The guy -- the one I've been debating over whether or not I should ask out, the one who refuses to ask me out -- FINALLY asked me out. I was on the verge of asking him to coffee, when he asked me. I'm glad he did, not only because it shows he's semi-interested, but also because I don't have to go through the ordeal of asking a guy out.
Now onto obsessing over whether or not he's a freak.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
The solution
"Sometimes I don't even know if I exist," Peter said.
"Oh really?" she replied.
"Really." He slurped his cappuccino. The foam dripped off his upper lip. "You know how I know I exist though?"
"How?" she said, unable to look away from the foam.
"When I walk down the street, people walk around me. Okay sure some bump into me. But it's like, there's this space, and I take it up."
"Wow. That's deep." She looked at him to see if he noticed her sarcasm. He didn't.
"It's so sad," he continued, "sometimes I just go into a random store, and stand in line, just to be somewhere, taking up space. And then when it's my turn in line, it's like the sales person sees me, looks at me, and acknowledges me with a 'Can I help you?' "
"Uh huh."
"It feels so good," he said, taking another sip.
"You need help."
"What?"
"I like kelp," she said.
"I'm so glad you're talking to me though. If it weren't for you, I'd probably jump off a bridge or something."
"Wow, that's really sweet, Peter. Thanks," she said. Then she smiled.
"Yeah," he said smiling. "It's not like I need other humans to know I exist though. When I walk by those automatic doors, they open because there's something there."
"Yeah."
"That something ... is me."
"Yep," she said.
Peter nodded dolefully, staring into his cappuccino. She studied his face for a moment and said, "Peter?"
"Yes?"
"You should totally get a blog."
"Oh really?" she replied.
"Really." He slurped his cappuccino. The foam dripped off his upper lip. "You know how I know I exist though?"
"How?" she said, unable to look away from the foam.
"When I walk down the street, people walk around me. Okay sure some bump into me. But it's like, there's this space, and I take it up."
"Wow. That's deep." She looked at him to see if he noticed her sarcasm. He didn't.
"It's so sad," he continued, "sometimes I just go into a random store, and stand in line, just to be somewhere, taking up space. And then when it's my turn in line, it's like the sales person sees me, looks at me, and acknowledges me with a 'Can I help you?' "
"Uh huh."
"It feels so good," he said, taking another sip.
"You need help."
"What?"
"I like kelp," she said.
"I'm so glad you're talking to me though. If it weren't for you, I'd probably jump off a bridge or something."
"Wow, that's really sweet, Peter. Thanks," she said. Then she smiled.
"Yeah," he said smiling. "It's not like I need other humans to know I exist though. When I walk by those automatic doors, they open because there's something there."
"Yeah."
"That something ... is me."
"Yep," she said.
Peter nodded dolefully, staring into his cappuccino. She studied his face for a moment and said, "Peter?"
"Yes?"
"You should totally get a blog."
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Irrational
Breyer's mint chocolate chip ice cream has:
o a lot of fat
o a lot of sugar
o a negligible amount of nutrition
o mysterious addictive qualities rendering the snacker unable to resist eating more than the serving size of half a cup
I know fat and sugar are bad. I know nutrition is good. I know addiction to fat and sugar is bad. Knowing these facts, I do not understand why a rational human being will continue to buy Breyer's mint chocolate chip ice cream and additionally eat it for fifteen minutes at a time. But for some reason, I can't put my spoon down. Ahh!
o a lot of fat
o a lot of sugar
o a negligible amount of nutrition
o mysterious addictive qualities rendering the snacker unable to resist eating more than the serving size of half a cup
I know fat and sugar are bad. I know nutrition is good. I know addiction to fat and sugar is bad. Knowing these facts, I do not understand why a rational human being will continue to buy Breyer's mint chocolate chip ice cream and additionally eat it for fifteen minutes at a time. But for some reason, I can't put my spoon down. Ahh!
The flight of the nail
I have a nail. I waited until I visited home for the holidays to get this nail. I needed a nail in my studio to hang a calendar my brother bought me. I thought it silly to buy a box of nails for just one nail, when I can just as easily go home, take one, and bring it back with me. As I was wrapping my nail up in a piece of paper (so it doesn't poke into my other things) and placing it inside my bookbag, I realized that if it were to go through the scanner at the airport, the security personnel might freak out over the nail. It is metal. It is sharp. It may be one inch long, but who knows what a person wielding a nail will do on a flight? And I will be on a nonstop flight that spans several hundred miles. Even more suspicious.
So then I opened my luggage bag and found a little compartment and placed the nail in there. Then I remembered that they scan the luggage as well. Would it be more suspicious if they searched my bag, found regular clothes and such, and a random nail? And why was it so suspiciously hidden in a compartment of a suitcase? Why couldn't she just bring it on the flight?
I then thought about writing on the paper wrapping the nail, "Nail for calendar." But then the security personnel will be like, "Why is she going through all the effort of writing 'Nail for calendar'? What calendar? It must be a subterfuge..."
Then I thought, maybe I can tape the nail to the calendar, and put a post-it on the calendar saying, "Nail with calendar. Need to hang calendar." But then I figured that was going a bit overboard and might arouse even more suspicion.
So my current plan is this: I will leave the nail wrapped in paper in the little pocket in my baggage. I won't write "For calendar" on it.
So then I opened my luggage bag and found a little compartment and placed the nail in there. Then I remembered that they scan the luggage as well. Would it be more suspicious if they searched my bag, found regular clothes and such, and a random nail? And why was it so suspiciously hidden in a compartment of a suitcase? Why couldn't she just bring it on the flight?
I then thought about writing on the paper wrapping the nail, "Nail for calendar." But then the security personnel will be like, "Why is she going through all the effort of writing 'Nail for calendar'? What calendar? It must be a subterfuge..."
Then I thought, maybe I can tape the nail to the calendar, and put a post-it on the calendar saying, "Nail with calendar. Need to hang calendar." But then I figured that was going a bit overboard and might arouse even more suspicion.
So my current plan is this: I will leave the nail wrapped in paper in the little pocket in my baggage. I won't write "For calendar" on it.
Sunday, December 25, 2005
He's just not that into me?
