The World According to Ploy

January 30, 2009


Filed under: Fashion,Galling But True — by Ploy @ 6:02 pm

are not pants.

Here, let’s start off with what says about leggings

(n.) a covering for the leg, usually extending from the ankle to the knee but sometimes higher, worn by soldiers, riders, workers, etc.

Then here is what it says about pants (FYI: I was linked to the entry for trousers)

(n.) Sometimes, trouser. Also called pants. a usually loose-fitting outer garment for the lower part of the body, having individual leg portions that reach typically to the ankle but sometimes to any of various other points from the upper leg down.

Do you notice something? “Loose-fitting”. Ok, fine, I know that in this day and age, there are those I-don’t-have-an-idea-how-a-person-could-squeeze-into-that super-skinny jeans. But even those jeans are, essentially, not hugging your entire lower body with every fiber of its being.

Get this: while skinny pants may hug your legs tighter than I (hope to one day) hug Akanishi Jin, they do not, and in case you didn’t see that, NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT hug your crotch or outline your ass.

Look, I like leggings. During the colder days (I absolutely refuse to use the word ‘winter’), they surprisingly keep you warm. They’re also great for increased modesty, when you’re wearing something that’s not too short but, well, “just in case” things go wrong. And yes, they’re pretty cool as a fashion item.


When the leggings trend first hit, people paired them with dresses or short-shorts . And then I began seeing girls wearing leggings with, well, actually, without anything else?

Just because your – not you, of course, just a pronoun with no actual recipient- t-shirt is longer than the average t-shirt, that does NOT make it a dress. Ergo, do not wear it with leggings sans shorts or a skirt. It looks like you forgot to pull on a bottom piece. Never be dressed in a way that people will think “Did that girl forget to pull on her pants?”

In my opinion, you can wear a long t-shirt with leggings. What defines long? Well, if you bend over and the top still covers your ass, then it is long. Even if it covers your front, if you bend over and your buttcheeks play peek-a-boo with the word, then baby, seriously. Though you cover ’em up with spandex, you’d still flash the person behind you.

This evening at Paragon, Book and I were at the foot of the escalator going up to the 3rd floor.

I looked up and muttered, “Leggings are not pants.”

Oh shit,” Book said.

We boarded the escalator, and so did the girl, who was around our age. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, though I was certainly staring. Yes, it was rude but she was on the phone, so she didn’t notice. Perhaps she was on the phone too while she was dressing up?

“Is she insane?” Book, who looked utterly shocked and appallled, asked once we were clear.

It was a rhetorical question. Clearly, she (strange girl, not Book) was insane. No sane person could, would, even SHOULD go out dressed like that. The leggings were a little shiny, almost spandex-y, black and reaching to the ankles. She wore a Comme de Garcons white shirt, which reached about 2 inches below her belly button (read: visible crocthline), which was actually rather sheer. In my entire experience of seeing poor misinformed women who think that leggings are pants, this girl was Exhibit A. She was worse than all the t-shirts&leggings cases. The victims – or perpetrators, really – of those faux pas could perhaps could argue something in front of a judge. But this girl? She would just have to plead insanity.

My last words of the day: Just because they have two tube-ish outlets for your legs to push through, this fact does not make them pants, any more than the fact that because chimpanzees share 98.8% of our genes with humans does not make them, well, humans.

This madness has to stop. Seriously.


PS. shows what I mean exactly.


January 29, 2009


Filed under: Angst,Sheer Insanity — by Ploy @ 8:37 am

Not for the first time in my life, I find myself wondering again at what qualifies a person for ‘Native English Speaker’ status.

The first time I wondered that was when I found myself paying an obscene amount for a TOEFL test. And no, that is not an understatement. One hundred and sixty dollars is OBSCENE. I could buy a pretty good bag with that. Or get a few good meals. A couple of shirts for my father from Gieves & Hawk (assuming the transportation to London was already paid for.)

Today, I’ve been sitting at home trying to register for the TOEFL online, as I’m too lazy to walk to the bank (yes, I live within walking distance to banks, supermarkets, hospitals, and other strange things, so while my house certainly qualifies for shack status, I certainly love it because it’s so convenient.) Not to mention if I register online it costs me $160. If I let some office do it for me, they’re charging me $190, where $30 is apparently some kinda service fee. Bleed me dry, why don’t they?

