us that beauty lies in the inside, i.e brains, heart, passion, love and not looks - yet everyday we fear going to school because the skinny and popular girls at school would pick on us for being a bit heavy. Articles in magazines and newspapers talk about real women, real curves, being proud of your body - yet we turn to the other page, see a model in a bikini and feel bad about ourselves. Celebrities have blogged about loving their so-called cellulite and curves, and say it's OK to be size 2, 4, 6, 8 - whatever. But then they too, turn around and go the skinny route, flashing their bones on the red carpet.

Folks, I have a dream. I dream that one day, we'll all be truly happy with who we are. I dream that the world would not judge us for being larger than a size 0, and that people would really see past everything physical and love us for who we are inside. I dream that we can all accept and just be grateful of what we look like... Flesh, fat, cellulite and all, and happily eating carbs even though we know our jeans size may go up afterwards - because the size won't matter.
Who's with me?!

Parent Pressure

I spent about an hour and a half on the phone with a friend recently. It was one of many conversations we've had in the past few years that we've been friends, and every time, our conversations boiled down to the same thing: we were complaining about our parents.

This time, the story was: her Dad sent a text giving his 'opinion'. Then, Mom sent a text asking if a decision had been made, and of course, then slipping in a line or two about what she thought needed to be done. Then Dad. Then Mom. Then Dad. Then Mom. Then Dad. Then she just got tired and turned off her phone for a few hours... ;) - which all sounded freakishly familiar.

During my entire childhood and teenage years, I heard people (mostly my parents) talk about peer pressure, how not to succumb to the influences of our peers: to be who I wanted to be, do what I wanted to do, not to give in just because our peers tell us we would be uncool not to follow them.

As a grown up now, I have one question: why didn't anyone warn us about parent pressure?

Parents - or rather mine and my friend's - can be just as bad as peers. In fact, I think to some degree they are worse. Not only do they try and influence the decisions we make involving our marriage, how to raise our kids, what to feed our family at the dinner table and which insurance company to use, but they actually try and guilt us in the process!

The classic line I hear all the time is "we're not getting any younger" and "who knows how many years I have left" - all the while, they are still healthy as a horse and take handfuls of vitamins daily. Goodness gracious! They use these kind of lines and I am the one they call a drama queen?

The worst part of parent pressure is that as a wife, I sometimes have to be in the middle between what they think, what they want me to do, and what my husband wants me to do - and believe me, they couldn't be more different! My parents want this, my husband wants that, and no one seems to care even a tiny bit about what I want. It doesn't matter, evidently.

So, what's a girl to do? Me, well I just close my eyes and ears, and just do what I want. What I think is right. Same goes for my friend, who has chosen to unplug her land line and turn off her cell phone for the past few hours, and has been talking to me on Yahoo Messenger instead.

One way or another, parents are just going to have to face the facts: we're all grown up now. Yes, we appreciate inputs, suggestions and feedback, but NO, we don't have to agree with everything you say. You may have our best interest at heart, but we have to be able to make our own decisions otherwise we'll never be who we really are. If you think adolescent peer pressure is so bad, well then, parent pressure ranks high up in the list too.

C'mon, guys, let us grow up. We can't be your little kids forever.

F.E.A.R.

So - I was up to chapter 7 of a new novel I was working on. I was excited about it and had tons of pages in my head ready to be poured out onto my trusted computer. I had stacks of little post-its that I used to jot down ideas before I forgot them. I mean, come on, let's be real here, my memory hasn't been all that trustworthy lately. I was really in to it, you know, worked up and totally stoked to be writing another novel.

And then... it came. Rejection letter number 3 for the first novel I wrote and sent out.

I know I have written about rejection before, and people may already be sick of this. But now, it's not just about dealing with the rejection. Now it's also about what happens after that.

Getting rejected is hard. To quote Seinfeld - yada yada yada. I'm not even going to go through how I feel about getting rejected again. What I'm dealing with now is basically trauma.