I had the displeasure of reading the unapologetically blunt book, "He's Just Not That Into You," by Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo, both of whom were writers of "Sex and the City."
As I began reading the book, I became really depressed. It essentially said that if a guy likes you, he will call, he will ask you out, he will date you. If he doesn't, then he is just not that into you. All those excuses about being busy, being shy, being intimidated, losing your phone number are all just a crock. If a guy really likes you and is busy, he'll make time. If a guy is smitten with you but lost your number, he will find it somehow. All of those excuses are simply lies masking the reality that the guy is not that into you.
Another salient point of the book was that men should ask women out. Period. Greg said that guys don't like it when girls ask them out. The guys who do like it are lazy and you don't want a lazy guy. Men like to pursue women. The authors went even further to say that relationships initiated by the women NEVER WORK OUT. In their admittedly unscientific poll, none of the long-term relationships began with the woman asking the men out first.
The knowledge should have been liberating, but the feeling of rejection is a heavy one. The few guys I've been interested in have neither called me nor asked me out (but they sure love to email me), and so I concluded that those guys were just not that into me. Moreover, the prospect of asking them out seemed unappealing, given that such relationships will be doomed from the start.
The book went on to comfort the rejected reader by saying every other line how fabulous and gorgeous the single female reader is. Somehow, given that Greg and Liz don't know me, their words rang hollow.
I harassed my male friend, The Naysayer, about these ideas, and he told me that the book was a crock. That semi-made me feel better. I then went on Amazon.com to read reviews of the book, and thankfully found some reviews written by men who completely disagreed with the book's premise. A number of men seemed to have married women despite the men's displaying all the I'm-not-that-into-you signals. Some men are so terrified of rejection that they won't ask out a girl even though they do like the girl. And The Naysayer told me he likes it when girls ask him out.
Some brief points I do agree with though:
o If a guy says he doesn't want to get married, believe it. Don't think you can change him.
o If a guy breaks up with you and you fall into this sex-with-the-ex "friendship," get out. Don't think you can lull him back into being your boyfriend.
o If a guy is evasive about the status of your "relationship," take that as a sign.
Okay I could go on. But I won't. It's an interesting book, and I'd recommend it just for discussion purposes. Its harsh perspective however simply does not align with reality.
As I began reading the book, I became really depressed. It essentially said that if a guy likes you, he will call, he will ask you out, he will date you. If he doesn't, then he is just not that into you. All those excuses about being busy, being shy, being intimidated, losing your phone number are all just a crock. If a guy really likes you and is busy, he'll make time. If a guy is smitten with you but lost your number, he will find it somehow. All of those excuses are simply lies masking the reality that the guy is not that into you.
Another salient point of the book was that men should ask women out. Period. Greg said that guys don't like it when girls ask them out. The guys who do like it are lazy and you don't want a lazy guy. Men like to pursue women. The authors went even further to say that relationships initiated by the women NEVER WORK OUT. In their admittedly unscientific poll, none of the long-term relationships began with the woman asking the men out first.
The knowledge should have been liberating, but the feeling of rejection is a heavy one. The few guys I've been interested in have neither called me nor asked me out (but they sure love to email me), and so I concluded that those guys were just not that into me. Moreover, the prospect of asking them out seemed unappealing, given that such relationships will be doomed from the start.
The book went on to comfort the rejected reader by saying every other line how fabulous and gorgeous the single female reader is. Somehow, given that Greg and Liz don't know me, their words rang hollow.
I harassed my male friend, The Naysayer, about these ideas, and he told me that the book was a crock. That semi-made me feel better. I then went on Amazon.com to read reviews of the book, and thankfully found some reviews written by men who completely disagreed with the book's premise. A number of men seemed to have married women despite the men's displaying all the I'm-not-that-into-you signals. Some men are so terrified of rejection that they won't ask out a girl even though they do like the girl. And The Naysayer told me he likes it when girls ask him out.
Some brief points I do agree with though:
o If a guy says he doesn't want to get married, believe it. Don't think you can change him.
o If a guy breaks up with you and you fall into this sex-with-the-ex "friendship," get out. Don't think you can lull him back into being your boyfriend.
o If a guy is evasive about the status of your "relationship," take that as a sign.
Okay I could go on. But I won't. It's an interesting book, and I'd recommend it just for discussion purposes. Its harsh perspective however simply does not align with reality.
I knew this was going to happen.
It was inevitable. But I've jumped on the blog-wagon by taking one of those inane blogthings quizzes.
There was just one question where I couldn't decide between two choices. The question was:
1. You are usually attracted to people who:
a) Are stable, romantic, and cute
b) Are fun and make you laugh
c) Share your goals and values
d) You don't think will hurt you
e) Are your physical type
f) You share a certain chemistry or zing with
I couldn't decide between b and f. So I took the quiz twice, leaving all my answers the same except for this one question. The first result above was due to my choosing f. The second result below was due to my choosing b.
I have no idea how/why those two separate responses make me sound polygamous in the former and monogamous in the latter. I do think I'm more of a "serious dating" girl than a "polyamory" girl.
What's Your Ideal Relationship?
| Your Ideal Relationship is Polyamory |
 You want to have your cake... and everyone else's. Which isn't a bad thing, if everyone else gets to eat too! You're too much of a free spirit to be tied down by a traditional relationship. You think relationships should be open and free, with few restrictions. |
There was just one question where I couldn't decide between two choices. The question was:
1. You are usually attracted to people who:
a) Are stable, romantic, and cute
b) Are fun and make you laugh
c) Share your goals and values
d) You don't think will hurt you
e) Are your physical type
f) You share a certain chemistry or zing with
I couldn't decide between b and f. So I took the quiz twice, leaving all my answers the same except for this one question. The first result above was due to my choosing f. The second result below was due to my choosing b.
| Your Ideal Relationship is Serious Dating |
 You're not ready to go walking down the aisle. But you may be ready in a couple of years. You prefer to date one on one, with a commitment. And while chemistry is important, so is compatibility. |
I have no idea how/why those two separate responses make me sound polygamous in the former and monogamous in the latter. I do think I'm more of a "serious dating" girl than a "polyamory" girl.
What's Your Ideal Relationship?
