The most frustrating thing that I've had to deal with in recent years is men: how they operate, how to understand them, how to have them better understand me, and how to coexist peacefully with them. I have been in love with one in particular for a long time now, but for a while things have been rather unstable and rocky between the two of us. So what am I to do with all this confusion and these feelings, but to analyze the situation and see how best to solve this issue? I've come across a few useful articles concerning the differences between men and women, which in my opinion are what truly complicate a relationship if they are not properly understood and respected.
Generally these articles maintained that women are capable of thinking about and doing many things at once because of a stronger
connection between the left and right sides of the brain, value relationships as most important in
their lives, find communication and empathy to be essential parts of interacting, need intimacy and validation, and relate things and events rather personally to themselves and draw upon their own
experiences. Men are more spatially oriented and logical as the left sides of their brain have developed faster, they are more prone to aggression, they are more career-oriented and base the quality of their lives generally more on the career, they do not connect incidences as much but tend to see issues as isolated, they are overwhelmed when confronted with too much emotion, they value trust and space from their women, and are quicker to become defensive.
Of course these are generalizations, but I have seen them manifested in my own life and in my own relationships. There are so many misunderstandings between men and women simply because each of their actions do not necessarily reflect well on their intentions. Let me explain. If a guy is busied with something and does not have the opportunity to call a girl, he may find this to be completely harmless. After all, he is still thinking about her, but just doesn't have the time to spare to give her a call and let her know that he cares. That validation is essential to a girl, and if it is not received, the girl will interpret his lack of communication as his lack of interest in her; because after all, if she were really that important, wouldn't he think of nothing but her, and want to hear her voice at all times of the day? Guys, however, are much better at focusing on indivdual tasks and highly value their careers, so it is with no personal enmity that they neglect to call the girl they care about as often as she would like. When the girl is upset over his actions, which she interprets as uncaring, and demands his attention, the guy in turn will interpret her actions as over-the-top and selfish. In his mind, she is not allowing him to take care of activities that are important to him, whereas in her mind he is not acknowledging her importance in his life.
So what is there to do? If two people care about one another, but one feels invalidated and the other feels too pressured to show validation, how is there a possible compromise? I suppose it'd be most important, first and foremost, to make sure that both individuals are willing to compromise. I can say I am lucky enough to have met somebody who is a rather understanding individual, but our biological differences have been making our interactions more and more difficult and complicated. To him I'm afraid that a compromise isn't worth it, and that he thinks I'd be
incapable of understanding his position on things. Truthfully I see where he is coming from, and I'm not intent on pressuring him into anything. Considering the circumstances, however, I need validation of his love for me and to know that despite his need for independence at this point, I am not a lesser-valued person or component in his life. Or, maybe I am. But I don't think so, really; but sometimes each of us jump to our extremes, as do most men and women when interacting with one another, and it's hard to see that both parties mean no harm towards the other.
There is a significant chance that it's not just our chemistry that causes our conflicts, at least in my circumstance, but judging from patterns I've seen it seems as though the thing that really makes us both miserable is that we have expectations for one another, but neither of us are aware of them and therefore are incapable of fulfilling them. In fact, we do just the opposite of what's desired.
So no matter what stage of life you find yourself in, I'd hope that if you found a person who was worthy of your love, that you'd at least understand the differences in the ways you both function and how to handle these issues without grave misunderstandings or conflicts. Anyway, here are the articles that I found particularly intriguing. If you type "differences between men and women" in Google, there are a lot of results that come up. Here are just a few that I read:
Understanding Men and Women - Research Paper
Differences Between Men and Women - A Survey (BBC article)
Differences Between Men and Women (Relationship-Institute.com)
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Underlying rhythms.
At 9am I had to play as a ringer in a little kid's orchestra concert in the prep division at my college. The children were absolutely adorable. I don't think I've ever seen musicians look so poised and confident and virtuosic, yet at the same time play completely out of tune. It's normal for their age, I know. It's sad to think that someday they'll grow up to be my age, and have lost their innocence and faith in humanity completely. Along with the will to practice their instruments.