While I’m waiting for the credit card to process, I’m just sitting here wondering…WHY THE HECK DO I HAVE TO TAKE THE TOEFL? I know that my first coherent sentence was certainly not in English. I know that I spent the first five years of my life speaking Thai. But clearly, things have changed and progressed, and while I can communicate in both languages, certainly, my fluency in English beats my Thai. I can’t write a coherent essay or anything formal in Thai.

Ergo, I don’t think Thai strictly qualifies as my mother tongue any more. Thai maybe my first language, but English is my main language.

(Tangential note: I do not mean to boast or sound snobby. Look, if you’re reading this note, most likely you speak English as fluently as those people born in the other hemisphere, or at the very least you can possibly grope your way blindly – figuratively speaking, of course – through the TOEFL. Admit it, you’ve wondered why YOU’ve had to take the TOEFL, too.)

So why do I have to take this TOEFL test again? Is it because I was 1) born in Thailand (a non-English speaking country), 2) to Thai parents (who currently don’t even live here) and 3) reside in Thailand? Is this a racist thing?

Wait! Now that I’ve typed that out…it just really struck me. Is TOEFL a racist thing? Something you impose on people who are not American/American-born or English/UK-born? Something you require a person to take just because they hold a passport from a developing country? Is this discrimination?!

Hmm. Haaaah. Truthfully I think I’m just riled up at the thought of $160. Perhaps if it was $40 dollars or something I would just accept fate. I mean, I can certainly think of the justifications a university would have for a TOEFL requirement…but…one hundred and sixty dollars…sheesh…really.

January 20, 2009


Filed under: Sheer Insanity — by Ploy @ 3:21 pm

There are many types of things to do in this world.

Things you do.

Things you do not do.

Things you are able to do.

Things you fail to do.

Things that you always do.

Things that you will never do.

Things you desperately want to do.

Things you’d rather chew your feet off than do.

And the more I type the word ‘things’, the stranger it starts to look. That does ever happen to you?

January 18, 2009

breaking monotony.

Filed under: Sheer Insanity — by Ploy @ 3:33 am

When I woke up this morning, I made a series of three discoveries.

The first of which was that it was 7:43 am. I think I actually gaped, or maybe I groaned, I’m not quite sure. But whatever I did, it was certainly a negative reaction to having woken up at the rather ungodly hour. I haven’t woken up before nine since 2006. Something didn’t feel right.

It was then that I made my second discovery. My throat was throbbing, it was the kind of throbbing that gave you the image of your throat being very raw and and swollen and dry. I gulped, and it was painful. Immediately I deduced that I was sick; this is not a hasty conclusion, as I did spent the better part of two days hanging out with Ginger, who was definitely having herself a nice cold (one hale and healthy does not blow one’s nose every three seconds.) Oh, well. Friends share, don’t they?

And as I was lying in my bed, staring at the opposite wall, I made another discovery at 7:48 am (this is an approximation, but I was quite sure something around the vincinity of five minutes had passed while I was assessing my sickness and its causes.)

I didn’t mind having a cold.

Sure, most people do not want to have a cold. I say most people because, well, I’m sure people who work office jobs sometimes wish they had a cold, so they can escape their boss and stay home and watch daytime television. But I myself am most people, and I have never wanted a cold.

And I still do not want a cold. But I can’t say I am truly saddened by the prospect of spending the next few hours (my colds usually last a day, at most two) bundled up in sweaters, nursing a cup of tea, and blowing my nose (and if I blow it every three seconds, then it means I certainly got this from Ginger.)

My life has been, to put it mildly, rather boring for the past few weeks. If I had kept a diary, it would very much look like this, for every single day:

January XX, 2009
Woke up.
Ate breakfast.
Got dressed.
Went to Emporium.
Bought books from Kinokuniya.
Drank coffee and ate a muffin.
Worried about the future of my waistline.
Stared out the window at the park.
Came home.
Did some online window-shopping.
Stared at the TV.

Hopefully, you have an inkling – or perhaps a full-fledged idea. I do not pretend to know your mind – about why I’m actually happy at having a cold. And if you really, really have no idea, I’ll just explain: My life is not monotonous any more! I now have something to write in my imaginary diary. “I am sick!” “My nose is slightly blocked but luckily not runny!” “I feel lethargic!” “My hand-eyes coordination has gotten even worse!” “I’ve lost my appetite somewhat; my waistline is happy!” “I’m dizzy in general!”

Finally, there is something relatively exciting going on in my life. Too bad I had to become a masochist to enjoy it.

January 14, 2009

“7 Ways to Make Him Ache for You”

Filed under: Galling But True,Pop Culture — by Ploy @ 6:50 pm

Guest Starring: Marisa “Ginger” T.