First Christmas
Today my mother, brother, and I visited my dad. It should not have been too surprising that there were many others who were visiting their loved ones as well. I watched the people, some in random clusters, others alone, hovering over random mounds of grass. I wondered what their stories were.
So we walk to the usual spot, and it's the first time I see my father's name engraved on a steel plate on a flat rock. Grass had already begun growing on what was once fresh earth.
One may say this was our first Christmas without him. But today, we were there. With him.
So we walk to the usual spot, and it's the first time I see my father's name engraved on a steel plate on a flat rock. Grass had already begun growing on what was once fresh earth.
One may say this was our first Christmas without him. But today, we were there. With him.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Seaside Heights, NJ
Today my brother and I went to the shore just to walk along the beach on the boardwalk, browse through the one or two novelty stores that were open, and play a game or two in an arcade. It was a partly cloudy day, hence the muted colors. (Click on the pics to see larger size.)
A couple seagulls waddle on the empty beach.
An old school joint on the boardwalk.
Same picture of old school joint. I like antique looking signs.
Never heard of a hot dog cooked in beer.
Too bad it was closed, because I'm sure that
would've been great for my diet.
Ferris wheel by the Atlantic Ocean.
Where sky meets water and water meets land.
A couple seagulls waddle on the empty beach.
An old school joint on the boardwalk.
Same picture of old school joint. I like antique looking signs.
Never heard of a hot dog cooked in beer.Too bad it was closed, because I'm sure that
would've been great for my diet.
Ferris wheel by the Atlantic Ocean.
Where sky meets water and water meets land.Friday, December 23, 2005
A less than great friend
My girlfriend for the first time in a long time, met a cute, intelligent guy, went on a few dates with him, and finally kissed him just last night. I am extremely happy for her that she is finally getting what she has always deserved.
A truly great friend would be 100% happy for her. I am however only 99%. In the last x months, I have had a total of 2 dates, the last one ending with the guy calling me the wrong name. As I was on the phone with her, gleefully recounting every detail of her wonderful date, I couldn't help but feel somewhat bummed & envious (which is the 1%). I realize that this fact makes me a less than truly great friend, and in fact, a selfish, self-centered friend. But I suppose it's better to come to grips with this fact than pretend otherwise.
A truly great friend would be 100% happy for her. I am however only 99%. In the last x months, I have had a total of 2 dates, the last one ending with the guy calling me the wrong name. As I was on the phone with her, gleefully recounting every detail of her wonderful date, I couldn't help but feel somewhat bummed & envious (which is the 1%). I realize that this fact makes me a less than truly great friend, and in fact, a selfish, self-centered friend. But I suppose it's better to come to grips with this fact than pretend otherwise.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Chivalry lives!
My faith in romance and men overall was reaffirmed when the other day, my guy friend said to me, "I need some advice, Yellow Gal: How do I juggle all my hos?"
What's a dream
My then boyfriend once told me about a dream he had. He was walking through Hell when he came before a great hall. In the great hall was one large throne flanked by legions of demons and the wailing damned. And on the throne was ... me. Yellow Gal.
"What are you doing here?" he asked me.
"Oh, yeah. I'm the devil," I said lackadaisically on my throne, "You know, Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub."
"Really? I never knew that."
"Believe it."
"Okay," he said. And that was the dream.
Needless to say, we didn't work out.
"What are you doing here?" he asked me.
"Oh, yeah. I'm the devil," I said lackadaisically on my throne, "You know, Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub."
"Really? I never knew that."
"Believe it."
"Okay," he said. And that was the dream.
Needless to say, we didn't work out.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
A yellow gal
To avoid the consequences of having an expired driver's license, I decided to go to the Department of Transportation to renew it. As I waited for my number to be called, I looked around the room and marveled at how diverse the other people in the waiting room were.
I thought to myself, "Wow, I'm the only white person here."
I then remembered that I was not, in fact, white, and realized how white-washed I had become. This conclusion was further supported when I later caught myself in the car singing along to Hootie and the Blowfish.
Must remind myself, I am a yellow gal.
I thought to myself, "Wow, I'm the only white person here."
I then remembered that I was not, in fact, white, and realized how white-washed I had become. This conclusion was further supported when I later caught myself in the car singing along to Hootie and the Blowfish.
Must remind myself, I am a yellow gal.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
The dangers of online dating
There are many dangers of online dating. The most obvious is the possibility of encountering some psychotic stalker or serial killer. Then there is the more innocuous yet still disturbing danger of encountering the deceptive man who posts a remarkably flattering picture of himself, when in reality he clearly is not Brad Pitt's long lost twin brother. But the danger I speak of is not as grave nor as serious, yet perhaps the most common among online daters.
I'm talking about built up expectations.
As far as I know, the online dating process goes as follows:
1) One encounters the guy's profile and picture.
2) One exchanges flirtatious emails with the guy.
3) One speaks with the guy on the telephone.
4) One finally meets the guy.
Right now, I'm in stage 2: exchanging semi-flirty emails. I've given the guy my cell phone number, which he refuses to call. Yet he continues to email me which means he is minimally interested. He still hasn't asked me out. At this point, I've decided I will ask him to coffee. But since I'm on holiday at the moment, I won't be able to ask him for over a week. So this leaves me with just his witty emails, his online profile, and his picture.
Since I was a young child, I've had a very imaginative and semi-ADD mind. So it should not be a surprise to the reader that I've extrapolated a three-dimensional image of this guy from his (very cute) picture, or more specifically, his face atop his self-described lean body. I imagine being with him, dating him, and yes, even kissing him. And I haven't even met the guy yet. This is ridiculous.
Below is a quote that warns against precisely this thing:
This is all happening despite my having gone through this before with my last online date. I'm irritating myself with my nonsensical stupidity.
I'm talking about built up expectations.
As far as I know, the online dating process goes as follows:
1) One encounters the guy's profile and picture.
2) One exchanges flirtatious emails with the guy.
3) One speaks with the guy on the telephone.
4) One finally meets the guy.
Right now, I'm in stage 2: exchanging semi-flirty emails. I've given the guy my cell phone number, which he refuses to call. Yet he continues to email me which means he is minimally interested. He still hasn't asked me out. At this point, I've decided I will ask him to coffee. But since I'm on holiday at the moment, I won't be able to ask him for over a week. So this leaves me with just his witty emails, his online profile, and his picture.