On the commuter train today (I had to head out of the city) there was a big commotion with some drunken passengers. I ran into a girl from my high school and she told me that before I boarded the train, there had been a fight between these two angry drunks, and one cut the other one with a switchblade or something to that effect. So before they allowed myself and others to board, the police had to inspect the train with a leashed German shepherd dog to make sure that everybody was behaving properly.
So the whole time I'm riding on the train, trying to read, and there are these drunk fucking teenagers sitting behind me cursing to the high heavens and picking fights with one another. At one point a man who was sitting a few seats away from me got up, walked toward the group of teenagers, and told them he was a cop and they needed to shut up. And right on cue, in stumbles the drunkest man I've ever seen in a public place, trying to keep himself as composed as possible before stumbling and falling into an empty seat.
For anyone out there who thinks getting plastered and acting like jackasses on St. Patrick's Day is truly representative of the spirit of the Irish, you can go fuck yourselves because you're a bunch of morons. I think St. Patrick's Day should be celebrating the true essence of being Irish: let the guilt Catholicism has imposed completely overwhelm you, and then spend all day at church. I'm pretty sure that's what my ancestors did.
On the commuter train today (I had to head out of the city) there was a big commotion with some drunken passengers. I ran into a girl from my high school and she told me that before I boarded the train, there had been a fight between these two angry drunks, and one cut the other one with a switchblade or something to that effect. So before they allowed myself and others to board, the police had to inspect the train with a leashed German shepherd dog to make sure that everybody was behaving properly.
So the whole time I'm riding on the train, trying to read, and there are these drunk fucking teenagers sitting behind me cursing to the high heavens and picking fights with one another. At one point a man who was sitting a few seats away from me got up, walked toward the group of teenagers, and told them he was a cop and they needed to shut up. And right on cue, in stumbles the drunkest man I've ever seen in a public place, trying to keep himself as composed as possible before stumbling and falling into an empty seat.
For anyone out there who thinks getting plastered and acting like jackasses on St. Patrick's Day is truly representative of the spirit of the Irish, you can go fuck yourselves because you're a bunch of morons. I think St. Patrick's Day should be celebrating the true essence of being Irish: let the guilt Catholicism has imposed completely overwhelm you, and then spend all day at church. I'm pretty sure that's what my ancestors did.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Postcard from California.
It's been snowing all day, and it need not be said that it's a bitch to walk around outside. For a change cars are actually driving cautiously, though, so that's a plus. I feel this weather can only be appreciated when viewed several stories up in a heated apartment building.
So Alice took Joseph and me to a concert at the Phillipine Society building on fifth avenue. We got shitty directions so finding the place took much longer than expected. It turns it was the building that said "PHILLIPINE" in huge letters on fifth avenue. Who would've thought, you know? Anyway, the performance was nice, the reception had good food, etc. For dinner we trekked through the tundra of Times Square, searching for an Applebee's. I know, I know, Applebee's has disgusting food, especially in comparison to every other restaurant in the city. I had a craving for cheap American food, though, so I convinced Alice and Joe that we should eat at said restaurant. Applebee's wasn't too crowded when we got there, which was surprising considering the amount of tourists we saw outside. I remembered why I hated eating at places like Applebee's, though, particularly in Manhattan. For one thing, the only other people who occupy the restaurant are fat tourists from somewhere in the midwest. When these people come from Bumblefuck, USA to check out New York City (which to them is basically Times Square), they're drawn to the familiar restaurants from back home. All of the crappy franchise restaurants are gathered in only one part of Manhattan, and that's in and around Times Square. Any resident New Yorker knows that the no-name Italian restaurant on their block serves delicious food at a reasonable price, so who the fuck would need the Olive Garden or TGIFriday's in their neighborhood? But these are the only restaurants the tourists know, and so they flock to Applebee's and wherever else. The restaurants are placed in areas with the highest volume of tourists, i.e. Times Square, and then the prices on the menus are doubled because they know how vulnerable tourists can be. So, to make an unnecessarily long story short, I ended up paying $16 for a fucking quesadilla burger that normally would've cost me $8.50 in any other part of the country.