See, the thing is, I have now completely stopped writing the 2nd novel, for fear that it will just get rejected again, and that there would be absolutely no bloody point in finishing it! In my head, I hear those 'voices' tell me that I would be wasting my time finishing it, so I just sort of shut it off. Completely off. I can't even think of anything to write about if I had a gun pointed to my head now! How terrible is that?

Everything boils down to one thing. FEAR. It ain't pretty, people.
It keeps you from doing the things you want to do. It keeps you from going out on a limb, giving it your all, and just doing it. It keeps you heart guarded - I'll give it that - but is that really the way to live?

My husband kept feeding me with stories on how JKF Jr failed the Bar exam like a million times before finally passing, and how someone he knew applied to his desired college like five times before finally getting accepted. I registered everything in my head, but FEAR spoke louder than logic. Fear of rejection, fear of failure, fear of getting my ego crushed all over again.

Should I keep trying? Can I keep trying?

No idea. All I know is, I have to get rid of this fear otherwise it will rule my life. As much as I want to save myself from humiliation, I would also like to succeed. And how would I succeed if I don't try?

Am I even making any sense here?

Holy crap. I think I need help.

Routines... Comfort Zones... Boredom...

So here's the thing.

Sometimes in life, things can get a little bland. You know, you wake up in the morning and say hi to your kids, you take a shower, put on your clothes and make up, get stuck in traffic on the way to work, have your morning coffee and start dealing with crap at work. Before you know it it's lunch time and you go out for an hour and come back and also deal with crap. Then everyone leaves the office and you're the only one left still typing away, and you pack up and go home too - only to find yourself stuck in traffic (again!) and extremely exhausted. You get home and all you want to do is have ten minutes to yourself so you can just have some quiet time and forget everything. But then when you get home and see your kids, you realize that you missed them like crazy and forget all about the "me" time you wanted to have. One, two, three hundred days go by, you age another year and you suddenly find yourself asking this question: what the heck have I done all year?

No, it's not my birthday and I'm not having a midlife crisis or anything. I'm just in that mode, you know, when you're thinking, wow - time has passed by so quickly, what have I achieved?

My daughter, who was born last year in February is approaching her 1st birthday already. She has 5 (and a half) teeth, has started nearly running, can say "Mama", "Papa", "Barney" (yeah, the purple ugly dinosaur) and can pick up the phone and say "Hello". I look at her, completely amazed, and I'm thinking to myself, "Didn't I just have the painful c-section like a month ago??" Hell, I still have all the baby fat on me, and she's already turning one!

Matthew - my eldest, is one year shy of primary school. PRIMARY school, people! No longer is he going to be a toddler running around in diapers and just playing around at "so-called schools" that teach him to color and write his name. He's going to be in a serious "big-boys" school, and will pretty soon out-smart us all! Well, he'll definitely out-smart me, because this kids seems to be good in numbers, and we all know how much I suck at numbers!

Here's my theory about all of this: we get sucked into routines. Everyday just becomes a habit, and we sort of just go through the motions without really thinking or enjoying things anymore. We just... do them. No questions asked, just do it. And when we get attached to this full of routines lifestyle, we create a comfort zone for ourselves. We never want to get out of it because it's just much, much easier to follow the way things are "normally" and "usually" done. Every little thing that seems out of the ordinary becomes the "unknown" which then creates a sense of fear. Every now and again, that "experimental" part of us wakes up and says to us, "OMG, I'm doing this again?!" - and all of a sudden, we get bored of what we've been doing, think that our life is soooo insanely boring, so we get all gloomy and miserable, then we update our Facebook status saying "feeling lousy..." (oh wait, maybe that's just me!).

But when an exciting opportunity arises, we go back to that stupid "fear" and the circle of routines comes back again, and we're back to square one. I don't know about you, but I'm getting sick of this.

