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.
"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.
"Yes."
"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'
--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.
"Goodbye."
"Bye."
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.
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.
"Yes."
"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'
--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.
"Goodbye."
"Bye."
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Not feelin' it
It's Friday, and I've allowed myself to procrastinate calling that I-wanna-just-have-sex-guy so that it's at that oh-too-late-to-call-him-so-why-bother point. I think I'm still getting over a myriad of other guys (or guy issues), so using one guy for sex to achieve that end would seem counterproductive. Knowing me, I'd get unnecessarily attached and then would have to add that angst on top of the other dumb angst I have.
The 9.5-good-kisser-guy is on vacation somewhere I think, but if I never hear from him again, I'll live.
In fact, I'm not really in the mood to date. Or maybe I just haven't met the right guy who excites me enough to want to date. At any rate, I suspect I have lapsed into an asexual orientation.
The 9.5-good-kisser-guy is on vacation somewhere I think, but if I never hear from him again, I'll live.
In fact, I'm not really in the mood to date. Or maybe I just haven't met the right guy who excites me enough to want to date. At any rate, I suspect I have lapsed into an asexual orientation.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
The happy one
Em was still in love with her ex-boyfriend, Matt. Of course, he didn't know and he couldn't know. First, he was happily married. Second, she was "happily" married. Her husband was a wonderful man, and her son was the joy of her life.
Still the fact remained, she was still in love with her ex-boyfriend. It wasn't a lustful love. It was just something that would always be there and never disappear. They would have lunch from time to time, and it was obvious he was deeply madly in love with his wife, his "soulmate" as he put it. Can a man be a woman's soulmate if the man already has another woman as his soulmate? Em wondered.
Matt was the only one who called her "Emily." Everyone else called her "Em." Which was fine. But it wasn't "Emily." And there was a way Matt pronounced "Emily," the "m" sound rolling softly into the "l." He was the only one who said her real name. He was the only one who said it right.
Em sat in her office and looked at the clock. It would be twenty more minutes until her next patient came in. Instead of using the time to read up on her med journals or clean up her email, she just sat there and stared outside her window. Somewhere in a different hospital at that precise moment, Matt and his wife (his soulmate) were in a room with an OB GYN and a flurry of nurses and blue sheets and silver pans and metallic devices. Somewhere Matt's wife was lying on a bed, her hand in Matt's, in painful anticipation. Somewhere some other woman was having Matt's child.
She remembered Matt telling her all about the unexpected pregnancy, how they intended to wait another few years, but how this was a blessing. For some reason, despite her family, his marriage, and his happiness, Em could feel her heart sink the moment he told her the news. It made no sense. And then a morbid curiosity overcame her. She had to hear all about the pregnancy, what they were going to name the child, whether they were going to move into a bigger house, when was she due, when was the baby shower, et cetera. He happily apprised her of each and every detail, relishing each advancement of the pregnancy, for example when they saw the first sonogram or when they felt the child's first kick. Em envisioned it all, Matt's hand resting on his wife's womb, Matt reading Dr. Seuss to his unborn child, Matt looking at his wife with the love he never had for Em.
Em stood up and peered between the blinds. She rubbed the warm ring on her finger and sighed. Right now, a new life was entering the world. She pictured a child as beautiful as Matt and his wife. The nurse would hand the child to Matt, and Matt would be holding a tiny human being in his arms, reverent and adoring. They were a family now. Perfect and loving. And she was happy for them. Really, she was.
Still the fact remained, she was still in love with her ex-boyfriend. It wasn't a lustful love. It was just something that would always be there and never disappear. They would have lunch from time to time, and it was obvious he was deeply madly in love with his wife, his "soulmate" as he put it. Can a man be a woman's soulmate if the man already has another woman as his soulmate? Em wondered.
Matt was the only one who called her "Emily." Everyone else called her "Em." Which was fine. But it wasn't "Emily." And there was a way Matt pronounced "Emily," the "m" sound rolling softly into the "l." He was the only one who said her real name. He was the only one who said it right.
Em sat in her office and looked at the clock. It would be twenty more minutes until her next patient came in. Instead of using the time to read up on her med journals or clean up her email, she just sat there and stared outside her window. Somewhere in a different hospital at that precise moment, Matt and his wife (his soulmate) were in a room with an OB GYN and a flurry of nurses and blue sheets and silver pans and metallic devices. Somewhere Matt's wife was lying on a bed, her hand in Matt's, in painful anticipation. Somewhere some other woman was having Matt's child.
