Welcomed Guest: Knock, knock!
Me: Come in! I apologize for the food and hairspray smells [as I finished lunch mere moments ago and then sprayed hairspray onto my hair].
Unwelcomed Guest (formerly known as Welcomed Guest): Why were you using hairspray?

Unwelcomed-Guest-formerly-known-as-Welcomed-Guest asked me that question with a dramatically sour face. 

And the only thing I can take away from that is, mere moments prior to knock-knocking on my door, she must have had a ludicrously sour piece of candy that makes her face scrunch up to form a thousand wrinkles for me to see, so that I can shrivel up my face to form one or two wrinkles (I am young in age; she is not – at all) as a return gesture of my respect for the elderly and wrinkly.

But with me being young and immature, instead, I ignored her token of a thousand wrinkles and inquired as to how I could be of assistance to her – showing her no sign of wrinkle respect whatsoever. 

She shared gossip with me. Then left. Then I sprayed more hairspray onto my hair because I live in a free country. Then she walked in on me hairspraying.  

Unwelcomed-Guest-formerly-known-as-Welcomed-Guest: What are you doing now?

At that point, I did the only thing that there was left to do in a situation like that – I lied.

Me: I’m air juggling.

Ha! Oh, I wish I said that. I don't actually have any balls. I just told her I was putting the hairspray away. 

                             (This episode is funnier than you'd think.)

“Why are you eating so much candy? That’s like your sixth piece!” says a family member at last night’s Thanksgiving. (The question, of course, is directed at me.) This is the general family consensus on junk-food eating – the utilitarian point of view, if you will. So I’d like to take the time to show you my support of the individual’s rights at Thanksgiving, which entails consumption of the food items and amounts listed here:

• 5 celery sticks
• a handful of pita chips
• a handful of cheese and crackers
• one-and-a-half pumpkin whoopie pies
• 4 bites of lumpy mashed potatoes
• a plump spring roll
• a slice of apple pie crust
• a blondie square
• 2 sips of Pinot noir
• 2 sips of Pinot noir mixed with 7 Up because the Pinot noir didn't taste good by itself, and only 2 sips because Pinot noir mixed with 7 Up doesn't taste good either
• and 6 PIECES OF CANDY 

That is my idea of a proper Thanksgiving.

No, that’s not true. That’s just what ended up in my belly yesterday. My ideal Thanksgiving would be me, friends, and buckets of French fries, macaroni and cheese, pizza, and grilled cheeses. And it’d be called “Thanksgiving: Starch Spectacle.”

For the most part, I’m surviving this 4-day weekend – sort of. I’m still recovering from pretend-watching all that football. There’s what, 3? 4? games in a row? It was like watching a bad foreign film 3 (or 4) times back-to-back, with the characters/actors wearing the same clothes but in different colors for each repeat showing.

The one good part though: I won $33 playing Bingo with other people’s money yesterday! 

My brother and one of my cousins each put in $5 for Bingo cards but didn’t want to actually sit there to play their cards, so they told me they’d go halvsies on their winnings with me if I played for them. My bro ends up winning the biggest pot and my cousin won the second biggest, and I risked zero of my own dollars to win $33.

Thanksgiving conclusion: smiles all around. 

I got two presents today!

Roses! But not from Wannabe Lover (as in I want him to wanna be my lover).

And pound cake - from another boy! (I think we all know what giving a girl pound cake from a vending machine means...)

If you look closely at the photo with the flowers, you will see a framed list of my 5 strengths, based on the 30-minute quiz I took in the book next to it, “Strengths Finder 2.0”. My strengths are as follows: Input, Strategic, Intellection, Individualization, and Ideation. 

I think you are impressed. 

The book and the framed strengths list were given to me as gifts from someone who works with me. I think the people I work with are very brilliant.

 * * *

Thanksgiving is almost here!! In preparation for mandatory family-time, I went out and bought 2 biographies to read, CVS-brand migraine medicine, and junk food. The best part is, I’ll be able to finish the biographies within the merchandise return policy timeframe and get my money back! 

Johnny Carson, a wise wise man, sums up the holiday:

"Thanksgiving is an emotional holiday. People travel thousands of miles to be with people they only see once a year. And then discover once a year is way too often."

