Wednesday, December 27, 2006


I've been chillin' like a villain with my mom, my bro, and the two resident kittens (one of which is Billy, hater of baths) in the idyllic burb I grew up in. I think my mom really enjoys taking care of two kittens. As she has indicated to both me and my bro, she really wants grandchildren. I suppose the kitties will have to serve as surrogates.

So for the last week, I have literally been doing nothing. And it's great. Sleeping 11 hours a day, surfing the web, reading for pleasure, watching DVDs, jogging in the park, and eating artery-clogging, unhealthy food. It makes me wonder why the phrase "lazy bum" has such a negative connotation, when in reality, it is a magnificent lifestyle. At least, a magnificent reprieve from the mound of work that awaits me in my office in the Big Big City.

Yet as the day of my return approaches, I feel the weight of the work that was due last month press upon me. I resisted checking my work email until this afternoon. Nothing of note, thank goodness.

So this has been my week off. Time to turn the work dial to "on."

Monday, December 25, 2006

The Bath

Billy the cat did not want to be bathed. He was going to be bathed and he knew as much, but he really did not want to be bathed. In particular, he did not want to be submerged in a bin of lukewarm water where two hands would violate him in the most violating way by rubbing anti-flea shampoo into his coat and rinsing it.

Billy knew it was a day of The Bath as soon as he heard the sounds of a faucet turning on and water running into a bin. Two familiar arms wrapped around his body and lifted him up. There ain't no way, Billy thought to himself, ain't no way! The Bath was as inevitable as a trip to the litter box, but he knew he had to at least try to escape. And so, as the splashing sound of running water became too much to bear, Billy made a break for it.

Exhibiting super-feline strength, he pried apart the arms that held him and immediately climbed the shoulders of the person carrying him, ears fully perked, whiskers fully raised. This is it, he though, his heart thumping in his perked ears, my escape! Yet before he could pounce off the shoulders into the great beyond, the hands firmly grasped his flank, and repositioned him. And before he knew it, he felt the sickening sensation of warm water surrounding his hind legs and he realized with horror that he was in The Bath.

As warm water tricked down his back and ran down his shoulders, he never stopped trying to escape his foamy fate. He nudged his nose through the curtain of the bathtub, his eyes blinking wildly, hoping that he could escape the two hands that held him firmly in his bath. But each time he stretched his neck, the hand would pull him back to The Bath, the warm, sudsy bath where an unintelligible voice would speak to him, words of another species that, for the time being, he hated so much for subjecting him to the indignity of wet fur and artificially fragrant anti-flea shampoo.

Indeed, Billy hated The Bath. Yet afterwards, he would be lifted into a soft white towel where he was tousled and was allowed to run freely and compose himself by properly grooming the feline fro The Bath undoubtedly created.

No hard feelings, Billy thought to himself as he licked his left paw. They do it because they care. Another lick to the paw.

Plus, next time, I will escape.

Sunday, December 17, 2006

It's a lovely river in Egypt

I looked in the mirror the other day and saw that I looked like an old woman, one of those old Asian women with the plastic bags who hunch over their slippers and crouch on the sidewalk with their hands linked behind their backs. I contemplated changing my blog headline to "Musings of an Asian American Hag." But I won't. I realized that the recent advent of stress and angst had something to do with my looking like shit. So I have decided to make myself happy. Throughout this weekend, whenever the weight of work started to creep into my mind, I pushed it off my chest and told myself, "I'm not going to think about it." The guilt of not having done a single lick of work either Saturday or Sunday was also summarily pushed aside. This was my weekend. Work and Guilt owned me for the past three months. They will not own me now.

I will also make it my goal to be more faithful to my workout routine (which, due to work and lack of motivation, has been nonexistent). I also hear exercise is great at alleviating stress and angst.

There is something to be said for these defense mechanisms, like repression or denial. On this Sunday evening, I am going to pretend I have absolutely nothing to do. And enjoy it.

Ain't no party like a holiday party

There is nothing quite as painful as going to a holiday party full of fifty to a hundred lawyers dressed in aptly stiff suits. I saw them and talked with them and they responded to and in turn asked questions. So they seemed like they were human. They breathed. They ate. And I assume they had pulses. But beyond their trite quips, pseudointellectual banter, and plastered smiles, I wondered, was there anything more? Were they really human?

To further my investigation, I consumed three glasses of Cabernet which had the pleasant side-effect of numbing my pain and forced myself to talk to these seemingly human things.

It was amazing. These "people," they were completely hollow. Empty walking things that appeared to be humans, but were in fact not. Is this what thirty years of practicing law did to a person? Suck their souls and leave only a collection of self-important anecdotes in the husk of their former selves?

In one of the more interesting five-second conversations, one of the seemingly human things shook my hand and asked, "What may I ask is your name?"

"Yellow Gal," I replied, forcing a smile.

"Ah, Yellow Gal," it replied, "What a remarkable name!"

"Uh, thanks," I replied, thinking it was quite unremarkable. I looked around the room and realized the gray-haired thing probably never encountered a Yellow attorney before and thought any name resembling Yellowness was akin to "Lotus Blossom" or "Mandarin Orange."

After five or six-hundred of these short conversations, I realized my initial conclusions were correct. But I became even more curious. How did they do it? Were they really this vapid, through-and-through? Were they at one point, real humans who became the undead? Or were these real humans posing as the undead posing as humans to blend in with the undead?

Soon, the mind-numbing effect of the party coupled with the numbing wine gave way to a headache. I was feeling pain -- this meant I was alive. This meant I was at least human.

At least for now.

It's a river in Egypt

I really dislike my friend's boyfriend. I REALLY dislike him. I won't delve too much into the reasons, except to say that (1) when I first met him, he made a somewhat racist "joke" about Asian women (which as everyone here knows, I absolutely LOVE), and (2) every time I speak with him or hear him speak of me to my friend, he remarks on something about me that pisses me off.

But my other gal pal advises that I not say anything to that effect, because it will strain the friendship unnecessarily. And I must admit, the boyfriend makes my friend pretty happy, he treats her well, and neither of them should have to be subjected to my knee-jerk, over-PC hypersensitivity.

Then a part of me wonders, maybe it's not him I necessarily dislike. Maybe the issue is my being single. Maybe I'm just jealous and I just can't take the fact that someone who goes out with only a few guys in the last few months finds a great guy, and I, having been on a dating rampage for the past few months, can't find just one good guy. Maybe I'm suppressing my jealousy because it reveals how insecure and weak I am. And she's one of my closest friends--what kind of friend would harbor any negative feelings solely because her friend is happy? How horrible and selfish is that?

Then again, the more I think about it, the more I realize, nah. The guy really is an asshole.

Thursday, December 14, 2006

An almost-lapse in judgment

Just when I decided to take a haitus on dating and definitively write off 29-year-old, six-feet tall, attractive, emotionally unavailable men (such as very very cute guy), today of all days I get a text from the guy referenced in my post, Fun boys, who is another 29-year-old, six-feet tall, attractive, emotionally unavailable man. His timing couldn't be more perfect, given my present vulnerable state. I was actually tempted to text him back. Maybe he's changed, I rationalized, he must really really like me if he's texting me, maybe he's realized the error of his ways!


You know, for someone who purports to have a three-digit IQ, I can sometimes be really stupid. At any rate, I did not text him back. But I can't say I wasn't tempted.

It never ends

My blog seems to have inadvertently become a running tally of funny things that guys do or don't do. To add to the list:

My South Asian friend was in a bar with some friends. A white guy walked up to her, gazed at her for a moment, and cooed, "You're exotic and erotic."

Dude's a poet and didn't know it!

Another incident was when I was at a (different) bar and I felt a guy tap on my shoulder. I turned around.

"Hi," he said, smiling.

"Hi," I replied, musing over his greasy pony-tail.

"Are you Chinese?"

"No," I said.

"Are you Japanese?"

"No," I said.

"Well, I know one thing you are -- beautiful."

"Uhh, ha ha," I said in a half-grimace, "thanks." Then I turned around and resumed talking to my friend.

Keep 'em coming, guys, keep 'em coming.

That's me

I find it amusing that when someone did a google search for "dating debacles," my blog came up as a search result. Come one, come all -- I am a repository of dating debacles.

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

Another inane quiz result

I always thought I had the "perfect" accent. Oh well.

What American accent do you have?
Your Result: The Northeast

Judging by how you talk you are probably from north Jersey, New York City, Connecticut or Rhode Island. Chances are, if you are from New York City (and not those other places) people would probably be able to tell if they actually heard you speak.

The Inland North
The Midland
The South
The West
North Central
What American accent do you have?
Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

Q & A

Question to my good friend, The Naysayer: "The Naysayer, why am I so attracted to bad guys?"

The Naysayer sayeth: "Because you're a girl."

And back to our regularly scheduled program

According to this blog-type quiz, the OkCupid Test, I am "The Battleaxe": Deliberate Brutal Love Master (DBLMf).

So not me! Anyhow, the analysis goes further:

Sharp. Hardened. Dominating. The Battleaxe sweeps all before her, smiting and what not.

You've had a number of serious relationships, so you obviously have many attractive qualities. You're well experienced in dealing with other people's weirdnesses, and it's likely you're good in bed by now, too. Also, like the drunken housewife chucking Heinekens at her no-good husband, you've got a lot of energy.

People can tell you're sophisticated, and so you find yourself the object of infatuations quite often. But it's how you handle yourself in your relationships that gets you the 'brutal' tag. Controlling? Imperious? Overbearing? Yes, please.

Remarkably, you don't mind the same from your men. You've experience enough to take whatever you dish out. Overall, you're a very good person and a capable lover, and when the time comes you'll make a fine divorcee.

CONSIDER: The False Messiah, someone just like you.
Like I said, so not me!