Since I was a young child, I've had a very imaginative and semi-ADD mind. So it should not be a surprise to the reader that I've extrapolated a three-dimensional image of this guy from his (very cute) picture, or more specifically, his face atop his self-described lean body. I imagine being with him, dating him, and yes, even kissing him. And I haven't even met the guy yet. This is ridiculous.
Below is a quote that warns against precisely this thing:
Don't fall in love with an e-mailMs. Eschner might as well have started it with "Dear Yellow Gal." It's so easy to say, "Don't feel X." But to actually obey that commandment is not so easy.
Too often, people think they've fallen in love with someone through e-mail or over the phone before they even meet. People have actually quit their jobs and moved cross-country to be with someone without once meeting face-to-face—that's not advisable! Face it: Your mind can conjure up lots of romantic notions when you're reading these wonderful e-mails—but nothing replaces that face-to-face meeting. Do you feel a physical connection or not? It's that elusive spark of attraction that separates great friends from lovers. Make sure it's there before you let your fantasy override reality.
—Eva Eschner, author of Virtual Foreplay: Making Your Online Relationship a Real-Life Success
This is all happening despite my having gone through this before with my last online date. I'm irritating myself with my nonsensical stupidity.
Dinner in a diner
My mom was telling me about a time when it was just she and my dad. It was the early 70s. They were leaving their crappy apartment in South Central LA to drive their crappy Volkswagen Bug to a crappy basement apartment in Queens, NY.
This meant they had to drive through the Midwest.
Now there are some areas of the country that even today I am afraid to visit. I can't imagine my parents, my fresh off the boat parents, stopping for dinner in a diner in the rural Midwest in the early 70s.
They were in Kansas or some nearby state. The moment they walked in the door, everyone turned around and stared at them. (At this point in the story, I imagined the needle slipping off the record in the corner jukebox.) Everyone literally gaped at them, their eyes bulging. Forks dropped from petrified hands onto plates. As my parents made their way to a table, Caucasian eyes and heads followed.
"It was so uncomfortable," my mom said.
"You don't say," I replied.
They had no problems thankfully. They simply ate their meal awkwardly as the entire diner blatantly stared at the Orientals seen only on TV or in newspapers.
It was just another dinner in a diner in the good ol' U.S. of A.
This meant they had to drive through the Midwest.
Now there are some areas of the country that even today I am afraid to visit. I can't imagine my parents, my fresh off the boat parents, stopping for dinner in a diner in the rural Midwest in the early 70s.
They were in Kansas or some nearby state. The moment they walked in the door, everyone turned around and stared at them. (At this point in the story, I imagined the needle slipping off the record in the corner jukebox.) Everyone literally gaped at them, their eyes bulging. Forks dropped from petrified hands onto plates. As my parents made their way to a table, Caucasian eyes and heads followed.
"It was so uncomfortable," my mom said.
"You don't say," I replied.
They had no problems thankfully. They simply ate their meal awkwardly as the entire diner blatantly stared at the Orientals seen only on TV or in newspapers.
It was just another dinner in a diner in the good ol' U.S. of A.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Just some free time
I understand that if I were to rant about every single instance of nonsensical stupidity in this blog, I would: (a) never leave the house, and (b) create a blog so enormous that the entire blogger server would crash. So to save myself from the dangers of hermitude and the world from bloglessness, I only rant about one out of every billion instances of nonsensical stupidity. The following rant is of just one such instance.
I am in the airport terminal, retrieving my ticket and checking in my luggage. I dutifully show them my driver's license at which point they nod and usher my bag onto the appropriate conveyor belt. I then wait in one of three lines for the security checkpoint, where they scan one's carry-on luggage and one walks through that door-frame-like scanner. I naturally choose the slowest line.
When the security personnel asks for my ID, I again produce my driver's license. She studies it for five minutes. Then she asks me if I have any other form of picture ID. I open my wallet uselessly, pretend to look for the nonexistent form of additional ID, and say "no."
"Well," she says in her sagely, authoritative voice, "your driver's license expired on December 12, and it's December 16. You need to go through extra security clearance."
I look at her. "Right," I say nodding, "naturally, the moment my license expired, I magically transformed into someone other than Yellow Gal. Even though my license bears my name and a picture that looks exactly like me, it's possible that I am no longer me because four days ago, my license expired."
She looks at me and blinks, clearly not getting it.
"And if I were a terrorist, of course I would choose to forge an expired driver's license because I want to draw attention to myself. You know, Ms. Airport Security Personnel--you're a fucking genius. You should work for the FBI." At that point, her head explodes with overwhelming logic and I frolic in her demise.
Of course, none of this happens.
Instead, I am nudged to a special security line where I am molested with a wand and a latex gloved hand, and where I endure the public humiliation that inevitably accompanies having to take off one's shoes and realizing one decided to wear the sock with the huge gaping hole over the unpedicured left big toe.
I love nonsensical stupidity. Without it, what would we do with all our free time in airports?
I am in the airport terminal, retrieving my ticket and checking in my luggage. I dutifully show them my driver's license at which point they nod and usher my bag onto the appropriate conveyor belt. I then wait in one of three lines for the security checkpoint, where they scan one's carry-on luggage and one walks through that door-frame-like scanner. I naturally choose the slowest line.
When the security personnel asks for my ID, I again produce my driver's license. She studies it for five minutes. Then she asks me if I have any other form of picture ID. I open my wallet uselessly, pretend to look for the nonexistent form of additional ID, and say "no."
"Well," she says in her sagely, authoritative voice, "your driver's license expired on December 12, and it's December 16. You need to go through extra security clearance."
I look at her. "Right," I say nodding, "naturally, the moment my license expired, I magically transformed into someone other than Yellow Gal. Even though my license bears my name and a picture that looks exactly like me, it's possible that I am no longer me because four days ago, my license expired."
She looks at me and blinks, clearly not getting it.
"And if I were a terrorist, of course I would choose to forge an expired driver's license because I want to draw attention to myself. You know, Ms. Airport Security Personnel--you're a fucking genius. You should work for the FBI." At that point, her head explodes with overwhelming logic and I frolic in her demise.
Of course, none of this happens.