I think it's time to step up and live a little. Forget routines once in awhile and just allow yourself one freakin' day to let lose and do something out of the ordinary. A song I heard had some interesting lyrics that I thought were inspiring:

One more year has come and gone

But nothing has changed at all

Wasn't I supposed to be someone

Who could face the things that I've been running from

Let me feel, I don't care if I break down

Let me fall, even if I hit the ground

Let me cry a little, die a little

At least I'll know I've lived

Just a little

Why are we so scared of doing things out of our routine? Why are we so afraid that we might fall and bruise if we even attempt to go crazy and live a little once in awhile? Who knows how long we have to live. Who knows if the opportunity to do something exciting for a change will ever come again. No one really knows. So then, why not once in awhile, take the leap and just do it? Close one eye, make the jump, no questions ask, just do it. You only live once, right?

Rejection Stinks

Sometimes you go out on a limb, risk everything you've got, put yourself out there, let your guard down and hope for the best. You tell yourself that you never know unless you try. You convince yourself that it's worth a shot, that you'll be happy knowing that you gave it your all even if you end up flat on your ass.
No matter how much you convince yourself you'll be fine, the truth is, when the rejection actually comes, when the failure actually occurs, you end up being one miserable bitch.
Case in point: me.
I gave it my all, I did my best, and submitted a piece I worked my ass off for months. It got returned to me with a short message to say, "I'm sorry but I do not share your passion for this."
To me, my initial reaction was, why bother with an apology? If it's rejected, then it's rejected, just go straight to the point. There was no use for formality.
I went through days of deliberation : Am I OK with this? Does this make me stronger or does this make me quit?
It's been weeks since the rejection e-mail, and I'll be honest, I haven't even begun to get over it yet!
When you tell yourself you can take it, when you tell yourself that it'll only make you stronger in the end, be careful! It might not be true, and even if it is, it might take longer than you can handle... :(

Here's hoping I get over this soon!

xoxo,
S

Technology Bites

After years of avoiding it, I have finally managed to convince myself to try this blogging thing, only to write five long paragraphs and have it erased accidentally! Of all the luck...

Oh well. This is my attempt at trying it again - if this doesn't work, I'm giving this up for good. Why bother? Technology was made to make things easier for you, not more difficult. My first experince with this wonderful technology called blogging : NOT great. Frustrating even.

There you have it, ladies and gentleman... My second attempt at blogging, and it seems to be OK. I'm thanking my lucky stars...

For those of you who don't know me, for now, I'll just go by the initial S. It pretty much sums it up anyway... it's the initial to my name and almost everything about me: sweet, savvy, smart, smiley, short, sarcastic and sexy. But my friends often call me The Ultimate Drama Princess. Well, ok, they actually call me Drama Queen, but I refuse to be Queen because that is my mother! But yes, like her, I make a big deal out of everything.

I'll stop here for now, since I really have nothing read worthy to say for now. I'll be back with more later on... Til then, let me enjoy my temporary insomina... :)

xoxo,
S

I finally give in and start blogging...

Alright... alright... I give up.



I tried to keep things the way they used to, you know. I had my pen all ready and a brand new diary. But then I figured, in order to people to actually read about what I write, I'd have to make copies and it just seemed like to much of a hassle. In this day and age, it's about time I start using my computer for other things than just to type up things for work. So, ladies and gentleman, I succumb to the modern day diary, the Blog.



I've noticed that everyone has blogs these days. Apparently, I was the only one in the universe who didn't get the memo that diaries are OUT and blogs are so totally IN. Hmph. I wonder who wrote that memo, and where the heck is my copy!



Anyway - here I am, blogging away for the first time, and talking about absolute RUBBISH because I have no idea what to write.



If you're wondering why I use the name Drama Princess, well, I'm sort of like a drama queen but I'm too young to be a queen. So there you go, drama princess. And yes, true to the name, I make a big deal out of absolutely everything... :)



xoxo,

S