Fortunately the 1 train was directly outside of Applebee's, so we took it uptown. At 103rd street the train stood for a long time with its doors open, and over the loudspeaker was this unintelligible Indian man giving directions to the other conductors of the train or whoever. Nobody was quite sure what was going on. Alice and I were laughing like jackasses for a while making fun of the situation, when some lady across the aisle told us to be quiet so she could hear the announcements being made. Even in complete silence they were hardly audible and/or impossible to understand. So then we started laughing out loud even more.
After a while Alice was afraid something terrible was going to happen on the train, so we got out and stood in the platform for a little bit. Nobody seemed to know what was going on. A man was screaming in agony down at the other end of the train, and that was incredibly disturbing, so Alice insisted that we leave. When we exited the station and got up to the street, we saw an ambulance and a firetruck parked outside the stairs leading into the subway, but no personnel or victims or anything like that around. I have no idea what happened.
So, we caught the bus, which was a lot more comfortable than the subway car. Joe sat shooting the breeze with the bus driver, who told us to keep education an important part of our lives and to never do drugs. Joe believes that bus drivers are truly philosophers.
I found a fascinating article on PsychCentral.com about the stigma of mental illness. Hopefully someday this will all change. Read
So Alice took Joseph and me to a concert at the Phillipine Society building on fifth avenue. We got shitty directions so finding the place took much longer than expected. It turns it was the building that said "PHILLIPINE" in huge letters on fifth avenue. Who would've thought, you know? Anyway, the performance was nice, the reception had good food, etc. For dinner we trekked through the tundra of Times Square, searching for an Applebee's. I know, I know, Applebee's has disgusting food, especially in comparison to every other restaurant in the city. I had a craving for cheap American food, though, so I convinced Alice and Joe that we should eat at said restaurant. Applebee's wasn't too crowded when we got there, which was surprising considering the amount of tourists we saw outside. I remembered why I hated eating at places like Applebee's, though, particularly in Manhattan. For one thing, the only other people who occupy the restaurant are fat tourists from somewhere in the midwest. When these people come from Bumblefuck, USA to check out New York City (which to them is basically Times Square), they're drawn to the familiar restaurants from back home. All of the crappy franchise restaurants are gathered in only one part of Manhattan, and that's in and around Times Square. Any resident New Yorker knows that the no-name Italian restaurant on their block serves delicious food at a reasonable price, so who the fuck would need the Olive Garden or TGIFriday's in their neighborhood? But these are the only restaurants the tourists know, and so they flock to Applebee's and wherever else. The restaurants are placed in areas with the highest volume of tourists, i.e. Times Square, and then the prices on the menus are doubled because they know how vulnerable tourists can be. So, to make an unnecessarily long story short, I ended up paying $16 for a fucking quesadilla burger that normally would've cost me $8.50 in any other part of the country.
Fortunately the 1 train was directly outside of Applebee's, so we took it uptown. At 103rd street the train stood for a long time with its doors open, and over the loudspeaker was this unintelligible Indian man giving directions to the other conductors of the train or whoever. Nobody was quite sure what was going on. Alice and I were laughing like jackasses for a while making fun of the situation, when some lady across the aisle told us to be quiet so she could hear the announcements being made. Even in complete silence they were hardly audible and/or impossible to understand. So then we started laughing out loud even more.
After a while Alice was afraid something terrible was going to happen on the train, so we got out and stood in the platform for a little bit. Nobody seemed to know what was going on. A man was screaming in agony down at the other end of the train, and that was incredibly disturbing, so Alice insisted that we leave. When we exited the station and got up to the street, we saw an ambulance and a firetruck parked outside the stairs leading into the subway, but no personnel or victims or anything like that around. I have no idea what happened.
So, we caught the bus, which was a lot more comfortable than the subway car. Joe sat shooting the breeze with the bus driver, who told us to keep education an important part of our lives and to never do drugs. Joe believes that bus drivers are truly philosophers.