Instead, I am nudged to a special security line where I am molested with a wand and a latex gloved hand, and where I endure the public humiliation that inevitably accompanies having to take off one's shoes and realizing one decided to wear the sock with the huge gaping hole over the unpedicured left big toe.
I love nonsensical stupidity. Without it, what would we do with all our free time in airports?
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Jennifer
Jennifer was not a remarkably pretty girl, but I remember the first time I saw her in third grade. She wore glittery stars in her hair. I later learned she had moved just a block from my house.
Throughout middle school and high school, we were friendly acquaintances at best. We were invited to each other's parties, but only because we had so many mutual friends. For as long as I can remember, I always liked to write, whether it be stories or essays. In school, I received good grades on my writing, as I suppose I did consistently good work. But Jennifer--she was consistently brilliant.
We were in the same English honors class senior year, and occasionally the teacher would ask the well-written pieces to be read in front of class. I had the opportunity to do so once or twice, but I remember Jennifer reading one of her essays. It was so artfully worded, so perfectly written, that after she finished reading, the class literally sat there for a few seconds in silent awe.
As an adult, I remember reading something Jennifer had written as a sixth grader. It was only three paragraphs long, but it was something I couldn't even write right now. She was brilliant, even then as a 12-year-old child.
Coincidentally we attended the same college, and again remained casual acquaintances at best (meaning that our relationship consisted of saying "hi" if we saw each other in the hall). Oddly enough, I never really felt jealous of Jennifer, nor did I ever feel there was any competition. There was no contest--she was clearly a genius. I suppose it was more like a quiet, admiring acceptance. Other than passing by her in the hallway, I encountered her in campus newspapers. Jennifer entered numerous writing contests ... and won every one. She received national awards from the likes of John Irving. It didn't surprise me in the least.
And so that was several years ago. A mutual friend updated me on Jennifer. She's working a normal 9 to 5 job and self-described herself as a "struggling writer." I can't believe she hasn't published at least three books by now, or hasn't guest starred on Oprah yet, or isn't teaching writing at a prestigious university. I know it's just a matter of time before she's "discovered." And when the world applauds her genius, I'll be there saying "Told you so."
Throughout middle school and high school, we were friendly acquaintances at best. We were invited to each other's parties, but only because we had so many mutual friends. For as long as I can remember, I always liked to write, whether it be stories or essays. In school, I received good grades on my writing, as I suppose I did consistently good work. But Jennifer--she was consistently brilliant.
We were in the same English honors class senior year, and occasionally the teacher would ask the well-written pieces to be read in front of class. I had the opportunity to do so once or twice, but I remember Jennifer reading one of her essays. It was so artfully worded, so perfectly written, that after she finished reading, the class literally sat there for a few seconds in silent awe.
As an adult, I remember reading something Jennifer had written as a sixth grader. It was only three paragraphs long, but it was something I couldn't even write right now. She was brilliant, even then as a 12-year-old child.
Coincidentally we attended the same college, and again remained casual acquaintances at best (meaning that our relationship consisted of saying "hi" if we saw each other in the hall). Oddly enough, I never really felt jealous of Jennifer, nor did I ever feel there was any competition. There was no contest--she was clearly a genius. I suppose it was more like a quiet, admiring acceptance. Other than passing by her in the hallway, I encountered her in campus newspapers. Jennifer entered numerous writing contests ... and won every one. She received national awards from the likes of John Irving. It didn't surprise me in the least.
And so that was several years ago. A mutual friend updated me on Jennifer. She's working a normal 9 to 5 job and self-described herself as a "struggling writer." I can't believe she hasn't published at least three books by now, or hasn't guest starred on Oprah yet, or isn't teaching writing at a prestigious university. I know it's just a matter of time before she's "discovered." And when the world applauds her genius, I'll be there saying "Told you so."
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
The nicest catcall
Like any other female with remotely visible boobs and two legs, I've been subjected to strange men's catcalls. There are the usual "hey baby" or "hi sexy"--very unoriginal and cliche, I must say. Then there are the very lewd comments, bordering on pornographic, like "I wanna **** **** ******** **** ***!" (No, those *'s don't really spell anything.)
I think the nicest random comment I got on the street occurred on a rainy day. I was walking through Times Square with my umbrella after work, brushing by the rush hour sidewalk traffic, when for a moment I made eye contact with a random man. Obviously, when you're looking straight ahead, you're bound to make eye contact with some random people. At any rate, I continued walking when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see it was the same gentleman I had just made eye contact with.
"Hi there," he said, "I just want to say that I just walked by you and I think you're very beautiful."
I involuntarily smiled and said, "Oh... thank you."
He shook my hand and said, "Hi, I'm Tony. May I ask what your name is?"
"Yellow Gal," I responded.
"Well, it's nice meeting you Yellow Gal. I just wanted to let you know how I felt."
"Thank you," I said. And then I smiled and continued to walk away. There was nothing more to be said. He wasn't bad looking either. But I had a boyfriend at the time. Still, it was the nicest thing a stranger has ever said to me.
I think the nicest random comment I got on the street occurred on a rainy day. I was walking through Times Square with my umbrella after work, brushing by the rush hour sidewalk traffic, when for a moment I made eye contact with a random man. Obviously, when you're looking straight ahead, you're bound to make eye contact with some random people. At any rate, I continued walking when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see it was the same gentleman I had just made eye contact with.
"Hi there," he said, "I just want to say that I just walked by you and I think you're very beautiful."
I involuntarily smiled and said, "Oh... thank you."
He shook my hand and said, "Hi, I'm Tony. May I ask what your name is?"
"Yellow Gal," I responded.
"Well, it's nice meeting you Yellow Gal. I just wanted to let you know how I felt."
"Thank you," I said. And then I smiled and continued to walk away. There was nothing more to be said. He wasn't bad looking either. But I had a boyfriend at the time. Still, it was the nicest thing a stranger has ever said to me.
Michael Moore
has got balls. I just saw "Bowling for Columbine." Whether you hate him or love him, you've gotta give him credit for asking the blunt questions he unflinchingly asks.
The movie also brought up an interesting question: Why is there such a great disparity in the number of gun-related murders in the U.S. vs. Canada, despite both countries having comparable demographics, numbers of sold guns, levels of poverty, and exposure to violent television, movies, and video games? What the heck makes the U.S. so frigging violent?