She remembered Matt telling her all about the unexpected pregnancy, how they intended to wait another few years, but how this was a blessing. For some reason, despite her family, his marriage, and his happiness, Em could feel her heart sink the moment he told her the news. It made no sense. And then a morbid curiosity overcame her. She had to hear all about the pregnancy, what they were going to name the child, whether they were going to move into a bigger house, when was she due, when was the baby shower, et cetera. He happily apprised her of each and every detail, relishing each advancement of the pregnancy, for example when they saw the first sonogram or when they felt the child's first kick. Em envisioned it all, Matt's hand resting on his wife's womb, Matt reading Dr. Seuss to his unborn child, Matt looking at his wife with the love he never had for Em.
Em stood up and peered between the blinds. She rubbed the warm ring on her finger and sighed. Right now, a new life was entering the world. She pictured a child as beautiful as Matt and his wife. The nurse would hand the child to Matt, and Matt would be holding a tiny human being in his arms, reverent and adoring. They were a family now. Perfect and loving. And she was happy for them. Really, she was.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
The return
I was sitting in my chair, talking on the phone and surfing the web. That same moment, thousands of miles away in another country on another continent, a man's life expired.
I received a phone call last night from my brother informing me that my grandfather had passed away.
I didn't know my grandfather that well, I perhaps met him only a handful of times. But the sadness I felt was for my mom. One year, she loses her husband. The next year, she loses her father. I want to ask God to give the woman a break. But she sounded fine on the phone when I called her. Ironically, she told me she worried about her mother, my grandmother. She said my grandparents had been married for sixty years. Sixty years. What is it like to be with someone for sixty years and have him just one day disappear?
My mom was the eldest daughter of five, the sole child to immigrate to America. And tonight, she is flying back to the mother land.
I received a phone call last night from my brother informing me that my grandfather had passed away.
I didn't know my grandfather that well, I perhaps met him only a handful of times. But the sadness I felt was for my mom. One year, she loses her husband. The next year, she loses her father. I want to ask God to give the woman a break. But she sounded fine on the phone when I called her. Ironically, she told me she worried about her mother, my grandmother. She said my grandparents had been married for sixty years. Sixty years. What is it like to be with someone for sixty years and have him just one day disappear?
My mom was the eldest daughter of five, the sole child to immigrate to America. And tonight, she is flying back to the mother land.
Monday, August 07, 2006
The celebrity(ies) in me
A friend forwarded me this little webpage that tells you what celebrities you resemble the most by uploading a picture. I seemed to match up with quite a mix of people, and I suppose it depends on which picture was uploaded. Also, it was interesting to observe that my face was matched with non-Asians. I was pleasantly flattered when I was told I resembled BoA (apparently a famous Korean singer), Zhang Ziyi, or Hilary Duff, but then less than flattered to see I also matched up with Ricki Lake and Sean Astin (yes, a BOY).
So that narrows it down. I'm either pretty or ugly.
So that narrows it down. I'm either pretty or ugly.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Mr. Wrong
There is no point in liking a guy when there is no future.
There is no point in being with a guy when there is no future.
There is no point in falling in love with a guy when there is no future.
There are thousands of other men, eligible men, who can make a gal happy. Why choose the one who is guaranteed to make a gal unhappy? Why write off other eligible men on account of their abnormally long pinky toes, slightly crooked smiles or off-white socks? Why screen their calls and ignore them for a guy who is just plain wrong? Why is it the wrong one who feels so right? Why is it the wrong one who is so impossible to resist? Why is it the wrong one who takes the fact that there is no future and turns it into something so marginal and forgettable? Why is it the wrong one who makes a gal ignore all of her friends, her conscience and her better judgment? Why is it the wrong one who knows exactly how to make a gal feel beautiful?
There's just no point, no matter how exquisite it feels, how perfect he seems, how passionate it all is. He's just wrong.
There is no point in being with a guy when there is no future.
There is no point in falling in love with a guy when there is no future.
There are thousands of other men, eligible men, who can make a gal happy. Why choose the one who is guaranteed to make a gal unhappy? Why write off other eligible men on account of their abnormally long pinky toes, slightly crooked smiles or off-white socks? Why screen their calls and ignore them for a guy who is just plain wrong? Why is it the wrong one who feels so right? Why is it the wrong one who is so impossible to resist? Why is it the wrong one who takes the fact that there is no future and turns it into something so marginal and forgettable? Why is it the wrong one who makes a gal ignore all of her friends, her conscience and her better judgment? Why is it the wrong one who knows exactly how to make a gal feel beautiful?
There's just no point, no matter how exquisite it feels, how perfect he seems, how passionate it all is. He's just wrong.
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