I found a fascinating article on PsychCentral.com about the stigma of mental illness. Hopefully someday this will all change. Read
Thursday, March 15, 2007
A peculiar fruit.
Yesterday at two in the morning, Alice and I drove in her mom's minivan downtown to the West Village to walk around and get our minds off our problems. We scoured Bleecker and the neighboring streets for a while, searching for an all-night coffee shop; every business was closed, however, except for some shady hole in the wall bars and sex shops. There are certain types of people you only see in the middle of the night on a street in Manhattan; they stand on the sidewalk smoking, talking amongst themselves, commenting on the physique of passing young females. They usually look scruffy, unsavory, and they're
probably high and drunk. We slipped by these
people quietly. A lone balloon vendor sat on the sidewalk outside of an indoor parking garage entrance, calling out in a hoarse whisper, "Anybody want a balloon?" At two
in the fucking morning. It would've been funnier if only for the fact
that this man was obviously making his living off selling these balloons.
I noticed an illuminated sign displayed on the door of a converted brownstone nearby that read "Psychic: Palm Readings, Tarot Cards", and such. Noticing the sign said "Open" on the door, I convinced Alice to check the place out with me.
"Are you serious?" Alice called to me from the sidewalk.
"I think she's serious," said some guy who was sitting nearby in a parked car. He thought he was pretty fucking funny.
So Alice followed me downstairs, and we were ushered in by a woman who must've been the psychic's adult daughter. She was carrying a basket of laundry in as she entered behind us, and asked if we wanted a reading. She had me sit on a stool at a small table in the entrance of the home. The air was stuffy from cigarette smoke, and around the corner in a room concealed by a suspended bedsheet a TV set blared, an eerie bluish color emitting the sounds of garbled human voices. A small cat, not more than a year old, wandered into the...psychic vestibule...whatever you could say it was. She let me pick her up and was purring, and when I placed her on my lap she settled herself comfortably. In walked the psychic; she was middle-aged, fairly attractive, made up with heavy concealer and eyeliner, dyed auburn hair, and had a faint accent reminiscent of some eastern European country mixed with the Brooklyn dialect.
She sat down and asked what I wanted, and listed the prices for me. I chose the cheapest, a palm reading, and she began. She examined my right hand. "You're going to have a long and healthy life." She scanned my palm even more, examining every crease and line. I don't know how she saw anything in that dim lighting. She started talking about how I have trouble in my love life, how I feel betrayed, how I'm having a hard time understanding and getting through this period. She guessed that I involved myself with something creative or artistic, particularly that involved the hands. That was pretty obvious though, considering I was wearing all black, I have long blackish hair, I usually wear black eyeliner, and my hands are very calloused and unmanicured and double-jointed. But at the time, it was very impressive. She kept mentioning all these things that applied to my life. Certain things could be construed as generalities with my age, gender, ethnicity, and socio-economic status. Other things applied indefinitely to my life, however,
and as she said everything she spoke matter-of-factly. Whenever I reacted to something she said, she just gave a nod,
as if to indicate, "It says it all on your palm." I tend to be very gullible so I am still having
a hard time sorting this whole experience out in my head. Alice was standing behind me
mystified by everything the woman was saying. When the session ended I tried getting up, and
the cat began biting and clawing at my hand. I guess she was pissed that her resting spot was
being disturbed. I thanked the psychic and nervously shoved my way
out of the house.
So I'm completely nervous and freaked out, doing that stupid thing where I twist a strand of my hair over and over between my fingers. Alice wanted to go into a nearby McDonald's, so we went. She ordered an iced coffee, and I just sat there. I had basically lost my appetite. The restaurant had two groups of young gay black males sitting and chatting amongst themselves, all primped and wearing nice clothes, even sunglasses, despite it now being three in the morning. One tall slim guy was dressed as a girl, and the only way I could tell he wasn't a girl was because of his voice when he spoke. Otherwise his face looked effeminate enough, and his wig realistic enough, to pass as a teenage girl. The groups were sitting on separate sides of the restaurant, and I'm not sure if they knew each other or not, but they didn't seem warm toward one another. One of them came over to the table where Alice and I were sitting and asked if he could plug his cell phone charger into the outlet behind our table. He was a nice guy.