Cosmo says: As lovey-dovey as pet names make him feel, they still don’t compare to the electrifying rush your man gets when his name crosses your lips. “Just hearing it is an aphrodisiac,” says body-language expert Eve Marx, author of Read My Hips. “It ratches up his desire because the message you send is ‘It’s you I’m thinking about and no one else.’ And men need to hear that – it’s tied to their primal uge to beat out all the competition. However, just blurting out his moniker as often as possible isn’t going to do it for him. You need to make it could…drop it into conversation in surprising spots and pause for a beat or two: “And then…I slam the door behind me.”

Ginger says: What if his name is “John Jacob Jingleheimersmith”? Sing it! John Jacob Jingleheimersmith! John Jacob Jingleheimersmith! John Jacob Jingleheimersmith! Whenever he goes out, the people always shout John Jacob Jingleheimersmith! Nanananananana…By the time you finish saying that name he’d be so proud.

Ploy says: “Hey, would you go get me some drinks? …What would I JIN! like? Hmm…let me JIN! think for a second. What about just a JIN! beer? Ok, now you run along and fetch me that beer and I’m going off to mingle with my girlfriends. Ta!”. Yes, that would make him nuts alright.


Cosmo says: Well, more than just the keys. The lesson is this: “Never underestimate the power of an unexpected touch,” says David Niven, Ph.D., author of the Too Simple Secrets of Great Relationships…From now on, be on the lookout for opportune moments to touch him ‘accidentally.”

Ginger says: “Honey let me get your keys!” “Oh no these pants don’t have any pockets” “I don’t care I’m going to grope down south for keys anyways!”

Ploy says: “Groping To Get Your Man.” Someone should write a book.


Cosmo says: The funny thing about men is that telling them less about your life makes them long for you for you more. So as much as you might want to share the minutiae of your bitchy workplace or your take on the latest Grey’s Anatomy plot twist, hold back. So to hook him in, when you’re chatting, give him the conclusion of the conversation first. For instance, “I got the job,” or “I saw your buddy Mark,” and then stop and wait.

Ginger says: “I ran over your dog today.” Stop and wait. He goes “What? What happened? Tell me!” You go, “Oh, nothing!”

Ploy says: There is a fine line between “mysterious woman” and “incoherent idiot”. Please be mindful when employing this strategy.


Cosmo says: Caroline, 26, had gotten haircuts in the past that her guy hadn’t noticed at all, but when she had her brunette crown streaked, he was all over her. “Jake couldn’t stop touching me – he couldn’t believe he was fooling around with a redhead,” she says. The reason her new  ‘do drove him nuts: “Men register eye-catching changes to your appearance, and it draws them to you,” says Lori Buckley, Psy.D….There’s a catch, though: if you want to snag his immediate interesting, the change has to be guy-visible.

Ginger says: This one I can’t think of anything to say. The thing they have is already stupid enough.

Ploy says: The article goes on to suggest ways to depart from your everyday look, including, but not limited to “take a break from your jeans routine and strut around in a miniskirt” and “ditch your bra for a day and put a little extra bounce in your step.”  Well, really, if they don’t notice these things, especially the latter, then the boyfriend is clearly blind.


Cosmo says: Just because men don’t fish for flattery (when was the last time you heard a guy ask, “Honey, do my pecs look small in this shirt?”) doesn’t mean they don’t love ego stroking…But there’s a trick to buttering up your guy right…when you give him props, stick to this tip: the more obsure and exclusive the praise to him, the more genuine it feels. That’s why Molly, 31, casually praises her guy’s kitchen-cleaning prowess. “Tom is anal about wiping down the counters, so whenever I go to cook and they’re clean, I say how much I love it.”

Ginger says: “Oh honey you’re so hott. The way you wipe the counter. Let me caress your beautiful manly pecs while you do the Mr. Clean for me!” or you could go all dominatrix and go “Do those dishes bitch and wipe them clean!” Oh my God, is this about a man or a man-whore? Also imagine if you met your husband in a market, a Thai one, with durians.

Ploy says: Hahahaha, Eau de Durian? Well, I pray I will never live to hear a guy ask me for my opinions of his pecs. In the unfortunate case that I do, I’m sure my agony will be short-lived as I will probably immediately die. Frankly, this article portrays mankind as having less intelligence than a pot of petunias. Oh, well, we have two more ‘Ways’ to go. Let’s see if it can get worse.


