May 25, 2017

It's Cringy




Go out there and be vulnerable! Lose everything and reap the benefits of working like you have nothing. Failure. It’s this decade’s anecdote to success and in ten years they’ll find out it causes cancer. 

To be fair, I see how a failure can teach an important lesson about effort, especially in this age of entitlement. I just don’t think I need these moments in my life. I’m the exception. I understand hard work (I’m currently missing a toenail, for instance), but Fate’s not so sure.
“Have you worked for it?”
“I have.”
“Do you think you’re ready?”
“I do.”
“Have you thought about how much you really want this?”
“Absolutely.”
“Think again.”
Last Friday I took a French exam that, after one hour, made me want to crawl under the desk and into my skin. My vocabulary became primal, my handwriting illegible and the only thing that could have topped it was a poorly muffled fart.
“Maybe it wasn’t that bad.”
I confused the word poupee with the word poubelle. Playing with garbage is what I said. It was cringy. It still is.
And in spite of that, I’m not dissuaded from trying again. I just don’t know how to get better. I used apps, text books, courses and tutoring. I guess I just didn’t devote enough time. But according to one of the moderators I have plenty of that.
“That’s a very mature answer,” she said encouragingly.
Aging. If I’m destined to fail than thank goodness I’ve been at least luckless at that.

December 25, 2016

The Most Thoughtful Gift I've Ever Gotten

From my niece: "So that you're never lonely."

How Traditions are Started



Today, while making gingerbread cookies, I competed in the world’s fastest question-answer period known to man:

 “Can I eat the cookie dough?”

“No.”

“Can I eat the cookie dough?”

“No.”

“Can I eat the cookie dough?”

“No.”

It reminded me of my grandmother.

“Can I have this one?”

“No.”

“What about this one?”

“No.”

“I already touched this one. Can I eat this one?”

“No.”

Born in the depression and brought up sharing bath water, my grandmother would make gingerbread cookies for Christmas and every year she’d burn the first batch. It became a source of much speculation in my family because despite 50 years of practice, she not only burnt the cookies­ she insisted we eat them first.

My dad said it was because she hated cooking and this was her way of expressing it. The problem was that cookies are cookies and one can develop an acquired taste for even the burnt ones. So she continued to make the cookies and we continued to eat them.

Today, 13 years since she passed away, I’m understanding her better. While answering a field of questions, I accidentally burnt a batch, and not only did I still get appreciation for making them but I also didn’t have to eat them. A nod to my grandmother, o wise one.