Monday, December 11, 2006

Happy birthday to me

I just had an enlightening talk with one of my bosses. He wished me a happy birthday, talked about where he was at age 29, and how far he's come now that he's in his fifties. I mentioned how demoralized I've been with the dating scene, and asked him, given his age of fifty-something, what he could impart to a single 29-year old. Some very interesting advice, apparently:

A person sometimes mistakenly believes that once she meets the right person, i.e., The One, this right person will somehow see, accept and subsequently assuage all of her insecurities, issues and neuroses. The love and validation that Mommy, Daddy or the Boss never gave her can be found in this one person. This hope gives way to optimism over this one person, because maybe, just maybe, this one will be the right one, and the right one will make everything better.

That is a mistake.

A person can't piggyback all of her problems or hinge her happiness and future hopes on one person, or any person for that matter. Nor can she hinge her happiness on her career. She has to first be happy with ... *corny alert* ... herself. In other words, she must suffice.

His words struck a chord with me. I've been bummed lately, due to lack of validation from work and men; all this time, I've been looking outward to be happy. And that was a mistake.

So my boss suggested following through on my interests, take a class, join a club. The agenda shouldn't be Finding A Man. It should be Doing Something I Actually Enjoy. He admitted that it might sound kind of corny, e.g., a single yuppie joining a book club with a bunch of other loners, but f that. If it's fun and you enjoy it, then do it. And doing something you enjoy actually makes you (surprise surprise) happier.

Also, he suggested trying to contain optimism. He knew it was easier said than done as he himself struggled with that in his single days. Try to contain the oh-my-god-he's-perfect! with eh-who-cares-if-it-happens-it-happens.

So I found all that very refreshing. It helped to hear that I'm not the only one who can feel be foolishly optimistic and subsequently demoralized by the disappointing dating scene, as he too went through the same pangs I am going through right now. It was also nice to hear that there is an explanation for the way I've been feeling and that there's at least one way to assuage the angst.

All in all, a well-received and very, dare I say, hopeful birthday present.

Saturday, December 09, 2006

Will the fun ever end?

The only thing more fun than realizing that one is being unceremoniously blown off by a very very cute guy is going to a bar with your girlfriend, lookng down the bar, and spotting the very very cute guy who spots you simultaneously--with a very very cute girl neatly tucked under his arm.

Really, it's a lot of fun.

In my case, the very very cute guy whispered something into the very very cute girl's ear and pointed me out, at which point she walked away from him, past me, giving me a less than friendly look. Then he walked up to me and uttered a few pleasantries, with, unsurprisingly, flirtatious overtones. He asked me what I was doing Sunday, I replied "nothing," and he said, "I'll call you." And smiled. Then he said "Oh my friends and I are meeting up later. So it was nice seeing you today." And smiled again. Then we parted ways.

Then for the next several hours, I watched with a mix of disbelief and grief, the very very cute guy and the very very cute girl all over each other. In front of me.

Did I mention this was a lot of fun?

So I, Yellow Gal, am proud to say that I have discovered, yes discovered, a mathematical equation:

Romantic devastation + Self-deprecation + 5 martinis = Crying in a bathroom stall on girlfriend's shoulder

People say that things happen for a reason. And maybe Something or Someone made me and my friend choose -- out of all the bars in the Big Big City -- the one bar the very very cute guy was at, and made us decide -- out of all the rooms and corridors in the bar -- the one area the very very cute guy was in with his very very cute girl who, by the way, was also a Yellow attorney. (Can a guy have a fetish for Yellow attorneys?)

Needless to say, last night was not the best way to start off my birthday weekend. I wish I could just insert some witty remark here and laugh it all off as just another one of Yellow Gal's dating debacles. Yet after a while, making jokes about one's disappointments just doesn't quite get rid of the sting of the disappointment itself. It's not "fun," as I like to quip. Not fun at all.

Friday, December 08, 2006

The Naysayer Sayeth:

"The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else."

Really fun boys

Being unceremoniously blown off (a.k.a. being dumped) is a very interesting phenomenon. My theory is that a girl goes through the five stages of grief when a guy tacitly dumps her by never contacting her ever again.

There's no way he's dumping me. I'm a catch! I got it going on. Plus he used the words "we" and "couple" the other day. No, he is just busy with work. Or in a coma.

What the f***?! Why the f*** isn't he f***ing calling me? That f***ing **** ********* piece of ****! F*** him!

Oh, if he'd only just call me, I'll lose more weight, I'll dress better, I won't make fun of Star Jones.

My life sucks. I'm dumb, vapid and ugly. And I still don't know how to parallel park. I will therefore die alone next to my cat Fluffy.

Yep I got dumped. That wasn't too fun. But I survived. Next!

In case the reader can't tell, I am amidst the angst of being unceremoniously blown off, no less by the very very cute guy.

First, I ponder over what I did wrong. Then I think, dude, I didn't do anything wrong. Then I wonder, wtf, how can I let one guy, one guy, get to me like this? And then I realize, the downside to being a hopeful romantic optimist (i.e. a dumbass) is inevitable disappointment.

So to correct one of my previous posts, boys aren't just fun, they're really fun!

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

Musings of a late-twenty-something-year-old gal

When I first got my driver's license at age 16, I looked at the expiration date and thought to myself, "Wow, I'm going to be 20 when this expires." Then when 20 rolled around, I looked at my driver's license and thought, "Wow, I can't believe I was 16 in this picture."

My birthday is just next week and I will be turning the big 2-9. Which sounds very surreal to me because I feel like I'm in my mid twenties, like 25-ish. And when I was 25, I thought I was going to marry my then-boyfriend. Pop my first kid out by 29 and my second by 31. Have a family, a career, a house, a cat and a dog. But I'm no where near that, well, except for the career, and we all know how great I feel about that. And while I have no regrets about breaking up with my then-boyfriend, I still can't help but muse over the fact that at age 29, I'm at the same stage I was at age 25. A little bit more experienced perhaps, a bit more educated, a bit more income, but substantially the same.

The idea of being happy sounds like such a simple idea. We are told that if you do x, y and z, you will be happy. Yet I have seen people do x, y and z, and learn much too late that it wasn't so simple after all. And isn't there a distinction between being content and being happy? Should I be content with being content? To me, "being content" connotes settling, a tacit resignation to a life less than one hoped for, and worse, less than what one deserves. Perhaps I'm clinging to my naive twenty-something optimism, but I'm just not quite yet ready to settle for "being content."

No, I think I would rather be happy.

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

Hello. My name's Forrest, Forrest Gump.

At 12:30 PM, I realize for the first time that I've been walking around all day wearing my shirt inside out.


Sunday, December 03, 2006

Good times.

I just went to my cousin's wedding. Yes, I've woken up at 5:30 in the morning, as my sleep is fucked up from drinking half a bottle of Jack Daniels my other cousin snuck into the reception. One of the great things about going to a wedding that involves those of Yellow descent, and more specifically, relatives of Yellow descent, is that people feel the need, the overpowering urge, to approach you--if you so happened to be a single, unattached, 28-year-old--and ask you or tell you some combination of the following:

"Do you have a boyfriend?"
"You need to get married!"
"When are you going to get married?"
"It's so important to get married and have a family."

and best of all

"You're next!"

Interspersed between the twenty or so times various relatives felt the need to remind me that I am indeed without a boyfriend, that I am indeed single, and that I do indeed need to get married, was my mother, who looked at my face and told me how I've aged and there were a number of skin care professionals who could fix that. After she told me this five or six times, I remarked on the patch of hair growing out of her mole on her face and asked her if she was growing a mustache. Then I asked her if she was, in fact, a woman, if perhaps she were not really a man. She laughed at me and said, "Ooh, did I upset you?"

"No," I said.

"You're talking so fast. I can tell I upset you," she said to me, smiling.

I felt the tears rush to my eyes. My mom taking obvious pleasure in the fact that she got under my skin was the last straw.

"Well when you tell me five or six times how butt ass ugly I look, it gets to me."

"So if I've upset you, why did you say 'no' before?" she asked, amused.

"Okay so I am." At that point, I took my purse and walked out "to the ladies room." In reality, I walked around the hotel. I had no car. I couldn't escape. I called a couple friends who obviously would not be free to chat on a Saturday night and thus did not pick up their phone. The one friend who did pick up the phone ended up getting cut off because my cell phone battery died. So now I was stranded with no phone. I kept walking around the hotel until I ventured upon an arcade.

Oooh, pinball. I'll play pinball, I thought to myself. I put a dollar into the change machine whereupon it produced four quarters. I dropped two quarters into the machine and pressed start.

Nothing. I pressed "start" again. And again. Nothing.

I then body slammed into the pinball machine. Nothing. And then I laughed. "This is actually pretty funny," I remarked to myself. I tell the Front Desk that they have a defective pinball machine.

"Ooh, sorry, we don't give refunds," a woman simpered to me.

"Fine, but maybe you should put a note on there that it's broken," I said.

"Ooh, okay, [insert patronizing remark]."

"K bye."

I needed a drink and my cousin still hadn't brought me my bottle of Jack at this point so I decided to go to the small hotel bar. As I walked towards it, I saw to my dismay that a middle-aged, 600-pound man was waving me to me enthusiastically. Maybe not, I thought to myself.

So I walked around a bit more, stopped by the real ladies' room where I powdered my face a bit. Then in one of the stalls I could hear that distinct honking noise of my mom blowing her nose. I kept powdering my nose and she came out, saw me, washed her hands and held the door open for me, whereupon we exited the ladies' room together. She was totally oblivious.

I ignored her for the next twenty minutes, just watching the kids get crazy on the dance floor. My cousin finally proffered the Jack Daniels which I gladly poured into a styrofoam cup and drank straight. Nothing like whiskey to numb a gal from her pain.

Okay so I'm an idiot

Apparently I had all these comments to various postings on my blog from 2005 and uh...I didn't notice them til right now. Apologies to anyone who felt snubbed. Though I'm sure not too many of you were crying yourselves to sleep at night wondering, "Why, WHY didn't she publish my comment?!"

So I'm publishing virtually all of them. I used to get email notifications for comments but some setting got f-ed up, so I had no idea all this time. Duh.

Thursday, November 30, 2006

Ella Fitzgerald hits it dead on

I love this song. It's a classic for a reason.