I found amusing how people in Toronto freely admitted to the camera that they left their front doors unlocked--which to me is absolutely unheard of. Michael Moore then tested these statements by going to a Toronto neighboorhood and randomly opening front doors of houses. And, amazingly enough, the doors were all unlocked. Crazy!
The movie also brought up an interesting question: Why is there such a great disparity in the number of gun-related murders in the U.S. vs. Canada, despite both countries having comparable demographics, numbers of sold guns, levels of poverty, and exposure to violent television, movies, and video games? What the heck makes the U.S. so frigging violent?
I found amusing how people in Toronto freely admitted to the camera that they left their front doors unlocked--which to me is absolutely unheard of. Michael Moore then tested these statements by going to a Toronto neighboorhood and randomly opening front doors of houses. And, amazingly enough, the doors were all unlocked. Crazy!
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
"Home"
I'm going home soon. Not my apartment, but the home I lived in for most of my life. I still call it "home" even though I haven't lived there for about ten years. It's still so clear to me though.
Every time I come home, the kitchen floor is unbearably cold. This is why my mother keeps a hideously colorful pair of Asian slippers by the threshold of the kitchen. There are large jars of curious concoctions on counters and on the floor. When I open the refrigerator, I see similarly mysterious glass jars on each row. I push them aside to find the recognizable can of soda or carton of juice. Above the sink is a modest window that overlooks a large yard. Right now there is probably a blanket of white snow concealing the yellowed grass and weeds beneath. The house is always cold because my mother is bent on saving on electricity and gas.
Every time I come home, I can't tell if the house feels bigger or smaller than when I last visited. It is exactly the same, but at the same time slightly different. When I'm in my studio apartment and have trouble sleeping, I close my eyes and imagine myself in my house. I float in through the front doors, up the carpeted stairs into the hallway, into my bedroom, last door on the right. The wallpaper--the same as when we first moved in--is charmingly gaudy with its orange, white, and pink flowers. My bed is always freezing cold but after a few minutes, it becomes very very warm. I lie on my right side, close my eyes, and envision that the old dresser is in front of me, one of the windows is behind me, and, behind the wall against which my bed rests, I can discern the unmistakable rumble of my father's snoring.
It is so clear in my mind's eye that I almost forget that I am over 700 miles away, that I'm really inside a tiny studio, living alone in a very large city where pickpockets abound. I don't mind the occasional noise of my upstairs or next door neighbors in the building. There's a quiet comfort in the sound of people creaking upstairs or talking in the hallway. It's nice to know you're not alone.
Every time I come home, the kitchen floor is unbearably cold. This is why my mother keeps a hideously colorful pair of Asian slippers by the threshold of the kitchen. There are large jars of curious concoctions on counters and on the floor. When I open the refrigerator, I see similarly mysterious glass jars on each row. I push them aside to find the recognizable can of soda or carton of juice. Above the sink is a modest window that overlooks a large yard. Right now there is probably a blanket of white snow concealing the yellowed grass and weeds beneath. The house is always cold because my mother is bent on saving on electricity and gas.
Every time I come home, I can't tell if the house feels bigger or smaller than when I last visited. It is exactly the same, but at the same time slightly different. When I'm in my studio apartment and have trouble sleeping, I close my eyes and imagine myself in my house. I float in through the front doors, up the carpeted stairs into the hallway, into my bedroom, last door on the right. The wallpaper--the same as when we first moved in--is charmingly gaudy with its orange, white, and pink flowers. My bed is always freezing cold but after a few minutes, it becomes very very warm. I lie on my right side, close my eyes, and envision that the old dresser is in front of me, one of the windows is behind me, and, behind the wall against which my bed rests, I can discern the unmistakable rumble of my father's snoring.
It is so clear in my mind's eye that I almost forget that I am over 700 miles away, that I'm really inside a tiny studio, living alone in a very large city where pickpockets abound. I don't mind the occasional noise of my upstairs or next door neighbors in the building. There's a quiet comfort in the sound of people creaking upstairs or talking in the hallway. It's nice to know you're not alone.
Monday, December 12, 2005
My birthday
I just turned...um...a late-twenty-something number this past weekend. Even though I am "officially" in my late twenties, I still feel like I'm 23 or 24. That is until I meet an actual 23 or 24 year-old, with their unjaded hopefulness, youthful skin, and unfurrowed brows.
As we all left this very loud club this weekend, we were complaining like old ladies, like "That music was so loud!" and "My feet hurt!"
The descent into menopause begins...
As we all left this very loud club this weekend, we were complaining like old ladies, like "That music was so loud!" and "My feet hurt!"
The descent into menopause begins...
Friday, December 09, 2005
What was the question?
I was having a conversation with my very good friend last night. I was seeking his advice on how to get a guy to ask me out. His response: "Ask him out."
I proceed to tell him that I am incapable of asking a guy out because 1) I'm a wuss, 2) I fear rejection, and 3) I believe that men are repelled by aggressive women who ask men out.
He summarily dismissed the latter two reasons and added a new reason #2: Yellow Gal is irrational. He insisted that men like a woman who takes charge, who makes the move, who knows what she wants and goes for it, "The Rules" be damned.
"But wait," I responded, "doesn't that turn the guy off? Don't men want to pursue rather than be pursued?"
"Bull shit. You're a wuss."
"But Cosmo said--"
"Cosmo is bull shit."
"Okay so I'm a wuss. Now how do I get a guy to ask me out?"
"You will end up old and alone because you are paralyzed by your fear of rejection. Fine. Have fun in your nursing home as a spinster with your nine cats."
"Uh--"
"While you're at it, never pursue any dream, never apply for that promotion, and continue to waste away in your cesspool of self-doubt, fear, and stagnation..."
[Okay he didn't really say this word for word, but that's what he meant.]
He continued, "...Forego any and all hope of pursuing anything that might make you happy because you might [gasp] be rejected. If you and this guy don't end up going out, you'll have no one to blame but yourself."
At this point, I'm getting annoyed by his condescending self-righteousness, but naturally I have no comeback.
So that's the tough-love-advice my friend gave me. And still the question remains: How do I get a guy to ask me out?