A look at "How are you?" in the workplace (where almost everyone is a woman).

Me: Hi, how are you? Someone is here to see you.
Staff A: Not good. I am having a very bad day!

 * * *

Staff B: Hey there, how are ya?
Staff C: I had to go to the doctor because I thought I might have pneumonia - I've been sick for the past 2 weeks. But don't worry, I don't have pneumonia.

 * * *

Staff B: How are you?
Me: Fine. You?
Staff B: I’m kind of stressed. Earlier, when I was in the bathroom peeing, I remembered this dream I had last night. But now I can’t remember it!
Me: Dreams are meaningless.
Staff B: You think so? Because what I do remember while I was in the bath--
Me: It didn’t mean anything.
Staff B: But let me just tell you--
Me: Trying to remember is a waste of time.

Have I been wrong this whole time? “How are you?” in the workplace literally means “How are you?”? This can’t be right.

So I pulled out my trusty “How to Live Like a Lady” book, by Sarah Tomczak, to tell me right from wrong. And, according to Ms. Tomczak, “Forget your aches and pains, the answer to “How are you?” is always “Fine, thank you.”

Yes! I was right!

Ms. Tomczak also says:

• Stand up when others enter the room.
  
• Smiles are free.
  
• French-kissing in public, aggressive bedroom behavior, and overhead lighting are considered trashy. 
  
• Being a lady will never go out of style. 

The more I read this book and the more I reflect on my own behavior, the more I am befuddled by what is regarded as ladylike. 

Maybe I should compare my thoughts with what Ms. Tomczak would think of my 6 year-old cousin, a fellow lady in training, to get a better understanding of what it means to be a lady.

This is my 6 year-old cousin:

This is her spraying water onto her hair. Which I think Ms. Tomczak would find is more appropriate than using hairspray for such a young girl. And I'd agree.

Then my cousin got thirsty and used the same bottle to spray water into her mouth.

What a smart cookie! I couldn't be more proud of her (even though I don't think Ms. Tomczak would approve). 

IDIOT:  I used to have these Chinese bags.
ME:  How do you know they were Chinese?
IDIOT:  I bought them in Chinatown.

You know it's Chinese if you bought it in Chinatown. Just look at all of these Chinese examples.

I don't understand why Idiots feel the need to share things like this with me. I certainly don't conduct my life initiating conversations about being Chinese. I don't find being Chinese-American to be exotic or a novel concept; I've been Chinese-American my whole life. I'm over it. I'm sorry, but the novelty has worn off. 

And what exactly am I supposed to do with this information? Go tell my ancestors?

The bags turned out, in fact, to be Chinese. But I only found out after I Googled it. 

Queen Bee is picking on me. :( 

But she's doing it in a way that's perfectly subtle and calculated so that she ends up coming off as innocent and welcoming. 

Which is why I've looked into how to prevent myself from getting stung. She's been lurking and buzzing around; me getting stung is bound to happen. 

According to the above how-to video, I will need:

• a beekeeper or pest control expert
  
• 2 liter bottle
• heavy-duty scissors
• stapler
  
• bee traps
• moth balls
• and pantyhose.

I consider you, people of the internet, my pest control experts. Please feel free to share your expertise with me, as I will begin my bee containment tomorrow. And I am all set with the required items, which I will take pictures of for you so you can monitor my progress. 

Before I report on my mission tomorrow, here's a snippet of her wickedness disguised as benevolence: 

One of the professors I work for asks Queen Bee to email me a specific list of students. Queen Bee emails the list to the professor instead. Then, being the splendid worker that she is, QB walks past me over to the professor, who is standing 4 feet away from where I am, to tell her she sent the email. The professor, who is completely and utterly oblivious to QB's conniving ways, comes over to me to tell me, "Great, QB found the list and sent it to us! I'll email it to you so you can add to it the list you're working on." In return, I give her a smile so big you can't even see my eyes. As I am slamming my index finger on the computer mouse to open my email, I hear QB say to the professor, "I sent it to you because I couldn't find Whitney's email in our program catalog." 