So Alice and I tried analyzing the psychic reading, the problems we'd each been experiencing in our lives, whatever. I don't think we really solved any problems, but it was good to vent. We were interrupted a few times by some interesting people, but the most memorable interruption was by a tall, gangly, pale white guy with light and feathery blonde hair and a moronic expression on his face. I saw him eyeing us from across the room, and before I knew it he was rushing toward us. He stopped, almost falling into our table and having to catch himself on Alice's seat, and said quickly, "So what are you about to do?"
What? What the fuck is this guy talking about? He wasn't very smooth at all. One of us asked him what he was doing, and he stood up
straight and scratched the back of his head. He looked over to the counter and said in an
exasperated tone, "I'm just trying to get some nuggets."
I informed him that we couldn't help him, and he explained then that
his friend was getting the "nuggets".
He was about to walk away when I asked him where he went to school. He already looked pretty hurt, because Alice and I were pretty obviously laughing at him. Well, I actually asked if he went to school in this area. He said no, and asked if I did. It was strange though, because he didn't say, "No, I went/go to Indiana University," or something like that. He simply answered no, which made me question if he had gone to college at all. That, and his stupidity and lack of social skills. The poor guy. He asked if I went to school around here.
"No," I said, "we go to school uptown."
"Oh, at NYU?" was his reply.
UPTOWN. IN THE NORTHERN DIRECTION. NYU was east of where we were, a block or two south. NYU is by no means uptown. Even if you were to go to Battery Park and somebody asked you where you went to school, you wouldn't say "uptown" to refer to NYU. I mean, it is uptown, and actually some people may say uptown, but to me uptown is above 50th street. Maybe if you were very far south, above 34th would be considered uptown. Anyway, finally this guy left when his friend had obtained their precious chicken nuggets. He looked really dejected, and it was funny. Usually I'd feel more sorry for people like this, but I don't have the patience for anyone anymore.
I'm going to have to travel around more parts of Manhattan in the middle of the night on a Wednesday and document what happens. It's like people crawl out of the sewers at night and roam the streets or something. Very colorful characters. Next time I'll bring my camera.
probably high and drunk. We slipped by these
people quietly. A lone balloon vendor sat on the sidewalk outside of an indoor parking garage entrance, calling out in a hoarse whisper, "Anybody want a balloon?" At two
in the fucking morning. It would've been funnier if only for the fact
that this man was obviously making his living off selling these balloons.
I noticed an illuminated sign displayed on the door of a converted brownstone nearby that read "Psychic: Palm Readings, Tarot Cards", and such. Noticing the sign said "Open" on the door, I convinced Alice to check the place out with me.
"Are you serious?" Alice called to me from the sidewalk.
"I think she's serious," said some guy who was sitting nearby in a parked car. He thought he was pretty fucking funny.
So Alice followed me downstairs, and we were ushered in by a woman who must've been the psychic's adult daughter. She was carrying a basket of laundry in as she entered behind us, and asked if we wanted a reading. She had me sit on a stool at a small table in the entrance of the home. The air was stuffy from cigarette smoke, and around the corner in a room concealed by a suspended bedsheet a TV set blared, an eerie bluish color emitting the sounds of garbled human voices. A small cat, not more than a year old, wandered into the...psychic vestibule...whatever you could say it was. She let me pick her up and was purring, and when I placed her on my lap she settled herself comfortably. In walked the psychic; she was middle-aged, fairly attractive, made up with heavy concealer and eyeliner, dyed auburn hair, and had a faint accent reminiscent of some eastern European country mixed with the Brooklyn dialect.