Someone to watch over me

There’s a saying old, says that love is blind
Still we’re often told, "seek and ye shall find"
So I’m going to seek a certain lad I’ve had in mind

Looking everywhere, haven’t found him yet
He’s the big affair I cannot forget
Only man I ever think of with regret

I’d like to add his initial to my monogram
Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?

There’s a somebody I’m longin’ to see
I hope that he, turns out to be
Someone who’ll watch over me

I’m a little lamb who’s lost in the wood
I know I could, always be good
To one who’ll watch over me

Although he may not be the man some
Girls think of as handsome
To my heart he carries the key

Won’t you tell him please to put on some speed
Follow my lead, oh, how I need
Someone to watch over me


Won’t you tell him please to put on some speed
Follow my lead, oh, how I need
Someone to watch over me

Someone to watch over me

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

A very cute guy

There is a guy. He is very cute. So cute, in fact, that it is enough to distract me from the dumb yuppie angst I've been experiencing lately.

Of course, looks aren't everything. He's nice. Charming. Intelligent. Witty. And the night I met him, when a girl was all over him--a pretty girl who was pretty much a guaranteed lay--he extricated himself from her and talked with me. Me, the girl who did not constitute an easy lay. Walked me home. Asked for my number. Called me within 48 hours. Which leads me to think, this just might be a guy who is not just looking for ass. (How sad it is that a guy who is just not looking for ass can actually be something of note.)

So for the first time in a long time, I am excited about a guy. I have a date with him on Friday night.

Like I said, looks aren't everything. But I can't help but think that he is too cute. I mean, I'm not an abomination of nature (I'd like to think). But I ain't Angelina Jolie/Jessica Alba. So it's rare for me to be in a predicament where a guy is so cute it makes me wonder, What the heck does he see in me? Seriously, this guy could get any 23-year-old blonde-haired, blue-eyed, 36C-23-34 girl he wanted. Maybe I have the Asian thing going for me (yes, he's white), but there are tons other hotter Asian chicks. And I suppose I am not utterly devoid of a personality. Still, I just can't help but think ... he's out of my league.

But I should not go down that path of neuroses. I've seen him a total of two times (the night I met him and one lunch). Maybe he's a weirdo. Or a former nerd turned hottie. Who knows? All I know is that for the first time in a long time, I am excited about a guy. A very cute guy.

Tuesday morning

This morning she stepped off the bus and started walking. Walking to work. The weather was unseasonably mild and windy. She felt the wind flip around her slightly blow-dried but still damp hair, and realized that it would be another bad hair day.

Nonetheless, she kept walking. And then it hit her. She was walking to work. Work. And suddenly she felt the work, the unfinished briefs, research and memos, weigh upon her chest.

I can do this, she thought to herself. I am not dumb. But even as she repeated the Stewart-Smalley-sayings to herself over and over again, she couldn’t help but doubt it all and feel an increasing sense of dread. Dread that whatever she handed to the partner would elicit yet another lecture on how inadequate her brief was. Dread that the work was not doable. Dread that she was, in fact, dumb.

I know I’m smart, I know it, she kept repeating to herself. She walked through the revolving doors and walked to her office’s elevator bank. An elevator light blinked and rang softly and the silver doors opened and invited the employed citizens of its building inside. She walked in, pressed the right floor and retreated to the corner of the elevator as people piled in.

The elevator hummed with each increasing floor and she closed her eyes. It was another morning. She could do it. She knew she could do it.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

Fun boys

I know it's been a while. There are so many tales I want to spill onto this page, so many socially retarded guys I want to vilify (anonymously of course). But alas, time constraints exist. After hearing my latest dating debacle, my guy friend told me, "You know Yellow Gal, you should totally write a book. The title would be 'The Memoirs of Yellow Gal' where you could write about all the freak guys you meet."

Never mind the face biter/exfoliator, the 23-year-old who thought it was acceptable to blow off dinner with me to play his online poker game, or the 37-year-old who talked about his dog's case of the runs during lunch on our first date. The latest catch is a 29-year-old guy who:

a) "complimented" me by telling me that he unchivalrously requested that I take an hour-long train ride to see him to test whether or not I really liked him;
b) tried to have sex with me on the second date,
c) got irritated when I refused;
d) subsequently whined about his "blue balls"; and
e) on our 3rd date, brought his friend along and ignored me the whole time by making me sit in the back seat while they bantered, essentially making me feel like the third wheel.

I had a talk with him and he apologized for the above acts and attempted, pathetically and unsuccessfully, to justify himself to me. The boy is charming, but all the charm in the world couldn't conceal the fact that he was utterly bereft of any chivalry or decency.

Mr. Right is out there. He's elusive, he's a rarity, but he's there. I have to believe he is.

Otherwise, at least I can live off the royalties of my memoirs.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

The truth will set us free. From guys.

I am a girl who used to be called ugly. It should therefore be of no surprise that I am always a little flattered and perhaps (pathetically) a bit grateful whenever a guy shows any interest in me. Yes, some guys have low standards (Pulse? Check. Two legs? Check.) Still, I cannot help but feel bad when a guy likes me, I go on a few dates with him, we may kiss once or twice, and I realize that it's just not going to happen. A tiny part of me, the ugly 13-year-old girl inside of me, says I should be thankful that any guy could ever like me--who the hell am I to think I'm too good for certain guys?

But I know, I know, that being upfront and honest is the way to go. Then one must utter some variation of the wretched words, "I think we should just be friends." And I know I'm not the only woman who feels this way. It's funny. Women can endure 10 hours of excruciating pain wearing that perfect pair of shoes and push watermelons out of our vaginas; but sometimes telling a guy "I'm not interested in you" can be the hardest thing.

Of course, I acknowledge my hypocrisy, especially given my numerous rants on the Island of Lost Men. I bitch about guys who disappear on us, yet I myself face the same anxiety when having to confront a guy to tell him I don't like him in that way. I will say, in my defense, that I have never dated a guy for X months and then "broke up" by simply disappearing on him.

Some girls have supported the view that after 1 or 2 dates, a gal need not call the guy back at all if she isn't interested. After a few more dates however, the Talk is necessary.

The reason I'm blabbering about this is because I have to have the Talk with a guy tonight. I've been on a few dates with a genuinely nice guy, but it's just not working. I'm actually rehearsing the Talk in my head. For all I know, he might respond, "Don't flatter yourself. I was thinking the same thing." Whatever the case may be, it's better in the long-run to clarify feelings point blank than let things linger and string the guy along.

Yet, as always, easier blogged than done.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006


It's 10:55 PM on a Wednesday night, and I sit in my office, in front of my computer, envying all you people who sit at home, comfortably lie on your couches, and flip through your TV channels or pages of a filthy magazine. It must be nice.

I haven't eaten yet, and so food beckons. My L'Oreal Caramel Creme lip gloss is looking tasty right now.

But work beckons. So must return. To. Work.


Monday, November 06, 2006

Don't think, just live

Most of the time, I feel normal. I wake up, I shower, I get dressed, I go to work. I commute on the bus. I say "thank you" to the bus driver when I get off the bus. I walk a couple blocks to my office and enjoy the noise of the city for those couple blocks. I press the button in the elevator, say "good morning" to the receptionist, walk to my office that has a tiny bamboo plant in the corner, and read and write and talk for several hours. I go home. I eat. I talk to friends. I make plans for the weekend. I gossip. I fret over boys or work. It is all a very normal life. At least I pretend it is.

Every once in a while, I feel very abnormal. Like there's something that's very very wrong in my life. I can't really describe what it is. I have food and water to survive. I have friends and a job. Shouldn't that be enough for me to feel normal? It's almost as if I feel uncomfortable in my skin, or rather, suffocated in my skin. There's really no other way to describe it. But I can't really get out of my skin, because, first, that would be gross, and second, where would I go? I just feel like there are so many confusing unstable things going on outside my skin and inside my skin simultaneously. Everything is uncertain, unstable, and random; and it all (every once in a while) feels very very wrong.

Every once in a while, I wish I could be a moron. Okay not seriously. But I wonder, how much happier would I be if the dumbest things like eating, farting, and fucking were enough to make me happy? I would never question anything. Life would be very simple. And I'd be happy with my Big Mac and fries and Ricki Lake.

But instead, I think about things. And for some bizarre unknown reason, at this particular moment on a Monday evening, I feel very alienated, from what or whom, I don't know. I just feel very out of place. And this does not feel normal.

Saturday, November 04, 2006

Ugh 2

The home phone rang on a Friday evening. After five rings, the call went to the answering machine. "Hi, please leave a message at the tone," the machine said.

After the beep, a voice started speaking.

"Hey there girl, it's me, Dental Technician. Yeah it's about 6:30 now, I'm just getting off work. Just wanted to see if you wanted to grab dinner downtown. Give me a call when you get a chance. Buh-bye." Immediately after the message was recorded, it was deleted.

The home address listed in the records which Dental Technician was undoubtedly holding in his hands showed that the apartment was not downtown. Did Dental Technician think that his undeniable suave warranted a trip downtown?

For some reason, the combination of events the past two days was a turn off. Dental Technician requested a date while holding a metal hook near the gumline. The next day, he called the work number, was denied dinner, and was further told that he would be called back. (Not that there was a number to be called back at, except, of course, the dentist's office.) He called the very next day, at the home number listed in the dental records, to request dinner again on an answering machine.

Friends were consulted and all agreed that it wasn't totally bitchy to screen his calls and not call him back. The alternative would be to take one of his calls and say "Hi, yeah, I'm not interested in you at all. I only said yes because you were holding a deadly weapon near my gums when you asked me on a date and I didn't want to be sliced up. Take care now, buh-bye."

It is supremely hoped that he will get the hint. Otherwise, it would be quite awkward to have that I-said-yes-so-you-would-spare-my-gums talk.