I proceed to tell him that I am incapable of asking a guy out because 1) I'm a wuss, 2) I fear rejection, and 3) I believe that men are repelled by aggressive women who ask men out.
He summarily dismissed the latter two reasons and added a new reason #2: Yellow Gal is irrational. He insisted that men like a woman who takes charge, who makes the move, who knows what she wants and goes for it, "The Rules" be damned.
"But wait," I responded, "doesn't that turn the guy off? Don't men want to pursue rather than be pursued?"
"Bull shit. You're a wuss."
"But Cosmo said--"
"Cosmo is bull shit."
"Okay so I'm a wuss. Now how do I get a guy to ask me out?"
"You will end up old and alone because you are paralyzed by your fear of rejection. Fine. Have fun in your nursing home as a spinster with your nine cats."
"Uh--"
"While you're at it, never pursue any dream, never apply for that promotion, and continue to waste away in your cesspool of self-doubt, fear, and stagnation..."
[Okay he didn't really say this word for word, but that's what he meant.]
He continued, "...Forego any and all hope of pursuing anything that might make you happy because you might [gasp] be rejected. If you and this guy don't end up going out, you'll have no one to blame but yourself."
At this point, I'm getting annoyed by his condescending self-righteousness, but naturally I have no comeback.
So that's the tough-love-advice my friend gave me. And still the question remains: How do I get a guy to ask me out?
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Stupid people
Once upon a time, I was on the phone with a Sprint customer service representative. He asked me for my address. After I gave him my street address, he asked me for the city. "New York City," I replied. He said, "Okay I should know this, but what state?"
Even though I am agnostic, I believe in the tenets of evolution, more specifically, in natural selection. So it poses quite a mystery to me as to how stupid people have managed to survive for thousands and thousands of years. They have survived countless plagues, wars, and famines. Yet they don't know how to tie their shoelaces.
So all of this first leads me to believe that stupid people serve some purpose in the natural order (whether it be created by God, concocted by the "superman," or sprung from chaos). Without stupid people, what would the world be? What would all the smart and average people do with their time? What will happen to that grand old sport of banging your head on bricks for fun? And who will serve as the next guest on Jerry Springer?
Or MAYBE all this knowledge and education is irrelevant to evolution. If you are capable of coitus, then that is sufficient to propagate the species. All this nonsense about New York and 1 + 1 equaling 2 is simply unnecessary.
At any rate, the prevalence of stupid people will never cease to amaze me. When someone gives his real name to a bank teller while robbing a bank or when someone thinks that his credit limit on his credit card is "free money," I am born anew in the wonders of evolution's creation.
Necessary caveats:
1) My labeling the Sprint representative one of those "stupid people" may be tainted by his incompetence and inability to assist me in any shape, way, or form. He might have been in fact a genius.
2) I know there are other cities called New York. But should one possess the ever-so-rare ability to understand probability, one may make the educated guess that the individual is referring to New York, New York, the largest city in the U.S., and not New York, Georgia, which I don't think the Sprint rep was grappling with.
3) I am aware of the brain fart, which afflicts even the most brilliant of minds. e.g. Dude with an IQ of 200 tells himself fifteen times before he leaves the apartment, "Don't forget your car keys." Dude forgets the car keys. Brain fart.
Even though I am agnostic, I believe in the tenets of evolution, more specifically, in natural selection. So it poses quite a mystery to me as to how stupid people have managed to survive for thousands and thousands of years. They have survived countless plagues, wars, and famines. Yet they don't know how to tie their shoelaces.
So all of this first leads me to believe that stupid people serve some purpose in the natural order (whether it be created by God, concocted by the "superman," or sprung from chaos). Without stupid people, what would the world be? What would all the smart and average people do with their time? What will happen to that grand old sport of banging your head on bricks for fun? And who will serve as the next guest on Jerry Springer?
Or MAYBE all this knowledge and education is irrelevant to evolution. If you are capable of coitus, then that is sufficient to propagate the species. All this nonsense about New York and 1 + 1 equaling 2 is simply unnecessary.
At any rate, the prevalence of stupid people will never cease to amaze me. When someone gives his real name to a bank teller while robbing a bank or when someone thinks that his credit limit on his credit card is "free money," I am born anew in the wonders of evolution's creation.
Necessary caveats:
1) My labeling the Sprint representative one of those "stupid people" may be tainted by his incompetence and inability to assist me in any shape, way, or form. He might have been in fact a genius.
2) I know there are other cities called New York. But should one possess the ever-so-rare ability to understand probability, one may make the educated guess that the individual is referring to New York, New York, the largest city in the U.S., and not New York, Georgia, which I don't think the Sprint rep was grappling with.
3) I am aware of the brain fart, which afflicts even the most brilliant of minds. e.g. Dude with an IQ of 200 tells himself fifteen times before he leaves the apartment, "Don't forget your car keys." Dude forgets the car keys. Brain fart.
Bloggy
You know you're way too bloggy when you see something peculiar in the street and the first thing you think to yourself is "This should totally go into my blog!"
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Plain Jane
Jane was good at a lot of things. But she was very good at only three things. They were:
1) Holding her breath. Four minutes and three seconds was her personal best.
2) Bowling. Her average was a 230.
3) Pretending to be happy. Or more specifically, pretending to not be miserable.
Yes Jane was very good at pretending to be happy. She mastered the art of delightful small talk. Her craft was honed during countless elevator rides and drunken office parties. When people asked about her job, her family, or her life overall, she simply affixed her perfect smile and recited her well-rehearsed soliloquy on how fucking happy she was.
Even with her "close friends," Jane was ostensibly happy. She pretended to ooh and aah over her friends' work woes, their new boyfriends, or the new cashmere sweaters they bought at Bloomingdale's. Their conversations were more like empty noises than real conversations. The more she spoke about herself, the more hollow her chest felt.
And every night, she would come home to her empty, spotless apartment, jog on her treadmill for an hour, shower, and make herself a turkey rye sandwich. Then without fail, she would cry for about two hours. Afterwards, she would wipe her eyes, brush her teeth, wash her face, and go to bed.
It was all very routine. The cycle would repeat the next morning. And repeat. Jane took a special pride in this gift she had, the gift to pretend.