She sat down and asked what I wanted, and listed the prices for me. I chose the cheapest, a palm reading, and she began. She examined my right hand. "You're going to have a long and healthy life." She scanned my palm even more, examining every crease and line. I don't know how she saw anything in that dim lighting. She started talking about how I have trouble in my love life, how I feel betrayed, how I'm having a hard time understanding and getting through this period. She guessed that I involved myself with something creative or artistic, particularly that involved the hands. That was pretty obvious though, considering I was wearing all black, I have long blackish hair, I usually wear black eyeliner, and my hands are very calloused and unmanicured and double-jointed. But at the time, it was very impressive. She kept mentioning all these things that applied to my life. Certain things could be construed as generalities with my age, gender, ethnicity, and socio-economic status. Other things applied indefinitely to my life, however,
and as she said everything she spoke matter-of-factly. Whenever I reacted to something she said, she just gave a nod,
as if to indicate, "It says it all on your palm." I tend to be very gullible so I am still having
a hard time sorting this whole experience out in my head. Alice was standing behind me
mystified by everything the woman was saying. When the session ended I tried getting up, and
the cat began biting and clawing at my hand. I guess she was pissed that her resting spot was
being disturbed. I thanked the psychic and nervously shoved my way
out of the house.
So I'm completely nervous and freaked out, doing that stupid thing where I twist a strand of my hair over and over between my fingers. Alice wanted to go into a nearby McDonald's, so we went. She ordered an iced coffee, and I just sat there. I had basically lost my appetite. The restaurant had two groups of young gay black males sitting and chatting amongst themselves, all primped and wearing nice clothes, even sunglasses, despite it now being three in the morning. One tall slim guy was dressed as a girl, and the only way I could tell he wasn't a girl was because of his voice when he spoke. Otherwise his face looked effeminate enough, and his wig realistic enough, to pass as a teenage girl. The groups were sitting on separate sides of the restaurant, and I'm not sure if they knew each other or not, but they didn't seem warm toward one another. One of them came over to the table where Alice and I were sitting and asked if he could plug his cell phone charger into the outlet behind our table. He was a nice guy.
So Alice and I tried analyzing the psychic reading, the problems we'd each been experiencing in our lives, whatever. I don't think we really solved any problems, but it was good to vent. We were interrupted a few times by some interesting people, but the most memorable interruption was by a tall, gangly, pale white guy with light and feathery blonde hair and a moronic expression on his face. I saw him eyeing us from across the room, and before I knew it he was rushing toward us. He stopped, almost falling into our table and having to catch himself on Alice's seat, and said quickly, "So what are you about to do?"
What? What the fuck is this guy talking about? He wasn't very smooth at all. One of us asked him what he was doing, and he stood up
straight and scratched the back of his head. He looked over to the counter and said in an
exasperated tone, "I'm just trying to get some nuggets."
I informed him that we couldn't help him, and he explained then that
his friend was getting the "nuggets".
He was about to walk away when I asked him where he went to school. He already looked pretty hurt, because Alice and I were pretty obviously laughing at him. Well, I actually asked if he went to school in this area. He said no, and asked if I did. It was strange though, because he didn't say, "No, I went/go to Indiana University," or something like that. He simply answered no, which made me question if he had gone to college at all. That, and his stupidity and lack of social skills. The poor guy. He asked if I went to school around here.
"No," I said, "we go to school uptown."
"Oh, at NYU?" was his reply.
UPTOWN. IN THE NORTHERN DIRECTION. NYU was east of where we were, a block or two south. NYU is by no means uptown. Even if you were to go to Battery Park and somebody asked you where you went to school, you wouldn't say "uptown" to refer to NYU. I mean, it is uptown, and actually some people may say uptown, but to me uptown is above 50th street. Maybe if you were very far south, above 34th would be considered uptown. Anyway, finally this guy left when his friend had obtained their precious chicken nuggets. He looked really dejected, and it was funny. Usually I'd feel more sorry for people like this, but I don't have the patience for anyone anymore.
I'm going to have to travel around more parts of Manhattan in the middle of the night on a Wednesday and document what happens. It's like people crawl out of the sewers at night and roam the streets or something. Very colorful characters. Next time I'll bring my camera.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