Friday, November 03, 2006


The dental technician called at work. He was told that he would be called back later (despite him never giving his phone number). The conversation ended with him cooing, "I'll talk to you later then ... pretty lady." This farewell induced a series of shuddering, cringing, and shriveling of innards.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006


A twenty-something-year-old yellow gal was lying on her dentist's chair. Her mouth was agape. A dental technician was examining the inside of her mouth. They made pleasant conversation with whatever words she could sputter between his probing latex fingers. It was her second trip to the dentist this month due to a suspicious molar which the X-rays revealed just happened to be oddly shaped beneath the gum line. They joked about the city's horrible football team, the nippy weather, the half-crazed patients that he encountered, and the like.

As she lay there, nodding and gurgling responses to his questions, the dental technician paused for a second and asked, "Can I ask you a question?"

You just did, she resisted saying. "Uh huh," she gurgled.

"Do you want to get together some time?" he asked, peering over her. The metal device he held in his hand paused on her upper incisor.

"Uhh," she gurgled, feeling the cool metal rest close to the gum line. Now would not be the time to piss him off, she thought. "Uh kay" she said.

"Cool," he said. He continued probing.

Shit, she thought. She hadn't time to think of an excuse. As he carefully rinsed out her mouth and gave her a complimentary bundle of dental floss, toothpaste and an electric toothbrush, she cursed herself for saying "Uh kay." But then she thought about it. What the heck could she have said? If she rejected him, who knows what could have ensued? Would he have "accidentally" scrapped off her upper face? Hath Hell fury like a dental technician scorned? And isn't it a breach of some kind of dental technician-patient relationship to ask a patient on a date, especially if some metal device that bears an uncanny resemblance to a meat hook is poised over the patient's exposed, vulnerable gums? What could a gal do? What should have the gal done?

She mused over this predicament. He had her phone number. They were in the office records. Crap, she thought, CRAP. As he handed her the dental goods, he smiled at her and said "I'll call you."

"Ha ha," she fake-laughed, "Okay, bye."

Why is the fear of being a bitch always forcing her to be unnecessarily nice to guys? Then again, she was in a vulnerable position.

"I was under duress!" she exclaimed to her girlfriend.

"I can't believe you said yes when you didn't want to," her friend replied.

"He had a deadly weapon hovering over my face. What was I to do?"

"Point taken," her friend said. The friend sipped her tea, paused over it for a moment and said, "Sucks."

"Yeah," the gal said. "Sucks."

Saturday, October 21, 2006

Okay so it's been a while

I have literally been swamped with work. Imagine a five-foot-two Asian girl underneath a disarray of stapled packets, velobound documents and notepads. Next to the disarray are the Asian girl's bosses asking where X, Y and Z are and when they'll be done, and tossing in another stapled packet onto the pile for good measure.

So now I am taking a moment out of my Saturday at work to post an entry on my neglected blog. Last night, had a date with a guy (date #2 with this guy). It's funny how "come over to watch a movie" universally means "come over and make out." He was a good kisser. Did not attempt to eat my face--always a good sign.

Have a semi-blind date with another guy tonight. I'm not too optimistic about this one, but we'll see. As with all first dates, my invariable hope is that it doesn't suck.

Okay, I've gotten my blog fix. Back to work.

Friday, October 13, 2006

Ethics of dating

I am happy that I get to polish off this crazy hectic traumatizing stroke-inducing workweek with a date tonight. It's this guy I met through a friend of a friend. I admit, I haven't fully resolved things with the Exfoliator. As I mused over this the other evening, I began to wonder and posed the following questions to my friend the Naysayer: What are the ethics of dating more than one guy at a time? And if things progress in each prospective relationship, i.e. physically, is that wrong?

His response (keep in mind he is a single 28-year-old male): "You can sleep with both guys if you want at the same time throughout the same period and it's all good."

I paused. "Are you being sarcastic?" I asked.

"No, I'm serious," he said.

"Seriously?" I asked.

"Look, if you don't define the relationship with either of the guys, then you are free to do whatever (or whomever) you want. You are committed to neither of the guys and neither of the guys are committed to you."

"Yeah, but isn't that ... icky?"

"I think morally and ethically, it's sound. But in your case, I don't think you're capable of that."

"Yeah," I agreed, "I don't think I am."

So I suppose I agree. If both Girl and Guy #1 have no binding agreement on the terms of their relationship, then Girl is free to date and do Guy #2. It's a free country. We have free will. And as long as people protect themselves (emotionally and physically), then it's all good. Be happy. Life's short.

I suppose, like the Naysayer intimated, I am incapable of being in the mindset to do that. Usually, I want to "be" with a guy if I really really like him. And it's difficult for me to really really like two guys at the same time.

Anyhow, none of this really matters because neither of the guys have made any indication of wanting to have sex with me. For all I know, next week I'll be blogging again about how there are "no guys out there" and then resort to online dating. If worse comes to worse, I can always find a sugar daddy.

Always there

The shit hit the fan big time this week. I admit I am prone to drama and neurosis, so when the shit hits the fan in my presence, and I mean a huge piece of shit hitting the fan hard, I freak out big time. The human body and mind are only capable of so much stress. And I think I reached that point this week.

At that point, I think I reverted to my 5-year-old self, bawled like a little girl, and literally called my mom. How funny is it, that when you think you're so independent and so strong and so together, that when the shit hits the fan and your friends are out of town, busy or at a loss, and you have no boyfriend to freak out to, you call your mom? And somehow, even though she has no idea what a motion or brief is and even though she can only speak in soft broken English, she is able to console me.

And it made me realize how important my mom is to me in my life. I don't talk to her every day, but just knowing she is always there for me is very comforting. How true it was when she said to me on the phone just last night: "I'm always here for you."

Monday, October 09, 2006


Things have been crazy with work. (Hence the lack of posts.) I am amazed by people who can do consecutive 14-hour days Sunday through Saturday and still maintain their sanity. How the heck do they do it? Out of all professions, it should be no surprise that smoking, alcoholism, heart attacks and suicide rates in the legal profession are among the highest of all professions.

And on that happy note, happy Monday!

Sunday, October 08, 2006

Just a girl

I'm 28 years old. And still, to this day, whenever a guy likes me, as in like-likes me, I am incredibly flattered.

Despite years of experiencing leers from pervy old men, obscene pick-up lines, random gropes on public transportation, and encounters with guys who see all women as walking vaginas, I am still flattered.

I am an unremarkable, neurotic girl with a fair number of boy issues. A guy who meets me and knows this and still manages to like me boggles my mind (so thinks the insecure high schooler inside of me). Then the cynical side of me kicks in and wonders what's wrong with him to like me.

Like I said. Fair number of boy issues.

Monday, October 02, 2006

Is it in his kiss?

Can you really judge a guy by his kiss? A guy once told me you can tell how passionate someone is by the way she kisses. If her kiss is limp and lifeless, then he ends it right then and there. And as Samantha from Sex and the City said about bad kissers: "[D]ump him, a bad kisser is non-negotiable." Further: "if his tongue is just going to lay there, what do you think his dick is going to do?"

So really, are kissing skills a proxy of "other" skills? I surveyed the repertoire of guys I've encountered. The guys who were good were decent kissers. Yet there are some guys who were good kissers but were bad. I suppose the guys who were bad kissers were not that good. Okay so it all seems kind of random, at least in my experience.

Anyway, the reason I bring this all up is because recently, I kissed a guy. It was mixed. On the one hand, it felt very passionate and hot and also sweet and reverent. On the other hand, I sometimes felt like he was trying to eat my head.

No seriously, eat my head. Not my face. My head.

I think his incisors made contact with my external right cheek. And his teeth scraped against my gums and my tongue. I may not be the goddess of kissing, but I'm pretty sure that exfoliating my face and gums is NOT a good indication of a good kiss.

Am I wrong?

So -- the question that Charlotte from S&tC brings up is: Would you dump a guy over a bad kiss? Is it something you can "work on"? How do you tell a guy, "Could you please not bite my face? Thank you." So Charlotte tried to teach her Bad Kisser how to kiss better by cooing to him, "I really like it when you kiss my lips like this" and so on. In the end though, he strayed from her instructions so horribly, that when he got up to the point of gnawing on her chin, she finally pushed him away and yelled at him, "Stop it!" Then she told him he was a bad kisser and quite literally walked away from him, never to see him again.

Harsh, I know. But seriously, kissing is important to me. I love kissing, and a good kiss can be just as hot as good sex. It's a necessary component of foreplay, and if the kiss ain't good, then the physical relationship is not going to ascend to Level 2.

Is that superficial? Am I being too harsh? I don't know. All I know is that kissing is not supposed to be painful. If a guy is flossing my teeth, I can't help but NOT be turned on. But I suppose I will give the Exfoliator another chance. If, however, he ends up gnawing on my chin, it's over.

Sunday, October 01, 2006

Only as old as you feel

I am usually unaware of my age. If asked what age I feel right now, I'd probably say 24-25-ish rather than 28. Sometimes however, a certain sequence of events--other than hearing one's mother call her a spinster or relatives demanding to know why one has not married yet--will remind a gal that she's not in her early or mid twenties, that she is in fact in her late twenties.

Friday night, I went to two different bars. Got drunk. Went to a dance club, pounded a few more drinks, and danced my ass off. Realized--after about 10 years of experience with alcohol, some of which included nights of bowing down to the porcelain god--that I had reached the Limit and subsequently drank lots of water.

Saturday, slightly hungover, I attended a professional event with an open bar. Then went to another bar and then a dance club and danced my ass off. Got drunk. Unfortunately, I realized my Limit a little too late, and a visit to the porcelain god was in order.

Today is Sunday. As I groggily popped in my Extra Strength Tylenol caplets and forced water down my throat, it hit me: I'm too old for this shit.

I am not 20 years old. I am not in college. I am not of that mind and body and state where I can get piss-ass drunk two nights in a row, dance nonstop for five straight hours until 3 AM and bounce right back the next day on three hours of sleep and be totally normal. I don't even feel normal when I'm sober.

Granted, I had fun. I love meeting new people. I love dancing to music while buzzing happily. I love going out. So aside from the nausea, headaches, vomiting and hangovers, I had fun.

Just a new note to self: reserve the piss-ass-debauchery to only one night a week.