Cosmo says: Think about when you first fell for your guy. What reminds you both of that time (aside fro the conniption fit you had every time the phone rang)? “When he experiences something that he associates with falling in love with you, those intense, sensual memories trigger a positive physical reaction and generate instant longing,” says Bernstein. Case in point: “The smell of sunscreen and chlorine makes me crave my wife,” says Peter, 28. “It takes me back to when we were in high school and she worked summers as a lifeguard at a pool.”

Ginger says:  “The smell of sunscreen makes me crave my wife.” This is already funny!

Ploy says: Conniption (n.) a fit of anger or panic. I will now remember this word as ‘the word I learned from Cosmopolitan’.


Cosmo says: Lust works in bizarre ways. Get this: if you want to renew your man’s passion for you, slyly capture the eye of another guy. Aimee, 27, knows all about this surprising strategy: “When I get dressed up and guys at the bar check me out, I know Will’s thinking, ‘Yeah, that’s right. She’s with me, suckers,” she says. “And he’s definitely clingier when he can smell the competition”

Ginger says:  What if you’re in college and you go “Oh Professor, you’re so hott! I love your astronomical units!”? I think you’re boyfriend would be scared.

Ploy says: Yes, trust Aimee, 27, why don’t we?



Source: Cosmopolitan India, June 2006

January 13, 2009


Filed under: Gnomes,Hot Guys — by Ploy @ 4:31 pm

I kid you not.

Gnomeo and Juliet

And James McAvoy is doing one of the voices (quite possibly that of Gnomeo). That’s J-A-M-E-S M-C-A-V-O-Y, aka the Hot Scot. Can you imagine Mr. McAvoy as a gnome though?

James McAvoy, gnome version, dressed in kilts.

Throw a bagpipe into the image, perhaps, if it should please you.

Hmmmmm. I can’t wait for 2010, the fact that we’re just two weeks into 2009 notwithstanding.

January 12, 2009

The Fat Trend

Filed under: Food & Drink — by Ploy @ 5:20 pm

For the next few months, I’m always going to enjoy Monday afternoons. You see, I have these two boys I’ve tutored for the past two years. They’re hilarious; our tutoring sessions are less economics than supremely bizarre conversations. This semester, I see them on Mondays. So yes, Monday is going to be laughter-day. I love my job.

Anyways, the highlight of today was this: “The Fat Trend”

I was trying to coerce them into sharing my ‘Sticky Chewy Chocolate Cake’, and they both claimed to be on diets. (They’re both fit and healthy, so I’m assuming the diet’s actually a precautionary measure of sorts.) Then one of them admitted that he would love to eat it, only if being fat was the equivalent of being cool.

He even had a reason for supporting the fat trend: if we could popularize fatness, then everyone would benefit, because no one would have to suffer the stress of dieting.

The way he said it made it sound so simple. I mean, think about it, say there is a parallell world where models were fat (or at least, not all willowy and thin)…how much fun would the people over there have? They would be able to eat what they want, and not worry about calories or burning it, or whether it would end up in their bums or their tums.

The Fat Trend.

Perhaps I should popularize it, with the hopes of  one day being able to happily eat oil again (as yes, during middle school, one of my favorite dishes was plain steamed jasmine rice with some cookin oil stirred into it – granted, it was the oil my mother used to fry her fish-sauce marinated chicken wing – it was nice and salty. In retrospect…what the heck was I thinking?)


P.S. Think about where we get our concepts of ‘pretty’ and ‘ugly’ from. Do we really do what we want to do? Or do we suppress our real urges just to fit in?

P.P.S. I had to write that P.S. because contrary to popular beliefs, there is substance hidden underneath the many layers of randomness and insanity of what I write (most of the time, that is; sometimes, well, they’re just purely randomness and insanity ^___^). You just sorta have to look for it. This time, I actually threw it at you, but not next time baby, not next time.

January 9, 2009

I’m a Believer

Filed under: Exercise — by Ploy @ 1:20 pm

There is, without a doubt, a divine being (though it could be plural if you prefer the Greek or Egyptian versions) out there somewhere. Here’s what it took to convince me:

About five minutes ago, I was resigned to the prospect that this was going to be yet another one of those days, i.e. Ploy eats enough for two elephants and divides her 12 waking hours between the computer and the TV screens.

At one point before those five minutes, I’d actually told myself that I should perhaps do a few miles on the treadmill, which surely misses me after our few weeks of estrangement (what I am no stranger to right now, however, is the life-saving device developing around the area of my torso). But, as it is one of those days, laziness won over. (On a tangential note, perhaps I should put that in quotes rather than italics. What do you think?)

