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.
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