Somehow, QB managed to find my email when she wanted to make this happen:

But she couldn't find my email when I needed it in order to complete a task for one of my professors. Even though all of our emails are the same: firstlastname@school.edu.

The first time I was stung by a bee was during recess in third grade. And I was stung on my middle finger. Which I held up for my teacher to see, while crying. Hence the plan of defense. Because if I get stung again, I think I might just end up pathetically giving QB the middle finger, crying at the same time. 

Do more than wish me luck.

Michael: Can you tell who’s gay and who’s not?
Dwight: Of course.
Michael: What about Oscar?
Dwight: Absolutely not.
Michael: Well, he is.
Dwight: Well, he’s not dressed in women’s clothes, so…
Michael: There could be others. I need to know. I don’t want to offend anybody else.
Dwight: You could assume everyone is, and not say anything offensive.
Michael: Yeah. I’m sure everyone would appreciate me treating them like they were gay.

(The Office, Season 3, Episode 1, “Gay Witch Hunt”)

 * * *

In September 2010, the It Gets Better Project was launched by the journalist, Dan Savage, in response to suicides committed by students as a result of being bullied for being gay. The essence of the project is very simple – video clips of members and non-members of the gay community telling young gay viewers that “it gets better”; to instill hope in them.

Commendable cause, I’d say.   

The school I work for contributed to the project by submitting a video of its gay faculty and staff members individually speaking to the camera, sharing a brief story about their past experience with discrimination, but that “it gets better.”

Again, commendable, I’d say.

Want to know what I’d say isn’t commendable? Showing the video at the school’s annual town-hall type meeting with a preface like, ‘At this school, we truly are pioneers in education. For example, we are addressing the problem of school bullying. Look at this video we made! Someone I showed it to cried after watching it, as did I.’ The same meeting that shows us slides of the construction plans for the new cafeteria being built, complete with a new pizza oven and multiple coffee stations, that we spend 20 minutes collectively oooo-ing and aahh-ing over – that takes place immediately prior to the It Gets Better video.

If the school was trying to highlight its progressiveness or raise awareness for gay bullying, it chose the wrong forum. The only effect the video had was spotlighting the gay employees. They should have given us an outline for the meeting at the start of it so I knew what to expect: 

‘Today, we’ll be discussing our budget, office leases, grant funding, the new cafeteria - and, as an encore, we’ll show you all the gays who work here!’ 

Because this is what my face looked like during and after the video.

“Yuh. Yuh. Yuh.”

“But what I think I’m gonna do on my way home is stop at CVS and buy some tissues and some suntan lotion.”

This is the cell phone conversation I overhear on the commuter rail from the person sitting directly behind me/the person speaking directly into my ears.

Then I receive a text message, from a number I don’t recognize.

            Hey there stranger

I immediately email one of my BFFs.

            Do you know whose number this is? xxx-xxx-xxxx

            I just got a text from that number: “hey there stranger” I 
            can’t figure out who it is

BFF writes back.

           Try responding perhaps?

I write back.

            I would but I’m afraid it’s someone I slept with

BFF writes back.

            Then when they reply, say “umm… you must have the 
            wrong #, this is Britney”

I text the mystery person, then email BFF.

            Me: hi what’s up
            Other person: nothin just chillin how are you

            I KNEW he’d answer with something that I still can’t figure 
            out. It’s def a dude though. How do I get better clues?

BFF writes back.

            I advise you to ask who it is on the first response, and you 
            don’t! Instead you have a vague openness

            I have nothing further to say!

I write back.

            I’m going to tell him I’m doing fine and then see if he’ll try 
            to make plans or something. Surely, he’ll eventually give 
            me something I can work with

BFF writes back.

            But he knows who he is, unless he is one of those losers 
            who refer to themselves from a 3rd person's perspective, I 
            think you're going to be hard pressed.

            The fuss that you're going to go through/are going through 
            is not worth it 

I write back.

            new tactic. 

            me: remember that time

            I'm hoping he'll just finish the sentence and then I'll know 
            :)

I text the mystery man.

            Remember that time

The mystery man texts back.

            What time

I email BFF.

            his response: what time

            I give up!

BFF writes back.
            
            Give up, while you are behind.