Sure, there was still a tiny part of my brain that was going “But you need the exercise!! Would you rather let it migrate to your tummy than to burn it to oblivion?”
The other part of my brain, the much stronger, much lazier part, took a baseball bat and whacked this complaining part: “Oh, shut it. She’s going to take a shower and lie around and watch more TV. Capisce?”

Good Brain felt rather upset, not to mention hurt, at the prospect of Body being treated thus. Another thing that Good Brain felt was that something, anything, should happen, to at least put Body into another motion other than sitting down. Body, however, was being commanded by Bad Brain to grab the towel and head for the bathroom.

From the corner of it’s (hers? I’m not sure. I’m speaking in third person about my own body. Please advise me if you know what pronoun is appropriate) eyes, Body thought she saw something…something black and foreign. Body took a better look.

(Actually, let’s switch back to first person. This whole third-person-yet-also-first-person-thing is taxing my brains.)

I let out a curse, or perhaps I didn’t. I don’t clearly recall; it was quite a shocking moment. There was a…….hmm, guess.

I ran three flights of stairs and found a can of Kincho tucked into a discreet corner somewhere near the kitchen doorway. Then I ran back up.

(6 flights of stairs. Good Brain was cheering, though I wouldn’t realize it until my mini-skirmish was over.)

I tiptoed (really!) into the bathroom and eyed my Target. Glad that it hadn’t moved an inch, I reached over and took out my toothbrush (I didn’t want the spray to contaminate it), all the while having my eye on The Target. After putting my toothbrush the safer corners of my room, I returned to the bathroom.


I quickly shut the door. Seriously, we don’t want Target to fly. Target can be very scary when it takes flight.

I could hear Target scrambling against the door. I was disgusted, though I couldn’t wince or curse because all the while I was trying to hold my breath (as to not inhale Kincho).

The scrambling stopped. I decided to let the door open, a little.

Target frantically clambered out. Luckily, it wasn’t flying. The bottle of spray was still in my hand so, instinctively, I pressed. Fumes came out of the nozzle. Target’s HP (clearly I’ve been playing too much games) seemed to drop dramatically.

I grabbed a mop, which was luckily close by, and whacked and whacked and whacked it to, if not oblivion – then very close.

Target moved, then stilled. I finally heaved a breath. Kincho did smell pretty nice.

I kept my eyes on Target’s body for a few more seconds. Satisfied that it’s HP was zero at this point, I tossed away the mop, wiped my brow, then realized that it would be quite a while before I could shower.

As nice as the Kincho smelled, I didn’t want to be inhaling it while showering.

And how does this chemical-ridden, pest-infested story relate to my beliefs in divine forces? Well, I think that I was subconciously praying for exercise. Either that, or He took pity on me (and my body) and realized that I do need exercise after that entire bar of Lindt. Another explanation would be that He might have wanted to punish me for my laziness (is that one of the seven sins?) and hence sent Target to me.

Well, whatever the reason, I got my exercise today, and next time, for safety and sanity measures, I’ll just listen to Good Brain and go run on the treadmill.

January 8, 2009

First Things First

Filed under: Uncategorized — by Ploy @ 2:58 pm

Let’s set up some ground rules/facts here:

1) There is no coherent theme to this blog. This is not a “Food Blog” or a “Fashion Blog” or a “Beauty Blog”. It is a “Random Blog”

2) Topics usually will be drawn from my daily life experiences; however, if you prefer to view my opinion on something specific, say, bungee jumping, do not hesistate to tell me, and I will try to accomodate you. (This accomodation process will go very smoothly if you provide me with the funds needed to do the specific something.)

3) While the language in this blog will usually be mild and safe for the wee ones, I blaspheme quite often, and a string of curses can and will appear when I am extremely angry.

4) I don’t post on a daily basis. Really, what is there to write on days when nothing happens? As exciting as my life is, surely, it does not rain chickens everyday.

5) The name of this blog was thought up by Chaitee T. He told me that perhaps I should compile my notes into a book called “The World According to Ploy”. Today, I’ve had quite a few people suggest that I start a blog, so I took it as a sign from above, and here we are, and that name I chose. You must admit it is waaaaaaaaaay chic-er than “Ploy’s Blog”, less lame than “Ployosophy”, and much more sane than “PLOYPLOYPLOYPLOYPLOYPLOYPLOYPLOYPLOYPLOYPLOYPLOYPLOYPLOY”. Thanks again for the name!

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