That was until one day. One point five hours into her nightly crying spell, there was a soft knock at the door. She grabbed a tissue and opened the door with a "what?"
There was a man there. "Are you okay?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, covering her blotchy face with her tissue.
"Okay. I was just leaving my buddy's apartment and heard you and just wanted to make sure everything was all right."
"I'm fine," she said.
"You don't seem fine," he pressed.
"I'm fine," she repeated. "Um, I'm just going to get back to--"
"Get back to crying?" he said. She looked at him. Did he just smirk?
"I'm Jared by the way. May I ask your name?"
She was not obligated to give her name to a completely random stranger, but she did. "Jane," she said, "Plain Jane." He blinked at her. God, why did she get Tourette's whenever a not-so-ugly guy spoke to her?
"Hi Jane," he said.
"Okay gotta go bye," she said closing the door on his smirk.
She went back to her couch and box of tissues to resume crying. She still had twenty-five minutes left. She sat there and waited. Nothing happened.
"Goddamn it," she muttered to herself. Goddamn that smirk. That guy. What's his name. Jared.
1) Holding her breath. Four minutes and three seconds was her personal best.
2) Bowling. Her average was a 230.
3) Pretending to be happy. Or more specifically, pretending to not be miserable.
Yes Jane was very good at pretending to be happy. She mastered the art of delightful small talk. Her craft was honed during countless elevator rides and drunken office parties. When people asked about her job, her family, or her life overall, she simply affixed her perfect smile and recited her well-rehearsed soliloquy on how fucking happy she was.
Even with her "close friends," Jane was ostensibly happy. She pretended to ooh and aah over her friends' work woes, their new boyfriends, or the new cashmere sweaters they bought at Bloomingdale's. Their conversations were more like empty noises than real conversations. The more she spoke about herself, the more hollow her chest felt.
And every night, she would come home to her empty, spotless apartment, jog on her treadmill for an hour, shower, and make herself a turkey rye sandwich. Then without fail, she would cry for about two hours. Afterwards, she would wipe her eyes, brush her teeth, wash her face, and go to bed.
It was all very routine. The cycle would repeat the next morning. And repeat. Jane took a special pride in this gift she had, the gift to pretend.
That was until one day. One point five hours into her nightly crying spell, there was a soft knock at the door. She grabbed a tissue and opened the door with a "what?"
There was a man there. "Are you okay?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, covering her blotchy face with her tissue.
"Okay. I was just leaving my buddy's apartment and heard you and just wanted to make sure everything was all right."
"I'm fine," she said.
"You don't seem fine," he pressed.
"I'm fine," she repeated. "Um, I'm just going to get back to--"
"Get back to crying?" he said. She looked at him. Did he just smirk?
"I'm Jared by the way. May I ask your name?"
She was not obligated to give her name to a completely random stranger, but she did. "Jane," she said, "Plain Jane." He blinked at her. God, why did she get Tourette's whenever a not-so-ugly guy spoke to her?
"Hi Jane," he said.
"Okay gotta go bye," she said closing the door on his smirk.
She went back to her couch and box of tissues to resume crying. She still had twenty-five minutes left. She sat there and waited. Nothing happened.
"Goddamn it," she muttered to herself. Goddamn that smirk. That guy. What's his name. Jared.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
I am a white swan
I checked my email and saw that one online dude emailed me. He was ridiculously old and unattractive so I naturally clicked on his profile to check him out. He described himself and his perfect mate as follows (and incidentally, he is white):
I am very romantic, very peaceful and a very mature person and think very rationally. I am very respectful of ladies. I adore Asian woman and I think they are the most beautiful creations in this world and they are the gift of God (if there was any God) to the men of this world. I love them and would do any thing for my dream Asian Angel, with the long black hair. I have traveled to over 93 countries all around the world, and I find Asian women are the most beautiful, delicate, softest, most romantic, very loyal, warm hearted, most catering to man and very, very ... "Hot". An Asian Lady to me is like a white swan in a calm and beautiful lake Geneva, like a ballerina of dreams in the best Russian Ballet in St. Peters Burge, the most beautiful and aromatic rose in the Garden of Eden, like the aroma of the pink “Plumeria” (Hawaiian flower), and with free spirits like the snow covered peaks of mount Kilimanjaro. An Asian Lady is my DREAM WOMAN, and I will not rest until my dreams come true. “WOULD YOU WALK TO MY DREAM", you Asian Angel? Yes you! I mean you, reading these words! Could you be the one to make my dreams come to a reality? Will you be my lifetime partner? You never know? Why don’t you contact me?????
-------------
OKAY, in all seriousness, is this dude for real? It is so utterly ridiculous that I think it's a joke. I almost want to email him and be like, "Is this a joke?"
If it isn't a joke, then I am most flattered that I am someone's dream woman / white swan / most beautiful creation / dream come true.
I am very romantic, very peaceful and a very mature person and think very rationally. I am very respectful of ladies. I adore Asian woman and I think they are the most beautiful creations in this world and they are the gift of God (if there was any God) to the men of this world. I love them and would do any thing for my dream Asian Angel, with the long black hair. I have traveled to over 93 countries all around the world, and I find Asian women are the most beautiful, delicate, softest, most romantic, very loyal, warm hearted, most catering to man and very, very ... "Hot". An Asian Lady to me is like a white swan in a calm and beautiful lake Geneva, like a ballerina of dreams in the best Russian Ballet in St. Peters Burge, the most beautiful and aromatic rose in the Garden of Eden, like the aroma of the pink “Plumeria” (Hawaiian flower), and with free spirits like the snow covered peaks of mount Kilimanjaro. An Asian Lady is my DREAM WOMAN, and I will not rest until my dreams come true. “WOULD YOU WALK TO MY DREAM", you Asian Angel? Yes you! I mean you, reading these words! Could you be the one to make my dreams come to a reality? Will you be my lifetime partner? You never know? Why don’t you contact me?????
-------------
OKAY, in all seriousness, is this dude for real? It is so utterly ridiculous that I think it's a joke. I almost want to email him and be like, "Is this a joke?"
If it isn't a joke, then I am most flattered that I am someone's dream woman / white swan / most beautiful creation / dream come true.
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