Friday, September 29, 2006

59 things men should not do past age 30.

[Stole this from another blog.]

1. Coin his own nickname.
2. Use a wallet that is fastened with Velcro.
3. Rank his friends in order of best, second best, and so on.
4. Hacky sack.
5. Name his penis his name plus junior.
6. Hang art with tape.
7. Hang The Scream, unless he stole it from the Munch museum in Oslo.
8. Ask a policeman, "You ever shoot anybody with that thing?"
9. Ask a woman, "Hey, you got a license for that ass?"
10. Skip.
11. Take a camera to a nude beach.
12. Let his father do his taxes.
13. Tap on the glass.
14. Shout out a response to "Are you ready to rock?"
15. Use the word collated on his resume.
16. Hold a weekly house meeting with roommates.
17. Name pets after Middle Earth characters.
18. Jokingly flash gang signs while posing for wedding photos.
19. Give shout-outs.
20. Use numbers in place of words or locations, such as "the 411" for information, or "the 313" for Detroit.
21. Hug amusement-park characters.
22. Wear Disney-themed neckties.
23. Wake up to a "morning zoo."
24. Compare the trajectory of his life with those of the characters in Billy Joel's "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant."
25. Request extra sprinkles.
26. Air drum.
27. Choose 69 as his jersey number.
28. Eat Oreo cookies in stages.
29. Volunteer to be a magician's assistant.
30. Sleep on a bare mattress.
31. End a conversation with "later skater."
32. Hold his lighter up at a concert.
33. Publicly greet friends by shouting, "What's up, you whore?"
34. Wear Converse All Stars with a tuxedo.
35. Propose via stadium Jumbotron.
36. Decide anything based on the ruminations of Howard Stern.
37. Call "shotgun" before getting in a car.
38. Dispute someone else's call of "shotgun."
39. Whine.
40. Mist up during Aerosmith's "Dream On."
41. Purchase fireworks.
42. Google the word vagina.
43. Ride a pony.
44. Sport an ironic mustache.
45. Hit 13 against a 6.
46. Organize a party bus.
47. Say "two points" every time he throws something in the trash.
48. Buy a novelty postcard in another country of topless women on a beach and write, "Wish you were here" on it.
49. Keg stands.
50. Purchase home-brewing paraphernalia.
51. The John Travolta point-to-the-ceiling-point-to-the-floor dance move; also that one from Pulp Fiction.
52. Put less than ten dollars' worth of gas in the tank.
53. Keep a minuscule amount of marijuana extremely well hidden.
54. Read The Fountainhead.
55. Watch the Pink Floyd laser light show at a planetarium.
56. Refer to his girlfriend's breasts as "the twins."
57. Own a vanity plate.
58. Whippits.
59. Say goodbye to anyone by tapping his chest and even so much as whispering, "Peace out."

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Dear Boy On The Bus,

I know you were scared. Very scared. You could be no older than 21 years old, fresh-faced and eager to venture into the Big Big City in your striped shirt and neatly ironed slacks. You had combed your light blonde hair very neatly, thinking you could hide your roots, believing you could fool the dwellers of the Big Big City that you in fact were one of them. You didn't want them to know you grew up in a tiny town of 500 people and went to a university surrounded by acres of golden corn and green pastures. You were in the Big Big City now, and you were going to show the world that you were not the farm boy everyone had you pegged for.

But I could see you were scared. I saw you stand by the bus pole, huddling as close as you could to the corner, fearing me -- this strange-looking, yellow-hued female with non-blonde hair and non-blue eyes. The bus was crowded, people were standing uncomfortably close to each other, and you whispered prayers to God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit that the strange Yellow Gal wouldn't stand so close to you. You flinched every time my jacket inadvertently touched your arm. You cowered in terror each time my hand readjusted its grip on the pole.

You were so scared. So very scared. A virgin at age 21, you didn't want your first time to be a sexual assault by a Yellow Gal on a public city bus. I wanted to pet your pretty blonde hair and assure you that I was no monster, that it was going to be okay, that you'd survive the Big Big City. I could see in your teary quivering eyes that you missed the farm, the nice town folk, the quiet. Here there was noise. Here it was crowded. Here a strange Yellow Gal was hovering nauseatingly close. The word "Rape!" was lodged in your throat, ready to explode from your pale lips the moment the strange Yellow hand would touch you.

But it didn't. And how relieved you were it didn't as I exited the bus. I saw you sigh with relief. What a scary city, you thought as you readjusted your man-purse and looked out the bus window at the looming sky-scrapers.

So, dear Boy On The Bus, be assured I was not trying to sexually assault you, that I would not sexually assault you, and most of all, that there are many more where I came from.

Yellow Gal

I am not on crack.

I was on the bus this morning, commuting to work. I usually look at the other commuters in their sedans and coupes as they trudge forward in rush hour traffic. They're sometimes on a cell phone, or arguing with the passenger, or bopping along to the radio. Nothing eventful. Nothing out of the ordinary.

This morning, however, was different.

This morning, I saw a man playing a trumpet. While commuting. In his car.

The man had one hand on the steering wheel, and the other hand holding the trumpet. Then he'd place his lips on the trumpet, blow into it, and look over the horn while driving.

It certainly perked up my Wednesday morning commute. Too bad I couldn't hear what he was tooting.

Friday, September 22, 2006

Give it to me.

I have a goal.

It's very simple.

Actually it's a combination of various little goals.

First, I will not engage in an ounce of any intellectual activity for the rest of today, save for the brain function necessary to blink, breathe and eat.

Second, I will go to an extravagant, chichi seafood restaurant in the city, order an extravagant, chichi dish, and eat it.

Third, and most importantly, I will get drunk.






I had a long week.

I did a lot of work.

I am





I need the weekend.

Right here.

Right now.


Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Waiting to exhale

There is a cute guy at Starbucks. He always smiles at me when he gives me my coffee. Yes he smiles at everyone, but when he smiles at me, I feel like he's smiling at me. Or maybe that's what I'd like to believe. I think he's noticed my gazing at him as he's stacking the cups and affixing lids onto iced coffees. And he must have seen the way I simper "Thank you" when he hands me my cup of coffee.

Unfortunately, I'm 99.9% sure he's gay.

Sure, it's quite possible that a guy whose mannerisms bear an uncanny resemblance to Jack McFarland's on "Will & Grace" is indeed straight. And maybe my having gone to two high school formals with two different gay guys and my living in the gay area of the city belie my lack of gaydar.

But I think he's gay.

I'll maintain this tiny strand of hope that he's straight, that a guy that cute can indeed be hetero. But I won't hold my breath.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006


It was a cool crisp commute this morning. I can tell autumn is steadily approaching and for some reason, I can't help but feel a stirring excitement within me.

I have absolutely no idea why.

I think of gold and red leaves, Halloween, pumpkin pie and Thanksgiving break. There is the the cool air, the wool sweaters, the crackling fireplaces.

And then there is the city. I love working downtown. I walked a few blocks during my lunch break today and beheld old white men in suits and ties, young women in black leather boots and Burberry jackets, tourists wandering hesitantly, taking pictures and holding maps upside down. There is the wind that breathes between the skyscrapers. The bum holding a sign that recounts his life's woes. Old ladies squawking. Thirty-year-old guys fresh out of business school sauntering from their offices to be ten minutes late for their eighty-dollar-lunches.

Something about the fall. Something about the city. It just feels great.

Monday, September 18, 2006

Nice is good, right?

The date on Friday was okay. The guy was perfectly polite and well-kempt. Nothing offensive was uttered. I ended up going with the more fitted / less linty black top. The evening ended with a modest hug.

So yeah, he seems like a nice guy and he's cute. I almost sort of wish I could make myself like him. Maybe if I go on another date with him, I'll begin to develop feelings? How many dates should a girl go on a date with a guy before she realizes "You know what, this just ain't gonna happen"?

I also know there's this inexplicable thing that accounts for attraction to the opposite sex, call it chemistry, zing, bada bing, I don't know. I have yet to figure out the precise combination of traits a guy must possess to make me like him. Maybe there is no equation and it's just some unseen unexplainable primal thing that is either there or not. Who knows.

I guess one thing I've observed about the guy is that, while he's nice, he doesn't make me laugh in that clever-witty or fall-off-my-chair way. But he's nice.

Hmm. I'm beginning to think it's about as hard to make yourself like a guy as it is to make yourself not like a guy.

Stalking the stalker

I've never really been "stalked" in the literal sense. And I'm quite grateful for that. I have had a few instances that bordered on semi-disturbing or slightly invasive, but nothing reaching the levels of psychosis.

There were a couple times when I was trying to avoid a certain guy, and the guy asked a mutual friend for my new number or what time I'd be back from doing X. The mutual friend unknowingly supplied the information and the guy was then able to get a hold of me.

Another example dates back when we used to use UNIX-based systems to email. Through this system, one was able to "finger" other people's accounts and see the last time they logged on and whether or not they had new mail. I had a friend who would send me email and, when I didn't reply within twenty-four hours, would finger my account to see if I had logged on and if so, whether I had new mail. When she saw I had "no new mail," she immediately barraged me with emails asking why I hadn't replied yet. What the UNIX system however neglected to reveal was that sometimes, people logged on or even checked their email, yet did not read ALL their email, as was the case with my friend. I also didn't feel the need to enlighten her that I myself, through a simple function, could ascertain who fingered my account.

Yep, the stalkers can be stalked.

So when it comes to the internet, there is a overwhelming sense of anonymity. In the case of Blogger, for example, anonymous people post entries on their blogs and anonymous readers post comments. Virtually all bloggers have varying programs on their site monitoring who visits their site. I recall reading one friend's blog that was receiving increasingly hostile comments from "Anonymous." At first, the friend took it lightly. Yet when "Anonymous" became plain obnoxious, my friend casually replied posting various personal facts about "Anonymous," about his ISP, where he lived, etc. "Anonymous" soon shut the hell up.

