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.
Site Meter