People also create fake email addresses and send anonymous emails to other people. This too can be circumvented. For example, Yahoo and Hotmail both allow people to see the full header of every email they receive, including the sender's IP address. Perhaps a particularly diligent stalker will hide his IP address, set up a dummy domain, or log into a public portal. Unfortunately for these stalkers, even emails sent from these means can be traced. With a bit of detective work and perhaps some monetary investment, every stalker can be unmasked. A public portal at a library or a Kinko's or random kiosk is traceable. A hidden or faked IP address can be revealed. This is especially true if the victim of threatening emails enlists the help of the local authorities or, unluckily for the stalker, federal authorities.

It is particularly satisfying to unmask someone who thinks they got away with something. It is even more satisfying to let them do it for a while, watch them gleefully stalk, and all the while know exactly who they are without them knowing you know.

Yep, the stalkers can be stalked.

Friday, September 15, 2006

Waiting...and waiting

Friday night. My date was supposed to pick me up at 8:30 PM but he just texted me he'll be half an hour late. Which, just to be on the cynical side, I interpret to be 45 minutes late.

Not like I have anything better to do, except blog with bad TV in the background.

I sort of picked out a top. It's either the fitted black top or the looser black top. They're pretty much identical. The fitted black top is, well, more form-fitting and has a deeper v-neck. The looser black top, while not as revealing, is still cute.

Pros of the fitted top: It shows off my figure.
Cons of the fitted top: It shows off my figure.

Who knows. It may come down to which black shirt has less visible lint.

Yes I'm procrastinating

For the past 36 hours, my existence has been consumed with this one project. It has sucked my will to live. It has drained me of my spirit. Now I sit here. And procrastinate.

How is it that I always find the time to procrastinate? Oh, if only there were a profession for procrastinators -- I would do so well. I'd start entry-level and work my way up to a managerial position. Then I'd be promoted to regional manager, then to regional vice president, then to director and then to full partner. Next thing you know, I'd be president of the business. I would be asked to be an adjunct professor at the top graduate school with the top procrastination graduate program. I would tour the world and give lectures on the Art of Procrastinating. Books bearing stupid puns like "Procrastinate Later," "Busily Procrastinating" and "Perfecting Procrastination" would circulate the presses. I would have an entry on Wikipedia on my life's accomplishments. I would be Queen and Goddess of All That Deals with Procrastination. All will worship me and despair.

But so far I have not seen any job openings for "Professional Procrastinator." For now, I suppose I'll have to settle for the title of "Peon who Procrastinates."

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

A breather

I had taken a nice jog by the water last night. Afterwards, I walked back to my apartment and went straight to my living room where I decided to take a breather. As I sat on my couch/futon/former bed, I suddenly heard a girl from the next apartment yell loudly. Startled, I sat and listened.

"!" she moaned.

I immediately surmised the girl was having sex. Apparently good sex. I had never heard anyone having sex before (um, unless of course I was present). And I admit I sat there perhaps a couple more seconds than I should have, given the novelty of the situation. After three seconds though, I felt like I was invading someone's privacy (not to mention being a bit pervy) and walked to the other end of my apartment.

So yes, it was slightly disturbing to hear my neighbor have sex. And perhaps it bothered me that she was getting laid while I wasn't. But what bothered me more was that if I could clearly hear each moan she uttered during intercourse, then she could probably hear me!

Not that it mattered given that I wasn't getting any.

Well it's good to know at least one girl in my building is getting some.

Kind of.

I'm kind of excited.

Kind of.

I have a date on Friday. Ahh!

It's a guy whom I sort of met not too long ago and whom I sort of knew kind of liked me and whom I was sort of post-poning / blowing off because I wasn't sure if I was interested. After 4,572 people told me I write off guys way too easily, I decided to consider him seriously. And so I'm meeting him for a drink this Friday. The venue: My choice.

Now which bar should I choose? I peruse the bar categories and listings and reviews on and am not sure. I'd like a place that's romantic but not sappy. Laid back but not divey. Cool but not pretentious.

Who knew guys had it so tough when deciding where to take girls out?

On a completely unrelated note, I suddenly feel the urge to visit the gym every night this week and buy a new outfit at Macy's.

Thursday, September 07, 2006

My parents were immigrants

This is the excuse I use when I am totally clueless about some blatantly obvious pop cultural fact.

For example, I just learned that the group Def Leppard, a band that I've been a fan of since the 80's, is BRITISH. All this time I thought they were American.


Also I recently realized that "yuppie" is derived from the acronym for Young Urban Professional. I knew "yuppie" meant a young urban professional, but I never made the connection.

Double duh.

I know. It's amazing that I am able to form sentences and chew gum at the same time. Really, it's not willful ignorance or stupidity. I just have random gaps in pop cultural knowledge.

To further illustrate my point: I am not exactly pristine, innocent or demure. But only in the last few years did I learn the 'other' meanings for "beaver" and "hummer." Seriously.

Like I said, my parents were immigrants. I'm sure if my parents were not immigrants, I would have known that Def Leppard was British, that yuppie is derived from Y.U.P., that a beaver is a va-jay-jay and that a hummer is a b.j. (for those of you learning this for the first time--shocking isn't it?!).

One thing I can rightfully attribute to my immigrant-parental upbringing: I used to say "shee-rup" instead of "syrup" because that's how they said it.

Okay I know that has nothing to do with yuppies or beavers, but it's something.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

The truth hurts

I just had one of those days where I spontaneously started crying in my office. Who wants to be that girl, the girl who cries in her office? Weak, emotional -- such a woman. I didn't want to be that girl. But as I throw my 834th tissue of tears and snot into my waste bin, I realize I am.

What triggered my crying spell?

I get an email from a girlfriend about a trip we're all taking. Seven people are going. Three couples. And me.

And while I know that I choose to be single, blah blah blah, it just made it painfully obvious and real that I was alone. I would be alone in my hotel room. Alone when going out. Alone with three perfectly happy couples.

And amidst all the guys that I've met--the Guy, the 9.5 kisser guy, the grad student, Online Guys #s 1-4, and so on--none of them have materialized into something real. And while it's a rush and an ego trip to meet new guys and easily brush them off when they sweat you, seeing that email listing the couples made my single status all the more palpable. And it made me sad.

So I have my job. My money. My apartment. My friends. My transient "admirers." But if I don't have that deep, profound connection with a man I love, then what do I have?

I guess all this time I've been repressing the fact that I miss it. I miss him. The Boyfriend. The Relationship. That guy you lounge around with on Saturday morning in bed or goof around with while watching Saturday morning cartoons and eating eggs and toast. I miss being able to walk around in just a t-shirt and no make-up and being able to plop my legs on his lap while I read a magazine and he watches ESPN. I miss having my arm around his waist, and his arm draped over my shoulder and being able to effortlessly say to him "I love you." There are no games. You both know what's up. It's simple, and it's great.

All this time I've been fronting like I'm the shit, that I have it all, that I am so together without a man. Yet when I see that one email clearly identifying me as the sole single girl, I realize the truth. And the floodgates open. Literally.

Every feminist in the world is probably hating my guts. And who knows, maybe I'm just writing all this because I'm running on four hours of sleep and stress. But I can't help what I feel. I can't help what I am.

Yes, master

A couple days ago, my brother and I were watching a movie in the TV room. In the middle of the movie, my mom called out to us from the living room to eat some oranges. We ignored her and continued watching our movie downstairs. Ten minutes later, our movie dialogue was pierced with an even louder interruption. My brother and I looked at each other and decided to relent to her by going upstairs to eat the oranges. I plopped the pieces into my mouth and drank a sip of water. My mom then urged me to drink more water. I said, "No thanks" and started walking away when she again insisted that I drink more water because it was better for my stomach.

I was now slightly irritated to have my movie interrupted, to be nagged to eat oranges when I didn't feel like it and now to be nagged to drink water when I didn't want to. I turned around, lowered to my knees, took the cup of water with both hands, bowed my head to my mother and said "Mother, if drinking water is what pleases you, it is what I shall do. For whatever pleases you pleases me. My sole aim is to appease you and should I ever achieve this sole aim, then I shall be ever so happy." I then added another deferential bow, brought the plastic cup to my lips, drank the water, and placed the cup before her with both hands. "I hope to achieve whatever it is you ask of me, Mother."

She nodded approvingly and said in her native tongue, "Yes, good." I couldn't tell if she knew I was being facetious but she continued, "That is how you should treat a man. If you treat a man very well, then he shall return in kind."

At that point, I threw my head back and busted out laughing (in a very unfeminine, unbecoming manner, I must add). I then looked at her to see if she was amused.

She wasn't smiling.

Which led me to think.

I think I am "too much" for some guys, and so the few guys who can handle me aren't the kind of guys who are expecting (or even wanting) a simpering, submissive little girl to serve him. And so it becomes very amusing when I mock my own stereotype. For example, once, my boyfriend at the time asked me for a glass of water. I looked down, softened my voice, and said "Yes, master" as I retrieved the glass of water. He got so embarrassed and laughed. It was probably all the more amusing because it is the exact opposite of what I am. Yet strangely, while he was very surprised, I suspect he was somewhat pleased by it. And it shouldn't be surprising. What guy wouldn't want something literally handed to him on a platter and treated like he were the most revered creature in the world?

Perhaps the women of the Orient were onto something...

Sunday, September 03, 2006

The elusive yellow gal

I know that one of the oldest, most played out Asian American subjects is the question of why there are so many Asian girl/Caucasian guy couples and so few Caucasian girl/Asian guy couples. Many reasons have been proffered, yet few have been agreed upon. My brother, a guy who does not really "go for Asian chicks," noted to me that looking at an Asian girl makes him feel like he's looking at his own sister. Another Asian guy I know isn't attracted to Asian chicks; when he sees Asian chicks, they remind him of his mother.

All of this struck me as odd because when I see Asian dudes, the mere fact that they are Asian does not trigger that oh-my-god-he-looks-like-my-brother/dad feeling. Unless of course the guy really does look like my brother/dad.

Anyway, a very silly and slightly amusing video on the subject is on, inaptly entitled: Why Asian guys can't get white girls. Contrary to the title, the short movie focuses on why Asian guys can't get Asian girls and only touches on the Asian guy/White girl subject. Nothing terribly enlightening is revealed. But it's worth a chuckle or two.

Friday, September 01, 2006

I want my toothpaste

I know there are terrorists out there.

I know there are terrorists who hate the U.S. and want to do everything they can to destroy the U.S.

I know they have made successful and unsuccessful attempts to kill Americans out of pure hatred.

But damn, I can't believe I'm not allowed to bring my toothpaste in my carry-on luggage on my flight today. I know this is the same thing a terrorist would say: "No really, it's not a liquid explosive, it really is Colgate's Total toothpaste!" But I will literally open the tube for them, put it on my toothbrush and brush my teeth. I mean, would a terrorist do that with a liquid explosive?

Thankfully, the Department of Homeland Security makes exceptions for babies and diabetics so that the babies won't starve on the plane without their milk and the diabetics won't lapse into comas. But what if there are terrorist babies and diabetics? It is possible that a terrorist would put milk in one bottle and a light colored liquid explosive in another. Then the terrorist would carry the bottles with the baby, smiling all the while. It's also possible that a diabetic brings insulin in one container and a liquid explosive in another. I mean, if we're extrapolating that a container of Lancome Juice Tubes lip gloss is a liquid explosive, than why not the milk or insulin?

Okay, wryness aside, I acknowledge that terrorism is very real. I personally know people who've lost people in 9/11. It's just a shame that we've been reduced to living in perpetual fear--fear of taking flights, fear of bringing on containers of liquids or suspiciously clunky shoes, fear of being attacked.

Ah, the inconveniences of living in a country that is hated.

Monday, August 28, 2006

Zack attack

Am freaking out. In a vastly successful attempt to procrastinate, I just learned that Zack from Saved by the Bell is half Asian! I had no idea.

Sunday, August 27, 2006

Speaking English good

The other day, I visited the law library. The security guard at the entrance seemed to be in a friendly mood. "Are you a good lawyer?" he smirked as my laptop and papers went through the security scanner.

"Um, I guess," I said.

"You guess?"

"I hope I will be, I'm sort of new," I replied.

He nodded and smiled at me and peppered me with a few other questions. I nodded and smiled back and answered his inane questions as my stuff slowly made its way on the conveyer belt.

"You know, you speak English pretty good."

I looked at him. "Excuse me?"

"Yeah you speak English good," he said approvingly. "What are you? Yellow?"

"Yes, yes I am," admittedly disappointed he correctly guessed my ethnicity. He sat there looking pretty pleased with himself. "And do most Asian attorneys you see not speak English 'good'?" I asked.

"Nope," he said, "they all have an accent or somethin'."

"Oh I see." I didn't quite know what to say. He was smiling and nodding the whole time. I think he thought praising my English skills was an actual compliment to me. I took my stuff, laughed awkwardly, and said "good bye" as I went along my way.

I thought about what the guy said. Virtually every Asian American attorney I knew could speak English 'good.' What the hell was he talking about?

It reminded me of some other time when some guy from a college class had said to me, "Wow I'm surprised you don't have an accent."

"What are you talking about? I was born and raised in America," I had said.

"Yeah but your parents are immigrants. I'm surprised you didn't get an accent from them. You speak English good."

"Um. Okay."

I guess I speak English good.

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Stalkers need love too

We women complain about men. How they suck. How they're dogs. How they lie, cheat and steal our hearts.

This is all true.

However, I dare add that women can get crazy too. Present bloggers/readers excluded of course.

A guy I know happened to mention his stalker. Now, I am prone to the dramatic and throw around the word "stalker" glibly, like if a guy calls me more than three times in one week, I'm like, "whoa stalker." This of course is not to trivialize real stalkers out there. I am prone to exaggeration.

Anyway, this guy mentioned his stalker.

"Wait, a stalker, you had a real stalker?" I asked him.


"What happened??" I asked.

He told me he met a girl, Ms. S, they went on a date, and it went okay. The date ended cordially, yet the guy realized he just wasn't feeling it. Within 10 hours of the date, she calls him and leaves a voicemail message. Like 90% of the country, he has a life, so he is unable to call her back within ten minutes. She then emails him and asks him in her email, "Did you get my voicemail message? Just making sure you got my voicemail message. I had a great time, in case you didn't get my voicemail message." Then she called him again and left another voicemail message. Then she called again.

Whatever ounce of potential affection he had for her shriveled into nothing. He called her back and said something to the effect of "I really enjoyed meeting you. You're cool, yet I don't see this being anything more than a friendship."

She heartily agreed and said "Oh sure, sure. Definitely, great!"

Then she called him the next day. He was busy. She left a voicemail. Two hours after her first voicemail, she called again and left another voicemail. One hour after that, she called again and left a message with the receptionist.

That was Monday.

Tuesday. 10 AM, she called his work number. 1:30 PM, she called his cell. 3:45 PM she called his work number again. The guy asked the receptionist to please screen his calls. The receptionist complied.

Wednesday, the guy got a phone call from the front desk. "Ms. S is here to see you."

The guy was stunned. Ms. S? Ms. Stalker was here? At his office? At his JOB?

Ms. S apparently looked up the guy's full name on the internet, found out where he worked, found out his work number, and found out his work address. She then traveled during the work day to his office, took the elevator to the 39th floor, and stood in front of the receptionist to ask for the guy.

The guy came out to greet his stalker. Ms. S stood there, smiling, expectant, beaming. In her arms she held a vase. In the vase were twenty to thirty species of flowers.

"Ms. S," the guy said, "Wow, what are you doing here?"

"Hi!" she said. "I just happened to be in the neighborhood and I had these flowers and I just wanted to give you some!"

The guy forced a smile. "Oh wow, that's so--"

don't say creepy don't say psycho say something nice say 'nice'


Ms. S beamed as she handed the guy her bright pungent flowers.

He took them and held them and looked at her. "Thank you," he said.

She stood there, smiling uncontrollably. He tried to smile back. "Thank you," he repeated.

"Well aren't you going to show me around?" she lilted to him.

"Uh, sure," he said.

They walked around the office. She showed him his office. She ooh-ed and ah-ed over his leather chair and shiny desk and autographed baseball. Then he showed her out.

"It was really nice seeing you again!" she chirped maniacally.

"Yes, it was..." he replied.

That was Wednesday. Thursday, 11:00 AM she called his cell. 11:30 AM she called his office. 12:00 she called his office. 1:00 she called his office. Ms. S began to suspect she was getting screened. Since she had spoken to the receptionist so much more than the guy, she became all chatty with the receptionist. "Say," she said to the receptionist, "would you mind not telling him that I'm calling whenever I call?" The receptionist knew what was going on but lied nonetheless through her sweet teeth, "Sure."

2:00 she called. 3:40 she called. 4:00 she called.

Friday, the receptionist was not in. The phone rang directly at the guy's desk. The guy picked up. "Hello?" he said.

"Hi there, it's me, Ms. S!"

Shit motherfucking shit, the guy thought to himself. "Ms. S. Hi."

"How are you?" she asked excitedly.

"Ms. S. I don't even call people I like every day. You have been calling me at least three times a day."

"No I haven't, what are you talking about?" Ms. S asked.

"Let's see, you called me seven times yesterday."

Ms. S was silent. "She told you?" She being the receptionist.

"Yes, she told me."

"Oh dear," Ms. S said awkwardly.

"Look, I don't think this friendship is working out," he added.

"Oh," Ms. S replied, defeated.



Ms. S got caught in a lie. Thought she could get away with it. Her true psychotic behavior was revealed and, mortified, she never contacted the guy ever again. The problem he fretted over so much solved itself.

On behalf of females, I was embarrassed. So these are the psycho girls that I hear guys occasionally refer to. I can see why some guys are hesitant about dating some girls. I mean, geez, I get obsessive over guys in that does-he-or-doesn't-he-like-me way, but I'd never call a guy ten times a day, stalk him on the internet, call him on his work number when he never gave it to me, show up at his office unannounced and then ask his own staff to lie to him about my psychotic calls!

Dude, if a guy doesn't return my phone call, it means he doesn't like me. It sucks, but it's true. And I got better things to do with my time than sweat him. What did Ms. S think she could do? Bully him into making her like him? Think that the more she called him, the sooner he'd realize how real her feelings were and he would eventually see the light?

I am amazed that there are people out there who ascribe to the belief that they can badger/bully/pressure/suffocate a person into liking them back.

Newsflash: Psychotic behavior = not attractive. But I suppose stalkers need love too.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Virtual non-encounter

I was having lunch outside with a gal pal, enjoying the lovely weather, when in front of me, I espied a guy whom I suspected to be Online Guy #2 from my online dating days. After our first and last date, I had never heard from him again. (Which was not as big of a deal as getting dissed by Online Guy #3 who ended up being a liar anyway.)

I was tempted to yell out "Online Guy #2!!" to then turn away and ask my gal pal to see if he responded to his name. My maturity (what little of it exists) however prevented me from following through on that urge. Also I had a stain on my shirt and I'm kind of bloated now so I didn't want him to think "Whoa what happened to you??" / "Whoa dodged a bullet there!"

Ladies, no matter how much we bitch and moan about guys, in all seriousness what would life be without the stupid drama that surrounds dating the other half of our species?

Whoa jelly

I was recently dragged into a candy store, where I saw Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. If you've ever read Harry Potter, you'd know what these were. In the novels (and the movies), the beans come in every flavor, from blueberry to buttered popcorn to dirt. So thinking it was cool, I bought a box. Some thoughts:

Third place for worst flavor: Bacon. It tastes like bacon...except it's a sugary jelly bean!

Second place for worst flavor: Sardine. Imagine an intense fish flavor mixed with jelly bean sugar. They listed real fish in the ingredients!

Tied for first place for the most disgusting flavors are "Vomit" and "Rotten Egg" which has the extra touch of being white on the outside and a deep yellow on the inside. And indeed, the Vomit tasted like vomit and the Rotten Egg tasted like rotten egg. I bit into each one and then spat them out.

Interesting not-so-horrid flavors: Black Pepper, Buttered Popcorn and Toasted Marshmallow. I never got to taste "Soap" but I'm sure that would've made the list. "Dirt" and "Grass" weren't so bad. "Earthworm" was kind of nast, but didn't make the top three.

The ingredients say "natural flavors" and I can't help but wonder if they really used earwax, vomit and booger in their respective jelly beans.

Yeah, call me a traditionalist, but I prefer the good old fashioned cherry, grape and lemon jelly beans.

Monday, August 21, 2006

This world

I along with other chaperones spent this past Saturday going to the zoo with a bunch of rascally kids. Never thought that being pummeled, dragged by the arm, jumped on and teased would be fun. Kids crack me up. Instead of discouraging them when they uttered wildly inappropriate things regarding bodily functions, I'd start laughing like crazy which of course just encouraged them more. The way children see the world is so amusing, so refreshing. Their joy is almost contagious.

So it should be no surprise that I was utterly traumatized today after reading this NY Times article on pedophiles. It is not for the faint of heart. I think about the children and how there are sick people out there trying to become camp counselors and teachers to get closer to children. And not only that, but the pedophiles see themselves as victims of a bigoted, close-minded society!

It's amazing how one planet can harbor something sweet and perfect like kids running through a petting zoo and something so disgusting like a pediatrician fantasizing about his patients. Ugh.

Friday, August 18, 2006

Q & A

You know, some of these posts I post just for the hell of it, that is, for argument's sake, to get people's wheels turning, et cetera. There've gotta be other yellow folks out there who are thinking, "Goddamn does this chick ever stop sputtering out her lame-ass cliche pseudointellectual hyper-PC bull shit?"

My answer: Nah.

More than a color

As I've mentioned in previous entries, I'd rather be treated as if I were white (i.e., like a normal person) rather than an "Oriental" (i.e. like a minority).

A couple other yellow gals and I went to a couple bars last night when a couple of much-older white dudes started chatting with us. I prefer that a guy just chat me up like a normal person, asking the usual lame but effective questions like "So what do you do for fun?" and "Did you grow up in the city?" I feel at ease and comfortable. When a guy starts venturing into race, I put my guard up a little. I start thinking, Great, what's this guy going to ask now? Whether I know kung fu? Whether I've watched all of Lucy Liu's movies? When was the last time I've been to my mother land? Yes, I'm paranoid. But unfortunately, I have been asked those questions. Seriously.

So one guy -- thinking he's oh-so-PC -- asked me "What nationality are you?" I looked at him with pity. He just asked the wrong girl the wrong question. My yellow pals, being much more normal and nice, simply told them their ethnicities. But I wasn't feeling particularly charitable. So I replied, "I am American."

As I expected, he asked, "No I mean your nationality."

I replied, "I am a citizen of the United States of America. My nationality is American."

He shook his head and said, "No I mean NATIONALITY. Like I am German Irish."

This was getting boring so I refrained from saying "Ah, you have dual citizenship in Germany and Ireland?" and instead said, "Ah, you mean to ask my ethnic background?" He disregarded the question and repeated (for what felt like the nine hundredth time) "I mean your nationality."

I smiled. "I am American, but my ethnic background is Yellow." Then they started asking all these questions about the Yellow Country, Yellow culture, and the Yellow language ("Ooh, how do you say 'Hello' in Yellow?"). I couldn't help but wonder whether they really gave a rat's ass about All That Is Yellow. Granted, maybe I was being way too hard on the guys. Maybe they were genuinely, honestly curious about All That Is Yellow and it wasn't until they bumped into three yellow gals did they remember their burning curiosity about Yellowness.

However, I suspect that, like so many other people, they mistakenly believed that if they dwell on someone's minority status, they are being more respectful of her status by being painfully aware of it. They have to acknowledge it, discuss it, philosophize on it, and praise the accomplishments of all people of that demographic. For example, a guy once told me that once a girl realized he was Jewish, she exclaimed "Oh, you're Jewish? Henry Kissinger was a great man!"

No doubt, there are minorities who would eat that up. I don't. This is not to say I deny who I am or what I am. But my color does not define me, and by conversing with someone on the basis of her race seems to presume that. I am more than my color (contrary to what my blog name and moniker imply). I like swimming. I'm sarcastic. I like red Skittles. I bite my nails. And oh yeah, I'm yellow.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

The mission

There is this police officer I've seen around. I first noticed him in a Subway restaurant near my office. I couldn't help but notice him because he stood at a towering 6'7 height. Not exactly that great-looking. Light blonde hair, light blue eyes, and kind of a dull yet friendly face. I've seen him at the same Subway a few times now. Once I stood behind him as our sandwiches progressed and they were putting too much lettuce on his sandwich and he good-heartedly laughed "That's enough!" and looked to me and laughed some more. I smiled back at him and gave that sympathetic laugh you give to strangers, that ha-ha-yeah-I-year-you laugh.

Today, I saw him at the courthouse escorting a handcuffed guy to a van. I could see why they picked him to escort the handcuffed guy. Like I said, the cop is tall and he has a bit of a thick build.

After seeing him today (which is probably the fifth or sixth time I've seen him total), I've decided I'm going to talk to him. I'm not interested in him or even mildly attracted to him. There's no purpose in this mission except to see if I can do it. It'd be interesting to just walk up to some random stranger I've seen around and ask him out of the blue, "Don't you work at the courthouse?" Chances are, he'll say "Yes" and I'll reply "Oh okay." And that'll be the end of that, in which case, mission accomplished.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Nap time

It's the end of a Tuesday work day. I feel incredibly lazy.

Yes, I have a crapload of work to do.

Yes, I have pending deadlines.

But right now, I want to curl into my bed and snuggle between my sheets and take a nice, long, warm nap. Feel so lazy and unmotivated. Feel so sleepy.

Sleep beckons.

Sunday, August 13, 2006

The beloved

The boy sat in the corner and scribbled in his journal. After each entry, he carefully ripped out the page, crumpled it, and lit a small fire to burn it. The thoughts would never escape his room.

If anyone knew the truth, he was sure they would hate him. Which wasn't to say he didn't want to tell. He desperately wanted to tell someone about it. But he couldn't. Because if people knew the truth about him, if they knew what kind of freak he really was, they would hate him. And so, being alone and unjustifiably liked was better than being alone and justifiably hated.

At least that's how he rationalized lying to everyone.

People walked by him and talked. Their mouths opened and closed and sounds came out. He would open and close his mouth to emit sounds in reply. Everyone saw this layer, this barely opaque crust of who he was. And to each friend, his sister, his parents, even his best friend, he was lying the whole time. He led them all to believe he was human. But he was a freak. None of them would ever know. And so his only solace was to write in his waning journal his sin, his freak, his evil. The lined page was not judgmental. It was smooth and silent and simple. It may never love him. But it could never hate him. And that's all he ever wanted.

Friday, August 11, 2006

Not colorblind

I was chilling with the Naysayer the other day, telling him about one of the guys I had a crush on when I happened to mention he was Asian. The Naysayer paused for a moment and was like, "Dude, no way, he's Asian?" I too paused. "Uh...yeah." The Naysayer replied, "Dude, no way."

Why was it a shock that I was interested in an Asian guy? And then I thought about it. I have encountered a couple similar comments over the last several years.

I was once at an Asian party with my Asian girlfriends. It's one of those parties where some Asian social organization rents out a huge club in the city and gets all these sponsors and a bunch of Asians go and dance to hip hop and/or trance. I was sitting on the couch people watching, when my yellow pal asked me, "Do you find any of these guys attractive?" I looked at her. "Sure."

"Oh okay. So you still find Asian men attractive?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah," I replied.

"Oh okay," she said, as if reassured.

Then several years later, I was hanging out with a white pal totally unrelated to the yellow pal, and I mentioned something about some guy being cute. The guy happened to be Asian. She looked at me. "Wait, you like Asian guys?"

"Uh, yeah," I replied.

"No way, I thought you only liked white guys," she said.

"No, I like Asian guys too," I insisted.

"No way, I thought you only liked white guys!" she repeated.

"Um...I never said that."

"Oh okay," she said.

So what gives? Okay, so I admit, I talk and act very "white." And yes, the last several guys I've dated were non-Asian. But that was just a result of circumstances. It's not that I deliberately shun Asian men from my dating pool. There were simply no viable candidates. And when I see one I find attractive, I like. Like right now, I have a crush on this totally cute Cantonese guy. Totally out of my league. Totally revolted by me. Hence we're not dating.

All of this led me to believe that Asian chicks are pigeonholed into two main dating categories: Asian chicks who only date Asian guys, and Asian chicks who only date white guys. As much as I pontificate on the evils of racism and stereotypes, I myself am guilty of pigeonholing Asian chicks into those categories. For example, when I see an Asian chick with a white guy, I automatically assume she only dates white guys -- even though I myself have dated a white guy and still am open to dating other ethnicities! It makes no sense. And when I see an Asian chick with an Asian guy, I make that corresponding assumption. I also assume they're both fluent in their native language (even though they might not even be the same Asian ethnicity) and that they intend to make their kids go to Chinese/Japanese/Tagalog/etc.-school.

Maybe part of the reason I harbor this stereotype is that I've met other yellow gals -- a number of yellow gals -- who openly admit, "I only date ___ guys." So maybe it's not so much a stereotype as it is a pattern I've noticed.

Another interesting thing I've observed about myself (i.e. another facet of my inadvertent racism): I see white guys differently than Asian guys. Not in a bad way, but in a neutral-different way. It doesn't just apply to guys, just people in general. When I meet someone who is Asian, something clicks in my mind, "Oh, she's Asian." Something very subtle just registers in my mind. And if the person is the same Asian ethnicity, it registers again. It's neither good nor bad. Just different.

Anyway, I suppose my point is, I shouldn't pigeonhole and I try not to pigeonhole myself. A person is attracted to a person, not a color. At least that's the way it's supposed to be.
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